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 v/
 
 JOHN HERKING
 
 ISAAC FOOT 
 LIBRARY 
 
 NOVELS BY THE AUTHOR OF 'MEHALAH.' 
 
 Fcp. Svo. pictorial boards, 2s. each ; or limp red cloth, is, 6d. each. 
 
 MEHALAH: a Story of the Salt Marshes. 
 
 '"Mehalah"is far above the ordinary level of novels. The writer 
 possesses strength, and strength is one of the rarest qualities in modern 
 fiction.' — Daily News. 
 
 ' A bit of real romance : original, violent, powerful, novel both in place 
 and circumstance, and peculiarly impressive.' — Tbuth. 
 
 COURT ROYAL. 
 
 * " Court Eoyal " is among the few novels of our time that deserve, and 
 will probably obtain, life beyond its day. Intellect, knowledge, fancy, and 
 humour have gone to its making, and thought besides.' — Guaphic. 
 
 ' The story holds the reader under a spell which is unbroken from first 
 to last.' — MoRNiNO Post. 
 
 JOHN HERRING: a West of England Romance. 
 
 'Among most novels of the day "John Herring" is a very consider- 
 able work indeed.' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' A book of unusual originality and power.' — ^Timbs. 
 
 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 'A tale of vivid and well-sustained interest.' — Guardian. 
 'The story ie one of deep human interest.' — Morning Post. 
 
 RICHARD CABLE: the LIghtshlpman. 
 
 ' A novel essentially readable, and full of life and colour.' — Dailt 
 Telegraph. 
 
 'Ab good OS anything this powerful writer has produced.' — Scotsman. 
 
 London : SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 16 Waterloo Place, S.W.
 
 JOHN HEEEING 
 
 A WEST OF ENGLAND ROMANCE 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OP 
 
 'MEHALAH' 'COURT EOYAL ' &c. 
 
 A NEW EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACH 
 
 1898 
 
 M?i rights 7'eservedl
 
 r f\ UNIVERSITY CF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Lj-0 i^\ SANTA EARBARA 
 
 Iff/ 
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 {ADDRESSED TO THOSE WHO ARE NOT OF THE 
 WEST COUNTRY.) 
 
 In a tale of the West of England in which are introduced some 
 of the lowest types of rustic humanity to be found there, it is 
 impossible to avoid the use of the local dialect. This dialect 
 has, however, been modified as much as possible to render it 
 intelligible without transforming it into the language of the 
 schools. The vulgar dialect is regardless of gender and reckless 
 in the use of cases. A cow is he, and a tom-cat wags her tail. 
 At a trial in Exeter, at the Assizes, a man was charged with 
 the murder of his wife, a woman with an aggravating tongue. 
 The jury found a verdict of * Not Guilty ' against the clearest 
 evidence, and, when the Judge expressed his surprise, 'Ah, 
 your lordship,* said the foreman in explanation, 'us ain't a-going 
 bo hang he for the likes of she.' It is perhaps necessary 
 to explain that ' the Cobbledicks ' are no creation of the imagi- 
 nation — the ckn has only been dispersed of recent years ; the 
 old man who lived in a cyder-cask is dead, but he was alive ten 
 years ago. The clan was literally one of half-naked savages
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 OIUPrKR PAGE 
 
 I. The Cobbledicks ...,».. 1 
 
 II. What thb Cask did ... . .9 
 
 III. West Wykb 17 
 
 IV. MiEBLLB 24 
 
 V. Thb Owl's Nest 33 
 
 VI. That Old Tkamplara ....... 39 
 
 VII. That Young Teamplaka 46 
 
 Vm. Cicely 54 
 
 IX. DOLBBARB 59 
 
 X. A Musical Walking-stick 66 
 
 XI. Thb Giant's Table 72 
 
 XII. Ophie 80 
 
 Xin. Captain Teecareel 85 
 
 xrv. Under the Hearth ....... 93 
 
 XV. Eheu, Bubones! 101 
 
 XVI. Teustee not Executob . . . . . 107 
 
 XVII. In the Summer-house 112 
 
 XVin. Salting a Mine 121 
 
 XIX. Two Steinos to one Bow 129 
 
 XX. Geinding Gold .136 
 
 XXI. The Cub 142 
 
 XXII. Moonshine and Diamonds i47 
 
 XXm. Paste .156 
 
 XXIV. The Oxenham Akms 163 
 
 XXV. A LevSe 168
 
 Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXVI. The Shekel 
 XXVII. Cobblbdiok's Rhmumatics 
 XXVIII. Caught in the Act 
 XXIX. A Race ..... 
 XXX. Between Cup and Lip . 
 XXXI. Joyce's Patient . 
 XXXn. Destitute 
 XXXin. Transformation . 
 XXXrV". Herring's Stockings 
 XXXV. Beggary . ■ . , 
 XXXVI. Mirelle's Guests . 
 SXXVII, A Second Summons 
 KXXVIIl. A Virgin Martyr 
 XXXIX. Welltown 
 XL. Noel I Noel! 
 XLI. White Favours 
 XLII. The Snow Bride. 
 XLin. Hunting the Devil 
 XLIV. Willapark . 
 XLV. • Kinkum-kum • . 
 XLVI. A Bar of Ice 
 XLVII. Welcome Home 
 XLVm. Two Bequests 
 XLIX. Cast Up . . . 
 L. Two Disobediences 
 LI. Two Exits .... 
 LII. The Return of the Wanderer 
 LIII. A Private Interview . 
 LIV. The Porch Room 
 
 LV. Nemesis 
 
 LVI. A Dead Man .... 
 LVII. An Arrest .... 
 
 LVIII. R.I.P 
 
 LIX. Dividing the Spoils . . 
 LX. Introduotobt . r •
 
 JOHN HEBEING-. 
 
 CHAPTEH I. 
 
 THE COEBLEDICKS. 
 
 •Log ! * said the voice of CobbloJickstbe Old fi'oma cyder c-isk. 
 
 ' I be a logging like the blue blazes,' answered Cobbledicii 
 the younger. 
 
 Then a dry and dirty hand emerged from the cask, and with 
 a gorse bush struck at the girl — that is, at Cobbledick the 
 younger. She evaded the blow. 
 
 ' Be quiet, vaither, or I won't log no more ! ' 
 
 * You won't 1 ' with a horrible curse ; ' then I'll make you, 
 if I whacks and whacks till you be all over blood and prickles. 
 There, I will, I swear. Glory rallaluley ! ' 
 
 On a spur of Dartmoor that struck out into the proximity 
 of cultivated land, stood a cromlech or dolmen — a rude monu- 
 ment of a lost race, reared of granite slabs. This spur of moor 
 was a continuation or buttress of Cosdon Beacon, which, next 
 to Yestor, is the highest point attained by Dartmooi", and is 
 indeed the second highest mountain in the south of England. 
 
 The dolmen was composed of four great slabs of granite iset 
 on edge, two parallel to the other two, with a fifth stone closing 
 one end. The whole five supported an enormous quoit or block, 
 plain on the nether surface, but unshaped above. Local anti- 
 quaries, pretending to knowledge, but actually ignorant, called 
 this erection a Druid altar, and pointed to a sort of basin on the 
 top formed by the weather, with a channel from it to the edge, 
 and this they asserted was a receptacle for the blood of human 
 victims, and a means of lustration for those who stood below. 
 Other antiquaries, knowing a great deal, and not ashamed to 
 confess ignorance where knowledge ended and guesswork began, 
 
 B
 
 2 JOHN HEERING. 
 
 said simply that the monument belonged to prehistoric times, 
 and that they neither knew who had built it, nor for what 
 purpose it was raised. The country folk called it the * Giant's 
 Table.' 
 
 On the lee side of this cromlech was a cyder cask, tethered 
 to the cromlech by a piece of cord passed through the bung- 
 hole, and attached to a stout stick within the monument, 
 entering between the interstices of the blocks. 
 
 In this cask lived an old man, named Grizzly Cobbledick 
 by his neighbours. He had lived in the cask many years. 
 
 Some miles away, to the north, in another parish, that of 
 Nymet, lived the parent stock from which he sprung, in an old 
 tumble-down cottage, sans windows, sans doors, sans chimney, 
 sans floors, sans everything save the ' cob ' — that is, mud walla 
 — and the ragged roof of thatch. 
 
 This hovel was what the Germans would call the * Stamm- 
 burg ' of the Cobbledicks. " That is to say, it was the ancestral 
 cradle of the race ; it was also the hive in which they continued 
 to dwell. They lived there, apart from their fellows, with 
 whom they held no communication, never entering a village nor 
 dealing at any shop, never seen at market or merry-making, 
 least of all at church. 
 
 Their unsociable habits went further. The}' allowed no one 
 to invade theii" hovel and pry into their mode of living. If any 
 of them saw a person stand still near the house to observe it, or 
 to watch a Cobbledick at his work or his play, a yelp called the 
 whole clan together, and with howls and curses they set on the 
 inquisitive visitor, pelting him with stones, and flinging sticks 
 at his head, so that he was glad to beat a retreat. 
 
 The Cobbledicks were half-naked savages. They wore, for 
 warmth, not for decency, some v/retched rags. When the scanty 
 supply of garments failed entirely, then the whole crew dispersed 
 over the country, hunting by moonlight for a fresh supply ; 
 they stole whatever came in their way that could be converted 
 into covering to clothe their nakedness. Anything served — a 
 potato-sack or a flour-bag. One or other would change into 
 coat or gown by making in it slits for head and arms. 
 
 Once a farmer lost an oilcloth stack-covering. It was 
 deliberately taken ofi" his stack one rainy night before he had 
 thatched his wheat. He recognised it torn up and utilised as 
 curtains to tlie open holes that served as windows to Cobbledick 
 Castle. The farmer prosecuted, but first a rick and then a 
 stack was burned, and he was glad to stay proceedings ami
 
 THE COBBLEDICKS. 3 
 
 suffer the savages to keep his oilcloth, fearing for the thatch of 
 his farmhouse, and himself, his wife and babes beneath it. 
 
 When the neighbourhood was aware that the Cobbledicks 
 ran short of raiment, old worn garments were purposely lefl" out 
 at night on hedges for their use. 
 
 The migration of Grizzly Cobbledick to the parish of South 
 Tawton took place in this wise. It marked an epoch in the 
 history of the race. The Cobbledicks had not arrived at that 
 stage of civilisation in which property becomes personal. Their 
 views as to property were undeveloped. The world belonged 
 in part to the Cobbledicks, and the rest did not. What belonged 
 to the Cobbledicks belonged to the familj", not to any individual 
 in the family. They owned land, reclaimed from the waste long 
 ago, clay land overgrown with rushes, partly bog ; but this land 
 was not the property of this Cobbledick or that, male or female, 
 old or young ; it belonged to all, on the principle of the Russian 
 mir, Not only so, but the utensils of the hou.se and of the farm 
 were common ; so also were the garments. The pipkin cooked 
 for the whole family, and the hoe raised the potatoes for all to 
 eat. The pipkin was not private property when Poll stirred it, 
 the hoe was not private property when Dick worked with it, 
 and the potato-sack Vv-as not owned by him or by her who wore 
 it. If, by any chance, it were taken off, it thereby fell back into 
 the common store. 
 
 The Cobbledicks never had been civilised. They were 
 autochthones. The oldest inhabitant of Nymefc remembered 
 them. They did not increase much, but they did not die out. 
 Their congeners, named the Gubbins, lived in the Lydford glena 
 ivi Charles the First's reign, when a poet thus described them :— 
 
 And near hereto's the Gubbins' cave, 
 A people that uo knowledge have 
 
 Of hivr of God or men ; 
 WHiom C;csar never yet subdued, 
 Who've lawless lived, of manners ra!?.9, 
 
 All savage in their den. 
 
 By whom, if any passed that way, 
 He dares not the least time to stay, 
 
 For presently they howl ; 
 Upon wliich signal they do muster 
 Their naked forces in a cluster, 
 
 Led forth by lloger Rowle. 
 
 One night a star fell from heaven and descended into the 
 hovel of the Cobbledicks through the hole in the roof which 
 allowed the smoke of the communal fire to ascend ; and this 
 
 b2
 
 4 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 Bpark sank into the heart of Old Grizzly. He was not Old Grizzly 
 then. What his name was then in the clan never transpired. 
 
 That divine spark conveyed to this particular Cobbledick 
 the idea of personal jiropeity. This idea, once conceived, 
 becomes to the social body what a l)Hckbone is to the physical 
 organism. There is all the difference in social conditions 
 between those who have accepted personal property and those 
 who have not arrived at it, that exists between vertebrate 
 jmimals and invertebrate polypi. 
 
 Cobbledick rose from his lair by the fire where he had 
 been snoring, canght up a female for whom he had long been 
 sighing, stuffed a wi.'-p of hay into her mouth to prevent her 
 from alarming the sleepers, threw her over his shoulder, and 
 strode out of the Cobbledick liovel. 
 
 The dispersion at Babel was caused by the discovery of 
 the possessive pronouns. 
 
 After having carried his burden beyond earshot, Cobbledick 
 set her down, pulled the plug out of her mouth, and said, ' If 
 you hollei-, I'll smash your head. So hold thee gab and come 
 along of I.' 
 
 The female was overaw^ed into submission, and she paddled 
 along at his side. 
 
 When day broke they found themselves on a shoulder of 
 flown in close proximity to Cosdon. Eambling over the moor, 
 the v/oman hopping and squealing as she touched the gorse with 
 her bare legs, they lighted on the grey cromlech, and the male, 
 curling his tongue in his mouth, ])roduced a loud cluck. The 
 female, as an imitative animal, clucked i-esponsive. ' Bags ! ' 
 said Cobbledick male, and by this simple formula he had 
 claimed the cromlech as personal property to himself, his heirs 
 and assigns. 
 
 The idea of property had swelled to large dimensions in his 
 heart since he had lirst admitted it. The tract of moor was at 
 that time — we are speaking of seventy years ago — wholly un- 
 inclosed. Since that date many encroachments have been made, 
 and much of the furzy waste placed under cultivation. 
 
 Xenophon opens his 'Anabasis' with the words, 'The 
 Greeks began it ' In the record of the conquest and reclama- 
 tion of the moor it stands written, ' The Cobbledicks began it.' 
 
 First they filled up the interstices between the blocks of 
 granite of the dolmen with turf and moss, then they strewed 
 the floor v/ith bracken, and made bed and seat of heather. Then 
 Ihey marked out a portion of the moor, collected stones from
 
 THE COBBLEDICES. 5 
 
 off the surface with infinite labcair, and fenced ifc round with 
 these stones set as a dry wall. This they tilled, and their appetite 
 for pi-operty growing, they inclosed more. The tillage was 
 rude, but then it was the beginning of tillage to the whole 
 Cobbledick I'ace. It took that race six thousand years to 
 arrive at a crooked stick with Mrs. Grizzly dragging it, and 
 Mr. Grizzly driving with a switch, and his weight resting on 
 the tail of the simple plough. When he took his weight off, to 
 quicken the motions of Mrs. Grizzly with the switch, the 
 plough levered out of the ground, she fell, and he also was 
 thrown forward on his nose. When Grizzly left the ancestrr.l 
 seat, he carried with him, in addition to a woman, two ferrets in a 
 bag, and a sharp flintstone. W^ith the ferrets he caught rabbits, 
 and with the stone he flayed them. Grizzly was a neolithic man. 
 
 On their fii-st taking possession of the cromlech, Grizzly 
 fought his wife for the sack she wore. He wanted to utilise it 
 as a screen for the entrance. The door was to the south, but 
 the south wind is a rainy wind and must be shut out. 
 
 Mrs. Grizzly resisted, for the same heavenly spark that had 
 brought to him the idea of appi-opriating one woman as wife 
 had carried to her also the idea of keeping as her own, her 
 very own, the one potato-sack in which she walked and woi'ked 
 and slept. 
 
 This I'esistance on her pait stimulated invention on his. 
 IIo devised a screen of wattles and heather for the door, and 
 this pi'oved a better shelter than any sack could have made. 
 Thus we see how the sense of property quickens invention. 
 The heavenly spark never expired in the breasts of the 
 Cobbledicks ; they felt no desire, like the Apostles of old and 
 reformers of the present day, to revert to the conditions from 
 which they had escaped. The spark burned brighter : it de- 
 manded fuel. They proceeded to obtain a cow. How they 
 procured it nobody knew, though all suspected. The Cobble- 
 dicks disappeared from Tawton parish for several days. When 
 they reappeared they were driving a cow before them down the 
 flanks of Cosdon. Had they fished her out of the swamps 
 round Cranmere pool 1 or had they gone far, far beyond, and 
 acquired her in the South Hams, and driven her across the 
 moor, leaving no traces in tiie spongy soil and on the blooming 
 heather whereby they might be tiaced, in the event of those 
 from whom she had been acquired disputing their right to make 
 oflf with her ? 
 
 But if this latter were the case, what labour and per-
 
 6 JOHN HERRI]SI(}« 
 
 severance it must have cost them to convey a cow across 
 brawling torrents, over granite-strewn mountains, and through 
 treacherous bogs ! 
 
 This was the way of the Cobbledicks. When they wanted 
 anything, they went after it over the moor. Beyond was El 
 Dorado, between the pathless waste, a barrier forbidding pur- 
 suit. They never robbed their neighbours of anything beyond 
 turnips and field potatoes. They had made sufficient advance 
 along the path of social culture to recognise a sort of fellowship 
 with their neighbours, and to respect the property of near 
 neighbours. But this sense of fellowship did not extend 
 beyond the moor. On the other side was a sea full of fish, into 
 which whoever would might dip his net. 
 
 One day the female Cobbledick became a mother, and 
 Grizzly a father. 
 
 Soon after this the wife died. Grizzly dug a hole in the 
 floor of the cromlech, just under where the fire burned, and 
 laid her there. 
 
 She was pleased, when alive, to sit over the red ashes, 
 spreading out her toes, and laughing at the yellow flames. 
 Under the hearthstone she should lie, with her face to the ashes, 
 and her toes turned to the blaze. The Cobbledick ideas were 
 growing. The first dawn of that sentiment which in another 
 generation might flower into poetry had appeared in Grizzly's 
 mind. 
 
 But the experiment was not happy. At night, as Grizzly 
 elept, he thought he saw the old woman working her way up 
 out of the ground, throwing the earth forth like a mole, and 
 then peering at him from a corner. After that she dived again 
 and disappeared. Presently he felt her heave the earth under 
 him where he lay, and roll him over, so that he could not 
 sleep. He was very angry, and he got a great piece of granite 
 and beat the floor hard with it. But this was of no avail. 
 Next night the old woman was heard scratching with her nails 
 at the bases of the granite slabs. Once she had been given a 
 hunch of saffi'on cake by a former's v<ife, and she had picked 
 all the currants out and eaten them, before attacking the sub- 
 stance. She was now at work on the gr-anite, picking out the 
 hornblend, mistaking the black grains for currants. * Her'll 
 do with these great stones as her did with the cake,' said 
 Gi'izzly ; * her got that all crumbled with hunting the currants, 
 and her'll treat the stones same way, and bring the table down 
 on our heads.'
 
 Q 
 
 THE COBBLEDICKS. ^ 
 
 After that he disappeai^ed for three clays, and when m?^ 
 turned he was rolling a cyder cask before him down Cosdon. 
 This cask he brought alongside of the cromlech, and attached it 
 to the old house in the manner described. He lined it with fern, 
 and retired into it, along with the child, at night. He would 
 no longer sleep in the stone mansion that was being under- 
 mined by the dead wife. He did not object to occupy it by 
 day ; and when he ate, he always threw some crumbs or bits 
 of meat into the fire, to satisfy the cravings of the old woman. 
 He supposed that she picked at the stones because she was 
 hungry. 
 
 The child slept with him in the cyder- cask till she grew too 
 big, and made it uncomfortable for her father. One night ho 
 had cramp in his leg, and kicked out, and kicked her forth, 
 head over heels ; then he bade her go for the future to tho 
 old house, and sleep there and be darned, glory rallaluley. 
 Occasionally, in sprmg, when all is waxing and wanton, the 
 Methodists held revival meetings on the down, and Old 
 Grizzly was accustomed then to prowl about the outskirts of 
 the assembly, listening to the preachers, and to the hymns and 
 rhapsodical outcries of the converted. These camp meetings 
 reminded him in some particulars of the ways of the primitive 
 Cobbledicks. The new feature, unfamiliar to him, was the 
 association of religion with these orgies. 
 
 From such meetings Grizzly had picked up a few cant 
 expressions which he used for rounding his sentences without 
 in the least understanding their import. If he began a sentence 
 with a curse, he finished it with a hallelujah, much as a grocer, 
 having put an iron weight into one scale, heaps the other with 
 BUgar till the balance is complete. 
 
 Cobbledick father and daughter were not in the unseemly 
 condition of nudity affected by their relatives at Nymet. These 
 latter so far resembled Adam and Eve in the period of man's 
 innocency that they were naked and were not ashamed, but 
 with the sense of personal property came the sense also of self- 
 respect. The land on which Grizzly and his wife squatted 
 belonged to the manor of West Wyke, of which the Battishills 
 were lords, and the Squire took care that his tenants should 
 not go unprovided with old clothes. The Battishills were very 
 poor, and wore their garments till the last moment consonant 
 with respectability ; then they passed them on to the squatters, 
 whom they made, if not respectable, at least decent. 
 
 * Log ! ' screamed the old man from the cask.
 
 P JOHN HErvSING. 
 
 ' I be a logging ^ like the blue blazes/ answered the girl, 
 and she spoke the truth. 
 
 She was seated with her back to one of the great stones of 
 the * Giant's Table/ with a bare foot resting on the cask on 
 each side of the restraining rope. She worked her feet alter- 
 nately, so as to produce a vibratory motion in the barrel from 
 left to right. The old man liked being rocked to sleep ; ha 
 exacted the task of his daughter ; and only when he began to 
 snore and ceased to swear dare Joyce Cobbledick desist from 
 logging and retire to her own lair. 
 
 The evening had fallen. The sun was set, but a haze of 
 light hung like a warm hoar frost over the head of Cosdon, 
 though darkness had settled down in the valleys, and the 
 village of Zeal began to twinkle out of all its windows. 
 
 The air was still. The rush of the stream over the granite 
 masses that choked its course was the only sound audible, save 
 the fretting of the cask on the turf in its oscillations. 
 
 The girl was tired, and one of her feet was bleeding. She 
 had cut it with a sharp stone that day. 
 
 Joyce Cobbledick Avas aged eighteen. She was a tall, well- 
 built girl, with bright colour, a low forehead, and dark eyes. 
 Her hair was as uncombed and uncared for as the mane of a 
 moorland pony. It was dark brown. Her jaws were heavy 
 and her cheek-bones high, like those of her ancestry. There 
 was some beauty about her — the beauty of a fine animal ; she 
 was perfectly supple in every limb, admii^ably proportioned, 
 easy and even graceful in her movements, unrestrained by shoes 
 and cumbrous clothing. Her face was even fine, but there 
 was nothing like intelligence illumining her dark eyes. 
 
 She wore a thin print gown, and that was in tatters from 
 her knees by scrambling through hedges to steal turnips, and 
 brushing through goi'se brakes after rabbits. 
 
 Presently the girl intermitted her trampling movement, 
 believing the old man to be asleej). 
 
 The stars were coming out. The one street of Zeal, lying 
 between rich meadows and wood, was like a necklace of 
 diamonds embedded in black velvet. 
 
 Joyce leaned forwards to listen if her father were snoring. 
 All was still in the cask, preternaturally still. 
 
 She bent her head lower. Then, suddenly, with a roar, 
 
 ' To ' log ' is to rock. Thus a logan stone is a rocking stone, and o 
 wouian logs her baby in its craile.
 
 THE COBBLEDICKS. 9 
 
 ' Diirn your eyes, glory rallaluley ! ' an old grey, frowzy head 
 Bud face shot out of the bu-icl, and with it a long arm. A 
 heavy blow of the furze bush fell across the girl's head and 
 cheek, making her cry out with pain. 
 
 She recovered her position in a moment, and dashed her 
 feet together savagely at the cask. The violence of the action 
 was more than the cord could endure, already fretted against 
 the rugged edges of the granite blocks. It snapped, and in a 
 moment the cask was driven forward by the impetus of Joyce's 
 angry kick. It rolled over and over ; ran down a bank, then 
 along an incline of smooth turf, dashed against a stone which 
 somewhat diverted its course, bounded into the high road, 
 where it shot forth its tenant, and continued its course in 
 rapid revolutions down the road that here ascended from the 
 valley. Joyce uttered a cry, sprang to her feet, and ran after 
 the rolling barrel towards the highway, and there saw her 
 father lying stretched across the road, stiinned and speechless. 
 
 CHAPTER II, 
 
 WHAT THE CASK DID. 
 
 As Joyce stood on the bank about to leap clown into the road 
 to her father's assistance, she was arrested by a sight calculated 
 to fill her with dismay. A chaise drawn by a pair of horees 
 was approaching from the direction of Okehampton at a brisk 
 pace. The cask was in full career down the road, gaining 
 velocity as it rolled. A curve hid it from the postillion, and 
 Joyce stood breathless, powerless to warn the post-boy or arrest 
 Iho cask, watching for the result. 
 
 The boy was in spirits ; he cracked his whip, and stimulated 
 the horses — fresh from the sta,ble at Okehampton — to take the 
 hill in style. The cask was w^hirling on. Then it reached the 
 sweep in the road, and it went direct against the bank, danced 
 light-heartedly up it, reeled back, swung itself round and shot 
 straight down the road at the horses. In another moment it 
 was on them, leaping at them like a tiger at the throat of his 
 prey. 
 
 What follow'ed was so sudden, and the light w-as so imper- 
 fect, that Joyce could not quite make out what she saw. She 
 heard a loud cry from the post-boy, who was throAvn, Whether 
 one of the horses went down and floundered to his feet again
 
 10 JOHN HEUIIING. 
 
 she was not sure ; sbe believed it was so. Next moment the 
 chaise was off the road, the two frightened animals tearing 
 away with it over the common. Forgetful of her father in the 
 excitement of the spectacle and in dread of the final catastrophe, 
 Joyce ran after the carriage, which she saw bounding over 
 heaps of peat that had been cut and laid to dry, lurching into 
 hollows, jolting over tufts of gorse, and jarring against stones. 
 
 Then she saw against the light of the horizon the figure of 
 a man emerging from the window of the chaise, trying to open, 
 the door. Almost simultaneously the wheel of the carriage 
 struck a huge block of granite, and in an instant the chaise 
 was thrown on one side, the horses vvere kicking furiously, and 
 the whole converted into a wreck of living beasts and struggling 
 men and splintered fragments of carriage. 
 
 ' Ho, heigh ! stay them osses,' yelled the post-boy, who had 
 picked himself up and was running over the down. ' Sit on 
 their necks; kip 'em down.' 
 
 Joyce ran also, and reached the spot soon after him. 
 
 The postillion went straight at the horses, regardless of 
 everything else, and cut their traces ; whereupon they ran off, 
 and he careered in full pursuit after them. 
 
 ' Leave the beasts alone, boy,' shouted a young man who 
 had disengaged himself from the shattered carriage, and was 
 helping out a young lady. ' Leave the beasts and come here.* 
 
 ' No, no, sir ! The osses fust. Them's my concern.' And 
 away went the boy. 
 
 * Here, girl,' said the same young man to Joyce, as she came 
 up ; ' help me.' He signed to her what to do, to liaise a man 
 who was lying motionless among the fragments of the cairiage, 
 to carry him a little distance, and lay him on the turf at full 
 length. 
 
 ' Stay by him whilst I go for the young lady.* 
 Joyce nodded. 
 
 The young lady was seated on the rock that had upset the 
 carriage. 
 
 * What frightened the horses ? ' she asked. 
 ' I do not know. Are you hurt ?' 
 
 ' My foot is sprained. I cannot walk ; but no bones aro 
 broken, of that I have satisfied myself. How goes my father % * 
 
 ' He is seriously injured.' 
 
 ' He did wrong to try and open the door. The carriage 
 must have fallen over on him.' 
 
 * Will you remain here whilst I go back to himi '
 
 WHAT THE CASK DID. 11 
 
 * Certainly. The moss is soft as a cnsliion on this stone.' 
 
 * Your father, I fear, is seriously hurt. As you say, he was 
 leaning out of the window when the coach turned over, and it 
 went down on the side where he was.' 
 
 ' Bring me my cloak from the chaise. It is chilly, and the 
 spot is desolate. II me donne les frissons.' She spoke with 
 wonderful composure. She might have been on a picnic, and 
 the dish with the chicken pie broken ; yet she had narrowly 
 escaped death herself, and her father was lying dead a few feet 
 from her. The young man looked at her face, a little surprised 
 at her perfect coolness. The face was wax-like, of transparent 
 whiteness ; there was no colour in it. But then she was cold 
 and possibly frightened, though betraying no fear in her 
 manner. Her features were regular and of extraordinary 
 beauty. Her eyes were large and the lashes long; her hair 
 abundant and black. Of emotion in ber face there was none. 
 
 ' I remember my father said he had suffered from the 
 rheumatism. Pray take him from off the grass.' The young 
 man thought to himself, ' He will never suffer from that more,' 
 but he made no answer. He went back to the man lying on 
 the turf, knelt over him, and examined him, Joyce stood by 
 with arms folded. 
 
 ' Is there any house near to which this gentleman could be 
 reiQoved ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' West Wyke,' answered Joyce. 
 
 ' Where is that ? ' 
 
 She made a motion with her chin, indicating the direction. 
 
 * And is there a gate to be had on which I can lay him 1 ' 
 She jerked her chin again. 
 
 * Now, sir,' said the post-boy, coming up, ' I've got the osscs 
 quiet, what can I do for you 1 ' 
 
 ' This gentleman must be i-emoved at once on a hurdle cr 
 gate. Run and bring me one.' 
 
 ' Be he hurted cruel bad 1 ' asked the boy. 
 
 * He is dead.' 
 
 * Deary me ! ' exclaimed the post-boy. * What a mussy it 
 weren't one of the osses. Make us truly thankful. I'll get you 
 a gate.' 
 
 * I'll help you,' said Joyce. * You don't look a sort to cari-y 
 a gate. Do you call yourself a man or a rat 1 ' 
 
 Presently the two returned with a hurdle ; that is to say, 
 Joyce was carrying one on her head, casting occasionally a 
 contemptuous glance at the dapper little fellow at her side.
 
 12 JOEN HERIIING. 
 
 * Is my father able to speak yet 1 ' asked the lady. 
 
 ' No,' answered the young man. * Do not be alarmed. We 
 must carry him to a house, where he can be put to bed, and 
 then wo will return for you. Do you mind being left alone^ or 
 can you walk as far as to the house 1 ' 
 
 ' I have already told you that I cannot walk. You are 
 forgetful, monsieur.' 
 
 ' Then this girl will remain with you till we return.' 
 
 Very well. If she likes to remain she may remain. It is 
 her affair.' 
 
 The young lady spoke with a foreign — a French accent, 
 which was pretty. Indeed, there was a foreign grace in her 
 attitudes, and taste in Jier dress, which showed that, if an 
 Englishwoman, she must have lived a great deal in France. 
 
 The gentleman returned to Joyce ; he was a tall and fine 
 young man, with dark hair and moustache and frank blue eyes. 
 
 ' Will you remain here with the lady while we go on to the 
 house r 
 
 Joyce nodded and went over to the rock on which the young 
 lady was seated. She planted herself before her. 
 
 ' The 'ouse to which we must carry the gent be yonder,' 
 said the post-boy. ' I seed him as I went for the gate.' 
 
 ' Do not be alarmed if we carry your father.' 
 
 ' I shall not be alarmed.' 
 
 Then, the post-boy going before and the young gentleman 
 following, they proceeded very gently to carry the motionless 
 form in the direction of West Wyke. 
 
 Joyce remained with the young lady ; she studied her with 
 great attention from head to foot. The sky was clear, and 
 there was still much light entangled in the upper atmosphere. 
 The whole of the north was full of silvery twilight. 
 
 ' I niver seed a born leddy afore so close,' said Joyce. 
 
 * I am a boi'n lady,' replied the other, haughtily. 
 
 * Did I say you wasn't 1 Have you any other rags on but 
 •what I sees 1 ' 
 
 ' Rags ! ' indignantly. ' What do you mean, girl ? ' 
 
 * Look here,' said Joyce, ' I hasn't. Fust comes the gown, 
 and then comes I. Down in the good land to Zeal and 
 Tawton, where the lanes be cut deep, I seed there be nether- 
 most hard rock, then over that comes shellat, then a sort of 
 gravelly trade (stuff), then a top o' that meat airth ; and over 
 all, like the gown, the waving green grass. Up here on the 
 moor t'ain't so. There's the granite and then the moss, and if
 
 WHAT THE CASK DID. 13 
 
 you scrats tlirougli the moss you comes right on and on to tlie 
 Btone, That be like us as lives up here, vaither and I, biit wi' 
 the quality it be different, as lives in lew (sheltered) places; 
 tliey has more coverings nor us, nigiit and day, I reckon.' 
 ' You have no more clothes on you than that thin gown 1 ' 
 ' No, us be like moor rock, fast the moss, then the stone.' 
 
 * Are you begging 1 ' 
 
 * T never axes for naught ; what I wants I takes.' 
 
 The lady shivered and drew back on her seat. She was 
 disgusted with the appearance, and offended at the rudeness of 
 the girl. 
 
 ' Why don't clothes grow on our backs, thick and warm as 
 the wool on sheep, the fur on rabbits, and the moss on raoor- 
 Btones 1 'Twonld come handier,' observed Joyce Cobbledick. 
 
 The lady made no repl3% 
 
 ' Wot's that man, that young man as spoke to you and 1 1 ' 
 asked Joyce. 
 
 ' I do not know his name.' 
 
 ' He don't belong to you 1 ' 
 
 ' Most certainly not,' with a contemptuous shrug. 
 
 * Where did you get mun 1 ' 
 
 ' He is travelling with us — that is all. He joined my fathei 
 in taking a chaise from Launceston.' 
 
 ' Why didn't y' travel by the mail-coach 1 Her goes by 
 ivery day.' 
 
 ' The coach had left Launceston when we arrived there from 
 Falmouth, so we engaged a chaise. My father was in haste to 
 reach Exeter, and that person joined us. I do not know liis 
 name, neither do I care. My father satisfied himself, I pre- 
 sume, of his respectability. That is all.' 
 
 * Where do'y come from, mistress ? Over t'other side of the 
 moor, I reckon.' 
 
 * I come from France.' 
 
 Joyce was puzzled. Her geographical knowledge was too 
 limited for her to know of France. 
 
 * I reckon that be a long way off, t'other side o' Prir.co's 
 Town and the prisons, surely. Be there savages in them 
 parts 1 ' 
 
 ' Savages ! certainly not.' 
 
 * There be here. I be one. I be a Cobbledick, and the 
 Cobbledicks be all savages. But vaither and I be better nor the 
 rest out Nymet. They be savages and no mistake.* 
 
 * I have no doubt of it.'
 
 14 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 ' I sa.y, young lady, is that man as they carried on the gate 
 to West Wyke your vaither 1 ' 
 
 * He is my father.' 
 
 * Did he bang you about much? Did he whack you often 
 wi' a bunch of vuzz ] Not but you'd mind over much wi' all 
 them pack o' clothes to your back.' 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 ' Did you have to rock him to sleep o' nights in a barril i ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 '' Mebbe you niver had much dodging out of the way of the 
 Btones he throwed at your head 1 ' 
 
 ' Of course not.' 
 
 ' My old vaither doth all these to me. He whacks me wi' 
 brimmles and vuzz, and he throws turves and stones at me, and 
 I has to rock mun every night or he wouldn't sleep a wink. 
 Of all the proper blaggards in the world there ain't an ekal to 
 vaither. Bat I reckon vaithers is vaithers all the world over. 
 They be all like oaksticks, some crookeder nor others, but none 
 straight. You don't mind over much what has happened to 
 yours i' 
 
 The young lady only imperfectly understood the girl, owing 
 to the rudeness of her speech and her strong provincial brogue. 
 
 * There be my old vaither rolled out of his barril right across 
 the high road, and I don't know if he've a broke his neck or no ; 
 raid I don't kear hover much, no more nor you does because 
 your vaither ha' gone and done the same.' 
 
 ' What do you mean, girl 1 ' 
 
 ' I mean v/hat I sez. I know what broke necks mean. I 
 ha' broke the necks o' rabbits scores and scores of times. Him's 
 just the same, ivery bit and croome.' 
 
 The young lady shuddered. She did not cry, but her breath 
 caught in her throat. 
 
 ' Mon Dieu ! Ce n'est pas vrai ! Comme cettc fille me 
 fait peur ! ' 
 
 ' What be that jabber about 1 You oughtn't to mind.' 
 
 ' For the love of God, girl, do not frighten me. It is wicked 
 — it is cruel. It is not true.' 
 
 ' Not true ! ' echoed Joyce ; ' I knows it be. I knows a 
 broke neck in a man as in a rabbit.' 
 
 * Ee quiet. If you want money, en voild,, take and leave me 
 ti-ancpiil.' 
 
 Joyce struck her hand aside. 
 
 * What'll you do wi' he now ) Mother be poked under the
 
 WHAT THE CASK DIB. 15 
 
 hearthstone, where the fire can -warm her. But when Old 
 Grizzly goes, I shan't put he along o' mother. He can't sleep 
 under the table now, and her'll lead'n a life of it, if he be put 
 under the hearthstone along of she. Her niver worrits me, but 
 her don't leave old vaither alone not one miunit of nights. Her 
 does it because he knacked her, and beat her scores and scores 
 o' times when her were alive. Now her thinks her turn be 
 come. But her's got no vice in her. It be all 'pla.j, only vaither 
 be that crabbed he don't put up wi' it. When Old Grizzly 
 goes, I'll up wi' his heels and send him into a bog once for all. 
 He'll be wet and cold there, I reckon, and the moss grov/s so 
 thick over them quaking bogs, that once in there be no getting 
 out, no more than when you're gone under the ice on Ray- 
 borough Pool. Then he'll leave me in peace, I reckon.' 
 
 * You will do that, you long cripple (viper), you ! ' screamed 
 the old man, who had overheard the arrangements planned for 
 his interment and disai)proved of them. ' You will do that ! ' 
 He rushed on Joyce from behind, raining furious blovts on her 
 with his fists. * You will stog me in a bog, will'y 1 I'll put 
 you in fust, curs'd everlasting rallaluley if I don't.' The old man 
 yelled with fury. He stepped backwards and leaped at Joyce, 
 and beat and swore. 
 
 The young lady was frightened, and cried out for help. The 
 horrible old man seemed to her to be some superhuman appari- 
 tion rising out of the moor soil — a vampyre, a ghoul fiom a 
 cairn, come to destroy the wretched girl before her. 
 
 ' You chuck down thicky (that) stone, vaither 1 ' cried Joyce, 
 as he stooped and took up a piece of granite in both hands. 
 
 ' I won't, 1 won't. I'll mash you first, you unnat'ral varmint ! 
 You nigh upon killed me by rolling me over and over in the 
 cask, and shan't I nigh upon do the same by you 1 Glory 
 rallaluley, blast me blue ! ' 
 
 Joyce was unquestionably stronger than old Cobbledick, and 
 might have disarmed him, but the divine spark had been com- 
 municated to her ; it flickered faintly in her dim soul, and a 
 dumb instinct forbade her raising her hand against her father. 
 She had borne his brutality for many a year, and had not 
 resented it. She was his child, for him to deal with as he 
 thought best. The sense of property had become strongly 
 rooted in the minds of this branch of the Cobbledicks, and as 
 forces are correlated, and heat, and light, and electricity, aud 
 sound are but the same foree acting in different ways, so was it
 
 J 6 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 with the sense of possession. In the breast of Joyce it had 
 transformed itself into a consciousness of filial duty. 
 Joyce put up her hand to ward off the blow. 
 Then the young man who had carried the injured gentleman 
 away arrived, running up, summoned by the cries, and with one 
 stroke of the stick he held in his hand, he made the old man 
 drop the stone. 
 
 ' In another moment he would have beaten out your brains,* 
 said he, panting. 
 
 * I reckon he would,' observed Joyce. 
 
 The old man howled with pain, dancing about holding his 
 arm where struck. 
 
 * Who are you ? What are you doing here ? ' asked the 
 gentleman. 
 
 ' Never you heed he,' said Joyce. * Hers old vaither.' 
 ' Help me away from this horrible place,' entreated the lady ; 
 * I have fallen among savages in a dreadful wilderness. Am I 
 in England, in Europe — or is this the wilds of Northern 
 Canada?' 
 
 * She is lame,' said the young man to Joyce. ' Assist me in 
 conveying her to the house yonder.' 
 
 Joyce put herself submissively on one side. 
 ' How is my father 1 ' asked the young lady. 
 
 * No better,' he replied. 
 
 ' This strange girl tells me he has broken his neck.' 
 
 He was silent. He could not tell her the truth. It must 
 be broken gently to her. 
 
 ' I should wish to know if it be so.' 
 
 ' Let us hope for the best. I have sent the post-boy to 
 Okehampton for a doctor. He will know better than I what ia 
 the matter, and what must be done.' 
 
 * But you can surely tell me whether he be alive or dead.* 
 
 * He is still unconscious.' 
 
 * I know he be dead,' said Joyce roughly. ' What's a broke' 
 is a broke, and his neck be broke as sure as a bit o' cloam. I 
 told her so.' 
 
 * Is he dead 1 ' again asked the young lady. 
 
 She was now being carried to the house. There Avas no 
 tremor in the arms that rested on the shoulders of her bearers, 
 
 ' I asked you a simple question. It is unmannerly to refuse 
 an answer.' 
 
 ' I believe he is dead,' said he with an effoi't. 
 
 * I am very sorry,' was her calm reply.
 
 WHAT THE CASK. DID. 17 
 
 The yoxing man stopped ; the girl Joyce stopped also. The 
 twilight from the north-west was full on the white lovely face; 
 there was no expression of distress on it, none of grief — not a 
 trace of a tear in her large dark eyes, 
 
 ' Why do you not go on 1 I said I am very sorry, naturally. 
 He was my father. What else should I say ? ' 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WEST WYKE. 
 
 The young man and Joyce conveyed the lady between them 
 ander a low embattled gateway into a small yard or garden — 
 it was too dark to distinguish which — and halted in the porch 
 of a house. 
 
 Joyce said : ' Stay, I go no vur Jer. I niver ha' been insido 
 a house and under hellens (slates) afore, and I hain't a going 
 now.' 
 
 The door opened and a blaze of ruddy light fell on them. 
 A young lady had opened to admit them. 
 
 ' There be Miss Cicely Battishill,' said Joyce. ' Sure her 
 will take my place once for all.' 
 
 ' Another step more, girl,' said the young man to Joyce, 
 'and our burden is in a chair.' 
 
 ' Why do'y call me a gurl 1 ' asked Joyce. * I hain't a gurl. 
 I be a maiden. There be maidens in these parts, and no gurla. 
 I dunnow, but the leddy I been a helping may be a girl ; heva 
 different from I ; I be a maiden.' 
 
 * Never mind distinctions,' said the young man impatiently. 
 
 * Go on another step.' 
 
 * No, I'll put my head under no hellens. I be a savage,' 
 said Joyce obstinately. ' You go on yourself, and get Lliss 
 Cicely to help.' 
 
 ' I will take your place, Joyce,' said the young lady at the 
 door, and she assisted the strange pale girl to come in. 
 
 The young man looked back over his shoulder, and said, 
 
 * Thanks for your help as far as it went, maiden.' 
 
 Joyce stood without, the red light on her, with the dark 
 garden, the moor, and the night sky behind, her strange face 
 appearing even handsome in the glow, and the flicker reflected 
 iii her dull eyes. 
 
 c
 
 18 JOHN HEREING. 
 
 The figure struck the young man with an evanescent sense 
 of pity. She seemed an outcast — desolate, friendless. 
 
 Then the door closed, and the light was cut off. But 
 Joyce did not leave. She stood in the porch with her arms 
 folded looking over the black garden wall at the wild blacker 
 moor beyond, over which the wind was soughing. She was 
 lost in a day-dream unintelligible to herself. 
 
 The light from the window streaked the garden and fell on 
 an orange lily that stood out luminous and fiery against the 
 inky background of foliage and wall. The stars were coming 
 out in the sky. Joyce remained motionless, with her eyes on 
 the fiery flower. 
 
 In the meantime the pale young lady was conveyed to a 
 seat by the fire. The porch door opened immediately into the 
 hall or parlour. This was a small low room, irregularly built, 
 with a bay in which was the window. It was so small that 
 with twenty people within it would be crowded inconveniently ; 
 it was so low that a tall man could touch the ceiling. 
 
 The hall was panelled throughout, very unpretentiously, 
 with plain black oak ; there was no carving except over the 
 great fireplace, where was a coat of arms, once heraldically 
 emblazoned, but now obscured by smoke. The coat was 
 curious. Azure, a cross crosslet in saltire, between four owls 
 argent, beaked and legged or. 
 
 On the walls were hung a few old portraits in tarnished 
 oval frames. The paint was cracked and peeling off. 
 
 The ceiling was crossed by moulded oak beams of great size, 
 black with age and smoke. 
 
 A tall, very thin gentleman, lAv. Battishill, the owner of 
 the house, and squire of West Wyke and lord of the manor, 
 bad been seated in a high-backed leather-covered chair beside 
 the fire. He started up and offered it to the young lady, with 
 many rather uncouth bows. This gentleman was old ; he still 
 wore his hair tied back by a black riband, though the fashion 
 had gone out. His suit was rusty, his boots were split in the 
 upperleather, and the elbows of his long coat were patched. 
 His face was peculiar. The nose was pointed and aquiline, and, 
 as forehead and chin receded, it gave his head the appearance 
 of that of a bird. The eyes were very wide open, prominent, 
 and of the palest grey. His hair was frosted with age. 
 
 The expression of his eyes was one of eager inquiry. His 
 mouth was weak, and the lips were incessantly quivering. 
 There was a kindly look about the feeble mouth which assured
 
 WEST WYKE. 19 
 
 those who studied the face that a kind hearb was lodged 
 within, and showed them that the qualities of this organ were 
 Bviperior to those of the head. 
 
 Mr. Battishill's daughter Cicely was a fine girl, about the 
 game age as Joyce — eighteen. She was somewhat stoutly built 
 with hair of a glowing auburn, almost red, but not harshly red, 
 rather of the richest, sunniest chestnut. Her complexion was 
 of that quality seen nowhere but in Devon ; transparent, 
 delicate, white, with the brightest, healthiest, purest colour 
 conceivable ; a face in which the mounting of a blush had all 
 the beauty and splendour of a sunrise. Her eyes were hazel, 
 dancing with life and intelligence. There was buoyant good 
 nature in every line of her face. At the present moment her 
 expression was that of distressed sympathy with the lovely gix'l 
 just introduced into her father's house. 
 
 The contrast between the two was striking. The new 
 comer was absolutely colourless. Her hair was dark, almost if 
 not wholly black. She was very slenderly built, her hands 
 were long, and the fingers fine and tapering. The hands in- 
 dicate culture and purity of race; those at which Cicely now 
 looked were hands belonging to a lady of high nervous sensi- 
 bility and perfect breeding. Her features were regular, and 
 singularly delicately and beautifully cut. The eyes, when 
 raised, sent a tremor to the heart of him on whom they rested ; 
 they were deep, full, and mysterious. A soul lay in those 
 unfathomed pools, but of v/hat sort none might guess. There 
 was nothing in the expression of the face to assist in tho 
 inquiry. And yet the face was not a blank page and therefore 
 uninviting. The expi'cssion that sat on it was one of reserve, 
 and therefore as provoking as those wonderful eyes. 
 
 Cicely was frank and impulsive ; her heart was visible to 
 all the world, she had no reserve whatever ; what she thought 
 she said ; and her heart spoke through her eyes, — a genial, 
 afiectionate heart, fresh and simple. 
 
 The pale young lady was evidently relieved by being 
 placed in a chair by the fire. Her foot had pained her; it waa 
 now rested on a footstool. 
 
 * I beg your pardon,' said Mr. Battishill, * I did not catch 
 the name. It is such a pleasure to me to know to whom I 
 am able to ofier hospitality. It places persons on a footing of 
 friendship at once when they are able to address each other by 
 Dame.' 
 
 * My name is Miielle,' said the young lady, without raising 
 
 02
 
 20 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 her eyes from the fire or moving a muscle of her face. * My 
 mother was the Countess Garcia. She married my father, a 
 Mr. Strange. It is not necessary in Spain to take the paternal 
 name ; I prefer to be called Mu-elle Garcia de Cantalejo. 
 Cantalejo is territorial,' 
 
 j\tr. Battishill listened with open mouth and staring eyes, 
 and drew himself up. A distinguished guest this ! 
 
 * And Canta ' 
 
 'Cantalejo,' interrupted Mirelle, 'is in Segovia — in Old 
 Castile of course. We belong to the purest of the ancient 
 Castilian nobility. Cantalejo belonged to the family from the 
 earliest period; it is even said that when Saint Jacques came 
 to Spain he was the guest of my ancestor, and that is why v/e 
 bear an escallop on our coat. Cantalejo belonged to us till the 
 sixteenth century.' 
 
 * And now ? ' 
 
 'It has ceased to belong to us for three hundred years. 
 But before that we exercised sovereign powers in the country ; 
 we coined our own money, and hung malefactors on our own 
 gallows.' 
 
 ' Your poor fjxthcr,' began Mr. Battishill, his nei-vous mouth 
 working and his eager eyes staring, ' that is, Mr. Strange — I 
 think you said Stnuige ' 
 
 Mirelle bowed an afErmative. 
 
 ' Your poor father, Mr. Strange, lies, I fear, in a very sad 
 and precarious state, lie has been placed in the spare bed- 
 room upstairs, and the doctor has been sent for, but cannot 
 well be here for an hour.' 
 
 ' I am told that my father is dead,' said the young lady 
 composedly. ' I am very sorry. And what increases my 
 desolation is that he was a heretic.' 
 
 ' You love him 1 ' whispered Cicely, looking pained and 
 puzzled. 
 
 ' I have always prayed for him, and I will pray for him 
 still,' said Mirelle. * He did not know the truth, so his in- 
 vincible ignorance may save him.' 
 
 'You would hardly like to see him now,' suggested Cicely. 
 
 ' No, perhaps to-morrow.' 
 
 ' You love him 1 ' persisted Cicely. 
 
 ' Of course,' answered Mirelle. ' It is my duty. But you 
 must understand that I have not known liim except by namo 
 till last fortnight. I had not seen him at all till a fortuiglit ago, 
 wlien he came to Paris to take me away from the Sacre Coeur.'
 
 WEST WIKE. 21 
 
 The young man had been watching her face intently. He 
 had seemed more pained than Cicely at her want of feeling. 
 Now he drew a long breath, a sigh of relief; these words of 
 Mirelle explained her coldness. 
 
 ' I am sorry that he is dead,' she went on, * but he ought 
 not to have married my mother.' 
 
 ' We cannot regret that,' said Mr. Battishill with awkward 
 gallantry, ' since to that we are indebted for the pleasure ot 
 making your acquaintance.' 
 
 Mirelle considered for a moment, then she said simply, 
 * You mean that I should not have existed. True ; I did not 
 think of this.' 
 
 Mr. Battishill and the young man were unable to repress a 
 Bmile. She was a curious mixture of simplicity, reserve, and 
 frankness. The reserve was exercised over her feelings, but 
 she was perfectly frank about her thoughts. 
 
 ' Have you ever been to Cantal 1 I have not quite 
 
 caught the name.' 
 
 * I have never been in Spain at all,' answered Mirelle. 
 
 * Where, then, have you lived 1 ' 
 
 'In Paris. Where else should I live? One lives in Paris, 
 one exists elsewhere.' 
 ' But your father 1 ' 
 
 * Mr. Strange was a Brazilian diamond merchant. I mean 
 a merchant of diamonds living in Brazil. My mother married 
 him there. It was very good of my mother, but she was an 
 angel. He was rich — comme ga, mais bourgeois. When I 
 was born, my mother came to Paris to have me properly 
 educated, and I lived there till the good God took her. I have 
 been at school with the English sisters of the Sacre Cceur. 
 When my father came to Paris he took me away, to bring me 
 to his home in England.' 
 
 ' Where is his home ? ' 
 
 ' He has none ; he would make one. He has retired from 
 his business.' 
 
 ' What relations has he 1 They should be communicated 
 with.' 
 
 ' I do not know that he has any. My mother never spoke 
 of my father's relations. She knew nothing of them ; she did 
 not want to know them. In this world everything is on 
 shelves, and the things on each shelf are kept to themselves. 
 Whei^e they get mixed there is inextricable confusion. Above, 
 angels ; then kings, nobles, bourgeois, peasants, monkeys, and
 
 22 JOHN HEEEING. 
 
 J30 down to the lowest form of life — those laid on the floor. 
 My father's relatives were not noble.' Then suddenly, * Are 
 you noble, sir ? ' 
 
 Mr. Battishill threw up his head proudly. ' My family 
 is gentle, and of ancient degree,' he said. ' We appeared in the 
 Heralds' Visitation of 1620 in four descents, but I have title- 
 deeds that show we were lords of the manor of West Wyke 
 from the time of Edward the Third.' 
 
 ' Those are your arms ? ' asked Mirelle, looking at the 
 chimney-piece. * What birds are those ? ' 
 
 'Owls,' answered Mr. Battishill proudly; 'owls argent, 
 beaked and clawed or.' 
 
 Mirelle contemplated the owls, then looked at the gentle- 
 man, with his blank eyes, beak-like nose, and grey hair. Her 
 lips twitchefl slightly, but she was too well bred to smile. 
 
 ' The bird is dedicated to Minerva. It is the symbol of 
 wisdom,' she said. 
 
 ' The BattishiUs were ever owls,' said he proudly. Then 
 he asked, glancing at the young man, ' Is this gentleman your 
 brother 1 ' 
 
 Mirelle looked up full for the first time into the young 
 stranger's face. 
 
 ' He is no relative of mine. I do not even know his name,' 
 
 ' My name,' said he, stepping forward, * is John Hei-ring.* 
 He was interrupted by a laugh from Mirelle. 
 
 ' Herring ! ' she exclaimed, ' Quel drole de nom ! That is 
 a fish they split and pickle, and pack in barrels, is it not 1 * 
 The young man coloured. 
 
 ' The name is bourgeois — Herring ! ' 
 
 The young gentleman drew back, wounded. He said 
 nothing more about himself, but asked Mr. Battishill in a low 
 voice for a lantern. 
 
 ' The trunks and portmanteaus are lying with the broken 
 chaise, and I must see to their being placed under shelter and 
 in security. Are there men about the premises who can assist 
 me?' 
 
 'There will be some difficulty about finding a man,' 
 answered Mr. Battishill. ' We do not keep one in the house, 
 and the cottages are at a distance. You will not find your 
 way to them by night. Do not trouble about the trunks; 
 leave them till morning. No one will touch them.* 
 
 ' I prefer removing them. When the post-boy returns from 
 Okehamjpton with the doctor, I will secure his assistance.*
 
 WEST WTKB. 23 
 
 Cicely had lighted a lantern whilst her father was sj)eaking. 
 She offered it to John Herring. ' I will go for you to the 
 cottages,' she said ; * I will send some men to help you.' She 
 accompanied him to the door. ' It is quite right that the 
 things should not be left out all night on the moor. There are 
 tramps on the Exoter road, and the Cobbledicks are close by.' 
 She opened the door, and the light fell on Joyce. 
 
 ' Why, Joyce, you here still 1 I thought you had gone 
 back to the Giant's Table.' 
 
 ' If I were to go back to vaither, he'd kill me. I ha' lost 
 ho his old barril, and him won't sleep under the table a'cos 
 mother be there wi' her playful ways, tormenting of he.' 
 
 ' What do you mean, Joyce 1 ' 
 
 * I means this, miss. His barril be rolled away down hill, 
 and I dunnow where her be rolled to. Where be vaither to 
 sleep t ' 
 
 ' Under the Giant's Table.' 
 
 * That won't do, 'cos o' mother. Her be lively o' nights 
 when vaither be there. 'Tain't wickedness, it be her playful 
 ways. Her leaves me alone right enough. But vaither won't 
 go there. Now if he might sleep i' one o' your linnies', he'd be 
 right vast enough as a nail in a door.' 
 
 ' By all means, let him sleep there, Joyce, — at least for a 
 while, till you can recover the cask.' 
 
 ' Then I can go back to he. If I hadn't that to say, he'd 
 ha' killed me. Now he'll go snuggle into the straw like a 
 heckamall ^ in a rick. That's beautiful ! ' 
 
 ' Joyce,' said Cicely, ' this gentleman is going to the broken 
 carriage. Perhaps you can assist him to remove some of the 
 trunks. They must not be left out where they are.' 
 
 'There be some scatt right abroad,'^ answered Joyce; *I 
 seed mun, and the things be coming out like.' 
 
 * More the reason why they should be collected and brought 
 under cover.' 
 
 'I'll go right on end,' said Joyce. 'And vaither may sleep 
 in the linney ? ' 
 
 ' \;es, he may. 
 
 ' Oh, rallaluley, he'll be glad ! ' 
 
 So Joyce led the way, followed by Herring, and Miss 
 Cicely Battishill went in quest of assistance. 
 
 • Lean-to sheds. 
 
 * A heckamall or heckanoddy is a tomtit. 
 " Broken to pieces.
 
 24 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 When Herring and Joyce reached the scene of the accident, 
 they discovered Old Grizzly hopping about amidst tha wreck, 
 pulling the pieces of the broken carriage apart. He had made 
 some clearance in the confusion, but not from disinterested 
 motives. Everything in the shape of cushion and cloa,k had 
 disappeared, and the old wrecker was engaged in collecting 
 chips of the broken wood for firing. 
 
 John Herring did not notice particularly what he was 
 about ; it was too dark to distinguish much. He went directly 
 to the boxes. 
 
 Of his own goods there Avas little to take care of save one 
 valise, and that Avas safe. The rest of the trunks and portman- 
 teaus belonged to Mr. Strange and his daugliter. The trunks 
 lay, some still corded, on the top of the ch.nse, others thrown 
 off, one with its lock sprung. This box had either been very 
 much shaken by the fall, or Gi'izzly's arm had been turning it 
 over, for the lid would no longer close over the confused and 
 overflowing contents. 
 
 Grizzly Cobbledick decamped when he saw the lantern 
 brought to bear on the wreck. Joyce called after him, but he 
 made no reply. Then she went in pursuit to announce to him 
 the glad news that he was to sleep in the straw of the calves' 
 linney at West Wyke. 
 
 ' I wonder,' mused John Herring, ' whether that old rascal 
 can have stolen anything of value. If he has, there is no one 
 to bring him to book. The owner is dead, and the daughter 
 probably knows nothing of the contents of the boxes.' 
 
 If he had known I 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MIRELLE. 
 
 It is aggravating to the reader to be asked to move backwards 
 when he has been well started in a story. He resents it as ho 
 resents the backing of a train when he has left the station 
 where he took his ticket, and is impatient to reach his des- 
 tination. 
 
 The author is awai'e that he is trying the patience of the 
 reader when he asks him to tui'n into a side alley which bends 
 in the same direction as his starting point. He would avoid 
 asking him to turn if it were possible to do so. But it is not
 
 MIKELLE. 25 
 
 always possible. To a drama, to the farce of half an hour, is 
 prefixed the list of characters. In taking up one of Lacy's 
 acting copies, the reader learns at a ghxnce that Box is a 
 journeyman printer, and Cox a journeyman hatter, and that 
 Mrs. Bouncer is a lodging-house keeper. He learns a great 
 deal about them before he comes to a word of dialogue. He is 
 informed that Box wears ' small swallow-tailed black coat, 
 short buff waistcoat, light drab trousers (short turned up at the 
 bottom), black stockings, white canvas boots with black tips, 
 cotton neckcloth, and shabby black hat ; ' further, that Cox is 
 apparelled in ' brown Newmarket coat, long white waistcoat, 
 black plaid trousers, boots, white hat, black stock ; ' that Mrs. 
 Bouncer is costumed in ' coloured cotton gowa, apron, cap, 
 •fee' He feels at once that he knows all about these characters. 
 He reads their past in their costume, they wear their souls on 
 their limbs. Note that ' turned up at the bottom ' — the words 
 illumine the abysses of the character of Box, and make them 
 clear to us. 
 
 But the novelist is debarred what is allowed the dramatist. 
 He must haul up his curtain on a situation without an intro- 
 ductory word, and then, when the reader is 'puzzled as to the 
 characters, antecedents, and purposes of the dr'amatis personm, 
 he is obliged to step forward, stick in hand, as in a waxwork, 
 point out the several personages and desci-ibe them. This is 
 the way of novelists. It is a bad way, it is inartistic, but it is 
 exacted by the reader. 
 
 Now, in describing the characters of a novel it is not 
 sufiicient to give minute accounts of the costume — in the case 
 of the Cobbledicks this is done in a word ; the author is 
 required to giv^e his readers a key to the inner mechanism of 
 his puppets, to show why they walk or pirouette, and what 
 may be expected to be the limits of their powers. He can 
 rarely do this without retrogression. 
 
 That Mirelle may be understood and not be judged with 
 undue severity, we must step back to a period before her birth ; 
 but we shall be as rapid in our survey as we can, and shall 
 resume the thread of our story after a very short divagation. 
 
 The Countess Garcia de Cantalejo was a poor Spanish lady 
 sent out to Brazil by her relatives, who were by no means near, 
 to be got rid of by marriage, malaria, or mosquitoes, as might 
 be, but anyhow to be got rid of. 
 
 She was handsome, but, like the milkmaid in the ballad, 
 *her face was her fortune.' Now in Spain pretty women
 
 25 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 abound, and ugly women are exceptional. MaiTiageable men 
 look out more for money, which is scarce, than for beauty, which 
 is a drug. Money, moreover, they know, in prudent hands will 
 wax; beauty they know, however well conserved, will wane. 
 
 In Bi'azil she was seen and admired by Mr. Strange, a 
 diamond merchant, and she consented to give him her cold hand, 
 intending at the earliest opportunity to supplement it with the 
 cold shoulder. She married him, because no one else would 
 have her, and because he was well off. She was proud of her 
 family, and it was a condescension on her part — like that of the 
 sun which stoops to kiss the puddle — for her to link the proud 
 name of Garcia with that of Strange, and Cantalejo — which was 
 territorial, with a blank, for the Stranges had never owned any 
 more ground than the six foot allotted them as graves, and that 
 only till they had mouldei^ed. They had made, but not coined, 
 their money, certainly never had hung men on their own 
 gallows. 
 
 'Mr. Strange and the Countess Garcia de Cantalejo lived 
 together for a few years like oil and water. At length the 
 Countess became the mother of a daughter, who was baptized 
 Mirelle at the font in the Cathedral of Bahia, by the Cardinal 
 Archbishop himself. After this Donna Garcia informed her 
 husband that their separation was inevitable. The child could 
 not be decently suckled, weaned, and educated in a colony, 
 certainly not in a city so mean as Bahia. The child, the heiress 
 of the coronet and of the name with its territorial tail, must go 
 to Europe. 
 
 The Countess did not purpose retvirning to Spain ; there 
 were circumstances attending her departure from her native 
 country which had embittered her against her relatives there. 
 No ; she would go to Paris, the centre of the civilised world. 
 
 Mr. Strange raised no objections. He was weary of associa- 
 tion with a woman full of caprice, of fading charms, and of 
 intolerable pride. He was a reserved and a disappointed man. 
 To every bu'd comes its time of song ; to the swan only at 
 death, to the nightingale in balmy spiing while mating; it is 
 only the chatterers that chatter ever. The song time, the 
 flowering time, the moment when the dullest life breaks into 
 poetry, is the moment of love. Mr. Strange had gone through 
 this and had been disenchanted, and thenceforth hi slife became 
 dull, prosaic, without melody and colour, unimpassioned. His 
 heart had flamed, and his wife had extinguished its fires with ice. 
 Mr. Strange had no lovo for babies. Babies are to men
 
 MIRELLE. 27 
 
 objects as offensive as naked infant rabbits. A doe eats her 
 young rather than expose them to the sti-ange eye before their 
 fur is grown. If women were as wise as does they would never 
 exhibit the contents of their nursery till the children could talk 
 and run about. 
 
 Mr. Strange heard a squalling in the house ; the object his 
 wife had produced was thrust under his eyes and nose with 
 indecent haste. It dribbled when teething, erupted with the 
 thrush, and had a difficulty in keeping down its milk. Con- 
 sequently, when the Countess proposed to remove the babe to 
 Paris, Mr. Strange gave a cheeiful consent, and this consent was 
 made doubly cheerful by the certainty that the mother would 
 accompany her child. 
 
 If Mr. Strange acted in a somewhat callous manner in 
 granting this separation between himself and his wife and child, 
 he was in other particulars generous. He made the Countess 
 an allowance which, for his circumstances was handsome, and as 
 the child grew, and greater demands were made on his purse, 
 be met these demands without remonstrance. 
 
 Arrived in Paris, the Countess Garcia had not long to swim 
 befoi'e her feet touched ground. She had a perfectly legiti- 
 mate right to her title, her pedigree was unassailable, her 
 manners were polished. She appeared at the balls of the 
 Spanish ambassador, and associated with tlie best French and 
 Spanish families belonging to the old noblesse. It was well 
 known that she had married a moneyed Englishman, of no 
 birth, nor station, nor religion. It was known that she had 
 married for money. No one spoke of Mr. Strange. The great 
 people among whom she moved would as soon have inquu-ed 
 about a boil that troubled her as about the husband whom ' for 
 her sins' she had saddled on her. No persons of breeding 
 invite their friends to introduce them to the family skeleton. 
 
 Mirelle was brought up by the Countess to think of hei' 
 father as a man who had taken a mean advantage of hei 
 mother's poverty. He was her father by sufferance ; de facto, 
 alas, not de jure. She had inherited her mother's complexion, 
 eyes, and hair ; the blood in her veins was her mother's, 
 Spanish and aristocratic ; her sentiments were her mother's, as 
 also her prejudices and her faith. It was hard to say what she 
 derived from her father except her living and schooling, for which 
 he paid. For that she owed him nothing. He was fulfilling 
 his duty, and a privilege he ought to value. What w^as lie, to
 
 28 JOHN HEKHING. 
 
 be the husband of a Garcia and the father of a Garcia ? H9 
 •was Engh'sh, he was a heretic ; worst of all, he was bourgeois. 
 
 The Countess bought herself silks with Mr. Strange's 
 money, wore the diamonds he sent her, hired good rooms in an 
 aristocratic quarter, and paid for them from his remittances. 
 She had nothing whatever of her own. She owed him every- 
 thing to her handkerchiefs and her shoestrings. She knew thia 
 perfectly, and writhed under the knowledge. The greater the 
 debt she owed him, the deeper the detestation with which she 
 i-egarded him. Each present he sent her was repaid by instill- 
 ing a drop of bitterness into the heart of his child towards him. 
 
 One stipulation with regard to his daughter's education Mr. 
 Strange had made. He insisted that she should have an English 
 nurse, and that when she grew older she should have English 
 playmates and English governesses. When old enough to go 
 to school her mother sent her to English nuns, because Mr. 
 Strange refused to allow her to go to any other convent than 
 one of English sisters. Thvis it was that Mirelle grew up to 
 speak English fluently and well, and to thoroughly understand 
 the tongue. But of English ways of thinking and of feeling she 
 had not the faintest conception. Proud, cold, selfish, and 
 bigoted her mother had been, and the ambition of Mirelle was 
 to model herself on her mother. Thus she, too, became proud, 
 cold, selfish, and bigoted. It was not her fault — the fault lay 
 in her training. 
 
 The Countess was a woman of the world, who combined 
 religious zeal with worldly self-seeking. She was a vain woman, 
 and though she did her utmost to conserve her beauty, it 
 withered, and the child blooming into lovely maidenhood at her 
 side made the contrast distressing, because noticeable. This was 
 the reason why she placed Mirelle in a convent in her fourteenth 
 year. She saw the girl often, but never, if she could help it, 
 was seen in her company. 
 
 This separation from her mother was of advantage to Mirelle, 
 It preserved her simplicity. There was no craft in her ; she 
 was absolutely guileless, distressingly frank, and innocent of 
 the trickery as well as of the wickedness of the social world. 
 She was cold, because the spring had not yet come to her 
 frozen heart. She loved her mother, but without passion, for 
 her mother was too selfish to awaken passionate love. Her 
 nurses and governesses had changed so often that she could 
 not count them. Among the cold sisters, lilies of vu-tue, the 
 exhibition of emotion was, if not sinful, yet smacking of im-
 
 MIRELLE. 29 
 
 pei'fection. Natural afTcctions wei-e v/eaknesses of the moral 
 spine, to be conquered by wearing a perpetual back-board. 
 
 Suddenly the Countess died — died in her chair before the 
 looking-glass, reciting the Litany of Loreto, whilst her face 
 was being enamelled. The beautifier entreated Madame la 
 Comtesse not to draw her mouth down on one side, it was 
 cracking the enamel before it was dry — ^just when she had 
 arrived at the ' tower of ivory.' Then Madame la Comtesse 
 gave a gasp and the enamel came off, washed away from her 
 brow by the sweat of death, and running in a milky river down 
 her nose and cheeks, and dripping on the peignoir under her 
 chin. The beautifier rang the bell, and said, ' Sacre miile 
 diables ! To whom shall I send in the bill 1 Madame is no 
 more in condition to pay.' 
 
 When Mr. Strange heard of his wife's death, he settled his 
 affairs in Brazil. He was a strictly conscientious man, and he 
 felt that now it was his duty to look after the child. He had 
 no idea that the child had sprung up into maidenhood, and 
 was a tall, lovely girl, lovelier than her mother had ever been. 
 His wife had not taken the trouble to send him a miniature of his 
 daughter. Miniatures are expensive, and the Countess wanted 
 all the money she received for herself. She did, indeed, once 
 send him a bit of her hair, tied with blue silk ; but then, that 
 cost nothing. Mr. Strange thought of his child as a limp piece 
 of mortality in a long white garment, with a frill round the 
 red head like that put round a ham-bone— a thmg of squeals, 
 that in its' squealing showed a pair of toothless gums, a quiver- 
 ing red tongue, and a crinkled white palate. He could hardly 
 believe his eyes when introduced to his daughter. She re- 
 ceived him with perfect self-possession, without raising her 
 eyes from the ground to look at him, for the sisters had taught 
 her the custody of the eyes. According to S. Paul, there is but 
 one Man of Sin, and he is in the future; to the religious all 
 men are men of sin, and in the present. 
 
 Mirelle curtsied gracefully. She spoke the best copy- 
 book sentiments of filial respect, and assured him (out of the 
 Catechism) of the obligation to filial duty under which she lay. 
 
 Then he took her away from the nuns of the Sacred Heart, 
 and cariied her about Paris, sight-seeing, in the hope of 
 making her unbend. 
 
 The decorator sent in a bill for two thousand francs, his 
 charge for beautifying niadame, hoping to get fifty, and ready 
 to accept five. Mr. Stiango tore the bill, and lit his cigh.- 
 with it.
 
 30 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 An old woman who had laid madame out asked five franca 
 for her pains, then timidly produced a lock of hair she had 
 cut off madame's head as she laid her in the coffin. The hair 
 was beautiful still ! and, oh ! madame had looked so sweet, so 
 peaceful, like a holy angel, actually young again. Then Mr. 
 Strange took the lock reverently, turned his face away, and 
 did not speak. Something in his throat troubled him. He 
 thought of twenty years ago — of the time when his heart 
 bounded, of the singing of the nightingale, of the flowering of 
 the wheat, of the short dream of poetry. Then he recovered 
 himself, and put something in the old woman's hand. The old 
 woman went chuckling away. When she reached the street 
 she said, ' That was a brave invention. Madame's complexion 
 was that of a toad's belly. She was hideous as a monkey. I 
 covild not pick the paint off her skin. Some adhered, the rest 
 flaked away. That lock of hair was part of her false front. 
 Mon Dieu ! how soft men's hearts are ! ' Mr. Strange speedily 
 discovered that he and his daughter had about as many sub- 
 jects in common as an Esquimoaix has with a native of 
 equatorial Africa. She was above all things a Catholic, he a 
 Protestant. She was religious, and because religious, somewhat 
 conscientious. He conscientious, and, because conscientious, 
 somev/hat religious. His religioji was to his life what stockings 
 are to a traveller's portmanteau, something to fill corners with 
 where nothing else will go. With Mirelle religion was the 
 chief packing of her life, and this was a condition incomprehen- 
 sible to her father. She had artistic instincts ; she loved 
 pictures and music. Now, pictures and music happen to be 
 two things not to be got in Brazil, except in such an execrable 
 state of degradation as to be unendurable. But he liked the 
 theatre, and to attend the theatre Mirelle considered wicked. 
 Mirello had learned history from the sisters of the Sacre Coeur 
 that is, she had learned that every modern political idea is 
 positively evil, that absolutism is ideal perfection, that the 
 mediasval times were the only times in which it was Tforth 
 living, for then the popes gave and withdrew crowns, kings 
 kissed their feet, and emperors held their stirrups. She had 
 been taught geography out of French manuals, and had learned 
 that France is to the rest of the European powers as the sun to 
 the planets ; from it they derive their light, and about it they 
 rotate. 
 
 Mirelle had her acquaintances, the Princess L'AmoureusO; 
 Prince Punchkin, countesses, baronesses by the score, the
 
 MIEBLLE. 31 
 
 mothers and aunts of her schoolfellows, and friends of her 
 mother. Not one of these was known to Mr. Strange even by 
 name, and when she spoke of them she might have been, for 
 aught he cared, reciting the list of European lepidoptera. 
 
 Even in their eating their tastes were opposed. Mr. 
 Strange was fond of pickles, Mirelle loved sweets. Chillies 
 tickled his palate, chocolate soothed hers ; crystallised angelica 
 carried her into heaven, and plunged him into purgatory, for 
 he had a hollow tooth. Mr. Strange endeavoured to talk to 
 Mirelle of her mother. Now that the Countess was dead, some 
 of the old romance that had surrovinded his wooing reappeared, 
 and his heart softened to the memory of the woman. Mirelle 
 was ready enough to speak of her, but she had nothing to say 
 that vibrated a chord in his heart. She spoke of her mother 
 as a fashionable lady, living in society, dressing for balls, 
 driving in the Bois de Boulogne, or holding a plate at the door 
 of the Madeleine — not of her as a woman feeling, loving, 
 Buffering. 
 
 This condition of affairs was becoming intolerable. How 
 was Mr. Strange to live with a young lady with whom he was 
 utterly out of sympathy, whose head was where his feet stood, 
 and her feet at his head ? They saw different worlds, they 
 breathed different air. 
 
 The first thing to be done was to get her away from Fi'ance. 
 That was a plain necessity. On English soil common interests 
 might spring up. 
 
 Mr. Strange had a friend of former times living at 
 Avranches, a friend of whom he had lost sight for many years. 
 He knew his address, and he knew also that he was married to 
 a French lady. 
 
 Mr. Strange's nearest relative, a cousin, had lived formerly 
 at Falmouth, and, he supposed, lived there still. Mi-. Strange 
 resolved to visit his old friend at Avranches, and go on in the 
 packet from St. Malo to Falmouth, He would consult both on 
 what was to be done Avith Mirelle. He had other reasons, 
 which will appear in the sequel. 
 
 So he hurried away from Paris, and went to Avranches. 
 His old friend was delighted to see him, shook hands — both 
 hands — with the utmost cordiality, asked half a dozen times 
 after his wife and children, and forgot as frequently, when told, 
 that his wife was dead and thatthere was butonechild, a daughter. 
 He insisted on carrying his dear friend Strange with him to the 
 caf"^ ftjid on his drinking with him a glass of eau sucree
 
 32 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 flavoured with syrup of orange, and eating with him sponge 
 biscuits. Would he further, in recollection of old times, favour 
 him with a game of dominoes 1 The Frenchified Englishman 
 did not inti-oduce Mr. Strange to his wife, or ask him to bring 
 Mirelle from the hotel to his house, and finally, looking at his 
 watch, remembered he was due to take his wife a drive, shook 
 hands with his dear old friend with effusion, and begged, if ho 
 were again passing through Avranches on his way to or from 
 Brazil, not to omit to call and drink again with him sugar and 
 water and eat a sponge cake. 
 
 Mr. Strange departed, his grave face looking graver. After 
 a rough passage, in which Mirelle suffered extremely, and her 
 father smoked and looked at the waves unconcernedly, they 
 arrived at Falmouth. Cato, when at sea, jumped overboard, 
 saying he would rather die than endure another half-hour of 
 sickness. Cato was a stoic philosopher, Mirelle was neither a 
 philosopher nor a stoic. She was profoundly wretched, and 
 looked ghastly when she landed in a drizzle at Falmouth. 
 Thus her first arrival in England was not encouraging. Mr. 
 Strange inquired for his cousin, and learned that he was no 
 longer at Falmouth ; he had removed to Launceston. Mr. 
 Strange heard such an unsatisfactory account of his cousin that 
 he was greatly disconcerted. His cousin's name was Tram- 
 pleasure. He found a universal consensus of opinion at 
 Falmouth that Mr. Tram pleasure was a man unprincipled and 
 unscrupulous, and that he had moved to Launceston only 
 because he had made Falmouth too hot for him. 
 
 Mr. Strange remained a couple of nights at Falmouth, and 
 then took coach to Launceston. There he neither called on his 
 cousin nor stayed. He found at the inn a young gentleman 
 equally anxious with himself to push on to Exeter, and he 
 ofiered him a seat in the chaise he had hired. Thus it was that 
 Mr. John Herring was with him and his daughter when the 
 accident occurred. Before leaving BrazU Mr. Strange had 
 made his will, bequeathing everything he possessed to his 
 cousin Mr. Sampson Trampleasure, and to his Avrancheg 
 friend, in trust for his daughter, and had constituted them her 
 guardians. This will was in his desk. He did not unpack his 
 desk at Falmouth and cancel his will ; there was time enough 
 to do that on his arrival at Exeter. Man proposes : God 
 dispoises.
 
 33 
 
 CHAPTER T. 
 
 THE owls' nest. 
 
 West Wykb is a pei^fect specimen of a small country gentle- 
 man's house of the sixteenth century. Two or three hundred 
 years ago every parish in the West of England contained 
 several gentle families, not acred up to their lips, but with 
 moderate possessions. These small squires farmed a large part 
 of their own estates themselves, gave moderate portions to their 
 daughters, who were not ashamed to marry yeomen and even 
 tradesmen, and their younger sons went to sea, or were 
 ajiprenticed to merchants in the towns. ^ 
 
 When the heralds came round to hold their courts and 
 examine into the claims of gentility and right to bear arms, 
 these squires rode to court with their title-deeds in their saddle- 
 bags and their signet rings on their hands, and showed con- 
 vincingly that they had held their acres for many generations 
 and had borne coat armour. Hard drinking, gambling, an 
 extravagant style of living, have destroyed these little gentry, 
 and the same causes have effected the extermination of the 
 yeomanry. 
 
 In the parish of fSouth Tawton two hundred yeai-s ago there 
 were seven families of gentle blood — the "Weekes of North 
 Wyke, the Burgoynes of Zeal, the Northmores of Will, the 
 Oxenhams of Oxenham, the Battishills of West Wyke, the 
 Mylfords, and the Eursdons. All have gone; their place is 
 only known by the old houses they have left behind, and a few 
 tombstones with their hei-aldic bearings on them in the church. 
 The grand old mansion of the Weekes is now parted in twain, 
 one half a farmhouse, the other a labourer's cottage. The park 
 is cut down, the ceilings are falling, the panelling is decaying. 
 The house of the Burgoynes is now a village tavern ; Will, a 
 cottage, its grand old gateway levelled with the dust; West 
 Wyke is a farmhouse. 
 
 If we would know how our gentle ancestors lived, let ua 
 
 ' Thus, in the Visitation of Devon of 1G20, a Cholmondeley entera 
 his brothers as ' silkman on London Bridge,' and 'prentice in London,' 
 and a Wolston registers his sisters as married respectively to a 
 ' labourer ' and a ' clothier ' ; a daughter of Glanville married a black- 
 Bmith of Tavistock. 
 
 D
 
 34 JOHN HEKRING. 
 
 look closely at West Wyke — it desei'ves a visit and a descrip- 
 tion. 
 
 The house stands on the moor, in tke midst of a little patch 
 of reclaimed land. The situation is too lofty and exposed to 
 allow of trees to flourish. A few ash stems attempt to live 
 there, and they are twisted from the south-west. A few feet 
 below the surface the roots reach the rock, and when the tap- 
 root touches stone the doom of the tree is sealed. 
 
 West Wyke House was built in 1583 — the date is on it — 
 by William Battishill. It is a house which a substantial 
 fai-mer nowadays would scorn to inhabit. It consists, on the 
 basement, of one hall, a ladies' bower, a kitchen, and a large 
 dairy — that is all. And that is the basement plan of many 
 hundreds of similar mansions in the West, once tenanted by 
 proud squires and their ladies, well born, well bred, and well 
 attired. Look at their portraits — they were gentlemen of 
 breed and honour, they carry it in their faces; they were 
 ladies of pure and noble souls, refined in mind, simple in life. 
 It is written on their brows. 
 
 In 1656 Roger Battishill, the reigning lord of the manor, 
 walled in a garden in front of the house, and at the side built 
 an embattled gateway, only twelve feet high to the crown of 
 the battlements; a gateway of shaped granite blocks and 
 carved granite moiddings; and over the centre, proudly also 
 sculptured in gi-anite, the arms of Battishill, the cross crosslet 
 in saltire between four great owls. He planted the garden 
 with lilies, white and orange, with honesty, golden-rod, and 
 white rocket. These flourished here, sheltered from the winds 
 by the inclosing walls ; and a monthly rose ran up the side of 
 the house, about the hall window, and bloomed up to New 
 Year's day. 
 
 No road led to the embattled gateway. No carriages were 
 used in those days, and for the horses' hoofs there was the 
 spongy turf. When a rough track had been trampled through 
 the moor grass, and made black with oozing peat water, the 
 riders rode afield and made another way till the first had 
 grassed itself over again. 
 
 Observe the date on the embattled gateway. Charles I. 
 was executed in 1649, Cromwell had issued his edict in 1655 
 for exacting the tenth penny from the Cavaliers, in order, as he 
 pretended, to make them pay the expenses to which their 
 mutinous disposition exposed the nation. To raise this impost, 
 which passed by the name of the decimation, the Protector
 
 THE owls' nest. 35 
 
 appointed major-generals, and divided the kingdom into mili- 
 tary jurisdictions under them. These men had power to 
 subject whom they would to decimation, and to imprison any 
 person who should be exposed to their jealousy or suspicion. 
 Now Eoger Battishill had been a Koyalist, but his twin brother 
 Eichard had been a Roundhead. There were two other 
 brothers, Robert and Ralph. Now, when the commissioner 
 came to Okehampton to levy decimation, he summoned Squire 
 Battishill before him ; whereupon the four brothers, all habited 
 in grey, with very erect hair, protruding ears, and staring eyes, 
 and a general puzzle-headed expression in their faces, appeared 
 before him, and so bewildered the commissioner with their 
 Roger and Richard, and Robert and Ralph, and their extra- 
 ordinai-y likeness to each other, and their profound puzzle- 
 headedness, which made it impossible for Roger to speak 
 without involving Richard and Robert and Ralph, and so 
 through the rest — that he dismissed them undecimated, fully 
 impressed that the Royalist was Ralph, who, being only just of 
 age, could not have been in the past a dangerous recusant. 
 Thereupon the four brothers rode home to West Wyke, hooting 
 with joy, and in commemoration of this achievement set up the 
 embattled gateway, to shut themselves in and the world ;\nd 
 politics out for ever. Over the gateway they carved the four 
 owls, their arms, said Roger and Richard, and Robert and 
 Ralph — their own portraits said the malicious world of South 
 Tawton. 
 
 Some account of the hall has been already given. In our 
 day the oak panelling has disappeared as fuel for the great 
 hearth, but in the granite mullioned window is still preserved 
 in stained glass the cognizance of the Battishills, the four owls 
 impaled with, azure, three towers argent, on which are squatted 
 thi-ee white birds. 
 
 A gentleman of the present day, if not exacting, might 
 possibly accommodate himself in the lower part of the house, 
 but woitld hardly acquiesce in the upstairs arrangements, for 
 there all the bedrooms were en suite. In the centre slept the 
 squire and his lady, when he had one ; on the right were rooms 
 for the men ; in the furthest slept the apprentices, in the nearest 
 the sons and brothers of the family. On the left were tliree 
 rooms all in communication. The first was the state guest room, 
 the next that allotted to the young ladies ; beyond that, over 
 the cow-shed, the room for the servant maids. 
 
 We have a great deal to learn from our ancestors, and we 
 
 D2
 
 36 JOHN nERRINQ. 
 
 aie learning much. We copy their architecture, we reproduce 
 their dyes, we affect their costume, but we do not go back to 
 their sleeping arrangements. 
 
 Some days passed. Mirelle remained at West Wyke ; John 
 Herring was lodged in the inn at Zeal, not fiir distant in the 
 valley. He devoted himself to the affairs of Mirelle. Mr. 
 Battishill was most kind, but quite unable to be of real use. 
 He was prepared to discuss with Her-ring what must be done, 
 and he would undertake to do what he thought desirable, but 
 he never did anything. The dead man might, have lain a 
 month, three months, a year upstairs, before Mr. Battishill took 
 steps for his interment. He had a theory of his own relative 
 to the disposal of the dead He believed that elm was an un- 
 suitable wood for the making of coffins. Alder was the proper 
 timber, because alder grew in swamps, and was presumably 
 damp-resisting. It was in vain tliat Herring explained to him 
 that alders did not attain a sufficient size to be sawn into 
 planks. That was because alders were not suffered to grow ; 
 they were treated as weeds and cut down. ' Grow them,' said 
 Mr. Battishill ; ' give them time and see for yourself.' He 
 would have allowed the dead man to occupy the spare room 
 till the alders were groAvn. 
 
 Then, again, he had a theory that coffins ought to be filled 
 with that powerful antiseptic, brown Norwegian pitch, pitch 
 from the pine, none of your villainous coal tar, but brown pitch 
 like old treacle. And so on, from coffins to alders, and to 
 Norway tar, and the dead man waiting for the alders to gi'ow 
 and the pitch to be extracted. John Herring was obliged to 
 see to everything, to arrange with the undertaker, and to fix" 
 the funeral. Then, again, Mirelle might have remained on till 
 she married or died for all that Mr. Battishill would have done 
 to discover her relations ; perhaps it would have been better 
 had it been so. We take infinite pains to do what is just and 
 kind, and find afterwards that everything would have been 
 better had we put our hands in our pockets. We give in charity 
 and pauperise; we effect reforms which bring in a state of 
 affairs worse than existed before. There is more mischief 
 wrought by doing good than by doing nothing. 
 
 Before the funeral, Herring discovered that the deceased had 
 an account v/ith an Exeter bank. He found this through a 
 letter in the pocket-book of the deceased addressed to him in 
 Paris from Exeter, acknowledging the receipt of several
 
 TLiE owls' nest. 37 
 
 thousand pounds, transfen'ed by a Braziliaa bank, and notifying 
 tiie opening of an account in Mr, Strange's name. 
 
 Herring communicated -with this bank, stated what had 
 Caken place, and the banker allowed him to di-aw a limited sum 
 for funeral expenses. The young man requested, even insisted, 
 on Mr. Battishill being present when he examined the dead 
 man's pocket-book and purse, and he required him to sign a 
 statement of the amount of money found on him. 
 
 Mirelle remained perfectly passive ; she took her residence 
 with the Battishills as a matter of course. The accident had 
 happened near their house, on their land ; it was only proper 
 that they should shelter her. If she gave the matter a thought, 
 this is the result of her cogitation, but actually it did not trouble 
 her. She had always been provided for, and had never had to 
 consider how she was to be provided for. She did not excuse 
 herself for taking advantage of the hospitality of strangers, for 
 it did not occur to her that such an excuse was necessary. 
 Herring was obliged to take on himself what Mirelle omitted. 
 He apologised for her. A strange cliance had constituted him 
 her guardian, at least for a while. She allowed him to arrange 
 everything. If he asked her to advise him as to her wishes, 
 she replied that she was without any ; he must act as he thought 
 proper. She knew nothing of the ways of England ; he must 
 do whatever was conventional. 
 
 It did not enter her head that his journey was interrupted 
 on her account, and that he was put to very serious incon- 
 venience by his difficulty in leaving her without a protector. 
 To trust Mr. Battishill to do what v/as requisite was to trust 
 a piece of bread and butter not to fall butter downwards. 
 
 Mirelle took it for granted that Herring was doing his duty 
 or following his pleasure. She accepted his services as she 
 accepted those of the girl who blacked her boots. Each fulfilled 
 a function for which they were called into existence. She 
 neither thanked him nor rewarded him with a look. What he 
 was like she did not know, neither did she care. He wore veiy 
 big and shapeless boots, but that was proper ; boots like these 
 became a bumpkin. 
 
 At the funeral he wore black, and gave her his arm. He 
 and she were the sole mourners. She did not wish to attend. 
 She supposed that only men attended the funerals of males; 
 but when it was explained to her that this was not the custom 
 in England, she submitted. 
 
 Mr. Battishill did not follow the coffin. There was a diffi-
 
 38 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 oulty with him about black clothes. He had one best suit, bub 
 that was dark blue with brass buttons. He was not provided 
 with ready money, and a new suit of clothes would cripple him 
 for some years, as it would have to be paid for in instalments, 
 a leg and an arm at intervals of a quarter ; the coat-tails at 
 equal and similar intervals. Mr. Battishill did not like to 
 admit this, so he was prostrated with a convenient attack of the 
 gout the day before the funeral, and sat in his chair with the 
 lame foot swaddled on a stool before him. We laugh at the 
 shifts of the gentle poor, and label them meannesses, whereas 
 they are necessities. Cicely remained at home. There was but 
 one servant kept at West Wyke, a cook, housemaid, parlour 
 maid, kitchen maid, laundress, condensed into one, and Cicely 
 had sufficient to do to keep the house in order. A funeral, 
 moreover, entails extra work — eating, drinking, and doleful 
 making merry. 
 
 Herring gave her some money from Mr. Strange's purse, 
 telling her that it was to be spent on things necessary, and 
 would be accounted for to the executors. It was not right nor 
 reasonable, it was not in the least necessary, that the Battishills 
 should be put to expense by reason of the funeral of a man who 
 was an entire stranger. The deceased was well off, and the 
 small expenses of his funeral would be nothing deducted from 
 the six thousand pounds which they knew was at the bank, and 
 would go to his daughter. 
 
 Cicely frankly accepted the money, and made gi-eater pre- 
 parations than she could otherwise have made. She put more 
 saffron and currants in the cakes, and with these necessary 
 condiments the luxury of candied peel. Instead of providing 
 cyder she put sherry on the table, and gave the bearers and 
 undertaker cold round of beef instead of squab pie. 
 
 As Herring and Mirelle left the churchyard after the 
 funeral, she took her hand off his arm, and in their walk back 
 to West Wyke she was interested in the ferns and mosses of 
 the banks. Herring spoke to her occasionally, trjdng to begin 
 a conversation ; but she answered shortly, and either dropped 
 behind to examine a fern or was arrested by the view through 
 a gate, plainly showing him that she declined to converse. 
 
 When they were on the moor, John Herring suddenly 
 stopped and picked a tuft of white heath. He offered it to 
 INIirelle, and she accepted it indifferently. 
 
 * Although this be a day of sadness. Countess, yet here is an 
 omen that some brightness is in store for you. It is said in
 
 THE owls' nest. 39 
 
 the West that the white heath brings good luck to the person 
 that secures it.' 
 
 ' You found it, monsieur, not I.' 
 
 'But I pass on my hick to you. Keep it; I hope it may 
 always spring up in your path as it has this day,' 
 
 She made no reply, but gathered a sprig of pink heath. 
 
 On reaching the gate of West Wyke Cicely met them ; she 
 had been looking out for their return. 
 
 * Voyez ! ' said Mirelle, ' I have picked a lovely bouquet of 
 ferns and moss and wild flowers on my way. We have no 
 ferns in France, at least I have never seen such. In this one 
 particular you surpass us.' 
 
 She showed her bunch. The white heath was not there. 
 
 * Oh ! exclaimed Herring, incautiously, * the best flower of 
 all has fallen — the white heath.' 
 
 * So it is,' said Mirelle. ' I am sorry ; my hand was full.' 
 ' Shall I go back for it ? ' 
 
 * No, it has fallen in the mire, and is trodden under foot, I 
 ehall doubtless find my own good luck some day myself.' 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THAT OLD TRAMPLARA. 
 
 As they entered the garden, Mirelle was about to take Cicely's 
 arm, and walk round it with her, looking at the flowers, when 
 John Herring stayed her — • 
 
 ' Excuse me. Countess, I must trouble you one moment. I 
 think it time that we should make an attempt to find out your 
 father's relatives or connections in England.' 
 
 ' I do not suppose that he had any.' 
 
 ' Why not ? '' 
 
 * He did not speak to me of any. Besides, these people do 
 not hang together like persons who have pedigrees.' 
 
 ' But something must be done. Whither are you to go ? 
 What is to become of you 1 ' 
 ' Comme le bon Dieu veut ! ' 
 
 * You cannot remain here till some one turns up to claim 
 you.' 
 
 * Why not ? ' 
 
 Mr. Herring was staggered. He could not reply, and say
 
 40 JOHN HEERINa. 
 
 that she was trespassing on the hospitality of entire strangers 
 She turned to continue her walk, 
 
 * That is a fine orange lily,' she said to Cicely. 
 
 * You must really allow me to detain you,' pursued Herring. 
 'All I ask now is, may Mr. Battishill and I look through 
 your father's desk that is in his trunk ? His bunch of keya 
 has been given to you. Will you open the desk, or shall we 
 do it with your sanction ? ' 
 
 ' Do what you like, Mr. Fish.' 
 
 Cicely looked reprovingly at Mirelle, and ventured on a 
 correction. ' Mr. Herring, you mean.' 
 
 Mirelle's cheek tinged faintly. 
 
 ' I beg you pardon, sir. Your name had , escaped me. I 
 am not yet familiar with English names, wnich seem to me 
 harsh or grotesque. I remembered that you belonged to the 
 fishes, but to which particular family of fish I did not recall,' 
 
 Herring bit his lip, then said quietly, * Would you prefer 
 opening your father's desk yourself, Countess ? ' 
 
 * Mon Dieu, non ! ' 
 
 * Then will you give me the key, and allow us to examine 
 the contents of the desk 1 ' 
 
 * Certainly. But I do not know which is the key. Here, 
 take the bunch, and do as you will.' Then she turned im- 
 patiently round, and walked away. 
 
 When Herring had entered the house, Cicely said gently, 
 * I think, Mirelle, you are bound to try and remember poor Mr. 
 Herring's name.' 
 
 * Why should I ? It in no way concerns me.' 
 
 ' But you hurt his feelings. I saw he was pained.' 
 
 * Oh, but no ! that is not possible. He cannot care about 
 such a droll name. Herring ! — red herring — pickled herring ! 
 — the thing is ridiculous. When the name is historical, then 
 — c'est bien autre chose. But when it is ignoble, and, in 
 addition, is ridiculous, what is there to be proud of] If there 
 be no pride, there can be no v/ound. These people, moreover, 
 have not the feelings that we have — I mean about their names. 
 I should resent it were I called anything but what I am. But 
 (hen the Garcias fought the Moors. Don Luis de Garcia with 
 one blow cleft a Sai-acen through his turban, 'twixt his eyes, to 
 the very saddle, and the saddle itself was cloven. We had the 
 saddle and the sword in our armoury three hundred years ago. 
 We" held the county of Cantalejo, we coined our own money, 
 and hung on our own gallows. But the Herrings ! they swim
 
 THAT OLD TRAMPLAKA. 41 
 
 In the vast sea along with the sprats and the congers, the 
 common plaice and the little dabs. They have no history. 
 They spawn ten thousand at a time ; they are the bread of the 
 nobler fish. No — a Herring has no cause to be offended if his 
 name be forgotten. There/ Mirelle laughed, * I have said my 
 say.' ■ 
 
 * He is a gentleman/ said Cicely, with some warmth ; * I 
 know nothing of his family, but I judge by his manners and 
 appearance.' 
 
 * I have noticed neither. I do not consider those who in no 
 way concern me. I cannot describe to you the colour of the 
 eyes and hair of the postillion who upset us, and I know and 
 care as little about the nobody who had the bad fortune to be 
 upset with us. II m'ennuie, c'est tout dire.' 
 
 * He has been very considerate towards you. He has done 
 a great deal for you deserving of gratitude.' 
 
 * For what else did the good God create men but to be 
 useful — to assist the ladies 1 He made the dog the servant of 
 man, and man the dog of the woman. The man does not thank 
 or consider the dog that fetches him a stick out of the watei-, 
 and the woman has no occasion to pat and jiraise the man 
 who executes foolish trifles for her. If the dog shakes himself 
 near his master, when emerging from the water, then the stick 
 he brought is applied to his sides, and when the man makes 
 himself over officious, woman turns her back on him.' 
 
 ' You have an odd idea of the reason why men are placed in 
 the world.' 
 
 ' I have a perfectly just idea. At the convent of the Sacr6 
 Coeur the good sisters kept several tame men. There was old 
 Jean who sawed the firewood for them, and ancient Jacques 
 who gardened. There was even a devout sweep who cleaned 
 their chimneys, and though his face was black, his soul was 
 white. There was a venerable chaplain who heard confes- 
 sions, and there was a domesticated notary who did their legal 
 business. The sisters worried these men a great deal, especially 
 the notary and the confessor ; the latter made a good end in 
 a lunatic asylum. They all took it in good part. Their backs 
 were made to bear their burden.' 
 
 * You will not forget his name again 1 ' 
 
 * Whose name 1 What ! ce bon Poisson ! I will remember 
 for your sake.' 
 
 John Herring brought down the dead man's desk into the 
 hall, that Mr. Battishill and he might examine its contents
 
 42 JOHN HERRING 
 
 together. Mr. Battisliill hastily put his leg up as Herring 
 entered. 
 
 * Sorry that I could not attend the funeral/ said the old 
 gentleman, ' but the sins of the fathers are visited on their 
 children. I endure the gout because my father and grand- 
 father tippled port. Sit down, Herring, and I will tell you a 
 good story. In the grand old days when there were many 
 squires about here, and the Knapraans were at Wansdon, and 
 the Whiddons at Whiddon, the old Squire Knapman was 
 getting into a bad way financially, like me. He was invited to 
 dinner at Whiddon, and drove there in his great coach. After 
 dinner, Squire Whiddon saw him into his overcoat in the hall, 
 and was about to accompany him to the door when old Knap- 
 man said, " No, no ! you v/ill catch cold ! keep in, man." But 
 the squire was too hospitable for that, and he attended Knapman 
 to the coach. " Don't come out, for heaven's sake, you will 
 get your death of cold," said Knapman. " Why ! " exclaimed 
 Whiddon, " what is the meaning of this, Knapman 1 Going 
 to ride on the box instead of inside, a night like this 1" "I 
 prefer it," answered Squire Knapman, proceeding to ascend to 
 the box. But Whiddon would not allow it ; he went to the 
 coach-door and opened it — when, lo ! he found it full of hay,' 
 
 * How came that 1 ' asked Herring. 
 
 ' Why, do you not see 1 Old Knapman was badly off for 
 hay for his horse, and when he went out anywhere to dinner 
 he told his coachman to fill the carriage with hay from his 
 host's rick, and himself went home on the box.' 
 
 ' A good story, sir ; but I think we had better examine the 
 contents of this desk before we tell any more.' 
 
 * Sit down, sit down, man. Do not drive the willing horse, 
 and let an old man give you a piece of advice. Let well alone, 
 and do not precipitate yourself, as Orlando says, " from the 
 smoke into the smother." ' 
 
 * But you forget, sir, this that you advise me to leave alone 
 is not well at all. The young lady is an orphan, and we know 
 nothing of her relatives.' 
 
 * Go on, then ! How full of briars is this working-day 
 world ! What do you propose to do with the lady 1 ' 
 
 '1 cannot tell till I have ascertained whether she has 
 relatives in England.' 
 
 ' If she has not, she must be made a ward in Chancery, or 
 you must marry her, and so take her afiairs into your own 
 hands.'
 
 THAT OLD TRAMPLARA. 43 
 
 * Mr. Battishill ! ' John Herring flushed to his temples and 
 looked down. 
 
 * I am putting an alternative case. Now, to make her a 
 ward in Chancery is to put a fly into a cobweb. Her few 
 thousand pounds will be bled away. By-the-by, talking of 
 thousands, do you know anyone inclined to speculate in silver 
 lead 1 I have a rare lode on my ]:)roperty, but I have not the 
 means to work it. I have set three men on the shode, and 
 they have been engaged there for severol days. There is no 
 mistaking that grey-blue stufi" that comes up. But I cannot 
 go on myself. If I could, the property would be cleared in no 
 time. As it is, I am crushed by that damned old Tramplara. 
 Do you remember how Sindbad had to carry the Old Man of 
 the Sea on his shoulders who picked all the apples and ate 
 them himself, whilst Sindbad perished of hunger ? Do what he 
 would, Sindbad was powerless to dislodge the horrible creature 
 astride on his back.' 
 
 * Yes, I remember.' 
 
 * Well, I am in the same predicament ; I have got that old 
 Tramplara on my back.' 
 
 * Who is Tramplara, sir 1 ' 
 
 * Tramplara ! Not know Tramplara 1 I thought every 
 one knew and had felt him. He is a Cornish lawyer, who 
 lived at Falmouth, till Falmouth passed him on to Launceston, 
 having had enough of him. He has lent me money. He knew 
 that I wanted to improve my property ; I was hot on draining 
 at one time, and thought if I drained my marshes I should fill 
 my purse. But, Herring, draining does not pay in all lands 
 It don't pay in clay at all. The only thing I drained eftectu- 
 ally was my pocket. Then I was drawn on to speculate in 
 Cornish mines that old Tramplara whispered great things of to 
 me. As a particular favour he put me up to splendid invest- 
 ments before they were opened to the public. By all the saints 
 in Cornwall — and they are more numerous than those in 
 Paradise — that mining did for me completely.' The old man 
 stamped his goixty foot on the ground. * It was a swindle. 
 And now I am entangled in the toils of old Tramplara, and 
 cannot get out. Ah ! Herring, if I could but work the lead 
 mine myself, I should clear myself of Tramplara. But I can- 
 not do it ; the cursed rascal robs me of all my rents, and I am 
 unable to nm^se the mine until it can run on its own legs. I 
 must call in strangers to form a company, and that means 
 they are to swallow the cup and give me the dregs. Moreover,
 
 44 JOHN HEREINa. 
 
 I am afraid of Tramp] ara finding it out. If he does; if he 
 Buspects what a lode there is at IJpaver, he will foreclose, take 
 the property, and work the mine himself.' 
 
 * I have no capital at my disposal,' said Herring. 
 
 ' I do not suppose you have. But only think ! Supposing 
 that Mr. Strange had come here alone, to recover of his fall, 
 and that I could have induced him to sink some of his 
 thousands here ! Come along with me ; I will take you to 
 Upaver and you shall judge for yourself.' The old man jumped 
 up, and walked across tho hall to his hat. 
 
 * Youi- gout, sir ! ' 
 
 * Oh, that is all right now. A walk will do it good.' 
 
 ' Another time, Mr. Battishill. Just at present we must 
 examine the desk, and see if we can find any clue to the family 
 of Mr. Sti"ange.' 
 
 * To be sure, to be sure,' said Mr. Battishill, returning to 
 his chair. * You di-ew me off our business. Open the box and 
 get the matter over.' 
 
 Herring was trying the keys. Before he had found the 
 right key, Mr. Battishill put his hand on the bunch and said, 
 ' By the way, before we go on with our inquiry, tell me, do 
 you belong to the Herrings of Codrington 1 ' 
 
 ' I did not know there were Herrings there.' 
 
 * No ; I do not mean noAv. In 1620 Hugh Manning, of 
 Newton Bushell, married Elizabeth, daughter of John Herring, 
 of Codrington, in Devon ; so it stands in the Visitation, under 
 the Manning pedigree. I do not think much of your family 
 not appearing in that Visitation, as some good Devon families 
 just emerging from the yeoman class, or not caring to appear 
 at the court of the heralds, are left uni-egistered. It was 
 so in this parish. Neither the Oxenhams nor the North- 
 mores appeared^ and yet they held lands here from time 
 immemorial.' 
 
 ' Had we not better seek out the Strange family, instead of 
 exploring the past of the Herrings 1 The latter will keep,' 
 
 ' You are right, quite right, my young friend. Good Lord, 
 what pertinacity you have. It is like that of a ferret hanging 
 on to a rat. Open the desk.' 
 
 The desk contained a considerable. number of papers, almost 
 all connected with business, and in a foreign language — Portu- 
 guese — which Herring could not read. 
 
 Mr. Battishill leaned back in his chair and looked before
 
 THAT OLD TiiAMPLARA. 45 
 
 him out of the hall window, lost in his meditations. He 
 muttered something impatiently. 
 
 * I beg your pardon/ said Herring looking up. ' Did you 
 address me 1 ' 
 
 ' 1 1 — no,' answered Mr. Battishill. * I merely said, " Damn 
 old Tramplara ! " ' 
 
 Herring resumed his examination. 
 
 * The scoundrel has his claws in my neck, and the mischief 
 is he is dragging more than myself down. There is poor Cicely 
 as well.' 
 
 ' Can you decipher these letters ? ' asked Herring, holding 
 out a couple of papers to the old gentleman ; * they are written 
 cither in Spanish, Italian, or Portuguese.' 
 
 ' I cannot say. My knowledge is limited. '' Ignorance is 
 the curse of God, knowledge the wing whereby we fly to 
 heaven." I once read Latin, but that Avas long ago. I may 
 remember a few words of French. " Dieu et mon droit," that 
 means " God and my right." " Honi soit qui mal y pense," 
 that means something about the Duchess of Gloucester's garter. 
 No, this is Chinese to me. " There is no dai-kness but 
 ignorance." ' 
 
 ' Hold ! ' exclaimed Herring ; ' here is his will. Shall we 
 look at it r 
 
 * By all means. No other document is so likely to help you 
 to what you want to discover. Give it to me.' 
 
 The will was very short. Mr. Strange had drawn it up 
 himself before sailing for Europe. The substance has been 
 already given. Mr. Strange left everything he possessed to Mr. 
 Eustace Smith, of Avranches, gentleman, and Mr. Sampson 
 Trampleasure, of Falmouth, solicitor, in trust for his daughter, 
 Mirelle, till she attained the age of twenty-three, and empower- 
 ing them to expend from it such moneys as were needed for her 
 entertainment and education. Thty were constituted sole 
 guai-dians, trustees, and executors. 
 
 Mr. Battishill uttered a groan. 
 
 * That scoundrel again ! ' 
 
 * But, sir, this is Trampleasure, not Tramplara.' 
 
 * It is the same. He writes himself Trampleasure, but no- 
 body dreams of calling him anything but Tramplara.' 
 
 * He is constituted her guardian.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but associated, fortunately, with another, Mr. 
 Eustace Smith.' 
 
 ' But should he renounce 1 '
 
 46 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 * Tlien good-bye to Mirelle's six thousand pounds. It will 
 go down Wheal Polpluggan.' 
 
 ' Wheal what 1 ' 
 
 * Wheal Polpluggan, that engulfed my money, and me.' 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THAT YOUNG TRAMPLAEA, 
 
 * What is to be done 1 ' asked Herring. There was a small 
 black square ruler on the table, belonging to Mr. Strange's 
 desk. He took it up and played with it, now balancing it across 
 his finger, then standing it up on the table, with the end in his 
 palm. 
 
 ' Let things take their course,' answered Mr. Battishill. * I 
 advise with Gloucester, "Thy greatest belp is quiet."' 
 
 * I will write to Mr. Eustace Smith at once.' 
 
 'Do so. If he i-enounces, mark my words, Polpluggan 
 swallows the young lady's fortune. Friend Herring, I have the 
 eyes of my heraldic cognizance, and can see in the dark. A 
 wonderful mine, Polpluggan. The amount of capital sunk in 
 it must have constituted a silver lode somewhere.' 
 
 'When I have heard from Mr. Eustace Smith I will com- 
 municate with Mr. Trampleasure — not before. I suppose 1 am 
 justified in doing this 1 ' 
 
 * Justified ! Certainly. I have never seen Polpluggan 
 myself. It is situated in the Scilly Isles. Of these there be 
 forty ; but I have been unable myself to make out in which 
 Polpluggan lies, whether in Presher, or Bryher, or Annette, or 
 Tean, "or Great Gannilly, or Little Gannilly, or Gweal, or 
 Withial, or Ganniornich, or ' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. May I borrow some notcpaper? ' 
 ' By all means. There is some. The beauty, or the 
 mischief of the matter is, that the lode of tin is in the granite 
 and under the sea. Mining in granite is costly, and the 
 proximity to the sea dangerous, entailing extraordinary precau- 
 tions. The water gets in. Now when this takes place there 
 follows a call on the shareholders for pumping it out. Eveiy 
 great storm drowns the mine and fills the shareholders with 
 despair ; the pump goes down into their pockets. Then the 
 tin vein does not yield as at first. Once there were bunchy
 
 THAT YOl'NQ TRAMPLARA. 47 
 
 like those of Eshcol, the dividends were seven, seven-and-a-half, 
 
 eight, eight-and-a-qiiarter, going, going, going up, and then, 
 slow but sure, as the miners sank their shaft so did the shares 
 sink, and the dividends with them, till they reached zero. 
 After that, a rapidly swelling minus quantity.' 
 
 ' I have written the letter. Have you sealing-wax 1 ' 
 
 ' There it is. Now the beauty, or the mischief is — beauty 
 from the Tramplara, mischief from the Battishill point of view 
 — that old rascal so fired my imagination, and was so accommo- 
 dating, that I borrowed the money of him to sink in Polplug- 
 gan. If I had speculated with my own little savings — but no ! 
 I had no savings — that would have been bad enough, but to 
 speculate on borrowed capital is ruinous. That rascally old 
 Tramplai'a led me on till he led me into his trap, and then 
 snap, the door shut behind me, and I am fast. Poor West 
 Wyke ! Poor Cicely ! Poor — ' he looked at the stained coat 
 in the window, ' poor ancestral owls ! ' 
 
 A shadow fell across the table from some one passing the 
 window. 
 
 ' Good God ! ' exclaimed Mr. Battishill ; ' here comes that 
 young Tramplara.' 
 
 A rap with the handle of a riding-whip on the hall door, 
 and, without waiting for a response, Tramplara entered. He 
 was a young man, good looking, with dark hair and eyes, and 
 a dark moustache. His cheeks were florid. He had been 
 drinking, and that gave a gloss to his face and an uncertainty 
 to his eye. He came in with his hat on. He wore a short 
 coat, knee breeches, and tall boots. 
 
 'I say,' he began roughly, 'what is the meaning of thisi 
 There have been those — with an oath — Cobbledicks inclosing a 
 fresh piece of the down. I won't have it. They will establish 
 rights, and it will be hard to displace them. Their fences 
 must be tore down.' His pronunciation was West country, his 
 grammar occasionally so. 
 
 * Have you observed that Mr. Battishill is in the room?' 
 asked Herring, quietly. He had just sealed the Avranchea 
 letter. 
 
 ' I see him right enough. I was addressing him, not you.' 
 Herring looked at the old gentleman ; he had become limp. 
 
 His jaw had fallen, and his hands trembled as he laid them on 
 
 the arms of his chair. 
 
 * Then perhaps you will remove your hat, Mr. Tramplara.' 
 
 * I object to be so called,' a,nswered the young man sharply,
 
 48 JOEN HERRINa. 
 
 ' My name, sir, is Trampleasure, and only those who can't spell 
 
 call me otherwise.' 
 
 ' Very well, Mr. Trampleasure ; will you remove your hat 1 ' 
 'Who are youl I don't know you. Never had the 
 
 pleasure of seeing your face tl^at I am aw^are of. What may 
 
 your d — d name be, hey 1 ' 
 
 * Sir,' said Herring, rising, ' I will stand no insolence. 
 When you ask my name properly, you shall have it.' 
 
 ' Lord ! who cares a brass button what you be called 1 
 Keep your name to yourself if you like.' 
 
 Herring walked straight up to him, composedly and firmly, 
 looked him full in the eyes, and said, ' You have been drinking. 
 Remove your hat, or I will knock it off.' 
 
 Tramplara took off his beaver and put it testily on the 
 table. 
 
 ' I am not a bad fellow,' he said, ' when asked a civil 
 question, but I object to be bullied.' 
 
 Then he seated himself near the table, looking sulky. 
 
 'lam Mr. Sampson Trampleasure, junior, gentleman,' he 
 said. ' Now perhaps you will tell me your name.' 
 
 Herring gave him in return his sur and Christian names. 
 
 ' Never heard of you,' said Tramplara. * What are you 
 doing here 1 ' 
 
 Herring made no reply to his impertinence. 
 
 ' I say,' began the young man again, in a loud tone, * I 
 ^^'on't have those Cobbledicks encroaching. I saw that old 
 Buffiehead, Grizzly, but could not make him understand, or 
 leastways he wouldn't understand.' 
 
 INIr. Battishill bridled up feebly. * You are premature, Mr. 
 Sampson ; West Wyke is my property, and I have the right to 
 settle on it whom I choose.' 
 
 ' Oh, ah ! that's good,' said young Tramplara. * Yours on 
 sufferance. You know well enough that my governor has his 
 foot under your chah", and can kick you over any day he has a 
 mind to.' 
 
 ' When he does that he can deal with the Cobbledicks as 
 well. Naked came we into the world, and naked we shall go 
 out, Battishills and Cobbledicks together.' 
 
 * That'll soon take place unless you shell out. You know 
 what I have come about.' 
 
 Mr. Battishill's brief indignation and assumption of dignity 
 expired. He put his hand into his pocket, and drew forth his 
 handkerchief, and wiped his lips.
 
 THAT TOUNG TEAMPLAEA. ^53 
 
 * You liave come on an unfortunate day, Mr. Sampson. We 
 have had a death in the house.' 
 
 * I don't care whether there be a deatli or a birth/ answered 
 the young man rudely. * I know one thing, if I do not go back 
 with the interest due last Lady in my pocket, there'll be pretty 
 summary dealings in a place and Avith persons not the other side 
 
 of London, nor in China, nor New Zealand, nor Bra ! Why ! 
 
 how in the name of Ginger came this into your hands 1 ' 
 
 His eye was resting on the will that lay open as John 
 Herring had left it when extracting from it the address of Mr. 
 Eustace Smith. He put out the crook of his whip and drew 
 it over to him. ' Ten thousand crocodiles ! There is my name 
 in it. Sampson Trampleasure, of Falmouth, Solicitor. No ! 
 that is my father. Last will and testament of James Strange, 
 of Bahia, Brazil ! Why, that's a kinsman of ours. My grand- 
 mother was a Strange. How the devil came this into your 
 hands 1 ' 
 
 Mr. Battishill looked at Herring. Herring was discon- 
 certed. The surprise and indignation caused by the intrusion 
 and insolence of the young man had prevented him from 
 recollecting to fold up and put away the document. 
 
 ' Writing to one trustee,' said young Tramplara, taking up 
 the letter, ' and in duty bound about to write to the other when 
 interrupted by me. I will save you the trouble. Bat how 
 came this into your hands 1 Will you answer me that 1 ' 
 
 ' I have already told you, Mr. Sampson, that there has been 
 a death in the house. An unfortunate and melanr-.holy accident 
 took place last Friday, a carriage was upset near this house, and 
 a strange gentleman killed. He was brought here, and has 
 been buried to-day.' 
 
 ' That was Mr. James Strange 1 ' 
 
 *It was. He was a gentleman who, according to his 
 daughter's account, had lived many years in Brazil as a diamond 
 merchant.' 
 
 ' I know that. He was my father's first cousin ; conse- 
 quently he was — blowed if I know — but cousin of some sort, 
 and about the only relative on that side I had. What did he 
 die worth 1 ' 
 
 ' That will be for your father to ascertain,' said Herring. 
 
 * It seems to me a most extraordinary thing to find a will of 
 one not even remotely belonging to you l3'ing on your table 
 where it might be torn to light pipes with.' 
 
 'The reason is very simple,' said Herring. *Mr. Battishill 
 
 B
 
 50 JonN ueheing. 
 
 and I knew nothing about Mr. Strange, and his daugttet 
 seemed to be equally in the dark about his relatives.' 
 
 ' What, is that pretty girl in the garden along of IMisa 
 Cicely his daughter 1 ' 
 
 ' That young lady is his daughter. Mr. Battishill and I 
 examined the papers of the deceased. Most were in Portuguese, 
 which we were unable to read. From the will we gathered 
 who were the trustees and guardians of the lady. That was 
 what we sought, and that was what v/e have ascertained.' 
 
 ' Well, this is a rise,' said young Traniplara. ' This is like 
 going out after a partridge and starting a pheasant. But never 
 raind. I keep my game in my eye. You will have to 
 unburthen your pockets, Battishill, old boy ! ' 
 
 ' Has the sea broken in on Polplugggan 1 ' asked Mr. 
 Battishill dolefully. He knew well enough that the visit did 
 not relate to Polpluggan, but he tried to put off the worst. 
 
 * Poipluggan,' said the young man, with a touch of melan- 
 choly in his voice; 'Poipluggan is swamped outright. The 
 mighty Atlantic has got on top of him, and is pouring himself 
 down his throat. There ain't no more pumping to be done 
 there, more's the pity.' 
 
 ' No more calls, then, on the shareholders 1 ' 
 'No.' 
 
 * Nor dividends either ? ' 
 
 ' Oh dear no. What's lost is lost. Poipluggan was a vevj 
 pretty thing ; bat there — his day is over, more's the pity.' He 
 sighed. ' He was as fine a fellow in the way of tin as you 
 might wish to look on. But with the best intentions you can't 
 go after a lode into the bowels of the stormy deep. The public 
 don't like it ; and when you call on them every month to pump 
 out the ocean, they turn unpleasant, and apply live coals to 
 your tail and make you squeak. No — Poipluggan is no more.' 
 Then with a boisterous laugh and a slap on the table, ' Never 
 mind the death of Poipluggan, old chap. We aren't seen the 
 end of Cornish mining yet. There are many more, bigger nor 
 Poipluggan, looming in the future. But that's neither here 
 nor there. What I've come about is the interest that ought to 
 have been paid last Lady.' 
 
 ' It has been a bad time, Mr. Sampson. The sheep have 
 been cawed, and I have done all I could to save them. It was 
 the rain last fall and all the winter that did it. I kept them 
 off the clay land, and I tried every remedy I could think of. 
 The last, and that which promised best, was bruised box leaves.
 
 THAT YOUNG TKAMPLAKA. 51 
 
 We cut off all our box borders in the garden, used every green 
 Bprout and leaf, but it Avas not sufficient. The poor beasts 
 picked up a little on it, but no lasting cure was efTected, and 
 they just rotted away.' 
 
 ' Oh, blow the sheep ! ' said young Tramplara, coarsely. ' It 
 ain't them I want, but the money.' 
 
 ' But I have not got the money,' sighed Mr. Battishill. * If 
 I could have sold my sheep I could have paid. But not only 
 Eo. The farmer at XJpaver has lost his sheep as well, and seve- 
 ral bullocks to boot, so that he has fallen behind with his rent. 
 It is a very extraorcluiary thing that my sheep should get 
 cawed, for I have never known such a thing happen before in 
 this high land. Down in the valley on the clay is another 
 matter. But you never saw any of that blue grass on my 
 upland, which is the signal Nature throv/s out that no sheep 
 ax-e to draw nigh. It has always been said that peat ' 
 
 ' Faith ! it is only a matter of time. A year or two don't 
 matter particularly,' said Sampson Tramplara, * sooner or later 
 scatt you go. If you chose to speculate you must look out for 
 the consequences. You ought to know what mining means at 
 your age. You don't think to walk over a bog, and not get 
 stogged.' 
 
 ' Your own father urged me on. But for him I would have 
 had nothing to do with Polpluggan.' 
 
 * Nor with draining either 'i ' 
 
 'That was my blunder. Polpluggan was the pit down 
 which I fell hopelessly, and your father led me to the brink 
 and pushed me over.' 
 
 • There are plenty to keep you company, if that be a conso- 
 lation,' said young Sampson. ' Now it has just come to this. 
 You don't suppose my father hasn't lost also in Polpluggan, do 
 y'. I can tell you he has — a brave bit of money too. He 
 wants his money as much as you do ; and he v/ill have it too.' 
 
 'You must have patience; all seasons are not bad.' 
 
 ' But if you nip your fingers you squpak. My father is 
 nipped pretty tight, all along of Polpluggaii, You see he has 
 another mine in view, and it Avants capital to get that floated.' 
 
 ' Look here,' said Mr. Battishill, desperately. ' If it comes 
 to that, and he wants another mine to start ujion, let him come 
 to me, I will put him upon a lode, a real lode, and I stake 
 my life there is silver lead, and plenty of it, at Upaver,' 
 
 ' That woii't do,' said Tramplara. ' It isn't what comes out 
 of a mine that makes it pay, but what is put into it. You 
 
 E 2
 
 52 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 don't understand these things, or you would never have gone 
 head over heels down Polpluggan. There is nothing to be had 
 from you, so I don't mind saying it. And you are an old 
 friend, and are sucked dry, and about to be turned inside out.' 
 
 ' There is no water that can drov/n my mine.' 
 
 'More is the pity. It is just the water that makes it pay. 
 But come ! It is too late for you to learn the alphabet of 
 mining.' 
 
 The bottle of sherry that had been purchased for tlie funeral 
 was on the table, along Avith some glasses. "Without invitation 
 ihe young man poured out and drank. 
 
 ' There's sixty pounds goes home in my pocket, or it don't. 
 And if it don't, worse luck for you.' He put his hand to the 
 bottle. Herring drew the decanter from his reach. 
 
 ' What do you mean 1 ' asked Tramplara. ' Give me the 
 sherry this moment.' 
 
 * You have been drinking before coming here,' said HeiTing, 
 * and you shall not further insult Mr. Battishill by becoming 
 drunk in his presence.' 
 
 ' "What is thatl ' shouted young Sampson. 'Hey ! what a 
 moral man we have here. All for total abstinence, I presume.' 
 
 He jumped up, whip in hand, and switched the whip two 
 or three times before him ; then, looking Herring full in the 
 face, with an insolent smirk on his lips, clapped his hat on one 
 side of his head, and planted himself before him with legs 
 astride, his left hand on his hip, and the right hand brandishing 
 the whip. 
 
 Instantly Herring twisted the whip out of his hand, and 
 knocked his hat off his head with it across the hall. Then he 
 handed him the whip again, coolly, in a manner that meant, 
 ' Touch me with it, if you dare.' 
 
 Tramplara's face became mottled. 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Herring, thank you,' said Cicely, who 
 entered at that moment with Mirelle. Her cheeks were 
 prettily dimpled, the brightest colour glowed in her face, and 
 her eyes danced with delight. 
 
 Tramplara drew back, grasping the whip by the middle, 
 clenching his teeth, and looking quickly from one to another in 
 the group. 
 
 ' Come into the little drawing-room,' said Mirelle, com- 
 posedly, ' I dislike being present at vulgar brawls. These 
 two young men have forgotten themselves ; perhaps next they 
 will proceed to box, which is a disgusting sight.'
 
 THAT TOUNG TRAMPLARA. 53 
 
 ' Stay one moment/ said young Sampson. 'Ladies, yoiimust 
 hear the truth at once. Miss Strange is my cousin. My father 
 is her guardian. She shall not remain in this house any 
 longer. I will take her away with me to Launceston, where my 
 mother and sister will receive her. I have just read her 
 father's will. It is all right, ain't it, Mr. Battishill 1 Besides, 
 this house is not likely to be able to afford her hospitality and 
 shelter any more. Is it not so, Mr. Battishill 1 So pack up your 
 duds, missie, and be ready to start to-morrow. I will bring a 
 chaise out of Okehampton.' 
 
 * I am not going with you,' answered Mirelle, coldly, and 
 without looking at him. 
 
 ' Oh, ain't you though ] I am your cousin, Miss Strange, 
 and am come to fetch you away.' 
 
 ' I know nothing about you,' said Mirelle with perfect com- 
 posure. ' You are not my cousin. I am not Miss Strange. I 
 am the Countess Mirelle Garcia de Cantalejo.' 
 
 * You have had your answer,' said Herring to the young 
 man. Then, turning to the ladies, ' Now, Countess, and you, 
 Miss Battishill, I must ask to withdraw. I want a word my- 
 self with this — pei'son.' 
 
 Cicely smiled at him, and drew Mirelle away. 
 
 Herring watched them depart, but his eyes were upon 
 Mirelle, not Cicely. 
 
 Then, going to the table, he drew a cheque book from his 
 pocket, and wrote on it an order for sixty pounds, payable to 
 Mr. Battishill. 
 
 ' Will you kindly endorse this, sir ] ' he asked of the old 
 gentleman. 
 
 Mr. Battishill, hardly comprehending his purpose, com- 
 phed. 
 
 * Now,' said Hen-ing to young Sampson Tramplara, ' take 
 this, and write out at once a receipt to Mr. Battishill.' 
 
 ' I refuse it,' said Sampson, sullenly. ' How am I to know 
 that you have so much money in the bank, and how do I know 
 that your cheque will not be dishonoured 1 ' 
 
 Herring pointed to the little black ruler. 
 
 'You will sign the receipt at once, or I will break this 
 ruler across your- head.' 
 
 Tramplara made no further remonstrance. "With a hand 
 that shook partly with anger and partly with fear, he complied. 
 
 ' Very well,' said Herring, * now go. Pick up your hat, it 
 is in the corner, and take yourself off.'
 
 •»•! yOHN HERRING. 
 
 Tmmplara sulkily obeyed. When he reached the door he 
 turned, his face white, his hands quivering with passion. 
 
 * The time will come, Mr. Herring, when it will be in my 
 power to repay you this, and then, by God, I swear ' 
 
 * What do you swear 1 ' Herring held up the black ruler. 
 Tramplara shut the door, and was gone. 
 
 CHAPTEE Vin. 
 
 CICELY. 
 
 WnsN John Herring turned to look at Mr. Battishill, he found 
 the old gentleman fallen back in his chair, his face distorted, 
 and scarcely conscious. He saw at once what had happened. 
 The excitement had brought on a stroke. 
 
 Herring went into the kitchen and called the maid. 
 
 * Make no noise ; help me.' 
 
 She assisted him to remove the master upstairs. He sent 
 her for the doctor, and then tapped at the door of the parlour, 
 that he might break the news to Cicely. 
 
 Two days later Mr. Battishill was sitting up in his own 
 room, decidedly on the mend. The attack had been slight, 
 nevertheless it was a seizure, a first — and such are warnings of 
 others in store. Cicely came down into the hall to meet Her- 
 ring, who had walked up to West Wyke from Zeal, where he 
 was staying. She went up to him, and he noticed that there 
 were tears in her eyes. 
 
 ' I\Ir. Herring,' she said, ' my father is better. I am glad 
 to have a moment in which I can leave him and speak with 
 you alone.' 
 
 * I am entirely at your service,' he said. 
 
 She looked into his eyes with her frank, bright smile — a 
 luminous smile that flickered through a veil of tears. 
 
 ' I know that perfectly, ]\Ir. Herring, and have no scruple in 
 making use of you. Here you have r-emained in our neigh- 
 bourhood, instead of going on your way about your own con- 
 cerns ; you have spent the greater part of every day with us, 
 instead of seeking to amuse yourself — all because you knew 
 that your assistance was needed. That is not the way with 
 many young men. Another in your place would have taken 
 his valise and gone by the next coach after the accident, and 
 left Mirelle to shift for herself. You have been everything that
 
 CICELY. 55 
 
 fs kind and considerate to Mirelle — I beg her pardon — tbe 
 Countess Garcia.' A smile twinkled in her plensant face. 
 'And this emboldens me to appeal to you in my trouljle.' 
 
 Herring was about to protest his own readiness, but she 
 put up her hand to stop him, and went on : — 
 
 'You have been foolishly generous, Mr, Herring. You 
 have advanced sixty pounds to my father, to stave off the ruin 
 that is impending. It is of no use. Do not venture to do this 
 again. You ought not to have done it even once. However, 
 let me clear off the debt in part immediately. I have butter- 
 money — not the entire sum, not even a half.' 
 
 ' Dear Miss Battishill, I will not take it.' 
 
 * Let us understand each other,' she said ; ' do not interrupt 
 me. I have had a little battle Avith myself upstairs before 1 
 could nerve myself to meet you. 1 do not knoAV why it is that 
 gentlefolks shrink from speaking of money matters one with 
 another. Now I am wound up, and can go on ticking, but if 
 you say a word, it is like putting a feather among the wheels, 
 it ai-rests the movements, and the clock ceases. What I have 
 to say must be said. Mr. Herring, it will not do to lend us 
 money, we are hopelessly involved to the Trampleasures. No- 
 thing that you can do will save us, Avithout involving you in 
 our disasters. My dear father has relied on the hereditary 
 wisdom of the Battishills,' she looked up at the stained glass 
 in the window, and the pretty dimple came in her rosy 
 cheek. ' Those heraldic owls have done us harm. They 
 have bred in our hearts the belief that Wisdom went with the 
 cognizances, and had set up her temple at West Wyke. My 
 dear father always supposed that he was about to make his 
 fortune by the application of the hereditary wisdom to the 
 development of the resoiirces of the property, or else in specula- 
 tions in mines. Alas ! an owl can see in the dark, but not 
 even one of our owls in the darkness that envelops Cornish 
 mining. My father was led on by Mr. Trampleasure, who 
 flattered him by appealing to his judgment in various matters, 
 and now we are dipped past recovery. The Tramplaras will 
 take from us everything — the dear old house, ovir moors, our 
 little farms. I have foreseen this for some time, and I have 
 known that it is inevitable. Sooner or later the crash must 
 come, and it is better that it should come now, rather than 
 later when my father will be less able to bear it.' 
 
 Herring made another effort to interrupt. 
 
 * No,' she said again, with a faint smile, * let me go on
 
 56 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 ticking. You have advanced my father sixty pounds. Next 
 Michaelmas he "will have to meet another demand for a larger 
 amount. There are thousands of pounds owing to Mr. Tiara- 
 jileasure, of which this is the interest. Pie may call in that 
 debt at any time, and then — hov*r are we to meet it? All the 
 money my father borrowed is gone without having been of the 
 smallest advantage to us — gone in unfortunate ventures 
 which have engulfed everything. The dear old man would do 
 the same thing to-morrow if he were able. He is now full of 
 the notion that he has discovered a silver lead mine at XJpaver, 
 and he may try to persuade you to embark in it. Do not be 
 persuaded. Do not listen to him. Nothing that my father 
 touches ever succeeds. As long as I can remember he has 
 been on the point of making a fortune, but has invariably 
 missed thepoint, and fallen after each venture into deeper disaster.' 
 
 * I have been to Upaver. I walked there yesterday, and 
 saw what had been brought up. There is silver lead there, of 
 that I am certain.' 
 
 ' Have nothing to do with it,' said Cicely. ' Fortune's 
 wheel has been on the turn for the Battishills for some time, 
 and always downwards. Promise me to banish Upaver from 
 your mind. Promise me not to put your money into it.' 
 
 * I have no money to put in.' 
 
 * And never, never again lend my father money — or me, 
 however earnestly I may beg for it. It is of no good ; we 
 must go down, down, down. Most of us small Devon gentry 
 are like buoys moored to a sandbank. Every wave goes over 
 our heads. We are never wholly above water. After a while 
 the canker gets into our hearts ; we break away from our sand- 
 bank, and drift away — away into the vast unknown. We 
 Battishills are about to drift ; decay has set in. Nothing but a 
 miracle can save us, and the age of miracles is over. There, 
 take my butter-money, it consists of eighteen pounds, no more; 
 I shall, however, be able to pay you two pounds in a fortnight, 
 and you shall have the rest, if I can possibly manage it, next 
 year. I cannot promise an earlier payment. Take it.' 
 
 Herring drew back his hand. 
 
 * Take it,' said Cicely. ' It is stocking money. An old 
 stocking is the surest of banks ; it never breaks.' 
 
 ' No,' said Herring, ' you want the money. I am not a rich 
 man, by any means, but I am not so hard pinched that I cannot 
 fend a trifle. You will hurt me if you refuse the loan.' 
 
 * I said to myself when I came down that we should fight,'
 
 CICELY. 57 
 
 aaid Cicely ; ' but 1 will not suffer you to conquer me. Do you 
 not understand that I have pride, and tliat it is the part of a 
 gallant gentleman to humour it 'i ' 
 
 'Give me the money,' said Herring. 'One thing, however, 
 I will not promise. You asked me never to listen to you again 
 if you begged a loan. This money and moi'e will always be at 
 your service on an emergency.' 
 
 ' That is settled,' said Cicely w^th a sigh of relief. 
 
 ' Now we come to a second matter ; again I appeal to your 
 good nature. Look at this letter. My father lias received it 
 from Mr. Trampleasure, requesting him immediately to bring 
 his ward — Miss Strange as he calls her — to Launceston, along 
 with her boxes and her ftither's papers. The will must be proved 
 and an inventory of goods taken for probate. Mr. Trampleasure 
 does not offer to come for Mirelle himself, he expects my father 
 to conduct her to Launceston ; he knows that the demands he 
 makes on my father must be complied with. Now it is out of 
 the question that the dear old man should take this journey in 
 his present condition of health, and I dare not leave him. There 
 is no one we can trust except yourself. It is true I might 
 write and say that my father is ill and unable to travel ; then 
 Mr. Trampleasure would be forced to come himself, but I dread 
 an interview between my father and the man who has ruined 
 him. In his present weak state and partial convalescence, it 
 would not be wise. The doctor says he must be kept from 
 everything liable to excite him. So I fall back on you. I told 
 you that I knew you were ready to do whatever is kind, and 
 because I know this, I make no scruple in using you. Was 
 I not right 1 ' 
 
 ' I will do what you wish — gladly.' 
 
 * And,' said Cicely, he:jit;iting and colouring, 'as you return 
 on your way to Exeter, you will call on ns again ? You cheer 
 my father, who quite counts on your visits, anrl, I am not 
 ashamed to confess it, I want advice. There is no one in this 
 neighbourhood I can speak with ou these matters. Accident or 
 Providence — I believe the latter — has brought you here, and 
 made you a welcome guest, and has constituted you almost the 
 confessor and adviser of the house.' 
 
 * I will certainly see you again.' 
 
 * By the time you return an answer will have arrived from 
 Avranches, and we shall then know whether Mirelle will have 
 another protector, or must be left to the uncontrolled disposal of 
 the Tramplaras.'
 
 68 JOnN nERRING. 
 
 * Yes,' said Herring impetuously, * if only for that I must 
 return. It is too dreadful to think that she who has been 
 accustomed to the purest and most refined surroundings should 
 be thrust into association with persons like Mr. Tramplara and 
 his son, and that her pi-operty should be intrusted to a man who 
 plays ducks and drakes with all the money that he gets a chance 
 of fingering.' 
 
 ' I am glad you feel warmly in this matter,' said Cicely, 
 Jaying a slight touch of sarcasm on the words ' feel warmly.* 
 ' Mirelle will apparently need j)rotector, confessor, and adviser 
 as much as we, if not more so.' 
 
 * She is so helpless, so solitary,' explained Herring. 
 
 * By the way, chivalrous defender of unprotected maidens,' 
 said Ci(!ely, biightening up, 'you come to us like the mysterious 
 knight in a romance, we know not whence, nor whither you 
 go. It shows how utterly selfish we have been, how centred 
 ip our own troubles, that no one has cared to inquire whether 
 you too have troubles, and whether you are alone in the 
 world.' 
 
 Herring smiled. * There is no mystery about me ; I am 
 plain John Herring, nothing more. I eat, I grow, I sleep, I 
 talk. Troubles ! — no, I have none. Alone ! — well, yes, that I 
 am. You and the Countess I find acting in tragedies, but my 
 part hitherto has been in a farce.' 
 
 * And you so little regard your good luck that you oflfer it to 
 the first girl you meet.' 
 
 ' What do you mean 9 
 
 ' Only the sprig of white heath,' said Cicely, laughing. 
 
 Next day Mirelle left "West Wyke in company with John 
 Herring in an open caleche. Cicely parted with her in a friendly 
 manner, but without great cordiality. The coldness and pride 
 of Mirelle repelled her, and she did not like her contemptuous 
 treatment of Herring. Yet — strange mystery that the female 
 heart is — she would have liked it quite as little had Mirelle 
 gratefully accepted his sei-vices. 
 
 She resented also her want of tenderness towards her father. 
 Cicely could not understand it. But then she had been brought 
 up with her father, knew him, respected even his weaknesses, 
 and loved his many virtues. She was unable to understand 
 that a like great love could not grow out of the acquaintance- 
 ship of ten days, passed in coaches, steam-packet, and hotels. 
 She judged Mirelle more harshly than justly. That is, she 
 judged her as one woman judges another. As Mirelle was
 
 CICELY. 59 
 
 driven away Cicely turned back towards the house, saying, 'She 
 IB an icicle; she freezes my blood.' 
 
 Herring turned to Mirclle and said, * How kind, and good, 
 and simple Miss Battishill is.' 
 
 ' I have never before seen such red cheeks,' answered Mirelle. 
 * Do you think she paints ? ' 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DOLBEARE. 
 
 A BRIGHT day, -with a few fleecy clouds drifting before a west 
 wind. A sky blight as that which overai'ches a young heart. 
 The prospect as smiling as that which opens before youth, 
 pjarriers bathed in sunlight and indistinct in haze. Clouds 
 without threat of rain casting cobalt-blue shadows. 
 
 The wild range of Dartmoor rose into peaks, with gullies 
 seaming their sides, down whic?\ the Taw and the Ockments 
 rushed foaming from their cradles. A glorious scene inviting 
 exploration, an enchanted land calling the traveller to enter its 
 seclusion and dispel its mysteries. Bathed in sunlight, cn-"^eloped 
 in that finest haze that pervades the air on the brightest day in 
 the West Country, who would suppose that all he saw was 
 barrenness and naked desolation 1 
 
 ' Do you see that castle rising out of the woods ? ' asked 
 Herring, pointing to some ruins of a keep on a hill to the left 
 of the road, after they had passed Okehampton. ' That castle 
 belonged to the Courtneys. There is a stoi-y of a certain Lady 
 Howard who lived there in the reign of James I.' 
 
 * I have not heard of him. Was he an English king ? ' 
 
 ' He was king of England. He was the father of the ill 
 fated Charles I.' 
 
 * I have heard of him. He married a French princess, so 
 he comes into history.' 
 
 * Lady Howard was married four times; she had one daughter 
 by her first husband, whom she hated.' 
 
 * Perhaps she only despised him because he was not noble, 
 and had taken advantage of her poverty to marry her.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, she was rich, an heiress, and. her first 
 husband was a son of the Earl of Northumberland.' 
 
 ' Then I understand nothing about it,' said Mirelle, leaning 
 back in the can-iage as if the story had ceased to interest her,
 
 60 JOHN HEPvltlNa. 
 
 * When she was married to her second hiisband she refused 
 to see her daughter. The poor girl came here to Okehampton; 
 some relations sought to effect a reconciliation. She v/as intro- 
 duced to her mother under a feigned name — here, in this castle, 
 and Lady Howard did not know lier. But when the daughter 
 fell on her knees to her mother and entreated recognition, Lady 
 Howard started to her feet with an exclamation of aversion, and 
 attempted to leave the room. The girl clung to her, entreating 
 hor love, as the unnatural mother was escaping through the 
 door. But Lady Howard flung together the oak valves as she 
 escaped, and they caught the daughter's arm between them and 
 broke it.' 
 
 ' She was a bad woman ; but she is expiating her crime in 
 purgatory.' 
 
 ' Her purgatory is a strange one,' said Herring. * Every 
 night she drives along this road from Okehampton Castle to 
 Launceston Castle in her great coach drawn by four headless 
 horses, with a skeleton driver on the box, and her favourit*? 
 bloodhound runs beside the coach. When they arrive at Laun- 
 ceston the dog plucks a blade of grass fi'om the mound on which 
 the keep stands, and then they return in the same way to Oke- 
 hampton, which they reach before break of day. And she is 
 condemned to do this nightly, till every blade of grass has been 
 plucked off Launceston Castle hill ; and that will not be till the 
 end of the world, for the grass grows faster than the hound can 
 pluck it.' 
 
 ' Have you ever seen the carriage with the lady in it 1 ' 
 
 ' No. During the war French prisoners have been confined 
 in the dismantled castle, parts of which have been converted 
 into prisons for them, and several who have died in confinement 
 are buried in Okehampton churchyard.' 
 
 Mirelle shivered. 
 
 * I would not, I could not lie here. I should be wet under 
 this dripping sky. Poor men ! Why did you not tell me this 
 belbre, and I would have visited their graves and prayed over 
 thorn in their native tongue 1 It contracts my heart to think 
 of them, lying here, away from la belle France, and the golden 
 sun, and the vineyards, and the waving corn, and the scent of 
 incense, and the shadow of the cross.' 
 
 ' The sun shines here. It is shining now.' 
 
 * It,' said Mirelle. ' You are right when you say it, not he. 
 In France he shines, he laughs, he illumines, he warms and 
 even bums. He is always in the sky. Here you have a
 
 DOLBEARE. dl 
 
 phantasm of the sun, without power and bhize and lire. I do 
 not call that the sun; it is a make-believe, a constitutional 
 monarch allowed to peep out between the clouds now and theu, 
 not reigning by right divine, dispelling the clouds.' 
 
 Herring looked round at the girl in astonishment. She 
 was echoing sentiments she had heard in the convent and 
 among her mother's aristocratic acquaintance. * And,' she 
 went on. * your church is the same — a phantasm, a mock sun. 
 When the servants of Saul came to seek David, Michal, his 
 wife, took a log of wood and put on it a bit of goat's skin, and 
 threw over it the bedclothes. Then the servants said. It is 
 David asleep. And that was what your Reformation consisted 
 of. You substituted a log for the living body. But why should 
 I speak to you of all this 1 You and I use the same names for 
 expressing different ideas. You have never eaten grapes oflf a 
 vine, nor figs warm with the Idss of the sun on their ehesks ; 
 and by grapes you mean raisins brown and dried, and by figs 
 withered fruit packed in w^ooden boxes. When I speak of the 
 sun, I mean something indescribably glorious ; you, a round 
 tuft of cotton wool up in the clouds, that you can see sometimes 
 when supremely lucky. So in other things ; what you mean 
 by a king and a church are altogether different ; pale ghosts of 
 what I mean by the same words.' 
 
 Herring was amused, and not a little perplexed. She put 
 him down with an air of superiority, as a schoolmistress would 
 put down a boy in her class who had made a stupid blunder, 
 which merited a whipping, but was let off with degradation. 
 
 After some pause in the conversation he ventured to remark, 
 'You will not deny that this scenery is lovely.' 
 
 ' It is beautiful in feature, but wanting in colour. I could 
 cry out for my paint-box, and spOl the colours over the scene 
 to make it perfect. My master taught me, when I learned to 
 paint, that shadows were to be made of carmine and ultra- 
 marine. There are no such colours here. Shadows must be 
 put in with Indian ink. I could copy all the tints with a 
 child's fifty-sous box of paints, warranted free from poisonous 
 matter, as also from all real colour. Besides,' she added, 
 * Yenus when she rose from the sea must have been intolerable 
 till dried. Your land is fair, but everlastingly dripping.' 
 
 She spoke without a smile. Heri'ing turned his head aside 
 to laugh. 
 
 So they went on ; he telling her traditions to while away 
 the journey, she setting him down.
 
 62 JOHN iiEratiNG. 
 
 At lengtli they arrived at Lauuceston. 
 
 The town is cuinous, perched on a height, rising preci- 
 pitously out of the valley of the Kensey, and culminating in a 
 rock that has been shaped by the hands of men, and crowned 
 by a circular keep of concentric rings of masonry. 
 
 The main street of Launceston is entered under an ancient 
 gateway. Scarcely another English town has such a picturesque 
 and continental appearance. 
 
 On the steep slope of the hill, clinging to its side, was the 
 quaintest conceivable house — a long narrow range of gables, 
 roof and v/alls encased in small slate-like mail armour. In 
 front of the house is a narrow terrace, Avith, at one end, a sort 
 of summer-house, furnished with fireplace and chimney. Below 
 this terrace the rock falls abruptly to the valley. The founda- 
 tions of the houses in the street above are higher than the 
 tops of the chimneys of * Dolbeare,' as this picturesque old 
 house v/as called. 
 
 In Dolbeare lived the Trampleasures, as they called them- 
 selves; Tramplaras, as the world called them. Herring knew 
 little of Launceston, and he had some difficulty in finding the 
 house. 
 
 The door opened to them, and they were introduced into a 
 hall, with stairs branching off on either side. Then a stout 
 red-faced man, with perfectly white hair, burst out of the 
 adjoining room, with a noisy shout of ' Oh, here you are at 
 last ! Come to my arms. Cousin Strange.' 
 
 Mirelle drew back before the coarse man. 
 
 ' I say,' pursued he with efiasion, ' what's your pet name, 
 darling'? Let's be cosy and familiar at starting. What are 
 you 1 JNIirrie 1 Rellie ? ' 
 
 Mirelle turned to ice. ' You have mistaken the person,* 
 she said. ' I am no cousin. I have no other name than that 
 of Countess Mirelle Garcia de Cantalejo, I have come here 
 till my affiiirs are settled, and then I shall go elsewhere. I 
 pray let this be understood from the outset. I am not a 
 Strange, and we are not relations.' 
 
 The old man stood ojjen-eyed and open-mouthed without 
 speaking, and then burst into a roar of laughter, which made 
 his face blaze a fierce red, horrible against the snow of his hair 
 and whiskers. His eyes were black, with a cunning twinkle 
 in them. His hands were large, the fingers short and fat, the 
 palms very wide. Altogether a repulsive old man, to whom the 
 hoar head was no crown of glory, but he a dishonour to hoar hairs.
 
 DOLBEAKE. 63 
 
 Mirelle contemplated him with undisguised aversion. Then 
 she turned to Herring and said, ' I cannot lodge with this 
 pei^son. Take me back to the Battishills.' 
 
 Herring did not know what answer to make. 
 
 * Pray, who are you 1 ' asked the old man. * Brother or 
 lover of the lady 1 Perhaps a cousin whom she does con- 
 descend to I'ecognise ; a Parley- vous Mossou, hey? ' 
 
 ' My name is Herring,' said the young man, gravely. 
 * Mr. Battishill is ill, and Miss Battishill cannot leave her 
 father. Consequently they asked me to escort the Countess to 
 Launceston.' 
 
 * The Countess ! ' exclaimed Mr. Tramplara. * Oh, Ginger ! 
 a live Countess in the house. Lord ! the little rooms won't 
 contain her. We must thiow out bow windows. Come here, 
 Orange, come here, Polly, aud see a live Countess.' 
 
 As he called, a feeble old woman, in a big cap with lilac 
 ribands and a pink bow under her chin, appeared at a side 
 door, and with her the daughter wiiom he called Orange. The 
 latter entered the hall. 
 
 * Father,' said Miss Orange Trampleasure, reproachfully, 
 'you are too boisterous with the young lady. Do you not seel 
 She is tired with her journey, and your noije frightens her.' 
 
 * Frightens me ! ' repeated Mirelle, with perfect composure. 
 ' Non, il ne me fait pas peur — il me revolte.' 
 
 * Come with me, cousin,' said Orange. * Let me take ofi 
 your things, and show you your room.' 
 
 Mirelle hesitated. 
 
 ' My dear,' Orange went on, * there is no help for it. 
 Whether you Hke it or not, here you must stay; you cannot 
 go back to the Battishills. It is unreasonable to expect them 
 to take charge of you. Besides, your father committed you 
 to us.' 
 
 * My father has left a gentleman in France my guaidian 
 iqually with this person lieie.' 
 
 ' Then you must stay with us till he has been communicated 
 with,' said Orange. ' Come with me.' 
 
 Mirelle allowed herself to be conducted upstairs. 
 
 Old Tramplara went into a muffled convulsion of laughter. 
 He winked at Herring and said, ' She's a queer piece of flesli, 
 ain't she — full of French hoity-toity 1 Wo must take all that 
 out of her, and make good English homespun take the place 
 of mouslin-de-laine, parley-vous, bong-soir, mossou ! ' Then 
 tho old man curtsied and gi'imaced, and went into attitudea
 
 t>4 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 * So,' said h.^, ' you be the gent that has escorted my Lady High 
 and Mighty here ! My son said something about you. You 
 gave him a rap over the knuckles, hey? Serve the beggar 
 right. He had been drinking, I'll swear. He said he had 
 come across a temperance fellow who had insulted him. And 
 you also, I suppose, are the party that have been paying sixty 
 pounds for old Battishill; lending him the money — making 
 him a present of it, I should i-ather say — for he who lends to 
 him don't hear the chink of his coin again. I suppose you 
 have plenty of brass to throw away. Well, there be better 
 investments than West Wyke, I can tell'y. I wish I had 
 been by to have tipped you a hint. Herring is your name ! 
 I wonder whether you are any relation to old Jago Herring, 
 of Welltown?' 
 
 The young man did not enlighten him. 
 
 * Look here,' said Mr. Tranipleasure. * Stay and pick a 
 bone of mutton with us at supper. Don't be shy about meeting 
 Sampson. He ain't here, now at least — and what's more, he's 
 not the fellow to bear malice. Lord bless you ! if he were a 
 bit rampageous, it was because he had been drinking ; and as 
 Moses who was the meekest of men said, when the liquor is 
 in the manners is out. But the contrary is alsa true — and I 
 Sampson Trampleasure say it — when the liquor is out the 
 manners return. And, though I ain't a Moses, and a prophet, 
 and all that sort of thing, yet I've a pretty shrewd head of my 
 own, and what I say is worth attending to. Come along, 
 Herring, and have a iDite with us all, and see the young lady 
 nestle into the bosom of the family. By Grogs ! I've lost my 
 manners though. Here's Mrs. Trampleasui*e, and I've never 
 introduced you to her. Mr. Herring, Mrs. Tram, the flame of 
 my youth, the solace of ray age — eh, old woman 1 ' 
 
 ' Have done Avi' your funning. Tram,' said the old lady, 
 giggling feebly. ' Will you step in, sir ? It gets chilly of an 
 evening, and a fire is agreeable, sir, especially when one is 
 troubled with a cold in the head.' 
 
 * Look here, Herring,' said Trampleasure, familiarly. * You 
 are not returning to West Wyke to-night. That is impossible. 
 You are going to sleep at the White Hart or the King's Arms, 
 that is certain. Well, it ain't always lively of an evening at 
 an inn. You can plead no engagement, and therefore I will 
 take no excuse. You stay with us and save your pocket the 
 cost of supper. If you are fond of music, we'll give you some. 
 •* Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast," you remember
 
 rsOLBEARE. ^7 
 
 the text — in Malaclii, I believe, and he was the last of the pro- 
 phets. If that was the last thing he ever said it was the 
 truest. Is her Serene Highness at all in the tum-tum way 1 ' 
 
 * I really cannot pay.' 
 
 * Because, if she is, she's where her talent will be drawn 
 out. I play the bass violin, Sampson is a Boanerges on the 
 flute, and Orange can do pretty well on the harpsichord. But 
 there she comes herself, all along of her Ladyship. Come in, 
 Herring, this is Liberty Hall, with no more forms and cere- 
 monies in it than in the Tabernacle in the Wilderness.' 
 
 He drew the young man into the sitting-room. * There's 
 another musician in the house,' he said, ' but of him, mum. 
 He don't let himself be heard often, thanks be.' 
 
 Herring reluctantly submitted. He was repelled by the 
 old man, but he was concerned for Mirelle. Could she endure 
 this association ? V/as the daughter. Orange, better than her 
 father, or was she equally vulgar 1 The mother was feeble and 
 commonplace, not obtrusively offensive. He would like to be 
 satisfied that in Orange poor Mirelle would find a refuge and 
 a support against the coarse father and from the brutal son. 
 
 He could learn this only by staying, and he therefore 
 accepted the invitation, though not with the best grace. 
 
 The table in the little dining-room was laid with a white 
 cloth, and 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 
 tearl — 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 burned 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.' 
 
 V
 
 66 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 ' Don't botlier 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. 
 Grood-natui^e is weakness. 
 
 * Come a,long,' said Mr. Tramplara, * the travellers want to 
 peck. Sit you all down. *' For what we are going to receive." 
 Vnder-done, missie 1 or tasting of the butcher's fingers, eh 1 ' 
 
 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 1 ' said Tramplara, taking the answer out 
 of his daughter's mouth. * Nobody knows who the red 
 man is.' 
 
 ' An ancestor, however, I presume,' said Hemng. 
 
 ■ 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 v/ork. Though I do not know who the party was, yet 
 I do know something queer about the picture. This house
 
 A MUSICAL WALKIKG-STICK. 67 
 
 dou'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 1 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 v/ith tongues to them 
 like those in an accordion, so that anyone 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 super- 
 stition, but still it won't do to tempt Providence ; that is my 
 doctrine, and I challenge Scripture to make better. What— -- 
 no appetite 1 ' he asked, when Mirelle declined a slab of cold 
 mutton placed before her. ' Come, come, we must get hearty 
 to our moat in Old England, and have no pecking of crumbs and 
 nibbhng 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 gargon — garcon ! By the way, 
 missie! what is the name you call yourself by? Gargon, 
 gargon 1 ' 
 
 ' Garcia,' answei'ed Mirelle, haughtily. 
 
 * Garcia, is it 1 Well, garcon means waiter, so I take it 
 Garcia means bar maid, eh 1 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 dii^ectly to bim with extended hand: 'Yery 
 sorry I wasn't polite t'other day ; but there, forgive and forget, 
 as the footpad said to the traveller when he relieved him of his 
 purse.' 
 
 * No, no, Sampy,' put in his father; ' you are out there, my 
 boy. Yerify your quotations, say I. That snme 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.'
 
 ()8 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 Ilorring 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-unpronounce- 
 able. 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 salt penser en Frangais, on n'est plus 
 bete, et quand on est Catholique, voila I'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. 
 
 ' ISTo 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 
 I'oom 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 
 tiound in the wiod as jolly old Tramjpleasure himself.'
 
 A MUSICAL WALKING-STICK. 69 
 
 * Do you play at all, Countess ? ' asked Herring. 
 
 ' Occasionally; according to where I am. I am notOrph^e. 
 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 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 super- 
 stition, 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 ig said to 
 walk here,' answered Orange, in a subdued tone. * The tenants 
 who had Dolbeare before us let the walkingsticks 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 instru- 
 ment ? ' asked Captain Trecai-rel. 
 
 ' 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 walldng-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 1 * 
 asked the Captain. 
 
 * That red man hanging on the wall behind you.' 
 Every one tuined to look at the picture. 
 
 * He appears harmless enough,' said Trecarrel. 
 ' Has anyone heard his music 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 
 Ls let with a human skull. The farmer there, not liking the 
 object, buried it ; but noises of all sorts, voices, knockings, 
 ti'amplingg, 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 
 r^ased.'
 
 70 JOHN HEREINa. 
 
 * Come, never mind about the ghosts,' shouted old Tramplara, 
 * we want music ; ' and he di-ew his bow across the bass viol, 
 making the room resound. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel 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 sur- 
 roundings. 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 oifer, but I am hardly 
 likely to make use of it. I shfAl not remain in this hovise 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, tbe symphony concluded. 
 
 John Herring rose to depart. The musicians were engaged 
 on their instruments. Captain Trecarrel was leaning over the
 
 A MUSICAL WALKING-STICK. 71 
 
 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 resolved 
 
 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
 
 72 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 for what lie 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 fntnre was in his. 
 
 ' Herring ! — "VVelltown ! ' echoed Mr. Trampleasure : ' why 
 he is the son of old J ago Herring after all.' 
 
 * Twenty-fifth ! ' echoed Captain Trecarrel : * why, he must 
 have been at Watei'loo.' 
 
 ' 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 tho 
 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 Mii'elle, 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 Mii-elle. 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 bagman, had abso- 
 lutely decUned his proffers of friendship. Was it likely that 
 they would meet again — that he should again look into those 
 dark, inscrutable eyes 1 She filled all bis thoughts. He could 
 give attention to nothing else. Poor Mirelle ! IJnsuited 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
 
 THE giant's table. 73 
 
 from the rush and roar of life. Now she was plunged in the 
 Bwirl 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 bad 
 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, un- 
 reasonable, 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 IMirelle 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, indig- 
 nant letter, refusing to have anything to do with executorship 
 to the deceased's will, trusteeship of his property, and guardian- 
 ship 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 1 ' asked Cicely of the young 
 man. 
 
 ' What do you mean by understand 1 I cannot answer you 
 without a definition of terms.'
 
 74 JOHN HEIIIIING. 
 
 * 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 1 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 wh.o 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. 
 IMirelle is self- restrained without being reserv&d. She is frank 
 as to her thoughts and impenetrable as to her feelings. What 
 she believes to be true she speaks with crudcness, 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 
 home, 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.
 
 THE GIANTS TABLE. 75 
 
 Woman is to man like the moon, always showing one face, and 
 that serene and luminous. Tliat there is another, systematically 
 tui'ned from him, passes his philosophy.' 
 
 * I grant the likeness,' said Herring, vehemently. ' But 
 why should that other side be dark and unsightly 1 No ; 
 Paradise is on the unseen face,' 
 
 * Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' said Mr. Battishill ; ' I 
 remember so much Latin.' 
 
 ' Y"ou 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 imworthiuess.' 
 
 ' Let us change the topic,' said Cicely,' or we shall quai-rel, 
 and I cannot afford that.' 
 
 ' By aU means,' answered Herring, ' and so, tell me, has 
 anything been seen of that strange girl who helped me to cany 
 the Countess to your door 1 ' 
 
 '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 assiijtance ; 
 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 
 Uaan that which played over these masses of growing gold.
 
 7G JOHN HEIlIlIKa. 
 
 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 1 Joyce 1 ' 
 
 * Yes, sure.' 
 
 ' Why, Joyce, what are you doing here 1 What ! lying 
 down 1 Are you ill 1 ' 
 
 * I be broked all to pieces,' she answered ; * I be going to 
 die.' Her voice was hoarse. 
 
 * Good heavens, Joyce ! how has this occurred 1 ' 
 
 He went to the upper end of the cromlech, and knelt by 
 Ler. Now he was able to see. The girl lay on the cushions of 
 the chaise, and some of the rugs were thrown over her. 
 
 ' How has this come about, Joyce 1 ' 
 
 * I won't tell'y, unless you swears not to let the constable 
 know. I don't want no hurt to come to vaither of this. 
 "Vaither were here a minute agone, but I reckon he seed you 
 acomiug, and so he sloked away. Hers afeared the constable'll 
 be after'n all along o' doing this.' 
 
 * But what has he done to you, child 1 ' 
 
 * He's a'most scatted me to bits,' she said. * Look'y hei-e ! * 
 She held out her arms. Both were broken below the elbows, 
 and the hands hung limp and powerless. ' I'd angered 'n ; and 
 yet, t'warnt my fault neither. The coord snappt acause the 
 coord were wore out. But never heed that. You won't tell 
 o' he ] See now ; say after me, " Blast me blue if I does." * 
 
 ' My poor girl, I will not tell.' 
 
 * Say what I sez : " Blast me blue, and glory rallaluley ! " ' 
 
 * There's no necessity for that. You may trust my "word,*
 
 79 
 
 THS giant's TABLB. 
 
 'He'd a right to do it,' argued Joyce. * I be his daughter, 
 and a vaither may do what he minds to wi' his child. That's 
 reason.' 
 
 ' I dispute that. He had no right whatever to maltreat 
 you. But, tell me, have you had no doctor to you 1 Your 
 bones must be set.' 
 
 ' A doctor won't do me no good, maister. I never seed a 
 animal as had been mashed that hev come right again. 
 'Tain't in nature. I be going to die right on end, I be. But 
 I don't wish vaither no hurt for it. I be his daughter, and he 
 has a right to do as he pleases,' 
 
 * Joyce, when was this done 1 * 
 
 * "When were this done 1 Why, that night the carriage 
 were overset and the man killed.' 
 
 * What ! all that time ago, and nothing done to your arms ! 
 Did not your father put splints on them 1 ' 
 
 * What be they 1 Vaither can't mend nothing, He've 
 abroked and tore down scores and scores of things, but he've 
 amended nothing.' 
 
 * And no one has been here to help you 1 ' 
 
 * Nobody niver comes here. My vaither be a sight better 
 now than he were. I tell'y how that corned about. I'll tell'y 
 the whole tale right on end. When I returned home after I'd 
 a' been to West Wyke wi' you, carrying the lady wi' the white 
 face, him were a' lying in wait for I, and when I corned up, then 
 he set on me wi' a great stone, and he hurted me all over, and 
 broke what he could break. You see I'd a angered 'n, and he 
 forgot himself. I've a forgot myself a times too. After that 
 I crept in here, and laid me down by the turve fire. But 
 vaither, he wouldn't come in, he stood and pee2)ed in at the 
 door. I seed 'n, and I sed, "Vaither! Miss Cicely sez you 
 may go and sleep in the calves' linny among the straw, and it 
 will be warm and comfortable for'y, vaither, better nor the old 
 barril was. So you go along, and let me bide quiet and die in 
 peace." Then he went. In the night I were that burning hot 
 I could not sleep, and I opened my eyes, and there I seed old 
 mother wot be bimed under the hearthstone ; her were a heav- 
 ing up in the midst of the fire. I seed her head sticking 
 straight out of the burning turves, and her looked hard at me ; 
 her face were red as live coals. Then her went on heaving and 
 pushing till her'd a worked herself right out of the earth, in the 
 midst of the fire, and the burning turves tumbled this way and 
 that as her corned out. Then I seed that her old gown were
 
 78 jouN iiErauKa. 
 
 flickering wi' blue light, just as you've seed old touchwood. 
 Her corned to me and her kissed me, but sure her lips were 
 like fire, and tlicy burned me. Then lier sed, " Joyce, tell 
 your vaither that I be acoming after 'n if he does you any 
 more harm. I knows where he be, in the linny, lying warm in 
 the straw. But I'll make 'n warmer. I'll throw fiery turves 
 in among the straw, and he'll burn, he'll burn, he'll burn ! " 
 As her were a saying of that her went backerds into the fire, 
 and down through the turves, and they closed over slie just as 
 afore. But I heard her still a mumbling to herself under the 
 hearthstone, "He'll burn, he'll burn, he'll burn ! " ' 
 
 'Ob, Jo5^ce, 3'ou were fevered and wandering in your 
 mind;' paid Herring, who belonged to the nineteenth century 
 after Christ. The condition of Joyce's mind was that of a 
 savage three centuries before Christ. 
 
 ' After that,' she went on, * I told vaither all, and he hev 
 come hers and been very good to I. You see he be mortal 
 afeered o' being caught asleap in the linny in the straw by 
 mother wi' a flaming turve in her hand. He thinks her won't 
 make much worrit o' nights, becos of disturbing me. And 
 then he laughs and sez, " Mother be that pleased I hev a given 
 her summat to play with, and her be a playing wi' that and 
 won't trouble no more."' 
 
 ' Joyce, your fatlier must be very sorry for what he has 
 done.' 
 
 ' He is that for sartain. All becos you see he've a got to do 
 everything himself now. Afore, I did a deal of things. I got 
 up the taties, and I baked 'em in the ashes, and I milked the 
 cow, and I did scores and scores of things. But now that I hev 
 my arms a broke it puts a deal o' work on vaither. Her hev to 
 do everything from morning to night. And vaither be getting 
 an old man, and not up to work as he were years by. He feels 
 it, sure, very much, and wishes he hadn't a done it now. But 
 wot's the good o' wishing. "Wishing v/on't mend broken bones.' 
 
 Herring was kneeling by her. He could not understand the 
 girl. Was she delirious, or was this the outpour of her reason- 
 able soul 1 He put his hand on her low forehead, brushing up 
 the shock of coarse hair. He wished to feel her pulse, but could 
 not touch the artery in the broken hand. She lay very still 
 with her eyes fixed on him. 
 
 * You are feverish,' be said. * I am going to fetch a doctor.* 
 
 * I say/ exclaimed Joyce, vehemently, * you've swore not to 
 tell the constable of vaither. If you were to do that, I'd never 
 be friends wi' you more.'
 
 THE giant's tabli:. T9 
 
 Friends witli Iiim ! The poor savage and the lieutenant in 
 His Majesty's service ! Herring was unable to suppress a 
 emile. 
 
 ' Joyce,' he said gravely, * you must have those poor arms 
 patched up. The surgeon must attend you. I shall have you 
 carried hence. No doubt Miss Cicely will know of a cottage 
 where you can be received.' 
 
 ' No,' she said hoarsely, even fiercely, 'I'll go over no drexil 
 (threshold). Let me lie here and die where I've a lived.' 
 
 ' But I insist on a doctor attending you.' 
 
 ' "What can a doctor do for me 1 It ain't in nature. What 
 be broke be broke ; be it a leg, or a neck, or a arm, or a heart, 
 it be all one. "What be a broke be a broke for ever and ever, 
 Amen.' 
 
 After some difficulty he persuaded her to consent. Then he 
 ran off to South Tawton for a svirgeon. He returned with one 
 rather over an hour later. Then he stood outside whilst the 
 medical man entered the den and examined the patient. Pre- 
 sently he was called. 
 
 * She is severely bruised, but no other bones ai'e broken 
 except those in her arms. She is obstinate, and I cannot induce 
 her to allow me to put splints on and bandage the arms.' 
 
 ' Oh, Joyce ! if you wish to be well you will submit.' 
 
 ' I don't care one way or other,' said the girl sullenly. * 1 
 wouldn't give the turn of a turf whether I lived or whether I 
 died. Wot's life to me ? It ain't anything I cares for.' 
 
 ' But I do care very much about it, Joyce. You must have 
 your bones mended and get well to make me happy.' 
 
 ' You care, do'y ? Then I'll live. There ! ' She held out 
 her broken arms, but as suddenly drew them back. * I won't 
 hev the doctor touch me. Blast me blue if I will. If I be to 
 get well and live, then you must make me well and live, and none 
 else. Take my hands and do what you will. You may cut 'em 
 off and I won't cry. You may tie 'em up and I'll say nor t.' 
 
 The surgeon said to Herring, ' You had better humour her. 
 She is not a rational being.' 
 
 So Herring put the splints in place, and bound the bandages 
 tightly round them. 
 
 Joyce watched him with her large animal-like eyes fixed on 
 his face. A feverish fire was burning in them, giving them a 
 factitious light. She did not withdraw them from him for e 
 moment. 
 
 'You're right for sartain,' she said. 'If I'd ha' died, what 
 ud vaither ha' done ? And her be growing a brave age.'
 
 80 iom flERRlNG. 
 
 Then, still kneeling by her, Herring spoke with the surgeon 
 about the girl, as to what was to be done with her arms and what 
 she was to eat. Suddenly he exclaimed with a start and 
 recoil, ' Good heavens, Joyce ! what are you doing 1 ' 
 
 He looked at her. A human soul was struggling to eman- 
 cipate itself from brute instinct. He saw it in her feverish 
 eyes. She had them fixed on him as those of a dog look at its 
 master — and she was licking his hand. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 OPHIR. 
 
 ' Sampt, my boy,* said Tramplara the elder, * improve each 
 shining hour, says Paul, afterwards called Saul, and he couldn't 
 have given a better piece of advice if he'd been paid to do it. 
 Since Polpluggan has been blown I have had nothing to do, 
 and I want not only to follow Paul's advice and improve the 
 shining hour, but do better, and improve the overcast and rainy 
 ones. You and I, Sampy, are the men to whom the future 
 belongs, the representatives of the age, and it will not do for 
 the likes of us to keep our light under a bushel. That ain't 
 Scriptural, and it ain't advantageous neither.' 
 
 * All right, gov'nor. What is this the preface to ? ' 
 
 * Sampy,' said Tramplara, confidiugly, * we must start 
 another mine.' 
 
 * What — tin 1 lead 1 manganese 1 copper ? ' 
 
 * Better still, my gosling.' 
 
 * I don't know what you can have better except coal, and 
 coal don't luxuriate alongside of granite.' 
 
 ' Gold — the noblest of metals — gold.' 
 
 * Oh, ah ! gov'nor, that won't do. There's no gold to be 
 found here.' 
 
 'Why not r 
 
 * Why not 1 Because no folks are fools enough to sink it in 
 such a venture as gold mining.' 
 
 * You are wrong. There is one quality I can always rely 
 on — as the Apostle says, " Folly never faileth, everything else 
 may vanish away." If you appeal to men's reasons, it is like 
 looking for ghosts in haunted tenements; they are supposed to 
 bo there, but never found when Avanted. Human folly is like 
 DozLuare pool, it is unfathomable, thoug'j you let down into it
 
 OPHIK. 81 
 
 all the bell-ropes of Cornwall. You can set up windmills in 
 Essex, for there the wind always blows ; and you can establish 
 water wheels in Cornwall, for the rain supply is inexhaustible ; 
 and you can float speculations where you will, and the fools 
 will keep them going. In the story of the Fisherman in the 
 "Arabian Nights" the fish that have been scraped and disem- 
 bowelled and put in a frying-pan over the coals stand up on 
 their tails and say, " We are doing our duty. If you reckon 
 we reckon ; if you fly we mount and are content." Now those 
 fish we are told were men. And men are just the same now. 
 They do their duty in coming to be scraped and gutted and 
 roasted, and what you pipe they repeat; they have no pleasure 
 apart from yours, and they rush into your hands to be cleaned 
 out, just as the martyrs asked to be tortured.' 
 Sampson junior nodded. 
 
 * What is it that Solomon said, " A fool and his money are 
 soon parted " 1 ' 
 
 ' I say, gov'nor, it is dry work listening. Let us have in 
 some grog.' 
 
 ' Bring the spirits out of the cupboard and ring for Bella 
 to give us sugar and hot water. Are you listening to me ] 
 What I say is important. I am leading you after gold.' 
 
 * All right ; but you were speaking of human folly.' 
 
 * Human folly is the cable ^ that incloses the ore. It is hoi 
 for nothing, Sampy, that I have been regular at chajiel and 
 paid for my pew at Salem. Mr. Israel Fiamank, the minister, 
 is a very good man ; a sort of cedar in Lebanon, always green, 
 and he is as soft as butter and as easy to make a pat out of 
 with, at pleasure, a crown or a goose at top. There are in the 
 world good men of whom with Scripture it may be said, " It 
 were better that a millstone had been hanged round their necks 
 than they should have learned to read and write." For, you 
 see, Sampy, they read a great deal without knowing the relative 
 value of what they read, and they write the first craze that 
 comes into their heads to set other fools crazy after them. When 
 there is a choice of herbs set before an ass, he prefers a thistle, 
 because as Shakespeare sings, " It is his nature to." You may 
 take my word for it, gosling, there is a parcel of people in this 
 world with an exuberant fund of piety in their constitutions, 
 just as some children are born with water on the brain. And 
 as these have no definite belief, the pious element within washes 
 
 ' The rock altered by the vein of ore it surrounds is termed by 
 miners the cable.
 
 82 JOHN HEURINft. 
 
 about, unable to settle. When you was a hoy, Sampy, it was 
 your delight to make silver trees. You had a fluid clear as 
 crystal in a bottle, and into it you introduced a scrap of carpet 
 thread, and all at once the metal held in solution crystallised 
 about the rubbish you had inserted, and built round it a mass 
 of sparkling metal, hard as steel and shining as silver. It is 
 the same with folk of the calibre of Israel Flamank. Their 
 dilute piety is ready to settle round any trashy notion that gets 
 into them, and rear about it a tree of fantastic conviction. 
 Flamank has done a deal of crystallising since I have known 
 him, about all sorts of odds and ends. First he was a total 
 abstainer, then a vegetarian, then he found the gospel in the 
 pyramids, and now he is all for the Phoenicians.' 
 ' But, father, what does this concern us 1 ' 
 
 * Everything, my son,' said old Tramplara, with sunny 
 self-complacency. ' Fill your glass and listen. Do you know 
 what the Phajnicians were 1 ' 
 
 * I don't know, and don't care. 
 
 ' Then I'll tell you. The Phoenicians were next-door 
 neighbours to the Jews, and, what is a wonder, were on speak- 
 ing terms, and did each other little neighboui'ly acts, which 
 shows they lived in the Dark Ages. You don't happen to 
 know anything about the Cassiterides, do'y, Sampy ] ' 
 
 ' Not a farthing. Had they anything to do with the 
 Phoenicians ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, what an ignorant boy you are ! You are living in the 
 midst of the Cassiterides, and don't know it. Cassiterides is 
 the Phoenician for Devon and Cornwall. It means the place 
 whence the Phoenicians drew their tin ; and where the Phoeni- 
 cians went the Jews went also. Marazion, as every fool knows, 
 is called also Market Jew, because the Jews came there to buy 
 metal for Solomon's temple. You haven't a Bible, have'y, 
 Sampson junior, ready to hand 1 ' 
 
 ' I doubt if there be such a thing in the house.' 
 
 * There is, though, only I don't know where it be stowed 
 away this present moment. I bought one for taking the level 
 of the Phoenicians under the guidance of the Reverend Flamank. 
 Now Solomon ; you've heard of Solomon ? ' 
 
 ' Which, the pawnbroker 1 ' 
 
 * No ; Solomon the wisest of men, and because the wisest 
 the richest. He sent a navy of ships with his own men and 
 Phoenicians to get gold for the temple at Jerusalem and his 
 own house. There is one thing strikes an earnest inquirer like
 
 OPHIB. 83 
 
 rae about King Solomon, and makes me admire the beauty of 
 his character greatly. When he were building the temple he 
 built his own palace at the same time, and didn't make of 'em 
 sepai'ate accounts. So the Jews gave profusely for the building 
 of their temple, and how much of that subscription went to the 
 King's house, I reckon Solomon himself would have been 
 pushed to answer. He was seven years building the temple, 
 and thirteen years over his own palace, and when you know 
 that, you can guess how the material went. But that is neither 
 here nor there. I was just giving you a sample of the wisdom 
 of Solomon. "Well, the ships of Solomon came for gold to 
 Opliir, and fetched thence four hvmdred and twenty taleuts of 
 gold-dust ; that, Israel Flamank tells me, is nigh on fifty-three 
 thousand pounds Aveight. Think of that ! Now where gold 
 came from, there gold is to be had.' 
 
 * But where did it come from 1 ' 
 
 * From Ophir, to be sure. We must find Ophir.' 
 
 ' Governor, that won't do. You and I are not going to 
 leave Old England gold prospecting. You are too old, and I 
 am disinclined.' 
 
 ' Didn't I tell you we were in the Cassiterides i ' 
 
 'Yes; but Cassiterides is not Ophir.' 
 
 * But Ophir may be in the Cassiterides.' 
 
 ' Gold never was found in the West,' said Sampson junior, 
 shaking his head. 
 
 ' There never was any tin in Wheal Polpluggan,' said the 
 old man, who turned blazing red with suppressed laughter. 
 His sides shook, his white hair gleamed ghastly against his red 
 skin. Then he broke into a roar, and slapping Sampson on the 
 knee, he shouted, as he waved his glass of grog over his head, 
 and spilled the contents on his silver hair and gleaming cheeks, 
 * To the prosperity of Ophir ! Di-ink, Sampy, drink ! to 
 Ophir, the Ophir of Solomon in the West Country.' 
 
 ' Polpluggan was tightly salted,' said young Sampson, * and 
 salted only with tin. Besides, Polpluggan was in the Scilly 
 Isles, some forty or fifty miles from Penzance. Thei'e were many 
 who would rather jeopardise their money than risk tlieir break- 
 fast in a rough passage. But gold ' He shook his head. 
 
 * We'll salt Ophir when we have found the spot.' 
 
 * What ! with gold dust 1 You'll sink a fortune in that, 
 and the success is doubtful.' 
 
 * It is bound to succeed,' answered the father. * My boy, 
 I've come to s"-^ that there is a pan of cream has not been 
 
 a2
 
 84 JOHN HEKRINa. 
 
 ^kimmed yet, and I hope, if 1 live long enongh, to skim it. 
 There is not much more to be done at those pans we have gone 
 over hitherto. We must try a fiesh one. I'll tell you what 
 that big rich pan is ; it is the big rich pan of religious fana- 
 ticism. I'll take a lesson from the rats. The rat when he 
 has an eye on the cream sits down with his back to it, and 
 looking up at the wall lets drop the end of his tail into the 
 cream ; then he pulls it up with a shocked and bashful air, 
 •tUcks it, and lets it down again, and in half an hour he has 
 cleared the pan of all but sky blue.' 
 
 ' I don't see how it is to be done,' said young Tramplara, 
 meditatively. 
 
 ' You are young and inexperienced,' answered his father. 
 ' You haven't sounded the depths of human folly yet. Lord 
 bless you ! I've been surprised myself at its profundity. 
 And when we come to religious folly, my private conviction is 
 that it goes down through the world and out at the other side. 
 It is like the well of Zem-zem, that has no bottom. I have not 
 been an earnest inquirer at the feet of the Reverend Israel 
 Flamank for nothing. Whilst kneeling to him I have been 
 like a shoemaker taking the measure of his foot. I know the 
 sort of gate he will clear, and where the bellweather goes all 
 the flock will leap. Y^ou listen to me and I will give you a 
 parable — a mighty comforting one. There was an old man- 
 ganese mine long disused, and the adit ran level out into a 
 meadow whei-e some bullocks were feeding. One hot day, 
 when the flies were troublesome, one bullock took refuge in the 
 adit, and when the others saw that in they walked after him, 
 each thrusting forward the fellow before him. Presently they 
 got frightened with being so far from the light, so the foremost 
 bellowed, and the second bellowed, and this was repeated to the 
 last, who, in mighty alarm, dug his horns into the hinder quar- 
 ters of the bullock in front, and he repeated the performance 
 on the one before him, and so on, driving one another further 
 and further into the heart of the mine. Well, they got so far 
 that there was no getting tliem out, and the owner had to kill 
 them where they were. They were too frightened to back, and 
 to turn was impossible. Sampy, that good foolish Israel 
 Flamank is just like the leading bullock. He'll go into Ophir 
 eagerly, and all his congregation after him, thrusting one 
 another on, and we shall have tlie slaughtering of them. They 
 will be too compromised to back when they find themselves io 
 the wrong place.'
 
 OPHIR. 85 
 
 * But how about the salting ] ' 
 
 ' There are various sorts of salting. You only know one 
 sort. You have seen Polpluggan salted with tin ore brought 
 from elsewhere, and basketfuls drawn out of the shaft that had 
 been previously put in. That is one sort of salting, and I 
 allow that with gold this would come expensive. I shall have 
 to manage more economically. My dear boy, when fools are 
 hungering to be deceived, they are not particular about the 
 meat that feeds their folly. They don't inquii-e if the mutton 
 comes of rotten, sheep.' 
 
 ' How shall you float it ? ' 
 
 'Nothing easier. Let us find Ophir, and the Reverend 
 Israel will do the rest. He conducts a religious paper, entitled 
 "The Western Cornucopia," much read by those of his per- 
 suasion, and throughout the West of England. I like tiiar. 
 word persuasion, Sampy. When I hear a man talk of bis 
 persuasion, I feel that he is persuaolable to any sort of suicide. 
 Now, let me get my truck on Israel's rails, and it will run 
 down by the law of gravity.' 
 
 * But where will you light on Ophir ? ' 
 
 * I do not know yet. I am an earnest inquirer, and I have 
 been sitting with the Eeverend Flamank many an hour, as 
 solemn as a Quaker, over our Bibles, making it out. I'm hard 
 to believe, he eager to convince. He hag no idea that I am 
 leading him on ; he believes he is driving me. Now and then, 
 as the light of nature prompts, I throw out a suggestion, and 
 he snaps at it enthusiastically, appropriates it, and reproduces it 
 as an original inspiration. Country folks will tell you that 
 every cloud brings with it wind. "That is the reverse of the 
 fact. It is the wind that brings the cloud. So in this case 
 there occurs a little mistake as to which is the impelling power. 
 The Eeverend Israel has shown me that the situation of Ophir 
 is pretty accurately indicated. It is said in Scripture that 
 Ophir lies between Mesha and a mountain in the East called 
 Sephar. Now, with my incenting, the Reverend Flamank has 
 arrived at this — that Mesha is the village of Mesha w, near South 
 Molton, and that Sephar is Sheepstor, which is a mountain 
 due east of Launceston.' 
 
 ' It is due south of Meshaw.' 
 
 * Yes, but it is due east of Salem Chapel. People always 
 reckon from where they ai-e themselves. You see the line 
 uniting them passes through Crediton, South Towton, CosdoD
 
 86 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 ' By the way, father, Squire Battishill told me he had found 
 a silver lead mine at Upaver.' 
 
 * Upaver ! — Upaver ! — Ophir ! Ophir ! Sampy ! By the 
 wisdom of Solpmon, we have spotted Ophir 1 * 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 CAPTAI^ TRECARBEL. 
 
 Captain Tbecarrel was Captain only in the militia, yet he 
 flourished his captaincy with as much pride as if he were in the 
 regulars. He Avas Trecarrel of Trecarrel, the head of one of the 
 oldest families in Cornwall. When Ave say that, we mean that 
 he was head in the sense of a tadpole's head, which is head and 
 nothing else. Trecarrel was head, and nothing else. There 
 was no tail of younger brothers and sisters dependent on the 
 property. But then the property barely supported the head, 
 and by no possibihty could have sustained the burden of a taiL 
 
 It was not always so. At one time the Trecarrels were the 
 chief family in the neighbourhood, and Sir Henry Trecarrel, 
 Knight, at his proper cost, to the glory of God, and in honour of 
 St. Mary Magdalen, rebuilt the parish chm-ch of Launcestou in 
 the most sumptuous manner he was able. Not one stone was 
 set in the fabric that was not the finest gi'anite, and not one 
 block was unsquared and unsculptured ; the sculptivre was as 
 delicate as the grain of the gi-anite would allow, with trees dis- 
 tilling balsam, plumes and palm-branches, with the arms of 
 Trecarrel, and with minstrels harping and playing the rebeck, 
 the tabor, and the bagpipe. Under the east window in a niche 
 was sculptured the recumbent effigy of that most yielding of 
 saints, the Magdalen, wrought in the most obdurate of stones. 
 The pinnacles and gurgoils were all cut out of the same material 
 with infinite labour, and at extraordinary cost. 
 
 The church was not quite finished when the Reformation 
 came. Then the King's Commissioners paid a visit to Laun- 
 ceston and swept from the church its valuables in silver and 
 gold, for the filling of the royal exchequer and for the abolition 
 of idolatry. After the Commissioners had departed, a rabble 
 followed, headed by one Bunface, a butcher, who burst into the 
 church and destroyed what the King's Commissioners had spared. 
 They smashed the stained glass in the windows, and broke the 
 legs of the Christ on the rood, but left the thieves on either side
 
 CAPTAIN TRECARREL. 87 
 
 nnmolested. They extinguished the peri)etual lamp and spilled 
 the oil over the chancel floor. They threw down the altar, and, 
 having broken open the shrine, cast the sacrament under their 
 feet. They knocked the heads off the apostles, and lastly, with 
 a lever, overthrew the font, and in so doing exceeded the inten- 
 tions of the Pweformers, who having destroyed five sacramenta, 
 and reduced a sixth to a stump, elected to maintain the seventh 
 intact. After that the party rang a peal in the tower and 
 finished the evening by getting uproariously drunk at the Pig 
 and Whistle. 
 
 Bunface never again appeared in church, for though the 
 Government passed a law to force the people to attend divine 
 service and receive the sacrament, under pains of fine and im- 
 prisonment, just as children have to be whipped to make them 
 swallow medicine that is necessary but nasty, yet Bunface could 
 not be induced to put in an appearance. ' Let me burn the 
 Bible, or break the Commandments, or test my cleaver on the 
 minister's head, but if this be denied me, if there be no more 
 destroying to be done, then I'd rather pay my fine than go.' 
 
 When Sir Heniy Trecarrel refused to sit in the church under 
 the preacher, and take the sacrament at the mean table under 
 the pulpit, the magistrates cautioned him, and when he dis- 
 regarded their monition they fijied him, and when he paid the 
 fine and continued recusant they threw him into the common 
 gaol, and there, after languishing two years, he died of the gaol- 
 fever. 
 
 Sir Harry Trecarrel was succeeded by his son, who suffered 
 also in purse and liberty for his attachment to the old religion. 
 He was convicted of hai'bouring a Popish priest, and of hearing 
 mass in his private chapel. The priest was hung, drawn, and 
 quartered — that is to say, he was cut down the instant after he 
 had been slung up, sliced open, and his heart torn out of his 
 breast whilst still palpitating. That was the way in which 
 recusant priests were dealt with by that blight Occidental Star, 
 good Queen Bess. Mr. Henry Trecairel saved his neck only by 
 the surrender of one of his best manors. 
 
 In the civil wars Trecarrel made large sacrifices for the 
 King, and was accordingly dealt with as a MpJignant by the 
 Protector. Confiscation and fine diminished his estates still 
 further. On the Bestoration he went to London, and laid the 
 record of his services and sufferings at the feet of Charles II. 
 The King commended his loyalty, and promised him, if he would 
 take holy orders, that he would recompense him with at least a
 
 88 JOHN ITEREING. 
 
 canonry ; but as Trecarrel was unable to do this, being a Papist, 
 lie was dismissed with, as his sole reward, a portrait of the royal 
 martyr, full length, in which the lower limbs were so adjusted 
 that, had they been true to life, the royal martyr could neither 
 have walked nor sat on his throne. The Trecarrel of the reign 
 of George 1. gambled away everything that had been left except 
 the house and home barton of Trecarrel, which were inalienable. 
 This Captain Trecarrel had inherited from his ancestors, together 
 with the picture of Charles I. with distorted limbs, the Catholic 
 faith, and the Trecarrel blue eyes and beauty — but chief of all 
 these things, in his estimation, were the hereditary blue eyes 
 and beauty. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel's income was small, so small that he could 
 not m.arry on it. He was obliged, therefore, to look out for a 
 wife with money. 
 
 Now, as has been said, nature and his ancestors had bestowed 
 on him aristocratic good looks, and he was admitted by the 
 ladies of the neighboui'hood to be the handsomest man they 
 knew. 
 
 He was aware of his beauty, he knew precisely the effect he 
 could produce on the female heart by a look out of his blue eyes, 
 blue as the borage blossom. There was not a marriageable girl 
 who would not have abjured her faith, have adored Mumbo- 
 Jvimbo, if required, to become Mrs. Trecarrel of Trecarrel. The 
 Captain knew his value, and was not impatient. The young 
 ladies of good birth in the neighbourhood were neither heiresses 
 nor well dowered. He looked further afield, and was caught by 
 the handsome face of Orange Trampleasure, and by the handsome 
 fortune with which popular opinion endowed her. 
 
 Old Tramplara was thought to be enormously rich, and to be 
 eager to marry his daughter well, and to be ready to pay for the 
 blood and position that would come to the family through a good 
 alliance. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel was not a man to feel deeply. He liked 
 Oi'ange, and that Orange liked and admired him was obvious to 
 his blue eyes. But then, he was accustomed to be liked and 
 admired, and he had only to smile and look languishingly to 
 draw to him any amount of affection from any number of mar- 
 riageable gii'ls. He looked for something more substantial than 
 liking and admiration. 
 
 After much hesitation, Trecarrel proposed to Orange Tram- 
 pleasure and was accepted on the spot. But the proposal was 
 only the first scene in a long drama, and the second scene did
 
 CAPTAIN TRECARREL. 89 
 
 not pass with the same rapidity and success. Captain Trecarrel 
 had no intention of being married till he was quite satisfied as 
 to the sum of money Orange would bring with her. Old Tram- 
 plara spoke grandiloquently, and made large pi'omises of what he 
 would leave her when he was not himself in a position to enjoy 
 his money. But this was not what the Captain wanted — which 
 was something present, not px'ospective. At last he did get the 
 old man to name a very liberal dowry, and when he next asked 
 in what shape this dower would come, he discovered an eager- 
 ness on the part of his prospective father-in-law to pay it in 
 Patagonian securities. Now Patagonian bonds were not at par. 
 They had been declining very steadily in the money market, 
 and when the South American State deferred meeting its coupons 
 with punctuality, the drop had been neai-ly to zero, for it was 
 anticipated that Patagonia was meditating repudiation. 
 
 Mr. Trampleasure supposed that the Captain was unaware 
 of this, but Trecarrel was not as innocent as his blue eyes led 
 people to suppose. He was one of those few men who know 
 exactly on which side their bread is buttered ; and Captain 
 Trecarrel knew further, what very few people do know, how to 
 eat bread and butter with most satisfaction to himself. An 
 adult eats his slice with the butter uppermost, but a child turns 
 the buttered side down. By so doing he extracts from it the 
 utmost enjoyment it is capable of giving, for by this expedient 
 the tongue is brought into immediate contact with the butter. 
 Captain Trecarrel was not going to eat hig bread with thin 
 Patagonian scrape over it, instead of yellow English gold. 
 Those innocent blue eyes of his could see as far into a millstone 
 as the keen sloes of Mr. Trampleasure. Consequently, till that 
 Patagonian business was satisfactorily settled. Captain Trecarrel 
 held aloof from hymeneal felicity. 
 
 The arrival of Mirelle and her admission into the famUy at 
 Dolbeare were opportune. Captain Trecarrel was struck with 
 her beauty, but then, he was struck with the beauty of every 
 girl whose looks were pleasing. But what struck the Captain 
 far more than her beauty was the opportunity this arrival 
 afforded him of rousing the apprehensions of Orange and her 
 father that he might slip through the meshes of their net. 
 
 He resolved to pay his court to Mirelle, to exhibit a lively 
 interest in her, to wake up a little convenient jealousy in the 
 bosom of Orange, and to give the father clearly to understand 
 that he himself repudiated Patagonia. 
 
 The curious mixture of simplicity and shrewdness in Mirelle
 
 90 JOHN HEERING. 
 
 amused him. It was a real pleasure to him to converse with 
 her, and a particular pleasure to look into those deep eyes and 
 speculate what lay beneath. 
 
 Once a month a priest came to Trecarrel on a circuit through 
 the north of Cornwall, and said mass in the chapel near the 
 house. On these occasions Mirelle walked over to Trecarrel. 
 Trecarrel lies, like most old manor houses, in a hollow. A 
 small stream dribbling through the hollow constituted the only 
 attraction which could leac! a gentleman to build his stately 
 mansion in such a spot. A stately mansion Trecarrel must 
 have been in its prime. The great banqueting hall was of hewn 
 granite, with granite windows and doorway and chimney-piece. 
 A little chapel stood south of the hall, also of cut granite. The 
 mansion-house itself is, at the present date, reduced to a 
 fragment of the great house that once occupied three sides of a 
 quadrangle. At the time of which we are writing it was more 
 than dilapidated, it was falling into utter ruin. There was no 
 glass in many of the windows, and the roofs were breaking 
 down. Next to the hall the glory of Trecariel was the gate- 
 house of granite, with a richly sculptured doorway of the same 
 intractable material, moulded deeply, with strawberry leaves 
 carved in the hollows of the mouldmgs. The Trecarrel who 
 gambled pulled down the gatehouse because coaches could not 
 pass beneath the arch ; but when he had pulled it down he had 
 not the power or the means to remove the huge blocks, and so 
 he left theju encumbering the ground where they had fallen, 
 and there at the present day they lie, rankly overgrown with 
 nettles. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel could not suffer Mirelle to walk home 
 unattended when she made her monthly pilgrimages to his 
 chapel. She was always pleased to see and converse with him. 
 He was her equal, a gentleman and a Catholic — the two quali- 
 ties which made them akin and separated them from the ignoble 
 and unbelieving around. In these walks the Captain told 
 Mirelle the story of Sir Henry Trecarrel and the building of 
 Launceston Church, and the way in which the work was 
 arrested. He told her what his ancestor had done and suffered 
 in the civil wars, and he showed her one day in the hall the sole 
 reward he had received for his sacrifices. Mii-elle was able to 
 sympathise with the misfortunes of the house ; she also repre- 
 sented a generous race, that had fought the Moors, had ruled a 
 county, coined its own money, and set up its own gallows. In 
 that last particular the Garcias and the Trecarrels had differed.
 
 CAPTAIN TEECAKEEL. 91 
 
 The Garcias had hung men, the Trecarrels had had much ado 
 to keep themselves from being hving. 
 
 The story of the self-sacrifice of the Trecarrels for Church 
 and King stirred the soul of Mirelle, ready to warm to all that 
 savoui'ed of heroism ; and she looked on the Captain as the 
 noble representative of a glorious line of confessors and martyrs. 
 She fondly deemed him made of the same stuff, ready to lay 
 himself down on the altar if need be. But no ! Trecarrel was 
 wholly free from the spirit of self-sacrifice. He would not sur- 
 render his independence for five thousand pounds in Patagonian 
 bonds. During one of these walks the Captain ascertained 
 from Mirelle that her father had left her six thousand pounds, 
 not in Patagonian bonds, but in hard cash. Six tho\isand 
 pounds ! That was one thousand above the sum that Orange 
 was promised. Six thousand pounds in coined gold, with his 
 Majesty's head on each piece, God bless him ! Trecarrel's tone 
 assumed more tenderness, a softer light shone out of his celestial 
 eyes, and he slightly squeezed the arm that was on his own 
 under the big umbrella, as he paddled with Mirelle to Laun- 
 ceston under a Cornish drizzle and through West Country mud. 
 
 That night the Captain did not sleep. He tossed on his 
 bed. He sat up and hammered the pillow into shape and put 
 it under his neck. Then he got up and drank cold water. 
 Then he tried to count sheep going through a gap in a hedge. 
 All was in vain. He could not sleep and he could not count 
 the sheep, because his mind was active. He was stung into 
 wakefulness by the consideration whether it would be possible 
 for him to be off his engagement to Orange, and on with one to 
 Mirelle. It would not be consistent with his honour as a 
 gentleman and an ofiBcer (though only in the militia) to become 
 engaged to Mirelle before breaking with Orange. It would also 
 not be jDroper for him to break with Orange ; but it would 
 be perfectly honourable for him so to conduct himself as to 
 force her to break with him. He made no doubt that Mirelle 
 would have him. No woman could refuse him, with his eyes 
 and name, his profile and his position. Besides, Mirelle mani- 
 festly liked him. She made no secret of the pleasure she took 
 in his society. Now the only means of effecting a rupture with 
 Orange was for him to pay marked attentions to Mirelle, and 
 to wane in his attentions to herself. Orange would then speak 
 to her mother, and the mother would communicate her 
 daughter's trouble to the father, and then a crisis would be 
 attained. The father would either break off the match, in
 
 92 JOHN HEKRINCJ. 
 
 which case he would be free to address Mirelle, or, in his dread 
 of losing such a son-in-law, he would drop the Patagonians and 
 offer ready money. Orange and five thousand pounds ; Mirelle 
 with six ! There was no comparing the lots. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel turned the situation into an equation. 
 As Mirelle is to Orange, so is 6,000 to x. 
 
 Mirelle yx = Orange x 6,000^. 
 
 M 6,000Z. 
 
 or 7=7 = 
 
 O X 
 
 Now Orange was of an inferior social grade, and this 
 difference could not be estimated under 1,000^. Then Orange 
 had incumbrances, in the shape of very vulgar parents and a 
 cur of a brother. This could not figure at less than 1,000^. 
 Orange was plump, and plump girls become obese women ; i\ 
 serious detriment that could only be covered with another 
 1,000^. Mirelle was a Catholic, and her faith was worth 
 1,000^. 
 
 The equation therefore stood thus : — 
 
 Mirelle + 6,O0OZ. = Orange + lO.OOOZ. 
 
 * Hah ! ' said Captain Trecarrel, as he hammered his pillow 
 with both fists. * I'll not take Orange under ten thousand 
 pounds, I'm confounded if I will.' 
 
 It must not be supposed that Orange Trampleasure was 
 ignorant of the walks taken by the Captain with Mirelle. 
 Captain Trecarrel did not desire that she should remain in 
 ignorance of them, and when he escorted Mirelle home he 
 came on with her to the house to pay his respects to Mrs. 
 Trampleasure, and inquire after her cold in the head and her 
 bronchial tubes. He usually remained on such occasions for 
 the early dinner, and spent the afternoon with the girls in the 
 garden-house when it rained, or sti-olling with them in sunshine 
 through the Castle grounds. 
 
 At these times he was civil to Orange, and even attentive, 
 but he let her plainly see that when engaged in conversation 
 with her his eyes and thoughts were roving, and roving in the 
 direction of Mirelle. Orange would not have been a woman, 
 and a loving woman, if she had not ob&erved and been hurt by 
 this. 
 
 Orange had set her heart on marrying him, not only because 
 she loved him, but also because she was ambitious. She had 
 more culture than her father and mother and brother, and she 
 felt their coarseness. She disliked their friends. She was a
 
 CAPTAIN TRECARREL. 93 
 
 pioud girl, and when the prospect opened before her of becoming 
 Mrs. Trecanel, she resolved to make this the means of shaking 
 herself free from the sordid society in which she had been 
 forced to move, and to take her place, as of right, in a class 
 above it in culture, in traditions, and in aspirations. 
 
 Orange volunteered to walk to Trecarrel with Mirelle on 
 her monthly expeditions, and the offer was frankly accepted. 
 
 Mirelle did not know that her cousin was engaged to Tre- 
 carrel, she had not been let into the secret ; Orange was not 
 of a confiding nature, and the intercourse between her and the 
 Captain had of late been strained. Mirelle regarded him as a 
 friend of the family ; she rather wondered what he could find in 
 the Trampleasures bo make him seek their society, but she enter- 
 tained no suspicions of a nearer tie than friendship. 
 
 The jealousy of Orange was roused. She became less de- 
 monstrative in her affection towards Mirelle, but she was not 
 unkind. She harboured bitterness in her heart, but it was not 
 suffered to brim over her lips. The only token she gave of 
 wrath and jealousy was a heightened colour and a dangerous 
 flicker in her eye, whenever subjected to one of those slights 
 which are only perceptible to the eye of love. Trecarrel 
 noticed this, and was content. He would achieve his end by 
 means strictly honourable. Mirelle was unconscious and un- 
 suspicious of what was going on around her. She liked the 
 Captain, she told Orange as much, without colour rising in her 
 transparent cheek or lowering her eye. She liked Orange, who, 
 if not cordial, was kind, and who proved a very serviceable 
 screen against the brutality of her father and brother. That 
 the Captain was playing her off upon Orange for his own selfish 
 purposes, and that deadly jealousy and hate against her were 
 being kindled in the bosom of her cousin — of this Mirelle was 
 unsuspicious. 
 
 CHAPTER XTV. 
 
 UNDER THE HEARTH. 
 
 John Herring visited Joyce daily. He had no choice. She 
 would allow no one else to touch her bandages. He was im- 
 patient to prosecute his journey, but was detained by this poor 
 Bavage, who refused doggedly to allow the doctor or Cicely to 
 touch her arms. Herring remonstrated, and insisted that he
 
 94 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 must go. Cicely Battishill volunteered to take Ms ptace. Then 
 Joyce became wild, she tore at the rags with her teeth, and 
 would have ripped them off and relaxed the splints, and undone 
 all that had been done for her broken bones, had not Herring 
 hastily promised to remain and attend to her daily, and so 
 with difficulty allayed her apprehension and anger. He was 
 particularly anxious to be in Exeter, but he could not risk the 
 health of Joyce by deserting her in this juncture. He was 
 held captive at West Wyke, held in captivity by Joyce's 
 broken hands. The reason why he was impatient to go for- 
 ward was that he had been summoned to Exeter to rejoin his 
 regiment, then quartered there. The morning following the 
 accident he had applied for an extension of leave, but no answer 
 had come to his application. He knew that he ought to be 
 with his regiment. He would get into trouble for his absence, 
 and yet — he allowed himself to be detained. The call of 
 humanity was one he was unable to resist. He was good- 
 natured, that is— weak. The strong men are the selfish men. 
 Herring's simple and kindly heart was interested in Joyce, but 
 perplexed and paiusd. He had no experience of life, and no 
 knowledge of its problems. He had never before been brought 
 in contact with a character utterly rude and destitute of that 
 elementary knowledge which we take for granted is as 
 universally diffused as the atmosphere. He sat under the 
 Giant's Table and talked to Joyce, asked her questions, and 
 endeavoured to draw out the thoughts of her clouded brain. 
 But the profound ignorance, the gross barbarism other mind and 
 manner of thought amazed him. 
 
 He saw nothing of Old Grizzly, who, as Joyce expressed it, 
 ' sloked away ' whenever he came in sight. 
 
 ' Joyce,' said Herring one day, as he knelt by her, having 
 just bandaged her arms, ' do you know the difference between 
 right and wrong 1 ' 
 
 The question was called forth by some words of the girl 
 showing a startling ignorance of the elements of morality. 
 
 ' In coorse I do,' she answered ; then sitting up on her bed 
 of heather, ' I'll tell'y how I corned to know. I were once in a 
 turnip-field fetching a turnip for our dinner. There were a 
 woodiloo (dove) running up an oak hard by, and he sings out, 
 " Tak' two, Joyce, tak' tAvo ; " and in an old holm tree sat a 
 raven, and her shocked her head and said, "Very wrong, Joyce, 
 ^ery wrong." But I minded more what the wooddoo sed, and I 
 took two. Then as I were climbing over the hedge, I dropped
 
 UNDER THE HEALTH. 95 
 
 one turnip back iu the field whence I'd took 'n ; and the wood- 
 doo called again " Tak' two, Joyce, tak' two." " So I will," sez 
 I, and I pitches on my feet again in the field where the turnip 
 had fallen to, and as I picked 'n up, in at the gate corned Farmer 
 Freeze, and he seed me and set his dog Towzer on me, and my 
 legs be scored now where Towzer set his teeth in me. After 
 this I knowed never to believe wooddoos no more when they sez 
 *' Tak' two." The raven were right. I shud ha' tooked one or 
 three or five. I knows now that it be wrong to take even num- 
 bers of aught, and right to take odd. • For you sees,' she con- 
 tinned earnestly, ' if I had taken only one turnip, I'd ha' been 
 over the hedge and away avore Farmer Freeze coined in ; but an 
 I minded the wooddoo, and waited to take two, I were tore 
 cruel bad by Towzer.' 
 
 Herring looked in her face with wonder. 
 
 * Joyce,' he said, ' is this possible 1 Prav, have you ever 
 heard of God T 
 
 'Who be he?' 
 
 * He is above the sky.' 
 
 * What, over the clouds, do'y mean ? ' 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * I've seed 'n scores and scores o' times.' (Here we must note 
 that by this expression Joyce meant ' any number of times.' 
 She could not count above ten, the number of her fingers, and 
 a score was her highest reckonable number, for that was the 
 number of her fingers and toes.) * Yoa mean the sun as goes 
 running everlasting after the moon ; she be his wife, I reckon.' 
 
 ' Why so 1 ' asked Herring, with a smile. 
 
 * Becos her be always a trying to get out of his way.' 
 
 * Did your father ill-treat your mother 1 ' he asked. 
 
 * In coorse he did, though I can't remember much alaout it. 
 Her was his wife, and he had a right to.' 
 
 * Do you mean that he beat and kicked her, as he has beaten 
 and kicked you 1 ' 
 
 ' Kicked ! ' echoed Joyce. * Who ever sed as he kicked 
 mother or I. It be gentlefolks and wrastlers as kick ; us has 
 nothing on oxir toes, and so us don't kick for fear of hurting' em.' 
 
 * Does your father often beat you 1 ' 
 
 ' As he likes, but that don't matter now.' 
 •Why not r 
 
 * Becos I don't belong to 'n any more.' 
 
 ' This story was told the author by a poor Devonshire labonrer. He 
 believed he had understood the language of the birds.
 
 96 JOHN HERRINO. 
 
 * What ! emancipated at last, Joyc© ? 
 ' I belongs to you.' 
 
 * To me ! ' Herring drew back, staggered by the thought. 
 
 * A coorse I do. Vaither a'most broked me to pieces, and 
 I'd a died, but you mended me up and made me to live again. 
 So it stands to reason that I don't belong to vaither no more, 
 but belong to you. 'Tes clear as a moor stream. I can see the 
 reason on it as sartain as I can a trout in a brook. I've been a 
 thinking it over and over, and I never could reckon it right 
 out. Then, one night mother began to grub her way up by 
 thicky stone. I seed her grey hairs coming out o' the ground, 
 and I thought 'twere moss ; but after some'ut white and round 
 like a turnip comes, and I sed to myself, " How ever comes a 
 turnip to be growing here, under the Giant's Table 1 " Pre- 
 sently I seed her eyes acoming up, and then I knowed it were 
 mother. Then I Avent over and I helped her wi' a rabbit's leg- 
 bone. I scratched the earth away, so as her could get her nose 
 and mouth out of the ground, and her were snuffling like a 
 horned owl.' 
 
 ' My dear Joyce, you were dreaming.* 
 
 * It were true — true as I see you here.* 
 
 'But, Joyce, how could you have helped her out of the 
 ground, as you say, with your arms broken 1 ' 
 
 Joyce was puzzled. Like other savages, she had not arrived 
 at that point of enlightenment in which dream and reality are 
 distinguished. 
 
 'I don't know nothing about that,' said Joyce, ' but it be 
 true what I ses. I know that very well. Let me go on. At 
 last when her could speak plain, her sed, " Joyce, you belong no 
 more to Grizzly, you belong to the young maister." So I sez to 
 her, " How can that be 1 " Then her answers, " You mind the 
 old iron crock as were chucked away by the Battishills. They'd 
 a broke 'n, and wanted 'n no more. Then your vaither found 
 'n and mended 'n up somehow. There her hangs now wi' 
 turnips and cabbidge a stewing in her over the fire. Do thicky 
 crock belong to the Battishills now any more ? No, her don't, 
 they broke 'n and chucked 'n away. Her belongs to Old Grizzly 
 for hecofi he took 'n and patched 'n up. That be reason," sed 
 my mother, "for sartain." And what her said be true and 
 right. So I belong to you.' 
 
 ' But I decline the honoux-, Joyce,' said Hei'ring, laughing. 
 
 ' Will you beat and break me and cast me away, like as did 
 vaither V
 
 DNPEii rns HKAHTn. 97 
 
 I beat and hurt you ! God forbid, my poor cliiJd.' 
 
 * Theu till you does, I belon.fjs to'y — that's sartain ! ' 
 
 She laid herself down on the cushions with the action and 
 tone of voice that implied the matter was concluded past con- 
 tradiction. 
 
 Here was a state of affairs ! A state of affairs sufficiently 
 etartling. A few weeks ago John Herring had been his own 
 master, with no one depending on him, and without respon- 
 sibility. Now he was in a measure responsible for three girls. 
 Mirelle, it is true, had asserted her independence, but she had 
 nevertheless imposed on him obligations. Cicely made no scruple 
 of declaring that she rtlied on him for direction, not to be got 
 from a father never very dependable, and now enfeebled in mind 
 and body. Joyce now informed him that she had transferred 
 her allegiance to him from her father, and he had seen so far 
 into her dark mind as to perceive that what she said she meant, 
 and what she meant she acted on. 
 
 ' Here,' said Joyce, * you put your hand on my elbow.* 
 
 * Why on your elbow 1 ' 
 
 * I can feel there what I want to feel. My hands be as hard 
 as my feet, and they don't feel much. When I wants to know 
 if the poiTidge be scalding, or whether I can eat 'n, I don't put 
 a finger in, I put my elbow. Now do as I ax'y. Put your 
 hand there.' 
 
 She made Herring place his hand above the splints on the 
 elbow. Then she fixed her eyes on him and asked, * Wet's her 
 xmmeV 
 
 ' Whose name 1 ' 
 
 * Her wi' the white facet' 
 
 * 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 1 Where do 
 you live ] Did'y take her to your own home 1 ' 
 
 ' No, Joyce, of course I did not.' 
 
 * Why of course 1 You likes her more than any other.* 
 ' I — I — Joyce ! are you daft 1 ' 
 
 ' I hain't daft,' answered the girl. * What I've a found out 
 f know. My elbow told me the truth. When you had your 
 
 H
 
 98 JOEN DEmaNG. 
 
 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 \vi' a full belly. But when I axed about the Whiteface — I 
 cannot mind her name — then you gave a start, and your hand 
 shooked. 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 
 6ort.' 
 
 * 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 wa^ 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 ivei*ything 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 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 1 ' 
 
 ' No, she did not look at me at all.' 
 
 * See there now ! ' exclaimed Joyce. * I be nort but a poor 
 Bavage, 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 1 ' 
 
 Herrinff had risen from his knee as if to leave
 
 UiNDER THE nEARTE. 99 
 
 * 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 be goes down, and the clouds roll away, and 
 Dartmoor seems to be all aligbt, and tben 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 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 1 ' 
 
 * Her wants you to do it. You mun lift the hearthstone 
 and say glory rallaluley, and Our Yaither — 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 jiraying. You can say kinkum kam 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 fxith, but a con- 
 fusion of mind between death and life, and dreaming visions 
 and sight Avhen waking. Her sole idea of pj-ayer was a spell 
 to lay the restless dead. Herring's heart was softened by com- 
 passion 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 stiiTed a 
 muscle of his mouth. He was giieved for her, and he waa 
 touched by her ignorant simplicity. 
 
 E3
 
 100 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 ' Poor Joyce ! ' he said, and knelt down by her again. ' Pooi* 
 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 inflexi- 
 ble. 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 hiimour 
 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 nortT 
 
 * Yes ; thei-e is something there hard and heavy.' 
 
 * Yang 'u 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 
 Bome'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.
 
 UNDER THE HEARTH. 101 
 
 That were after he'd a broke me to pieces. When T came by 
 my wits I seed old vaither sitting by the fire and Avorking 
 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 tnke 'em. 
 But they wos no good to me, and I couldn't a done nort wi' 'em 
 with both my arms bi'oke. 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 sed 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 be- 
 neath 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 un- 
 troubled 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 winch he 
 was about to embark. A few weeks ago the problem of life 
 bad 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
 
 102 Jonx jrEi;ni:;a. 
 
 his days; the conclusion of the ^vliole 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 w's 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 1 Herring would have 
 been ready with an answer that cost him little consideration. 
 Now he was not siTre 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 look- 
 ing 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 1 1 feared it might con- 
 tain 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 anyone justified in opening another 
 jierson's letter 1 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 ? *
 
 EIIEU, BUE'ONES! 103 
 
 He hesitated. Is it justifiable ever to tell a lie 1 Is it 
 justifiable to evade tbe 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 Cobble- 
 dicks.' 
 
 * Yes,' he answered, and then hesitated. He was unaccus- 
 tomed 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 yoTi 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 
 Btate.' 
 
 ' 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 tui-n 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 docs 
 your father owe 1 ' 
 
 * 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 wiU 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 stronsr ! I sure ! * exclaimed Herrincr. At that moment
 
 104 JOHN IIEURING. 
 
 lie was feeling the weakness of bis principles and the un- 
 certainty 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 imder eclipse.' She paused and sighed. ' But after all, is 
 it worth while deferring to tell my father 'i 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 en- 
 feebled by his seizure, but though his utterance was not aa 
 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 estabUshment 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 estab- 
 lishment. I believe it killed my wife,' 
 
 ' What, sir 1 ' 
 
 '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
 
 EHEU, BUBONES ! 105 
 
 whims. Tliat 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 ser- 
 vant nuisance. That which the housemaid has left the cook 
 carries off, and what the cook spares the kitchen-maid em- 
 bezzles, 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 aris- 
 tocracy 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 v iped 
 his eyes. * When the first woe was endecl, then came the 
 second.' 
 
 * What was that 1 ' 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. Tram- 
 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 amuse- 
 ment 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.'
 
 106 JOUN HERRING. 
 
 '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 hej", " 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 care- 
 fully over the accounts of Mr. BattishOl, and found them to be 
 in utter confusion. The old man kept receipts sometimes, but 
 not invarialjly. 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 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 moi'tgages, 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 1 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
 
 EHEU, BUEONES! 107 
 
 Tramplai-a wrvked an evil ualuic." My situation is not unliko 
 that of Prospeio — 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 tit, 
 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 desii'e 
 nothing but to die here and be laid with my ancestors. Do you 
 know what our motto is 1 You would never guess, " Eheu ! 
 Eheu ! Eheu ! " I suppose that was given as resembling the 
 hoot of an owl, but it was ominous. Poor Cicely ! she will not be 
 able to carry the ancestral house with her vvhen some Ferdinand 
 comes to carry her off. Sho 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 I ' 
 
 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 responsi- 
 bility 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 
 LIr. Strange, John Herring by vntue 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 tiu-ned the matter over
 
 108 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 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 lo 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, thei-efore, 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 con- 
 stituted Herring guardian of the major portion of Mirelle's 
 property. 
 
 John Herring had confidence in himself. It was impossible 
 for him to 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. M^hom 
 could Providence have chosen more trustworthy than himself, 
 and more interested in the welfare of Mirelle 1 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 ventvii'C. 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 sui'render to him the trust now 
 committed to him.
 
 TRUSTEE >0T EXECUTOR. 109 
 
 Of all men, lie, John Herring, was the most calculated to 
 look after jSIirelle's interests, for he loved her better than an}^ 
 one else in the world coidd 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 out- 
 casts in the world, with no income, or very little, to sustain 
 them ; he stnick down by sickness, and she too ignorant of lifo 
 to know how to meet it, weighted with the burden of a paralysed 
 father. 
 
 What was he to do 1 
 
 Then a bright idea struck him. He would try to help 
 Mirelle and Cicely at once. To do this he must go to Laun- 
 ceston, 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 
 appeaUng 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 fiice 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 
 etep in. And these demand and take from the traveller every- 
 thing he has, and kick him, when stripped, off the heath, with 
 B jeer, into the black beyond. 
 
 A kind-hearted man such as John Herring does good to 
 others as he icould 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 gene- 
 rosity 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 bora blind,
 
 110 Jun.N jii;ii!;lxNG. 
 
 but when cnrown into tlie water that is to drown them they 
 open their eyes. Herring Avas 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 Ray- 
 borough.' 
 
 ' 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 miglit 
 give 'em shelter under the Table for a bit till he knocked that 
 all abroad too.' 
 
 ' AVhy did he go to Eayborough 1 * 
 
 * 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. Yom- Table wiii 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. T tell you I cannot be here.*
 
 TRtSTEB NOT EXECUTOR. Ill 
 
 * You may go.' 
 
 * Thank you fox' giving me my furlough,' he said with a 
 emile, ' 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.' 
 
 Hei*ring informed Mr. Battishill and Cicely of his medi- 
 tated expedition to Launceston to sec ]Mr. Trampleasu.re, He 
 told them that he was in hopes of bringing him to another 
 mind about the mortgages, but he did not enter into the parti- 
 culars of his scheme, nor did he tell them what he had learned 
 from Joyce relative to IMr. 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 Avorkings, 
 taking with him one of the labonrers Mr. Battishill had em- 
 ployed on it. The man was familiar with mines, and was con- 
 fident 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 farther up the glen. But 
 then, as the miner said, with a jerk of the chin, there was 
 nothing lying about which might lead anyone 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 pi^ospect, 
 ofl*ering many suggestions, some utterly unpractical, and his 
 hollow cheek flushed with excitement. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said he, * if Tramplara knows about that lead he'U
 
 112 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 not grant a respite, but be down on me at once if ho 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 IJpaver, 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 summei'-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 aa 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
 
 IN THE SUMMER-HOUSE. 113 
 
 neither where you live nor the places you frequent, there is 
 nothing in your reappearance to justify surprise.' 
 
 * I have come to-day from West Wykc.' 
 
 * Indeacl ! 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?' Joieuse, I presume — a singularly in- 
 appropriate name in this case.' 
 
 ' 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 1, ' 
 
 ' May I take a chair 1 ' 
 
 * Certainly. Sit down, and we will talk. I have some- 
 thing I (vish particularly to say to you. 1 am sorry that I let 
 you go the other time without thanldng 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 bad 
 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. 
 
 ' In the South Tawton Ecgister stands this entry under Baptisms : 
 •Jocosa, anglicfe Joyce, daughter of — — ,' &c. It was formerly a 
 common name in Devon, 
 
 I
 
 114 JOHN HERIIIKS. 
 
 ' You see for yourself, Mr. Herring, that the feelings of 
 the heart are too sacred to be disjDersed over the earth, to be 
 scattered like coins amidst a crowd of beggars. One meets 
 with some thousands of persons in the coui-se 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 
 awhile, are like the figures of a magic-lantern slide; they make 
 us laugh, or they interest us for the moment, and then are for- 
 gotten. When we hear that a slide is broken, we ask, which 1 
 The man driving a wheelbarrow, or the old woman who desired 
 she were pope, or the cabbage ihat becomes a tailor? When we 
 are informed, we do not weep,v>^e 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 liked Mr. Battishill. He has his ideas.' 
 
 ' And Miss Cicely 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 memoiy, 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 hia 
 ancestors will be to kill him.'
 
 IN THE SUMMEK-nOUSE. 115 
 
 'He thiuks West Wyke a Paradise only because he has 
 never crossed the Channel. When he reaches a nookwbere tho 
 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 tho 
 power that association has on the old. You can begin life any- 
 where, and everywhere hopes and interests start up. To tho 
 old it is not so, they are without hopes, and their only pleasure 
 is in recollection. To the aged the looking back is almost aa 
 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 oflP elsewhere than he is now.' 
 'He wiU 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 woiald 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 1 This is not all ; the rupture of old associa- 
 tions 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 wherx he lest 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 w as, his 
 eyes were full of tears. He knew that with him his entire 
 posterity was banished for ever.' 
 
 I2
 
 116 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 * I can understand that,' said Mirelle, sadly ; ' never more 
 able to coin his own money, nor hang anyone 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 adi'ift 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 1 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, stand- 
 ing 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.' 
 
 ' Men Dieu ! que puis-je faire, moi ! You speak to me as
 
 IN THE SUMMEE-HOUSE. 117 
 
 tliougli 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 ia 
 which I am allowed a cage among the bears.' 
 
 ' I think it is your duty to do what you can to assist the 
 BattishiUs.' 
 
 ' 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. Tram- 
 pleasure, in trust. He must invest them for you. He is also 
 the man who has a hold on the estate of the BattishiUs. Get 
 him to take your money, or as much of it as is needed, in pay- 
 ment 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 BattishiUs, 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 BattishiUs and yourself simultaneously.' 
 
 * I undei'stand 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 BattishiUs 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
 
 118 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 to speak to him in the summer-house for a few moments, if be 
 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 fire- 
 place and carved mantelpiece, that contained a quaint old 
 })aiiiting on i)anel. The windows were large, and that to the 
 south-east overhung the precij^ice, and commanded a magnifi- 
 cent 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 i*ocky 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 foU and bits of 
 coloured silks; and the snippings strewed the floor. 
 
 * Well, Serene Highness de Candlestickio 1 ' 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
 
 IN THE SUMME:p-HOUSE. 119 
 
 this moment to be in immediate want of a very large sum of 
 ready money. I call on Battishill to refund what be 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 1 ' 
 
 'Can't help that, lieutenant, I want money. You saw 
 Hweet Sampy and me engaged on some ])lans 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 
 Coimtesses 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 impei"ti- 
 nence here. Manners before ladies of the tip-top aristocracy, 
 please. What do you say, sir, about the proposal of the 
 Countess 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 Tram pleasure 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.' 
 
 ' I have no further right to interfere,' said Herring, with 
 diflBculty retaining his composure, * than as spokesman for the 
 Countess, who has empowered me to act in her name. Have I 
 your authority for what I say and do, Countess 1 ' He turned 
 to Mirelle. 
 
 ' My full authority,' she answered. ' I have requested you 
 to speak my wishes in this matter to Mr. Trampleasure. As 
 for his son, I must request him to efface himself, and not to 
 trouble his head with my affairs.' 
 
 ' Go, Sampy,' said his father. * Good angels attend you.* 
 The young man withdrew sullenly. ' Now then. Lieutenant 
 Herring, I am at your service.' 
 
 ' The Countess wishes that her money, left in your hands as 
 trustee, may be invested in the mortgages on the West Wyke
 
 120 JOHN HERRl^a. 
 
 estate. These mortgages you liold. Five thousand pounds 
 axe owing to you, and you are in immediate need of the money. 
 Take five thousand of her money, and transfer to her the 
 claims on West Wyke.' 
 
 ' Oh, ah ! When is she likely to get her interest 1 You had 
 to help the Squire out of one hobble, and he will be dropping 
 into another shortly.' 
 
 * I can answer for it that the interest will be paid punc- 
 tually and in full.' 
 
 ' I don't approve of the investment. I don't regard it as 
 Bound.' 
 
 ' I wish it,' said Mirelle, 
 
 * My dear pet and pearl of the aristocracy,' said the old man, 
 * I am solely responsible for what is done with the money. I 
 must look after your interest in the matter. Why, if I 
 yielded to your request, you would get only four and a half 
 for your money, and I can assure you of seven.' 
 
 ' She would prefer the smaller sum on this security than 
 the larger on one more risky.' 
 
 ' Risky, risky ! what? — Ophir a risk ! My dear Herring, 
 I know better than you where security lies. The young 
 lady's money will be invested in a gold mine — in the gold of 
 Ophir ! I said seven per cent., but I am sanguine of a rise to ten, 
 fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. What do you think of that, eh 1 ' 
 
 ' Mr. Trampleasure,' said Mirelle, ' if I have any voice in 
 this matter ' 
 
 ' You have none — none whatever.' 
 
 * And if I particularly entreat you not to run risks with my 
 money in gold or other mines, but to dispose of it for the relief 
 of the Battishills ' 
 
 ' Then I shall turn a deaf ear to you. I am responsible to 
 no one. Your father has left me supreme judge in the matter, 
 and I shall act as my own conscience and your interest direct.' 
 
 * Surely, Mr. Trampleasure ' 
 
 * Surely you cry to a stone wall. I shall discharge the 
 obligation your father laid on me with strict fitlelity. I am a 
 man of wide experience, and I venture to think that Mr. 
 Herring's knowledge of money investments is recent and 
 partial. I object to his interference, and, but for the respect I 
 owe to the memory of his father, Jago Herring, I should 
 resent it.' 
 
 * I have no right, I admit,' said HeiTing, * other than that 
 I derive from an interest in the welfare of both the Countess
 
 IN THE SUMMER 'HOUSK. 121 
 
 and the Battishills, and from the request she has made me to 
 speak in her name and make a proposal which will benefit 
 both parties.' 
 
 * I refuse what is offered,' said Tramplara, his natural inso- 
 lence breaking thi-ough the varnish of politeness he had as- 
 sumed. ' I refuse to be dictated to ; and I shall act as I choose 
 with both missie's money and with that owl of a Squire.' 
 
 ' One moment,' said Herring, whose cheek was flushed with 
 anger. * I ask one question of the Countess. Is it still your 
 wish that the Battishills be saved from ruin 1 ' 
 
 ' Certainly I wish it.' 
 
 * Allow me to ask further, supposing the means of relieving 
 them were at your disposal, would you act in the way I have 
 suggested 1 That is, supposing you had money independent of 
 Mr. Trampleasure, would you invest it in the West Wyke 
 mortgages ? ' 
 
 ' I would do so.' 
 
 * You are quite sure of your own mind 1 ' 
 
 * I do not speak without meaning what I say.' 
 
 * Then, Mr. Trampleasure, you shall not lay a finger on the 
 estate. It is safe. The money shall be forthcoming on the 
 day you name to receive it.' 
 
 ' Are you going to find it 1 ' 
 
 * That in no way concerns you.' 
 
 * If you are, you are softer than I supposed.' 
 ' The money will be ready for you.' 
 
 Mu'elle rose, and, stepping up to Herring, held out her 
 hand. There was more feeling in her voice and warmth in 
 her hand than before. 
 
 * I thank you, Mr. Herring. I am not ungrateful.' 
 
 * What for 1 ' asked Tramplara, rudely. 
 
 * For crossing your plans,' she said, and turned to look out 
 of the window at the view. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 SALTING A M!\E. 
 
 Tramplara paid several visits to Upavor witliout calling at 
 West Wyke, sometimes alone and sometimes abng with his 
 Bon. He did more than visit Upaver ; he got some men to 
 bi-eak ground there and begin a mine, without asking permis-
 
 122 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 sion of the landlord, Mr. Battishill, or letting him know what 
 he was about. The farmer who rented Upaver held his 
 tongue. 
 
 One day, however, old Tramplara came to West Wyko 
 House, along with a person whose looks betrayed what he 
 was — a dissenting minister; in fact, the Reverend Israel 
 Flamank. 
 
 Mr. Battishill was by no means pleased to receive Tram- 
 plara. A mouse is not elated at the sight of the cat, 
 
 Nothing, however, could be more friendly than the manner 
 of Tramplara. He was gushing and jovial. He presented his 
 friend Mr. Flamank, under whom, he said, to his soul's welfare 
 he had sat, one whom he should always regard as, under Provi- 
 dence, the man who had brought him to realise the great value 
 of eternity and the infinite nothingness of to-day. Then fol- 
 lowed a great deal of this sort of unctuous flattery, ' laid on 
 with a trowel ' and sticking wherever applied. Mr. Battishill 
 looked on with amused surprise to see how readily Mr. Flamank 
 accepted the splashes, coarse and thick as they were. 
 
 Then Tramplara addressed himself directly to the Squire. 
 
 * You must allow me, Battishill, to shake your hand once 
 more; you must indeed. My friend and shepherd, Flamank, 
 has made a discovery — a discovery of such moment that I 
 doubt not it will astonish you. That it will please you, I do 
 not doubt either. Flamank is a divine who has made prophecy 
 his special study, and his knowledge of Bible history and 
 geography is simply surprising. By the way, before I tell you 
 what his find is, will you let me know whether you really 
 propose to pay me back in full what I advanced some years 
 ago ? ' 
 
 *I shall not be able to do so,* answered Mr. Battishill, 
 * but a friend has ofiered to find the money, and to relieve you 
 of the mortgages.' 
 
 * You mean young Herring.* 
 Mr. Battishill nodded. 
 
 ' But where the devil ' — Mr. Flamank started and looked 
 remonstratingly at Ti'amplara — ' where in Deuteronomy — I 
 Baid Deuteronomy, — he can have come upon the money, I can't 
 think. I did know something about old Jago Herring, his 
 father, and I thought he had been a plate licked pretty clean. 
 I did not suppose there was much fat left sticking. But I dare 
 say the old woman had money.' 
 
 * What old woman 1 '
 
 SALTING A MINE. 123 
 
 'Mrs. Jago Herring, the lieutenant's mother. And as 
 there was no daughter, her money naturally came to him. It 
 is possible that is how he must have come by it. Where is he 
 now?' 
 
 * In London, I believe. He left a week or two ago.' 
 
 * I may take it for granted, I suppose, that the money will 
 be forthcoming 1 ' asked JMr. Trampleasure. 
 
 * I do not doubt it. Mr. Herring is a man of his word,' 
 answered the old Squire. 
 
 * I congratulate you, Battishill.' Mr. Battishill winced 
 each time he was addressed with familiarity. ' I congratulate 
 you. It would have gone hard with me to sell you up. I 
 A\'Ould not have done it unless forced to do so. What drove 
 me to threaten was need of money, and the occasion of needing 
 it I leave to my reverend friend here to unfold. Whether 1 
 am wise in trusting him, I cannot say. But what is a pastor 
 for but to lead 1 But I must open the case, he is too modest to 
 tell the tale, as it redounds to his honour and is a brilliant 
 example of sagacity. I must tell you, Battishill, that I have 
 been privileged to attend his Bible lectures, and he has deeply 
 impressed me with the greatness and commercial enterprise of 
 the Philistines.' 
 
 * Phoenicians, of course,' said Flamank. 
 
 * Phoenicians, of course — you see. Squire, I'm not well np in 
 the story. I follow my guide, but all this lore is puzzling to 
 me. Well, you know the Phcenicians came to Cornwall to fetch 
 tin and gold, and that Solomon's servants came along with the 
 servants of Hiram for the purpose, and they brought the tin and 
 the gold to Jerusalem for the temple.' 
 
 'Mr. Battishill must have heard of the Phoenicians,' said 
 Mr. Flamank, now on his particular ground, and able to trot. 
 'From them we derive clotted cream. It is a singular and 
 significant fact that clotted cream is made nowhere in the world 
 except in Devon, Cornwall, and Phoenicia. That is a well-esta- 
 blished fact, and it speaks volumes in favour of an early inter- 
 course between the Cassiterides and the natives of Tyre and 
 Sidon. The Cassiterides have been for some time identified in 
 the minds of antiquaries with Devon and Cornwall. The only 
 difficulty in the way is this. The Cassiterides are described by 
 the ancient geographers as islands. But the difficulty vanishes 
 when closely considered. The Pha3nicians ascended Brown 
 Willy and Cosdon, and from these heights saw the sea on both 
 sides, and, not supposing they were in an isthmus, they hastily
 
 124 JOHN HEERTNG. 
 
 and incorrectly concluded ttey were in an island. But tlie fact 
 of clotted cream being found only in Phoenicia and the West of 
 England is, to my mind, absolutely conclusive. A point not 
 considered by antiquaries has arrested my attention. The point 
 is, that the Jews came with the Phoenicians, and that they 
 actually formed permanent settlements in our West Country.' 
 
 ' Jews, Jews ! ' put in Tramplai-a : * they would go after tin 
 anywhere.' 
 
 ' Look at Marazion,' continued Mr. Flamank ; ' the Bitter 
 Waters of Ziou. The place bears the stamp of its origin in its 
 name. There is Port Isaac, also, no doubt named after the 
 patriarch, and Jacobstow, and, touching memorial, Davidstow, 
 BO called after the sweet psalmist by the servants of his son 
 Solomon. There is a hamlet of Herodsfoot, and a village of 
 Issey^ that is, Isaiah, and St. Sampson, after the strongest of 
 men. Still more remarkable is the fact of the Israelitish 
 colonists founding a parish which they called Temple, because 
 they were at the time engaged on building that wondrous 
 structure in Jerusalem, lledruth deiives its name from the 
 ancestress of David, and we still speak of sending persons to 
 Jericho, which is a farm not far distant from Launceston. A 
 careful study of the Scriptures led me some time ago to this 
 conclusion, that what the profane writers call the Cassiteridea 
 are, in the sacred page, called Ophir.' 
 
 ' Ophir — " over the sea and far away ! " You recall the 
 text, Squire,' inteijected Tramplara. 
 
 ' Our friend's familiarity with the Scriptures is late, an*l not 
 as accurate as might be desired,' apologised Mr. Flamank, with 
 a look of pity cast at Tramplara. ' Suffice it that, led by a 
 delicate chain of evidence as clear and unmistakable as that of 
 clotted cream, I was led to seek Ophir in these western counties. 
 You will recall that the inspired penman lays down the situa- 
 tion of Ophir with great nicety. It lies between Mesha and 
 Sephar. Now Mesha is undeniably Meshaw in North Devon, 
 and Sephar is Sheepstor in South Devon. Draw a line between 
 Meshaw and Sheepstor, and it passes over Cosdon. 
 
 ' Why, bless my heart,' exclaimed Mr. Battishill, * you are 
 not going to find Ophir here ! ' 
 
 ' We have found it,' said the dissenting minister, gleefully. 
 ' The identification is complete. Do you happen to see my 
 " Western Cornucophir " ? ' 
 
 * Cornucophir, what is that ? ' 
 
 * My paper — a monthly originally entitled the Cornucopia,
 
 SALTING A MINE. 125 
 
 because of the abundance of good things it contained. When 
 this surprising discovery dawned on me, I changed the name to 
 Cornucophir — Cornu. for Cornubia, Cornwall, and Ophir, for 
 the Land of Gold. The combination is happy.' 
 
 * But you are looking for Ophir in Devon, not in Cornwall.' 
 ' Devon was included in Cornwall till the time of Athelstan, 
 
 who drove the Britons back over the Tamar, and restricted them 
 to Cornwall. Tamar ' — Mr Flamank paused and rubbed his 
 hands — * there again, the river called after the daughter of 
 David and twin sister of Absalom. Having arrived at this 
 remai'kable discovery by an exhaustive process and iiTefragable 
 evidence, in which every step is capable of being demonstrated 
 with mathematical certainty to Christian believers, I begged 
 
 Mr. Trampleasure, who' has wide experience in mines ' 
 
 'Polpluggan,' groaned Mr. Battishill. 
 
 * As in Polpluggan, as you rightly observe, to examine the 
 line between Meshaw and that mountain in the east, Sheepstor. 
 Mr. Trampleasure is not as sanguine in this matter as I am. 
 He is hard to be convinced even now; I am not sure that his 
 faith is firm. Whilst we were discussing the nature of the land 
 between Meshaw and Sheepstor — he resolutely refused to 
 explore the red sandstone and clay land, maintaining that gold 
 is never found except in the proximity of granite — he told me 
 of a farm of yours called Ophir.' 
 
 * Ophir ! ' exclaimed the old gentleman ; * I have no such 
 farm,' 
 
 * Excuse me,' said Mr, Flamank ; ' you have, and I have been 
 over it myself, exploring the ground for gold.' 
 
 * I believe you call the place Upaver,' said Tramplara, with 
 a twinkle in his eye, which watched the Squire intently. 
 
 'Upaver! You have not been hunting up my silver lead 
 mine, have you 1 ' 
 
 * Silver lead, no ! ' answered the pastor ; ' we have been 
 hunting for gold.' 
 
 ' But this is stark nonsense,' exclaimed Mr. Battishill ; ' the 
 place never was called Ophir. It is, and always has been, 
 Upaver.' 
 
 ' Upaver and Ophir are all the same, just as Sheepstor is the 
 same as Sephar. I asked the farmer the name of the place, and 
 without hesitation he said that he minded in old times it waa 
 called Ophir, but that the maps spell it with an U.' 
 
 ' He has not been fifteen years on the farm, and I have been 
 here seventy,'
 
 126 JOHN iiEiiiiiiNa. 
 
 * He lias beard from the oldest inhabitant.' 
 
 * I am the oldest inhabitant/ protested Mr. Battishill. * 1 
 can show you, moreover, leases of a hundred and two hundred 
 years ago, in which it is called Upaver.' 
 
 * The leases were drawn up by lawyers ignorant of the pro- 
 nunciation of the name. What the fixrmer told me was con- 
 firmed by another man, an old wild-looking creature, almost a 
 savage. He also said the place was called Ophir, and he 
 clenched his statement with a dreadful imprecation on all those 
 who called it otherwise. What is more, he showed me a silver 
 coin he had found, and I bought it of him for five shillings. If 
 you will examine it, you will see Hebrew characters on it. I 
 have seen this coin figured in Commentaries on the Bible ; on 
 the obverse a vase, the pot of manna, I presume, on the reverse 
 a flower, Aaron's blooming rod. It is a shekel. Now I ask 
 you, how came a shekel to be found at Ophii- unless the 
 Israelites had been there to drop it 1 ' 
 
 Mr. Battishill took the coin, and turned it over in his 
 hand. He was puzzled. 
 
 ' That man you describe is old Grizzly Cobbledick, who 
 lives under the Giant's Table.' 
 
 'I have seen the Giant's Table. It is an Israelitish 
 monument, a Gilgal. There are many such in Cornwall, as 
 well as upright stones — the same that Jacob set up and 
 anointed with oil.' 
 
 ' There are plenty of these upright stones on Dartmoor,' 
 said Mr. Battishill. * On the side of Belstone Tor is a circle 
 called the Nine Maidens. The story goes that they were 
 damsels so fond of dancing that they would not desist on the 
 Sunday, and in consequence were turned to stone. And it is 
 said that even now on Sunday at noon the stones come to life 
 and dance thrice round in a circle.' 
 
 * I must make a note of this for my article in the " Western 
 Cornucophir." I pray you to observe the continuance of 
 Sabbatical ideas, an evidence of Jewish teaching ; and of the 
 resistance to it on Belston Tor, a mountain dedicated to Bel or 
 Baal, the Sun God of the Phoenicians.' 
 
 ' But you are holding back from Mr. Battishill the most 
 important discovery of all,' said Tramplara, who saw that the 
 old gentleman was not much impressed by the biblical and 
 antiquarian theories of his visitor. 
 
 * At my request, and against his own convictions,' 
 continued Mr. Flamank, * my good friend Trampleasure
 
 SALTIKG A MINT^. Ii7 
 
 Bearched Opliir for gold. A more qualified person could 
 not have been found, for he is thoroughly conversant with 
 the metals and their ores. He brought me one day somo 
 Band, granite washings, with grains in it that certainly 
 looked like gold. We tested them with nitric acid, and, sure 
 enough, they proved to be gold. I had no rest in my mind till 
 I had persuaded Mr. Trampleasure to accompany me to 
 Ophir, and to assist me in the examination of the place. Ho 
 conducted me to the spot where he had found the gravel, and 
 there we searched and I found this.' 
 
 He held out some shining yellow cubes. 
 
 ' That is mundic,' said Mr. Battishill ; ' it looks like gold, 
 but is worthless.' 
 
 * So Mr. Trampleasure said. He laughed at me for my 
 mundic find, but I could hardly be convinced that it was not 
 gold. However, later, I found these grains. Here they are in 
 my kerchief, with the quartz and mica as I took them up. I 
 did not find much, but still, enough to show that the metal is 
 present.' 
 
 He spread out his handkerchief on the table. In the midst 
 of the coarse white gravel were certain yellow granules that 
 looked like gold. 
 
 ' You found this in IJpaver valley ? ' asked Mr. Battishill, 
 in great surprise. 
 
 ' Yes, I was more successful than Trampleasure. But 
 then I worked in faith, and he was dubious, so I dare say 
 looked with less eagerness.' 
 
 * This is very extraordinary,' said the old gentleman. ' I 
 never suspected the existence of gold on my property.' 
 
 ' Why not ^ ' asked Trampleasure. ' Gold is always found 
 in connection with granite.' 
 
 ' That is true ; but none has been found hitherto in 
 Devon.' 
 
 * And yet the whole valley has been streamed by miners in 
 olden times. Their mounds of refuse are traceable all the way 
 to the source of the stream. No gold has been sought 
 because none was expected to be found. The Bible has led me, 
 by a course of inductive evidence, to the identical spot whence 
 came the gold that overlaid the temple, and that made the 
 sliields with which Solomon adorned the walls of his palace.' 
 
 ' Whence that gold was got, more gold must be obtainable,' 
 put in Tramplara; ' especially with our modern appliances.' 
 
 * It is most amazinw,' said Mr. Battishill. * Bless me ! I
 
 128 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 wish I were well enough to get out ; but I am stricken, and 
 can only creep about with the aid of a stick. I should like 
 myself to examine the place where you say you found the 
 gold.' 
 
 ' Surely you cannot doubt my word,' said Mr. Flamank. 
 * I can give you the best possible proof of my sincerity. 1 am 
 ready to embark my little savings to the last penny in the 
 mines of Ophir, if you will consent to their being worked.' 
 
 ' I have no objection whatever, so long as I am not asked 
 to risk any money in them myself.' 
 
 * Look you here, Squire,' said Tramplara ; * let us strike 
 whilst the iron is hot. I am as anxious as the Reverend 
 Flamank about Ophir. You can lose nothing, and may make 
 a pot of money. I have brought with me a lease ; read it. I 
 will pay you a yearly rental of a hundred pounds, and you 
 shall have the usual royalties on the gold raised. Then I will 
 undertake to form a company to vrork the mines of Ophir. 
 Not one penny can you lose by it. If you choose to take 
 shares you may run some risk, not otherwise. If the mine 
 proves a success, your fortune will be made, and so will mine, 
 and those other lucky devils •' 
 
 ' Lucky what ? ' inquired the startled pastor. 
 
 * Lucky devotees, I said. I said devotees distinctly. 
 Those lucky devotees who took shares in Ophir. " Out of the 
 hills ye shall dig brass," said the great lawgiver, and his pro- 
 phecy wdll be fulfilled, for brass in colloquial English means 
 money.' 
 
 Tramplara took a lease out of his pocket and opened it 
 before Mr. Battishill. 
 
 ' Read it — nothing can be fairer.' 
 
 * Father,' said Cicely, who had come in, ' please do nothing 
 till Mr. Herring returns. Take his advice before signing any 
 document.' 
 
 * Nonsense, my dear ; I can lose nothing. I shall not take 
 a share, and I may gain thousands of pounds.' 
 
 * If you will work the mine yourself, do so,' said Tram- 
 plara ; ' if not, let us work it. The religious public is already 
 screwed up to a pitch of screaming excitement. The " Western 
 Cornucopia " — ■ — ' 
 
 ' Cornucophir," ' corrected the pastor. ' Besides, I object 
 to the term screaming excitement.' 
 
 ' It is allegorical and Oriental — Phoenician, in fact,' ex- 
 plained Tramplara^ * The " Cornucophir " has been leading
 
 SALTI.sa A MIKH 129 
 
 them on ■week by week, expecting the disco veiy of Oi^hir. Nonv 
 all is ready for the annoiincement that it has been found, and 
 with that announcement we must publish the prospectus of the 
 Ophir Gold Mining Company. If you do not accept my 
 terms, all I can say is, the place will be invaded by religious 
 gold-diggers, who will turn everything topsy-turvy and carry 
 off every particle of gold they find without giving you any 
 share in their spoil.' 
 
 *I will sign the lease; it is only for a year,' said Mr. 
 Battishill, eagerly ; * but I can take no shares, I have not the 
 money.' 
 
 * I will take as many as I can,' said the minister. ' Ophir 
 must succeed.' 
 
 * Now then ! ' shouted Tramplara, waving the lease over his 
 head. * Now for the run of gold. Blow the trumpet in Zion ; 
 call the solemn assembly of sharetakers together. I shall be 
 ready for them with my crushing machines. Hoorah for the 
 gold of Ophir, and the fortunes that will be made out of it ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 TWO STRINGS TO ONE BOW. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel had the good luck to find Mirelle alone in 
 the garden house, engaged on her flowers. She had not been 
 taught to do useful work. She cut out lace patterns in paper, 
 and made imitation flowers. She could play and sing, but there 
 was no piano in the garden house, and she spent most of her 
 time there, so as to be away from the rooms frequented by 
 Trampleasure senior and junior. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel was playing his cards very carefully. He 
 did not intend to be off" altogether with the old love till he was 
 quite sure that it was to his pecuniary advantage to be on with 
 the new. He was curious to know in what Mirelle's money had 
 been invested. This was not easy for him to find out. He 
 could not inquire of old Tramplara. 
 
 After turning the matter over in his head, the Captain 
 resolved on trying to ascertain what he desired to know through 
 Mirelle herself, who was too simple to suspect his purpose. 
 
 He took a seat by her in the window. She smiled at him, 
 and made room beside her. 
 
 * I have been thinking a gi'eat deal about you, Mirelle,' said 
 
 K
 
 130 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 he. He had slipped into calling her by her Christian name, 
 and she did not resent it. * And the more I think of you, the 
 more I pity you. Your poor dear father made a sore mistake in 
 confiding you to the care of these Trampleasures.' 
 
 ' They were his relations,' she said. 
 
 ' True ; but then you are so utterly out of place among 
 them. You are unable to sympathise with them ' 
 
 * Fortunately.' 
 
 * Foitunately, indeed, or you would not be charming. A 
 grievous error has been committed, I may even say that a great 
 wrong has been done you, unintentionally, and the consequence 
 is that you sufier. I see it in your face.' 
 
 'Ca])tain Trecarrel,' said Mirelle, * I once thought to myself, 
 suppose Heaven were to rob me of all means, and I were obliged 
 to be a servant maid in the kitchen, then I thought how utterly 
 unable I should be to live in such a place, not because it Avas a 
 kitchen, but because of those I should have to associate with. 
 I and they would have no interests, no pursuits, no ambitions, 
 hardly a thought in common. To all intents I might as well 
 live in a stable with horses, or in a fowlhouse surrounded by 
 cackling pullets. I should not mind in the least shelling peas, 
 for I could think my own thoughts whilst so engaged ; but to 
 be encompassed with others who think no thoughts, who have 
 no ideas worth uttering, who live as to their outsides,and have 
 no inner life, that would be unendurable. I find myself now in 
 such a situation. The Tramjileasures and I do not see the same 
 sights nor hear the same sounds. "We have not even the sense 
 of smell in common, for Mr. Tramplara and young Sampson 
 like to snifi" brandy and puff bad tobacco, and I am convinced 
 that Orange and her mother do not dislike these, to me, 
 intoleiable odours. In the garden is a sweet rose and a bed of 
 mignonette. I have not once seen a Ti^ampleasure apply his 
 nose to a flower. We have the same organic structure, and are 
 classed together in natural history as belonging to the same 
 genus, but there the similarity ends. The likeness is superficial, 
 the dissimilarity is radical. The likeness is physical, the dis- 
 similarity psychical. The Trampleasures are animals made in 
 the likeness of man. I am human, made in the likeness of God. 
 I can see what is beautiful in nature and art. I can feel music 
 in my soul, I have aspirations beyond making money and 
 getting married. I have interests beyond the claque of Laun- 
 ceston gossip. But these Trampleasvires have no sense of beauty, 
 no poetical instinct, no spiritual aspirations. Orange is the best
 
 TWO STRINGS TO ONE BOW. 131 
 
 of them, but in her I only think I perceive a soul, I am not sui'O 
 that it exists. God took some of the beasts he had made and 
 bade them stand up on their hind legs, that they might look at 
 heaven instead of contemplating earth. But their souls did 
 not stand up also. The result was the ape. There are men, 
 likewise, not superior. They walk on two feet, but their soula 
 run on all fours.' 
 
 ' Poor Mirelle ! ' said Trecai^rel, looking tenderly at her out 
 of the Trecarrel blue eyes. * Yours is a cruel fate.' 
 
 * Yes, it is cruel, and, but for this summer-house where I 
 can be alone, would be insupportable. Life to these Tram- 
 pleasures, and people cast in their mould, is a harpsichord on 
 which they drone a strain void of invention, freshness, and 
 thought. When you have heard then- performance — it is the 
 song of life — you are aware that you have listened to a succession 
 of notes unworthy of being termed a melody, in chords unde- 
 serving of being designated harmony. When one with higher 
 thoughts sits down to the same instrument and plays a piece 
 like a sonata of Beethoven, they yawn and say, " Let us have 
 something out of the Beggars' Opera ! " ' 
 
 Little did Mirelle guess how mean and commonplace wag 
 the barrel-organ tune that Captain Trecarrel cared to play on 
 his harpsichord of life. Because he was a gentleman by birth, 
 and a Catholic in faith, she supposed that he stood, like Saul, 
 a head and shoulders higher than the vulgar beings that sur- 
 rounded him and her. We shall see, in the sequel, how egre- 
 giously Micelle was mistaken. 
 
 ' Is there no escape for you 1 ' asked the Captain. 
 
 ' I see none. I should like to return to Paris, to the convent 
 where 1 was reared, but Mr. Trampleasure will not hear of it. 
 I shoviid be quite content to be a nun.' 
 
 * A nun ! ' exclaimed Trecarrel. ' Oh no, no ! dear Mirelle, 
 that must not be. With your gifts of mind and soul and 
 person, you are suited to live and shine in the world.' 
 
 ' In what world ? This mean, dull English world ? * 
 
 * Your place is here. Your heart has not yet spoken. You 
 are still young. Some day you will make a good man happy, 
 and you will find your proper sphere of usefulness, with a con- 
 genial spirit at your side, not in shelling peas, but in spreading 
 enlightenment among the dark and erring souls around you.' 
 His voice shook. He took her hand, and he felt it tremble in 
 his. 
 
 S 2
 
 l32 JOHN HEERING. 
 
 ' Eo, Mirelle, you were not born to wither In a convent 
 unloved and unloving, Excuse me if I give you my opinion 
 with great plainness. You are here without a guide. Theso 
 Tramplaras cannot advise you, because they cannot understand 
 your position. Trust me as a brother. Let us regard each 
 other in the affectionate and familiar light of brother and 
 Bister— that is our relationship in the faith. Allow me to 
 counsel you. My heart aches when I think of your loneliness. 
 I place myself at your disposal : trust me, and suffer me to be 
 your adviser.' He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it 
 fervently. The little hand shrank back, and when he looked 
 up he saw alarm in her dark eyes. 
 
 ' A brotherly kiss,' he said, reassuringly, 'the seal of our 
 bond, nothing more. Shall it be so ? ' 
 
 * The seal will not need renewal,' she answered. 
 
 He saw that her eyes were filling. He knew that she 
 liked him ; he was doing his best to make her love him. It would 
 be easy for him to advance from brotherly to loverlike affection, 
 and it was quite possible to remain stationary on fraternal re- 
 gard. This he thought to himself, and he said in his own soul, 
 'Bravo, Trecarrel ! you have not compromised yourself by a word.' 
 
 ' And now, dear sister Mirelle,' he said, with his sweetest 
 Bmile, ' the thing I desii-e to know is. What has become of 
 your father's money 1 ' 
 
 She was surprised. He saw it; but he went on quietly, 
 ' You see in what a brotherly and practical spirit I approach 
 your affairs. I want to know exactly how you stand, for — 
 between four eyes be it spoken — I am not satisfied that a 
 certain whitehaired person who shall be nameless is the most 
 prudent man to be entrusted with money. He sank a large 
 Bum in Patagonians which might just as well have been sunk 
 in Oranmere pool. If he made a fool of himself with his own 
 money, he may play the fool also with yours. For how long 
 is he your trustee "i ' 
 
 ' For five years, I am eighteen, and I do not come of age 
 till I am twenty-three.' 
 
 * Unless you marry.' Trecarrel sighed, and looked hard at 
 the distant peaks of Dartmoor. 
 
 ' I do not think there is anything about my marriage in the 
 will, which I have ready and I know the contents. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said the Captain, and his mouth went down at the 
 corners. ' You do not come into possession at marriage.' 
 
 *1 believe not — not till I am three-and-twenty.'
 
 TWO STEINGS TO ONE BOW. 133 
 
 The Captain released the tips of Mii'elle's fingers which he 
 had seized when he put the question. 
 
 ' Then Tramplara has the entire and uncontrolled disposal 
 of the money for five years, and if you were to marry now you 
 would still have to wait five years till you got it — if you got it, 
 in the end, at all.' 
 
 ' I suppose so.' 
 
 * Do you happen to know what the old fellow has invested 
 your money in ? I ask as a friend, because I wish to protect 
 your interests, and to advise you what you should do.' 
 
 * I have already had an adviser here — Mr. HeiTing : he 
 was anxious about the money.' 
 
 * He was, was he 1 ' Captain Trecarrel drew nearer, with 
 revived interest, and again attempted to possess himself of the 
 hand, but failed. 
 
 * Yes, he appeared very anxious.' 
 
 * On what grounds ? What possible right had he to inquii'e 
 about it r 
 
 * He expressed friendly regard for me.' 
 
 * A sort of brotherly interest 1 ' inquired the Captain. 
 
 * No,' answered Mirelle, curtly, and drew herself up. The 
 Captain looked hard at her. 
 
 ' Have you given him any encouragement 1 Have you 
 allowed him any right to interfere ] ' 
 
 Mirelle's cheek coloured, and a haughty flash came into her 
 eye. 
 
 * Captain Trecarrel, I do not comprehend you.' 
 
 * My dear Mirelle,' he said in a gentle, soothing tone, ' do 
 not misunderstand me. What I mean is harmless enough not 
 to ofiend you. Did you ask his advice, and in your first loneli- 
 ness give him such occasion as to suppose that he was neces- 
 sary, that as a pert and pushing cock-sparrow he has hopped in 
 where not wanted, since you have come under the protection of 
 others 1 ' 
 
 'No,' answered Mirelle, *I have always kept him at a 
 distance. When he has volunteered help it has been declined. 
 He came here about the money not for my sake only, but for 
 the sake of some friends whom he wanted to assist out of a 
 difficulty.' 
 
 * Oh ! he wanted to help friends to your money ! How dis- 
 interested and how benevolent ! ' 
 
 * He wished to have my money invested in mortgages on 
 the estate of West Wyke.'
 
 134 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 * What did Mr. Tram pleasure say to that ?' 
 
 ' He absolutely refused. He said he had a better invest- 
 ment in view, one that would render double.' 
 ' What was that ? — not Patagonia ] ' 
 'No; Ophir.' 
 « What ! The gold mines of Ophir ? ' 
 
 * Yes, my money is to be put into that.* 
 
 Captain Trecarrel vented a low whistle, and stood up 
 quickly. ' Dear Countess, always command my services — as a 
 friend,' he said. ' Excuse my flight, I must have a word with 
 Tramplara at once.' 
 
 He hurried from the summer-house, and entered the front 
 door of Dolbeare. He was so often there that he no longer 
 went through the formality of ringing. It was Liberty Hall, 
 as Tramplara assured all his friends. 
 
 He tapped at the dining-room door and went in. 
 
 There he found Mr. Tramplara smoking and working at 
 accounts. Orange sat near the window ; she had been speak- 
 ing with her father, and had been crying. Both father and 
 daughter rose hastily as the Captain came in, and Trecarrel had 
 sufficient penetration to see that he had been their topic. 
 
 * Halloo, Captain ! ' exclaimed the old man, turning almost 
 purple. ' Talk of the — hum, and he is sure to appear, as the 
 psalmist says. The very man I wanted to see. How are 
 you?' 
 
 Orange slipped out of the room. 
 
 * Sit down. Captain, and let us have a talk. Fact is, I 
 want particularly to have a bone picked with you. There is 
 Orange, poor girl, wasting to a shadow. You are not dealing 
 fairly by her ; you are engaged, and yet you won't come to the 
 scratch. She says you are tateytating with the other party on 
 the trotters, as Mirelle calls the pavement, and give Orange the 
 gutter to walk in. That won't do.' 
 
 * You entirely mistake me,' said Trecarrel, his blue eye 
 becoming cold ; he drew himself up, and began to point his 
 moustache, whilst he looked Trampleasure over contemptuously. 
 * Do you dare to insinuate that I — a gentleman, a Trecarrel — am 
 behaving otherwise than honourably 1 I love your daughter 
 as much as I loved her at first; but you and I are men 
 of the world, and we both know that love and onions are 
 poor commodities on which to keep house. You are well 
 aware what my circumstances are, for I have concealed 
 nothing from you; and you must therefore know that I
 
 TWO STRINGS TO ONE BOW. 135 
 
 cannot, as a gentleman and a man of honour, invite a 
 lady to share my future with me unless she be prepared 
 to provide pepper and salt with which to season the 
 onions.' 
 
 * I know that. Orange is not penniless.' 
 
 *No, but Piitagonian bonds are not nourishing, Mr. 
 Trampleasure.' 
 
 * Who said that Orange would bring nothing else with 
 herr 
 
 * You offered me five thousand pounds with her in securities 
 which are worthless.' 
 
 ' I offered you those bonds before I knew they would 
 depreciate so greatly. They may recover any day.' 
 
 ' I incline to wait for that day before setting up house with 
 Miss Orange.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, Trecarrel. If you won't take these bonds, you 
 shall have some sounder stuff. I am a man of my word. I 
 said I would give Orange five thousand pounds, and five 
 thousand she shall have, the day she is married.' 
 
 * In bonds 1 ' 
 
 * In shares, if you like, in one of the most promising of all 
 ventures.' 
 
 * In Ophir — no, thank you.' 
 
 'You are a fool to refuse them. Why, man! have you 
 read the ** Cornucopia " 1 Have you seen the prospectus of tho 
 company 1 ' 
 
 ' Mr. Trampleasure, I will have no paper at all. Give me 
 with Orange the sum of five thousand down, and insure me five 
 thousand more when you are dead, and I will ask her to name 
 the day.' 
 
 ' You are mercenary.' 
 
 * I am practical. You know that Trecarrel will support a 
 bachelor — that is, keep him in mutton chops and fried potatoes, 
 and a new coat twice a year. I will give yoa a sample of my 
 penury. Whenever I have apple-tart for dinner, I think twice 
 before I indulge myself with clotted cream over it. My cir- 
 cumstances will not allow me to support a wife and family. I 
 am bound to look ahead, and to consider my wife's interest as 
 well as my own. I cannot offer her the humiliations of 
 poverty.' 
 
 * Well, well,' said Tramplara, ' you shall have the money 
 down.' 
 
 * Your word ? *
 
 13G JOHN HERElNa. 
 
 Tramplara held out lain hand, ' I give it you.* 
 
 * I should prefer it in black and white,' said the Captain. 
 
 * You shall have it in yellow and white,' said the old man. 
 * And now in return you shall grant me a favour — your name 
 OS a director of the Ophir Gold Mining Company.' 
 
 * My name is Trecarrel,' answered the Captain, freezingly. 
 
 * I know that well enough — that is why I want it.' 
 
 * And that is precisely why you shall not have it.* 
 ' You refuse me this favour i ' 
 
 * Emphatically. I do not believe in Ophir.' 
 
 The old man drummed with his fingers on the table, and 
 raised his eyes furtively to the Captain, met his cold, supercilious 
 stare, and dropped them again. 
 
 ' Well ! go into the drawing-room, and patch up the rent 
 with Orange.' 
 
 Then, when the Captain was gone, Tramplara laughed 
 heartily. * By Grogs ! ' he said, * who would have thought the 
 fellow so keen ? He don't look it.' 
 
 The Captain found Orange standing in the drawing-room 
 leaning against the mantelpiece, tearing a white lily that she 
 had plucked out of a vase into many pieces. Her fingers were 
 stained with the pollen. Her cheeks were flushed, and an 
 angry glitter was in her eyes, twinkling through tears of 
 mortified pride. 
 
 Trecarrel had not much difficulty in changing the expression 
 of that handsome face, and before he left the reconciliation was 
 complete, sealed with a kiss, and the day was named. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 GRINDING GOLD. 
 
 In a remarkably short space of time two ' leats,' that is, channels 
 of water, had been brought from Eayborough Pool along the 
 side of the moor to the site of the gold mine. Buildings had 
 been erected, wooden sheds run up and tarred, and a crushing 
 machine was in operation. One stream of water was conducted 
 over a wheel, and the wheel set in motion half a dozen hammers 
 that pounded the granite ; then the granite thus pounded was 
 passed under an iron roller which effectually reduced it to 
 powder. This powder was made to slide through a trough into 
 water brought by the second leat, and the water, as soon as it
 
 GRINDINU GOLD. 137 
 
 received the pounded quartz, became milky. The milky water 
 overflowed into a second tank, depositing in both much tliat 
 was held in solution, and then ran away into the river, which 
 it discoloured for some distance down. 
 
 Old Tramplara looked regretfully at the white water. If 
 Ophir had been nearer Plymouth or Exeter, he might have sold 
 it as milk. 
 
 The deposit in the tanks was subjected to a second and, 
 indeed, a third washing. It was washed and rewashed till all 
 the quartz had been carried away and nothing remained but 
 glittering gold. 
 
 The excitement created by the discovery of Ophir was pro- 
 digious. The neighbourhood came to see the works. The 
 miners extracted granite, and placed the pieces under the 
 stampers, and then transferred the gravel into which they had 
 been pounded to the roller. Anyone might watch the process. 
 Everything was above board ; there was no attempt at conceal- 
 ment. Only, no one was allowed to approach the precious de- 
 posit unattended by the overseer. Any respectable person was 
 allowed to follow the washing and drying to the final process, 
 where nothing remained but the costly yellow grains. All he 
 had to do was to write for permission to Mr. Tramplara, or to 
 send in his card at the works, and leave to go over the entire 
 mine — without any reserve — was freely accorded. The number 
 of crowns and guineas pocketed by the very respectable over- 
 looker ripened the fruits of civilisation in him. He became 
 courteous, eager to instruct, pious, and sober. Christian graces 
 grew on golden roots. There was a fixed time in the day when 
 visitors were given admission to the mine. 
 
 The limitation of time was rendered necessary by reason of 
 the crowd of visitors eager to examine the works, and the con- 
 sequent interference with the working. The regulation was 
 reasonable and unassailable. Another rule was made that no 
 one was to be allowed to go within arm's length of, nor to handle 
 the gold after final washing. The overseer, however, made 
 exceptions in favour of every respectable visitor, letting him 
 understand that the exception in his case was unique, and only 
 granted because of his — the visitor's — really extraordinary re- 
 spectability. He was allowed to gather up in his palm and 
 turn over with his finger the golden dust, and the polite and 
 pious overlooker always reaped a rich harvest from this excep- 
 tional favour. 
 
 Readers of the ' Western Cornucophir ' came from all parts
 
 138 JOHN HERKINa. 
 
 of Cornwall ; serious men, with heavy brows, big jaws, and firm 
 lipless mouths. Women also — married women, likewise serious, 
 (unmarried women, speaking broadly, are flighty,) in rich but 
 sober dresses, arrived in chaises, wearing spectacles and false 
 fronts, and having bibles in their pockets, and vinegary attend- 
 ants carrying shawls, and guardians of their virtue. There 
 were many Methodical Christian and Unmethodical Christian, 
 and Primitive Christian, and Latter Day Christian, and Univer- 
 sal Christian, and Particular Christian, and Ne-plus-ultra 
 Christian ministers, all intensely interested in Ophir, taking up 
 the matter as one of stantis vel cadentis ecclesice. These were 
 treated with exceptional courtesy at the mine, by express 
 command of Mr. Tramplara. They were shown everything. 
 They were set to work themselves in the adit. They galled 
 their soft palms in picking at the gold vein, or granite 
 supposed to contain the vein of gold. They carried the lumps 
 of their own extraction to the crusher. They watched them 
 being pounded and rolled, not turning an eye away the whole 
 time. They assisted at the washing. They picked out the gold 
 themselves from the pan, and were liberally allowed to carry 
 home with them each at least a guinea's worth of the precious 
 grains. Thereupon each became in his special circle an agent of 
 the company. And Methodical Christian, and Unmethodical 
 Christian, and Primitive Christian, and Latter Day Christian, 
 and Universal Christian, and Particular Christian, and Ne-plus- 
 ultra Christian applications for shai*es poured in by every post. 
 
 But the greatest hit of all was the solemn opening and dedi- 
 cation of Ophir. 
 
 A huge tent had been hired from Exeter, capable of seating 
 many hundred persons. Bunting in profusion, of every colour, 
 fluttered from it. Over the entrance rose a flagstaff from which 
 waved a gold-coloured banner adorned with the Seal of Solomon. 
 
 A cannon had been brought from Exeter, and it was dis- 
 charged at intervals. The Okehampton band Avas engaged, and 
 it played out of tune alternately with a military band from 
 Exeter, which played in tune, and rivalled it in the worthless- 
 ness of the music performed. 
 
 The day was magnificent. An autumn day, with a glorious 
 sun illumining the moorland rosy with blooming heather, as 
 though raspberry cream had been spilt over the hill-sides. The 
 scarlet uniforms of the band, the gay colours of the flags, the 
 white tent, the glitter of the falling water over the wheel, com- 
 bined to form a charming scene. All Okehampton, all North
 
 GRINDING GOLD. 139 
 
 and South Tawton and Chagford was there, and many also from 
 Tavistock, Laiinceston, Moreton Hampstead, and Exeter. The 
 people were scattered over the moor slopes, listening to the 
 music which was not worth listening to, in the way in which 
 English people do listen — that is, talking the whole time ; they 
 raced and rolled over on the short grass, and strewed the hill- 
 sides with sandwich papers and empty ginger-beer bottles. 
 Ginger-beer bottles ! ay, and bottles of cold tea. For Ophir wag 
 a great Temperance mine, and the dedication of Opbir a Tem- 
 pei'ance demonstration, Ri-lid-de-riddle-roll ! Who cannot 
 rollick on ginger-beer 1 Who that is by nature inane can fail to 
 make an ass of himself when out on a holiday on cold tea 1 
 
 Ophir was a great Temperance mine. All the washers wei-e 
 Bworn in as total abstainers. As was stated on the pros]>ectus, 
 the workings were to be carried on only with water. * We may 
 as well fish in two ponds, Sampy,' said old Tramplara ; ' let us 
 angle for the Temperites as well as for the Israehtes.' 
 
 Thus the dedication of Ophir was not only a grand religious 
 demonstration for all those who looked for Israel in England, 
 but also of those who have supplanted the Ten Commandments 
 by one, * Thou shalt not drink fermented liquor.' Old Tram- 
 plara was desirous to have the mines blessed by ministers of all 
 denominations — twelve, if possible, to represent the twelve 
 tribes. He had therefore applied to the bishop of the diocese, 
 and requested his presence for the opening of the proceedings. 
 L .it the bishops of the Anglican Church are not the tugs that 
 lead, but the boats that follow, popular opinion. They bless 
 nothing till authorised to do so by the daily papers, and as the 
 daily papers had not yet spoken on the subject of Ophir, the 
 bishop was in the bewildered condition of the priest of Delphi 
 when the oracle is silent. If Ophir were to prove a magnificent 
 success, he would never forgive himself for not having been at 
 the opening. If it proved a disastrous failure, he would never 
 forgive himself for not staying away. So he temporised, after 
 the manner of weak men and weak classes of men; he discovered 
 that he was due at the opening of a (barrel) organ at the Land's 
 End on that particular day, and he wrote a letter full of 
 apologies, expressive of his warmest interest in the proceedings, 
 promising his heartfelt prayers, invoking the most solemn 
 blessings on the gathering, and then ate his breakfast, devoured 
 the * Times,' and forgot everything about Ophir and the barrel 
 organ at the Land's End. 
 
 But though the bishop of the diocese was unavoidably absent,
 
 140 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 representative pastors of all the Christian denominations in the 
 West were present, and prayed and harangued to their hearts' 
 content, and ate and drank to their stomachs' content as well. 
 
 The tent was filled to overflowing. Grace was said simul- 
 taneously by twenty-nine ministers to avoid giving offence by 
 exalting one above another. A noble collation had been pro- 
 vided. Waiters dressed like clergymen attended on the guest.=!. 
 * Lemonade, sir ? ' ' Gooseberriade, ma'am ? ' as they uncoi^kcd 
 long-necked bottles with gold foil about the throats, and poured 
 the effervescing drink into champagne glasses. * Temperance 
 cake, miss 1 ' with an offer of an inviting dish of sponge-cake 
 sopped in — well, non-alcoholic brandy — and with flummery over 
 it to hide its blushes. 
 
 Reporters were present from every West of England paper 
 and several London journals as well. These gentlemen were 
 supplied freely with ' gooseberriade,' and grew cheery in spirit, 
 and red in face, and watery in eye, and uncritical in disposition 
 under its influence. They began to believe in Ophir as much 
 as a reporter can believe in anything. And when, on raising 
 the napkins under their finger-glasses, each found a ten-pound 
 note, the enthusiasm of the press for Ophir bordered on fana- 
 ticism. After lunch, the entire party sought the mine, and those 
 who could get in hammered at the stone, and there was much 
 ado in wheeling to the stampers the 'gozzen' that had been 
 extracted. 
 
 Tramplara particularly urged on the reporters to dig and 
 wash for themselves, and they complied with his request. The 
 prayers and blessings of the pastors of discordant Christianity 
 had been of avail. Never before had the rock yielded so much 
 gold. There it was — in glittering granules — strewing the 
 washing floor. The rock had been quarried by ten reporter's, 
 seven pastors, and one old lady, with a grim face and severely 
 plain, untrimmed costume. The stone had been wheeled by 
 them to the crushers, at that time clear of every particle ot 
 stone. The grim old lady had not wheeled, but carried her 
 specimens in her gown, exposing thereby some elaborate lace 
 frills beneath it. The entire party saw the granite thus ex- 
 tracted washed in several waters. They washed it themselves, 
 no workman touched any part of the machinery, or dipped a 
 finger into the water, and there — there was the gold — gold-dust 
 in abundance. There could be no deception. There was no 
 room for deception. 
 
 John Herring was there also, looking on, much puzzled.
 
 GRINDING GOLD. 141 
 
 iTe had not been at the lunch, but had strolled to Ophir after 
 it. His lead mine was not advanced. No company was formed 
 to work it. Who would look at lead when gold was available 1 
 He watched the whole process critically, and was convinced that 
 (liei'e was no deception in what passed under his eye. There 
 tlie gold was. Every one present was given a grain as a 
 memorial of that day. The whole afiaii' was marvellous. The 
 expense to which Tramplara had gone was prodigious. Would 
 he have thrown his gold away in shovelfuls unless he were sure 
 of getting gold out of the mine 1 Herring was young and simple. 
 He was right. Tramplara would not have gone to this lavish 
 expense unless he had made sure of getting gold out of the mine. 
 But then, it did not follow that he was going to extract it from 
 the granite. Some things are softer than granite, and the 
 gold may be got easily enough by those who can touch the vein. 
 
 * What ! Lieutenant ! you here 1 ' exclaimed Mr. Tram- 
 pleasure, coming up to Herring, looking flushed and glossy. 
 ' Glorious day, this. Wonderful discovery, this Ophir. " Thither 
 the tribes go up ! " said the prophet, speaking of this day and 
 the way in which they went into the tent to their dinner. Come 
 in and have a glass of wi — , of something comforting but not 
 exhilarating. Come in, my dear lieutenant ; there is only the 
 band there, making clean the cup and the platter, when their 
 betters have done.' 
 
 * No, thank you,' answered Herring, * I have had an early 
 dinner. Besides, I must trouble you no longer to style me 
 lieutenant.' 
 
 « Why so 1 ' 
 
 ' Because I have sold out.* 
 
 * Sold out ! Become a civilian again ! ' 
 
 * Yes. I have things to attend to which demand my pre- 
 sence here. I am going to work the silver lead.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, don't throw money away on that. Take 
 shares in gold.' 
 
 ' I prefer lead.' 
 
 ' Herring, is that why you are taking up the mortgages on 
 West Wyke 1 ' 
 
 ' Partly.' 
 
 ' You'll never work the lead yourself i You have no ex- 
 perience. However, we will talk of that another time. Are 
 you likely to be in Launceston next week 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes. I shall go there to pay you the mortgage money.' 
 
 'Very well. We are going to have a kick about on Thuvs-
 
 142 JOHN HEERING. 
 
 day — the fii'st dance in the season. There is a reason ; Orange 
 !6 engaged to Captain Trecarrel. Will you come 1 ' 
 
 Herring thought a while before answering. 
 
 * Look here ! I will tell that little bleached puss of a missie 
 to expect you, and put your name down as her partner for the 
 first caper.' 
 
 'I will come.' 
 
 All at once the Eeverend Israel Flamank was seen flying 
 down the valley, with coat tails expanded like wings, and his 
 white tie loose and flapping. He was shouting and waving hif> 
 arms. 
 
 What was it 1 Had he been bitten by a serpent ? Had he 
 found a nugget 1 
 
 When he came up, he was breathless and of inflamed coun- 
 tenance. At length he gasped — ' I have been privileged to 
 discover it ! ' Then he paused again. A circle formed round 
 him. 
 
 ' A do-deka-penta-hedrou,' he said. Then seeing the reporters 
 with their notebooks in hand and pencils pausing in mid-air, and 
 fearing that their knowledge of Greek surpassed his (he need 
 have entertained no apprehension), he added simply, 'Solomon's 
 Seal carved on a rock.' 
 
 The whole crowd went after him. Here was a wonderful 
 coLucidence ! Coincidence ! Avast ! Conclusive evidence that 
 the servants of Solomon had worked at this identical place. 
 The symbol of Solomon, the interlacing triangles, cut in im- 
 perishable granite, was there as an eternal witness to Ophir. 
 
 Herring did not follow the troop : he turned to go back to 
 West Wyke. He was not eager to inspect the ' Dodekapentabe- 
 dron.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE CUB. 
 
 MiRETiLE was conscious of a change in Trecarrel towards her. 
 She ceased to engross his attentions, which were now directed 
 towards Orange. She could not recall anything she had said or 
 done that would account for this change. When the Captain 
 was alone with her, he was full of sympathy and tenderness as 
 before, but this was only when they were alone. Trecarrel 
 argued with himself that it would be unfair and ungentlemanly
 
 THE CUB. 143 
 
 to throw her over abruptly ; he would lower her into the water 
 little by little, but the souse must come eventually. Some of 
 the martyrs were let down inch by inch into the boiling pitch, 
 others were cast in headlong, and the fate of the latter was the 
 preferable, and the judge who sentenced to it was the most 
 humane. Mirelle sufl'ered. For the first time in her life her 
 heart had been roused, and it threw out its fibres towards Tre- 
 carrel for support. She was young, an exile, among those who 
 were no associates, and he was the only person to whom she 
 could disclose her thoughts and with whom she could converse 
 as an equal. He had met her with warmth and with assur- 
 ances of sympathy. Of late he had drawn back, and she had 
 been left entirely to herself, whUst his attention Avas engrossed 
 by Orange Tramplars,. 
 
 But Orange, with no small spice of vindictiveness in her 
 nature, urged the Captain to show civility to Mirelle. She 
 knew the impression Trecarrel had made on her cousin's heart, 
 and, now that she was sure of the Captain, she was ready to 
 encoui-age him to play with and torture her rival. "Women are 
 only cruel to their own sex, and towards them they are re- 
 morseless. 
 
 ' Do speak to Mh'elle ; she is so lonely. She does not get 
 on with us ; she does not understand ovir ways — she is Frenchi- 
 fied,' said Orange, with an amiable smile. The Captain thought 
 this very kind of his betrothed, and was not slow to avail him- 
 self of the permission. Nevertheless, IMirelle perceived the 
 insincerity of his professions. She was unaware of the engage- 
 ment ; this had not been talked about, and was by her luisus- 
 pected. Orange was well aware of the fascination exerted over 
 Trecarrel by Mirelle ; she knew that her own position with him 
 had been threatened — almost lost. She was unable to forgive her 
 cousin for her unconscious rivalry ; she did not attempt to for- 
 give her — she sought the surest means of punishing her. Mirelle 
 was uneasy and unhappy. She considered all that had passed 
 between her and Tiecarrel. He had not professed more than 
 fraternal affection, but his manner had implied more than his 
 words had expressed. She became silent and abstracted, not 
 more than usual towards the Trampleasures, for she had never 
 spoken more than was necessary to them, nor had opened to 
 them in the least, but silent before Trecarrel, and abstracted 
 from her work at all times. The frank confidence she had 
 accorded him was withdrawn, their interchange of ideas inter- 
 rupted. She found herself now Avith no one. to whom she
 
 144 JOHN HERRIlvG. 
 
 could unfold, and she suffered the more acutely for having 
 allowed herself to open at all. She began now to wish that 
 John Herring were nearer, and to suspect that she had not 
 treated him with sufficient consideration. 
 
 Mirelle was not jealous of Orange ; she was surprised that 
 Captain Trecarrel should find attractions in her, Mirelle had 
 formed her own conception of her cousin's character ; she 
 thought her to be generous, warm, and impulsive ; coarse in 
 mind and feeling, but yet kindly. How could a gentleman 
 such as the Captain find charms in such a person ? Mirelle did 
 not see the money, nor did .^he measure correctly the character 
 of Oi*ange. 
 
 About this time young Sampson Tramplara began to annoy 
 her with his attentions, offered uncouthly. The youth was 
 perfectly satisfied with himself ; he believed himself to be irre- 
 sistible and his manner to be accomplished. He was wont to 
 chuck chambermaids under the chin, and to lounge over the 
 bar flirting with the ' young lady ' at the tap, but was unaccus- 
 tomed to the society of ladies, and felt awkward in their 
 presence. 
 
 Mirelle at once allured and repelled him. He could not 
 fail to admire her beauty, but he was unable to attain ease of 
 manner in her presence. She seemed to surround herself with 
 an atmosphere of frost that chilled him when he ventured near. 
 After a while, when the first unfamiliarity had worn off, 
 through meeting frequently at meals and in the evenings, he 
 attempted to force himself on her notice by bragging of his 
 doings with dogs and horses, addressing himself to his father 
 and mother, but keeping an eye on Mirelle and observing the 
 effect produced on her mind by his exploits. 
 
 After that he ventured to address her ; to admire her em- 
 broidery, her tinsel flowers, her cut-paper lace, and to pass 
 coarse flatteries on them and her ; and when this only froze her 
 into frostier stiffness, to attempt to take her by storm, by 
 rollicking fun and insolent familiarities. 
 
 He was hurt by the way in which she ignored him. He 
 never once caught her eye when telling his best hunting ex- 
 ploits; his raciest jokes did not provoke a smile on her lips; he 
 could extract from her no words save cold answers to pointed 
 questions. 
 
 Her position in the house became daily less endurable, and 
 she could see no means of escape from it. She had appealed to 
 her guardian to allow her to return to the convent of the Sacred
 
 ISE CUB. 145 
 
 Heart, but had met with a peremptory refusal. A fluttcriiir,' 
 hope had sprung up that Trecarrel might be her saviour, a 
 hope scai'ce formulated, indistinctly existing, but now that had 
 died away. 
 
 Once she appealed to Mr, Trampleasure against his son. 
 She begged that he would insist on young Sampson refraining 
 from causing her annoyance by his impertinence. But she 
 obtained no redress. * My dear mi.ssie, the boy is a good boy, 
 full of spirit. He comes of the right stuff — true Trampleasure, 
 girl! We don't set up to Carrara marble here. You must 
 treat him in the right way. Flip him over the nose with your 
 knitting pins, or run your needle into his thumb, and he will 
 keep his distance. You can be sharp enough when you like, 
 and say words that cut like razors. Try some of your smartness 
 on Sampy, and he will sneak away with his ears down. I 
 know the boy ; he is not smart at repartee. You should have 
 heard how Polly Skittles set him down t'other day.' 
 
 ' Pray, who is Polly Skittles 1 ' 
 
 ' The barmaid at the Pig and Whistle.' 
 
 * I decline absolutely to take lessons from a Pig-and- Whistle 
 barmaid how to deal with a booby.' 
 
 * Missie ! ' exclaimed the old man, flaming red, ' you forget 
 .—he is my son.' 
 
 * No one could possibly doubt it,' said Mirelle, and walked 
 away. 
 
 After that, so far from old Tramplara making his son desist 
 from annoying Mirelle, he egged him on to it. The old man's 
 pride was hurt at the scorn with which the girl treated both 
 him and his son — a scorn she took no pains to conceal. 
 
 * Look you here, Sampy,' said Tramplara, ' if the girl is to 
 be had, you had better say Snap. There is her six thousand 
 pounds, which must be kept in the family. True by you, it is 
 now sunk in Ophir; but I expect some day to bring it out of 
 Ophir turned into twelve thousand. If she marries, her husband 
 will be demanding the money, and that might lead to un- 
 pleasantness. As Scripture says, " Live peaceably with all 
 men," and I say the same, when money is involved. I will tell 
 you something more. I do not believe, I cannot believe, that 
 six thousand pounds represent the total of old Strange's estate. 
 There must be more money somewhere — perhaps in a Brazilian 
 bank ; and all that is wanted is for one of us to go over and 
 find out. You won't convince me that a diamond merchant 
 doing a roaring trade for a quarter of a century made no morr 
 
 L
 
 146 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 than six thousand pounds. I have always heard that the 
 diamond trade is a very beautiful and delicate business, giving 
 rich returns. AVith caution you manage to get as many 
 diamonds out of the niggers as from their masters, and you pay 
 five shillings to the former where fifty pounds won't satisfy the 
 latter. I leave you to guess what profits are made. If we had 
 not our hands full of Ophir, I v/ould go myself to Brazil, or 
 send you, to see about James Strange's leavings. Six thousand 
 pounds ! Why, that is what he sent over to meet present con- 
 tingencies. He intended drawing the rest when settled. Mark 
 this, Sampy. Should a breath of cold air come down off the 
 moors on Ophir, and somewhat chill that warm concern, so as 
 to make it advisable for either or both of us to take a turn out 
 of England — Brazil is the word.' 
 ' Have you written to Brazil 1 ' 
 
 * Of course I have. To the English Consul at Bahia, and 
 have offered to tip him handsomely if he sends me word that 
 old Strange left money there. But I have had no answer as 
 yet.' 
 
 As the attentions of young Tramplara became more offensive 
 and more difficult to avoid, Mirelle appealed in despair to 
 Captain Trecarrel. 
 
 * My dear Mirelle, what can I do ? He is the son of the 
 house, and I visit there. If I were to quarrel with him, I 
 should be forbidden the house, and then,' with a tender look 
 out of the Trecarrel blue eyes, * I should see no more of you.' 
 
 ' I thought gentlemen could always take action in such 
 matters. Voyez ! In France I step up to a gentleman, and 
 say, That person yonder has looked at me insultingly. Then 
 the gentleman who is a perfect stranger goes across the street 
 and knocks down the insolent one.' 
 
 ' That would involve an action for assault, and the estate 
 would not bear it,' said Trecarrel, sadly. ' If it were worth a 
 couple of hundred more, I might do it. I know an excellent 
 fellow who knocked a young farmer head over heels in the 
 gi-aveyard on leaving church, because he had looked from his 
 pew admiringly at the young lady this gentleman was about to 
 marry. He compromised the matter by getting a commission 
 for the young farmer, but it cost him a lot of money. Thes-e 
 are not the days, my dear IMirelle, when an^ man may be 
 heroic ; heroism is only comi:)atible with a balance at the bank. 
 I'll tell you, however, what I can do, and that I will do, as it 
 falls within my means to do it. I will invite young Sampson
 
 THE CUB. H7 
 
 to a supper at the King's Arms, and I will then talk the thing 
 over reasonably with him. Put your mind at ease. I have 
 great influence "with the cub, who looks up to me as a sort of 
 model, and I do not doubt that I shall induce him to desist 
 from his attentions.' 
 
 But Captain Trecarrel had overrated his influence. The cub 
 continued his offensive conduct. 
 
 One day when he had intruded on her in the summer-house, 
 where she was Avriting at her desk — her father's desk — she 
 suddenly recalled Herring's interference at West Wyke. 
 
 * What — writing a love-letter/ asked young Sampson, loung- 
 ing on the table opposite her, and trying to look into her eyes. 
 * Oh dear, how I wish it v*^as to me ! ' 
 
 Mirelle lifted the flap of the v/riting-case, and took out the 
 small square ruler, and with her finger pushed it across the table 
 in the direction of Mr. Sampson, without raising her eyes from 
 the writing. 
 
 Young Tramplara looked at the ruler, then at Mirelle. She 
 took no more notice of him, except that she wrote on a piece of 
 folded paper the name and address of John Herring, and when 
 Sampson attempted again to speak she tossed the paper before 
 him and pointed to the ruler. 
 
 He rose scowling. He perfectly understood what she meant : 
 another impertinence, and she would write to John Heriing to 
 break that ruler across his skull. Her coolness, her utter con- 
 tempt for him, the galling of his pride, filled him with rage; 
 but he was a coward, and so he rose from his seat, thrust his 
 hands into his pockets, and sauntered out of the summer-house 
 whistling ' The girl I left behind me.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 MOONSHINE AND DIAMONDS. 
 
 Mirelle and Orange were dressing for the ball in the same 
 room ; that is. Orange had come into the room of Mirelle for 
 her to do her hair. Mirelle was perfect in this art ; her delicate 
 fingers turned the curls in the most graceful and becoming 
 arrangement. This Avas an art above the sweep of the powers of 
 the maid-of-all-work. Orange, in retmni, offered to do Mii'elle's 
 hair. 
 
 * But Mirelle, my dear Mirelle I You look like a ghost, all 
 
 L 2
 
 148 JOnN HERRING. 
 
 in white. Not a particle of colour ! It does not suit you ; you 
 are so pale. Good heavens ! let me look at your hands.' 
 Orange took the long narrow fingers in hers, and held the deli- 
 cate hand before the candle. It was transparent, and thus only 
 did it show a rosy red, 
 
 * Unless I had seen it, I would not have believed that there 
 was blood in you,' said Orange ; and then she glanced at herself 
 proudly in the cheval glass. * Do look at me, Mirelle. I am 
 glowing with life. See my lips, my cheeks — how warm they 
 are ! My eyes flicker, whereas you are as though spun out of 
 moonshine. There is not the faintest rose in your cheek, and 
 your lips alone show the least tinge of life. Your eyes have no 
 sparkle in them ; they are dark pools in which nothing lives. 
 I wish you would stand between me and the lamp ; I believe I 
 should see the light through you. Whoever saw flesh like 
 yours ? It is not flesh, it is wax. You must paint. You are 
 unendurable like this — like a corpse of a bride risen from her 
 coffin come to haunt the living.' 
 
 *I shall put on my diamonds,' said Mirelle. 
 
 * What diamonds?' 
 
 * My mother's.' 
 
 * I did not know you had them.* 
 
 * Yes, I kept them with my own things, in my own box. 
 When my mother died they were committed to me.' 
 
 * You cannot wear diamonds ; a girl in England does not 
 put on jewellery.' 
 
 * I am going to wear them.' 
 
 Then Mirelle opened a little case, and drew from it a coronet 
 and a necklace of diamonds. 
 
 'Fasten the crown about my head,' she said; * I can put the 
 necklace on myself.' 
 
 Orange stepped back in astonishment. She had never seen 
 anything so beautiful. 
 
 * Why, Mirelle, they must be very valuable. How they 
 twinkle, how they will sparkle downstairs among the many 
 lights.' Then with a touch of malice, 'What will Captain 
 Trecarrel think 1 Kow you look like a queen of the fairies. 
 He will fairly lose his heart to you to-night.' 
 
 She saw a spot of colour come into each cheek. It angered 
 her, and she went on with bitterness in her soul, * You know 
 that you belong to his class; and he will think so as well 
 to-night. I suppose he and you will despise us humble folk 
 who hftve to do with trade and business, and you will have eyes
 
 MOONSHINE AND DIAMONDS. 149 
 
 only for each other. What a couple you will make, side by 
 side, he with his aristocratic air, and you bejewelled like a 
 princess ! ' 
 
 She looked at herself in the glass and then at Mirelle, and 
 was reassured. No comparison could be drawn between them. 
 She, Orange, was splendid. She wore pink with carnation 
 ribands, and a red rose in her hau", another in her bosom. Her 
 dark and abundant hair and her large dark eyes looked well, 
 set in red. The colour in her cheeks was heightened. Her 
 bosom heaved, she had a fine bust and throat, and her features 
 were handsome. There was life, love, heat in her. Who could 
 care for a snowdrift — nay, for a frozen fog, though it 
 sparkled ? 
 
 * Come down, Mirelle : it is time. I have already heard 
 one carriage drive up. How we shall get every one who is 
 invited into this house I do not know.' 
 
 * I will go down presently. You go on without me. I am 
 not wanted as yet.' 
 
 Mirelle did not descend for half an hour. 
 
 When she entered the room where the guests were assembled, 
 it was full. She did not look round her except for a seat, and 
 when she had discovered one she walked to it. She knew 
 nothing of the persons there : they were excellent on their 
 appropriate shelf, but their shelf was not her shelf. 
 
 Trecarrel and Herring were both present, and saw her. 
 They had been watching for her to come in. Her appearance 
 surprised them. In the well-lighted room, in her white muslin, 
 with white satin bows, and with her head and delicate throat 
 glittering with diamonds, she seemed a spirit ; a spectral White 
 Lady. Her face was as colourless as her dress, save for the fine 
 blue veins that marked her temples. She seemed too fragile, 
 too ethereal to belong to the earth. Her beauty was of an 
 order rare in England, unknown in the West. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel started forward. * Countess Mirelle,' said 
 he, ' you are unprovided with a flower. Am I too impertinent 
 if I offer you one 1 I thought you might possibly be without, 
 and I have brought you a spray of white heath. Will you 
 accept it t ' 
 
 She raised her eyes, smiled somewhat sadly at him, and 
 took the sprig with a slight bow. Then she put it to her 
 bosom. As she was doing so, her eye encountered that of 
 Herring, who stood by. She recalled his offer of white heath 
 made on the day of her father's funeral.
 
 150 JOHN HEREING. 
 
 * It brings good luck/ said Trecarrel. The same words tliat 
 Herring had employed. Mirelle's hand trembled, and she 
 looked timidly, flutteringly, at Herring. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said he, ' all the bells have fallen off.' 
 
 Then she said, in a half-pleading tone, ' Mr. Herring, I was 
 once very rude and very wrong when I refused the same from 
 you. Now I am rightly punished.' 
 
 She removed the sprig. ' You see, Captain,' she said, as she 
 handed it back to Trecarrel, * the heath has rained off all its 
 white bells. I am not destined to receive good luck from either 
 you or Mr. Herring. I thank you for the kind attention. I 
 cannot wear the heath now.' 
 
 ' Are you engaged for the first dance ? ' asked Herring. 
 
 Mirelle looked at Trecarrel, who tui-ned his head away. He 
 must, of course, open the ball with Orange. After a pause, in 
 a tone tinged with disappointment, she said she was not 
 engaged, and Herring secured her. 
 
 The appearance of Mirelle in the ball-room caused general 
 siu-prise. It was an apparition rather than an appearance. 
 The prevailing opinion admitted her beauty, but decided that it 
 was of too refined and pure a type to be pleasing ; it was a type 
 suitable for a statue but not for a partner. Men love after their 
 kind ; blood calls for blood, not for ice. 
 
 The ladies discussed her diamonds, and concluded unani- 
 mously that they were paste. No one allows to another what 
 he does not possess himself. 
 
 * You know, my dear, she comes from Paris, and in Paris 
 they make 'em of paste for tenpence to look as natural as real 
 stones woyth a thousand pounds.' 
 
 ' But her father was a diamond mercliant.' 
 
 ' True by you, but these stones were her mother's I make 
 no doubt, and that mother was a gambling old Spanish 
 Countess, who would sell her soul for money. I've heard Mr. 
 Trampleasure say as much.' 
 
 ' She don't look as if she had any constitution to speak of,' 
 observed one old lady. 
 
 ' That transparent skin,' answered another, * always means 
 that the heart is bad. I ought to know, for my uncle was a 
 chomist. The highest person in the land — and when I say it, 
 I mean the highest — came into my uncle's place one morning 
 and asked for a seidlitz-powder, and he took it on the premises,- 
 and he told my uncle that he never took a better seidlitz in his 
 life.'
 
 MOONSHINE AND DIAMONDS. 151 
 
 * She is proud as Lucifer,* said one. * Look I she's gone and 
 refused Mr. Sampson Tramplara. That is too bad, and she 
 owes her meat and bread, and the roof that covers her, to the 
 charity of his father.' 
 
 ' He is getting angiy,' said the lady whose uncle was in the 
 chemical Hne, * Sampson is not one who can bear to be 
 treated impolitely.' 
 
 * She will dance with no one but that strange gentleman 
 whom they call Herring, and Captain Trecarrel. Stuck up 
 because of her rank, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Ah ! as if her rank was anything. The highest in the 
 land spoke quite afFal^le to my uncle, and said his seidlitz was 
 the best seidlitz he had ever drunk.' 
 
 * Do you call Mr. Sampson handsome ? ' 
 
 * Handsome ! I should rather say so ; and better than that, 
 he will be rich.' 
 
 ' Better than all, he will be good,' said a serious lady, Mrs. 
 Flamank, impressively. 
 
 * The highest in the land put down twopence for his seidlitz 
 like any other man. But that seidlitz cost my uncle five-and- 
 twenty pounds, for he paid that sum for a Royal arms, lion and 
 unicorn and little dog all complete, to put up over his shop 
 door ; and an inscription, " Chemist (by appointment) to His 
 Boyal Highness." But I never heard that it brought him 
 more custom. Still, there was the honour, and if that were a 
 satisfaction to him, I don't blame him.' 
 
 ' What do you think of Orange Tramplara hooking the 
 Captain ? ' 
 
 ' The hooking was quite as much on his side as on hers. He 
 is poor as a rat, and she wants position, so the transaction is one 
 of simple sale and barter.' 
 
 * The highest in the land,' began again the lady whose uncle 
 had been a chemist ; but at these words the ladies broke up 
 their party round her, and escaped to other parts of the room. 
 
 Sampson Trampleasure would not take his refusal. He 
 stood by the side of Mirelle, his cheek flushed, and his eye 
 twinkling with anger. 
 
 ' I don't see why you should dance with some gentlemen 
 and refuse others,' he said sulkily. 
 
 * I have refused no gentleman,' answered Mirelle, looking 
 across the room. 
 
 He was too stupid to understand the rebuff. He persisted
 
 152 JOHN ifERRINa. 
 
 in worrying lier. 'Well/ he said, ' if you won't stand up with 
 me, you must let me take you to supper.' 
 
 She was silent a moment, raised her eyes timidly and 
 entreatingly to John Herring, and said, ' I am already en- 
 gaged.' Herring coloured with pleasure and stepped forward to 
 her assistance. 
 
 * You must not tease the Countess,' he said. * She con- 
 fesses that she is not strong and able to dance often. She has 
 fixed on the number of dances she will engage in, and more 
 fortunate applicants have forestalled you, and put their names 
 on her card. You have only yourself to blame that you did 
 not press your claim in proper time.' 
 
 ' I say,' observed Sampson, with an ugly smile on his lips, 
 'Mirelle, don't you go dancing too often with Trecarrel. 
 Orange won't like it. When a girl is about to be married to a 
 man, she don't like to have another girl coquetting with her 
 deary.' 
 
 ' Mr. Sampson Tram pleasure,' said Herring, stepping for- 
 ward, ' this is your father's house, and I ' but Mirelle's 
 
 hand grasped his arm, and arrested what he was about to say. 
 He looked round. At the same moment a pair of waltzers 
 caught Sampson, and with the shock he was driven into the 
 midst of the whiiling circle, when he was struck by another 
 couple, and sent flying at a tangent to the door. 
 
 Herring looked at Mirelle. She was trembling slightly, 
 and her face was, if possible, whiter than before. Dark 
 shadows formed under her eyes, making them look unusually 
 large and bright. 
 
 She did not speak, but continued grasping Herring's arm, 
 unconscious what she was doing ; he could feel by the spasmodic 
 contraction of her fingers that she was more agitated than she 
 allowed to appear. He stood patiently at her side, seeing that 
 she was distressed, and supposing that the insolence of young 
 Tramplara was the occasion of her distress. 
 
 Presently she recovered herself enough to speak. She put 
 her handkerchief to her brow, and then, with feminine address, 
 gave her emotion an excuse that would disguise its real cause. 
 
 * He offends me,' she said ; ' I am unaccustomed to this 
 sort of treatment. Some persons when they go among wolves 
 learn to howl. With me it will be a matter of years before I 
 can school myself to endure their bark. I have lived hitherto 
 in a walled garden among lilies and violets and faint sweet 
 roses, and suddenly I am transplanted into a field of cabbages,
 
 MOONSHINE AND DIAMONDS. 153 
 
 where some of the plants are mere stumps, and all harbour 
 elugs.' She paused again. Just then Trecarrel came up. She 
 let go her grasp of Herring's arm. She had forgotten that she 
 was still holding it. Trecarrel came smiling his sunniest, with 
 his blue eyes full of languor. As he approached she shrank 
 back, and then drew herself up. 
 
 ' I think, Mirelle,' said he, ' you are engaged to me for the 
 next quadrille.' He was looking at her diamonds and apprais- 
 ing them; and he wondered whether, after all, he had not 
 made a mistake in taking Orange instead of Mirelle, 
 
 * If I were her husband,' he considered, * I could keep a 
 tight hand on Tramplara, so that he could not very well make 
 away with the six thousand pounds. I wish I had known of 
 these diamonds a few weeks ago.' 
 
 Mirelle looked at him steadily. She had by this time com- 
 pletely recovered her composure. * Am I to congratulate you, 
 Captain Trecarrel ? ' 
 
 'What onr he asked. 
 
 * I have just learned your engagement to Orange.' 
 
 ' That is an old story,' he said, getting red ; ' I thought you 
 were admitted into the plot six months ago.' 
 
 ' I did not know it till this minute.' 
 
 ' There is the music striking up. Will you take my arm? ' 
 
 ' I must decline. I shall not dance this quadrille. See, 
 Orange is without a partner.' 
 
 She rose, and to avoid saying more walked into the hall, 
 and thence, through the front door, upon the terrace. The 
 moon was shining, and the aii without was cool. In the ball- 
 room the atmosphere had become oppressive. 
 
 ' Would you kindly open the window 1 ' asked Orange, 
 turning to Herring, and casting him a smile. She was stand- 
 ing up for the quadrille with her Captain. The young man at 
 once went to the window and threw it open. 
 
 The night was still without. A fev7 curd-like clouds hung 
 in the sky ; the leaves of the trees, wet with dew, were glisten- 
 ing in the moonliglit like silver. Far away in the extensive 
 landscape a few stais twinkled out of dark wooded background, 
 the lights from distant villages. 
 
 There was a vacant setter in the window, and Herring sat 
 on it, leaning on his arm, and looking out. 
 
 Poor Mirelle ! What could be done for her 1 Her position 
 •was intolerable. The only escape that he could devise was for 
 her to return to West Wyke. But was it likely that Mr.
 
 154 JOnN HERFJI^G. 
 
 Trampleasure would consent to this 1 And in the next place, 
 would Cicely Battishill care to receive her 1 
 
 ' Mr. Herring,' said Orange, ' a gentleman is needed to make 
 up a set. May I introduce you to Miss Bowdler V 
 
 Of course he must dance, and dance with the fascinating 
 Bowdler — a thin young lady, with harshly red hair, red eye- 
 lashes, a freckled skin, and eyes that had been boiled in soda. 
 Miss Bowdler was the daughter of a banker, an heiress, and 
 Trecarrel had thought of her, but could not make up his mind 
 to the colourless eyes and red lashes. 
 
 Herring danced badly. His thoughts were not in the figure^, 
 nor with his partner. He mistook the figures. He spoke of 
 the weather, and had nothing else to say. Miss Bowdler con- 
 sidered him a stupid young man, and that this quadrille was tho 
 very dullest in which she had danced. When it was over, he 
 returned to the window, and as there was an end of the settee 
 unoccupied, and the I'est of it was occupied by the chemist's 
 niece and a raw acquaintance to whom she was telling the story 
 of the highest in the land — 'And when I say the highest, I 
 mean the highest,' — and his seidlitz, Herring was able to take 
 his place at the window without being obliged to speak to any 
 one. He looked again into the moonlight, and towards the 
 dark woods of Werrington, still revolving in his mind the ques- 
 tion, What was to become of Mirelle 1 He saw that she would 
 take the matter into her own hands and insist on being allowed 
 to go elsewhere. She could not remain in a house where the 
 son was allowed to treat her Avith insolence. She would like to 
 return to France, to her dear convent of the Sacr6 Cceu^r. The 
 thought was dreadful to Herring, for it implied that he should 
 never see her again. 
 
 He fancied, whilst thus musing, that he heard voices on the 
 terrace, and next that he caught Sampson Tramplara's tonea 
 He did not give much attention to the sounds, till he heard 
 distinctly the bell-like voice of Mirelle, ' Let go this instant, 
 Bir!' 
 
 He sprang to his feet and was outside the window in a 
 moment. He had been sitting looking in the opposite direction 
 from that in which he heard the voices ; now he turned in the 
 direction of the garden house. 
 
 At the door of this summer-house he saw young Tramplara, 
 and the white form of Mirelle. The moon was on her, and her 
 head sparkled with the diamonds of her coronet, but there was 
 uo corresponding sparkla about her neck.
 
 MOONSHINE AND DIAMONDS. 155 
 
 Herring flew to the spot, and saw that young Sampson had 
 Bnatched the necklet from her throat. The diamond chain hung 
 twinkling from his hand. 
 
 ' Restore that instantly,' said Herring, catching the young 
 man's hand at the wrist. 'You scoundrel, what are you 
 about]' 
 
 * Keep ofi", will you ! ' said the cub. ' I should like to know 
 yotu- right to interfere between me and my cousin, Mirie 
 Strange. I only want to test the stones of her chain. The 
 chaps in the dancing-room say they be paste and a cussed sham. 
 I reckon their mothers have put them uj) to it. I've got a l^et 
 on with young Croker, and I want to try if they'll scratch glass, 
 that is all. So now will you remove your hand and take your- 
 self off?' 
 
 Herring doubled up Tramplara's hand, and wrenched the 
 necklace from it. 
 
 ' Take yoiu' chain. Countess. And now for you, you ill- 
 conditioned cur, I warn you. Touch her again, and I will fling 
 you over the wall. Ofler her another insult, and you shall 
 Buffer for it. If I spare you this time it is because this is your 
 father's house, and I have been his guest. But I will not eat at 
 his table again, that I may reserve my liberty of action, and 
 have my hands free to chastise you should you again in any way 
 offend the Countess Mii'elle Garcia.' He turned to Mirelle. 'I 
 once before offered you what help and protection it was possible 
 to me to render, and now I renew the offer.' 
 
 * Oh, Mr. Herring,' said she, ' before, I refused your offer 
 very ungraciously, I said then that I was able to help myself. 
 I did not then know the rude elements with which I should 
 have to contend, and I was unaware of my own weakness. Now, 
 with my better knowledge, I accept your offer.' 
 
 * Thank you,' he replied : ' you make me this night a very 
 proud man.' 
 
 ' Mr. Herring,' she pursued, ' I will give you at once the 
 only token I have that I rely upon you. This pai'son who 
 snatched the jewels from my neck, if capable of such an act as 
 that, is capable of another.' Her voice came quick, her bosom 
 heaved, the angry blood was hammering at her temples. ' I do 
 not believe that these diamonds are secure in this house. If he 
 could wrench them from my throat, he would take them from 
 my trunk. Voyez ! je vous donne toutes les preuves possibles 
 que j'ai de la confiance en vous.' She disengaged the tiara from 
 her hair. ' There, there ! ' ahe said hastily, ' take both the crown
 
 156 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 and the necklace. I intrust them to you to keep for me. I 
 know that I can rely upon you ! I do not know in whom else I 
 can place trust. All are false except you : you are true.' 
 
 * Countess ! I cannot do this.' 
 
 'Why not? Do you shrink already from exercising the 
 trust you offered 1 ' 
 ' Not sc, but ' 
 
 * But I entreat you,' she interrupted with a trembling voice. 
 * Ces diamants-ci appartenaient k ma mere — ci ma ch^re, chere 
 mere ; c'est pour 9a qu'ils ont tant de valeur pour moi.' She 
 forced a smile and made a slight curtsey, and turned to go. 
 
 Young Sampson Tramplara was standing near, scowling. 
 Mirelle's eyes rested on him, 
 
 ' Mr. Herring,' she said, ' should I need your help at any 
 time, may I write 1 ' 
 
 ' Certainly, and I place myself entirely at your service.' 
 
 Young Tramplara burst into a rude laugh. 
 
 ' The guardianship of the orphan was committed to Tram- 
 plara, then it passed to Tramplara and Herring, and now, finally, 
 it is vested in Herring alone.' 
 
 To what extent the guardianship of that frail white girl 
 had passed to Herring, to what an extent also he had become 
 trustee for her fortune, neither she nor Sampson Tramplara 
 guessed. He had uttered his sneer, but the words were full of 
 truth. 
 
 Then there floated faintly on the air, whether coming from 
 the house or from without could not be told — mingling with 
 the dance music, yet distinct from it — the vibrations of metallic 
 tongues in a musical instrument like an ^olian harp, and the 
 tune seemed to be that of the old English madrigal — 
 
 Since first I saw your face, I resolv'd 
 
 To honour and renown you 1 
 If now I be disdain'd, I wish 
 
 My heart had never known yon. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 PASTE. 
 
 MiRELLE was subjected to no annoyance after the ball, for both 
 old Tramplara and his son were at Ophir nearly the whole ot 
 their time. They returned occasionally to Launceston, but
 
 PASTE. 157 
 
 never together. One was always left in charge of the mine, and 
 this was usually young Sampson. When he did come home, he 
 kept out of the way of Mire He, and old Sampson "<^as too much 
 engrossed in his gold mine to think of her. 
 
 She lived in the house, but hardly belp^jged to it. Her life 
 was apart from all its interests, pursuits, and pleasures. She 
 spoke little and showed herself seldom. Orange was full of her 
 approaching marriage, and could give attention only to her 
 dresses. Her friend and confidante. Miss Bowdler, was con- 
 stantly there, discussing the bridal garments and the costume 
 of the bridesmaids. In her own little pasty mind Miss Bowdler 
 harboured much rancour and vei'juice. She was envious of 
 Orange's happiness; she had herself aspired to Trecarrel, and 
 she felt no tender delight in the better success of Orange. But 
 she disguised her spite for the sake of Sampson, whom she 
 hoped to catch, now that Trecarrel had escaped her net. Orange 
 knew perfectly the state of the Bowdlerian mind, but that 
 mattered little to her. Women naturally hate each other, and 
 are accustomed to live in an atmosphere of simulated afiection. 
 She wished greatly to secure the Bowdler for Sampson, so as to 
 bring money into the family. 
 
 Mrs. Trampleasure was a harmless old woman, who sniffed 
 about the house, being troubled with a perpetual cold in the 
 head and a perpetual forgetfulness of the handkerchief in her 
 pocket. Mrs Trampleasure had got very few topics of conver- 
 sation, for her limits of interest were few — little local tittle- 
 tattle, and the delinquencies of Bella, the maid-of-all-work. 
 
 The horrible evening concerts were discontinued, and Mirelle 
 ventured to sit at the piano and play for her own delectation, 
 knowing that Orange was too wrapped up in her new gown, 
 and Mrs. Trampleasure too absorbed in counting the stitches of 
 her knitting, to give her a thought. Whenever the Captain 
 appeared, Mirelle retired either to her room or to the summer, 
 house. Whether in one or the other, she sat at the window, 
 looking out but seeing nothing, her chin in her hand, steeped 
 in thought. 
 
 Anyone who had watched Mirelle from her arrival in. 
 England would have noticed a change in her face. It was more 
 transparent and thinner than before. But this was not that 
 which constituted the principal change. The face had gained 
 in expression. At first it was impassive ; now it was stamped 
 with the seal of passive suffering, a seal that can never be dis- 
 guised or efl^ced. According to Catholic theology certain sacra-
 
 158 JOHN HEimiNCJ. 
 
 ruents confer character, and these cannot be iterated. But tha 
 sacrament of suffering confers character likewise, and it can be 
 repeated again and again, and ever deepens the character im- 
 pressed. This stamp gave to Mirelle's face a sweetness and 
 pathos it had not hitherto possessed. Before this time a cold 
 and haughty" soul had looked out of her eyes, now warmth had 
 come to that frozen soul, and it was flowing with tears. She 
 was still proud, but she was no longer self-reliant. Hitherto 
 she had repelled sympathy because she had felt no need for it, 
 now her spirit had become timorous, and though it still resented 
 intrusion it pleaded for pity. 
 
 As she sat, evening after evening in the window, doing 
 nothing, seeing nothing, her thoughts turned with painful 
 iteration to all that had passed between herself and Captain 
 Trecarrel since they had first met. For a few daj'S after the 
 ball she was resentful. She considered that he had treated her 
 badly ; he had attempted, and attempted successfully, to win 
 her heart, and he had gained his end without making a return 
 of his oAvn. He had been cruel to her. 
 
 After a while, however, she saw the whole course of afiaira 
 in a different light. It struck her that in all probability he 
 had been engaged to Orange — tacitly, may be, and not formally 
 — for a very long while. Something that Orange had said led 
 her to suppose this, and she remembered that the Captain had 
 admitted as much in his answer at the ball when she congratu- 
 lated him on his engagement. ' That is an old story,' he had 
 Baid ; ' I thought you had been admitted to the plot six months 
 ago.' If he really had been engaged to Orange ever since she 
 had known him, his conduct was explicable in a manner that 
 cleared him of blame. He had looked on Mirelle as one about 
 to become a cousin by marriage. Mirelle was much with 
 Orange, and therefore it was his duty to be kind to her, and to 
 act and speak to her as to a relation of her who was about to 
 become his wife. Perhaps Oi^ange had considei-ed how un- 
 pleasant it would be for Mirelle to remain in Dolbeare after she 
 had gone, and had proposed to the Captain that she should 
 accompany them to Trecarrel. If that were so, and it was very 
 probable, the Captain's solicitude to be on a friendly footing 
 was explained, so was also the interest he took in her money 
 afiairs, 
 
 * If I had only known ! ' sighed Mirelle, ' If I had only 
 guessed that they were engaged, I would never have been led 
 to think of him in any other light than as a sort of brother or
 
 PASTE. 159 
 
 dear friend and adviser. Why did Orange not tell me V But 
 when she felt disposed to reproach Orange, she was conscious 
 that she was unjust. She and Orange had not been more than 
 Buperficially friendly. She had kept Miss Trampleasure at a 
 distance, and had declined to open her heart to her. "What 
 right then had she to expect the confidence of Orange 1 Both 
 the Captain and his betrothed no doubt supposed from the first 
 that Mirelle was aware of the engagement, or at least suspected 
 it; and he was friendly because he knew that his friendliness 
 was incapable of misconstruction. The colour tinged Mirelle's 
 brow and cheeks, and the tears of humiliation filled her eyes. 
 
 She endeavoured to undo the past by forcing herself to think 
 of Captain Trecarrel as the betrothed of Orange, but it is not 
 easy to tear a new passion out of the heart that is young and 
 has never loved before. The heart of Mirelle was not shallow, 
 and feelings once received struck deep root. 
 
 It was a comfort to her that Orange was too much occupied 
 in her own concerns to notice that she was unhappy ; it was at 
 least a satisfaction to be able to bleed without vulgar eyes 
 marking the blood, and rude fingers probing the wound. 
 
 At first, when slie thought that Captain Trecarrel had 
 trifled with her afiections, she had felt some bitterness spring 
 up in her soul towards him, but when she had changed her view 
 of the situation, and his conduct was explicable without 
 treachery, the idol that had tottered stood again upright, and, 
 alas ! remained an idol. 
 
 In reviewing the events of the ball, she saw now that she 
 had acted very unwisely. She had oflered an unpardonable 
 insult to the family with which she was staying, and which 
 was, in its clumsy way, kind to her. Young Sampson had 
 found hLs way to the dining-room before supper, and had helped 
 himself to the wine. She had seen him in the empty room 
 engaged on the various decanters ', she had seen him, for the 
 room was on the ground-floor, with large French windows 
 opening on to the terrace. After he had tried the wines, 
 Sampson had come out to Mii-elle, and, attracted by the sparkle 
 of the diamonds, had demanded whether they were paste or real 
 Btones. She had refused to answer him, and he had put out his 
 hand to take the chain, saying that he would soon ascertain by 
 trying them on a window-pane. She was not justified in think- 
 ing that he intended to keep them. She was not justified in 
 supposing that they would not be safe from his cupidity in her 
 trunk. When she had said as much in her anger and excite-
 
 160 JOHN nEllRING. 
 
 ment, she bad offered him, and through him the whole family, 
 a gross and unwarranted insult ; and this insult she had accen- 
 tuated in the most offensive manner by giving the jewels to a 
 stranger to keep for her. 
 
 Mirelle put her hands over her face. She was ashamed of 
 what she bad done ; she had acted unworthily of herself. If 
 Sampson bad insulted her with brutality, she bad dealt him in 
 return a mortal blow. Her only consolation was that neither 
 Orange nor Mrs. Trampleasure knew of the incident, and she 
 hoped that Sampson, for his own sake, would not tell his 
 father. 
 
 She made what amends sb.e was able, but it cost her proud 
 spirit a struggle before she could bring herself to it. One Sun- 
 day that young Sampson was at home, when he was alone in 
 the office, she went into the room and stood by the table at 
 which he was writing. He looked up, but had not the grace to 
 rise when he saw who stood before him. Her eyes seemed 
 preternaturally large, and her lips trembled ; she had her deli- 
 cate fingers folded on her bosom. 
 
 * Mr. Sampson,' she said, in a voice that shook in spite of 
 her effort to be firm, * I apologise to you for what I said. You 
 had offended me, but the punishment exceeded your deserts.' 
 
 * What did you say 1 And when 1 ' 
 
 * I am speaking of the evening of the ball. You acted 
 rudely in wrenching off my necklace, and I spoke hastily re- 
 specting your conduct. The language I used on that occasion 
 was injudicious and wrong.' 
 
 He looked at her puzzled ; then, with an ugly smirk, he 
 said, ' So, as you have failed to catch the Captain, you want to 
 be sweets with me ! ' 
 
 Is it ever worth while stooping to conciliate the base ] The 
 ignoble mind is unable to read the promptings of the generous 
 spirit. Mirelle was learning a lesson, as John Herring was 
 learning his, both in the same school — the school of life ; and 
 the lessons each learned were contrary to those they had been 
 taught in childhood. They were finding out that those lessons 
 were impracticable, at least in the modern world. 
 
 Mirelle recognised that she had made a mistake. The noble 
 mind must fold its robes about it, and not soil them by contact 
 with the unworthy. She withdrew with her cheek tingling aa 
 though it had been smitten. 
 
 Young Tramplara began to fawn on Miss Bowdler, and she 
 <» flirt with him, in the presence of Mirelle. This was meant
 
 rA.^fu. 161 
 
 on his part as a token to Mirelle that he was acceptablo to 
 other ladies, and that they had charms for him. The uncoufch- 
 ness of yoimg Sampson, the squirais and languishings of tho 
 red-eyelashed heiress, his heavy jokes and her vapid repartees, 
 ■were grotesque, and would have provoked laughter, had not 
 Mirelle been too refined to find amusement in what is vulgar. 
 
 Mr. Sampson returned to the 'diggings,' and his absence 
 brought relief to Mirelle. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel had been away for some days, staying iu 
 Exeter. On liis way thither he visited Ophir, and got some of 
 the gold-grains from the working. Ophir puzzled him ; Ophir 
 hung on his heart. It oppressed his mind ; it was a constant 
 source of uneasiness to him. He resolved on his return from 
 Exeter to revisit it. But if he had his doubts, others had not , 
 that was clear from the current of visitors sotting that way, 
 and the influx of applications for shares. Shares went up. 
 Money came in, not in di'ibblets but in streams ; it had not to 
 be squeezed out, it exuded spontaneously. 
 
 In Exeter Captain Trecarrel had the gold tested. It was 
 gold, not mundic ; not absolutely pure gold, there was copper 
 with it, but still it was gold. Trecarrel got rid of the gold 
 grains to the jeweller in part payment for a ring to be presented 
 to Miss Orange. He also purchased a handsome China mantel- 
 shelf ornament as a present for Mrs. Trampleasure ; he got it 
 cheap because the handle was broken off. He ordered it to be 
 packed and sent to Launceston to the old lady. Then, when the 
 box was opened, the handle would be found broken off, and tho 
 blame would be laid on the carrier. Unfortunately, however, 
 the ti^adesman wrapped the handle as well as the ornamental 
 jar in silver paper — each in a separate piece. 
 
 When the box arrived and was opened, a laugh was raised 
 over the handle. Then it struck Mirelle that she ought to 
 make a present to Orange on her marriage. But what could 
 she give her 1 She had no money. Then she thought of her 
 diamonds, and resolved to ask Mr. Herring to detach the 
 pendant from her necklet and send it her. This she would 
 give to Orange. She took out her desk and wrote the letter. 
 It was a formal letter, but the ice was broken ; she had begun 
 to write to him, and cold though the communication was, the 
 receipt of the letter filled Herring with delight. He at once 
 complied with her request. 
 
 Orange was profuse in her thanks. She kissed Mirelle and 
 iwimired the brooch. Miss Bowdler was at Dolbeare at the 
 
 M
 
 162 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 sime, and both looked at it in the window, with many whispers 
 and much raising of eyebrows. 
 
 That sanio afternoon ilirello was with Orange and tho 
 Bowdlers. ' Thank j^ou so very much,' said Orange. ' 1 shall 
 value the pendant quite as much as though the stones were 
 real diamonds.' 
 
 *' They are real,' said Mirelle. 
 
 * The French make these things so wonderfully like nature 
 that only experts can tell the difference,' said Miss Bowdler. 
 
 * I suppose these were some of your mother's stones,' said 
 Orange. 
 
 ' They were,' answered Mirelle. 
 
 * How generous, how kind of you to give them to me ! * said 
 Orange without a trace of sarcasm in her voice — (English can 
 make paste imitations as well as the French) — ' And though these 
 are only paste, still, I dare say no one will know the difference.' 
 
 * They are real stones,' said Mirelle, haughtily. 
 
 * My dear,' answered Orange, ' do you know what a Cornish 
 compliment is 1 — " Take this ; it is of no more use to me." If 
 these had been genuine diamonds you would have kept them 
 for yourself; they would have been far too valuable to be 
 parted with lightly. No one gives away anything but what is 
 v^orthless. Look at Trecarrel's china jai'. He got it cheap 
 because it was faulty; he gave it to mother because he was 
 bound to make her a present. If she had been worth money, 
 he would not have sent her a worthless gift ; but because she 
 has nothing he sends her a nothing. That is the way of the 
 world.' 
 
 ' The stones form part of a set my father sent from Brazil 
 to my mother in Paiis.' 
 
 ' Nevertheless they are imitations,' said Orange. * I took 
 them to the jeweller here, because, you see, my dear, if they 
 had been diamonds, I could not have accepted such a costly 
 present from you, but he unhesitatingly pronounced them to bo 
 paste. That, however, does not matter to me ; it justifies my 
 accepting and keeping the charming present, which will always 
 be valued by me, not for the intrinsic worth, but as a memorial 
 of your love.' 
 
 ' Give me the pendant instantly,' said Mirelle, full of pride 
 and anger. ' It is impossible that my father, a diamond mer- 
 chant, could have offered my dear suffering mother such an 
 insult as to send her a set of sham diamonds.' 
 
 She took the ornament, and went at once to the jeweller.
 
 PASTE. 1G3 
 
 She came away resentful and humbled. * That Mr. Strange 
 should have dared ! ' 
 
 Not for a moment did it occur to her that perhaps her 
 mother had sold the stones, and replaced them with paste. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 THE OXENHAM ARMS. 
 
 A« the time for his maniage approached, Captain Trecarrel'a 
 uneasiness increased. On his "way back to Launceston from 
 Exeter he got off the coach at Whiddon Down, determined to 
 nave another look at Ophir. He had heard a good deal about 
 Ophir in Exeter, and not much in its favour. His lawyer 
 whom he had consulted had a rich fund of reminiscences con- 
 cerning Tramplara. Lawyers as a rule are not squeamish, but 
 there was something about old Tramplara which was not to the 
 taste of the solicitor Trecarrel employed. He had been engaged 
 in a Cornish mining action in which his client had prosecuted 
 Tramplara ; a good deal had transpired on this occasion not 
 encouraging to those about to transact business with Mi\ 
 Tramplara. Much had come out, but more had not come out, 
 but was perfectly well known to those engaged in the case. 
 ' My advice to you is, give a wide berth to the man.' 
 
 * I am going to marry his daughter,' answered Trecarrel, 
 ruefully. 
 
 * Oh ! ' — a pause ensued. ' How about settlements 1 ' 
 
 * I am all right there,' said the Captain ; ' till five thousand 
 pounds is paid down, I do not put my neck into the noose. 
 They may bring me to the altar, but I will fold my arms and 
 Bit down on the steps. They cannot legally marry a man 
 against his will.' 
 
 * How about the family ' began the lawyer. 
 
 'Thank God, I don't marry the family,' interrupted Tre- 
 carrel. ' When I have the money and the girl — she is not liarl- 
 looking, and will pass muster when clipped and currycombed 
 — I kick the rest over.' 
 
 * Well, I wish you joy.' 
 
 Captain Trecarrel next consulted his banker, and found that 
 the money world was shy of Ophir, and held Tramplara in 
 much the same esteem as did the legal world. 
 
 * Who are the directors of the com])any 1 ' asked the banker, 
 
 M 2
 
 1G4 JOHN HEREINO. 
 
 * There is a provisional list,' answered Trecarrel. ' Old 
 Tramp] ara tried hard to get me on to it, hut vainly is the trap 
 set in the sight of the bird. Here is the prospectus. You see 
 the names : Sampson Trampleasure, of Dolbeai-e, Launceston, 
 Esq., Arundell Golitho of Trevorgan, Esq., the Eev. Israel 
 Elamank, and some others of no greater importance. I have 
 Tramplara's own copy, that is to say, one he favoured me with, 
 and, as you see, he has pencilled in a few move names. Here 
 is Mr. Battishill of West Wyke, the owner of the estate, but 
 whether he is already a director, or only a possible director, I 
 do not know,' 
 
 ' Who is Arundell Golitho, Esq., and where is Trevorgan 1 ' 
 
 * Never heard of the man, nor of the place.' 
 
 When Captain Trecarrel got off the coach, he saw Herring 
 waiting for the coach, to intrust the diamond pendant to the 
 coachman for transmission to Mirelle. 
 
 'Halloo I you herel' exclaimed the Captain; 'I thought 
 you lived at the extremity of the known world, at Boscastle.' 
 
 * So I do ; but I am here starting a mine.' 
 
 * Not a director of Qphir, eh ] ' asked Trecarrel, eagerly, his 
 blue eyes lighting up. 
 
 ' No, I am not so ambitious as to embark in gold, I content 
 myself with lead ; but if my lead mine promises less than Ophir, 
 its performance, I trust, will be more sure.' 
 
 * Ah,' responded Trecarrel, dismally, ' you are bitten with 
 the prevailing distrust. I presume you have not taken shares 
 in Ophir.' 
 
 * No ; have you 1 ' 
 
 * I am going to take a big share in the concern. I many 
 the Queen of Sheba. Herring, I say, is there a public houso 
 near where I can get a chop 1 I am hungry and wretched. 
 Come with me for charity's sake and let us have a talk together 
 abovit this same Ophir. I want your opinion ; and look here, 
 I have old Tramplara's list of directors, and on it in pencil is 
 the name of Squire Battishill of West Wyke. He is a respect- 
 able man, is he not 1 You know him.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I am staying with him ' 
 'What sort of a man is he ? ' 
 
 * A gentleman every inch, — honourable and true.' 
 
 * Oh yes, I don't mean that. They be all honourable men, 
 especially the Hon. Lawless Lascar, who figures on the list. 
 Is he a man of fortune 1 If Ophir goes " scatt," as they say 
 here, is there property on which the shareholders can come 
 down ? '
 
 THE OXENHAM ARMS. 165 
 
 * Mr. Battishill is certainly not a director.' 
 
 * He is pencilled down as one, at all events, and pencilled 
 by Tramplara himself. Tell me, is there a decent inn here- 
 abouts ? ' 
 
 ' There is a very tolerable inn in Zeal, if you do not mind 
 descending a steep hill to reach it — the Osenham Arms.' 
 
 ' Come with me.' 
 
 Zeal is a quaint village of one street, that street being the 
 high road from Exeter to Launceston. Since the time of which 
 we treat the high road has been carried by a new line above the 
 village, which has been left on one side forgotten, and has gone 
 quietly to sleep. In the midst of the street stands a small 
 chapel built of granite, and before it an old granite cross 
 mounted on several steps. The houses are of ' cob,' that is, 
 clay, whitewashed and thatched, with projecting chambers 
 over the doorways resting on oak posts or granite pillars. 
 Below the chapel stood the stately mansion of the Burgoynes 
 facing the road, with vaulted porch, mulHoned windows, and 
 sculptured doorways. The Burgoyne family has gone, and now 
 there swings over the entrance a board adorned with the arms 
 of the Oxenham family. The manor-house has descended to 
 become the village inn. 
 
 Into this inn, clean, but humble in its pretensions, Herring 
 introduced the Captain. 
 
 * I say, girl,' called Trecarrel to the maid, * throw on some 
 logs ; the turf only smoulders. And bring me some hot water 
 and rum. I am cold and damp, and altogether dispirited and 
 drooping. Let me have a steak as soon as you can.' Then to 
 Herring : * I am put out confoundedly. Ophir will not digest. 
 Tell me candidly your opinion.' 
 
 ' You are not treating me fairly,' said Herring. * You have 
 no right to ask me this question when you are about to become 
 closely allied to Mr. Trampleasure * 
 
 ' Oh, confound Tramplara. I am not going to marry him, 
 nor his sniffing wife, nor his cub of a son, heaven be praised ! 
 nor, better than all, Ophir. Nevertheless, I want to know 
 something about Ophir, for though I am going to be allied to 
 the family, I do not want to be linked by so ever small a link 
 to a concern that may smash, least of all to one that is not 
 exactly on the square. What do you make out about the gold 
 mine]' 
 
 * It puzzles me. I have been over it and seen the gold dust 
 washed out of the gozzen.'
 
 166 JOHN HEREINQ- 
 
 ' So have I.' 
 
 * And yet I am not satisfied.' 
 
 * Nor am I.' 
 
 * In the first place, I mistrust the way in which Ophir has 
 been puffed and brought into the market.' 
 
 ' I do not believe a word about the Phcenicians,' said the 
 Captain, 
 
 * Again,' Herring went on, ' who have taken the mine in 
 hand ? ' 
 
 * That I can tell you. There is Arundell Golitho, Esq., of 
 Trevorgan. Do you know him. You are a Cornish man, 
 bred in its deepest wilds. Does he hail from your parts 1 ' 
 
 ' Never heard of him.' 
 
 * Nor has anyone else, that I can learn. Then there is the 
 Reverend Israel Flamank, but he counts for nothing. He is a 
 crack-brained preacher, not worth a thousand pounds, and 
 every penny he has he has sunk in Ophir.' 
 
 ' Here is another : the Honourable Lawless Lascar. "Who 
 is her 
 
 * I have heard about him from my lawyer in Exeter,' said 
 Trecarrel. 'Lends his name to rickety ventures for a con- 
 sideration, and when wanted, not at home.' 
 
 ' And Colonel Headlong Wiggles 1 ' 
 
 * Colonel Headlong is a man who has not been happy in 
 matrimonial matters — I mean, has been exceptionally un- 
 happy ; this would not concern us were it not that it has cost 
 him a good deal of money. He has been endeavouring to 
 recover moral tone lately by taking up vigorously with Tem- 
 perance, and he has become rather a prominent orator on Total 
 Abstinence platforms. He has lately edited a revised New 
 Testament in which the miracle of Cana has been accom- 
 modated to Temperance views — the wine in his version ia 
 turned into water.' 
 
 * That is all.' 
 
 * Except those added in pencil. I do not like the looks oi 
 the board of directors. Tell me, Herring, have you any sus- 
 picion of trickery 1 ' 
 
 Herring hesitated. He had, but he was without grounds 
 to justify the open expression of his suspicion. 
 
 ' By George ! ' exclaimed Captain Trecarrel, * if I thought 
 it were not on the square, I would break off" my engagement. 
 I inherit a respectable, I may say an honourable, name, and I 
 do not choose that the name of Trecarrel should be trailed in
 
 THE OXENHAM ARMS. 1G7 
 
 the mire. The thing cannot last long without declaring ita 
 nature. If the gozzen that is crushed yields as much gold 
 daily as I have seen extracted at one washing, then tho 
 dividends will begin to run. The working of the mine does 
 not entail a heavy outlay. There are not many men on it.' 
 
 * Very few indeed.' 
 
 * And the machinery is not enormously expensive, I 
 suppose.' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Then, why the deuce did Tramplara make a company of 
 the concern, and call for shares 1 If he had been sanguine, he; 
 might haw worked it himself, and made his fortune in a 
 twelvemonth.' 
 
 * Another thing that makes me suspicious,' said Herring, 
 * is that the lease is only for a year.' 
 
 * For a year ! ' exclaimed the Captain, and whistled. * Then 
 be sure Tramplara will blow Ophir up before the twelvemonth 
 has elapsed. If he had been sure of gold, he would have taken 
 a lease for ninety-nine years. I will have nothing to do 
 with the family. I will put off the marriage. Listen to this, 
 Herring. I carried off all the bits of stone I could from 
 the auriferous vein of quartz, and I crushed them myself. I 
 borrowed a hammer from a roadmaker, for which I paid 
 him fourpence, and I pounded them, and then washed the 
 crumbled mass in my basin, and not a trace of gold could I 
 discover.' 
 
 * That proves nothing. You could hardly expect to find 
 the precious metal in a few nubbs you conveyed away in your 
 coat pocket.' 
 
 * There ought to have been indications of gold. I should 
 not have minded had I found as miich as a pin's point. No ! 
 I believe Ophir to be a swindle, but how the swindling is done 
 passes my comprehension.' 
 
 He sat looking into the fire, and kicking the logs with the 
 toe of his boot. Then he threw himself back in his chair. 
 
 * I shall go to bed. Herring,' he said, ' and I shall stick 
 there till there is a clearing in the air over Ophir. I am not 
 going to be married whilst the cloud broods heavily. I shall 
 go to bed.' 
 
 * Go to bed ! ' echoed Herring. ' It is early still.' 
 
 * I always go to bed when I want to get out of a difficulty. 
 Old Tramplara is not far off, and he can come and see me. 
 YoiU3g Sampson can come and see me also ; but I defy both oJ
 
 168 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 them to get me out of my "bed and into my breeches and blue 
 coat against my pleasure. The marriage must be postponed.' 
 
 * Nonsense. You cannot do this.' 
 
 * I shall. I have got out of a score of difficulties by this 
 means. There I stick till things have come round. My dear 
 Herring, there is no power in the world equal to non pos- 
 sunius.' 
 
 ' But what of the lady's feeKngs 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, blow the lady's feelings ! ' said Trecarrel, coarsely. 
 * Ladies' feelings are supeificial ; that is why they are so sensi- 
 tive about dress. Men's feelings lie deep; they line their 
 pockets. Orange is a good girl ; but she won't feel, or, if she 
 does, she will rather like it. Women like to have their feel- 
 ings fretted, just as cats like having their backs scratched. 
 Orange can come and see me in bed, and nui^se me if she 
 chooses. Polly ! ' he called to the maid of the inn, ' get your 
 best bedroom ready, and the sheets and blankets and feather- 
 bed well aired. I am going to retire for a week or ten days 
 between the sheets.' 
 
 Herring burst out laughing. 
 
 ' This is no laughing matter,' said Trecarrel, testily. * I 
 would not go to bed unless I could help it; but, upon my life, 
 I do not see aiiy other mode of escape. You will come and 
 see me sometimes, old fellow, for time will drag.' 
 
 ' Certainly I will ; but what Avill you say to the Tram- 
 plaras 1 — to Miss Orange 1 ' 
 
 ' Say — say ? why, that I am indisposed. That will be 
 strictly within the bounds of truth, and what is consistent 
 with a gentleman to say. Indisposed — the word was coined 
 for my case. I'll send to Tramplara himself, and get it over 
 RS soon as I am in bed.' 
 
 ' You are joking.' 
 
 * I am perfectly serious. I have cause to be so. I am, or 
 was, not so very far from my marriage day, and I do not relish 
 the prospect. Bring old Tramplara here. When he sees me 
 embedded and indisposed to rise, he will grow uneasy and the 
 money will be forthcoming. I have no doubt in the world that 
 he is meditating a trick upon me. He is wonderfully clever ; 
 but he met his equal in the matter of the Patagonians — I'll tell 
 you all about them some day. Herring, by some infernal 
 blunder I was pricked as sheriff of the county one year. It was 
 supposed that I was worth about five times my actual income. 
 I could not endure the cost of office, and I did not want to pay
 
 THE OXENHAM AKMS. 169 
 
 the fine for refusal, so I went to bed, and wrote to tlie Lord 
 Lieutenant from bed. I said that I was confined to my couch, 
 and could not rise from it, which was true, strictly true, under 
 the circumstances, and that I could not say that I would live 
 through the year, which was also true, strictly true ; and I got 
 off without fine. On another occasion my creditors were un- 
 reasonable and urgent. I took to my bed again, and after I had 
 laid there a fortnight, they mellowed ; at the end of a month 
 they were ripe for a composition of eight shillings in the pound. 
 I find that, in difficulties, if I take at once to my bed I con- 
 stitute myself master of the situation. It is the Hougoumont 
 of all my Waterloos.' 
 
 Herring was still laughing. 
 
 ' You may laugh,' pursued Trecarrel, ' but my plan is super- 
 lative. Judge of it by the faces of Tramplara and his son when 
 they visit me. You know the look that comes over a chess- 
 player, when his adversary says " checkmate." I suspect you 
 will see some very similar expression steal over the countenances 
 of Tramplara and young Hopeful. The old man will coax, and 
 the young one bluster. They can do nothing. Here I lie, and 
 they bite their nails and rack their brains. They are powerless. 
 They cannot bring Orange and a parson here and have me 
 married in bed. I should bury my head under the clothes. 
 They would not attempt it. It would hardly be decent. I do 
 not think it would be legal.' 
 
 * You will write, I suppose, to ]\Iiss Orange 1 ' 
 
 ' No ; I shall send for her father. I do not put hand to 
 paper if I can help it. I never commit myself. Litera scripta 
 manet. You have no idea, Herring, how successful my system 
 is. Difficulties solve themselves; mountains melt into mole- 
 hills ; tangles unravel of their own accord. The perfectness of 
 the system consists in its extreme simplicity. Polly ! run the 
 warming-pan through the sheets before I retire. Whilst I am 
 upstairs, Herring, there is a good fellow, keep a sharp look-out 
 on Ophir.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A LEV^E. 
 
 In France it was anciently the custom for the kings to hold 
 lits de jicstice — that is to say, they lay in bed, and whilst reposing
 
 170 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 on tlieir pillows, and the vapours of sleep rose and rolled from 
 their exalted brows, heard appeals and pronounced judgments. 
 The royal example found hosts of imitator's. No one ever 
 dreams of following a good example, but one that is mischievous 
 has eager copyists. It was so in France under the ancient 
 regime. Nobles received their clients, ladies their suitors, in 
 bed. Magistrates heard cases in the morning, before rising, 
 whilst sipping their coffee. So far down had this habit de- 
 scended, that Scarron, in his ' Eoman Comique,' describes a 
 respectable actress receiving an abb6, a magistrate, and various 
 ladies and gentlemen in her bedroom, whilst she lay between 
 the sheets. In the Parisian world, the world of salt and culture, 
 the bedroom — the very bed itself — of a distinguished lady was 
 the centre round which the wit and gossip of the gay and literary 
 world circled and sparkled. 
 
 The getting out of bed of a prince, and of those who imitated 
 the prince, was as public as his lying in state. That was not 
 the day of baths and Tui'kish towels, and therefore there was 
 not the same reason against the admission of the public to a 
 levee that would exist at present, at least in England. 
 
 Whilst the king drew on his stockings, he heard petitions ; 
 as he encased himself in his black satin breeches, he determined 
 suits. When his shirt-frills were being drawn out, he dictated 
 despatches; whilst his wig was being dusted, he granted con- 
 cessions ; and as he washed his fingers and face in' a saucer, he 
 conferred bishoprics and abbacies. 
 
 In like manner, the toilettes of ladies of rank arid the queens 
 of beauty and fashion were times for the reception of their 
 fixvoured friends. Hogarth's picture of the toilette of the lady 
 in the Mariage ct la mode shows that this custom had extended 
 to England. A levee was then, as the name implies, an assembly 
 held during the process of getting out of bed. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel was not consciously copying the ancient 
 regime. Pie lay in bed because it suited his convenience. He 
 received visitors there because he did not choose to receive 
 them elsewhere, till he had carried a point on which his heart 
 was set. 
 
 * Why, bless my soul, Trecarrel ! what ails you ? Laid up 
 in this wretched inn — caught cold on your way down % I hope 
 nothing serious; not rheumatic fever, eh ? ' 
 
 * Severe indisposition,' said Trecarrel, looking at Mr. Tram- 
 pleasure calmly out of his celestial blue eyes, innocent as those 
 of a child, little spots of sky, pure and guileless.
 
 A LEVfiB. -171 
 
 'Good gracious!' blustered Tramplara, 'not anything gastric, 
 is it 1 No congestion of any of the organs 1 ' 
 
 * There is tightness in the chest/ said the Captain ; ' that ia 
 normah' 
 
 * Bless my soul ! couldn't you push on to Launceston 1 
 Were you so bad that you broke down here ? 
 
 When a man's a little bit poorly, 
 
 Makes a fuss, wants a nurse, 
 Thinks he's going to die most surely, 
 
 Sends for the doctor who makes him worse. 
 
 You kno-w the lines, but whether by the Bard of Avon, or by 
 Chalker in his "Canterbury Tales," I cannot recall. Poor 
 Orange ! What a state of mind she will be in ! ' 
 
 ' I dare say,' said the Captain, oomposedly. 
 
 ' The child will be half mad with alarm. What does the 
 doctor say 1 What has he given you 1 Something stinging or 
 routing, eh 1 ' 
 
 ' I have not sent for him.' 
 
 * Not sent for the doctor 1 By Grogs ! and you seriously ill. 
 How do you know but that it may interfere with your marriage 
 on the eighth 1 ' 
 
 ' That is what I have been supposing.' 
 
 * You must get well, my dear boy ; you positively must.' 
 
 * I hope so, but that does not altogether depend on me.' 
 
 * I insist on a doctor being sent for,' 
 
 * His coming will be of no use ; I know my own constitu- 
 tion.' 
 
 * Have you sent word to Orange ? ' 
 
 * No ; I left that for you. You see I am in bed. and I can- 
 not write. I don't think the people of the inn would permit it, 
 lest I should ink the sheets. Salts of lemon are not always 
 satisfactory in removing stains.' 
 
 * Orange will be heartbroken.' 
 
 * The recuperative power of the female heart cannot be 
 overestimated.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Trampleasure will be in such distress, she will do 
 nothing but cry ' 
 
 * And sniff. I say, father-in-law that want to be, how goes 
 Ophir ] ' 
 
 * Oh, my dear boy, magnificently ! ' 
 
 * Like the Laira at Plymouth — eh, father-in-law elect 1 ' 
 
 * What do you mean 1 ' 
 
 * The rendezvoiis" of all the sulls in the Western counties—
 
 172 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 only, witli this difference, the gulls go to Laira for what they 
 can get, and they come to Ophir for what they can give.' 
 
 * I do not like these flippant jokes,' said Tramplara, puffing 
 and waxing red. 
 
 ' The joke is too near the truth. You see, father-in-law 
 prospective, I have been in Exeter, and have talked Ophir over 
 with lawyers, bankers, mining agents, and men of the world.' 
 
 'Welir 
 
 * And I find that the general verdict on Ophir is, that it is 
 a swindle.' 
 
 Tramplara stamped, turned purple in face, and strode up 
 and down the room. 
 
 ' You insult me ! Look at my white hairs. This is an 
 outrage on my character — on my age. Do you dare to say 
 that an old man like me, with one foot in eternity, would — 
 would ' 
 
 ' Reserve that for the Flamanks,' said the Captain. ' It is 
 an argument without weight with me.' 
 
 ' This is intolerable ! You wish to break off connection 
 with me.' 
 
 ' Not at all,' said the Captain, smiling and twisting his fair 
 moustache. ' I am only telling you what is said in Exeter 
 about Ophir; my own opinion is inchoate. Sometimes I am 
 inclined to believe in the genuineness of the article, but gene- 
 rally, I admit, what I admire most is not its genuineness, but 
 the skill with which a spurious article is disposed of.' 
 
 * You have seen the gold ? ' 
 
 * But I have not found it.' 
 
 * You have dug out the quartz yourself, and followed the 
 entire process to the last washing and sifting. Will not that 
 content you 1 ' 
 
 ' I brought home with me some of the auriferous stone, and 
 crushed it myself, and washed it myself, but not a particle of 
 gold was there.' 
 
 ' Simply because you took pieces in which there was no 
 gold. Gold is not so common as hornblend.' 
 
 * Nor, apparently, as discernible in the stone. Look here, 
 father-in-law that want to be.' 
 
 ' I won't be spoken to in this style.' 
 
 * Yoii want me to marry Orange, do you not ] ' 
 
 ' I do not care a penny about you. All I care for is poor 
 Orange and her feelings.' 
 
 ' You are ready to pay me five thousand pounds for taking
 
 A LEVfiE. 173 
 
 Orange off your hands, are you noti ' asked the imperturbable 
 Captain. 
 
 ' I am ready to pay you five thousand pounds as her jointure, 
 because she is my daughter, whom I dearly love, and I wish to 
 provide for her comfort and happiness in the future when I am 
 dead and forgotten.' 
 
 ' And you were thinking only of her comfort and happiness 
 when you offered us those Patagonian bonds 1 ' said Trecarrel. 
 
 * Fortunately, I was equally interested in the dear creature's 
 comfort and happiness, and in her interest I declined them.' 
 
 * Have done with those Patagonian bonds ! ' said Tramplara, 
 impatiently. ' You will bring my white hairs with exaspera- 
 tion to the grave. I shall go downstairs and leave you to soak 
 in bed. Do you intend to lie here for a twelvemonth 1 I do 
 not believe you are seriously ill.' 
 
 * Seriously indisposed is what I said,' answered the Cap- 
 tain. 
 
 * You have done this sort of thing before,'said old Tramplara, 
 very hot and angry ; * I have heard of you. Ridiculous ! not 
 like a man.' 
 
 Trecarrel was wholly unmoved. He turned round in his 
 bed with his face to the wall. The old man stamped about the 
 room, swearing and uttering his opinions freely, without eliciting 
 a word from the Captain. After a while he cooled down, find- 
 ing that his wrath and remonstrances were inefiectual, and he 
 seated himself on a chau* by the bedside. 
 
 * Be reasonable, Captain,' he said. * What is the drift of 
 this farce ? ' 
 
 Trecarrel turned round in bed, and faced him with perfect 
 equanimity in his handsome features. 
 
 ' I say, Trampleasure, the second Solomon who draws gold 
 out of Ophir, I give it up. How do you manage it 1 ' 
 
 The fiery flush again came into the old man's face. 
 
 * There, there ! I do not want to anger you,' said Trecarrel. 
 
 * I have a proposal to make to you, father-in-law in nuhibus. 
 Let me go with you into the mine. You shall indicate to me 
 the auriferous vein, and I will pick out pieces and submit them 
 to you. Those about which you are doubtful shall be cast aside; 
 those you approve I will retain. I will pound them myself, 
 and wash them myself.' 
 
 * "Where '? In our works ? ' 
 
 * By no means. Anywhere that suits my convenience and 
 pleasure ; at John Herring's lead mine, if I choose. Then, if 1
 
 174 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 find gold, you shall have my name on your list oi directors, and 
 I will go heartily with you in the concern.' 
 ' I do not care to have you as a director.' 
 
 * That is not true ; you have several times urged me to be 
 one. You Avant some respectable names on your list, which is 
 sadly deficient in them. Will you oblige me with some parti- 
 lars about Arundell Golitho, Esq., of Trevorgan ? By some 
 strange omission be has not been made a Justice of the Peace 
 and a Deputy Lieutenant of the county of Cornwall.' 
 
 ' I will answer no questions. You want to force a quarrel 
 on me.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, I want to dispel my doubts. I am, what 
 I think you call in your chapel, an earnest inquirer. I can tell 
 3'ou one thing for certain, father-in-law that may, might, would, 
 could, and should be ; I am not going to be married to your 
 Orange without the fulfilment of one of two conditions.' 
 
 ' What are they ? ' asked Ttamplara, sulkily. 
 
 * One is, that I may make the proposed investigation into 
 the qualities of Ophir.' 
 
 ' I refuse it,' said Trampleasui-e, hastily. 
 
 'You refuse to allow me fairly to test its value as a 
 mine?' 
 
 ' I do not say that. I refuse the proposed test, because it is 
 unfair and insulting. You may come and extract as much 
 quartz as you like from the I'ock, and crush and wash it on my 
 floors, but you shall not carry it elsewhere.' 
 
 ' What is your objection ] ' 
 
 * I say the proposal is insulting. Look at my white hairs. 
 Do you suppose ' 
 
 ' Leave the white hairs out of the matter. What is unfair 
 in my proposal ? ' 
 
 * I will not consent. I will die before I permit it.' 
 
 The old man sprang from his seat. ' Good heavens ! I 
 Bhall have every visitor and applicant for shares pestering me 
 to carry ofi" specimens.' 
 
 ' Why should they not 1 ' 
 
 ' Because it is against regulations. I have laid down a strict 
 rule, to be relaxed to none, that every specimen raised is to be 
 tested on the spot, and not elsewhere. I will have the trial 
 take place whei'e I can see that it is fairly conducted. How do 
 I know but that behind my back the trial may be incorrectly, 
 imperfectly, or dishonestly carried on 1 ' 
 
 ' I do not ask to do anything behind your back. You shall
 
 A LETEE. 175 
 
 select half a dozen specimens. We will bring them here. I 
 will smash them np in the backyard with a paviour's hammer 
 under your eye, and I \\'i\\ wash them in the water-trough there, 
 with you looking on, AYill that suffice ? ' 
 
 ' What is your other alternative ? ' asked Ti-ampleasure, 
 Bullenly. 
 
 ' My second proposal is this. You have promised me five 
 thousands pounds along with Orange.' 
 
 * I know I have, and I shall be I'eady to pay it when you 
 are married.' 
 
 * My good father-in-law prospective, that does not quite 
 satisfy me. Of course I do not question your honour and your 
 intention to discharge what you propose. But speculation, 
 above all, speculation in mines, superlatively such a speculation 
 as Ophir, is risky. I do not wish to risk my chance of getting 
 that five thousand pounds (and connubial felicity) on the con- 
 tinuance of the Ophman gold yield.' 
 
 'You don't suppose I will pay you down the money nov/, 
 before you are married.' 
 
 * No, I do not, and I do not want to run the chance of 
 getting married, only to discover that the five thousand pounds 
 has been sunk in O^^hir, and is only available in the shape of 
 paper on Ophir, or only to discover that Ophir has collapsed 
 like a pricked bladder the day before.' 
 
 * What then do you v/ant 1 ' asked Trampleasure, very 
 angrily, rubbing his knuckles with the palm of his hand in his 
 irritation and impatience. 
 
 ' What I want is, that you should lodge the money now in 
 the hands of a third party, say of Mr. John Herring. If I fail 
 to fulfil my part of the contract within a given time, say on the 
 day already fixed for the wedding, or seven days after, I forfeit 
 it and it returns to you. When I am married to Orange, then 
 Herring is empowei'ed to hand the money over to me.' 
 
 * Upon my word, Captain Trecarrel, of all audacious and 
 exacting men I ever came across, you are the most audacioua 
 and exacting. And what if I refuse this condition also 1 ' 
 
 * Then I remain in bed.' 
 
 * What is the advantage of that 1 ' 
 
 * I am engaged to be mai-ried on the eighth. If I am ill, my 
 illness serves as an excuse for my absence from the hymeneal 
 altar when expected there. The world can say nothing against 
 that ; and I am bound to maintain my charactei as a chevalier 
 sans reproche.'
 
 176 JOHN HEWlIKfl. 
 
 * Pray hoAv long will this farce continue 1 ' 
 
 * What farce?' 
 
 * Your lying in bed.' 
 
 * You will find a looking-glass yonder, father-in-law antici- 
 pative. Examine your countenance in it, and see if the ex- 
 pression is that of a spectator at a farce. It looks deuced moi^e 
 like that of a witness at a melodrama.' 
 
 * How long do you soak here ? ' exclaimed Trampleasure, 
 sulkily. 
 
 ' I shall await events from this commanding position. 
 Ophir will blow up before long. It cannot continue, and will 
 send you and yours head over heels into space, and where you 
 will drop, heaven only knows. Then, of course, I shall be 
 free.' 
 
 Trampleasure paced the room, his face blazing. He was 
 very angry, he was also greatly perplexed. He was particularly 
 anxious to get Orange married to the Captain. Presently he 
 turned round, and said in a sullen tone, and with an angry 
 lower on his brows, ' 1 will give you an answer shortly.' 
 
 ' All right, I am in no hurry. The bed is not uncomfortable. 
 Herring is coming here this evening to smoke a pipe with me, 
 and I will ask him to hold the stakes.' 
 
 The next visitor was young Sampson. He came in fuming, 
 and asked the Captain his intentions. He was Orange's brother. 
 It was his duty to see that she was treated fairly, and, by God, 
 he would do his duty. He was not going to let a militia 
 captain play fast and loose with the poor girl's affections, and 
 possibly blight her entire future by his heartless desertion. 
 Trecarrel listened to him with the utmost coolness. He had 
 expected this visit, and knew what its character would be. 
 
 ' Sampson the little and weak,' he said, * your father has 
 sent you here to try what bluster will effect. May I trouble 
 you to convey to him a message from me, and say that the 
 effects are nil 1 ' 
 
 ' Are you going to desert Orange ? If you are, I'll shoot 
 you.' 
 
 ' No, you won't,' said the Captain. ' In the first place, I 
 am not going to desert Orange; and in the second place, if I 
 were, the utmost you would do would be to try to get money 
 compensation out of me, and that would be like squeezing a 
 stone for milk. In one particular I am like Ophir. If you 
 want to extract gold out of me, you must first put it into me.' 
 
 Sampson's face became mottled, and his eyes, with a start led
 
 IHE LEVfiE. 177 
 
 expression in them, turned to the Captain, but, seeing his eyes 
 fixed inquiringly on him, his fell. Trecarrel chuckled, and drew 
 the sheets over hia head. Presently he looked out again, 
 Sampson was at the window killing flies. He had his back 
 turned to the bed, and was stabbing at the flies with the pin of 
 his stock. 
 
 * I have placed two alternatives before your father,' said the 
 Captain : * I will marry Orange to-morrow if he will comply with 
 either. Either let him give me a fair chance of testing the ore 
 of Ophir, and satisfy myself that the mine is genuine, or let him 
 pay five thousand pounds into the hands of a third party, to be 
 held till the marriage is concluded.' 
 
 * I refuse — I refuse each alternative, in his name and my 
 own,' said young Sampson, stabbing at a fly with such fury that 
 he broke a pane in the window. 
 
 * There goes eighteen pence,' said the Captain, 'beside letting 
 a current of cold air in on me. Leave the loom. I need repose. 
 My indisposition gains upon me.' 
 
 The next to visit Captain Trecarrel was John Herring; 
 Herring was not very willing to undertake the obligation the 
 Captain was desirous of forcing upon him : however, he was 
 good-natured, that is, easily imposed on, and in the end he con- 
 sented to act as the thu'd party, and receive the money into his 
 keeping till the marriage took place. 
 
 On the morrow old Tramplara came back ; he remained 
 Bome time, and attempted to coax Trecarrel into good humour 
 and the surrender of his ultimatum. Trecarrel especially 
 urged the former of his alternatives, as he perceived that it 
 was eminently distasteful to both the old man and his son. 
 Tramplara went away, refusing both alternatives. 
 
 On the third day Tramplara did not come at all, but Tre- 
 carrel heard through the hostess that young Sampson had been 
 there to inquire whether he was still confined to his bed. 
 
 On the fourth day the old man came, very sulky and rude, 
 and gave way — not to the first alternative, but to the second. 
 Herring was sent for, and the transaction was arranged to the 
 satisfaction of the Captain. 
 
 'Now then,' said Trecarrel, 'my indisposition is better. 
 King for shaving water. Clear ev^pryone out of the room. I 
 am going to rise.'
 
 178 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE SHEKEL. 
 
 * Miss Cicely,' said John Herring. 
 
 ' Yes, Mr. John,' answered Cicely, with a smile. 
 
 * Well — Cicely — if you wish it.' 
 
 * I do wish it ; I dislike formality. You have stayed with 
 us so long, and have been so good to us, and helped ua so 
 greatly, that I suspect a cousinship between us, if the respective 
 Battishill and Herring pedigrees were worked. The West of 
 England families are all united by marriage,' 
 
 ' My family boasts of no dignity or antiquity,' said Her- 
 ring. ' We have been humble yeomen down to my father, and 
 never dreamed of calling ourselves gentlemen, certainly not of 
 tacking an esquire after our names.' 
 
 ' If your ancestors were humble yeomen, ours were very 
 humble gentlemen. Do look at West Wyke. Did you ever 
 see a gentleman's house elsewhere so small, and yet so full of 
 self- consciousness 1 An embattled gateway in a wall that a boy 
 could overleap, guarding a garden of hollyhocks. A front 
 door with a huge beam to close it, running back into the 
 wall, to protect the family plate, which consists of one silver 
 caudle cup, and a whalebone- handled punch-ladle with a Queen 
 Anne's shilling in the bowl. I believe ovir family stood barely 
 above high water mark, the line where the yeoman ended and 
 the gentleman began ; but so barely above it, that we were 
 always liable to be submerged, and never able to hft ourselvea 
 wholly into a more exalted and secure position.' 
 
 ' I dare say,' observed John Herring, ' that the smallness of 
 your house has been the salvation of your family. You have 
 not been expected to keep a large establishment ; to entertain 
 much, and to have a stable, and furniture, and a cellar.' 
 
 * I dare say you are right. By the way, how is the sick 
 gentleman at the Oxenham Arms 1 ' 
 
 ' There is not much change in his condition. He is still 
 indisposed.' 
 
 ♦Who is her 
 
 * A Cornish squire, Trecarrel by name, who is engaged to 
 the daughter of Mr. Trampleasure.' 
 
 * No doubt Miss Mirelle will have had some of her airs taken 
 out of her in the Trampleasure household.'
 
 THE SHEKEL. 179 
 
 This was the first time that Cicely had voluntarily, and o_" 
 her own prompting, spoken of Mu-elle. Herring had men- 
 tioned her occasionally, but Cicely showed plainly that she 
 retained no pleasant recollection of the Countess, and was un- 
 interested in what had become of her. There was a spice of 
 vindictiveness in her tone as she spoke. She was rejoicing that 
 Mirelle should have her aire taken out of her. 
 
 * The poor Countess,' said Herx'ing, ' has suffered much 
 annoyance among those wretched people — — ' 
 
 * I have no patience with her,' inteiTupted Cicely, ' giving 
 herself airs, and calling herself a Countess. Why, her father 
 was only a merchant, and I cannot see how she can inherit 
 her mother's title. The wife of an Earl is a Countess, and the 
 daughters are Ladies, not Countesses.' 
 
 * It is diffex'ent abroad.' 
 
 * You ought not to have humoured her. However, as you 
 see no more of her now, no harm has been done by your falling 
 in with her fancy. The Tramplaras are the last persons in 
 the world to feed her vanity, and so by this time, it is to be 
 hoped, she has learned to stand on the same level as those she 
 is called to associate with.' 
 
 * Do you not think it must be intolerable for one so refined 
 and sensitive ? ' 
 
 * Oh, there, there ! ' interrupted Cicely, again laughing. 
 * We have had enough of Mirelle ; let us banish her from our 
 conversation. The very thought of her gives me a shiver.' 
 
 ' Cicely, tell me, has old Tramplara been pretty frequently 
 to West Wyke of later 
 
 * He has been to see my father now and then.' 
 
 * Do you know that he has put down your father on his list 
 as one of the directors of Ophir ] His name is not yet printed, 
 but Tramplara is counting on him.' 
 
 * Why should he require my father's name 1 ' 
 'To give respectability to the concern.' 
 
 * I hope my father will not consent.' 
 
 * He viv.st not. I am persuaded that Ophk is a fraud, and 
 your father must be saved from being involved in what will 
 cover with disgrace, and involve in ruin, all who are connected 
 with it.' 
 
 * Good heavens ! Do you think my father has already 
 given his consent? Oh, please go in and see him, and stop 
 him. I know he is becoming excited a'^out Ophir. He laughed 
 at it at first, but he has changed his tone of late.' 
 
 n2
 
 180 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 * I will go at once.' 
 
 Herring stepped into the hall to Mr. Battishill. 
 
 'Well, Herring !' exclaimed the old man, brightening up; 
 'back from Zeal ! How goes the sick man — Captain Trecarrell 
 Dear me ! he represents a fine old family, de Esse, alias Tre- 
 carrel, argent two chevronels sable, with a mullet for a differ- 
 ence. A Devonshire family — the Esse of Ashe, and the elder 
 branch, died out in an heiress who carried Ashe to the Drakes ; 
 but the second son, a long way back, married the heiress of 
 Trecarrel, and dropped the patronymic for the place name. How 
 is the last limb of a splendid tree 1 ' 
 
 ' There is nothing more serious the matter with him than 
 that he is going to marry the daughter of old Tramplara.' 
 
 * Good Lord ! what a mesalliance ! The Trampleasures are 
 mushrooms — I had almost said toadstools. I suppose it is a 
 case of money ; the needy gentleman with centuries behind him 
 takes the daughter of the wealthy founder of Ophir for the sake 
 of the mountain of gold she brings. How is it that Tram- 
 pleasure has not secured Trecarrel as a director 1 His name 
 would carry weight.' 
 
 * Exactly,' answered Herring ; ' that is what Tramplara 
 wants — he has not got a name of importance on his list. Do 
 you know anything of Arundell Golitho, Esq., of Trevorgani' 
 
 ' Never heard his name before.' 
 ' JSTor have I, nor has anyone else.' 
 
 ' He must be some one of importance, or Tramplara would 
 not have put him on the board ? ' 
 
 * I do not beHeve in his existence. You were asking why 
 Captain Trecarrel has not become a director. For the best of 
 leasons. He does not care to cover an honourable name with 
 disgi-ace.' 
 
 Mr. BattishUl's face changed colour. 
 
 'That is a strong expression, Herring, and ought to be 
 justified.' 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Battishill, you know what Polpluggan did for 
 you.' 
 
 * Polpluggan was a disastrous venture, certainly.' 
 
 * You told me yourself it was a swindle.' 
 
 * Well, well, the word was too strong. I thought so at the 
 time ; but Tramplara has been frank with me about it. Since 
 he has been here so much, engaged on Ophir, I have seen hia 
 books ; he showed them me in the most open manner possible, 
 he insists on my going over them myself. Polpluggan was ^ 
 failure, not a swindle. I withdraw the expression.'
 
 THE SHEKEL. 181 
 
 *And Ophir, I believe, is nothing less than a swindle, and 
 will cover everyone who has to do with it with infamy. That 
 is why Captain Trecarrel will not lend his name to tho 
 concern.' 
 
 * Why then does he marry the daughter of Ophir ? ' 
 
 ' That is another affair. He has been engaged to her for 
 Bome time, and cannot with honour break away.' 
 
 * What leads him to suppose that Ophir is a — a ' 
 
 *A swindle! Because he has been in Exeter consulting 
 those who are likely to know ; because he knows the ante- 
 cedents of the man who has started it. I trust, sir, you have 
 not given Tramplara grounds to hope that you will become a 
 director ? ' 
 
 * Well, he has been pressing, very pressing, I may say, and 
 1 have not positively said I will not. You see, my dear 
 Herring, the mine is sure to be a success. The applications for 
 shares increase instead of falling off; that is a pretty good proof 
 of public confidence.' 
 
 ' That proves nothing, except that there are many fools 
 in the world ready to part with their money.' 
 
 ' They would hardly take shares unless they had convinced 
 themselves that the speculation was sound. Nothing, I 
 understand, can be more above board than the proceedings 
 of Mr. Trampleasure. The gold ore is crushed and washed 
 before the eyes of the public. I cannot see where the fraud 
 can be.' 
 
 * There is roguery somewhere, I am convinced.' 
 
 * My dear Herring, that is your opinion. Others equally 
 capable of forming opinions think differently. The mine is on 
 my property, it is only reasonable that I should be a director 
 and benefit by it. As Mr. Trampleasure put it to me — the 
 world asks, Why is not the lord of the manor on the board of 
 directors ? The absence of his name from it damages the 
 prospects of the mine. Other men of position and property 
 hold back because I do not sanction the venture. It is neces- 
 sary that I should lend my name.' 
 
 * You must on no account lend your name, sir,' said Herring, 
 earnestly. 
 
 * You are very peremptory, Mr. Herring,' said the old man, 
 nettled. ' The lead mine halts ; nothing is being done there, 
 no lead turned out, no machinery set up, no company got 
 together to work it. And hard by is the auriferous quartr 
 vein of Ophir * 
 
 * Excuse my interrupting you,' said Herring, * but may 1
 
 182 JOHN liJiKRINa. 
 
 know whether you believe in Upaver having ever been 
 Ophir?' 
 
 ' That is a matter into which I do not enter, I put all 
 these antiquarian theories aside. I look at the plain facts. Is 
 gold found there, or is it not 1 ' 
 
 * Gold is certainly washed there. How it comes there I do 
 not pretend to say.' 
 
 ' You mean to insinuate that it is not dug out of the mine.' 
 
 ' I doubt it, because I mistrust old Tramplara, and I think 
 the way in which the affair has been got up is suspicious. Did 
 you ever hear the old people call Upaver Ophir 1 ' 
 
 ' No, but there is a similarity in the names. However, 
 as I told you, I pvit all these antiquarian conceits on one side.' 
 
 ' Mr. Battishill, we must consider them as an integral pai-t 
 of the swindle, if swindle it be. You do not, I presume, 
 believe in the Jews and Phoenicians having worked thia mine 
 in remote ages 1 ' 
 
 ' I tell you I do not think of this at all ; I am not qualified 
 to enter into and examine this question. But when it comes 
 to gravel containing gold dust, why, bless my soul ! my eyes 
 are the best judges. As for the Jews and Phoenicians, there is, 
 at all events, this to be said for the theory of their having been 
 here, that they dropped a shekel — a silver shekel — I saw it 
 with my own eyes. I have an impression of it in my desk. 
 Thus where a Jewish com has been found, there, in all pro- 
 bability a Jew has been to drop it.' 
 
 ' Who found the coin ? ' 
 
 'The Reverend Israel Flamank bought it of Grizzly Cobble- 
 dick, who had picked it up in his garden, or somewhere near 
 the Giant's Table/ 
 
 ' I beg you, sir, I entreat you, as you love your home and 
 respect the name you bear, not to have anything to do with 
 Ophir till I have followed this shekel up to its origin. It may 
 serve as a clue by which the mystery will be unravelled. I 
 will go and see Grizzly himself, and ascertain from his own lips 
 where he found it, or rather, whether he found it at all.' 
 
 * You are a sceptic,' said Mr. Battishill, ' steeped in the 
 spirit of the age.' 
 
 * Well,' asked Cicely, when Herring came out, * what is the 
 result 1 ' She noticed that he was looking excited. 
 
 * Your father is bitten with Ophir,' he answered, * He and 
 I have nearly come to hard words. It is the first time we har* 
 bad any difference, and we have been warm on both eides. I
 
 THE SHEKEL. 183 
 
 must find out about Ophir, if only to save him ; for Tramplara 
 has woven his ■web round him, and has so dusted his eyes with 
 gold that he can neither free himself nor see clearly where he 
 is. He will infallibly be brought to ruin again by that 
 wretched old man, unless I get to the bottom of the mysteiy 
 of this accursed Ophir.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Herring ! ' pleaded Cicely, putting her hands 
 together ; ' do — do help us.' 
 
 * Yes, Miss Cicely.' 
 
 * I beg your pardon,' she said, and the clouds cleared from 
 her pleasant face. ' Cousin John, what should we — what should 
 I do without you ? ' 
 
 ' I have done nothing as yet. But I am determined to 
 expose Ophir, and by so doing to save your father.' 
 ' How will you set about it ? ' 
 
 * I have a clue — a shekel.' 
 
 John Herring went in search of Grizzly. The old savage 
 was now generally to be found near Ophir. The mine 
 exercised a strange attraction on the wild old man. The 
 visitors spoke to him, and asked him questions about the 
 Giant's Table, and the Jews, and the gold, and then made him 
 presents. Some of the more intemperate among the Temperates 
 had serious thought of setting him up as a representative of 
 Jonadab the son of Rechab, and put leading questions to him, 
 to elicit from him traditions of such descent. But further 
 inqumes into the habits and peculiarities of his parent stock at 
 Nymet damped their enthusiasm. The Nymet savages, even 
 if temperate, which was doubtful, were not shining moral 
 lights to hold up as examples in other particulars. Grizzly 
 had become somewhat civilised by association with human 
 beings. When he was tired of being questioned, he rambled off 
 upon the moors, and disappeared up the stream in the direction 
 of Rayborough Pool, but not for long. The stir of Ophir drew 
 him back. He liked watching the stampers, and to stand on 
 the bank above the washing floors, chuckling and sniggering 
 at the people examining the sediment and picking out the 
 glittering gi-ains. 
 
 There Herring found him. He at once attacked him on 
 the subject of the shekel. 
 
 * I found 'n in the airth just below the great stone to the 
 head o' the Giant's Table. I found 'n about six foot vour 
 inches below the surfass o' the ground. There Avas dree or 
 vour more, all alike, but Loramussy ! 1 didn't give mun (them)
 
 184 JOHN HEXUlINa. 
 
 no heed. I thought they warn't worth nothing, and I gived 
 mun to my little maid to play wi'. But her, I reckon, ha' lost 
 the lot, all but thicky as I sold to the Reverend Israelite 
 Flamank, and he sed i* were an Israelitish shekel. I've 
 a-heard the old volks used to call the Giant's Table a Gilgal, 
 but they don't do that no more ; and I can mind how this 
 were always called Hophir, but the folks as is skollards took to 
 naming 'n Upaver, and that be all I've a got to say. I can't 
 say nothing about Jonadab the son o' Eechab, as were my 
 great-granler, cos a died when I was a baby. I'll thankee to 
 remember a poor man as is nigh vour-score year? old, and 'ud 
 die afore he'd let a drop o' other liker down his throat but 
 pure water, glory rallaluley, barmen.' And he held out his 
 hand. * Oh ! I beg pardon ; didn't think 'twere the young 
 Squire. No offence.' 
 
 * Cobbledick,' said Herring, * have you ever found any more 
 silver shekels about the Table ? ' 
 
 * No, never ; only once for all.' 
 
 * How deep down did you say they were ? * 
 
 * "What did I say 1 I found 'n in the airth just below the 
 big stone to the head of the Giant's Table. I found 'n about 
 six foot vour inches below the surfass o' the ground.' 
 
 ' I have heard that already, word for word. Can you give 
 me any idea of the depth, not in words, but by showing me about 
 the depth that you call six foot four inches 1 * 
 
 Cobbledick looked blankly at him. 
 
 * What do you take your own height to be ? * 
 Grizzly was posed, 
 
 ' I suppose it took a deal of sinking to reach the depth 
 where — you found the shekels 1 ' 
 
 * Loramussy, maister ! ' exclaimed the old wretch, * weeks 
 and weeks ; that shaft yonder were nothing to it.' 
 
 * That will do. Grizzly.' 
 
 Herring was convinced that the old man was repeating by 
 rote a lesson that had been taught him. However much he was 
 questioned and cross-questioned he returned to the same story, 
 in the same words. Herring gave up the hope of getting any- 
 thing more in this quarter. Cobbledick had degenerated into 
 a beggai' — a wretched, canting beggar, accommodating his whine 
 to the craze of the persons who visited Ophir. 
 
 But Herring was not going to abandon the clue of the 
 shekel because he could find out nothing from Grizzly. He went 
 to the Giant's Table to catechise Joyce, but she was not there.
 
 THB SHEKEL. 185 
 
 Joyce was now nearly well. The splints had been taken off 
 her arms, and she could use her hands, and do light work ; but 
 the hands were stiff, and long inaction had -weakened her arms. 
 
 Herring could not spare the time to wait for her return ; he 
 did not know where she was, and he was due at the Oxenham 
 Arms for the final settlement of the arrangement between 
 Trecarrel and Trampleasure, in which he was a party. 
 
 On the morrow, Captain Trecarrel left. In the evening 
 Herring went in quest of Joyce and found her hoeing in the 
 little field. He called, and she ran to him as a dog to its 
 master, and with as marked demonstrations of delight at seeing 
 him. 
 
 * Joyce, I came here yesterday to find you, and you were 
 away.' 
 
 * Oh dear, oh dear, though ! ' she exclaimed ; * I were wiring 
 a rabbit.' 
 
 * Joyce, I want a word with you.' 
 
 * You can have scores ; as many as you wants.' 
 
 * I know. A woman is free of her words. You must tell 
 me the truth now, my Httle maid, for a good deal depends 
 on it.' 
 
 * Did I ever tell'y a lie, now ] ' asked Joyce, offended. ' You 
 may cut me in pieces afore I'll say other than what be true to 
 you.' 
 
 * What I want to know, Joyce, is, where did your father get 
 that shekel 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't know what that be.' 
 
 * A silver coin. He says he found three or four here under 
 one of the stones of the Table. There is a branch on one side, 
 and on the other a cup with a flame rising out of it.' 
 
 * I never seed nothing of the sort, nowhere.' 
 
 * Your father says that he gave them to you, and that you 
 lost all, except one which he retained and sold to Mr. Flamank.' 
 
 Joyce shook her head. 
 
 * You have never seen anything of the kind 1 ' 
 
 *It be just one o' vaither's pack o' lies,' answered the candid 
 Joyce ; * vaither hev been lying finely since Ophir began. He 
 never showed me nothing like that ; he never gived me no silver 
 money. He never had none to give till Ophir began.' 
 
 ' You are very positive.' 
 
 * If you doubt, I'll say, Blast me blue ' 
 
 * That will do,' interrupted Herring ; * your word will suffice 
 without the blue blazes to colour it.'
 
 186 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 The old man had lied about the shekel. He had not given 
 it to the girl, he had therefore probably not found it at all, but 
 it had been given him by those who had put the story into his 
 mouth. 
 
 * I'll ax vaither if you likes,' said Joyce ; ' he'll tell mo, all 
 right.* 
 
 * I do not think he will. That is all I wanted to know, my 
 dear girl.' 
 
 * I say,' said Joyce, ' doant'y go oflf now right on end. Sit 
 you down a mite here in the sun and have a chat. I never see 
 nothing of you now, not as it used to be when I were ill and 
 scatt to bits. I a'most wish my airms was broke again, that 
 you could come and see me ivery day. That were beautiful.' 
 
 ' Yery well, Joyce, by all means. I have nothing particular 
 to do, so I am quite at your service.' He sat down by the girl 
 under the lee of the great stones. It was warm there and 
 pleasant, leaning against the grey blocks of hoar antiquity and 
 unknown use, stained orange and silvery white with lichen, and 
 with white frosty moss like antlers of elfin deer filling the nooks 
 in the stones. The ants were crawling over the moss in the 
 sun ] they were migrating and wore their wings for that one 
 day. Turf was heaped up at the side of the cromlech, forming 
 a rude bench. On this the two sat. As he took his place the 
 thought came into Herring's head that far away in the dim pre- 
 historic age, some such a savage as that v/hich sat beside him 
 had assisted when it was i^eared. 
 
 ' It be lew (sheltered) here,' said Joyce ; ' vaither hev took 
 to sitting here mostly on a Sunday when he ain't wanted to the 
 mine.' 
 
 ' He leaves you very much alone now.' 
 
 * That he does. Yaither be much changed o' late. The 
 vokes there ha' taught 'n to smoke, and they give 'n a bit o* 
 backie now and then, and when he haven't got no backie, then 
 he flips off this here moss, this black sort o' trade on the moor- 
 stones, and he smokes that.' 
 
 ' A new sort of life for him,' said Herring. 
 
 ' It amuses he,' answered the girl. * He says he didn't know 
 as Gorolmity had so many vules in the world. He says they 
 be as plenty as stones on Dartmoor.' 
 
 ' I dare say they ai-e, and certainly those are fools who 
 congregate about Ophir.' 
 
 ' Vaither likes to hear mun talk, and go sifting and cradling 
 and washing for the gold. It makes 'n laugh, it do.'
 
 THE SHEKEL. 187 
 
 *\VTiy, Joyce?' 
 
 'Why, because there hain't none of 'em knows where the 
 gold comes from, and there hain't one of 'em as don't think 
 himself as wise as Cosdon is big.' 
 
 * Where does the gold come from 1 ' asked Herring, eagerly, 
 8o eagerly that Joyce turned sharply round and looked him hard 
 in the face. 
 
 * Don't'y know neither 1 ' 
 ' Indeed I do not.' 
 
 ' Yaither said as you didn't and nobody didn't. And larned 
 and skolards as the volk be, vaither be too much for mun.' 
 
 * Joyce, if you can tell me where the gold comes from I shall 
 indeed be thankful.' 
 
 ' Do you wish very much to know 1 ' 
 
 Joyce was silent. She looked straight before her. Some- 
 thing was working in her mind. 
 
 * Well, Joyce 1 ' asked Herring ; he laid his hand on hers. 
 ' If you will tell me this, you will repay me for all the little 
 trouble I took to make your poor hands sound and strong again.' 
 
 ' Then I'U tell you, come what may. It is just Ihis that 
 made me doubt to say. Vaither 'd kill me sure as vuzz blooms 
 all the year, if he knowed as I had told you. Look here,' said 
 Joyce ; ' do'y see thicky ant there. Well, he took up a great 
 moorstone, and sez he, " You, Joyce, be that ant, and I'll treat 
 you the same," and down with the stone.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Herring, his blood curdling, ' I understand you.' 
 
 * And after that he sed. Glory rallaluley.' 
 
 ' Joyce, your father shall never know that you told me.' 
 
 * Whether he knows or not I'll tell, because you wish it. If 
 he does kill me, it don't matter much.' Then she looked him 
 steadily in the eyes, and said : 'This be the way in which it be 
 done. Yaither puts the gold dust in. When the bell rings, 
 that's the signal for he to be ready up at the head o' the launder ' 
 (wooden channel) 'where the water runs along to go to the 
 washing pans, and he just slips in some of the gold into the 
 water. So the stream carries it down into the washing places 
 where the pounded stone is ready to be washed. 
 
 Herring almost laughed. The solution of the puzzle was 
 simplicity itself — so simple that it had escaped everyone. Every 
 eye had watched the stone, no one had thought that the water 
 might be salted. 
 
 ' I'll show you some of it,' said Joyce. ' There is a little bag 
 bid away under the table. You understand vaither don't put
 
 188 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 none in when thp.re be no vules to find it. Old Tramplara pulla 
 a cord, and that lets the water on ; and when the water is let 
 on, vaither sprinkles the gold in it. He don't do it when there 
 be no vules there, for Tramplara sez he ha'n't got much of the 
 gold to waste. Then, after it has been washed and sorted out, 
 he gives it back to vaither, and in it goes again for more vules 
 to find. I've done it once or twice myself for vaither, when he 
 couldn't go hisself. That be how I came to know about it.' 
 ' I am lastingly indebted to you, Joyce, for telling me this.' 
 * You won't bring vaither to no harm because of this, will'y 
 now 1 That 'ud be too cruel onkind o' you. But no — you'll 
 never do no hurt to me nor vaither, I be sure.' 
 
 ' Indeed I will not, dear Joyce. I shall never forget what 
 I owe to you for having told me this ; and I promise you your 
 father shall not suffer for it.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 cobbledick's rheumatics. 
 
 John Herring did not go at once to Mr. BattLshill with the 
 account of what he had heard. He waited till he had himself 
 witnessed the transaction. Some time before the public were 
 admitted to the mine, he went in that direction, making how- 
 evei a wide circuit, and secreted himself behind some of the 
 rocks that commanded the head of the * launder.' There he 
 remained till Old Grizzly arrived, and, after having looked about 
 him, laid down beside the stream close to the sluice that let the 
 water into the wooden conduit for the washing floors. 
 
 Herring saw him strew the dust in the stream as it was 
 admitted ; he remained at his post of observation till some time 
 after Cobbledick had departed, and then he went direct to West 
 Wyke. 
 
 He told Mr. Battishill what he had learned from Joyce, and 
 how he had verified the account with his own eyes. It was 
 true he had not arrested Grizzly's hand and taken the gold dust 
 out of it ; but he had seen some of the gold supplied to the old 
 man by Tramplara, and which he kept secreted under the 
 Giant's Table, and there was no moral doubt that what the old 
 man had strewn in the water was that gold powder which Tram- 
 plara intended should be found in the pans. 
 
 The revelation of the fraud made Mr. Battishill excited and 
 angry.
 
 cobbledick's rheumatics. 189 
 
 ' What,' he exclaimecl, helpless in his agitation — ' what is to 
 be done 1 Good heavens ! what can be done 1 ' 
 
 'That is what I have been considering. You are a justice 
 of the peace, and you must sign a warrant for the arrest of Mr. 
 Tramplara and his son. There can be no question that young 
 Sampson is involved in the swindle equally with his father, Avho 
 is the originator and mainspring of the whole concern.' 
 
 ' I have not acted for many years. I had rather not.' 
 
 ' But, sir, I think it most important that you should take 
 this matter up. Remember, this fraud has been carried out on 
 your property, under a lease granted by you, and that you come 
 out of it without the loss of a penny. I think it possible — I 
 only say possible — that some inconsiderate persons may cast 
 reflections on you. Fortunately, your name is not on the list 
 of directors, so that you will not be involved in the ruin this 
 discovery will bring on many ; but your abstention from becom- 
 ing one may be commented on unfavouraby, unless you cut the 
 occasion away. If you issue a warrant for the apprehension of 
 the wretched swindlers, and become the main instrument of the 
 break-up of the company and the exposure of the dishonest trick 
 that has been played, no one can wag his tongue against you.' 
 
 * You are right,' said the old man. He held out his hand 
 to Herring, and the tears came into his eyes. ' John, I cannot 
 thank you sufficiently for having protected me against myself. 
 I confess to you that old Tramplara had talked my suspicions 
 down, and had raised in my breast the demon of cupidity. No, 
 I will not say cupidity, but speculation. I do not care for 
 money in itself, but I do delight in making it, or, what is the 
 same thing, in scheming how to make it. I suspect I have 
 been too overweening in my esteem of my own powers, and 
 now you have given that conceit a fatal fall. Do you re- 
 member the wrestle in " As You Like it " ? " Sir," I say with 
 Rosalind, " you have wrestled well, and overthrown more than" 
 Tramplara. I trust my self-esteem is dead as Charles. I shall 
 never again venture to have an opinion contrary to yours.' 
 
 * But, Mr. Battishill, is not this a little wandering from the 
 point ] I want a warrant for the apprehension of father and 
 son.' 
 
 * It is no wandering at all. I am explaining to you the 
 reason of my submission. I tell you that you have but to 
 pi-opose a measure, and I carry it out as best I may. Go to 
 Okehampton, and get a clerk to make out a warrant, and I 
 will sign it.'
 
 190 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 * One thing more. I do not wish Old Cobbled ick to be 
 arrested. He is too stupid and too ignorant to know what he 
 has been doing, and it must be managed that he is allowed to 
 escape, I have passed my word to Joyce that he shall not be 
 brought into trouble. Poor Joyce is in terror of her life of 
 him, and if he were to suspect that she had betrayed the secret 
 it would go hard with her.' 
 
 * Oh, no,' said Mr. Battishill, hastily ; ' Cobbledick is my 
 tenant, that is, a squatter on my land, and I must protect him 
 if I can,' 
 
 * It can be managed,' said Herring. * I will go to him, and 
 tell him plainly what I saw to-day, and threaten that I will 
 have him apprehended, unless he absents himself to-morrow, 
 and gets the Tramplaras to appoint a substitute. After that 
 I will communicate with the constable, and we shall succeed in 
 arresting gold-handed the fellow who salts the water.' 
 
 ' Poor Cobbledick ! I should be very sorry for trouble to 
 come on him. He is a beast, not a man, and these Tramplaras 
 have put him in shafts and driven him where they chose to go.' 
 
 * One thing more,' pursued Herring. ' Directly we have 
 caught the man in the act, I must ride to Launceston at full 
 speed. Old Tramplara is not here. He has gone home 
 because his daughter is about to be married ; by the way, the 
 marriage is to take place this week, I beUeve. If the news 
 were to reach him before he is arrested, he would dra,w every 
 penny of the shareholders' money from the bank, and make a 
 bolt with it. Before we knew whether he were gone to 
 Plymouth or Falmouth, he would be on the high seas, and those 
 who have invested in Ophir would lose everything.' 
 
 ' You are right, John, light again. You take eveiyone's 
 interests under your protection. I suspect there will be 
 wailing and wringing of hands when this scandal breaks on the 
 religio-speculative world.' 
 
 Herring did not see Cobbledick till next morning. After 
 the interview with Mr. Battishill, he rode into Okehampton 
 and obtained the warrant. He did not wish to speak to 
 Grizzly long before he dealt the stroke, lest he should give the 
 alarm. When he did speak, he was straightforward with him. 
 
 ' Cobbledick,' he said, ' I have long entertained suspicions 
 of Ophir, I knew it was a swindle, but how the swindling 
 was managed I did not know till yesterday. I had gone 
 through every process of the mine attentively, except one, and 
 I was satisfied that the trickery was not committed under my
 
 cobbledick's rheumatics. 191 
 
 eyes in the mine itself. There was only one process i had not 
 studied, and that was one which took place above the work- 
 ings. I allude to the letting on of the water that washes the 
 gozzen. Yesterday I watched that, hiding under a rock, and 
 1 saw you steal to the head of the launder, and I observed you 
 Baiting the water with gold-dust. Now I know exactly how 
 the fraud is carried out. Are you aware of the consequences 1 
 I have only to apply to a magistrate for a warrant, and you 
 are arrested and committed to gaol, and there you will pro- 
 bably lie for many months.' 
 
 Cobbledick's face became livid. 
 
 * I do not want to throw you into prison, partly because 1 
 believe you have acted in ignorance of what you were doing, 
 but chiefly because I wish to fix the noose round the right 
 throats.' 
 
 'Cap'n' Tramplara set me on it,' said Cobbledick; 'he 
 sed, if I didn't do 'zackly as he wanted, he'd tear down the 
 Giant's Table, and be altogether the ruin o' me. He'd got 
 that hold on Squire Battishill that he couldn't help me. Aiid 
 I did it to save myself.' 
 
 * I am quite aware that Mr. Tramplara made you his tool, 
 and I do not want you to suffer, if it can be avoided, because 
 you have been an ignorant and unwilling tool.' 
 
 ' Unwilling,' echoed Grizzly, * I'll swear ; glory rallaluley.' 
 
 * I repeat that I wish to spare you because you were an 
 ignorant tool, and also, and that especially, because of poor 
 Joyce, who would be heart-broken were anything to happen to 
 you, unnatural father though you be.' 
 
 * Ah ! sure-ly it 'ud kill Joyce. Her be that tooked up wi' 
 me, her can't abide as no harm should come to I. What 'ud 
 her do without me, I'd like to know % Where'd her get meat, 
 and clothes, and fire ? If I were tooked and put in the lock-up, 
 her'd die right on end wi' fright and hiinger.' 
 
 The mean old man enforced this view of the case, thinking 
 to deepen Herring's reluctance to compromise him. 
 
 * There may be two opinions about that,' said Herring : 
 * suffice it, however, that for the sake of Joyce I would spare 
 you. Now the only way this can be done is for you to decline 
 salting the water to-morrow, when I and other witnesses will 
 be there to see the thing done, and I shall be prepared to arrest 
 tha doer.' 
 
 * If I don't do it, then it be Joyce who does.' 
 
 ' The head of a mine bears the title of Captain.
 
 192 JOHN HERRINa. 
 
 ' But Joyce must not do it. "Who is in charge of the mine 
 this week 1 ' 
 
 * Young Sampson Tramplara.' 
 
 * Very well ; tell him that you can't be there.* 
 
 ' Ow !' yelped the old man, ' I be took already cruel wi' the 
 rheumatics. I reckon in another half a wink I shan't be able 
 to stir neither voot nor hand.' 
 
 ' So let it be. Your rheumatism incapacitates you from 
 attending to your work, and Joyce is sent far off, on an errand. 
 Then Mr. Sampson will employ another man.' 
 
 * He'll do it hisself. He don't let no one else into the 
 dodge except me and Joyce.' 
 
 * So much the better. Then we shall catch the prime 
 culprit in the act. Now, Cobbledick, you understand. Not 
 one word of this must be repeated. If you let out what I have 
 told you, then your chance of escape is gone. I shall have you 
 arrested this evening, and you will spend the night in tho 
 lock-up. You comprehend this ? ' 
 
 The old man put his dirty finger to his eye and winked. 
 * My grandfer wasn't Jonadab the son o' Rechab. I arn't a 
 vule, it be them as goes to Ophir as be the vules.' 
 
 Herring left him. Then Cobbledick's face changed. He 
 was fairly frightened. He sought Joyce at once ; no suspicion 
 crossed him that she had betrayed the secret. 
 
 ' Joyce,' he said in a hoarse whisper, * the thing's a' busted 
 blazes high.' 
 
 'What be, vaitherr 
 
 * Hophir, as they calls it. The young maister hev a found 
 out all about 'n.' 
 
 Joyce was alarmed ; she looked uneasily at her father, but 
 there was no anger in his face. 
 
 ' Joyce,' he went on, ' that old Cap'n Tramplara hev never 
 gived me what he've a promised.' 
 
 ' What hev he a promised'y % ' 
 
 * He sed he'd a give me as many pounds o' backie as I 
 worked days for he, a salting o' the water. He arn't paid me 
 not these three weeks. See here, I ha' notched it on thicky 
 fitone. Now he don't know nothing o' this here bust-up. And 
 when he do hear, then he'll not give me no backie more. And, 
 I reckon, he won't pay me that he already owes me. So you 
 cut along to Lanson so vast as your legs can carry you.* 
 
 * Vaither, I know nothing o' the road.' 
 
 * You cut right on end after the tip o' your nose,' he said,
 
 COBBLEDICK'S RnEDMATICS. 193 
 
 ' aud you cut so vast as you can. You cannot miss 'n. And 
 mind, you must get there afore the news of the bust-up do 
 come to the Cap'n, and you tell n' this 1 ** Give me the backie 
 m pounds" — that's just so many pounds as you've fingers and 
 toes on your body, and one over for your head. Now don't 
 you be a jackass and forget tliat one over. A head is every 
 juito as much consekance to a human cretur as his little tee. 
 And you say to 'n ; " Give me as mvich backie in pounds as 
 I've fingers and toes, and a head ; " and you hold'n out all 
 straight afor'n that he may count mun hisself. And 3'ou mind 
 you don't forget to reckon your head in. Then you go on and 
 say, " I'll tell'y something mighty partickler about Ophir." 
 Say as vaither sent me lopping all the way, so hard as I could 
 lop. And if he gives you the backie, then you can tell 'n all — 
 how the young maister hev found, out all about n', and be 
 agoing to lock up him and the young Cap'n Sampson in gaol. 
 But if be don't give'y the backie, then you can just please 
 yourself and tell 'n nothing. There now, don't'y bide about 
 but cut away.' 
 
 ' But you, vaither ! Will you get into trouble 1 ' 
 ' I — I'm about to be took cruel bad wi' rheumatics, and 
 what they calls the loinbagey. Now, afore you goes to Lanson, 
 just you cut down to Ophir, and tell Cap'n Sampson I wants 
 to see'n mighty partickler here to the Table.' 
 
 An hour later, young Sampson Tramplara was at the 
 cromlech. As he approached, he heard moaning and cries 
 issuing from the intei-ior. 
 
 * What the devil is the matter here 1 ' he asked, looking in. 
 * Who is that howling and gi^oaning 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, Cap'n, it be me ; I be took cruel bad wi' rheumatics 
 and the loinbagey.' 
 
 'Well, I'm not your doctor.' 
 
 *I sent to tell'y that I couldn't fulfil my duty to- day there 
 to Ophir.' 
 
 ' Then your daughter can do it.' 
 
 * Her's cfi'to Lanson.' 
 
 ' What the devil is she gone there for 1 ' 
 
 * Sure, after my backie. Your vaither he promised me a 
 pound a day for the Avork I did, and he arn't paid me for a 
 long while. Look'y there, I ha' notched it all on the stone. 
 
 . There be as many days as you have fingers and toes, and your 
 bead chucked in as well.' 
 
 'You fool ! ' exclaimed young Tramplara, 'why did yon not 
 
 ' O
 
 194 JOHN HERRINO. 
 
 apply to me, instead of sending all the way to Launceston for 
 itr 
 
 * Cos, if I'd ha' axed you, you'd ha' throwed a curse at mo 
 instead o' a pound o' backie.' 
 
 * You damned blockhead,' swore the young man, angrily. 
 
 * There — I sed as much. I'd rather hev the backie, though 
 'tother don't hurt, it only tickles.' 
 
 * Curse it,' exclaimed Sampson, in a violent rage ; * there is 
 a particular reason to-day why I want the water well salted. 
 Damn your rheumatism ; you iiiust be at your post.' 
 
 *I can't and I won't,' said Grizzly, sulkily. 
 
 *It is you won't, not you can't,' blus tered Sampson; 
 then he gathered his stick short in his hand, and catching the 
 old man by the ragged collar of his coat, he beat him well, 
 pouring forth at the same time a volley of curses. 
 
 * This is all sham ; I don't believe in your rheumatism. 
 This is idleness. You are a good-for-nothing scoundrel. I'Jl 
 give you occasion to moan and cry out,' 
 
 * You leave me alone, Cap'n,' yelled Cobbledick. * You 
 forget, I reckon, that I have got the hanging of'y in my hands.' 
 
 ' It may be so, but you forget that if I swing you swing 
 also ; one rope will do for both of us,' said Sampson. ' And 
 for that reason I do not fear you in the least. Now then, will 
 you do your work again to-day % ' 
 
 * I can't.' 
 
 * I'll give you five pounds of backie.' 
 
 * I say what I sez j I can't do it.' 
 
 * Then,' said young Sampson, ' there is Yio help for it ; J 
 must manage the job myself.' 
 
 * You'd better,' assented Grizzly ; ' if I was you, I wouldn't 
 trust nobody else.' 
 
 ' I don't mean to,' answered Sampson. He was panting 
 after the thrashing he had administered, and as he cooled he 
 began to question his discretion in giving way to his brutality. 
 * I say, Cobbledick, you mind this ; you and I and my father 
 are all in the same box, and you in the worst compartment 
 of it, for it is you who have put the dust in. My father and I 
 can always put on the look of innocence and throw the blame 
 on you. You, if the rope has to be tasted, you will have the 
 first bite.' 
 
 * I understand,' said the old man, putting his finger to his 
 aye. * Jonadab the son of Rechab weren't my father. I ain't 
 a vule ; it be they as goes to Ophir be the vules.'
 
 COBBLEMCK*S EnEUMATICS. 195 
 
 ' You won't take it ill that I thrashed you. You put me 
 out, and I am naturally of a quick temper.' 
 
 ' I say, Cap'n ; I wouldn't let none else do the job to-day. 
 I'd do it myself if I was you.' 
 
 * I intend to. I told jou I did.' 
 ' That be right. Do it yourself.' 
 
 Then young Sampson left the den. As he was turning 
 away, he thought he heard loud laughter from within. lie 
 was of a suspicious nature, and he tui'ned back. 
 
 ' What are you laughing at, Cobbledick 1 ' 
 
 * I hain't laughing ; I be screeching wi' pain. What wi* 
 the rheumatics, and the loinbagey, and the licking I ha' had, 
 I hev cause to, I reckon ; and I sez glory rallaluley between 
 the twinges by way of easement.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 CAUGHT IN THE ACT. 
 
 Whilst young Sampson was with Old Grizzly in bis den, 
 Herring was on his way down the Okehampton road to meet 
 the constable at a spot already agreed upon. When he came to 
 the point near the sti'eam where the track to Ophir diverged 
 from the high road, he found two post carriages drawn up in 
 the way, from which were descending a party of grave-looking 
 persons of a hard appearance of face, as if they were all in a 
 spiritual and mental ironmongery trade. They were under the 
 lead of the Rev. Israel Flamank, who was about to conduct 
 them over the mine. 
 
 The way to it aci-oss the moor was rough, and not good 
 travelling for a carriage. The chaises were ordered to go to 
 Zeal, and the party, well supplied with comestibles, prepared 
 to walk to Ophir, examine the washing of the gold, and then 
 picnic in a serio-speculative mood on the moor. 
 
 Mr. Flamank was a veritable decoy-duck to the Tramplaras. 
 Full of enthusiasm, earnest in belief, transparently sincere, ho 
 impressed even those who had cool judgments. He looked on 
 Ophir as his own discovery, and was proud of it. To hear him 
 talk, the Bible was written as a huge puff of Ophir, and the 
 Christian ministry called into existence to tout for shares. 
 
 Herring was slightly acquainted with him. He had seen 
 him several times at Ophir, and he knew that the mnn was 
 
 o 2
 
 196 JOHN HERKINQ. 
 
 sincere and honest. He pitied him because he saw him run- 
 ning headforemost to moral and pecuniary ruin. As he passed, 
 he raised his hat to Mr. Flamank, who responded with a few 
 words on the weather. 
 
 Herring observed him for a moment or two. Flamank was 
 an excitable little man, and was specially excited on this occa- 
 sion. On this occasion he had brought with him sevei'al men 
 of means as well as piety, whom he particularly desired to secure 
 for Ophir. Their faith was weak. They were ready enough 
 to believe, with a thin kettle-broth faith, in any folly that 
 would not cost them money, but when it came to embarking 
 capital they asked to be established in their faith. 
 
 Herring was so kind at heart that, moved by a sudden 
 impulse of pity, he resolved to give Flamank a chance of extri- 
 cating himself from the wreck, unhurt in character if not in 
 pocket. He called the pastor aside, and asked him to spare him 
 a few moments. 
 
 * I am very busy,' said the minister, looking over his 
 shoulder ; ' I have a large party here, I cannot well be spared.' 
 
 ' Sir, what I have to say to you is of the utmost import- 
 ance. Send the party on with the promise of rejoining it. 
 There is no possibility of their mistaking the way, which is 
 well trampled like that which led to the den of the sick lion.' 
 
 ' Veiy well, as you wish,' answered Israel, resignedly. 
 
 When all had departed, and Herring was quite alone with 
 Mr. Flamank, he told him everything with complete frankness, 
 and assured him of the total and irretrievable collapse of Ophir 
 within a couple of hours. To say that the pastor was aghast 
 is to understate the case ; and yet he was unable at once to 
 realise the completeness of the ruin with which he and Ophir 
 were menaced. 
 
 * Nothing will shake my faith in the Phoenicians having been 
 here,' he said. ' We are expressly told that Ophir lies between 
 Meshaw and Sheepstor, and this place is exactly halfway be- 
 tween them as the crow flies.' 
 
 * But it is a long flight for the crow, and there are many 
 other places where Ophir may be found besides this. Here we 
 have distinct evidence of dishonesty.' 
 
 ' There is evil always mixed with good, and falsehood is 
 associated with truth,' sighed Mr. Flamank. * It may be — of 
 course, as you state you have seen it, it must be — that there is 
 trickery here, but still Ophir is somewhere hereabouts.' 
 
 'That of course is possible. But we have not now to con-
 
 CAUGHT IN THE ACT. 197 
 
 gider the whereabouts of Ophir, but the whereabouts of your 
 reputation and your capital, both sunk in this swindle.' Then 
 the full truth of Herring's words came home to the Reverend 
 Israel. He sobbed and clasped his hands convulsively. * Good 
 Lord ! ' he moaned, ' avert this blow from me. I am prostrate ! 
 I do not so much mind the loss of all my little savings in- 
 trusted to Trampleasure for the purposes of the mine, as the 
 loss of my character, the ruin of my influence, the destruction 
 of my position. I have spoken and written about Ophir, and 
 induced so many to embark their little means in it ! Believing 
 widows and Christian old maids have ventured their all in 
 Ophir. I have urged them to it, assuring them it was a sound 
 venture ; I have shown them the sure word of prophecy speak- 
 ing of Ophir ; and now, what will become of them and of me ? * 
 
 * My purpose is to ride to Launceston and have old Mr. 
 Trampleasure arrested before he hears the news and can decamp 
 with the money.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Herring, what is to be done ? What can I do to 
 put myself right 1 ' 
 
 * I see one course open to you. You come with me and the 
 constable and watch the process of salting, and help us to secure 
 young Sampson Tramplara, or whoever does it. You will give 
 evidence against those who are acting fraudulently. You will 
 assist me in exposing the rascality. It will not then be pos- 
 sible for your good name to suffer, though your pocket may 
 and probably will be lighter.' 
 
 * Thank you, thank you so much, Mr. Herring,' said tha 
 unfortunate man ; ' I shall never be able to repay what you 
 are doing for me save by my prayers. I accept your proposaL 
 How is it to be carried out 1 ' 
 
 * You must go after your friends, and make some excuse 
 for deserting them. Then return to me, and I will take you 
 with me. I must start the constable, who is going to the 
 same spot by another route. Stay ! you have a brown speckled 
 shawl over your arm.' 
 
 * It belongs to a lady of my party.' 
 
 * Take it with you. Your black suit might be visible, bufc 
 enveloped in the shawl you will be unobserved amidst the 
 heather.' 
 
 The moor was clear. No one was visible on the flank of 
 Cosdon or on the hill-side opposite, as Herring and his com- 
 panion stole cautiously under cover to a place which commanded 
 the sluire. Herring placed the pastor at some distance from
 
 198 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 himself 3 he wished the constable to be with him, so that they 
 miglit make a rush together on the man they desired to take. 
 
 The constable had made a considei-able detour ; he had, in 
 fact, worked round the hill from an opposite direction. 
 Herring was on the look-out for him, and signed to him with a 
 handkerchief fluttered behind a rock where to rejoin him. 
 
 The day was bright, but a cool wind blew from the north- 
 west, rolling scattered masses of white cloud, like giant 
 icebergs floating in a polar sea. Autumn was closing in. The 
 days were shortening, the fern becoming russet, the heath had 
 lost its bells ; only a few sprigs of heather retained their harsh, 
 dry blossoms. The gorse no longer bloomed throughout, 
 though here and there one little gold flower still showed. 
 * "When the furze is out of bloom, then sweet love is out of 
 tune,' says a Devonshire proverb, which acquires its force from 
 the fact that the gorse is in flower throughout the year. The 
 whortleberry leaves were turned orange and crimson. Out of 
 the peat the coral moss showed its scarlet incrustations. 
 
 ' To my thinking,' said the constable, who found silence 
 irksome, ' the worts ' (whortleberries) ' of the wood ain't to 
 compare with the worts of the moor. The wood worts is the 
 bigger, but the moor worts is the sweeter. Do you like wort- 
 pie with clotted cream on it as thick as the pastry 1 ' 
 
 Herring nodded. 
 
 * He who don't like that don't know what good living is,' 
 said the constable. 
 
 This functionary was a stout man, with a florid face and 
 very pale blue eyes. He was silent for a while, and then he 
 began again. 
 
 * I suppose I mightn't stand up and stretch my legs,' ho 
 asked ; * I'm in such a constrained and awkerd position sitting 
 here on my 'aunches so long.' 
 
 * Certainly not,' said Herring, hastily. * I entreat you to 
 remain as you are.' 
 
 ' There was a little fellow I knowed when I was a boy in 
 Tawton — he's dead now. He had been to sea, but he warn't 
 good for much, he were so small in size. He've a told me oft 
 and oft the tale how he were tooked by pirates in the 
 Mediterranean, and sold as a slave at Morocco, in one of them 
 American States, I reckon. He said that the Moors couldn't 
 make much of 'n, he were so small. He were no good to woi-k 
 in the miues, and he were no good to wheel weights. So, as 
 they was determined to have theii' money's worth out of he,
 
 CAUGHT IN THE ACT. 190 
 
 they made 'n sit day and night in one constrained and un- 
 natteral position — hatching turkey eggs.' 
 
 Then he relapsed into silence, but not for long. 
 
 Presently he spoke again. ' I s'pose I mayn't light a pipe ? ' 
 his faint mild eyes looked pleadingly at Herring. 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 ' I didn't s'pose I might. I axed becau.se it be tedious 
 waiting. No offence meant.' 
 
 After a further weary pause, he said in an undertone — * You 
 don't think now, master, that he we be going to take will 
 prove dangerous 1 ' 
 
 ' I dare say he will show fight. If he be young Mr. 
 Sampson Tramplara, he probably will.' 
 
 * Oh ! ' the rosy apple cheeks looked less cheery. ' Look 
 here, sir ; my body be as big as a rhinoceros, but my soul be no 
 bigger than a nit. There seems a deal o' me looking at me 
 cursorily, sir ; but it ain't heart, sir, it be bacon.' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' whispered Herring, ' look out. Here comes sonio 
 one from the mine.' 
 
 * That be young Mr. Sampson Tramplara,' said the constable. 
 * From battle, murdei", and sudden death, good Lord deliver us.' 
 He spoke in an imdertone. Tlie wind blew up the valley, and 
 there was not the remotest chance of his being heard. Then 
 he added in a whisper, ' You'll mind what I said, in confidence, 
 sir, about my courage. I'll back anyone up, sir, but don't'y 
 thrust me forrard. There be divarsity of gifts, and I be 
 famous at backing.' 
 
 * Herring held up his finger. He looked in the direction of 
 Flamank, but could not distinguish him. He was among the 
 tufts of brown heather, and the speckled cloak was over him, 
 completely merging him in the bushes. 
 
 'It^eep a sharp look-out,' whispered Herring, 'and when I 
 touch you, spring up, and run with me down on Sampson 
 Trampleasure. We must not let him slip away.' 
 
 They saw the young man come stealthily up the valley, 
 looking right and left, evidently somewhat uneasy. The ' leat ' 
 or channel of water came to a grip in the moor-side, and was 
 carried over it in. a long wooden launder on daddy long-legs' 
 supports. The stream was conveyed thence, still in wood, and 
 covered, round an elbow of hiil, and reached the washing-floors 
 by a rapid incline. A wire conducted on poles from the mine 
 to the sluice let the water on without the necessity of ascend- 
 ing to the launder head, which was invisible from the mine 
 itself.
 
 200 JOHN HEHKING. 
 
 The stamping- mills were working, and the drum was 
 revolving and gi-inding. A second leat carried the water 
 to put these in motion. Herring and the constable could 
 hear the thud, thud of the hammers and the monotonoiis 
 crunching of the crusher. 
 
 Young Tramplara knelt down by the sluice, and took a 
 packet from his breast pocket. Presently the poles supporting 
 the wire creaked and swung in the direction of Ojihir, and the 
 sluice door was lifted. At once the wa,ter rushed down the 
 wooden trough, and Sampson was seen, after a furtive glance 
 round, to sprinkle the advancing stream with the contents of 
 his packet. 
 
 Herring touched the constable, and both rose and advanced 
 from behind the rock. Tramplara's back was towards them, 
 and he was iinaware of their approach. The wind was from 
 him, and he did not hear their steps. At the same time the 
 Reverend Israel Flamank rose and shook off his brown shawl. 
 Herring and the constable were within a few paces of the 
 young man, when he stood up, dusted his hands, and turned. 
 Instantly he saw them, and uttered a cry of mingled rage and 
 alarm. He turned sharply to run ; then, thinking better of 
 it, turned back again, and fxced them, and, quick as thought, 
 drew a pistol from his pocket and presented it at the head of 
 John Herring, As he tixed him with his eye, Sampson recog- 
 nised with whom he had to do, and Herring saw the flash of 
 recognition in his evil eye. ' By God ! ' said Sampson between 
 his teeth, * I am not sorry for this. I'll settle old accounts 
 with you this minute.' 
 
 Herring saw the finger twitch at the trigger, and instinc 
 tively bent his head. He heard the report at the same moment, 
 followed by a cry and a heavy fall behind him. 
 
 He was himself unhurt, and his first impulse was to close 
 with Sampson, but, turning his head, he saw the constable 
 lying motionless, and, with a call to Mr. Flamank to run after 
 Sampson, he stooped over the prostrate man. 
 
 "The constable's face was mottled ; all colour had deserted 
 it but a dead purple in blotches in the cheeks. His ej^es were 
 closed, and he was motionless. Seeing the pistol produced, the 
 worthy man had sprung behind John Herring, true to his 
 word that he was good at backing. When Herring bent his 
 head, the constable had received the charge which was designed 
 to blow out Herring's brains. 
 
 John Heri'ing scooped water out of the stream, and threw
 
 CAUGHT IN THE ACT. 201 
 
 it over the poor fellow's face. Then he tore off his neckcloth, 
 and ripped open his waistcoat in search of the wound. The 
 freshness of the water brought the man round. He opened 
 his pale eyes, looked scaredly at Herring, and closed them 
 again. 
 
 * Are you much hurt 1 Where did the shot strike ? ' asked 
 John Herring. 
 
 Again the constable opened his eyes cautiously, and now he 
 turned his head stiffly. 
 
 ' Where is he?' he asked huskily. 
 
 * He has run away. Are you seriously hurt ] * 
 
 * Yery,' sighed the poor man. 
 ' But where 1 ' 
 
 * I can't speak yet. Wait a bit, and I will tell'y.' 
 
 In the meantime Sampson Trampleasure was running. He 
 stopped his flight after he had gone some little distance, and 
 looked back. He saw Heriing bowed over the prostrate man, 
 opening his waistcoat and uncovering his breast. With a 
 curse, he turned and ran on. 
 
 Flamank, with tails flying, waving the brown shawl like a 
 lasso over his head, ran after him, shouting, ' Heigh ! stop, 
 Mr. Sampson ! stop ! You have killed the constable ! You 
 must be hung ! Stay and let me catch you ! ' 
 
 * Try to stand,' said Herring to the constable. He lifted 
 him to his feet. 
 
 * I be the father of fourteen, and another coming,' said the 
 poor man. He was dreadfully frightened ; he peered about 
 him in all directions. 
 
 ' And the eldest fifteen,' he murmured. * Be you sure the 
 murderous ruffian be out o' harm's way 1 ' 
 ' Certain. Have you been hit ? ' 
 
 * Ay, I have.' 
 'Then where?' 
 
 * Here,' said the constable, holding up his hat. 
 The baU had gone clean through it. 
 
 Just then Mr. Flamank returned, panting and very hot, 
 
 * I can't catch him. I have run and shouted my best, but 
 he would not wait to be caught.' 
 
 * He shall not escape me,' said Herring.
 
 202 JOHN nERRING. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX, 
 
 A RACE. 
 
 Sampson Trampleasure ran to the mine, burst through the 
 assembled visitors, who tried to arrest him with inquiries after 
 Mr. Flamank, and about the washings and cradlings and 
 puddlings, and the whips and whims. He had an oath and a 
 curse for all who stood in his way. He thrust to the stable, 
 where he saddled and bridled his horse, and, in another moment, 
 was galloping over the rough road. 
 
 The shocked visitors shook their heads, and concluded that 
 thei'e had been a breakage in the machinery. It did not occur 
 to them that there had been a break-up of the entire concern. 
 That fact was revealed to them later by the Rev. Israel 
 Flamank. 
 
 Sampson Trampleasure reached the Okehampton road and 
 sped along it in the Launceston direction. When he had 
 crossed the bridge over the Taw at Sticklepath, and was as- 
 cending the hill on the other side, he looked back and saw 
 some one on a grey in pursuit. He knew the grey mare— she 
 belonged to Mr. Battishill, and he was certain that John 
 Herring bestrode her. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Sampson ; ' a race between us which shall 
 reach Launceston first.' 
 
 Mr. Battishill's mare had been a good horse once, but waa 
 now old. Sampson had a young and sound cob rmder him. 
 The mare would be unable to endure so long a journey, she 
 must be exchanged at one of the next stations. Sampson knew 
 he covild keep his distance and get first to Launceston, but that 
 was not sufficient. He must delay Herring long enough to 
 allow him to see his father, and, with or without his father, 
 to leave Launceston before Herring rode through its gate. 
 Believing that he had killed a man, he was in great fear for 
 himself, and he would not have scrupled to fly Avithout warning 
 his father, but that he was unsupplied with money. He must 
 make for a seaport that same night ; an hour would suffice, if 
 he could gain that. 
 
 The sun was setting as he rode over Sourton Down. There 
 was a turnpike there. He called the man of the bar to him. 
 
 * You know me. I am Sampson Trampleasure, junior. I 
 am riding a race with a gentleman for a wager ; my horse ia 
 getting beat, and I must secure a fresh mount at Bridestowe.
 
 A RACE. 203 
 
 Here is a guinea ; I will give you four more if j'ou will delay 
 the gentleman a quarter of an hour.' 
 
 ' All right, sir ! We have to go some ways for our tea- 
 water ; I'll fasten the bar and go for mine,' 
 
 Sampson did not wait to hear how Herring was to be 
 detained ; he rode as hard as he could down the hill to Bride- 
 Btowe, and drew up at the inn door. 
 
 * Here ! ' he shouted, ' give my horse some gruel ; he is 
 beat. Have you a horse I can hire, hostler 1 Mine won't 
 carry me to Launceston.' 
 
 ' He's not done yet,' said the hostler. ' Most of our osses 
 be gone on wi' two chaises, but there be one in the stables that 
 be fresh. But how about getting of her back again ? ' 
 
 ' I'll leave mine if I take her,' said Sampson. ' I'm back 
 again to-morrow, and I'll ride her here.' 
 
 ' You can look at her,' said the hostler ; ' her ain't a beauty 
 to look at, but her can go brave enough.' 
 
 Sampson went into the stable. Presently he came out. 
 
 ' No, Daniel, I don't like her looks. Be sharp with the 
 gruel and put a quart of your strongest ale into it ; my bay will 
 carry me with that inside him.' 
 
 The hostler went leisurely about his work. 
 
 ' Daniel, this won't do. There has been a breakage at Ophir, 
 and I must be sharp amd tell my father. We must be back 
 to-morrow before daybreak, or everything will be spoiled.' 
 
 ' All right, sir; I'll look peart.' 
 
 Sampson was not satisfied with the man's undertaking to 
 look alert. He went himself to the bar and gave his bay a 
 quart of ale. 
 
 As he was galloping out of Bridestowe, he heard the clatter 
 of horse's hoofs descending the hard road from Sourton Down, 
 and he knew that Herring was at his heels. 
 
 Herring had reached the toll-gate, and found it barred. He 
 had been unable to make the man hear. He found both the 
 gate-house and bar locked. He was gi'eatly annoyed, and, 
 liding back, lashed his grey, and tried to make her leap the bar. 
 But the mare was too old and tiied to i-isk it, and she swerved. 
 Then he tried to get round by a side lane, and through fields, 
 but found this also impracticable. Full a quarter of an hour 
 passed before he could get through. The man arrived at last, 
 put do^vn his water-can, and leisurely unfastened the bar. 
 Herring was in too great haste to waste time in remonstrance. 
 
 The grey was failing ; she tripped, and almost fell several
 
 204 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 times in descending the hill to Bridestowe. He drew rein at 
 the inn, and called, ' Hostler ! here, I say i ' 
 ' All right, sir.' 
 
 * Have you a spare horse 1 I must ride on at once,' 
 
 ' There've a been a gent here already inquiring,' said DanieL 
 * Be you come from the same quarter 1 ' 
 
 * I want a horse at once. I have no time for answering 
 questions.' 
 
 ' Because, if you be,' continued Daniel, composedly, ' there 
 be no 'urry. The gent, that be young Mr. Tramplara, have a 
 gone ahead already with the news. He says he must tell his 
 father at once, and they'll be back early to-morrow morning.' 
 
 ' Have you a horse, or not ? ' 
 
 * He sed, afore daybreak. Them was his very words.' 
 Herring was out of his saddle. ' The grey cannot go on. 
 
 You must let me have a horse.' 
 
 ' This grey ain't got the go in her like the bay Maister Tram- 
 plara rode. How old be her 1 ' 
 
 ' Never mind the age.' He drew the fellow's hand away aa 
 he was turning up the lips to examine the teeth. ' Is there a 
 horse available ? ' 
 
 ' There be one, sure,' answered Daniel ; * I offered her to the 
 young Maister Tramplara, but he wouldn't have her. Her's 
 not so bad to go, but the looks of her ain't nothing to boast of.' 
 
 ' Off with the saddle and bridle, and bring her round.' 
 
 The hostler, a little man, with his toes turned in, very broad 
 in body but short in stature, scuffled into the stable, and was a 
 long time before he reappeared. Herring was impatient. He 
 took a glass of cyder at the bar, and then went to the stable and 
 met the little man coming out. 
 
 ' There be summat the matter wi' the oss,' he said. * Her's 
 lame. Bide a wink, and I'll fetch a lantern.' 
 
 After having found a lantern, adjusted a tallow candle in 
 the socket, and lighted it, Daniel went with Herring into the 
 stable. The horse that was so good to go could not go a step. 
 She was dead lame. 
 
 * Here,' said Herring ; ' hold the light. Take the candle out 
 of the lantern, and I'll turn up her hoofs. There it is ! ' 
 
 A knife-blade had been driven into the frog of the off front 
 hoof, and snapped short in it. 
 
 * Is the Squire home at Lea "Wood ] * asked HeiTing. He 
 Bet his teeth, and his brow contracted ; his blood was up. 
 
 * I reckon he be, unless he be away,' answered Daniel.
 
 A RACE. 205 
 
 Hening ran to his grey, re-saddled her, and rode out of the 
 village to the house, situated a mile outside. He rang the bell, 
 and asked to be allowed to see Mr. Hamlyn for a moment, and 
 the Squire came to him in the hall. Herring told his story — 
 that he was in pursuit of a man, with a wan-ant for his appre- 
 hension in his pocket. He drew it forth. He related how the 
 horse had been wilfully lamed at the post-house to arrest him, 
 and he begged to be allowed the use of one of the Squire's horses. 
 His request was at once and readily granted. In a quarter cif 
 an hour he was well-mounted on a fine horse — Squire Hamlyn 
 was noted for his good horses — a horse perfectly fresh, and was 
 in full and fast pursuit. * If I do not catch you now,' said 
 Hening, laughing bitterly, ' it will not be my fault.' 
 
 But much time had been lost. It was already dusk. In 
 another half-hour it would be dark. The heavy clouds that had 
 rolled in broken masses through the sky all day had spread out 
 over the entire surface, and obscured all light from the stars. 
 Only to the west the declining day looked wanly over the ragged 
 fringe of Cornish moorland heights. The road was no longer 
 over open doAvn, but ran between hedges, with trees on both 
 sides. It lay in valleys with high hills well wooded folding 
 round ; the hUls cut off the light, the dark foliage absorbed it. 
 Sampson Tramplara was pushing on as well as he could, but his 
 bay was feeling the length of the journey and the pace. 
 
 * Get out of the i-oad, confound you ! ' shouted Sampson, as 
 a. dark figure was overtaken and made his horse swerve. ' What 
 the devil do you mean by not standing aside 1 ' Sampson had 
 a hunting whip, his hand through the loop. He lashed at the 
 foot-traveller, as he trotted by, with an oath. It was too dark 
 for him to discern a face, but he saw that the person was a 
 woman. It did not matter, the lash had curled round her. She 
 must learn a lesson — so hard to teach women and pigs — that 
 ■when a rider is in the road she must get on one side. He could 
 not have hurt her, as she uttered no cry. Sampson was with- 
 out spurs, but he dug his heels into the flanks of his bay and 
 urged him on to a canter. Then he heard distinctly the clatter 
 of horse-hoofs coming along the road at a good pace — at a gallop. 
 Herring had got a fresh mount, and would be up with him in 
 ten minutes. His bay oould not get on faster — that was impos- 
 sible. What was to be done ? ' 
 
 Sampson looked back along the road. He could no longer 
 see the foot-passenger. She had doubtless gone down a side 
 lane. There was light enoucrh for him to see that the road wa^
 
 206 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 clear. He had ctme to a place where heavy oak woods closed 
 in on the highway, and the trees overarched making it doubly 
 obscure. If Herring was to be stayed, this was the place, now 
 was the time; in another ten minutes it would be too late. 
 Further on the road would be lighter and less solitary. 
 
 Quick as thought, Tramplara dismounted and led his horse 
 along the road to a gate. He unfastened the gate, and took the 
 i)ay through into the wood, where he tied him up behind the 
 hedge. Then he unhinged the gate — it was a large five-barred 
 gate — and with some little effort carried it into the road, and 
 threw it do^yn across it. 
 
 He looked at his legs ; he wore light tight breeches — they 
 would be seen if he stood aside in the hedge, waiting the result. 
 So he went through the gateway and leaned his back against 
 the post, standing inside with his arms folded. If there had 
 been sufficient light, and anyone had been there to note his 
 f ice, an ugly smile would have been seen covering it. ' By 
 God,' he muttered, ' he escaped me once to-day : this time ho 
 shall not escape.' 
 
 He heard the tramp of the horse approach nearer ; it was 
 descending a hill, and muffled, then ascending the next. 
 Herring's voice was audible, cheering on his horse. Not 
 another sound but the rush of the Lew Water, a petty river, 
 KAN'irling over its stony bed, and breaking against snags of 
 timber that had fallen from the banks. 
 
 Yes ! a night-jar in the v/^ood screeched ; then was silent, 
 then screeched again intermittently, as though signalling danger. 
 
 Late in the year though it was, close to Sampson, was a 
 glow-worm. The light annoyed him. He could distinguish 
 by it the crane's-bill leaf on which the insect sat. He put up 
 his foot and broke down the earth, and then stamped it and the 
 liuninous little creatiu'e together. Through the interstices of 
 the clouds one star was visible. He would have torn it out of 
 tlio sky and stamped it to darkness in the mire, if he could 
 have reached it. 
 
 Louder, more distinctly, came the clatter of hoofs. The 
 road was level, and the pace of the horse accelerated. ' On, old 
 fellow, we shall soon be up with him !' 
 
 Sampson heard Herring's voice almost in his ear. His 
 heart gave a bound, and then — a cry, a crash, and, for a 
 moment, silence. 
 
 ' The gate has done it,' said Sampson Tramplara, stepping 
 lightly into the road.
 
 A RACE. 207 
 
 He was right ; the gate had done it. The horse had been 
 spnrred on to a good speed, and neither he nor his rider had 
 noticed the obstruction till the poor brute's legs were between 
 the rails, and he was down and floundering. Herring was flung, 
 and lay his length on the road. Sampson went up to him ; ho 
 was unconscious. Then Sampson tui-ned his attention to the 
 horse. 
 
 'Where did Herring get this brute?' he asked. 'He'll do 
 for me, if he has not hurt himself. Come up, old fellow, don't 
 lie and go to sleep there.' 
 
 He took the reins, and brought the horse up on his 
 haunches, but the poor animal was unable to stand. He had 
 broken or severely injured one foot. 
 
 ' No good to me,' said Sampson ; * lie as you are. I must 
 force my bay to go on.' 
 
 He went back to Herring, and stood over him, a foot on 
 each side. Then he drew the pistol out of his pocket. 
 
 ' This time you shall not escape me,' he said with an oath ; 
 * I'll take precious good care of that.' And he put the muzzle of 
 his weapon to the ear of the unconscious man. 'Ah! you're 
 deaf enough now, but I'll bark into your ear such a bark as 
 will make you jump into eternity. I reckon I have done for 
 one man to-day, and if I have to run at all, I may as well run 
 for tAvo as for one.' 
 
 He drew the trigger, but no report followed. 
 
 ' Curse it ! ' he said, and flung the weapon on the road ; ' I 
 forgot I had already fired it off, and haven't had time to load 
 again.' He paused, still astride over Hei-ring. 'It is just as 
 well,' he said ; ' I can beat your brains out as well as blow 
 them out, and then no one will know but what you smashed 
 your skull in jonr fall. Where's that pistol ? ' 
 
 He turned to look for it where he had throAvn it. It 
 was too dark for him to see, so he groped in the road till he 
 found it. 
 
 Then he came back to Herring, lying unconsciovis and with- 
 out motion. 
 
 *I wonder is he dead already?' he said, and felt him, and 
 put his hand to his heart. 
 
 * He's alive for the moment,' mvittered Sampson, * but not 
 enjoying life now, nor like to have another and a sweeter taste 
 of it. So, my boy — one for Ophir — one for me — and one for 
 Mirelle ! You threatened to break a ruler across my head, did 
 you 1 I'll break something a deal harder over yours, or batter
 
 208 JOKI>i HERRING. 
 
 yours in.' He drew a long breath and raised his hand, holding 
 the pistol by the muzzle. ' Ready,' he shouted ; ' here goes ! — 
 one for ' 
 
 A scream of fury and fear combined, the scream of a beast 
 rather than of a human being, and, in a moment, some one was 
 on him, grasping his arm, and wrapping him round in rags 
 rank with peat smoke. He could hardly make out who or 
 what ]iad grappled with him. He tried to disengage himself, 
 but the hands, with long nails like claws, tore at him, and the 
 rags entangled his arms, and the hoarse, discordant shrieks in 
 his ear deafened, bewildered him. 
 
 Had a scarecrow assumed life, or leaped on'liim from a 
 field, to arrest his murderous hand, or had some spectre of the 
 wood, some dead creature, risen out of the leaf-mould that had 
 covered it to attack him 1 For a moment fear curdled his 
 heart's blood and paralysed his arm ; and the creature, what- 
 ever it was, took advantage of the moment to wrench the whip 
 out of his hand. 
 
 * I'll kill you ! I'll rip your heart and liver out vn' my 
 nails. I'll bite my way through to 'em ' 
 
 Then Sampson recovered himself. He knew with whom 
 he had to do. 
 
 'Keep off, Joyce, you fool!' he shouted, and thrust her 
 from him with a blow. But like a tiger she leaped at him 
 again, and bit at his hand and screamed. In her mad fury she 
 could scarce form and utter Avords. Sampson Tramplara backed 
 to the gate, defending himself with his pistol. He struck her 
 rep&atedly, but she felt nothing. If he had cut her with a 
 knife she would not have known it, dominated as she was by 
 her fury. 
 
 ' You fool, Joyce, let me alone, or I ^vill kill you !' 
 
 * You've killed the maister, you've killed 'n. I'll tear you 
 to bits, I will.' 
 
 * Stand back ! look to your master. If you want him to 
 live, you must mind him at once.' 
 
 That answered ; that alone could have answered. 
 
 She drew back. 
 
 ' I'll see,' she said ; * if you've killed 'n, you'll niver escape 
 me. I'll hunt you over airth and under water ; I'll go after'y 
 through tho very fire. You'll not escape me. I'll see if he be 
 alive or dead, but happen what may,' she said, and raised his 
 whip over her head, ' you shall take that for a first taste.' 
 Then she brought the lash down with all the weight of her
 
 1 RACE. 209 
 
 arm, and the force her fury lent her, across his face. The lash 
 cut it, and he staggered back and put his hands over his eyes, 
 and cried out with pain. Then she stepped back to where 
 Herring lay in the road. Young Tramplara stood for a 
 moment, blinded with the blow and convulsed with rage. His 
 first impulse M'as to rush after her and beat her down and 
 stamp the life out of her. But prudence prevailed; he took 
 the opportunity to unhitch his horse, mount, and i-ide away. 
 
 Joyce flung herself in the road beside Herring. All the 
 rage and roughness went out of her instantly. She felt him, 
 to find if his bones were broken. Then she drew him up and 
 laid his head in her bosom, and listened for his breath. 
 
 ' My maister ! my dear, dear maister ! ' she cried, between 
 fear and tears. * My darling, my darling maister ! speak now_. 
 epeak, do'yV 
 
 She rocked hei-self from side to side, moaning, swaying his 
 head in her arms. 
 
 ' Oh, maister, maister ! what can I do 1 ' She put her 
 mouth to his, and breathed into his lungs the contents of her 
 own. ' I'll give'y all the life that be in me, and welcome, if 
 only I can make thee open your eyes again. You must not die. 
 Speak, and let me know that you hear me. It be Joyce, your 
 own poor Joyce, that has'y, and is a rocking of'y, and calling 
 of'y to wake up. Maister, darling maister, do'y hear mo ? 
 None shall touch you but me. I'll die afore I lets another 
 near'y.' Then her tears broke forth ; she felt her utter help- 
 lessness. ' They'll be coming for to take'y away, but they shall 
 not do it.' She laid him back in the road, then stood uji, 
 removed the gate, and put it in its place; and then lifting 
 Herring, she partly carried, partly drew him away, through tho 
 gate-opening into the wood ; there she could hide both him and 
 herself. 
 
 She took him again in her arms, swayed herself to and fro, 
 moaning and then breaking into snatches of song. In the wood 
 she resolved she would remain ; no one should take him from her. 
 If he were dead, there he should lie, dead, in her arms, on her 
 lap, and she would sit over him watching and waiting patiently 
 till she died also, and the leaves came down — copper-gold off 
 the beech, and russet-brown off the oak — and buried them 
 together. 
 
 But no ! no ! — he must not die ! What could she do for 
 him? He had known exactly what was right to do for her 
 when * she were all a broked in pieces.' He had known how 
 
 p
 
 210 JOHN HEREING. 
 
 to mend her, so that now she was well and strong again. But 
 then he was a * skollard,' and she — she was but a poor ignorant 
 savage. What should she do 1 Go to a cottage and ask that 
 he might be taken in there 1 Her heart shrank from this. She 
 could not breathe in a house. There, others would surround 
 him, and she would be thrust out. No ! she would nurse him 
 there, under the sky and the green trees, where the wind blew, 
 and the grass sprang up, and the birds sang. All at once a 
 thought struck her. In her sense of loneliness, helplessness, 
 misery, an unutterable yearning came over her for some help 
 that she could not define, not even understand. It was a vaguo 
 effort of the poor dumb soul within to articulate a cry for help 
 to — she knew not whom. She threw herself on her knees 
 beside the body, and stretched her arms from which depended 
 the wretched rags torn to shreds, upwards towards the sky, and 
 raised her face, quivering with agony, and cried hoarsely, again 
 and again — * Our Vaither — kinkum-kum — kinkum-kum ! 
 Glory rallaluley ! ' 
 
 The star that Sampson Tramplara had seen and would have 
 stamped out was shining aloft, and it smote through the leafy 
 vault over her head, and sparkled in the tears that streamed 
 over her cheeks. 
 
 So, throughout the night, she rocked her burden, and 
 moaned, and pressed it to her bosom, and then knelt and wept, 
 and cried — * Kinkum-kum ! Kinkum-kum I * 
 
 CHAPTEE XXX. 
 
 BETWEEN CUP AND LIP. 
 
 That same evening which had seen Herring flung senseless in 
 the road was to decide the fate of Orange Tramplara. She was 
 to be married that evening to Captain Trecarrel in the little 
 chapel at his place. A dispensation had been obtained from 
 the bishop (in ^Jffr^ii?^^) to allow of the celebration out of 
 canonical hours. The reason for this was that a priest was on 
 his way to Plymouth from Camelford, and would arrive only 
 in the afternoon — indeed, somewhat into the evening — by 
 coach, and he would have to proceed very early next morning 
 on his way to Plymouth. Consequently, the only manner in 
 which it was convenient for the pair to receive the nuptial 
 benediction from a Catholic priest va? for the function to take
 
 BETWEEN CUP AND LIP. 211 
 
 place in the chapel at Trecarrel that evening somewhat late. 
 On the morrow the Protestant ceremony was to be performed 
 in Launceston parish church, followed by the wedding break- 
 fast. Thus it happened that, about the time the accident — if 
 accident it maybe called —happened to John Herring, as related 
 in the last chapter, Orange was di'essing for the marriage cere- 
 mony that was to take place in the Catholic chapel at Tre- 
 carrel, and Mirelle was assisting her, at Orange's special 
 request, 
 
 Mirelle was not to be a bridesmaid. Orange had asked her 
 to be one ; she could not Avell have failed to do so ; but Mirelle 
 had declined, and the request had not been urged. Mirelle was 
 glad to escape thvis. She would have to be present daring the 
 ceremony at Trecan-el, but she would kneel in some shady 
 corner, where her face could not be seen and her tears noticed. 
 Slirelle had passed a trying time. A weight lay on her heart 
 which she was unable to shake off. Even Mrs. Trampleasure 
 had observed the change in her appearance : the sunken eyes, 
 and the transparency of her cheek ; but Mii-elle had explained 
 this by the cUmate, which affected her. She had been accus- 
 tomed to sun. Cloud and rain depressed her, and affected 
 both her health and her spirits. Orange was elated ; victory 
 was all but achieved. In a few hours she would be Mrs. Tre- 
 carrel of Trecarrel, and be translated to another sphere from 
 that in which circled her father and mother. Miss Bowdler, and 
 the Reverend Flamank. Bah ! her bridesmaids expected to 
 be made much of after she was lady of Trecarrel, to be invited 
 to her dances, to meet county people at her receptions, to be 
 still * Dear Jane,' and ' Darling Sophy,' and ' My sweet Rose.' 
 They were very much mistaken. Once she had risen to her 
 new perch she would peck at every presumptuous fowl that 
 aspired to sit beside her. 
 
 ' Mrs. Trecarrel of Trecaixel ! ' repeated Orange, as she sur- 
 veyed herself in the glass. She would become her station, 
 with her proud, handsome face and erect bearing. She had 
 the figure and the dignity of a duchess. At least she supposed 
 she had. That she was a fine woman could not be disputed, 
 with a swelling bust, large and luscious eyes, a bright colour, 
 ripe and sensuous lips, and magnificent dark, glossy, and abund- 
 aiat hair. A slight down, not enough to disfigure, showed on 
 her upper lip — the badge of a wai-m and passionate nature. 
 
 * Father wdl be too much engaged to worry me,' she thought, 
 *and mother's cold will keep her from wetting her feet at Tre- 
 
 p2
 
 212 JOHN HEKRING. 
 
 fjarrel. That is a comfort. As for Sampson, he shall not cross 
 jDQy threshold, unless I invite him to shoot rabbits when I am 
 sure no gentleman will be present.' 
 
 Mirelle was engaged on the rich but coarse hair of Orange. 
 The delicate white fingers trembled, and were less skilful than 
 usual. 
 
 * Really, Mirelle, you are clumsy this evening,' said Orange; 
 *you pull my hair and hurt me.' She looked befoie her into 
 the glass. 
 
 * Are you crying, child 1 ' 
 
 * No, Orange.' 
 
 * I thought I saw something glistening in your eye.' 
 Mirelle had the strength to repress her tears. She devoted 
 
 her whole attention to that on which she was engaged. 
 
 ' You wiU come occasionally and see me,' said Orange. * 1 
 shall be so pleased to show you all I am doing; and I am 
 cei'tain the Captain will be delighted. Now, don't run the hair- 
 pins into my head ! I tell you, you hurt me. Really, Mirelle, 
 you are very clumsy. What alls you this evening 1 ' 
 
 Mirelle made no reply. 
 
 * Try on the orange-wreath and the veil, child,' said Miss 
 Trampleasure. 
 
 ]\Iirelle took up the wreath and adjusted it. 
 
 ' The Captain has always been partial towards you,' con- 
 tinued Orange. She was aware that what she said gave pain, 
 but then, what triumph is complete without the infliction of 
 wounds and agonies 1 
 
 * Do you not think Harry is a handsome man 1 I do not 
 believe I have ever seen, even in a Avoman, such beautiful and 
 expressive eyes. There, Mirelle, is a pin with a large Cornish 
 crystal in the head ; put it in my hair and fasten my wreath 
 with it.' 
 
 Mirelle did not, could not, speak. It was as much as she 
 could do to maintain the mastery over her feelings. 
 
 * Do you know, you palefixced witch, I was at one time 
 almost jealous of you. I thought the Captain was attentive to 
 you — more attentive than he ought to be, and that you were 
 trying to draw him away from me. Of course that was natural. 
 Every girl begrudges another her lover, and would rob her of 
 him if she could. It is a natural instinct. But Harry never 
 
 really cared for you ; he told me so ; he was only playing 
 
 Good heavens, Mirelle ! ' Orange sprang up, and the tears, tears 
 of pain, started into her eyes. In a moment, in a flash of
 
 BETWEEN CUP AND LIP. 213 
 
 passion, she struck INIirelle on the cheek with her open 
 hand. 
 
 * Do you know what you have done 1 Yon have run the pin 
 into my head. Look — look!' She snatched off her veil. 'How 
 can I wear this ] There is a spot of blood on it.' 
 
 Then Mirelle burst into tears. She had an excuse for them 
 — she had been struck. 
 
 ' I am sorry,' said Orange ; * but really you hurt me. Look 
 at the blood, and convince yourself. I did not mean to strike 
 you ; but the pain was sharp, and I forgot myself. Do control 
 yourself. Hark ! I hear horses' feet. The carriage will be here 
 directly, and we shall start for Trecarrel. Dry your eyes and 
 control your feelings. You must not let people see that you have 
 been crying, or they will say ' — her malice gained the mastery 
 once more — 'that you loved the Captain, and were envious of 
 me.' 
 
 Mirelle covered her face. 
 
 * Of course,' said Orange, looking hard at her, with her red 
 lips twitching, 'there is not a shadow of truth in this ; still, 
 tongues are sharp and venomous, and such things will be said if 
 you give occasion for them.' 
 
 Mirelle stood up, proud, cold, and impassive. In a moment 
 she had conquered her feeHngs. Her pride was touched, and 
 that recovered her. 
 
 ' No one shall dare to say such things of me,' she answered. 
 ' Sit down, and I will finish your toilette.' 
 
 The hoofs on the gravel that Orange had heard were those 
 of Sampson's bay, now utterly tired out, and scarce able to 
 carry his master up the steep ascent from the valley of the 
 Tamar. 
 
 He sprang out of his saddle, and burst into the hall as his 
 mother descended the stairs in a stiff myrtle green satin dress, 
 with a cap on her head adorned with rose-coloured bows. 
 
 * Where is my father t ' asked Sampson, abruptly. 
 
 * He is dressed, Sampy darling, and in the parlour. I'm 
 going in there too. We expect the carriage shortly. The 
 bridesmaids will be picked up at their own doors, but our car- 
 riage is coming here.' 
 
 He did not wait to hear her, but rushed into the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 ' By Grogs ! Sampy,' exclaimed Mr. Trampleasure, ' what 
 brings you here ? I thought you were to remain in charge at 
 Oiihir, and give us your visits, as the wisest of men said, like
 
 214 JOHN HERRINGf. 
 
 angel visits, few and far between. I want you there, and not 
 here, boy.' 
 
 ' Father, I must speak with you instantly, and alone,' he 
 added, as he saAV his mother come rustling and sniffing in at the 
 door. * Let us go into the office.' 
 
 * Nothing wrong with Ophir, lad, eh ? ' asked the old man, 
 his colour changing. 
 
 ' Everything,' answered Sampson. ' For heaven's sake lead 
 on. Not a moment is to be lost.' 
 
 Mr. Tram pleasure was arrayed in evening dress, with a very 
 white tight neckcloth, and very stiff projecting frills to his 
 shirt. He was in a fine black cloth dress coat. His hair was 
 as white as his frills. He took up a plated branch candlestick, 
 and led the way. His hand shook. 
 
 ' Take care, Tram, darling,' said Mrs. Trampleasure, ' you 
 be a joggling of the wax all over the carpet, and it do take a time 
 getting of it out with a hiron and blotting paper.' 
 
 He opened the door of the office and went in. He had been 
 working, and smoking, and drinking there that afternoon ; 
 there was a fire burning red on the hearth. The room reeked 
 with rum and tobacco. 
 
 The old man put the candle down, and then stayed himself 
 with one hand on the table. ' By Grogs ! ' he said, ' you've 
 given me a turn, Sampy. What do you mean by saying that 
 everything is wrong with Ophir 1 ' 
 
 * I mean what I say,' answered the young man. ' Ophir is 
 smashed up. That cursed fool Herring has found all out. 
 Flamank knows also. They saw me salting the stream.' 
 
 The old man's face turned purple. 
 
 * That's not the worst — there's worse behind,' continued 
 young Sampson. He hesitated a moment, and looked at his 
 father. Mr. Trampleasure was feeling about him with the 
 disengaged hand for his arm-chair. He gripped the table with 
 the left. He tried to speak ; he opened his mouth and shut 
 it again. It was horrible to see him, like a fish, gasping, 
 and nothing proceeding from his lips. ' It must come out. 
 But first ; father — we shall have to rvin for it. I especially. 
 Where is the money 1 ' 
 
 The old man pointed with a faltering hand in the direction 
 of a strong box, let into the wall. Then he put his hand in 
 his pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys. He tried to indi- 
 cate a single key, but could not take his other hand from the 
 table. The bunch fell on the floor.
 
 BETWEEN CUP AND LIP. 215 
 
 All riglit, governor,' said Sampson. * Now I will tell you 
 the worst, and a cursed ugly worst it is. You may as well hear 
 it from me as from another. I must be ofF to-night — at once ; 
 you suit your convenience. Do as you like. You have nothing 
 to fear but the stone jug ; I the wooden horse. I have shot 
 one man dead to-day, the constable, and broken the neck of 
 another, John Herring, so the two can keep each other com 
 pany ; and I must make off.' 
 
 Then old Trampleasure dropped like a stone on the floor. 
 There came a sudden blow within his head, as from a hammer, 
 and he saw nothing more. 
 
 Sampson stood over him for a moment. No time was to 
 be lost. Every minute was important. Whatever happened 
 to his father, he — Sampson — must get clear away. He saw in 
 a moment wliat had occurred ; his father had been struck down 
 with an apo;)lectic fit, and could not escape. Time was too 
 precious to be wasted in attending to him. He could not afford 
 to call for assistance. He stooped and took up the bunch of 
 keys, and went to the strong box. Without much difficulty he 
 unlocked it, and fell to wondering over his father's wisdom. 
 
 Old Trampleasure had feared discovery, and was prepared 
 for a sudden emergency. All the money that had come into 
 his hands had been reduced to the most portable form possible, 
 in hundred-pound, fifty-pound, and ten-pound notes. There 
 they lay in thick packets : Sampson took them all. He left 
 not one behind, and stowed them away in a travelling valise of 
 his father's, which the old man took with him when he went to 
 Ophir for a few days. 
 
 Then Sampson opened the private door of the office, and, 
 without another look at the old man lying prostrate, darted 
 forth. 
 
 ' What a time them two are in there together ! ' grumbled 
 Mrs. Trampleasure ; ' and, oh dear ! there comes the chaise to 
 take U3 to Trecarrel.' She ran to the foot of the stairs, and 
 called, ' Orange dear ! Orange ! the carriage be here ! ' 
 
 *I am ready, mother,' answered the bride, descending. 
 
 The hall was well lighted ; and as she came down, followed 
 by Mirelle, she looked radiant, proud, triumphant. She waved 
 back Mirelle, lest she should step on her veil, with an angry, 
 insolent gesture. 
 
 * My word, Orange ; you are a beauty 1 I'll run and call 
 your father.' 
 
 But he was beyond call.
 
 .916 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Joyce's patient. 
 
 Joyce and her patient could not i-emain concealed. Her cries 
 had been heard when she fell — literally tooth and nail — ou 
 Sampson Tramplara, and those who heard them, being super- 
 stitious, thought best to keep away from the s^Xit whence they 
 had sounded. 
 
 Later in the evening the farmer of Coombow, coming homt 
 from a cattle fair, heard the moans and wailing in the wood, 
 and was greatly scared by the injured horse, which had thrust 
 itself into the hedge. So sincerely alarmed was he, and so 
 thoroughly did his account of what he had heard and seen 
 frighten his household, that not one of his sons — no, not all of 
 them in phalanx, armed with pitchforks and lighted by Ian- 
 thorns, would venture that night into the high road to ascertain 
 the cause of the alarm. 
 
 With morning, however, courage came, and early, when the 
 day began to break, nearly the entire household, male and 
 female, went out to see whether there was any natural explana- 
 tion to be found for those things that had, in the darkness, so 
 scared Farmer Facey. 
 
 The horse was found. 
 
 ' Why, I'm blessed if this hain't Squire Hamlyn's roan ! ' said 
 the farmer. * I ought to know 'n, becos I reared 'n. Now this 
 be reg'lar curious.' 
 
 Joyce had been unable to retire with her burden far into 
 the wood. The hillside was steep, and she could not carry the 
 unconscious load far up. She had attempted to do so, fearing 
 lest she should be seen, but when she raised him he moaned 
 with pain. She was like & cat playing with a dead bird, putting 
 it down, then lifting it and carrying it away, then putting it 
 down again. 
 
 It was not long before she was discovered and surrounded. 
 
 ' Who is he? How comes he here 1 How did this happen? 
 Why didn't you bring him to the farm 1 ' 
 
 Questions were poured upon her. She looked about her 
 angrily, suspiciously, as a cat would look when surrounded with 
 those who, she thinks, will deprive hei* of her bird, or at leagt 
 dispute her sole possession of it.
 
 Joyce's patient. 217 
 
 ' He be mine. I found 'n ; I saved 'n. Capt'n Sampson 
 Tramplara would ha' killed 'n, but I prevented 'n.' 
 ' But who is he ? ' 
 
 * He he the maister. He mended me when I were gone 
 scatt. Nobody shan't so much as touch 'n. I've got 'n fast, 
 and I'll care for 'n, that I will ! There, you can go, and leave us 
 alone here. What be you a bothering here for ] I didn't call'y.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! He must be taken into a house and put to 
 bed,' said Mrs. Eacey. ' Poor soul ! Dear alive ! ' 
 
 ' He shan't go under no house. If he goes anywhere, he 
 shall go home.' 
 
 * Where is his home 1 ' 
 
 « Where should it be but West Wyke ] ' 
 
 « What ! West Wyke in South Tawton 1 ' 
 
 ' Surely. Where else should it be. It don't jump about, 
 now here, now there, I reckon.' 
 
 After much difficulty with Joyce, who was unreasonable in 
 her jealousy and suspicion, it was decided that the farmer should 
 send a waggon well bedded with straw, and that Joyce should 
 be conveyed in this, with the still insensible man in her arms, 
 to West Wyke. 
 
 There was no medical man nearer than Okehampton, and 
 West Wyke was not as distant from Okehampton as Coombow, 
 the place where they were. 
 
 ' I arn't got no money,' said Joyce, * but I'll pay you for the 
 waggon, sure enough.' 
 
 * I do not expect payment,' said Farmer Facey, in a mildly 
 deprecatory tone — a tone that implied he would yield the point 
 if pressed. ' I dare say the gentleman, when he gets well, will 
 remember me. And if he don't, well — he'll be sure to have 
 relations as will do what be proper and respectable.' 
 
 ' It be I,' said Joyce, defiantly, * it be I as has to pay, and 
 blast me blue if I don't ! ' 
 
 ' Where will the money come from ! ' asked Facey, survey- 
 ing her rags. 
 
 * I'll pay wi' thicky arms,' said Joyce, thrusting forth her 
 hands. * See ! is there a man among you can work as I can 1 
 When the young maister be well, then, sure, I'll come and work 
 for'y two months by the moon, I will, for the loan of the waggon 
 to-day ; and I'll ax for no meat nor no housing. I'll feed my- 
 self, and I'll sleep where I can, in the open air.' 
 
 ' Her must be one of the Nymet savages, sure-ly,' said the 
 farmer, io an undertone, to bis wife.
 
 218 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 Joyce's ears were keen, and she heard him. 
 
 ' What if I be a savage ? ' she asked. ' I hain't like mun 
 [thera] to Nymet. Them be proper savages. Vaither be a 
 head above they. He hev a got Avhat he may call hi^ own.' 
 
 The Avaggon was brought to the place, and two men lifted 
 Herring into it. Joyce climbed in, and, after having seated 
 herself in the straw, took him again in her arms. 
 
 ' If the cart go over rough stones, it shall joggle me,' shft 
 Baid ; ' I'll hold'y, maister dear, that yon shan't feel it.' 
 
 * I say, maiden,' said Farmer Eacey, looking over the rail of 
 the waggon as they were about to start, * when the young gen- 
 tleman gets better, just tell him he was took home in Farmer 
 Facey's waggon, with his team and horseman, Farmer Facey, to 
 Coombow. He might like to know, you see, and, being a gentle- 
 man, as I take it, he won't forget.' 
 
 Just as the cart was off, he called to the driver, * Stay a bit, 
 Jim ! I think I'll take a lift, too, as far as to Bridestowe, and 
 I'll just up and see the Squire. I'll tell him what has happened 
 to poor Major ; and, as it chances, I've another horse out of the 
 same mare I can sell 'n — a tidy sort of a dark roan, you minds 
 'n, Jim. Mebbe we'll strike a bai-gain. I'll go wi' you now on 
 the chance.' 
 
 At Bridestowe the waggon came to a long halt. Farmer 
 Facey descended ; the driver was thirsty. He had much to 
 tell. A crowd gathered round the cart. Daniel, the hostler, 
 climbed up the wheel to look into the face of Hemng, and 
 would have mounted the waggon, had not Joyce beat him off 
 with Sampson's whip. 
 
 * Sure it be he, poor young man,' said Daniel. ' I know by 
 token he forgot to chuck me a sixpence last night. 'Tis he as 
 wont after the Squire's horse. How came this about 1 Do'y 
 say as Major hev a foreleg broke? Well, now, Loramussy! how 
 can that have happened? The young gent may come round 
 right enough, but the oss — he must be shot. 'Tis a thousand 
 pities.' 
 
 * There be nothing happens but what be good for trade,' ob- 
 served Farmer Facey. 
 
 ' You're right there, maister ! ' answered Daniel. * There's 
 not a sparrer falls, nor an oss breaks his knees, nor gets spavined, 
 but what it be good for them as is vetinaries, or has osses to 
 sell. And it be the same wi' 'uman beings ; them goes scatt at 
 times, and it be for the good o' the doctors. So the Lord sends 
 to every man his meat.'
 
 Joyce's patient. 219 
 
 * But how did it come about 1 ' This was a question asked 
 of Joyce repeatedly. But Joyce was uncommunicative. She 
 kept her eyes fixed on the face of the injured man, and only now 
 and then turned them Avith a sharp, defiant glance at anyone 
 who approached too near. 
 
 The hostess kindly brought her a hunch of bread. She tore 
 and ate it much as an animal devours its food. She returned no 
 thanks for it. She could think of nothing but him whom she 
 held to her bosom, watching every change in his face, or fear- 
 ing lest he should die in her arms. 
 
 The journey was long, but Joyce did not relax her hold nor 
 relinquish her place for one moment. 
 
 ' "VVon't'y get down and hev a drop o' cyder ? ' asked the 
 driver, at every public house they passed. * It be a faint day 
 for the horses, and they need refreshing.' 
 
 Joyce shook her head in reply. But if Joyce woidd not 
 assist in cooling the horses by drinking herself, the driver was 
 more considerate. 
 
 Between each of these refreshment stations, the man en- 
 deavoured to open conversation with her. He was a young 
 fellow, fresh in colour, and not bad looking. He had a 
 sufficiently observant eye to see that Joyce was a fine girl, 
 though a very rough one. But she would not answer him ; 
 she did not even look at him, unless he ventured too near her 
 charge. 
 
 She was patient at the stoppages, which were many. They 
 rested Herring. She saw in his face that he sufiered with the 
 motion and was easy when the motion ceased. That sufficed 
 her. 
 
 In the midst of Sourton Down stands a very humble 
 tavern, backed by a few stunted trees, twisted and turning from 
 the west ; and by the roadside is to be seen a tall granite cross, 
 once a burial monument of a British chief, and bearing an in- 
 scription that was cut into and rendered illegible in mediaeval 
 times, when the upright stone was converted into a wayside 
 cross. 
 
 As the waggon halted before this little tavern, Joyce saw 
 Herring's eyes open. He raised his arms and waved them in 
 an unmeaning manner; then, looking intently upwards, as 
 though he saw something far above him in the depths of the 
 blue sky, he drew a deep sigh and murmured, ' Mirelle ! ' 
 
 Then his eyes closed again, and his hands dropped. 
 
 * Right, right, maister ! ' said Joyce ; * it be the Whiteface
 
 220 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 you want and would seek. But why do'y look up there t 
 Her be on earth, not in heaven. I be a nursing ofy, none 
 for Joyce, nor for Miss Cicely, but for her you cries after and 
 looks for up above.' 
 
 At Okehampton they met with no interruption, and were 
 surrounded by no throng of inquisitive persons, and the reason 
 was this. The parson of a neighbouring moorland parish had been 
 summoned that day before the magistrates, on a charge of mal- 
 treating and starving a poor boy in his house, his wife's son by 
 a former husband. The magistrates dismissed him with a 
 reprimand and a caution ; but the people were not disposed to 
 treat the matter so lightly and the man so leniently. AU the 
 lluid portion of the populace had flowed out on the moor road 
 after the retiring parson, with hoots, and clots of earth, and 
 expressions of aversion. The rabble manifested an intimate 
 acqiiaintance with his domestic arrangements, and taunted him 
 with them. If the reverend gentleman could have commanded 
 his temper, he might have speedily tired out his pursuers ; but 
 this he was unable to do, and unwise enough not to attempt. 
 He was a remarkably ugly man, ill-made, short in leg and long 
 in arm, with large hands and feet, and a face with low brow 
 and protruding jaws. He became mad with rage and humilia- 
 tion, and turned savagely, whenever the crowd ventured near 
 his heels, to charge them with his green gingham umbrella, and 
 smite them furiously, uttering unclerical exclamations of abuse 
 and contempt. His face was simian in its ugliness and 
 malignity. The whalebones of his umbrella were dislocated, 
 and the Avires protruded. One boy was cut with the iron, and 
 when this was perceived there rose a howl of indignation, and 
 a moorstone whizzed through the air and knocked the parson's 
 hat off his head. He was a poor man, and the injury done to 
 his best hat and to his umbrella was more than he could 
 endure. He ran as fast as his short legs could fly over the 
 ground, and took refuge in a cottage, the door of which he 
 barred ; and then, escaping up the rude stair, he spat at his 
 pursuers from the window. 
 
 Parson-baiting is not an every-day treat, and the luxury 
 had emptied the streets of Okehampton. Consequently the 
 waggon pass«d through almost unnoticed. 
 
 As the waggon crossed the bridge over the Taw, it 
 encountered the two chaises with the party of serious specula- 
 tors returning from Ophir. They had slept at Zeal. Mr, 
 Flamank, as a director of the mine, had felt it incumbent on
 
 Joyce's patient. 221 
 
 him to make a complete investigation into the method of work- 
 ing, and into the accounts. The men engaged on the mine had 
 been examined by him, and he had overhauled the books in 
 the office. Among these he had discovered a private book of 
 the Tramplaras, which contained a register of the amount of 
 gold expended in the salting, and the amount recovered after 
 the washing. Those serious men whom the Reverend Israel 
 had taken with him, in the hopes of inducing them to sink 
 capital in Ophir, assisted him zealously in the detection of the 
 imposture. 
 
 The transaction was humiliating to the little man, but he 
 was a thoroughly conscientious pei'son, and he did not shrink 
 from that which he felt it was at once his duty and his interest 
 to do, however galling it might be to his self-esteem. He car- 
 ried away the books with him, and dismissed the workmen, 
 warning them that they would be required to give evidence in 
 the trial of the Tramplaras, which, as he supposed, would 
 inevitably follow. 
 
 * I have been considering,' said Israel Flamank to those 
 with him in the same carriage, ' that I have been very blind. 
 Last night I was unable to sleep, and so I tm^ned prophecy 
 over in my head, and I saw clearly, at last, that the whole 
 affair had been foretold. The name Trampleasure, if rightly 
 estimated — that is, with a certain value given to each letter, 
 and the capital letter T being reckoned as double a small t, and 
 the e a in pleasure being turned into i, Tramplisure instead of 
 Trampleasure, which is the way in which some persons would 
 pronounce the name, and the e at the end of the namo omitted 
 as a mute — I say, thus valued, the name makes, when summed 
 up, exactly six hundred and sixty-sis, which is the number of 
 the Beast, and which is also, we are distinctly told, the number 
 of a man's name. Now this, I take it, is a very significant 
 fact. The Beast, we are further informed, would deceive tlie 
 very elect ; and what else are Ave, 1 ask, but the very elect % ' 
 
 * That is true,' responded all those in the chaise, and shook 
 their heads affirmatively. 
 
 ' And he spake gi-eat swelling words,' went on the Reverend 
 Israel. ' Now old Mr. Trampleasure had a certain pomposity 
 of manner about him that exactly tallies with the description 
 given by the inspired penman.' 
 
 ' Very true,' answered the carriage-load, and the heads all 
 jihook together again. 
 
 * It is remarkable also,' cCntinued the miniater, * that in the
 
 222 JOHN IlEERINS. 
 
 Bacred text the Beast Tramp! easure is associated with the 
 Woman, Babylon — that is, with Rome. For Babylon is Rome, 
 as eveiy schoolboy knows, ethnographically, entomologically, 
 and enterically, Now, I ask you, is not a young Roman 
 Catholic lady staying in Dolbeare with the family, and is not 
 Miss Trampleasure about to be, or already, married to a Roman 
 Catholic gentleman 1 ' 
 
 ' To be sure,' responded those in the chaise, and shook their 
 heads knowingly. 
 
 ' And, remember, the seer of Patmos saw two Beasts, and 
 the little one derived his power from the elder, which was 
 wounded, though not to death. That wound I take to be the 
 foilure of Polpluggan, from which old Trampleasure recovered. 
 As to the little Beast, there can be no question about him — • 
 Sampson Trampleasure, junior.' 
 
 ' That is cei'tain ! ' exclaimed the chorus, and all the heads 
 sliook to the left. 
 
 * But, good heavens, what have we here ! ' cried IVIr. Flamank. 
 The carriage stopped. 
 
 * What's the matter there 1 * inquired the driver of the chaise, 
 as he drew up. 
 
 * Why, bless me ! ' said the minister, starting to his feet. 
 * As sure as I am alive that is Mr. John Herring. Stay, young 
 man,' he called to the v/aggoner. ' How comes the gentleman 
 in such a plight 1 Girl,' to Joyce, ' where did you find him 1 
 Is he alive 1 Is he badly hurt 1 How came this about 1 ' 
 
 The little man jumped out of the carriage in a fever of ex- 
 citement, and pity, and alarm. Joyce gave him no information, 
 but he picked up something from the boy who drove, and 
 learned that, in some way or other, Sampson Tramjjlara was 
 involved. 
 
 * Bless my soul ! ' exclaimed Mr. Flamank. ' One cannot 
 be too thankful for mercies. Actually John Herring made me 
 • — me run after this cut-throat murderer — and yet I remain 
 unhurt; whereas John Herring, who takes up the chase, is 
 killed. A really startling interposition of Providence.' 
 
 ' He be not dead,' said Joyce, fiercely ; ' I shan't let 'n die, 
 I shan't.' 
 
 Then the waggon moved on. 
 
 * Where be West Wyke to 1 ' asked the driver. 
 
 * I'll tell'y where to stop,' answered Joyce. ' Go right on 
 tm I shout Wo ! ' 
 
 She allowed him to proceed past the turning over the turf
 
 Joyce's patient. 223 
 
 leading to West Wyke, and then she suddenly gave the signal 
 to halt. 
 
 ' The road over the moor be too bad to travel wi* wheels,' 
 Baid Joyce. ' You bide here, and I v^ill fetch vaither, and he'll 
 carry the maister home, along of I.' 
 
 Joyce was not long gone before she returned with old Cobble- 
 dick, carrying a hurdle. With the carter's help, Herring wa8 
 lifted on to it ; and then Joyce and her father departed over 
 the moor, without another word to the man, conveying Herring 
 between them. 
 
 ' They be rum folk in these parts,' said Jim White, the 
 waggoner, * not to offer a fellow a glass of cyder, and the bosses 
 all of a lather with the journey.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 DESTITUTE. 
 
 Mr. Trampleasure's death, through the bursting of a blood- 
 vessel on the brain, and the escape of Sampson, left the three 
 women at Dolbeare without a head. Captain Trecari-el did not 
 appear, except to make a formal call of condolence, or to offer 
 his services in a manner that implied that this offer was not to 
 be accepted. 
 
 'Lucky dog that I am,' said he to himself; 'saved at the 
 last moment in a manner melodramatic. There is a sweet little 
 cherub that sits up aloft, and takes care of the fate of Trecarrel. 
 By George ! suppose I had been noosed and turned off before 
 this terrible scandal came out, what should I have done ? Now 
 there lies before me one clear com*se of action. There is an 
 opera company at this time performing in Exeter, and I am 
 fond of music. I must positively go to the faithful city ^ by 
 the next coach, and not return till the clouds have cleared 
 somewhat. But before I go, there is one duty I must perform. 
 I must let the directors of Ophir know of old Trampleasure's 
 five thousand jjounds lodged in the han<ls of John Herring.' 
 
 It is needless to say that the marriage had not taken place. 
 It is needless also to say that Trecarrel did depart to Exeter to 
 hear the opera company. It is also needless to say that he 
 thoroughly enjoyed himself, liked the music, caught some of tho 
 airs, ate, drank, and smoked, and blessed his stars every day 
 
 I The motto of Exeter is ' Semper fidelis.'
 
 224 JOHN HERRING* 
 
 tnat he was a free man. He not only blessed his luck, but he 
 flattered himself that he had extricated himself by his own 
 shrewdness. * And now,' said he, ' here am I in Exeter, enjoy- 
 ing myself. Had I remained at Trecan^el, I must have gone to 
 bed, and one may have too much even of a good thing.' 
 
 The affairs of the Ophir Gold Company were wound up. 
 All the directors met, except Arundell Colitho, of Trevorgan, 
 Esquire, who did not appear. But that was hardly wonderful, 
 as no one knew who Arundell Golitho, Esq. was, and as the 
 letter addressed to him, stating the circumstances of the company, 
 the death of Mr, Trampleasure, and the disappearance of Mr. 
 Sampson with the funds of the company, wag returned un- 
 opened. The post-office was unable to discover Trevorgan. 
 When the affairs were wound up, it was discovered that there 
 were liabilities, but no assets except the five thousand pounds 
 held by Mr. Herring. The shareholders had lost everything 
 they had embarked in the concern, except what little would 
 come to them out of the five thousand pounds after the liabilities 
 had been discharged, and the lawyers had sweated the little sum 
 to a cipher. 
 
 Then it was that the Reverend Israel Flamank's character 
 8hone out. The man's vanity had received a crushing blow, he 
 would never entirely recover from the ridicule that descended 
 on him for his discovery of Ophir. He had lost his small capital 
 sunk in the mine. He alone, however, had thought and com- 
 passion at this juncture for the orphan and the widow. Ho 
 found that Orange and her mother were left absolutely destitute. 
 The five thousand pounds known to be in Herring's hands 
 would be absorbed and dissipated, and the furniture of Dolbeare 
 sold. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, left, on which 
 Mrs. Trampleasure and her daughter and Mkelle could live; 
 for old Trampleasure had thrown Mirelle's money into the same 
 venture, and it was gone past i-ecovery. 
 
 Mr. Flamank exerted his powers of persuasion on the direc- 
 tors to induce them to propose to the shareholders a surrender 
 of a small portion of the money that they were able to lay their 
 hands on, for the maintenance of the widow and her daughter. 
 But none are so remorseless as pious persons touched in pocket. 
 He pleaded to deaf ears. The liabilities of the mine were con- 
 eiderable, and would eat into the little fund. The men's wages 
 were in arrear. The builders had received only a trifle oa 
 account for the sheds they had erected. The company owed for 
 the water-wheel, for the drum, for the stamping-mill, for tho
 
 DESTiTDlB. 225 
 
 cradles, the buddies, and the whips and the whims. Nothing, 
 in short, had been paid for. As for the receipts, they were nil, 
 for nothing had been got out of Ophir but what had been put 
 in. Old Tramplara, it was supposed, had sunk his own money 
 in the concern, at least it appeared so ; for he had drawn every- 
 thing out of the bank, had sold all his investments except the 
 Patagonians which were unsaleable. The gold employed in 
 Baiting the mine had undoubtedly consumed a great deal, and 
 what remained had gone, with the shareholders' money, into tho 
 pocket of Mr. Sampson. It was fortunate that only the first 
 call had been made on the shareholders, and that few of the 
 shares were fully paid up. Nevertheless the loss was consider- 
 able, so considerable as to sour the sincerest Christian among 
 them, and make them indifferent to the woes of the arch 
 scoundrel's widow and daughter. 
 
 When Mr. FJamank found that nothing was to be saved out 
 of the wreck for the Trampleasures, he went about collecting 
 contributions for them. But his credit was suffering eclipse, 
 and exasperation against Tramplara too great for him to do 
 much. He was unable to get together more than fifty pounds, 
 given grudgingly, and not obtained without great personal effort 
 and the endurance of many humiliations. 
 
 The five thousand pounds lodged with John Herring lay in 
 the bank in his name. It was the only sum standing to his 
 account. But when Herring was written to, no answer was 
 returned. That was not greatly wondered at, for it was known 
 that he had been found insensible on the road, and had been 
 carried in the same condition to West Wyke. 
 
 The directors wrote him to the eflect that the affairs of Mr. 
 Trampleasure, deceased, were so involved in those of the Ophir 
 Mining Company that it was necessary to settle both together. 
 Mr. Trampleasure had died insolvent. His chief creditors were 
 the directors of the company, and the administration of his 
 effects had been granted to them. They Avere, therefoi'e, em- 
 powered to call in all moneys due to the deceased, and, as such, 
 they claimed the five thousand pounds which were to be repaid 
 to Mr. Trampleasure in the event of the marriage of his daughter 
 with Captain Trecarrel not taking place on a certain day. That 
 marriage had not been solemnized at the time specified, nor was 
 it probable that it would be within a reasonable period, there- 
 fore the money was due to them as a debt to the late Mr. 
 Trampleasure. 
 
 The cheque did reach them after a time, written with a
 
 226 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 Biiaking hand, and the money was drav/n. Herring could not 
 have refused it. With the cheque came a letter offering to 
 purchase the entire plant of Ophir, wheel, and stampers, and 
 crushers, everything in fact, at a moderate valuation. The 
 offer was too good to be refused. The directors closed with it 
 by return of post. There was, consequently, no sale by auction 
 at Oi^hir, but everything in Dolbeare was condemned to go by 
 the hammer, except the personal effects of Mrs. and Miss 
 Trampleasure, and of Mirelle. The house was to be cleared of 
 everything, except the clock on the stairs, the crayon portraits, 
 and the walking-sticks. The ladies could not remain for the 
 auction. They would have had no home to go to, had not the 
 Keverend Israel Flamank intervened and opened his doors to 
 them. He did this in a gush of benevolence, and, unhappily, 
 without first consulting Mrs. Flamank, who, when told what 
 he had done, went into ' tantrums,' and made the house so un- 
 pleasant for the Keverend Israel that he spent the rest of the 
 day in making pastoral calls and eating pastoral meals with bis 
 Bheep. 
 
 By evening Mrs. Flamank became calmer, and, when her 
 husband returned late, was so far subdued that she yielded a 
 reluctant consent to giving the Trampleasures shelter for a 
 month. 
 
 * You know, Betsy Delilah, dear saint,' said Israel, * if we 
 do not take them in, the poor creatures will be turned into the 
 Btreet, and that your tender heart would be unable to bear, 
 sweet angel ! ' 
 
 ' I'm sure, Izzy, we have lost enough by the Trampleasures 
 already. However, I will not say nay, because it will look 
 well, and people will say we practise what we preach. Only 
 — I warn you, Izzy ! ' she held up her finger ; * mind your- 
 self.' 
 
 What Mrs. Betsy Delilah meant by this warning, he under- 
 stood perfectly. With his many excellent qualities, Mr. 
 Flamank had a weakness : he was given to caress his female 
 devotees. 
 
 In the Established Church there are two schools differing in 
 their tendencies. The tendency of the extreme of the High 
 Church is towards plunging into pecuniary difficulties ; the ten- 
 dency of the extreme of the Low Church is towards lapses into 
 amatory difficulties. If this be the case in the EstabUshed 
 Church — if this be done in the green tree, what goes on in the 
 dry I — iu the nonconformist churches, where the ministers are
 
 DESTITUTE. 227 
 
 not indopendent of their congi^egations — where the mercury of 
 their salary rises and falls with their popularity. It is natural 
 that in such circumstances there should be developed a tendency 
 towards fawning on and fondling of pious ladies with money. 
 A little coaxing retains a sheep that inclines to err into 
 another fold. The pressing of the hand changes a shilling sub- 
 scription into a guinea, and an arm round the waist elevates it 
 to five pounds. When the habit has been acquired of showing 
 these tendernesses to the well-to-do, old and ugly ladies, it 
 sometimes extends also to those who are good-looking and 
 young, and becomes at last v/holly indiscriminate. 
 
 Now the Reverend Israel Flamank was a sincere and good 
 man, and he drew the line, with singular moderation, at kisses. 
 These were scriptural — the Apostle Paul had a fancy for them, 
 and recommended them wholesale. But the arm round the 
 waist he did not allow. He found no warranty for it in Holy 
 "Writ. But he would take a lady's hand in one of his, and 
 ctroke it with the other, and read and expound to her the Song 
 of Solomon. There was no harm in that ; and it was really 
 remarkable how these innocent attentions told on his iucome 
 and his acceptableness to his congregation. 
 
 Mrs. Flamank did not like these familiarities. Though she 
 knew they were as harmless as the love-making of actors and 
 actresses on the stage, and were inseparable from the position 
 of a minister in an Unestablished Church, she objected to them. 
 She was very determined, if she received IMrs. Tram pleasure, 
 Orange, and Mirelle into her house, she woiild permit none of 
 these Pauline caressings under her eyes. But it is easier for a 
 resolution to be taken than to enforce it. Mr. Flamank was 
 very discreet for a week or ten days, but after that he began to 
 soften towards the ladies. Mirelle kept him at a distance from 
 the outset. He had been highly pleased at the prospect of 
 getting a daughter of the Scarlet Woman into his house. He 
 looked on her as an erring sheep, one who erred through ignor- 
 ance ; and he hoped to enlighten her, and lead her into the 
 paths of truth. He was, however, somewhat puzzled how to 
 set about it. Mirelle withdrew from fixmily devotion, and de- 
 clined to assist at his scriptural readings. She would not 
 attend his chapel. She allowed him no opportunity of opening 
 a conversation with her on religious topics. She was cold, re- 
 served, and silent. Mrs. Flamank rather liked her : there was 
 no fear of Israel patting her hand. 
 
 The pastor attempted to dazzle her with his evangelical talk, 
 
 q2
 
 '2'2S JOHN iiEiuiiKG. 
 
 much in the same way that young Sampson had attempted 
 to impress her with his brag of feats performed with dogs and 
 horses. On one or two occasions he had the temerity to attack 
 her, but he came off with falls which damped his ardour. Once, 
 when he assailed her on the subject of belief, she cut him short 
 with the observation, ' Yv^e do not speak the same language. 
 When I say, I believe, I mean that I hold as certain, but I 
 notice that you use the word differently, as synonymous with I 
 suppose. We look at different objects and through different 
 instruments; I tlirough a telescope at constant verities, you 
 through a kaleidoscope at vari-coloured and ever-varying 
 opinions.' 
 
 With Orange it was not the same. She was in trouble. 
 Mortified pride and wounded love brought frequent teai'S into 
 her eyes. She looked very handsome in her mourning suit. 
 What is the first duty of a pastor, but to comfort the sorrowful, 
 to soothe the ruffled soul, to apply the balm of Gilead to open 
 wounds 1 So Mr. Israel Flamank was assiduous in his comfort- 
 ing and soothing, and dabbing on of balm, — more assiduous 
 than Betsy Delilah liked. Orange was coarse of grit, and did 
 not object to the little attentions of the pastor which would 
 have been insutlerable to Mirelle. She accepted them with 
 indifference ; she was without religious instincts, and the words 
 of the shepherd fell empty on her ear. But there was some- 
 thing flattering in his efforts to console her, and at the present 
 time, when her pride was hurt, any flattery was pleasing. 
 Captain Trecarrel was not there to staunch her tears, to cheer 
 her and give her assurance of a future ; anyone who could 
 afford her some alleviation to her humiliation, and encourage 
 her with a hope of better things, was acceptable, even though 
 he were a dissenting minister. 
 
 Flamank was perfectly sincere. His heart was full of kind- 
 ness and devoid of guile. He was troubled at her distress, and 
 unhappy at his inability to help her. It was unfortunate that 
 his mode of expressing these justifiable feelings did not meet 
 with the approval of Betsy Delilah. They irritated her, and 
 she determined to shake herself free of her guests at the first 
 opportunity. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel had returned to the neighbourhood. 
 Orange heard of it, and waited several days in expectation of a 
 visit. But he neither called nor sent to inquire after her and 
 her mother. She brooded over this neglect. Did he really 
 mean to desert her i lie coui-i not behave so cruelly, so 
 
 .y
 
 DESTITUTE. 229 
 
 unworthily. Her hot blood raced through her veins. She 
 resolved that she would go herself to Trecarrel. She would go 
 alone ; no one should know of the visit. She would speak to 
 Harry face to fice. ^Vhen he had her before him, and saw her 
 in her black, her face — her beautiful face, wet with tears, his 
 love would blaze up, his manly pity and generosity would force 
 him to assei't his right to protect her. 
 
 He was staying away only because of the scandal about 
 Ophir. He was waiting for that to blow away, and then he 
 would return to her. She felt sure of that ; she measured his 
 love by her own. Would she have forsaken him had ruin over- 
 taken him 1 A thousand times no — no — no ! She must know 
 his intentions for certain. Her future depended on knowing 
 this. She was unable to endure the thought that she should 
 be seen going to seek him, and therefore she resolved to go by 
 herself after dark. She would not tell Mrs. or Mr. Flamank, 
 nor her mother, nor, of course, Mirelle, The thing could be 
 done with ease. The drawing-room had French windf)ws, 
 through which the little garden could be entered. The 
 drawing-i'oom was rarely sat in; it was used for company 
 occasions. The family occupied the dining-room, in which 
 they bad their meals, and in which they worked and talked 
 afterwards, amidst the fumes of meat, cabbage, and cheese. 
 This was economical ; it saved carpets and furniture, and an 
 extra fire. 
 
 Orange waited till all had gone to bed. They were early 
 risers, and retired early in that house. Then she softly 
 descended the stairs, her shoes in her hand, and entered the 
 drawing-room. She easily unclosed the shutters, without 
 making any noise, unlocked and unbolted the French 
 window, opened it, put on her shoes, and stepped forth on the 
 gravel. 
 
 The street was deserted ; only a low tavern at the end had 
 the door open, and a light shone forth into the road. In that 
 gleam, a young woman, adoi^ned with gay ribands, was laughing 
 and romping with two nearly tipsy young men. The language, 
 the gestures, were gross and disgusting. 
 
 * Have another nip of gin, Polly.' 
 
 * No, you shan't have none of his, Polly ; I'll give you some, 
 my duck. You be my sweetheart, and not his.' 
 
 ' Who goes there 1 ' screamed the girl, and made a rush at 
 Orange. ' Here's a girl for yovu Tom, and then you let mo 
 alone with Joe.'
 
 230 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 Orange flung her off with scorn, and ran along the road. A 
 burst of laughter and jeers followed her. 
 
 ' She be going after her young man down to the lane end/ 
 ci'ied the girl. 
 
 Orange's cheek burned. That was true — hatefully true. 
 She was going to seek her lover, but only because he did not 
 come to see her. After this incident she was unmolested. She 
 met no one else on her long walk to Trecarrel. 
 
 Would she find the Captain up 1 She hoped so — she sup- 
 posed so, for she knew that he sat up late ; he had often told 
 her as much. It was as she had conjectured and hoped. When 
 she reached the house, she saw a light from his smoking-room — 
 a comfortable room, where he kept his whips and guns ; a room 
 ornamented with stufied foxes' heads and their tails, and with 
 the antlers of red deer. A door from this little room opened on 
 to the lawn. Orange went to the window, but the blind was 
 down and she could not see in ; but she heard Trecarrel within 
 whistling an air. It was an operatic air he had recently heard 
 in Exeter, and which had caught his fancy. How splendidly 
 La Fontana had sung ! What schooling her voice had gone 
 through, and what quality was in it ! How graceful she was, 
 and what passionate action she showed ! * You never get that 
 sort of a thing out of an Englishwoman,' he mused. * Our coun- 
 trywomen cannot act ; they have no fire, no passion ; they are 
 
 doUs and move mechanically. Theu" voices, moreover Good 
 
 heavens ! who is that ] ' 
 
 He started up. The door opened, and Orange came in. He 
 had been seated over his fire, with his cravat off, a bottle of 
 claret and a glass on the table at his side ; he had just finished 
 a pipe. 
 
 ' No fire, no passion in an English girl ! ' There were both 
 before him, flaming in Orange's eyes, and heaving in her 
 bosom. 
 
 * Bless my soul, Orange ! what on earth has brought you 
 here?' 
 
 * You, Harry, you ! ' She was out of breath and choking 
 with emotion. * Oh, Harry, dear Harry, why have you not 
 been to see me 1 ' 
 
 * Gome over to the fire ; you must be cold.' 
 
 * I — I cold ! ' she laughed bitterly. * I am burning ; feel my 
 hand. I have run ; but it ia not that — the flame is here.' She 
 touched her heart. * It is eating its way, it is consuming mo. 
 Oh, Harry, why have you not been to see me i You do not 
 know what I have sufiered I '
 
 DESTITUTE. 231 
 
 ' We have botli suffered/ he answered ; but there was not 
 much token of pain in his bhie eyes, nor tone in his voice. 
 ' Come over here ; I am sure you must be damp with the night 
 air. This is most indiscreet of you, Orange. I hope you have 
 come attended.* 
 
 * I am alone.' 
 
 ' You ovight not to have come. It is wrong — it is indelicate.' 
 He was fitting on his cravat as he spoke. ' Good heavens I 
 what would be said had you been seen 1 ' 
 
 * No one has seen me ; no one knows where I am.* 
 
 * This is madness ! ' he said. He twirled his moustache ; he 
 was greatly discomposed. * I wish you had been more reason- 
 able. Orange.' Then to himself, 'I wish I had remained in 
 Exeter, or gone to bed.' 
 
 * I dare say it is madness and unreasonable,' she said ; * I 
 am mad. Do you know, Harry, all that has happened t Do 
 you know that my motJier and I are beggars 1 We have no- 
 thing left to us.' 
 
 * My good Orange, I have been myself on the verge of that 
 same condition all my life, and so can sympathise with you.' 
 
 * You have a house of your own ; we have none. You have 
 land that no man can take from you, and you can at least dig 
 that and live on its produce. But my mother and I have no- 
 thing — no house, no land, no money ! We eat the bread of 
 charity, and how long is it to last ? Harry, I ask you.' 
 
 He was silent, engaged on his cravat. It offended his deli- 
 cacy to be seen and to converse with a lady without his cravat. 
 
 * You do not answer me, Harry ; j'ou are not going to desert 
 me now I am down. If you had been poor and an outcast, 
 would not I have taken you, though I were wealthy 1 ' 
 
 * But there is the rub,' said the Captain, interrupting her. 
 * If I were rich I would share it with you and welcome ; but I 
 am not rich — I am miserably poor ; hardly able to keep my head 
 out of a debtors' prison.' 
 
 * Harry, I do not mind that. You are bound to me ; you 
 cannot desert me in my misery. No, I know you too well; you 
 are too good, too noble, too true a gentleman. I cannot — I will 
 not believe it ! Take me as I am — we can but be poor together 
 —and I will work as your slave. With love labour is light, 
 and poverty is made rich.' 
 
 * That is rather a pretty sentiment, Orange, but it is im- 
 practicable.' 
 
 ' It ia not impracticable ; try me.'
 
 232 JOHN HEIiniNG. 
 
 * That is absurd. I cannot try you, and, if the experiment 
 fails, dissolve the partnership.' 
 
 She was silent, and looked him full in the face. Then her 
 feelings overcame her ; she stretched out her arms to him. 
 ' Harry ! ' she gasped, * Harry, I love you ! ' 
 
 He did not put out his arms to encircle her, to take her to 
 his heart ; but he put his hand to his pipe, and began to scrape 
 out the ashes with a bit of stick — a toothpick that was on the 
 mantelpiece. 
 
 * Be reasonable. Orange ; it is impossible for us to marry 
 now. There is this terrible scandal about Ophir barring it for 
 one thing ; there is my poverty for another. We must wait.' 
 
 ' I knew it,' she said, relieved; ' I knew the delay was for a 
 time only. But, Harry, in the meanwhile I have no homp 
 Where am I to live ] What roof is to cover me from the rain 
 and the snow 1 Where am I to get food to put in my mouth — 
 whence the clothes to cover me 1 Whilst you are waiting for 
 Ophir to be forgotten, I am starving.' 
 
 ' This calls for consideration,' he said, still cleaning his pipe. 
 And now he blew tluough it, to assui-e himself that the passage 
 was clear. 
 
 ' Harry, you have an aunt at Penzance ; take me to her. 
 I will live with her a few years, till this trouble about Ophir is 
 passed, and then you shall marry me from her house.' 
 
 ' That is not possible. Orange. My aunt strongly disap- 
 proved of my engagement. She is a most bigoted Catholic, and 
 could not endure the thought of my taking a Protestant to 
 wife.' 
 
 * I will be a Catholic ; I do not care.' 
 
 * But,' said he, coldly, ' that is not all. Our families are so 
 wide apart in the social scale. My aunt is very proud of her 
 race, and you know your stock is not — well, neither ancient nor 
 gentle. You may change your creed, but not your blood. I 
 think nothing of this ; if I had considered it, I would not have 
 sought to many you. But my aunt — you see we are speaking 
 of her, and you propose that I should take you to her — my aunt 
 is very stiff in these matters. I cannot force you into her house; 
 60 you see this scheme is impracticable also.' 
 
 ' Where am I to go 1 ' asked Orange, desperately. * I must 
 live somewhere. You are my proper protector, to whom I fly. 
 I ask you, find me, give me a home. See, Harry, I am poor 
 now, but it may not always be so. The directors of Ophir have 
 left us some thousands of pounds in Patagonian bonds,'
 
 DESTITUTE. 233 
 
 ' Ob, I know them ; they were left because woi-thless.* 
 
 * They are worthless now, but they may become valuable 
 hereafter. Let us wait till then ; I will be patient, and in time 
 you will marry me.' 
 
 ' Oh, certainly, when the Patagonians are at par.' 
 
 * But in the meantime, Harry, what is to become of me ? ' 
 
 * Keally, I am at a loss to know. I am at my wits' end 
 what to propose.' 
 
 Then her cheek and brow became crimson. 
 
 ' Harry, I am sunk so low that I care not what the world 
 says, and what becomes of me. I will stay here ; you shall not 
 send me away. I have no pride left. Let me be a poor serving 
 maid, a kitchen-wench in the house, and work for you. If the 
 world talks, let it — I defy it ! ' 
 
 Trecarrel sprang back. This was indeed madness; she muit 
 be cured. 
 
 ' Orange,' he said, ' I am too honourable to listen to such 
 words with composure. Go back whence you came. Here 1 I 
 will accompany you ; you must not be alone.' 
 
 ' No, I came alone, and I can go alone. But — what is to 
 become of me 1 ' 
 
 ' You think only of yourself, Orange ; you are selfish. Poor 
 Mirelle ! how she mvist suffer also. What is to become of that 
 sweet and fragile flower 1 ' 
 
 Orange looked him full in the eyes. A light flickered and 
 flashed in hers — a terrible light. She stood as a statue before 
 him for a moment. Fierce thoughts — wild, dark like smoke 
 from the bottomless pit — rose, and rolled over and obscured her 
 brain. 
 
 ' Poor Mirelle ! Sweet and fragile flower ! ' At that 
 moment, with her. Orange, pleading before him, with her in 
 an agony and in abasement before him, he could think of Mirelle, 
 and throw Mirelle ir, her teeth. 
 
 Then she turned to the door. All hope was gone. 
 
 * Let me attend you home,' he said. 
 
 ' I have no home,' she answered hoarsely. 
 
 ' Let me go with you to where you are lodging.' 
 
 * I came alone, I will return alone,' she said, and left the 
 room. 
 
 She hurried into the road. When there, however, she stood 
 and waited. Would he come after her 1 She waited on ; the 
 light in his smoking-room disappeared, it reappeared at another 
 window, and travelled upwards, then shone out of an upstair 
 room. Captain Trecarrel was going to bed.
 
 234 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 Then Orange ran back to Launceston. 
 
 As she passed the low public-house, she stumbled over some- 
 thing. It was the young woman, drunk, lying in the road. 
 She reached the house of the Flamanks, and thrust open the 
 drawing-room window and went in. 
 
 ' Hah ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Flamank, standing there, with Mrs. 
 Trampleasure trembling and sniffing behind her ; * this is fine 
 goings on in my house. Out to one o'clock in the morning, 
 cutting about, heaven knows where, and with whom. This is 
 a Christian habitation. Out of my house you go to-mori*ow.' 
 
 ' Betsy Delilah ! ' remonstrated Mr. Flamank from the door, 
 * the poor souls have no house to go to.' 
 
 ' She,' exclaimed Mrs. Flamank, indicating Orange — * she 
 don't want one. She likes the street at night, apparently.' 
 
 * Madam,' said Mirelle, stepping forward, and speaking with 
 composure, ' give us but two days' shelter, and then we will 
 trouble you no more, I undertake. I have a friend to whom I 
 will appeal.' 
 
 Then she went upstairs, and wrote : — 
 
 * Mr. Herring ! — Come to us. Help us ! — Mirelle.* 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 Grizzly Cobbledick and Joyce carried John Herring to the 
 Giant's Table. Joyce had not the smallest intention of sui*- 
 rendering her charge to Cicely. She had feared lest the farmer 
 should accompany the waggon, and insist on the injured man 
 being conveyed to West Wyke House. Fortunately, the chance 
 of making a bargain with the Squire had arrested him at 
 Bridestowe, and the young lout who acted as driver was easily 
 managed. 
 
 Grizzly consented to receive Herring into his den, not be- 
 eause he felt gratitude to him for having saved him from 
 imprisonment, and for having cured Joyce of her injuries, but 
 because he thought that ' backie ' might be extracted from 
 him. 
 
 Gratitude is not a savage virtue ; but then, is gratitude to 
 be found anywhere 1 It is a figment of the poet and moralist, 
 like the unicorn and the mermaid. A simulation of this 
 ideal virtue is assumed by those who are cultured, but the
 
 TRANSFORMATION. 235 
 
 genuine plant grows on no human soil and under no known 
 climate. 
 
 Grizzly bore Herring no ill-will, and he thought it possible 
 that the tobacco which was lost to him through the insolvency 
 of Tramplara might be made up to him by the indebtedness of 
 Herring. He would see to that ; he would hold Herring in 
 captivity till as much ' backie ' was produced as could be 
 counted on the toes and fingers, with the head thrown in. If 
 he died, he died. Speculations succeed or fail ; there are blanks 
 and prizes in the lottery, disappointments and luck in life. 
 
 ' Cut ofi",' said Grizzly to his daughter, ' and go and wire a 
 rabbit. The young maister, if he comes round, will want 
 some'ut to eat, sui'e.' 
 
 * But what if he wakes up whilst I be gone J * 
 
 * Then he wakes — that be all.' 
 
 * You'll be good and kind to 'n, vaither,' entreated Joj'^ce. 
 
 * Why not 'i He ain't done me no hurt,' answered Grizzly, 
 It took a little persuading and threatening on Grizzly's part 
 
 before Joyce could be induced to relinquish her place. She 
 •would not have gone, but have sat on in unreasoning jealousy 
 and fear of losing Herring, unless her father had insisted on 
 her giving him proper food. 
 
 * What'll the like's o' he say to turnips, eh 1 He ain't one 
 to eat mun. The quality eat nort but meat. You may give a 
 horse the best beef-steak, and you may set before a man the 
 choicest hay, and neither will begin to bite. You must give 
 mun what them likes, not what you think best. So wi' the 
 maister ; he be quality, and, when you offers 'n your turnip and 
 cabbidge, that be there a biling over the turves, he'll turn his 
 head away. It be all the same to he as giving 'n hay or a horse 
 beef. You must give to ivery creeter its proper food.' 
 
 When Joyce was gone, old Cobbledick surveyed Herring 
 carefully and examined his bones. No bones were broken. 
 His head was suffering from concussion, not from fracture. The 
 old fellow had wit enough to ascertain this. Then he proceeded 
 to partly undress him. It was not the custom of the Cobble- 
 dick tribe to unclothe themselves when they retired to rest ; 
 but then they were hardly clothed when about by day. If 
 Cobbledick now stripped Herring it was not in the interest of 
 the patient, but in his own. Having removed a poi'tion of the 
 garments of the still unconscious man, he proceeded to vest 
 himself in them. Inexperience made him put on the clothes 
 clumsily, and neither in their traditional order nor in their
 
 236 JOHN HEJRRING. 
 
 proper manner. Still, the general effect was one of transforma- 
 tion. He tried on Herring's boots, but was unable to compress 
 his great flat feet into them; so he flung them aside; but he 
 laboriously removed the spurs, and buckled them on his own 
 heels. The stockings he left on Herring's legs ; he knew he 
 would be unable to wear them. His own limbs, from the knees 
 doAvnwards, were swathed in hay-bands. He assumed the 
 waistcoat, but not the shirt, and was careful to set the watch 
 in the pocket — the wrong pocket, of course — and let the seals 
 dangle from the fob. The waistcoat was open, and his brown, 
 dirty skin showed dark against the nanldn. The coat was 
 rather tight, high-collared, with a roll ; Cobbledick was mightily 
 pleased with it. He jumped and swung the tails fx'om side to 
 side, and ran after them, round and round, like a kitten pursu- 
 ing its own tail. He sallied forth to a pond and contemplated 
 himself in it. The efiect was not perfect. He went back and 
 deprived Herring of his cravat, which till now he had left about 
 his neck. This he wrapped about his own throat, making it 
 very stiff, and holding his chin high in the air. Herring's hat 
 was there ; it had not been left in the road ; Farmer Facey had 
 picked it up and tossed it into the waggon as it departed. 
 Cobbledick put the beaver on, somewhat on one side, as he had 
 seen -Sampson Tramplara cock his hat when tipsy; and he took 
 up the hunting-whip Joyce had brought with her, and, so ac- 
 coutred, he lounged in the door of his den. But Grizzly was 
 not satisfied with himself. His hay-swathings were not in 
 character. He proceeded to divest himself of these. Then his 
 bare legs looked incongruous with the remainder of his equip- 
 ment. Now Herring had woi-n cloth gaiters over his stockings. 
 Grizzly had unbuttoned these with much difficulty. Indeed, it 
 can hardly be said that he had unbuttoned them ; he had rather 
 torn them off, sending the buttons flying. To button them on 
 his own calves was a feat beyond his powers. His fingers were 
 incapable of performing such work as passing a button through 
 a hole. He tried, and abandoned the attempt in despair. 
 
 He flung his own rags over Herring, and went forth to ex- 
 amine himself again in the pool. The brown shins and calves 
 did not please him. He sat down and thought. 
 
 Then he remembered that the masons engaged at Ophir had 
 been mixing lime for v^rhitewashing. What if he stole doAvn 
 there and whitewashed his legs! That would complete his 
 transformation. The old man was as conceited as a young buck 
 newly accoutred by a fashionable tailor.
 
 TP.ANSFOIIMATIGH. 237 
 
 So Cobbledick started for the mine, walking witli diiEc\ilty, 
 The constraint of the garments enca.'^ing his nether limbs was 
 to him as great as that caused by Saul's armour to David. 
 David, finding he could not go in this, put it off him. Grizzly 
 was less wise ; he waddled on in sufiering and constraint, and 
 was caught and thrown occasionally by the spurs that dangled 
 at his bare heels. The gorse scratched his shins, usually pro- 
 tected by hay-bands ; but he heeded not these inconveniences. 
 With his head in the air, one arm akimbo, and the hand holding 
 the riding-whip resting on his hip, he strutted on, wishing, and 
 yet fearing to be seen — desirous of admiration, and yet shy of 
 the reception he might meet with from those accustomed to see 
 him half-naked. 
 
 He mounted a flat slab of granite, and, taking off his hat, 
 bowed and waved it, as he had seen old Tramplara salute dis- 
 tinguished and wealthy visitors to Ophir. Imitation is strong 
 in the savage and in the idiot. By the help of this faculty the 
 social world gets on without jars, for there are savages and idioms 
 in all ranks of life, and the deeper their savagery and their idioc}' 
 the more pronounced is the development of their imitative 
 powers. They copy the manners of those around them, simulate 
 their breeding and virtues, and so disguise their nature and pass 
 muster. Social education consists in the training of neophytes 
 wh.at to copy and what to disregard in the bearing and manners 
 of those with whom they associate. But such as are left with- 
 out instructors pick up and imitate all that they ought to avoid, 
 and overlook what they should copy. Thus it is that servant 
 maids reproduce in themselves the pretences and follies of their 
 mistresses, and not their thrift and good sense ; and the butler 
 apes his master's vices and eschews his vii'tues. 
 
 Left alone in the den, lying on the fern, with the smoke of 
 the peat fire and the reek of stewing vegetables filling it. 
 Herring opened his eyes and looked about him. 
 
 It was some time before he recognised where he was, and 
 then he was unable to account for his being there. The evening 
 was stealing on, the sun was f:etting ; there was a glow of golden 
 light outside the door, and a streak of yellow glory came frour 
 a notch in the stone at the back of the table, unfilled with moss. 
 Herring's head was painful, and all his limbs ached. He could 
 scarce move his arms ; they were sprained and bruised. He 
 tried to stand up, but the effort gave him torture, and he was 
 forced to lie down again. He was, however, satisfied that he 
 was sound in limb, though sprained and bruised. He couicl
 
 238 JonN nEEMNG. 
 
 close his hands and move his feet. Then he thought of the 
 events that had recently taken place. He could follow the 
 thread to one point — after that it was broken off. He had 
 borrowed a horse at Bridestowe, he had ridden hard in pursuit 
 of Sampson Tramplara — and then ensued darkness and a 
 blank. 
 
 Had Sampson shot him 1 He tore open his shii't and felt ; 
 there was no wound. He felt his head ; it was not bandaged. 
 
 How came he in the den of the Cobbledicks 1 As he was 
 puzzling over this question, the entrance was darkened, and 
 Joyce entered, carrying a fowl by the legs. The moment she 
 saw that he was conscious, she uttered a cry of joy, and was at 
 his side, on her knees, grasping his hands, with tears and flashes 
 of delight in her eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, maister ! the dear maister ! you be alive and not 
 going to sleep aAvay dead ! You can see who be here — your 
 own poor Joyce. Right glad I be to see the life in your eyes 
 and the blood in your cheeks again. Oh, glory rallaluley ! I 
 be joyful ! I could sing my heart up over my lips, and away 
 through this great covering stone.' 
 
 ' Joyce ! ' said Herring, ' I do not understand. What is the 
 meaning of this 1 How came I here ? ' 
 
 * Sure, my maister, it were I as brought you here. The 
 young Cap'n Sampson Tramplara would ha' killed'y, but 1 
 fought 'n for'y, and I were too much for 'n. You mended my 
 arms and made them strong, and they were strong enough to 
 keep 'n off from killing of you. He'd ha' done it. He had 
 that in his hand would ha' scatted your head all to smash, and 
 he were about to do it, but I were too strong for he, thanks be 
 to you for mending of me up. Glory rallaluley ! ' 
 
 ' But how came I here, Joyce 1 ' 
 
 ' Sure enough, because I brought'y in a waggon as grand as 
 a king. Sure,' she said, laughing and crying in one breath, * I 
 never went on nothing but my own bare feet afore, and but for 
 the grandness, I'd rather walk any day. But I could not ha' 
 carried you thus fai\ That were why I were foi'ced to hire a 
 waggon. Not but as though I wouldn't ha' done it. I'd ha' 
 carried you the world over in my airms, if I could, and never 
 let you drop till I died. But — Loramussy ! what have become 
 of your clothes ] By the blue blazes ! this be vaither's doing.' 
 
 * Joyce, how did this take place 1 I cannot understand.' 
 
 ' The horse were throwed and you with him. Cap'n Samp- 
 son had put a gate across the road j and you rode quite innocent
 
 TIiANSrORUATION. 239 
 
 like liglit on to it. After you were down, lie came out from 
 behind the hedge, and would ha' killed you, but your own poor 
 Joyce were there, and her fought 'n, and her tore at 'n. He 
 might ha' cut her flesh off her bones, and scat her bones, but 
 her'd not hev let 'n hurt you no more.' 
 
 Then she seized his hands in a paroxysm of joy and covered 
 them with kisses, and pressed them to her beating heart. * It 
 were I, your own Joyce, as saved'y.' 
 
 See what self-respect will do — how it lifts out of the slough ! 
 Once Joyce had licked his hand like a dog. Now she had 
 learned her own worth, she had battled for and saved his dear 
 life ; and her pride had heaved her from the low estate of besti- 
 ality to the level of a human being. She kissed his hand, she 
 no longer licked it. That marked a distinct stride in civilisa- 
 tion. 
 
 * But,' she added, as she knelt over him, still holding his 
 hand to her bosom, and looked out of her wet and burning eyes 
 into his face, ' it were none for Joyce, nor for Miss Cicely, I did 
 all this — it were for you and the Whiteface.' 
 
 Joyce loved him ; her love for him filled her whole dim soul 
 with light. She was perfectly humble ; she knew she was a 
 poor savage, and as widely removed from him on one side as 
 she was from the fox or badger on the other. There was no 
 self-seeking in her love. It was in this simple, pure, unselfish 
 devotion that the human soul broke into flame and transformed 
 Joyce. She looked up to Herring as she might to a star ; she 
 had no thought of attaining to either. It was enough for her 
 to look up and be led by the light each shed on her way. 
 
 Her father was also transformed externally, but remained 
 the same low brute at heart. There was no outer change iu 
 the girl, the same foul rags, only more ragged than before, the 
 same dishevelled wretchedness of aspect ; but within, all was 
 different. God spake, and there was light. 
 
 Herring looked up at her, wondering, but still much con- 
 fused; his head could not endure much thought. She was 
 Bwaying herself from side to side, still holding his hand between 
 hers in her bosom ; and the tears ran down her tanned cheeks 
 and fell over him — a soft and soothing rain, a rain bearing 
 balm and blessing. She had raised her eyes, and her lipa 
 moved. 
 
 * What are you saying, Joyce 1 ' he asked, thinking she was 
 Bpeaking to him, but that he could not hear. 
 
 * I were saying nort to you,' she said ; * I do not know
 
 240 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 hardly what I were saying, but my heart were that nigh lo 
 bursting wi' joy, that I felt I must speak— but not to you — 
 sure I didn't know to whom I were speaking and saying that I 
 were so happy as I never was afoi'e and never will be again. 
 And 1 tried to say glory rallaluley turned backsyforemost, but 
 the words wouldn't out, and I just cried for gladness, and 
 looked up — that were all.' 
 
 ' What is that noise 1 ' asked Heri-ing. 
 
 ' "What 1 ' she asked, dropping his hand and listening. 
 
 There were shouts and cries approaching. Then the crash 
 of a stone against the supporters of the table. Next moment 
 in dashed old Grizzly, without the hat, wild with alai-m, and 
 threw himself on the ground, where he tore off his coat and 
 neckcloth, waistcoat and breeches, and, screaming with rage 
 and terror, threw each article, as it came off, in the faces of the 
 men that peered in at the entrance. 
 
 ' Take mun ! take mun ! I will none of 'em ! 1 will never 
 have none o' the sort again.' 
 
 His legs were torn and bleeding. One was smeared with 
 white to the knee, the other was of its natural tan. 
 
 Some of the miners had seen Cobbledick engaged in adorning 
 his shins with whitewash, dressed out in his borrowed garb, 
 and had set upon him with jeers. He had fled and been 
 pursued. 
 
 * I'll hev none of it never more,' he cried, and swore horribly. 
 * Give me my rags again.' 
 
 That was the end of the transformation of Grizzly. But the 
 transformation of Joyce, which was from within, was more 
 eudui-ing. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXrV. 
 herring's stockings. 
 
 Joyce was unable to retain Herring. Those who had pursued 
 her father saw him lying in the old cromlech, and the secret 
 was out. Moreover, she herself began to see that it was not 
 possible for her to keep him in the den. Her father's behaviour, 
 when left in charge of the patient, had shown her how utterly 
 untrustworthy he was, and Joyce could not always be there. 
 
 Ophir h"d exerted a deterioi'ating eilect on Grizzly. He 
 had become idle ; he had learned to beg ; he had acquired a
 
 herring's stockings. 241 
 
 taste for rum. He expected Joyce to do evei'ything for him, 
 that he might lounge away his time about the mine, rej^eating 
 his parrot story to the visitors, putting the dust into the water, 
 and watching them find it. 
 
 Old Tramplara and young Sampson had given him money, 
 and the workmen, supposed all to be sworn abstainers, had 
 indulged him from their bottles of cold alcoholic tea. Like a 
 savage brought suddenly into association with civilised man, he 
 learned their vices, and unlearned none of his own brutality. 
 
 When it was known at West Wyke that John Herring 
 was lying ill under the Giant's Table, Mr. Battishill and Cicely 
 sent to have him removed to their house, and poor Joyce 
 offered only a faint, though sullen, resistance. She knew she 
 could not keep him, but she was reluctant to lose him. She 
 knew that it was good for him to go, and she did violence to 
 her own heart in suffering him to be carried away. She fol- 
 lowed him to the doorv.'ay of West Wyke, holding his hand, 
 and without taking her eyes off him. 
 
 * Come, Joyce,' said Cicely, ' you have been so good and 
 devoted hitherto, that you had best remain as nurse. Come in 
 and attend to Mr. Herring till he is v;-ell.' 
 
 But Joyce shook her head. 
 
 ' I'll not go under no hellens [slates], or I should smother,' 
 bhe said. ' Where be you a-going to take 'n to ? ' 
 
 'We shall put him in that room,' answered Cicely, indicating 
 the window. 
 
 ' There'll be a light there of nights, I reckon. I shall see 'n. 
 And of day, when vaither don't want nort a-doing, I'll just hop 
 over and sit down outside, in thicky corner o' the garden wall.' 
 Then Joyce grasped Herring's hand in both hers, and the tears 
 filled her eyes. ' It wei-e I, your poor Joyce, as saved you. 
 You'll not forget that, will'y now 'I ' 
 
 Then she turned away, and wiped her eyes with the back of 
 her hand. Cicely looked after her. Joyce did not turn back ; 
 she walked on with her peculiar free stride, her head down, and 
 her arm across her face. 
 
 Herring had been jarred and contused by his fall, and ho 
 FViffered greatly for a few days. Every movement caused pain. 
 The doctor visited him, and insisted on quiet, and that his head 
 should be kept cool and his mind unoccupied. 
 
 The news of Mr. Trampleasure's death and of Sampson'.s 
 evasion were not communicated to him till it was seen that he 
 
 B
 
 242 JOHN HEEEINO. 
 
 troubled his mind about the result of the exposure of Ophir. 
 Nothing could be done, at least by him, in the matter. 
 
 Every day Joyce came and sat in a nook of the garden 
 against the wall, looking up at the window. Her hands wore 
 unoccupied; she could neither knit nor sew. She platted 
 her fingers about one knee and remained in the corner as still 
 as though carved out of stone, almost as rugged as though cut 
 out of granite. Herring's bed was near the v/indow, and he 
 went to the casement, and leaning on the sill looked forth and 
 spoke to her. Then her eyes, in which a strange wistfulness 
 had risen up, lighted, and she smiled. She had brought him 
 something, a little bunch of late wild flowers, some coral lichen 
 daintily folded in green moss, a cluster of blackberries, old and 
 inedible, but the sole cluster she could find. These little gifts 
 she would inti-ust to no one to convey to Herring. No other 
 hand should touch them and divert from him the something 
 which went out from her with them. When he came to the 
 window and looked out, she threw them up at him with so 
 sure an aim that the bunch of borage and crane's-bill, the sprig 
 of heather, or the blackberries, always reached his open hand. 
 
 This devotion of Joyce was embarrassing to Herring. As 
 he lay in his bed he thought about her, whether something 
 could not be done to bring her out of her rude life. He spoke 
 his thoughts to Cicely, and she promised co-operation. 
 
 Next day, Cicely took a chair into the garden, and seated 
 herself beside Joyce. The poor girl did not seem pleased with 
 the visit. She had rather be alone. 
 
 ' I do not think you will see IMr. Herring to-day, Joyce. 
 His head is worse, and he will not be able to rise and speak to 
 you from the wiiidow.' 
 
 * Why don't he get well faster t ' asked Joyce. * He'd ha' 
 been right by this time wi' me.' 
 
 ' Well, certainly you treated him very well. He tells me 
 you gave him capital boiled chicken. How did you manage to 
 get that 1 ' 
 
 ' I took her,' answered Joyce. 
 
 * You stole it ! ' exclaimed Cicely. * From whom ! ' 
 'From you. I know'd the young maister must have 'n, 
 
 and so I took 'n. If he'd hev chanced to want milk, I'd ha' 
 milked anybody's cow for 'n. If he'd ha' wanted yonv head, I'd 
 ha' cut 'n off for him — my own likewise, for thao matter. 
 Would your 
 
 ' I do not think I would, Joyce.'
 
 HEKIIING's STOCKiNQS. 213 
 
 * Then be ouglit to hev been with us out to the Giant's 
 Table, not here.' 
 
 ' You pi'ofess gi'eat readineKS to do anything for him, Joyce. 
 He was speaking to me about you yesterday, and wishing 1 
 could teach you something.' 
 
 * I don't want no teaching of nort,' said Joyce, sullenly. 
 
 * But would you not like to learn to knit 1 ' 
 
 ' Na/ answered Joyce, ' I don't want to lam nort. What 
 do'y knit with them long sticking pins ] ' 
 
 ' Stockings, Jo3^ce.' 
 
 ' Vaither don't wear none ; I don't, neither. Them's no 
 good to us.' 
 
 Then the upper casement opened and Herring leaned out. 
 
 ' What, Joyce ! ' he called ; * is Miss Cicely teaching you to 
 knit 1 That's right. You are going to knit my stockings for 
 me in future. I promise you I will wear none but those of 
 your knitting.' 
 
 ' Give me the pins,' said Joyce, vehemently. ' I'll larn.' 
 
 * Go back, Mr. John,' said Cicely ; ' you know you are for- 
 bidden to rise to-day. Go back, or you will be worse to-morrow.' 
 
 * Is the maister not getting better 1 ' asked Joyce, anxiously. 
 
 * He is ; but his recovery is slow. His head has been 
 injured, and we must take care that there be no relapse. We 
 can pray to God for him, Joyce.' 
 
 The girl looked round full in her face inquiringly. 
 ' Will that make 'n well ? ' 
 
 * I trust so.' 
 
 * Better than the doctor's medicine ?' 
 
 * It helps the doctor to cure him.' 
 
 * I know nothing about it,' said Joyce. ' Did tho maister 
 pray for me when I were scat 1 ' 
 
 Cicely could not take on herself to answer. 
 
 ' I be sure he did,' said Joyce, confidently. ' Why did I ax 
 you about it ] If that would hev made me well, he'd ha' done 
 it. You don't know the maister as I do.' 
 
 * Do you know about God ? ' asked Cicely. 
 
 * See there, now ! ' exclaimed Joyce, with animation, ' that 
 be 'zackly what the maister once axed of I ; and I sed, Sure I 
 do, I see 'n every day when it hain't raining and there be no 
 clouds. I reckon I thought he meant the sun. But I know 
 better now, and I'll tell'y how I comed to know, Thicky 
 night as the maister v/ere thrown lown and hurted by Cap'n 
 Sampson, I thought he were sure to die in my ah'ms. And I 
 
 r2
 
 2t4 JOEN HEP.I^ING. 
 
 felt then that I must say something and ax some one for Help — ■ 
 some one as wouldn't want to take 'n away from me. It 
 weren't the sun as I spoke to, for the sun had gone down. I 
 don't know 'zackly what and whei'e he was I called to, but I 
 knowed very well he were up whei-e the sun be by daytime, 
 but he as I mean were there o' night time ekally well. Then, 
 after that, when the young maister were able to open his eyes 
 and speak, I were that lifted up with gladness that my heart 
 were nigh to starting, and I could do nort but cry tears, and 
 tell he as I mean — but I don't know a mite who he be — how 
 glad I were. I know very well he weren't the sun, for, you 
 sees, the sun were then a-sinking, and I never gave 'n a thought 
 for a minute to look at 'n. I looked right up, up, up ; and 
 there were over me the great covering table stone, and I seemed 
 to go right through thicky and see above the clouds as well, and 
 the stars, and I'm blessed if I know where to. I be no skollard ; 
 I can say nort but glory rallaluley and kinkum-kum.' 
 
 * Kinkum-kum ! ' repeated Cicely, with a puzzled look. 
 
 ' Sure — what else 1 I reckon he begins with Our Vaither, 
 and he goes on to kinkum-kum ; but I know nort more nor 
 that. I ha' heard the Methody vellcrs a say it at their meetings 
 on the moor.' 
 
 Cicely laughed ; she could not help it — she was tickled. 
 
 'You have made a comical muddle of it,' she said, and 
 turned her head to conceal her amusement. 
 
 ' I don't know, and I don't care,' said Joyce, doggedly. 
 * He heard it, up there, when I said it, that I knows, sure-ly , 
 ani he didn't laugh, that I knows also.' 
 
 * Shall I teach you what it really is 1 ' 
 
 'No,' sfiid Joyce, resentfully ; 'you laugh. If it be good 
 for me, I'll ax the young maister to larn me when he be well. 
 I sed them same words to he once — what make you giggle — 
 and he didn't laugh ; he didn't even smile, but I saw that in 
 his eyes was more like tears. However, the words be good as 
 they be, and I sez them scores and scores of times by day and 
 by, night, thinking of him as is sick, and he up there;' she 
 pointed with her finger — not to the window, but far, far above 
 it. ' He as I knows nort a1>out, don't laugh, but listens, just as 
 the maister listened when I said them to he at first; and he 
 takes off his hat, as did the maister.' 
 
 ' I wish I could pen-uade you to come indoors, Joyce. It is 
 cold out here, the wind blows keenly over the garden wall, and 
 1 cannot remain here.'
 
 herring's stockings. 245 
 
 I bain't cold,' said Joyce; 'you can go in, I don't waut'y 
 here. I'll bide here alone a bit. But I'll larn the knitting and 
 make the maister Ids stockings. I will, sure. He sed he'd never 
 wear none but what I made, and what he sez he sticks to.* 
 
 A few days later Herrnig came down. He was now much 
 better, though still stiff and bruised ; his mind was perfectly 
 clear, and he was impatient of his confinement. 
 
 ' Mr. Battishill,' said he, ' now is our opportunity ; Ophir 
 is done, and Upaver begins. I will make a bid for the plant of 
 Ophir, and remove it to the silver lead. I will rent Upaver of 
 you, and mine there on my own account.' 
 
 'Very well,' answered Mr. Battishill; ' I can say with the 
 shepherd in the " Winter's Tale," " Now, bless thyself, I meet 
 with things dying ; thou with things new-born." I was set ou 
 Ophir ; you never doubted in Upaver.' 
 
 'You forget, sir, you were the finder of the silver lead.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes ; but I was drawn aside by the glitter of the gold 
 of Ophir. 1 am soriy for Opliir, too ; it was a dream of splen- 
 dour. But again, with Paulina, " To the noble heart, what's 
 gone and what's past help, should be past grief." ' 
 
 ' You have been at your Shakespeare, sir, whilst I have 
 been upstairs.' 
 
 * To whom else should I go, John ? " For I do love that 
 man," said rare Ben Jonson of him ; and who that has mind 
 and heart does not say the same 1 Shakesj^eare is the common 
 and personal friend of humanity. By the way, John, there are 
 some letters for you. "VVe would not let you have them before 
 now, as, no doubt, they are on business. They come from 
 Launceston.' 
 
 Herring looked at them. Their purport is already known ; 
 they were from the directors of Ophir. 
 
 ' If Miss Cicely will write for me a letter about the machinery 
 at Ophir, I will sign it,' he said. 'We had better secue it at 
 once. I knew that Ophir would fail, and that was the i-eason 
 why I did not hurry to get machinery for the silver lead. Now 
 we shall secure the entire plant under half-price.' 
 
 * Oh, John, how far further ahead you see than do I ! "Bnt 
 you are calculating on working the mine yourself; how can 
 you combine a mineralogical captaincy with military duties ] * 
 
 ' I have sold out,' said Herring, slightly colouring. 
 
 ' Sold out, my boy ! sold out after having been in the army 
 only a few years ! That is a very rash and inconsiderate pro- 
 ceeding.'
 
 24:6 JOHN HEERING. 
 
 ' I could hardly help myself,' he answered ; ^ I got into 
 trouble. When the accident to Mr. Strange and his daughter 
 took place I was on my way to Exeter to rejoin my regiment. 
 I had been summoned back. I could not desert the Countess 
 Mirelle, with her father dead and without a protector; and so I 
 wrote to my Colonel for a short extension of leave. He refused 
 it, but addressed his reply to "Welltown, my little place in Corn- 
 wall, to which he had written before. At Welltown my presence 
 here was unknown, and the letter was forwarded to Exetei', and 
 it lay at my quarters till I went there, which, as you know, 
 was not for some time. When I got to Exeter at last T found 
 that my neglect had got me into a serious scrape. Not only so, 
 but the regiment was at Portsmouth, under immediate orders to 
 sail for Honduras. I had difficulty in exchanging. Moreover, 
 I felt that I miist be here to superintend the working of the 
 silver lead mine ; so I sold out.' 
 
 ' John,' exclaimed Mr. Batfcishill, ' it is all very fine yonr 
 pretending that interest in the icy Countess and enthusiasm 
 over a mine detained you. Nothing of the sort. You found 
 us in trouble and unable to help om'selves, and so you sacrificed 
 your own prospects for the sake of pulling us through.' He 
 pressed the young man's hand. ' I owe you a debt I can never 
 repay ! ' 
 
 Mr. Battishill did not know all. He knew nothing of 
 MiroJle's diamonds consigned to Herring's trust. He enter- 
 tained no suspicion of the interest Herring felt in that cold and 
 haughty girl. He little dreamed that Herring had taken on 
 himself the double office of guardian angel to Mirelle as well as 
 to the house of Battishill. He did not suppose that even care 
 for that poor savage, Joyce, had mingled witli the other motives 
 in deciding the young man on abandoning his militaxy career. 
 
 When Herring came out of doors for the first time, he found 
 Joyce in the garden awaiting him. She was crying and laugh- 
 ing for joy. 
 
 * Maister,' she said, 'you will keep your word about them 
 stockings.' 
 
 'Certainly,' he replied with a smile. *I give you three 
 months in v/hich to learn to knit, and afte'c that I will wear no 
 Btockings but those of your knitting.' 
 
 * Good-bye,' she said abruptly. 
 
 * Whither are you going ? ' 
 
 * To larn to knit,' she answered.
 
 247 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 BEGGARY. 
 
 Hope is hard to kill. One last desperate effort Orange made to 
 recover the Captain. That same night, whilst Mirelle was 
 writing to John Herring, Orange wrote to Trecarrel, but her 
 letter was not as brief as that of Mirelle. 
 
 * Harry, — Now the last shelter is refused us. We must 
 leave this house the day after to-morrow. That is, the day 
 svhen the sale at Dolbeare takes place. We cannot go thither, 
 we cannot stay here. We have none to look to for advice but 
 you. You must give it us ; you are bound to assist us. Re- 
 member, had the disclosure and death of my father taken place 
 one hour later, everything would have been changed, and I 
 should have been your wife ; then I would have opened Tre- 
 carrel to my poor mother. You cannot take advantage of an 
 accident which intervened to break off our marriage. I do not 
 ask you now to renew that contract ; I ask you only to come to 
 the aid of a widow and an orphan, and to help them to find 
 shelter for their heads.' 
 
 She sent this note to Trecarrel by a boy next morning. He 
 brought answer that the reply would arrive later. Then Orange 
 went out. She was not sanguine of success with the Captain, 
 for she had failed in a personal interview, and it is easier to 
 refuse by letter than by word of mouth. Still, some sort of 
 hope fluttered in her heart. She could not believe that the 
 Captain would be so mean as wholly to desert them, and deny 
 them his advice. She had not asked in her letter for more than 
 that. Perhaps she had been too exacting when she forced her 
 presence upon him last night. 
 
 She went to visit her friend Miss Bowdler. If the Captain 
 had failed her. Miss Bowdler would not. Miss Bowdler was a 
 well-to-do young lady, who lived with her ' Pa ' in a large, 
 handsome, red-brick house of Queen Anne's period, a house rich 
 within with plaster-work of exquisite design and wood-carving 
 by Grinling Gibbons. The house was one of many rooms, and 
 it was solely tenanted by the young lady with the red eyelashes 
 and her * Pa.' They were rich, but were not received into 
 county society; a source of vexation to Miss Bowdler, though 
 her ' Pa ' was indifferent so Ion;? as his creature comforts were
 
 2-18 JOHN HERKING. 
 
 attended to. Surely Miss Eowdler would give her friends 
 shelter for a few days. Orange was not aware that Miss 
 Eowdler had reckoned on using her (Orange) when Mrs, Tre- 
 carrel as her door into society of a superior class ; and that now 
 the mari'iage was broken off and this door was shut, the disap- 
 pointment was bitter. 
 
 Orange rang the bell, and the summons was answered by 
 the footman, working himself into his coat, with unbuttoned 
 waistcoat. He looked at Miss Trampleasure superciliously, 
 and proceeded leisurely to button his waistcoat. 
 
 * Is Miss Eowdler at home 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't know.' Then, with a jerk, he brought a red hand 
 through the sleeve. 
 
 ' I asked if your mistress were in,' said Orange, with 
 indignation. 
 
 ' I ain't deaf — I heard,' replied the footman. * I don't think 
 she is what is called " At Home." ' 
 
 ' She is to be seen 1 ' 
 
 ' I can't take on myself to say that. You can stop in the 
 'all, and I'll go and inquire.' 
 
 Slowly, still buttoning himself, the serving man stalked away. 
 
 Orange's cheek flamed, and the tears mounted. This man 
 had been all obsequiousness before the crash. 
 
 Suddenly a loud voice in her ear startled her. 
 
 * You're a beggar, you'i-e a beggar ! Oh, shock-ing, shock- 
 ing ! Not a penny. Cluck, cluck, cluck ! ' 
 
 Orange recovered herself at once. Near the door on a perch 
 sat a white cockatoo with pink feathers on her face, and cold, 
 hard, unsympathetic eyes, staring at her. 
 
 ' Polly,' said Orange, bitterly, ' what you say is too true.' 
 ' Oh, shock-ing ! Does your mother know you are out ? 
 What o'clock, you beggar 1 Oh, oh ! Not a pen-ny ! Hot 
 cockles ! Cluck, cluck ! ' 
 
 ' Polly, Polly, don't make such a noise ! Pa !— oh ! ' 
 A door opened, and a red-haired head appeared. It was 
 that of Miss Eowdler. The moment she saw Orange she started 
 back. The footman had gone to the greenhouse in quest of her. 
 
 * Oh, Sophy ! dear Sophy ! ' exclaimed Orange, springing 
 forward. 
 
 Miss Eowdler recoiled from the outstretched hands. 
 
 ' Good gracious, Miss Trampleasure, what a time of day for 
 a call ! My dear Pa does not like to be interrupted at this 
 time ; I read to him his newspaper of a morning. You will
 
 BEGGARY. 249 
 
 not, I know, detain me. Yes, Pa ! comiug. Pa ! coming in an 
 instant ! There have been disturbances in the North among 
 the cotton-spinners. Pa is in a fever to hear the particulars.' 
 
 ' Hot cockles ! ' said the parrot, sentimentally, putting her 
 head on one side and winking. 
 
 ' Oh, Sophie, do listen to me. I want so much to see you. 
 I have a favour I wish to ask you.' 
 
 ' Pa, Pa ! I'm coming.' 
 
 ' Tol-de-rol-de-rol ! ' said the parrot. Then, swinging herself 
 round on her perch, she went into convnlsions of laughter. 
 
 * I pray you excuse me,' said Miss Bowdler ; ' I told John 
 Thomas expressly to say I was not at home in the morning, 
 because Pa is so particular.' 
 
 ' Do you hear 1 ' asked the footman, who had appeared on 
 the scene, now in full condition, every button in its place. 
 ' Miss Bowdler is not at 'ome.' Then he opened the door 
 pompously. The red-haired lady took the opportunity to 
 dart back into her room. 
 
 ' You're a beggar ! ' shouted the cockatoo, with a look of 
 devilry in her eye ; ' you're a beggar ! Not a penny ! Shock- 
 ing, shock-ing ! Oh, oh ! ' and then screamed and ran round 
 and round her perch, laughing. 
 
 The door shut with a slam behind Orange. She set her 
 teeth and stamped her foot. 
 
 ' Would that I were Mrs. Trecarrel for one day only,' she 
 said, 'that I might insult this wretched girl before county 
 people.' 
 
 Her mother had a friend in the town, a very intimate confi- 
 dante, a stout old lady, Mrs. Trelake, widow of a mayor of 
 Launceston, a brewer, Mrs. Trampleasure had insisted on her 
 daughter going to this old lady, and asking her to receive them 
 for a week. Orange went thither, with her heart on fire from 
 the humiliations she had undergone at Miss Bowdler's house. 
 Orange was received at once with cordiality by Mrs. Trelake. 
 She was a lady of moderate stature, with an immense throat. 
 The throat was not a column supporting the head, but the face 
 was sculptured out of the column. There was something good- 
 natured in the face. Possibly she may have been good-looking 
 when young ; but it was now impossible, on seeing her, to 
 observe anything but the solid trunk of throat. The old lady 
 was stout, but neither her stoutness nor her throat incommoded 
 her ; she moved with nimbleness. She was, moreover, robust 
 in health. Mrs. Trelake was a woman destitute of vanity.
 
 250 JOHN HERRIXa, 
 
 She had a neat hand, and was ignorant of it. She was aware 
 that her neck was viglj, but she took no pains to hide it. She 
 was one of those persons who make no effort to please, and are 
 themselves easily pleased. She liked every one with whom she 
 was brought in contact, but she loved nobody. She was the 
 same genial person with every one, rich and poor, with her 
 servants and with her guests. All she asked of her acquaint- 
 ances was that they should amuse her, and of her servants thai 
 they should give her no trouble. Her sympathy was superj&cial. 
 If an acquaintance spoke to her of trouble or good fortune, of 
 embarrassment or great expectations, she entered into the 
 situation from the outside, and without the smallest internal 
 appreciation. If she cried with a companion, it was not because 
 her friend had occasion for tears, but because her friend was in 
 tears. If she laughed, it was not at a joke which she made 
 no effort to understand, but because the joker laughed. 
 
 If you who knew her so weU had told her your wife was 
 dead with inexpressive voice, she would have received the 
 information with indifference ; if you had told her the same 
 news -with broken utterance, she would have sobbed ; if you had 
 told her the same fact with a smile on your lips, she would have 
 sniggered. And your wife, remember, was her intimate friend. 
 
 People of this description are more common than is generally 
 supposed. We have occupied some time over the portrait of 
 Mrs. Trelake, not because she acts a prominent part in this 
 story, but because we desire to inform our readers what to 
 expect from the Mrs. Trelakes of their acquaintance when they 
 appeal to them for help in their troubles. 
 
 Mrs. Trelake received Orange with warmth and pity. She 
 saw that the girl was in trouble. The heart of Orange was full 
 of her reception at Miss Bowdlcr's, and she recounted it to the 
 old lady. Mrs. Trelake was shocked : she held up her hands, 
 she blessed her stars, she vowed she could never look on Miss 
 Bowdler again with regard ; she undertook to cut her in the 
 streets. (Mrs. Trelake dined with Miss Bowdler the same 
 evening, and, when Miss Sophy told her version of the story, 
 Mrs. Trelake was indignant over the dinner table at the 
 audacity of Orange in presuming to thrust herself upon the 
 Bowdlerian privacy.) 
 
 * To-morrow is the sale at Dolbeare,' said Orange. 
 
 ' The sale, my dear ! How dreadful ! ' Mrs. Trelake looked 
 round the room at her pretty china and her case of stuffed hum- 
 ming-birds. ' I could not bear to part with my things. Every
 
 BEGGAEir. 251 
 
 article sold, I suppose. Will those pretty china jars go, with 
 the dragons on them? I wonder whether I could get them 
 cheap 1 ' 
 
 ' Even to the beds and chairs. The house still belongs to 
 us. That is, we have the lease, but we shall have to let it, so 
 as to pay the rent.' 
 
 * Not able to let the house nor pay the rent ! Oh, my dear, 
 how dreadful ! ' 
 
 * I said that we should have to let it.' 
 
 * I understood perfectly, my sweet child.' 
 
 * We cannot go into the house stripped of everything. We 
 cannot stay longer at Mr. Flamank's. It was very good of him 
 to take us in, but we are unable to trespass further on his kind- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' Certainly, my poor child, it would not do.' 
 
 * Then — to-morrow, whither are we to go ? ' 
 
 * Really, my dear, I don't know. I have a bad head at 
 guessing conundrums. Is it a conundrum, though 1 ' asked 
 Mrs. Trelake, doubtfully. She had not been listening. She 
 was calculating her chance of securing the dragon vases at the 
 Bale. 
 
 * You knew and loved my mother. I am sure you love her 
 now.' 
 
 ' Ardently, tenderly,' said Mrs. Trelake, effusively. 
 
 * Will you take it ill if I ask a favour of you 1 ' 
 ' Not at all.' 
 
 ' Would you receive us for a week 1 I do not ask for more. 
 In a week we shall have had time to settle something as to our 
 future.' 
 
 ' Oh, Orange ! don't say a week ; say a month. My house 
 is at your disposal. I really have a fair cook ; and now tell 
 me, what does your mother like 1 For breakfast, now 1 Is it 
 gi-illed kidneys? You must put me up to all her little fancies, 
 and I will instruct my cook to meet them. She is a good soul 
 and does what I desire. When will you come 1 To-morrow ] 
 Oh, try to come this evening. Well — if not, at what o'clock ? 
 Tell me the tioie and I will have a dainty meal ready. Orange ,• 
 I have a pheasant in the larder, I hope you like pheasant,' 
 
 ' We shall be with you at noon. How good and kind you 
 are, Mrs. Trelake ! ' 
 
 ' Not at all. I am delighted.' 
 
 Then Orange left. Ten minutes later Mrs. Trelake wiote 
 ui elaborate note of apology, to say that her servants objected
 
 252 JOHN lIEERlNG. 
 
 to receiving so large a party at once. The cook would not stay, 
 and how could she i"eplace so valuable and obliging a servant 1 
 The housemaid said that three persons extra would throw too 
 much work upon her, and she would go. So, she, Mrs. Trelake, 
 was very sorry, but for peace and quietness sake, she had to 
 yield, and must withdraw the promise to receive the Tram- 
 pleasure party. She herself had nothing to do with this, but 
 servants were becoming so masterful that the only way in which 
 she, an elderly lady, could get on was to yield to them in every 
 point. 
 
 * We live in the world, we didn't make it,' concluded Mrs. 
 Trelake ; * we must shape ourselves to the world, not force the 
 world to fit us.' 
 
 Whilst Orange was standing at the window, reading this 
 letter to her mother, she saw a woman whom she knew coming 
 to the back door. This was a rough girl who did the scullery 
 woi'k at Trecarrel. She brought the answer from the Captain. 
 
 Orange at once darted into the garden and intercepted the 
 girl on her way to the kitchen. 
 
 * You bear a letter for me.* 
 
 * Yes, miss.' 
 
 She handed her a letter. Orange turned it in her hands. 
 The address was badly wiitten by some uneducated pei'son. 
 ' Who gave you this ? ' 
 
 * Mrs. Kneebone, the housekeeper.' 
 
 ' Is there nothing from Captain Trecarrel 1 ' 
 The girl hesitated. 
 
 Oi'ange tore the note open. It was written in the same 
 hand as the address. 
 
 * Please, miss, the Captain be very serins indispodged, and 
 heve a took to his bed. He carnt rite, according hev axed me 
 to say so. Your's full of respex, Joanna Kneebone.' 
 
 Orange looked up, angry, her heart beating violently. The 
 girl was still there, but moving towards the kitchen. 
 ' What do you want in the house ? ' asked Orange. 
 ' There be another letter, miss, I hev to deliver.' 
 
 * Well, give it to me.' 
 
 * It be for the other young lady,' ausw^ered the girl ; * and 1 
 hev to give it only into her hand.' 
 
 ' You cannot do that,' said Orange ; ' she is gone out.' 
 
 * Please, miss, will she be gone for long 1 ' 
 
 ' She will not return till late at night. Give it me.* 
 
 * But, miss, I were told by the Cap'n particular not to let
 
 BEGGARY. 253 
 
 nobody hev it but the young lady herself; it were very par- 
 tickler.' 
 
 ' Then you must wait here till night. This is not my house. 
 I cannot ask you into the kitchen to sit down ; you must wait 
 about in the road. It is raining, and you will be wet through. 
 I cannot help it ; it must be so unless you let me have the letter.' 
 
 * You'll be sure to give it, miss 1 ' 
 
 * Of course I will. Do you mistrust me ? ' 
 
 * There it be, miss ; but I doubt if the Captain will be best 
 pleased I haven't waited and let the lady have it herself.' 
 
 The letter was delivered. The address was in the Captain's 
 handwriting. The seal was large, in red wax, stamped with 
 the Trecarrel arms ; Orange knew them well — two chevronelfi, 
 a crescent for a difference. The girl turned to go away. 
 
 ' Good afternoon, miss.' 
 
 Orange took no notice of the salutation. She was looking 
 at the letter. As the girl departed, she glanced back. Orange 
 was turning the letter, and examining, first the superscription, 
 then the seal. There was an expression in her face which made 
 the girl say, * I doubt if I have done right now in giving her 
 thicky letter.' 
 
 Orange went in. She ascended the stairs to her own room, 
 jr rather, to the room she shared with Mirelle. Mirelle was 
 there. That which Orange had told the girl was not true; 
 Orange had told an untruth deliberately, knowing it was an 
 untruth. Orange stood in the doorway and looked at Mirelle, 
 and a flash shot from her dark eyes. Mirelle had not raised 
 her head to see who entered, and she did not therefore encounter 
 and observe the glance of hatred and jealousy flung at her. 
 
 Orange quickly shut the door and descended the stairs again. 
 
 She took her bonnet and went out, — went out into the rain. 
 What cared she for rain 1 She went into a lane where she saw 
 no one, and would be unobserved. Then she tore the letter 
 open. It was written in Captain Trecarrel's best hand, and 
 ran as followa : — 
 
 ' My dear Mirelle, — Indisposition prevents my calling and 
 paying my respects to you as I should have desii^ed. I am in 
 profound distress to learn the predicament in which you have 
 been placed by the unscrupulousness of a man whom I will not 
 designate as he deserves, because he is dead. De morluis nil 
 nisi honum. Observe this maxim strictly, and Mr. Tram- 
 pleasure will never be heard of again. I write now to entreat
 
 254 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 you to accept tlio asylum of my aunt's house. She lives at 
 Penzance, and is both a charming old lady and a strict Catholic. 
 I have written to her to-day, stating your case, and by the 
 middle of the week will have her reply. I make no question 
 but that she will open her house and her heart to you. One 
 little bit of advice I know you will excuse my offering. I saw, 
 on the night of the ball at Dolbeare, that you wore a very 
 valuable set of diamonds, worth, I dare say, over a thousand 
 pounds. On no account allow the vultures — you know to whom 
 I allude — to set their claws in them. Mrs. T. and Miss 0. 
 are at the present moment impecunious, and impecuniosity is a 
 temptation to unscrupulousness, — an infirmity that runs in the 
 blood of a family that I will not name. You do not know the 
 value of these stones, and might be sorely taken in if you dis- 
 posed of them to a country jeweller. Moreover, I presume 
 they belonged to your dear mother, and it would be unjust to 
 her memory to get rid of them to relieve the present pressing 
 necessities of persons in whom she could feel no possible interest. 
 If you doubt being able to keep them safely — I feel convinced 
 that you will be besieged with entreaties to sell them — trust 
 them to my aunt or to me. I remain, my dear Mirelle, yours 
 veiy faithfully, ' Harry Teecarrel.' 
 
 Mirelle never saw that letter. Orange tore it with her 
 teeth, and then trampled the fragments into the mire. She 
 walked up and down that lane in a fever, regardless of the rain 
 that fell and drenched her. 
 
 Her faith in Trecarrel was gone. She was a girl who 
 had been brought up to believe in nothing ; neither in truth, 
 nor honesty, nor sincerity. But she had believed in Tre- 
 carrel, and now that one faith was in fragments. She 
 saw him as he really was, in all his despicable meanness. She 
 scorned him, she hated him, but with that hate was mingled 
 love, or rather that hate was but wounded, writhing, anguished 
 love. During the night she I'ose from her bed. Mirelle slept 
 with her. The rain had ceased, the clouds had broken, and the 
 moon shone into the room. She left her bed because she could 
 not endure the silver glare over her face. As she stood by the 
 bed she looked down on the face of the sleeping Mirelle. It 
 was like the face of a dead woman sculptured in the purest 
 Carrara marble, and lovely as the noblest chisel could cut. 
 
 Orange drew the pillow from the bed, and held it up, that 
 the pillow might shadow the white face. The heart of Orange
 
 !JEGGARY. 2.55 
 
 beat fux'iously^ She hated Mirelle, She had but to put that 
 pillow over her mouth, throw herself upon it, and with her strong 
 arms hold down the tossing figure, — that figure so frail and feeble, 
 and then she could laugh at the schemes of Otiptain Trecarrel, 
 
 But no. Orange put the pillow back with a curl of the lip. 
 She could not do that, easy as it was to do. But as she stood over 
 Mirelle she vowed never to permit Captain Trecarrel to take that 
 pale girl to the hearth from which he had cast Orange Tramplara. 
 
 * You're a beggar ! you're a beggar ! ' that terrible screech ot 
 the parrot came back in her ear at that moment. ' True, 
 true ! ' said Orange, between her teeth, * I am a beggar. I 
 have asked for love ! I have begged for help ! I have begged 
 for sympathy ! I have implored advice ! I have been refused 
 everything, and given rebuffs and insults. I have but one 
 thing remaining to me, a hold on Mirelle, beggar though I be, 
 and never shall he who has refused me all I asked, give to her 
 what he has denied to me, his betrothed,' 
 
 The sleeping gii-1 turned her head away. The fierce eyes of 
 Orange stabbed her and distressed her, even in sleep. 
 
 Orange put her hands over her heart. It was bounding 
 noisily, the moonlight throbbed in her eyes, the thoughts beat 
 in her brain. That horrible idea of the pillow, and Mirelle 
 under it, came over her again. She saw the feet beating in 
 the bed in rhythm with the pulsation of her heart, and her 
 hands clenched as though gripping the delicate wrists. As one 
 at the edge of a precipice turns giddy and feels impelled to 
 throw himself where he fears to fall, so was it now with 
 Orange. A dread — a dread was on her lest this horrible 
 thought might in a moment become a fact. She turned away. 
 She paced the room ; she could not rest in a bed. She was 
 like a wild beast in a cage. 
 
 ' Orange ! ' 
 
 She started. Mirelle was sitting up. 
 
 * What do you want 1 ' asked Orange hoarsely, and stood 
 between Mirelle and the moonlight, that her face might not bo 
 Been and betray her heart. 
 
 ' He is coming.' 
 
 * Who is coming 1 ' asked Orange, fiercely. 
 
 * I knew he would.' 
 
 'Who? who? whol' Orange clutched the pillow convulsively. 
 
 * John Herring. I wrote to him. I have been dreaming, 
 and I saw him open my letter, and he started up and cried, " 1 
 am coming to you, Mirelle. I am coming to you with help." '
 
 256 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXYI. 
 
 MIRELLE's GUESTS- 
 
 A. TRUCE was concluded between the Reverend Israel and hia 
 wife. He undertook to dej^art on a missionary circuit during 
 the remainder of the time that the ladies were in her house. 
 Mrs. Flamank very vinreasonably charged her husband with 
 encoui-aging Orange in disorderly ways, the encouragement 
 consisting in privately combating his wile's attack on Orange's 
 character, and finding a charitable explanation for her leaving 
 the house at night. Mr. Flamank depai'ted early in the morn- 
 ing as a deputation for the parent missionary society of the 
 religious community to which he belonged, to advocate the 
 claims of a very promising mission to the heathen in the 
 Imaginary Islands. 
 
 Hitherto this station had been promising rather than 
 performing, but now it had real cause for congratulation and 
 for appealing to the charitable. A native chieftain, with his 
 entire family, consisting of several wives and a tail of children 
 like the tail of a comet, had become a convert. 
 
 Ho-hum was the capital of the Imaginary Isles, situated 
 in the largest of them, with a good port at which vessels from 
 England called with gowns and novels for the missionaries' 
 wives and daughters. At Ho-hum there were four rival 
 missionary churches. The Imaginary group formed an archi- 
 pelago, but as Hohum was most considerable of all the islands, 
 not one of the churches would be content with evangelising a 
 smaller island, and thereby confess itself iufei'ior in pretensions 
 to those communities which occupied the major isliitd. Pene- 
 lope by night unravelled her embroidery of the day. The work 
 of Christian missions is like that of Penelope, with this differ- 
 ence, that each is engaged in unravelling the work of all the 
 others. 
 
 In the island of Ilo-ha, a chieflet of indifferent character, 
 Hokee-Pokee-Wankce-Fum by name, had proved himself such 
 a nuisance to the heathen society that he was expelled the 
 island with his family and took refuge in that of Ho-hum, 
 where, however, he met v/ith a chilling reception from his 
 native friends. Finding himself destitute of means, and cold- 
 ehouldered hj his own people, he lent ft ready ear to the solici-
 
 mirblle's quests. 257 
 
 Nations of the One-aud-Only- Christian missionary to receive 
 instructions in his catechetical school. As this instruction was 
 Bupplemented with mealies, he listened and ate. He liked the 
 chapel of the station, because it was adorned with pictures and 
 gilding and much frippery. Then the Reverend the Superior 
 of the establishment wi-ote home to the ' Annals of the Faith ' a 
 letter in the most i-emarkable English ever penned. It was to 
 this effect, ' that Ho-kee, a chieftain of the island of Ho-ha, 
 having heard the verities which were at this time now incul- 
 cated at the mission of the Immaculate Joseph in Ho-hum, had 
 left, like Abraham, his home, and had come to seek the verity. 
 This aborigine, passionated with a vivid desire t-o apprehend, 
 had commenced to receive the holy instructions into a heart 
 truly recognisant,' etc. 
 
 But, presently, the rival station of the Pure and Reformed 
 Christians drew away the * recognisant aborigine,' having 
 offered him meat as well as mealies with its instructions. At 
 this station the missionary laboured to divest his catechumen 
 of the unprimitive and erroneous teaching in which his mind 
 had been enveloped by the One-and-Onlies. And he wrote 
 home, in good English, an account of the enlightened 'native 
 chief Pokee, who had been unable to digest the erroneous 
 doctrines of the sister Church of the One-and-Onlies, and whose 
 Boul was refreshed by the pure and primitive truths (divested of 
 human accretions) ; but as some expense had been incurred,' 
 <fec. &c. 
 
 Hokee-Pokee-Wankee-Fum was, however, before long shaken 
 in his attachment to the Pure and Reformed, by the missionary 
 insisting on his limiting himself to one wife. This was more 
 than he could endure, and he opened his ears to the ministra- 
 tions of the pastor of the Universal Christians. By him also 
 he was told that he must have but one wife, but a concession 
 was made that the rest might be retained under the designation 
 of domestics. With the Universals, the name, not the thing, 
 ■was essential. The Universal teacher set vigorously to work to 
 strip the mind of Wankee of all the unevangelical instructions 
 he had received from the Pure and Reformed, and he wrote 
 home concerning his convert, to the ' Universal Missionaiy 
 Reporter,' that Wankee in testimony of his sincerity had re- 
 tained but one wife out of the three score ; but he added, as 
 wives wei-e valuable commodities, this was much like a farmer 
 voluntarily abandoning his flock of sheep and limiting hin^seif 
 U) one ewe lamb. Under these circumstances, it became the 
 
 s
 
 258 JOHN HERRINa. 
 
 duty of Christians to indemnify this zealous Wankee, therefore 
 he must solicit subscriptions, &c. &c. 
 
 Unfortunately, this missionary was strict on the subject of 
 temperance, and forbade the use of spirits. Now Wankee was 
 fond of grog, and when he had been reprimanded and put on 
 short commons of food, for yielding to his passions, he grew 
 sulky and deserted to the Particular Christians, who allowed 
 grog and had no sharp and defined belief or code of morals, but 
 a very decided disbelief in everything taught in the other 
 churches. Accordingly the missioner proceeded still further to 
 divest Wankee-Fum of his acquired faith, and he was brought 
 to that condition in which ho protested against everything and 
 professed nothing. To his bewildered mind, Christianity seemed 
 a bird of paradise on which the sectaries had fallen with the 
 object of restoring it to its primitive condition as it emerged 
 from the egg. One pulled out the gorgeous tail, another stripped 
 off the coronal of plumes, a third reft off the wing feathers, and 
 the last, after having plucked and singed it, held up a naked 
 and expiring monster as typical primitive Christianity. 
 
 The Particular pastor wrote home to say that he had con- 
 verted a native prince of the name of Fum, with his entire 
 family, consisting of one hundred and six souls ; that a great 
 door was open for the advance of vague and vapid Christianity. 
 He was resolved (d.v.) to send Prince Fum to his own island of 
 Ho-ha, as native teacher and founder of a church. To do this 
 effectually, money was needed, &c. &c. 
 
 This was the glad news received by Mr. Flamank, and he 
 hastened to divulge it in missionary meetings of the Particular 
 Christians in Cornwall, and to collect money for establishing 
 Hokee-Pokee-Wankee-Fum in the island of Ho-ha as an evan- 
 gelist. 
 
 On the one condition that the Pev. Israel Flamank should 
 absent himself from home did his ' sweet soul ' Betsy Delilah 
 consent to allow Mrs. Trampleasure, her daughter, and Mirelle 
 to remain a couple of days longer in the house. 
 
 Mrs. Flamank was a kind woman in her way, but that way 
 was a hard one. She felt pity for the widow, and as much 
 tenderness as it was possible for her to feel for Mirelle ; but she 
 detested Orange. And the reason why she liked Mirelle was 
 because Mirelle had snubbed her husband, and if there was one 
 thing in the world that Mrs. Flamank delighted in it was in 
 seeing Israel suffer rebuff. 
 
 Thus it was that Mrs. Trampleasure and Orange were left
 
 mirelle's guests. 259 
 
 without even the minister to advise them what to do and 
 whither to go. 
 
 The day had come on which they must depart. It was the 
 day announced for the auction at Dolbeare. Whenever Oran{;e 
 went into the town and passed under the old gateway she saw 
 plastered against the wall an announcement of the sale, and 
 details of the desirable lots into Avhich the Trampleasura 
 furniture had been assorted. 
 
 Mrs. Trampleasure was all day in tears. She was thinking 
 of mats and cushions, worked with her own hands, which would 
 go to the hammer. The cruet-stand, also ; O woe ! woo ! 
 There was, moreover, a set of Blair's ' Sermons ' she had been 
 wont to read on rainy Sundays — sermons devoid of ideas, and 
 therefore adapted to a mind incapable of receiving ideas. She 
 lamented, likewise, a Kollin's 'Ancient History,' which she had 
 attempted ineffectually to read for the last thirty years. Though 
 she had not read Kollin, the sight of his back on her shelf, in 
 many volumes, gave her a sensation of solidity and well- 
 grounding. Eut the thought that especially troubled her was 
 that she had left behind in Dolbeare two pillow pincushions 
 fastened to the back of the best bed. In her hurry and disti'ess 
 at leaving she had forgotten these treasures, and they would be 
 sold with the furniture. The pincushions were of white satin, 
 ornamented with figures and (lowers in coloured beads. They 
 were heart-shaped— of the size of a bullock's heart, heavily 
 stuffed. They depended, by white satin ribands, from mother- 
 of-pearl buttons. These pincushions had been given to Mrs 
 Trampleasure on her marriage by a great-aunt. They would 
 hold, on a moderate computation, a thousand pins apiece. What 
 anyone in bed could want two thousand pins for did not enter 
 into the consideration of the artist Avho constructed them. For 
 some years these pincushions had adorned the head of the bed 
 occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Trampleasure. But they exhibited 
 a tendency to fall down on the sleepers in an unprovoked and 
 startling manner. Mrs. Trampleasure had sewn them up re- 
 peatedly, passing the stitches through the mother-of-pearl 
 buttons ; but whether spiders ate the threads, or the damask 
 bed back was unable to support the burden, down one or other 
 would come, till at length Mr. Trampleasure, upon whose nose 
 one had pounded whilst enjoying a refreshing slumbei', woke 
 with an oath, and flung both the guilty and the innocent pin- 
 cushion across the room, vowing not to suffer their re-erection 
 above his head any more. After this they were banished to 
 
 82
 
 260 JOHN HERRINtf. 
 
 the spare bedroom, and, though not tinder Mrs. Trampleasure's 
 daily observation, they did not cease to be dear to her soul. 
 These precious pincushions, through inadvertence, were doomed 
 to fall into strange, perhaps inappreciative, hands. The thought 
 made her weep and sniif. 
 
 * Mother,' said Orange, ' everything is packed. All is ready 
 for us to start. "We must decide now whither we will go.' 
 
 ' There was Charity on one, with a feeding-bottle in her 
 hand — I believe a Florence flask, and a backie-pipe stem stuck 
 through the cork — as nat'ral as nat'ral ; and on the other was 
 Hope with her anchor, and a serpent twined round it, as I 
 thought; but your dear father would insist it was a rope. 
 " But," said I, " look : it has an eye." However, your father 
 maintained that was only a loop in the cord.' Mrs. Tram- 
 pleasure was thinking of the pincushions. 
 
 * Whither are we to go, mother 1 ' asked Orange. 
 
 ' I am sure I don't know,' answered Mrs. Trampleasure, 
 * without my Blair, and my Rollin, and my pinkies.' Mirelle 
 was sitting at the window. The day was passing, and no signs 
 were seen of John Herring. 
 
 ' I wonder how them pinkies have sold,' mused the old 
 woman ; ' I shouldn't wonder if they've fetched a lot of money. 
 I should say they were cheap at five pounds. If I get a chance 
 I'll buy them back at that figure.' 
 
 ' We have no money,' said Orange, * except a trifle which 
 will be consumed in inn expenses ; we must go to one, as we 
 have seen nothing about lodgings. Mirelle, are you awake 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, Orange.' 
 
 ' You will have to give French lessons, and I will do the 
 housework at home and take in sewing. So perhaps we shall 
 be able to keep body and soul together.' 
 
 ' I am waiting,' answered Mirelle. 
 
 ' What nonsense ! ' said Orange, impatiently. ' Do yoa 
 suppose that Mr. Herring will trouble himself about us 1 ' 
 
 ' I am sure he will.' 
 
 * He has not come, and he must have received your 
 letter.' 
 
 * Please, ma'am' — it was the servant who spoke from the 
 doorway — • the mistress hev sent to say, shall I go and fetch a 
 coach 1 ' 
 
 Orange looked at her mother. Mrs. Trampleasure wept. 
 ' Yes,' said Orange ; * we will go at once. Yes, girl : go and 
 fetch one.'
 
 miuelle's guests. 261 
 
 * It is unnecessary/ said Mlrelle, rising. ' A coach has come. 
 John Herring is here,' 
 
 A rap at the door, and in another moment John Herring 
 was ushered into the room. 
 
 * Thank you ! thank you for coming/ said Mirelle, advancing 
 to meet him, and holding out both her hands. 
 
 Herring was not looking strong. His fall, and a hard ride 
 during the night from West Wyke to Launceston, had made 
 him look pale and worn and unwell. But Orange, her mother, 
 and Mirello were too engaged in their own troubles to notice 
 the change in him. 
 
 * You have come to take us away from this house ? ' asked 
 Mirelle. 
 
 ' Yes, I have. You called me.' 
 
 He held her hands, and looked into her eyes, and was lost 
 in wonder at their depth and beauty, and in a dream of love. 
 She met his gaze frankly, but, as it was prolonged, her eyes 
 feU. 
 
 * Whither are you going to take us 1 * asked Orange. 
 
 But Herring had ears for one voice only ; he had thoughts 
 at that moment for one person only, who stood before him. 
 
 * Oh, Mr. Herring,' said Mirelle — and she looked up timidly 
 again, but, again encountering his eyes, lowered her dark lashes 
 — ' take us away — anywhere. We cannot remain here any 
 longer. We are turned out of the house. We trust you per- 
 fectly; take us where you will.' 
 
 * Let me lead you to the coach.' 
 
 Then Orange said to Mrs. Trampleasure, 'Mother, you 
 must go and thank Mrs. Flamank before leaving.' But at 
 that moment this good lady appeared, relieved by the sight of 
 the carriage standing at the house door. Her visitors were 
 departing. 
 
 She received the thanks given her for her hospitality with 
 graciousness. She even kissed Mirelle on the brow. ' I hope,' 
 she said, condescendingly, * that you will find a comfortable 
 and happy home, my child. Aha ! ' — she looked at Herring, 
 and then at Mirelle — ' I have my suspicions. Well, well ! 
 Time will show if they are justified.' 
 
 Herring saw the ladies into the coach, and mounted the 
 box beside the driver. 
 
 The carriage drew up at the door of Dolbeare. Herring 
 descended, opened the coach door, let down the steps, and pre- 
 sented his arm to Mrs. Trampleasure.
 
 262 JOHK HERRING. 
 
 * Ml". Herring,' exclaimed Orange, turning white, * what is 
 the meaning of this 1 Do yon not know that this is no longer 
 our home 1 You have not heard. You have made a mistake.' 
 
 ' Pray step inside, ladies,' said he, smiling. 
 
 Bewildered, not knowing what to say, all three descended. 
 No ; Mirelle was not bewildered ; she was perfectly collected. 
 What Mr. Herring did was right. Where he led she followed 
 ■with confidence ; she had entire reliance on him. 
 
 They entered the hall. Everything was as it had been : the 
 clock on the stairs was ticking ; the door of the dining-room 
 was open ; a fire burned in the grate ; on the table lay a bundle 
 of old walking-sticks, tied together. Herring took up this 
 bundle. 
 
 ' But, Mr. Herring,' said Orange, passing her hand across 
 her eyes, ' what is tlie meaning of this 1 Are we walking in a 
 dream 1 ' 
 
 * This is no dream,' answered Herring. ' Countess, I make 
 over this bundle of old sticks to you ; the house goes with them ; 
 the rent has been paid for the current year, in your name ; the 
 lease is made over to you. Everything the house contains is 
 yours. Everything has been bought as it stands, in your 
 name.' 
 
 Orange and Mirelle stood silent. Neither could comprehend 
 the situation. 
 
 Herring did not speak to them for some minutes, he could 
 understand their perplexity. Orange looked round for her 
 mother, but Mrs. Trampleasure had not entered the room. 
 
 Presently Herring went on : ' You will find, Countess, that 
 a sum sufiicient for the maintenance of the house, and for your 
 comfort, is lodged in the bank, in your name, and that the same 
 sum will be paid quarterly. You can draw as you require. 
 This house, with all its contents, is yours. Everything has 
 been purchased and paid for in your name.' 
 
 ' Mr. Herring,' put in Orange, speaking with a flushed cheek 
 and a quivering lip, * what are we here ? ' 
 
 ' You have been kind to her when she needed a home, you 
 have done your best to make her comfortable, now you are the 
 guests in this house of the Countess Mirelle Garcia.' 
 
 A cry of joy from the upper story, and down the flight and 
 into the room rushed Mrs. Trampleasure, laughing and crying. 
 * They are there, they are there, my Orange ! Oh, joy ! ' 
 
 ' What are there, mother ? ' 
 
 * My own satin pinkies.'
 
 MIIIELLE^S GUESTS. 263 
 
 * They aro not yours,' said Orange, with a cwrl of the liji 
 and a hard look settling into her eyes. * They, like everything 
 else, have been purchased in the name of the Countess Mirelle 
 Garcia de Cantalejo.' She stood and looked at Mirello from 
 head to foot. A battle was raging in her heart. Should the 
 rage and hate boiling there overflow her lips 1 She caught 
 Herring's eye fixed inquiringly, suspiciously, on her. Then she 
 dropped a profound curtsey to Mirelle, and said, * We are not 
 your guests, gracious Countess, but your most humble and 
 obliged servants.' 
 
 Then Mirelle threw her arms round Orange, and kissed her 
 cheeks and brow and mouth. 
 
 ' Dear, dear Orange ! ' she said, and her tears flowed, ' do 
 not speak thus. You are nothing other to me than a sister.' 
 
 Then she looked round to thank Herring, but he was gone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXYII. 
 
 A SECOND SUMMONS. 
 
 Herring was gone. He did not remain to explain how it was 
 that everything had fallen to Mirelle ; he went because he did 
 not desire to explain anything. In his own mind he had de- 
 bated what was best to be done. Should he inform her that she 
 had a fortune, part of which he had invested in the West Wyke 
 mortgages, and part he was about to sink in the Upaver lead 
 mine, and part still remained in uncut diamonds, not disposed 
 of 1 Should he make over everything to her, and free himself 
 of further responsibiUty ? 
 
 He hesitated about doing this, and throwing oif a charge he 
 had laid on himself. Mirelle was unable of herself to manage 
 what was properly hers ; her ignorance of the world would 
 place her at the mercy of anyone who offered to conduct her 
 affairs for her. Orange was engaged to Captain Trecarrel, and 
 would probably marry him when the trouble about Ophir, and 
 the time of mourning for her father, was over ; and, though 
 Trecarrel was a gentleman and, no doubt, of unimpeachable 
 integrity, still he was a needy man, and might not be a discreet 
 adviser. So Herring resolved to retain his hold over the pro- 
 perty, at all events for a while, till the Captain had married 
 Orange, and he had time to decide whether Trecarrel was a man 
 to be trusted to act as guardian to Mirelle.
 
 264 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 In a small town everyone holds his nose over his neighbour's 
 chimney-top, and knows exactly what is cooking below. In 
 Launceston it was a matter of general conversation that tlie 
 Countess Mirelle Garcia had come to the aid of the Tramplea- 
 sures, that she had arranged with the creditors, and had made 
 such an offer before the sale took place that the auction had 
 been abandoned. Everyone knew this — the mayor, the chimney- 
 sweep, the barber, the milliner, and Polly Skittles behind the 
 bar of the Pig and Whistle. Everyone knew that Mirelle had 
 money in the bank, and multiplied the sum by four. Now 
 everyone believed that her diamonds were real, and that they 
 were the outward sign of a magnificent fortune behind. Every- 
 one, we say, for after the ball at Dolbeare the entire town knew 
 of the diamonds, but the mayor, the chimney-sweep, the barber, 
 the milliner, and Polly Skittles of the Pig and Whistle con- 
 cluded they were paste. The one jeweller had tested them and 
 found them paste, and the one jeweller had a wife, and the wife 
 had a tongue. Now, also everyone began to regret that more 
 attention had not been shown her. Those mothers who were 
 burdened Avith cnbs were especially regretful, and resolute to 
 make amends, and bring the Countess to their little parties, and 
 hitch their cubs on to her. Now, also, Miss Bowdler began to 
 regret having been inhospitable to Orange Trampleasure. 
 Mirelle was a countess — a foreign countess, it is true ; but still, 
 where titles are rare a foreign title is better than none. Hitherto 
 she, as well as the rest of Launceston, down to Polly Skittles, 
 had delighted to talk of her as Miss Strange, because they sup- 
 posed her poor — a sort of hanger-on to the Tramplaras ; but 
 now that the conditions were reversed Launceston society re- 
 considered the question of her treatment. If foreign titles do 
 descend through the female line — well, this was a foreign title, 
 and the young lady had a legitimate right to bear it. So 
 Launceston, from tlie mayoress, the chimney-sweeperess, the 
 barber's wife, the milliner, to Polly Skittles behind the bar of 
 the Pig and Whistle, began to speak of her as the Countess, and 
 Polly went so far as to call the Tramplaras Trampleasures, 
 because of their kinship to Mirelle. 
 
 Miss Bowdler speedily convinced herself that she had made 
 a mistake. There were no baronets and their ladies near the 
 capital of Cornwall, and if there had been they would have 
 moved in a sphere unapproachable by Sophy. There was not 
 even a retired oil and colourman who, as mayor, had been 
 knighted on a royal visit; for royalty never did visit Launces*
 
 A SECOND SUMMONS. 265 
 
 too, not even the Duke of Cornwall, though the city was tho 
 capital of the county from which he drew his title, and in which 
 he owned estates. It would be something for Sophy Bowrdler 
 to be able to talk of her friend the Countess, and to describe her 
 diamonds, when visiting her relatives in Eedruth and Bodmin. 
 
 She had made a mistake, and she hastened to repair it. She 
 was the fii'st to visit Dolbeare after the return of the Tram- 
 pleasures. She did more; she offered a holocaust to secure a 
 renewal of friendship, and the holocaust she offered was John 
 Thomas the footman, who found himself summarily dismissed 
 for the impertinence of his manner to Miss Trampleasure. 
 
 Sophy Bowdler pushed her way into Dolbeare, past the 
 maid who appeared at the door. She herself opened that of the 
 sitting-room in the old familiar style, and rushed to Orange to 
 take her to her heart. 
 
 Orange hesitated a moment, and then received her overtures 
 with simulated pleasure. It was not her interest to quarrel 
 with old friends. 
 
 * You must excuse me, darling Orange, if I was abrupt with 
 you the other day. My Pa, my dear Pa, is, you know, rather 
 short in temper, and I had begun to read to him an account of 
 the riots in the north, when I heard the parrot screaming, and 
 she disturbed him. He swore he would wring Polly's neck. 
 You know I dote on that bird ; and I was so frightened. Pa is 
 a man of his word. So I ran out, and then he called me back, 
 and I was distracted between my desire to see you, and my fears 
 for PoU, and my duty to Pa.' 
 
 ' Pray do not mention this.' 
 
 * But I must. Orange. That impudent John Thomas made 
 me so angry with his want of manner that I had to dismiss him, 
 and now we are on the look-out for another footman. Can you 
 • — or can the Countess — recommend me one ] ' 
 
 The next to come was Mrs. Trelake, very pleased to see her 
 dear old friend, Mrs. Trampleasure, back in Dolbeare again. 
 She was provoked at not having been able to receive her. * But, 
 my dear, put yourself in my place ; what else could I do ? 
 However, all is well that ends well. Hah ! the china vases 
 with the dragons were not sold after all ! We shall have our 
 game of cribbage together as of old.' 
 
 Then came Mr. Plamank. His excursion among the Parti- 
 cular Christians on behalf of the mission to Ho- ha, under the 
 ministry of the native prince, Hokee-Pokee-Wankee-Fum, had 
 not been crowned with success. Ophir was too fresh in tho
 
 266 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 memories of men. Some of the Christian auditors had suffered 
 through it; all knew how Flamank had helped to launch the 
 concern, and, although he had taken an active part in exposing 
 the fraud, it was surmised that he had pocketed something by 
 the transaction. Some rudely asserted that the Ho-ha mission 
 was but another Ophir, and that Wankee-Fum was as mythical 
 as Arundell Golitho of Trevorgan, Esq. Mr. Flamank returned 
 from his round much disappointed and depressed. He heard 
 from his wife what had occurred. Then he went to Dolbeare to 
 offer his congratulations. He was surprised and puzzled. If 
 Mirelle were rich and willing to rescue her kinsfolk from their 
 difficulties, why had she said nothing of her intention before ? 
 Why had she allowed him to invite the party to his house and 
 embroil himself with his wife about them 1 
 
 Perhaps her remittance had not arrived. Perhaps 
 
 But why form conjectures ? He did not understand her. Her 
 ways were radically different from the ways of plain Christians. 
 Where these went straight, those went crooked. There are 
 persons mentally shaped liked boomerangs. They go out of 
 the hand in one direction, make a sweep half round the horizon, 
 and return to the hand whence they started. 
 
 It was possible, as the Countess was rich, that she might 
 interest herself in Ho-ha, and Flamank thought that, by dwell- 
 ing on the social and moral aspects of the case, and not pressing 
 the religious, she might be induced to help Wankee-Fum 
 liberally, 
 
 Mirelle received Mr, Flamank civilly. She felt that he had 
 acted with kindness and unselfishness towards her and the 
 Trampleasures, and she respected his goodness, though she did 
 not like its fashions. 
 
 After some desultory conversation, Mr, Flamank broached 
 the subject of the Ho-ha mission. Mirelle at once became 
 chilly. When he asked her for a donation she declined to 
 subscribe, 
 
 ' You forget, I am a Catholic' 
 
 * Not at all, my dear young friend, not at all. But this is 
 distinctly a case of enlightenment, where all around is dark ; 
 and although Hokee-Pokee- Wankee-Fum may have embraced 
 the tenets of the Particular Christians, still you must remember 
 he is a Christian, and we are all traveUing in the same 
 direction.' 
 
 * Sir,' said Mirelle, * as I was walking along the Bodmin road, 
 I saw three children going along the same way and in the same
 
 A SECOND SUMMONS. 267 
 
 direction as myself — only tliey were walking backwards. One 
 tumbled into a furzebush on the right, another fell over the 
 bank into a ditch on the left, and the third went under the 
 hoofs of carthorses in the middle of the road. It would have 
 been better for all those children not to have travelled along 
 the road at all, than to have attempted it with pei'verted 
 views.' Then she rose, bowed, and left the minister with 
 Orange and her mother. 
 
 The next caller was Captain Trecarrel. Orange had been 
 expecting him, and had given instructions to the servant on no 
 account to admit him. Accordingly, when he called, neither 
 the Countess nor the Trampleasures were ' at home,' and the 
 Captain was forced to depart, leaving three cards. 
 
 Orange took possession of the cards, tore them in half, and 
 put them in an envelope. 
 
 * Dear Mirelle,' she said, * I have been writing to Harry, 
 poor fellow. He has been so troubled about our affairs that 
 he has taken to his bed. He is seriously unwell. I have been 
 writing full particulars to him of all that has taken place, but 
 since my letter was finished I have spi-ained my hand, sad 
 cannot hold a pen. Would you mind directing the letter for 
 me, dear?' 
 
 So the address was in Mirelle's handwriting. The letter 
 •>vas posted, and reached the Captain on the morrow. 
 
 ' Now,' said Orange, ' he will be forced to keep his distance 
 for a while, till I have time to look round.' 
 
 Orange was not satisfied. Mirelle was certain to go to 
 Trecarrel for mass, when next the priest came that way, and 
 then an explanation would follow. Orange did not understand 
 how it was that Herring had bought in all the furniture in 
 Mirelle's name, and had placed a sum in the bank to her 
 account. She questioned Mirelle thereon. 
 
 ' My dear, how comes it that you have so much money 1 
 that you are able to do so much, and to live indepen- 
 dently 1 ' 
 
 ' I do not know.' 
 
 ' What has become of your diamond necklace and tiara ! 
 Have you sold them 1 ' 
 
 ' No, Mr, Herring keeps them for me. I do not want them 
 now. I mean — for wear.' 
 
 ' Mr. Herring has them ! ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I asked him to take care of them — that was before 
 I knew they were paste.'
 
 268 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 'But, perhaps they are not paste, but real diamonds, 
 Mirelle.' 
 
 * What I gave you formed part of the set, and that waa 
 certainly paste.' 
 
 * Yes, that is true ; but it is possible that the rest may have 
 been genuine stones, in which case the value must be great.* 
 
 * I do not know, Orange.' 
 
 ' But, my dear, whence comes the money lodged in the 
 bank 1 Whence the money that bought all this furniture 1 ' 
 ' I do not know. I have not asked.' 
 
 * You ought to know. It is imperative on you to ascertain. 
 Do you think that Mr. Herring has sold your diamonds for thia 
 purpose ? ' 
 
 * I am certain he has not. He would not dare to dispose of 
 my mother's jewels without consulting me. I gave them to 
 him to keep for me. I did not authorise him to sell them.* 
 
 * Have you any means of which we know nothing ? — money 
 not given to my father which you trusted to Mr. Hemng along 
 with the diamonds ? * 
 
 ' No, Orange.' 
 
 ' Has nothing been forwarded to you of his property from 
 Brazil i ' 
 
 * No, Orange.' 
 
 * Then, whence comes this money ? I suppose Mr. Herring 
 has spent a hundred and fifty pounds on the furniture. He 
 has lodged a hundred pounds in the bank, and promises you as 
 much quarterly.' 
 
 * Yes, it is so.* 
 
 * But, Mirelle, do you not see that, in this case, you are 
 living on Mr. Herring's alms ! He is not a rich man. I have 
 heard from my father about him. I do not believe he is worth 
 more than six to seven hundred pounds a year, and he is giving 
 you four out of the six or seven — nay, he has given you more.' 
 
 Mirelle looked before her. She had not thought of this 
 before. Brought up without care of money, everything she 
 had being paid for by her father, it had not struck her that she 
 was now living on the bounty of one who was no relative. 
 
 * It is very good of Mr. Herring,' she said. 
 
 * My dear Mirelle, this must not go on.' 
 'Why not r 
 
 ' What right have you to accept and spend the money of 
 Mr. Herring? He is no relative. You have no claim oa 
 him.'
 
 A SECONi^ SUMMONS. 269 
 
 Mirelle was uneasy. * Why, then, has he done so much for 
 me?' 
 
 * That is what I ask. Realise what this means. He is 
 impoverishing himself to support you 1 What will the world 
 say ? What must it say 1 That which Mr. Herring is doing 
 for you he has no right to do for any woman except a wife.' 
 
 Then Mirelle sprang to her feet trembling ; she could not 
 colour over brow and bosom like Orange, but two rosy tinges 
 came into her cheeks. Her whole delicate frame quivered, and 
 her eyes became dull. She placed her hands over her heart, 
 and looked at Orange speechlessly. 
 
 * Yes,' said the latter, ' you cannot ; what is more, you 
 must not receive all this from a young man without having a 
 shadow of claim upon him. The only claim you can have to 
 justify the receiving of so much is the legitimate claim of a 
 wife.' 
 
 ' Have done ! ' gasped Mirelle, holding out her hand 
 entreatingly. 
 
 * No, Mirelle, I must be plain with you. In this town it 
 will soon be known that you are being supported in comfort by 
 a young officer, who is neither a brother nor even a cousin. 
 What conclusion will be drawn 1 ' 
 
 ' Orange,' said the girl, pleadingly, * I pray you to be 
 Bilent.' 
 
 ' I will not be silent,' answered Orange. * One of two things 
 must be done ; must, I say. Do you hear me, must. Either 
 you give Mr. Herring a legitimate right to maintain you, or my 
 mother and I leave this place and do not speak to you again.' 
 
 * I do not understand you,' said Mirelle. ' Why should you 
 cast me off] ' 
 
 Oi-ange looked at her, and a scornful smile played over her 
 lips. She was unable to believe in the purity and guilelessnesa 
 of the soul before her. She thought Mirelle a hypocrite, and 
 as a hypocrite she despised her, 
 
 ' Oh ! you want further explanation, do you 1 Learn then 
 that it is not the custom in England for a woman of character 
 to live on the generosity of a gentleman who is neither a 
 husband nor a kinsman.' 
 
 ' I see that I have no right to expect this of Mr. Herring. 
 But he is so good, so generous, and so thoughtful, that he haa 
 not considered himself, in his pity and solicitude for me. How- 
 ever, it shall not remain so. I will tell him that I cannot 
 iccept his liberality.'
 
 270 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 * Or — that you can only accept it when he has given you 
 legitimate claims on him.' 
 
 * I will not accept his liberality.' 
 
 ' What is to become of us — of you — if he hears this from 
 your lips ] Eemember, we have nothing. We must starve. 
 You — what will you do? ' 
 
 ' I do not know.' 
 
 * Listen to me, Mirelle. There is only one thing that you 
 can do. Next time Mr. Herring comes here, if he tells you 
 that he loves you, and asks you to be his wife — accept him.' 
 
 ' I cannot. Oh, I cannot ! ' 
 
 * You must do it. It is the only salvation for us and for 
 you. Then, no one can say anything to his furnishing you with 
 every penny of his income.' 
 
 Mirelle put her hands over her eyes. Orange watched her 
 contemptuously. The girl was very still, but the tears oozed 
 between her slender fingers and dripped on her lap. 
 
 * Have you been so blind as not to see that his heart is 
 bound up in you ? He has loved you from the beginning, and, 
 you little fool, you have not known it. He has done so much 
 for you because he loves you. He cares nothing for us — my 
 mother and me. He is a good and worthy man. Make him 
 happy. Repay him for what he has done for you. You are 
 not likely to find another who would make as trustworthy a 
 husband. Do not sigh after the man in the moon ; he will not 
 come down to you. Mr. Herring is a gentleman, an officer in 
 His Majesty's army; has a private fortune, not large, but 
 enough to support a Vi^ife in comfort ; and he is honourable, 
 truthful — and soft.' 
 
 Mirelle made no response. 
 
 ' Now, suppose that you refuse him, and tell him, as you are 
 bound to do, that becavise you refuse him you will no longer 
 burden him for yoiir support. What then ? Why, you and we 
 are placed in precisely the same predicament we were in before. 
 We shall have a sale here after all ] have to leave this house, 
 and be adrift in the world. Will you hire youi'self to be cook 
 to Mrs. Trelake, or shall I recommend you as parlour-maid to 
 Miss Bowdlei*, for her John Thomas to flirt with in the pantry 1 
 This is not all. After everything that Mr. Herring has done 
 for you, you cannot refuse him without being guilty of black 
 ingratitude. Now, what do you say ] There seems to me no 
 option as to what your choice should be. But some persons do 
 not know on which side their bread is buttered. Are you pre-
 
 A SECOND SUMMONS. 271 
 
 pared to go uito service? Shall I write you a character to 
 Sophy Bowdler? — clean, obliging, and steady; understands 
 glass and china. There is really^ no alternative. Remember, 
 also, that my mother and I depend on your election likewise. 
 Reject Mr. Herring, and when you go to Miss Bowdler as 
 parlour-maid, my mother becomes cook, and I barmaid at an 
 inn.' 
 
 Mirelle rose. She did not speak, but left the room with 
 tottering feet, and her eyes so full that, to find her way, she felt 
 about her with trembling hands. When she was gone. Orange 
 laughed. 
 
 * Nov/,' said she, ' the next thing to be done is to bring that 
 other fool here.' Then she wrote a note to Herring, requesting 
 him to come to Launceston, as her mother and she wished to 
 consult him on important business. She added in a postscript, 
 ' Mii'elle will be most happy to see you.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 A VIRGIN MARTYR. 
 
 In the privacy of her own room, by night, in the little garden- 
 house, her favourite refuge by day, Mirelle considered what 
 Orange had said to her. She was hurt and ofiended by the 
 manner in which Orange had spoken, without quite understand- 
 ing why. Her refined nature winced before the rough touch of 
 one coarse as Orange, not only because the touch was rude^ but 
 because it sullied. 
 
 Mirelle believed that Orange was her friend — a rude friend, 
 but sincere. What had she done to convert her into an enemy ? 
 She was not a friend to whom she could open her heart, and 
 she had no desii'e to receive the outpourings of that of Orange 
 They were friends so far as this went, that each wished well to 
 the other, and would do her utmost to promote each other's 
 happiness. 
 
 Orange was the interpreter of the world's voice to Mirelle, 
 the guide through its mazes. That voice was odious to her; 
 nevertheless she must hear it. Its ways were distasteful; 
 nevertheless she must tread them. She knew nothing of the 
 world, except what she had been taught in the convent. She 
 believed it to be wicked and ungodly. The virgin martyrs had 
 been cast to wild beasts, some had been devoured by leopards,
 
 272 JOHN HERBlNa. 
 
 others hugged by bears. The world was an arena in which she 
 •was exposed, and Orange the rough but kindly executioner who 
 offered her a choice of martyrdom. An angel, a captain of the 
 heavenly militia, with eyes blue as the skies of paradise, had 
 been sent to stand by, and guard many a virgin; but she, 
 Mirelle, must endure her agony undefended, and see the angel 
 stand by one who seemed rude and dauntless enough to fight 
 the battle unaided. 
 
 King Alphonso X. of Castile said that, if he had been con- 
 sulted at the creation of the universe, he would have made it 
 much better ; the sisters of the Sacred Heart had intimated as 
 much in their instructions. In the first place, they would have 
 made a world without men, and that world would have re- 
 mained a paradise. Men are the cankers that corrode the 
 roses, the thorns that strangle the lilies in the garden of the 
 Church, the moths that fret the garments of the saints, the in- 
 carnation of the destructive principle. 
 
 Mirelle remembered how her mother had suffered through 
 union with Mr. Strange. She thought of Mr. Trampleasure, of 
 Sampson — she really knew very few men, and those she knew 
 were not of the best type. There was the Captain, indeed, but 
 he was unattainable, and Herring was at least inoffensive and 
 well-meaning. If she must be thrown to beasts, let her be cast 
 to such a gentle beast as this. Hereafter, only, Avill there be no 
 marrying nor giving in marriage, and women will be at peace ; 
 there, into that blessed country, the men, if admitted at all, will 
 be like priests, wear petticoats and be shaven ; above all, will 
 be in such a minority that they will be obliged to keep their 
 distance and adopt a submissive manner. Mirelle had a good 
 deal of natui'al shrewdness, but no experience of life. Brought 
 up in a convent, the only world she knew was the little world 
 within four walls, in which the wildest hurricane that raged 
 was occasioned by a junior appropriating the chair properly 
 belonging to a senior, and the fiercest jealousies blazed when a 
 father director addressed four words to Sister Magdalen of 
 8. Paul, and only three to Sister Kose of the Cross. When she 
 had gone out, it was on visits to her mother, and there she had 
 met very artificial old gentlemen, and still more artificial old 
 ladies, persons who looked like pictures in illustrated story 
 books, and talked like the people she read of in the same books. 
 She supposed that her board and education were paid for at the 
 Sacr^ Coeur. She supposed so, she took it for granted. She 
 considered it probable that those pupils who could afford paid,
 
 A VIRGIN MAllT^R. 273 
 
 and those who coald not afford, were received gratuitously. 
 The sisters never mentioned such matters, her mother never 
 alluded to them, and Mirelle had scarce accorded such sordid 
 cares a passing thought. Bread and instruction came to her as 
 food and light to the birds ; the birds take what is sent, and 
 do not trouble their feathery heads abovit the how and whence. 
 Now she was driven to consider how she might live, and 
 whether it was right for her to subsist on alms, and those the 
 alms of a gentleman who was no relation, and how, if these 
 means were withdrawn or rejected, she was to live at all. 
 
 After much thought, little sleep, and many tears, she decided 
 that she would accept John Herring. 
 
 She had made up her mind. Now she must obtain com- 
 mand of herself to go through the approaching ordeal with 
 dignity. 
 
 As Orange had anticipated, her letter brought Herring to 
 Launceston. He had gone to Welltown, his house in Cornwall 
 on the coast, to look after his business there. He had let the 
 farm, but he had a slate quarry in the cliffs overhanging the 
 sea, and he liked to keep an eye on it. This slate-quarry had 
 been worked in a desultory manner, chiefly to supply local re- 
 quirements, but Heri'ing's ideas had expanded since he had seen 
 the rise and fall of Ophir, and since he had embarked in silver 
 lead, and he saw his way to an extension of the business. He 
 knew that Bristol was a port where he could dispose of any 
 amount of slate, if he were able to convey it thither. Below 
 Welltown the cliffs rose sheer from the beach ; that beach was 
 a thin strip of sand, only to be reached by a dangei'ous path cut 
 in the face of the rock. Welltown cove was to some extent 
 sheltered from the roll of the Atlantic by a reef from Willapark, 
 as a headland was called, which started out of the mainland 
 into the ocean, and was gnawed into on both sides by the waves, 
 threatening to convert it into an island. 
 
 Herring had a scheme in his head ; he thought to construct 
 a breakwater on a continuation of the reef. Then he would be 
 able to bring boats under the face of his slate-quarries, and lower 
 the roofing stone upon their decks. The idea had not occurred 
 to him before, because he had been poor and unable to command 
 a few thousand pounds. But now he had Mirelle's diamonds 
 to di'aw upon. He could invest her capital in his own slate- 
 quarry as well as in Upaver lead mine, and benefit himself as 
 well as Mr, BattishilL He would look after both investments 
 himself. He would hold both the slate and the lead in his own 
 
 T
 
 274 JOHN nERRINO. 
 
 hands. Mirellc'.s money would not only be safe, bnt would 
 bring in rich dividends. Was he justified in acting thus — in 
 specvilating -with the fortune of another without her knowledge 
 and consent] He asked himself this question, and answered it 
 in the affirmative. Without his seeking, Providence had thrust 
 on him the charge of Mirelle's fortune, and he must do the best 
 he could with it. Her father had done what he thought best, 
 and every penny that had been intrusted to her guardians had 
 been lost. Then Providence had overruled matters so as to 
 constitute him her guardian. He would act justly by her. He 
 was not self-seeking. It was true that the development of the 
 Welltown slate-quarry would improve his own fortune, but this 
 thought influenced him far less than consideration how best to 
 dispose of Mirelle's money. He would sink her diamonds in, 
 his slate, not because it was his slate, but because he knew the 
 security and value of the investment. He was working for her, 
 not for himself, to increase her fortune, not his own, to insure 
 her a future, not himself. Thus it was for Mirelle that he was 
 ei'ecting machinery at Upaver and planning a breakwater at 
 Welltown. In the midst of his schemes he received the letter 
 of Orange, and the postscript made his heart leap. He had 
 been too humble-minded to hope. Mirelle stood aloof from him, 
 high above his sphere. She was to him the ideal of pure, beau- 
 tiful, and saintly maidenhood, to be dreamed of, not aspired to, 
 to be venerated, not sought. She had of late received him with 
 more kindliness than heretofore, had put a.way her early disdain, 
 and had treated him as an equal. There had transpired through 
 face and manner something even of appeal to him. Was it 
 possible that she had begun to regard him with liking, perhaps 
 even with love 1 He was so modest in his estimation of himself 
 that he blushed at the thought — the audacious thought — that 
 this was possible. 
 
 Herring posted to Launceston, and went at once to Dolbeare. 
 Mirelle was in the little garden house as he passed. She saw 
 him, and knew that the crisis in her life was come. He was 
 admitted to Dolbeare, and sat with Mrs. Trampleasure and 
 Orange for half an hour. The latter had discovered some im- 
 portant business requiring advice, and this was discussed ; yet 
 Herring saw plainly enough that this was not of sufficient im- 
 portance to have made Orange summon him. Mr. Flamank 
 could have advised her equally well. There was something 
 behind. What that was Orange let him understand. 
 
 ' And now,' said she, * we must detain you no longer.
 
 A VIRGIN MARTYR. 275 
 
 Mirelle is in tlio summer-house. She likes to be alone, dear 
 girl, and she wants to see you. You slipped away, on the 
 occasion of our retux'n hither, without awaiting her thanks. 
 She has been troiibled at this ; she knows she owes you som<» 
 return. Go and see her ; she is expecting you, and angry with 
 us for keeping you from her so long over our own poor affairs.' 
 
 Herring coloiu-ed. Orange had not a delicate way of put- 
 ting things. He knew that Mirelle had not asked Orange to act 
 as intermediary between them, yet this was what the words and 
 manner of Orange implied. 
 
 He bowed and withdrew. 
 
 Mirelle was awaiting him. She had been given time to 
 school herself for the trial. Twilight had set in, and but for the 
 fire that glowed on the hearth it would have been dark in the 
 little room. The fire was of peat, without flame, colouring the 
 whole room very red. 
 
 Mirelle rose from her seat and stepped forward to meet 
 Herring. He looked her in the face. She was very pale ; the 
 colour had deserted even her Hps, but the light of the burning 
 turf disguised her death-like whiteness. As he took her hand 
 he felt how cold it was ; it trembled, and was timorously with- 
 drawn the moment it had touched his fingers. His heart was 
 beating tumultuously. Hers seemed scarce to pulsate ; it was 
 iced by her great fear and misery, and the strong compulsion 
 she exerted to keep herself calm. 
 
 * I am glad to see you, I\Ir. Herring,' she said. She spoke 
 fii^st, and she spoke, as on a former occasion, like one repeating 
 a lesson learned by heart. ' I was told that you were coming, 
 and I have prepared myself to speak to you, and say what has 
 to be said. You have been good to me, very good. You have 
 done more for me than I had any right to expect. I have no 
 claim on you, save the claim which appeals to every Christian 
 heart, the claim of the friendless and helpless. That is a great 
 claim, I have been taught, the greatest and most sacred of all. 
 But the world does not recognise it ; it does not allow you per- 
 mission to pour on me so many benefits. You have bought 
 everything the house contains with your own money — for me. 
 You have taken the lease of the house, and paid the rent out 
 of your own purse — for me. You have undertaken to find me 
 an income on which I can live in comfort ; you rob yourself — 
 for me.' 
 
 She paused a moment. 
 
 A conflict woke up in the mind of John Herring. Should 
 
 T 2
 
 276 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 he tell her all ? Should he say that this was not true — he had 
 used her money, not his own ? If at that moment he had done 
 so, that event which was to trouble and darken both their 
 futures would not have occurred. Herring was young ; he was 
 without strength of character to decide in a moment what to 
 do. He let the occasion slip. He would wait ; the revelation 
 could be made later. He did not understand the supreme im- 
 portance of the moment. He did not realise to what Mirelle'a 
 words led. 
 
 * Countess,' he said 
 
 * No,' she interrupted hastily, ' do not speak. You must 
 let me say what I want. II me faut me d^charger le coeur. If 
 I had been a nun at the head of an orphanage, I would have 
 said Give all, and God on high will repay you. Give ; no one 
 will deny you the right, and I will accept with joy. I will be 
 your almoner to the little ones of Christ. But, alas ! it is not 
 so. I can spend what you provide only on myself, and I do 
 not find that this is right. In the world is one fashion, in 
 religion is another fashion. You see well yourself it cannot be.' 
 
 ' Countess, will you allow me to explain ? ' 
 
 * No ; I need no explanation. One only question I ask, 
 for there is one thing I desire greatly to know. That neck- 
 chain and that coronet of diamonds, have you sold them 1 ' 
 
 ' No ; I have them yet. Yon intrusted them to me.' 
 
 ' They are false. Do you know the brooch you sent me for 
 
 Orange was all of false stones — of paste ? I doubt not the rest 
 
 of the set is the same. Did you know this 1 ' 
 
 ' Certainly not. I have not examined and proved the 
 
 stones. I had no suspicion that they were not genuine.' 
 
 * My father sent the set as a present to my mother,' said 
 Mirelle, * and they were of paste.' 
 
 Herring was surprised. 
 
 'This cannot be. Countess; your father was a diamond 
 merchant, and knew perfectly the false from the true. He 
 could not have sent your mother what was worthless. The 
 stones must have been changed later.' 
 
 ' They were in my mother's keeping,' said Mirelle. 
 
 That was answer enough. Her father might be guilty of a 
 mean act ; her mother, never. 
 
 Herring had his own opinion, but he had the prudence not 
 to express it. 
 
 ' But enough about this,' Mirelle went on. * I only asked 
 for this reason. If you had sold my stones, supposing them to
 
 A VIRGIN MAilTTR. 277 
 
 be real, and had used them to relieve me and the Trampleasures 
 in the moment of our need, when we had not a house to cover 
 our heads, I should have been very, very thankful.' 
 
 She said this with an involuntary sigh, and with such an 
 intense expression of earnestness that Heriing caught the words 
 up, and said eagerly : — 
 
 ' Do you mean this ] Do you mean that you would have 
 thanked me if I had sold your diamonds and used the proceeds 
 to relieve your necessities ? ' 
 
 * Yes, I do mean this.' 
 
 * "Why did you not ask me to do this I ' 
 
 * Because I supposed the stones were paste, and worthless.' 
 
 * Tell me, dear Countess Mirelle, if you had confided 
 diamonds to me, knowing them to be diamonds, you would not 
 be angry with me for selling them for this very purpose — to 
 provide you with the means of living yourself, and of returning 
 the kindness shown you by Mrs. Trampleasure and her 
 daughter 1 ' 
 
 * I would go down on my knees to thank you. I would be 
 full of gratitude to you.' 
 
 He breathed freely; he had received his absolution. He 
 had been justified in acting as ho had done; Mirelle had 
 approved of his conduct with her own lips. He had carried out 
 her wishes. It was unnecessary for him to tell her all, now 
 that he was certain that he acted as she would have him act. 
 
 But he did not read her heart. He did not understand the 
 real significance of her words. She would indeed have been 
 thankful to know that she had received her own money, so as 
 to be free from all obligations to him — so as not to be forced to 
 take the step the thought of which killed the life out of her 
 heart. That hope was gone — a poor hope, but still a hope. 
 Nothing remained for her but the surrender ; she must become 
 a sacrifice. 
 
 * It was not so,' she went on sadly, ' I knew it was not so, 
 for you would not have parted with my mother's set of stones 
 without consulting me. No, Mr. Herring, I have not the poor 
 pride of knowing I am my own mistress, and independent of 
 every oue. You have been to me a generous friend and a 
 guardian when I needed assistance and protection.' 
 
 ' Dear Countess Mirelle, I am ready still to act as your 
 friend, your guardian, and your protector.' 
 
 * I know it, Mr. Herring, and I frankly accept your offer. I 
 nm willing that you should continue such for the rest of mj life/
 
 278 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 * Countess ! ' Herring's voice shook ; ' how happy, how 
 proud you make me ! ' 
 
 * Let me speak/ she said. Then her heart failed her. She 
 went to the fire, and rested her hands on the mantelpiece, 
 folded as in prayer, and leaned her brow for a moment on 
 them. The red glow of the fire smote upwards and illumined 
 and warmed the face. She was praying. Her strength was 
 ebbing away ; the dreaded moment had come. * holy and 
 innocent Agnes, pure lamb ! Thou who didst bow thy neck 
 to the sword, intercede for me ! Cicely, thou whose heart 
 was filled with heavenly music, making thee deaf to the voice 
 of an earthly bridegroom, pray for mo ! Dorothy, thou 
 who didst pine for the lilies and roses of Paradise, plead for 
 me!' 
 
 She raised her white brow from its momentary resting-place. 
 The strength had come. The moment of agony had arrived, 
 and she was nerved to pass through. 
 
 * Mr. Herring,' she spoke slowly, leisurely, ' I have no right 
 to accept your offer, unless you confer on me the right — the 
 only right ' 
 
 She could speak no more. Her white, quivering face, her 
 sunken eyes, and uplifted hands that shook as with a palsy, 
 showed her powerlessness to proceed. 
 
 Herring took a step forward. She drew back, shrinking 
 before him as perhaps the martyi* shrinks before the executioner. 
 
 ' Stand there, I pray — oh, do not come nearer ! ' she pleaded, 
 with pain in her voice. 
 
 * Mirelle, dear Mirelle ! ' he said ; and then the pent-vip love 
 of his heart broke forth. He told her how he had loved her 
 from the moment tLat he first saw her, how, hopeless of ever 
 winning her, he had battled with his love, how vain his efforts 
 had been, and how his highest ambition was to live for her and 
 make her happy. He spoke in plain, simple words, with the 
 rovigh eloquence of passion and sincerity. 
 
 She listened to him, with her hands again on the mantel- 
 piece, looking at him, with her dark eyes wide open, and the 
 red glow of the fire in them. She did not follow his words, sins 
 heard them without comprehending them. She was full of her 
 own grief and could think of nothing else. 
 
 She woke out of abstraction when he asked her, * Mirelle, 
 may I think myself so happy as to be able to count on your 
 being mine 1 ' 
 
 * I will be your wife,' she said.
 
 A TIRGIN MAr.TYn. 279 
 
 ' Oh, dear, dear Mirelle ! My whole life shall be devoted 
 tc you. This is the happiest day I have over known.' 
 
 ' One thing I must say,' said she ; ' you know I am a 
 Catholic, I wUl nevei" give up my faith. You will assure me 
 perfect freedom to follow my own dear religion. I could Hve 
 without everything, but not without that.' 
 
 He gave her the requisite assui'ance. 
 
 ' You and I,' she said sadly, ' have not the same foith — that 
 is, as far as I can see, you disbelieve in more than half of the 
 verities which ai^e the very life of my soul. We cannot be 
 united in the holiest and most beautiful of all bonds, which has 
 etex'nity before it, to which both press on together. That can- 
 not be. You go one way, I another. Eut as far as can be, I 
 will be all that you will require.' 
 
 'You are everything I de.sire now. I have but to look at 
 you, and I think I see a saint or angel from heaven.' 
 
 She put up her hand, and brushed his words away. They 
 offended her. But they were sincere ; there was no flattei-y in 
 them. Mirelle was an ideal to Herring. Again he stepped 
 forward. He would take her hands, he would kiss colour and 
 heat into those cold and faded lips. He had a right to do this. 
 Was she not about to become his wife 1 
 
 But again she drew back, and in a tone of mingled terror 
 and entreaty said, ' Oh, Mr. Herring, I pray you do not come 
 nearer to me. I am so frightened and bewildered. The thoughts 
 that rise up beat my temples and contract my heai't. I have 
 gone through a great deal to-day. I have said that I will be 
 your wife. Do not exact of me more than I can bear. Do not 
 press the advantage you have gained over me, I entreat you. 
 You are kind and considerate. I am not very strong, and I 
 think not very well. Leave me to myself, I pray you ; go away 
 now. If I have made you happy, I am glad of it ; let my pro- 
 mise suffice. Come here to-morrow, if you will. No, no ' — 
 again with her fear overmastering her, she gi-asped at a respite — 
 * not to-morrow. I shall not be sufficiently myself to receive you. 
 The day after will do. Then I shall have more strength to speak 
 to you about the future. Not now. I pray you leave mo alone 
 now.' 
 
 ' Will you not even give me your hand 1 ' 
 
 She hesitated, then timidly drew near, with her large eyes 
 on him full of anxiety, and she held out the long shaking white 
 fingers. He kissed them. They were cold as the fingers of the 
 dead.
 
 280 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 * I shall return the day after to-morrow,' he said. 
 
 * I shall be ready then to receive you,' she replied. 
 
 He went out. Then, when she knew that she was alone, at 
 once all her strength gave way, and she fell on her knees, clasping 
 her hands together, swaying her body in the agony of her pain, 
 and broke into a storm of tears. 
 
 Mirelle did not keep her word to Herring. She was unable 
 to do so. That night she was attacked by a nervous fever, and 
 became delirious. The strain had been too great for her delicate 
 system. 
 
 Herring called, and heard how ill she was. He did not 
 leave Launceston ; he remained till the crisis was past. 
 
 The doctors were uncertain what turn her illness would 
 take, and how to treat one constituted so differently from their 
 run of patients. In this uncertainty they did nothing, and, 
 because they did nothing, Mirelle recovered. 
 
 There was a natural elasticity in her youth which triumphed 
 over the disease. 
 
 Orange sat up with her, night after night. She would allow 
 no one else to share the burden with her till Mirelle's delirium 
 was over. 
 
 During the height of the fever, Mirelle talked. Orange 
 stayed with her, not out of love for her cousin, but out of fear 
 lest others should discover, from the rambling talk of Mirelle, 
 the secret which she alone possessed. The name of Trecarrel 
 was often on the lips of Mirelle ; she prayed, and broke off in 
 the midst of a prayer to speak of Trecarrel. At the same time 
 she seemed oppressed by a great terror, and she cried out to be 
 saved from what was coming. Not once did the name of John 
 Herring pass her lips. 
 
 When, at length, Mirelle was well enough to be moved 
 downstairs, then Herring was admitted to see her. He had 
 repeatedly sat before, by the hour, with Mrs. Trampleasure or 
 with Orange, talking of the poor girl lying ill upstairs. 
 
 * She has been delirious,' said Oiange, * and, if it were not 
 unfair, I could tell you how often your name ' 
 
 ' It is unfair,' interrupted Herring, 'and I decline to listen.* 
 
 * As you like,' said Orange, shrugging her shoulders ; and, 
 as she left the room, she sneered. 
 
 When John Herring saw Mirelle at last, he could hardly 
 command his tears, she looked so thin and transparent ; her 
 eyes were very large and bright, her face like ivory. She held 
 out her hand to him. He scarce ventured to touch it. She
 
 A VIRGIN MARTYR. 281 
 
 seemed to him like the ghost-moth which, when gi-asped by the 
 hand, vanishes, leaving only silvery plumes sprinkled over the 
 fingers. 
 
 He kissed the wasted hand with reverence and love, not 
 with passion, and Mirelle smiled. 
 
 * Mr. Herring,' she said, ' I have had a long time to myself, 
 whilst I have been ill, in which to prepare my thoughts. What 
 must be — must be, and may be soon. It is now Advent, a 
 season in which it is forbidden by the Church to marry ; but I 
 will be yours as soon after Christmas as you like. Do not 
 doubt. When I am your wife I will do my duty.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 WELLTOWN. 
 
 John Herring returned to AVelltown. There was much to 
 occupy him there. He must prepare the house to receive its 
 mistress. He must get what he could ready for the extension 
 of the slate- quarry. The breakwater could not be begun in 
 winter, but the stone could be quarried for it among the granite 
 of Row-tor, and the head taken off where the slate was to be 
 worked. 
 
 Welltown was a bleak spot. It stood against a hill, only a 
 little way in from the head of the cliffs. The hill had been 
 quarried for the stone of which the house was built, and then 
 the end of the house had been thrust into the hole thus scooped. 
 The hill rose rapidly, and its drip fell over the eaves of the old 
 quarry about the walls of the house. If the hill had been to 
 seaward it would have afforded some shelter, but it was on the 
 inland side, and the house was therefore exposed to the raging 
 blasts, salt with Atlantic spray, that roared over the bare 
 surface of the land. Not a tree could stand against it, not a 
 ehrub, except privet and the so-called teaplant. Larches shot 
 up a few feet and lost their leaders ; even the ash died away at 
 the head, and bore leaves only near the ground. A few beech- 
 trees were like broken-backed beggars bent double. 
 
 Day and night the roar of the ocean filled the air, the roar 
 of an ocean that rolled in unbroken swell from Labrador, and 
 dashed itself against the ironbound coast in surprise and fury 
 at being arrested j beneath its stormy blows the very mainland 
 quivered.
 
 282 JOHN HEKRINa. 
 
 Well town was an old house, built at the end of the sixteenth 
 century by a certain Baldwin Tink, who cut his initials on the 
 dripstone terminations of the main entrance. The Tinks had 
 owned the place for several generations, yeomen aspiring to 
 become gentlemen, without arms, but hoping to acquire a grant. 
 Baldwin had built one wing and a porch, and proposed in time 
 to erect another wing, but his ability to build was exhausted, 
 and none of his successors were able to complete the house ; so 
 it remained a queer lopsided erection, the earnest of a handsome 
 mansion unfulfilled. Baldwin Tink was an ambitious man ; he 
 expected to be able to form a quadrangle, and pierced his porch 
 with gateways opposite each other, so that the visitor might 
 pass through into the courtyard, and there dismount in shelter. 
 But as he was unable to add a second wing to the front, so was 
 he also unable to complete his quadrangle ; and the porch 
 served as a gathering place for the winds, whence they rushed 
 upstaii's and through chambers, piping at keyholes, whizzing 
 under doors, extinguishing candles, fluttering arras. The 
 windows were mullioned and cut in granite, the muUions heavy 
 and the lights narrow. The porch was handsomely propor- 
 tioned and deeply moulded, but as want of funds had prevented 
 Baldwin Tink from completing his exterior, so had it prevented 
 him from properly furnishing the house inside. The staircase 
 was mean, provisional, rudely erected out of wreck timber, and 
 the unpanelled walls were plastered white. As the rain drove 
 against the house, fierce, pointed as lances, it smote between the 
 joints of the stones, and, though the walls were thick, penetrated 
 to the interior and blotched the white inward face with green 
 and black stains. There was no keeping it out. "When the 
 house was built, nothing was known of brick linings, and the 
 only way in which the builders of those days treated defects 
 was to conceal them behind oak panelling. Poverty forbade 
 this at Welltown, and so the walls remained with their infirmi- 
 ties undisguised. Our readers may have seen a grey asS on a 
 moor in a storm of hail. The poor brute is unable to face the 
 gale, and therefore presents his hinder quarters to it, and if 
 there be a rock or a tree near, the ass sets his nose against it, 
 and stands motionless with drooping ears, patiently allowing 
 his rear to bear the brunt. Welltown presented much this 
 appearance — a dead wall was towards the sea, and the head of 
 the house was against the hill. The furiousness of the gales 
 from the south and west prevented Baldwin Tink facing his 
 house so as to catch the sun in his windows, and the only
 
 WELLTOWN. 283 
 
 casement in the entire house through which a golden streak fell 
 was that of the back kitchen. 
 
 "What the house would have been when completed can only 
 be conjectured ; as it was, it was picturesque, but dreary to the 
 last degree. 
 
 The Tinks had long since passed away from Welltown. The 
 final representative of the family, unable to complete the house, 
 sold the estate. "With the prooeeds he started a drapery shop 
 at Camelford, and died a rich man. Political economists 
 lament the extiaction of the old race of English yeomen, and 
 advocate the creation of a race of peasant proprietors. A 
 natural law has fought against the yeoman, and will forbid tho 
 spread of peasant proprietorships. The capital that is sunk in 
 land produces two and a half per cent., that sunk in trade 
 brings in ten, twenty, twenty-five per cent. The young yeoman 
 had rather sell his paternal acres to the squire and invest the 
 purchase-money in business, than struggle on upon the farm 
 all his life, without the prospect of becoming, in the end, more 
 wealthy than when he started. 
 
 Welltown passed through one or two hands, and then came 
 to the Herrings, who occupied it for three generations, and, 
 having married women with a little money, had got on 
 some little way, not far, in the social scale. The slate-quarry 
 had brought in money, not much, for the demand was limited. 
 The neighbovirhood was thinly populated, and little building 
 was done. But the equinoctial gales came to the assistance of 
 the Herrings, for after every gale carts came for slates to repair 
 the devastation done to roofs by the wind. The sale of slates 
 enabled the Herrings to enlarge their dairy by the purchase of 
 additional cows. They salted their butter, and sent it in 
 firkins to Bristol by the little boats that plied up the Channel 
 from the port of Boscastle. 
 
 John Herring had let the farm, on his father's death, to an 
 old hind, Hender ' Benoke, who had married John's nurse, 
 Genefer ; and this couple lived in the house, and when he was 
 there attended to him. 
 
 Now that Herring was interested in the slate-quarry, he 
 built himself an office near it, on the cliff above a deep gulf 
 called Blackapit, gnawed by the waves in the headland of "Willa- 
 park. In this office were a fireplace and a bed. 
 
 "Welltown had to be done up to receive the bride, and whilst 
 
 ' Hender is the modem Cornish form of Enoder. There was a 
 Cornish saint; of the name. Genefer i» Gwenever.
 
 284 JOHN KLRRING. 
 
 it was in the hands of plasterers, carpenters, and painters, 
 Herring lived in his office by the slate- quarry. He was com- 
 fortable and independent there. Genefer came there every day 
 to attend to his wants; but he dined at Welltown in the 
 evening, after the quarrymen had left work. 
 
 One morning, after Genefer had made his breakfast, she 
 stood beside the table, with her hands folded, watching him. 
 
 Genefei Benoke was a handsome woman still, though over 
 fifty. She had very thick brown hair, high cheekbones, a dark 
 complexion, and large, wild, pale grey eyes. She was a tall, 
 well-built woman, abrupt in manner and capricious in temper. 
 Hender, her husband, was a gloomy, sour man, always nursing 
 a grievance and grumbling against some one ; a man who con- 
 Bidered himself wronged by every one with whom he dealt ; by 
 his master, who treated him liberally ; by his wife, whom, 
 however, he feared ; by his workmen, because they were idle. 
 He was dragged by his wife to chapel, and he grumbled be- 
 cause he was obliged to pay for his pew, and he was angry with 
 the minister because he was making a gooa thing out of the 
 credulity of his congregation. He was jealous of the store- 
 keepers at Boscastle, because they were making unfair profit 
 on their goods. He was sulky with his pigs because they ran 
 to bone rather than to fat, and with his poultry because they 
 laid their eggs where they were not readily found. He growled 
 at his Bible because the printing was too small for his eyes, 
 and was bitter against his clothes because they wore out. 
 
 Genefer was a strange woman. The Keltic blood in her 
 veins was pure. A wild, dreamy woman, who had acted as 
 white witch till she thought the profession sinful and had given 
 it up, to throw herself with all the vehemence of her nature 
 into one of those fantastic forms of dissent that thrive so vigo- 
 rously on Keltic soil. She prophesied, she saw visions, and 
 dreamed. None hunted the devil with more vehemence and 
 pertinacity than Genefer Benoke — the devil-hunting with her 
 was no pretence ; she saw him, she smelt him, and she pursvied 
 him, now with a broom, then with her bare hands. ^ She went 
 into fits, she had the 'jerks,' she foamed at the mouth, she 
 rolled on the floor and shrieked, and exhibited all the outward 
 eigns of a regenerate and converted person. 
 
 There was no hypocrisy in her. If there had been the least 
 
 ' Devil-hunting is a favourite feature among some of the wilder 
 aects in Cornwall. Very extrs^prdinary gc^nes may b? witnessed at one 
 
 of these cbasea.
 
 WELLTOWN. 285 
 
 tinge of unreality, her husband would have fastened on it, and 
 her power over him would have been at an end. But her 
 trances and fits and visions were real, and he regarded her as a 
 person of superior spiritual powers, almost inspired, gifted with 
 supernatural clearness of vision, 
 
 * Master John,' said Genefer, ' you've a told me sure enough 
 why there be all that havage (disturbance) in the old house, 
 fit to worry a saint of God out of life, what with the smeech 
 (smell) of paint, and the hammerings, and the sa wings, and the 
 plasterings. You've a-told me, right enovigh, that there be a 
 new mistress coming, and I be not that footy to go against it. 
 The Lord said, " It is not good for man to be alone," and that 
 settles the matter ; but I want to know what she be like.' 
 
 * Oh, dear Jenny, she is everything that she ought to be. 
 You may take my word for that.' 
 
 * Ah ! all fowl be good fowl till you come to pluck 'em. 
 There be maidens and maidens, and you must not take 'em by 
 what they purfess, but by what they be. When the Lord were 
 by the Sea of Tiberias, He seed a poor man coming out of the 
 tombs, exceeding fierce, and He axed. What be thy name 1 Then 
 he answered, Legion, which means six thovisand. But the Lord 
 knowed better than that, and He sed, sed He, " Come out of 
 him thou one unclean spirit, and go into tho swine." Ah ! if 
 you listen to what they sez of themselves, they be Legion — six 
 thousand. Loramussy ! with their airs and their graces, and 
 their good looks, and their fortune, and their learning, and their 
 pianny-playing, and their flower-painting, and this and that — 
 they'd make you believe they was possessed with a legion of 
 graces, but when you come to get hold and look close, there be 
 naught there but one mean and selfish spirit, bad enough to 
 make a pig mazed.' 
 
 ' My dear Jenny, I hope and trust your future mistress will 
 please you, but you don't expect that I should put the choosing 
 into your hands.' 
 
 * I don't that 'xactly. Master John. No, I don't go so far as 
 that. But you might have done worse. There be none but a 
 woman as can see into a woman. It be just the same as with 
 the Freemasons, They knows one another wherever they be, 
 and in the midst of a crowd ; but you as hain't in the secret 
 have no idea how. It be just the same with women. Us 
 knows one another fast enough, and what is hid from you men 
 be clear to we. There were a battle against Ephraim, and 
 the men of Gilead took the passages of Jordan, and when tho
 
 286 JOHN HERRING, 
 
 Ephraimites were a-flyiug, then said the Gileaditea to *em, " Sa.y 
 Shibboletli ! " and they said Sibboletli, for they could not frame 
 to pi'onounce it right. So they took them and slew them there. 
 I tell you, Master John, there don't at no time meet two women 
 wi'out one putting the Shibboleth to the other and finding out 
 whether her belongs to Ephraim or Gilead, I'd like to know of 
 the missis as be coming what her be like, but I know very well 
 it be no good my axing of you. You've not took her down to 
 the passages of Jordan and tried her there.' 
 
 * Ask me what I can tell you, and I will satisfy you to the 
 best of my power.' 
 
 ' Master John, it be a false beginning papering the porch 
 room with white and gold. The bare whitewash were good 
 enough for your mother and your grandmother, and it would 
 be good enough for your wife, I reckon, if her were of the 
 proper sort. And if her be not, let her take herself ofi" from 
 Welltown. Will you tell me this, Master John; be she a 
 Cornish woman 1 ' 
 
 ' No, Jenny, I do not think she is.' 
 
 ' Be she strong and hearty, wi' brave red rosy cheeks and a 
 pair of strong arms 1 ' 
 
 ' She is slender and pale, Jenny.' 
 
 ' A fine wife that for Welltown ! Pale and weak : that be 
 as I dreamed. But it were no dream — it were a revelation. 
 What sort be her as to her religion 1 Be her a Church woman, 
 or one of God's elect 1 ' 
 
 ' That is an unfair way of putting it,' laughed Herring. 
 
 * I put it the way it be written in the Book of Light,' an- 
 Bwered Genefer, doggedly. 
 
 ' She is a Eoman Catholic,* said Herring. * I hope now you 
 are satisfied.' 
 
 ' See there ! ' exclaimed Genefer. ' What sez the Scriptur 1 
 — *' Thou shalt not plough with the ox and the ass together." 
 What do that mean but that two of a sort should run together 
 under the same yoke of matrimony 1 If you be Church, take 
 a Church wife ; if you be a Cornishman, don't fetch an ass out 
 of Devon to plough the lands of Welltown wi' you. What sez 
 the prophet ? — " Can two walk together except they be agreed 1 " 
 Here be you two arn't agreed about what be chiefest of all, and 
 how will you walk together along the v/ay of Hfe 1 ' 
 
 ' My dear Jenny, you have had the management so long 
 that you presume. I am not any longer a boy to be ordered 
 about, and I must insist on no more of this soi-t of interference
 
 WELLTOWN. 287 
 
 with my affairs. You acted as a motlier to me when I was de- 
 prived as an infant of my own natural mother, and I shall evor 
 love yon dearly for all you have done for me. But, Jenny, 
 there are hmits to forbearance, and you transgrear^n' 
 
 ' Ah, sure ! ' exclaimed Genefer Benoke, ' it were I as made 
 you what you 'm be. I didn't spoil you as some would have 
 done. You 'm a good and proper squire, because I trained the 
 sapling. " Spare the rod, spoil the child," said the wise king. 
 Master John, when the old miners were seeking a lode they 
 took a hazel-rod in their hands, and they went over the ground 
 a holding of thicky. And when they passed above a lode the 
 rod turned in their hands. It were all the same wi' hidden 
 ti'easure. I've a heard of a Trevalga man, as he went over the 
 mounds of Bosinuey wi' such a divining-rod, and it turned, and 
 he dug and found King Arthur's golden crown and table. It 
 be all the same with mortal earth. If you want to bring to 
 light the pure ore, the hidden treasure, you must go over it wi' 
 a stick. There be good metal in you, Master John, and you 
 may thank your old nurse that her didn't spare the rod. Her 
 explored you pretty freely with the divining-wand.' 
 
 * I am thankful, Genefer,' said Herring, laughing ; ' I recall 
 many of these same explorations, and they have left on me an 
 ineffaceable respect for you, and some fear is mingled with the 
 love I bear you.' 
 
 * It is right it should be so. What 'ud you have been without 
 me"! Your mother died when you was a baby. Your father 
 couldn't be a nui-sing of you by night and day. It were I as 
 did all that. I'd had a chance child,' — in a self-exculpatory 
 tone, * the lambs o' the Lord must play ; ' then louder : * and I'd 
 a lost it. I did everything for you, I were a proper mother to 
 you, and so it be that I love you as my own child ; and as the 
 Lord has not seen fit to give me none of my own body, saving 
 that chance child as died — and I reckon the stock of Hender be 
 too crabbed and sour to be worth perpetuating — what have I 
 to live for, and care for, and provide for, but you 1 And see 
 this. Master John. King David said as the Lord rained snares 
 out of heaven : snares be ropes with nooses at the end ; and 
 King David sez the Lord hangs these out of every cloud, 
 whei-eby them as walks unawares may hang themselves. What 
 be them hangman's ropes dangling about, thick as rain-streaks, 
 but all those things God has made, and with which He surrounds 
 us, by which we may lift ourselves above the earth if we be 
 prudent; but if we be fools, then we shall strangle ourselves
 
 288 joiia iiERnma. 
 
 therein. I reckon the new mistress be one of the Lord's snardS 
 hanging down out of heaven. If you use a wife properly, and 
 lay hold of her, and pull yourself up by her, then you will 
 mount to heaven ; but if you let her get round your throat, 
 her'll sure to throttle you. That be what makes me badwad- 
 dled ' (troubled) ' about you, now I see you wi' such a rope 
 before you. Keep your feet and hands a working up her, and 
 don't you never let her knot herself round you.' 
 
 Such was the house and such were the persons destined to 
 receive Mirelle, John Herring loved Welltown ; he had been 
 born there and bred there. Eveiy stone was dear to him. The 
 dreary scenery was full of romance and beauty because associated 
 with early memories. Old Genefer he loved ; she had been his 
 nurse, his guide, his friend. She was masterful, and exercised 
 the authority of a mistress ; but this had grown with years, and 
 was at first endui-ed, at last disregarded. It had become a part 
 of Welltown, and was sacred accordingly. Herring was too full 
 of content with his own home, of admiration for the barren 
 coast scenery, to suppose that the same would not equally 
 delight Mirelle. He would explain to Mirelle the good points 
 in Genefer's character, the greatness of the debt due to her, and 
 for the sake of these she would overlook her faults. 
 
 Alas ! the place and the persons that were to receive Mirelle 
 ■were the most uncongenial to her nature that could have been 
 selected. 
 
 But to return to the office on Willapark, and Genefer 
 standing at the table before her foster child. 
 
 ' I told you,' said the old woman, ' that I had dreamed ; but 
 it veren't a dream, but a vision, falling into a trance, but having 
 my eyes open. I thought. Master John, that it were a wisht * 
 (wild) ' night, and the wind were a tearing and a ramping over 
 the hills and driving of the snow before it in clouds. And I 
 saw how that, in the whirl of the wind, the snow heaped herself 
 up like the pillar of salt between Zoar and Sodom, And I saw 
 how you. Master John, thought it were wonderful and beauti- 
 ful, that you stood before it mazed. And when the night were 
 gone, and the sun came out, and it glittered like a pillar of 
 diamonds, then you cast your arms round it, to hold it to your 
 heart ; and you looked up to it for all the world as though ex- 
 pecting something as never came and never could come. And 
 you laid youi heart against that pillar of snow, and when I 
 would have drayed you away you sed, " See, Jenny, how fair 
 and pure she be ! " But I could not take you away ; and still
 
 WELLTOWK. 289 
 
 you looked up into the snow, asking wi' your eyes for something 
 that never came, and in nature never could come. But wi' 
 the warmth of your heart it all began to melt away ; and still 
 you looked ; and it ran between 3^our fingers, and dripped in 
 Btreams from your heart, and trickled down your face like 
 tears ; and so it thawed slowly away, and still you held to the 
 snow, and looked, and nothing came. That be the way the 
 heat went out of your heart, and the colour died from your 
 cheek, and your lips grew dead, and your hands stiff, and the 
 tears on your cheeks were frosted to icicles, and your hair waxed 
 ■white as wool ; and when all had melted clean away still you 
 was the same, wi' your arms stretched out and your eyes up- 
 lifted — not now to the snow bride, for that were gone, but to a 
 star that twinkled aloft over where she had been, and I 
 touched you, for I were troubled, but could not move you — jov 
 were hard ice.' 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 NOEL ! NOEL ! 
 
 CnRiSTMAS had come, not a day of frost or snow, but of warm 
 south breezes charged with rain ; no sun shining, but grey 
 light struggling through piles of vapour. Mirelle was so muclx 
 better that she was able to go in a coach to Trecarrel to mass. 
 A priest was staying there for a few days. 
 
 The mass was early, and she left before dawn, but the day 
 broke while she was at Trecarrel, and there Avas as much light 
 in the sky, when she prepared to leave, as there would be 
 throughout the day. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel came to her, to insist on her coming into 
 the house and having some breakfast. It would not do for her, 
 in her delicate condition, recovering from illness, to remain so 
 long without food. She declined gently, and the iitmost he 
 could bring her to accept was a cup of coffee and some bread, 
 brought to the carriage in which she had seated herself, wrapped 
 in shawls, for her return journey. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel, standing at the coach-door, thoiTght her 
 lovelier than he had ever seen her. There was none of the 
 proud self-reliance in her face now that had raavkod her when 
 she first came to Launceston. She was thin, tremulous, and 
 frail as a white harebell, with a frightened, entreating look in 
 
 u
 
 2 DO JOIJN HERRING. 
 
 her large dark ej'es — a look that seemed to confess "weakness^ 
 and entreat that she might be left to herself. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel knew nothing about her engagement to 
 John Herring. If it had been known in Launceston, it would 
 have come to his ears, for the Captain was a great gossip. The 
 secret had been well kept ; it was not only not known, it was 
 unsuspected. Orange had not spoken of it, and her mother had 
 been restrained from cackling by sharing in the general ignor- 
 ance. 
 
 ' In case I do not see you before the new year, I must wish 
 you a happy one,' said Mirelle, holding out her hand. * Now, 
 please tell the coachman to drive on.' 
 
 * The year can hardly be happy for me,' said the Captain, 
 and sighed. ' Dear Countess Mirelle, suffer me to take a place 
 beside you. I want to go into Launceston on business, and I 
 shall be grateful for a lift.' 
 
 ' Business to-day ! Do not these English keep the feast ? 
 I have heard Orange and her mother anticipate Christmas, but 
 almost wholly because of the plum-pudding.' 
 
 * The bells are ringing,' answered Trecarrel. And on the 
 warm air came a merry peal of village bells. Captain Trecarrel 
 saw the supplicating look in her eyes, a look entreating him not 
 to take advantage of her weakness ; but he was too selfish to 
 regard it; he accepted her silence as consent, jumped into the 
 chaise, and told the coachman to drive on. 
 
 There was no sign in the manner of either that a thought 
 was given to the return of the visiting cards. That was Christ- 
 mas Day, a day of joy and reconciliation, of peace on earth, and 
 general goodwill. Why rip up a sore ? Let the past be for- 
 gotten, at least for a day. Captain Trecarrel was puzzled about 
 those cards. Were they Mirelle's answer to the letter he had 
 written to her ? His offer of protection under the wing of his 
 aunt at Penzance had been unnecessary, because Mirelle was 
 not penniless ; she had means at her disposal of which he knew 
 nothing. Probably her father's money in Brazil had been for- 
 warded to her, and reached her, fortunately, after the death of 
 her trustee. 
 
 Trecarrel was not a man to love deeply anyone but himself 
 His feelings for Orange had never been strong ; if he cared for 
 anyone beside himself, it was for Mirelle. Had he offended her 
 by his letter 1 Was it really she who had sent the cards back 
 to him ? He was determined to find out. 
 
 * You directed a letter to me some weeks ago,' he said.
 
 NOEL I KOELl 291 
 
 * Yes ; Orange had sprained her wrist, and she asked me to 
 address the letter for her.' 
 
 ' I was disappointed on opening it. I knew yonr hand- 
 writing at once ; it was so unlike that of an Englishwoman, so 
 French in its neatness. An Englishwoman scrawls ; a French^ 
 woman writes.' 
 
 * I have noticed that.' 
 
 *I was disappointed on opening the cover; I thought it 
 might contain your reply to my letter.' 
 
 ' What letter ? ' 
 
 ' That which I wrote to you when you were at Mr. Fla- 
 mank's house.' 
 
 * I did not receive it.' 
 
 * The loss is not great. It was sent to inform yon that 1 
 was confined to my bed, and that I was too gravely indisposed 
 to follow the dictates of my heart and fly to your succour.' 
 
 * Orange, I am sure, felt your absence greatly.' 
 
 *You, also, would have been thankful for my assistance, 
 surely ? ' 
 
 * Yes ; but I had no right to expect it. Orange had a right 
 to exact it.' 
 
 Trecarrel bit his lip. 
 
 * You seem, dear Countess, to have been very ill. You look 
 terribly fragile and white.' 
 
 ' I have been unwell ' 
 
 * More than unwell — ill ; dangerously ill 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes ; my head was bad. 1 did not know anything or any 
 person for several days.' 
 
 * I fear these wretched troubles have been the cause. 
 that I could have been near to give advice and protection ; but 
 important business — military, of course — callecl me to Exeter, 
 and when I returned to Trecarrel, I was prostrated by a nervous 
 attack for a week. I fear you have been embarrassed for 
 money, but now, I understand, matters are settled agreeably.' 
 
 * We are not troubled about money matters any more.' 
 
 * Nor likely to be so ?' 
 ' I trust not.' 
 
 * Because, if you were, I would say, command me. I am 
 not a rich man, but still, bless my soul, I can help a friend at a 
 pinch, and am proud to do so.' 
 
 'There is no occasion, Captain Trecarrel. All fear of 
 pecuniary embarrassment is at an end.' 
 
 * I hear everything at Do'ibeare was bought by you.' 
 
 V2
 
 £92 JOHN IIEKIIIKCJ. 
 
 'All was bought in my name.' 
 
 'And the Trampleasures, mere et /die, are yonr guests. 
 How long will this continue 'i ' 
 
 ' I do not know.' 
 
 ' It is not pleasant to be sponged on, especially- * 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. I feel it a duty and a pleasure to do 
 everything I can for them. They have been kind to me.' 
 
 ' Then you saddle yourself with them indefinitely. I hope 
 the load will not crush you.' 
 
 Mirelle made no i-eply. She did not like the contemptuous 
 tone in which he spoke of the Trampleasures, and Orange was 
 to be his wife. She looked out of the coach window on her 
 fiide. 
 
 * Old Tramplara's death was, of course, a great shock to me,' 
 continued Trecarrel ; ' so sudden, too, arresting mo on the 
 threshold of my marriage. It was a trial to my nervous system. 
 But I am frank to confess, it was to some extent a relief.' 
 
 Mirelle looked round with sxirprise. 
 
 ' I may as Avell tell you the wliole truth,' said the Captain. 
 'You are in the midst of cross purposes, and do not understand 
 the game. It is only fair that I should give you your orienta- 
 tion. I always admired Orange ; she is a handsome, genial 
 girl, somewhat brusque and wanting in polish, but good- 
 hearted. I called a good deal at Dolbeare, not only to see her, 
 but to keep Mr. Trampleasui'e in good humour. I am a man 
 of very small income and with good position in the county, 
 which I am expected to live up to. I have been pinched for 
 money, and I wanted Mr. Trampleasure to advance me a loan. 
 So I got on intimate terms with the family, and, somehow, lie 
 made my prospects contingent on my taking Orange as wife. 
 Then the sum I wanted would be given as her dower. You 
 imderstand. Well, being a light-hearted, giddy young fellow,' 
 I fell into the arrangememt, and all went smoothly enough till 
 you came.' 
 
 Mirelle gasped for breath. She put her hand to the window. 
 
 * You want air,' said the Captain. * 1 will let down the 
 glasses.' 
 
 Mirelle thanked him with a bend of the head ; she could 
 not speak. A great terror had come over her. 
 
 * When you came,' continued Trecarrel, ' then I woke to 
 the fact that I had never loved Orange. I had admired hev 
 beauty as I might admire a well-built horse or spaniel, but my 
 heart had not been touched.'
 
 NOEL 1 NOEL I 293 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Trecarrel ! * exclaimed Mirelle, putting her white 
 fingers together, ' let me out of the carriage. I must walk ; I 
 Khali faint ; I feel very ill.' 
 
 ' Dear Mirelle — you will let me call you Mirelle 1 — you 
 must not walk ; you are not strong enough.' 
 
 ' I pray you ! I pi'ay you ! ' 
 
 Then he stopped the coach, opened the door, and had the 
 Bteps lowered. 
 
 * The lady is faint. Go slowly, coachman. She wishes to 
 wallc a little way.' 
 
 Then he helped Mirelle to alight, and pressed her fingers as 
 he did so, and looked at her tenderly out of his beautiful blue 
 eyes. 
 
 ' No,* she said, as he offered her his arm, * I must walk 
 alone. The road is rough. I shall be better presently. The 
 carriage jolts.' 
 
 * You cannot walk,' ansvrered the Captain ; * I see that you 
 have not the strength. I insist on your taking my arm, or 
 stepping back into the carriage. I am very thankful that I 
 came with you. You are not in a fit state to be alone.' 
 
 She turned and looked at him. ' Oh, Mr. Trecarrel, I 
 should have been far better alone.' 
 'Why so, Mirelle r 
 
 * I cannot say. I need not have talked.' 
 
 * Do not talk now ; listen, whilst I speak to you.* 
 
 * Speak then of something else — not of Orange.' 
 
 * I do not wish to speak of Orange. I will speak only of 
 yourself.' 
 
 She held up her hands again, in that same entreating 
 manner. ' I am too weak,' she whispered. 
 
 Her ankle turned as she stepped on the loose stones. A 
 mist drifted across her eyes, so that she could not see the road. 
 The air was rich with the music of church bells, the merry 
 Christmas peal of Launceston tower and the village churches 
 round, calling and crying, Noel ! Noel ! Noel ! Glad tidings of 
 great joy i Eoast beef and plum-pudding and mince-pies ! Good 
 Christian men rejoice ! Pudding sprigged with holly, and over 
 the pudding brandy sauce, blazing blue ! Noel I Eoast beef 
 garnished with horse-iadish ! Noel ! JMince-pies piping hot. 
 Turn again, Whittington, to your Christmas dinner. Noel 1 
 Noel ! Noel ! 
 
 Mirelle did not hear the bells. 
 
 ' No, I cannot walk/ shq said.
 
 294 JOHN HERRlNiJ. 
 
 Then Captain Trecarrel helped her back into the coach. 
 
 * I shall be better alone,' she said. 
 
 * You must not be left alone,' he replied. * I cannot in 
 conscience allow you to go on without me to look after you. 
 As you are so weak after your illness, it was madness to come 
 out this Christmas morning.' 
 
 She sighed and submitted. He stepped in beside her and 
 closed the door. 
 
 * Mirelle,' he said, * I v/ill not be interrupted in what I was 
 saying, because I have determined to throw my mind and 
 heart open to you. I dare say you have wondered how my 
 engagement to Orange hung fire. I was bound to her, but 
 my heart was elsewhere. You cannot understand the dis- 
 tressing situation in which I found myself, boimd in honour to 
 hold to an engagement which I detested, when all my hopes of 
 happiness lay in another direction. You do not know what it 
 is to be tied to one person and to love another. It is now 
 many months since I first saw you, and the more I have seen 
 of you the deeper, the more intense has been my love for you, 
 and my repugnance towards a marriage with Orange. You 
 and I are one in sympathies, in rank, and in faith. We vmder- 
 stand each other ; we are, as it were, made to constitute each 
 other's happiness.' 
 
 Mirelle put her hand on the Captain's arm, and tried to 
 speak — to avert what he was saying ; but the words died on 
 her tongue. She trembled helplessly. Then she clasped her 
 hands, and wrung them on her lap, despairingly. Speak 
 she could not ; but if Trecarrel had looked into her face, he 
 would have seen the agony of her soul, and how she implored 
 him, with her terrified eyes and her quivering lips, to forbear. 
 He did not look. If he had, and read that appeal, it would not 
 have stayed him. 
 
 * I did not venture to declare to you — no, not even to allow 
 you to suspect — what was passing within me. I am a gentle- 
 man of high and honourable feelings. I knew that I had 
 allowed myself, through inadvertence, to become entangled in 
 an engagement to a person whom I could regard, but could not 
 love. All at once I became aware that my heart was else- 
 where. I proceeded, however, as an honourable man, to fulfil 
 that which I had undertaken. What my misery was, you can 
 ill conceive. I saw the fatal day approach with feelings of dis- 
 gust and despair. That day would bind me for life to an 
 uncongenial companion, and separate me for ever from her
 
 - NOEL I NOEL 1 295 
 
 whom I felt, whom I knew, to be essential to my happiness. 
 Is it a marvel that, when circumstances occurred wliich arrested 
 the marriage, I felt relief? Is it to be wondered at that now I 
 feel a doubt whether I ought to go further in this matter! 
 Ask yourself, am I further tied — in duty — in honour 1 Can 
 I conscientiously marry a girl whom I do not love, whom I 
 have even come to regard with repugnance, with whom I can 
 never be happy, and whose whole life will be embittered by the 
 knowledge that though she has my name and my hand, she has 
 not gained my heart ] No, Mirelle ; dear, dearest Mirelle, 
 no!* 
 
 'Stay — in heaven's name, stay!' gasped Mirelle. *You 
 must not speak to me thus.' 
 
 ' Why not ! ' 
 
 * I must ask you a question,' she said, and wiped the cold 
 dew from her lips and brow. * I must ask of you a favour.' 
 
 * Ask me anything ; it is yours.' 
 
 'Captain Trecarrel, this is Christmas Day. After eight 
 days I shall belong to another. I ask you — allow me to be 
 married in Trecarrel Chapel.' 
 
 Her heart beat so fast that it took away her breath. She 
 was unable to proceed. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel's blue eyes opened with amazement. He 
 could not believe his ears. 
 
 * I shall be married to — John Herring.' 
 
 Then she sank back in the coach, and threw her handker- 
 chief over her face. The wheels rattled over the pavement of 
 the street. 
 
 * Stop ! * shouted the Captain. * Damnation ! stop ! ' 
 
 He got out. ' Drive on hard to Dolbeare, coachman ; the 
 young lady has fainted.' 
 
 So the coach rattled thi'ough the market-place and along the 
 High Street, whilst the bells rang merrily, merrily, Glad 
 tidings of great joy ! Eoast beef and plum-pudding and 
 mince-fieg to those who can afford it j to the poor — nothing.
 
 29G JOHN HERRING. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 WHITE FAVOURS. 
 
 The weather had changed abruptly. The wind had turned 
 north-east, had become rough and frozen, and whirled snow 
 before it over a white world. 
 
 Eight days had elapsed, and the mra-riage ceremony had 
 been performed in the chapel of Trecarrel. The Captain was 
 not present at the ceremony : he was in bed, indisposed. 
 
 The carriage was at the door of Dolbeare to convey the 
 bride and bridegroom to Welltown. A hasty breakfast had 
 been taken. No friends had been invited. The journey was 
 long, and the horses must be rested midway for an hour. The 
 days were short, and there was no chance of reaching Welltown 
 before dark. It was bad travelling over fresh snow, and along 
 an exposed road swept by the furious gale. The horses stamped 
 and pawed the snow, the post-boys were impatient. Herring 
 was anxious to start. Mirelle was upstairs in her room alone. 
 All the boxes were corded and in place. Then Orange, who was 
 in the hall, called her cousin. 
 
 Mirelle appeared, slowly and uncertainly descending the 
 stairs. Orange uttered an exclamation of surprise. ' My dear, 
 you are still in white ! You have not put on your travelling 
 dress.* 
 
 ' I did not know.' 
 
 ' But what in the woidd have you been doing 1' 
 
 She had been weeping and praying. Her eyes were red and 
 full of tears, and there Avas that exalted, luminous look in the 
 white face of one whose soul has just descended from heaven, 
 as there was in the face of IMoses when he came down from 
 the Mount. In her white dress, with her white veil over her 
 dark hair, and a bunch of snowdrops in her bosom, just as she 
 had stood at the altar, so she was going forth into the stormy 
 world — as Avhite as one of the snow-flakes, as fragile, altogether 
 as pure. 
 
 Her travelling dress was in the box, and the box was on the 
 carriage. There was no help for it ; the box could not be taken 
 down and unpacked. She must go as she was, wrapped round 
 with many cloaks. 
 
 She was reluctant to depart. She Lad not spent happy days
 
 WHITE TAVOUES. 297 
 
 In Dolbsare ; but, nevertheless, she did not like to leave it for 
 the unknown. The future was strange and feared. Orange 
 and her mother had not been congenial friends, but they were 
 of her own sex. What woiild become of the Trampleasures 
 now? They were without money. She turned to her husband. 
 
 * Mr. Herring,' she said timidly, ' my mother and my sister, 
 what of them 1 ' 
 
 * Dearest Mirelle, that is as you like.' 
 
 * Oh, Orange, and you, Mrs. Trampleasure ! "Will you come 
 and live with me where I am going? I entreat you to do so. 
 Make my home your own. I do not think you will be happy 
 here, where you have met with so many sorrows. And I — I 
 shall miss you.' 
 
 She looked at Herring, asking with her eyes if she had done 
 right. 
 
 This was not what he wished. Orange was not the sort of 
 companion he relished for his wife. There was an indescribable 
 something about her which he disliked. Then an idea struck 
 him. He called Orange and Mirelle aside into the little draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 ' Mirelle, everything I have is yours. You may dispose of 
 all at your pleasure. I know what has happened here. Orange 
 is engaged to be married to Captain Trecarrel ; but, through 
 the sad disaster that has taken place, her little fortune is lost. 
 Is it your wish, Mirelle, that this sum should be made up to 
 her ? The loss of this fortune stands in the way of hei happi- 
 ness and that of Captain Trecarrel.' 
 
 Mirelle trembled, looked down for a moment, and then said, 
 * Yes, dear Orange, it shall be so. All that sum which was to 
 have been yours, but which was lost, shall be given to you. 
 Be happy with Captain Trecarrel.' 
 
 Then Orange flamed up. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks 
 flushed, and she clenched her hands. 
 
 * Never, never ! ' she exclaimed. * He deserted and insulted 
 me. Never, never, will I take him.' 
 
 * Well, Orange,' said Herring, ' you do as you think best. The 
 same sum that was lodged by your father in my hands in trust 
 for you, to be paid over on your marriage, shall be placed in 
 the bank in jovxv name. If you can forgive the Captain, well, 
 BO be it. None will be better pleased to hear it than Mirelle 
 and I ; but if not, you will find a welcome at Welltown. i 
 must not delay longer. We have a lengthy drive before us, 
 and cannot reach our destination while there is lisht in the sky.'
 
 298 JOHN HEKRING. 
 
 He handed Mirelle into the carriage, and stepped in himself. 
 
 The post-boys wiped their h'ps — they had been given a 
 tumbler each of spiced wine — they cracked their whips, and 
 away whirled the carriage. 
 
 * Orange, Orange ! throw rice,' called Mrs. Prampleasure. 
 Orange stooped, picked up a handful of snow, and flung it 
 
 after them, in at the carriage window, and it fell over Herring 
 and Mirelle, a cold shower. 
 
 But the maid was more vehement and strict in her adhe- 
 sion to traditional usage. First one slipper — a red one, then 
 another — black, whirled thi-ough the snowy air, and fell in 
 their track. 
 
 ' What are you about, Bella ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Tramplea- 
 sui*e. ' That's my dear 'usband's slipper — that red one is, and 
 the other is Sampson's.' 
 
 * Look ! ' said Orange. The i-ed slipper and the black had 
 fallen with the toes pointing in the direction taken by the 
 carriage, and lay between the wheel-marks, 
 
 'Mother, it looks just as though the dead father and the 
 runaway son were after them.' 
 
 Hark ! what is that 1 A faint, low music, scarcely audible, 
 and when heard at once caught and puffed away by the frozen 
 blast. "Was that the wind, playing a weird seolian strain 
 through the spines of the Scotch fir ? But if so, strange that 
 the vibrations should frame themselves into a strain like that 
 of Ford's old glee : — 
 
 Since first I saw your face, I resolv'd 
 To honour and renown you 1 
 
 * Come in, mother, the wind is cold. It freezes to the 
 marrow.' 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE SNOW BRIDE, 
 
 A WILD road that which leads from Launceston to Boscastle, 
 up hill continuously, for miles after miles, across barren moor 
 unrelieved by rocks, studded at intervals by cairns under which 
 dead primaeval warriors lie. In summertime the road is ren- 
 dered tolerable by the distant views; the rugged range of 
 Cornish tors, Brown Willy and Bow Tor on the left ; far away 
 south the dome of Hengistdun, where the Britons made theii
 
 THE SNOW BRIDE. 299 
 
 Fast stand against Athelstan, and which to the present day is 
 studded with the cairns that cover their dead, To the south- 
 east the grand distant range of Dartmoor lost in cobalt blue. 
 
 But that road, on such a day as this, was unendurable. 
 There was no shelter whatever; not a hedge, not a tree; not a 
 village was passed through. Llaneast, Tresmeer, Treneglos, 
 Egloskerry, lie buried in valleys where trees grow and the sun 
 sleeps on smooth greenswards. The road seemed to be slowly 
 mounting into the skies, into the bosoms of the snowclouds 
 which shed their cold contents over it. White favours ! The 
 horses were plastcicd with them, the post-boys were patched 
 with them, the carriage encrusted with them, the windows 
 frosted over with them. Mirelle sat on the east side; she 
 tried to look through the glasses, but could see nothing but 
 enow crystals. 
 
 Herring spoke to her, but conversation was impossible ; the 
 wind howled and beat at the windows, as with icy hands, 
 striving to smash them in. There was no keeping the wind 
 out : it drove in between the frames and the glass, it worked 
 its way through below and chilled the feet on the matting. 
 
 The horses went slowly ; the snow balled under their hoofs, 
 and the post-boys had to descend repeatedly to clear their 
 shoes. The road was no post-road, and no change of horses was 
 to be had half-way. There was no choice, therefore, but to 
 rest the jaded beasts at the wretched little tavern on the heath, 
 called * Drunkards all.' There is a legend to account for the 
 name. A traveller came one Sunday to the pothouse, with its 
 little cluster of cottages around, and saw the people reeling 
 from the tavern to their homes in the morning. ' What ! ' he 
 asked. * Does no one go to church here 1 ' ' No,' was the 
 hiccuped reply. * Sundays we drinks and drinks — here we be 
 drunkards all.' He passed the same way one weekday, and 
 found the cottagers staggering from the tavern to the fields. 
 
 * What ! ' he asked. * Is no work done here weekdays ? ' 
 
 * No,' was the answer. * We drinks and we drinks — here wo 
 be drunkards all.' Once again he passed that way, and it was 
 midnight; but the road was encumbered with tipsy men 
 and women. * Does nobody sleep here 1 ' ' Sleep ! ' was the 
 reply. * No, we drinks and we drinks — we be drunkards all.' 
 And as he went through the churchyard of Davidstow, he saw 
 tombstones inscribed ' D. o. D. — D. A.'; and when he asked 
 the meaning, the sexton said, with his thumb over his shoulder, 
 
 * Them from where you came from ; Died o' drink — Drunkards
 
 300 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 all.' So tlie hamlet got its name, and has kept it to the pre- 
 sent day. 
 
 Herring begged that a great fire might be made up, and 
 some smoulderiDg turf wag put on the heartli in the little guest 
 room. Firewood wafi an unattainable luxury in this treeless 
 waste ; the only fuel was peat. The walls were whitewashed, 
 the floor was slate, on which milk had been spilled, and was 
 frozen. The tui'f had not taken the chill out of the air in the 
 room when the hour for resting the horses v/as passed. Herring 
 had ordered dinner, but nothing was to be had to eat, save fried 
 bam and eggs, nothing to drink but hard cyder and muddy 
 beer. Mirelle had no appetite. She sat in her white dress by 
 the low fire, deadly pale, with dark rings about her eyes, 
 shivering. She held her hands to the dull ashes, and thought 
 of the sunny garden of the Sacre Coeur. How the bees hummed 
 there, and the hyacinths, blue and pink, bloomed early and 
 filled the air with fragrance, and against the wall gold-green 
 glistening flies preened their wings, loving the sun, and happy 
 basking in it. 
 
 'It is time for ns to move on, dear Mirelle,' said Herring; 
 * we have only made half of our way, but the worst half is done. 
 The rest is, for a part at least, down hill.' She rose mechani- 
 cally. He wrapped the shawls well round her, but there was 
 no warmth in the slender white foi'm to be wrapped in. There 
 was no colour in her lips, none in the transparent cheek, only 
 the blue icelike veins in her temples. 
 
 He led her to the carriage ; again the post-boys wiped their 
 lips, this time of sour cyder, and cracked their whips. The 
 wheels went round noiselessly, and the carriage was lost to 
 sight in the driving snow. Not only did the wheels revolve 
 noiselessly, but the footfalls of the horses produced no sound ; 
 the postillions were silent, and those within the cari'iage did not 
 speak. Verily that might have been taken for a bleached 
 phantom coach drawn by phantom horses, conveying phantom 
 bride and bridegroom from the grave of one at Launceston to 
 the grave of another at Boscastle, 
 
 Herring took Mirelle's hand. She made no resistance. Ho 
 held it in his, hoping that his warmth might thaw those frozen 
 fingers. He pressed them, bat met with no answering pres- 
 sure ; the hand was possibly too numbed to feel. 
 
 Now ensued hedges. They saw a woman, head down 
 against the snow, stalking along the top of one — the usual 
 footpath in these parts, where the lanes are often deep in water.
 
 Til 3 bNO'.V uniDE. 301 
 
 iJere and tlicre came walls, and here and there ragged thorns ; 
 then moor again, and then the carriage began to descend, 
 
 Mirelle held her breath. Darkness had set in already; tha 
 post-boys lit their lamps at a cottage that was passed, and 
 throiTgh the windows could be seen the snovvflakes falling aa 
 flashes of white fire in the radius of light cast by the lamps. 
 The steam of the horses was blown back and formed haloes. 
 
 Mirelle's hand trembled in that of Herring. She looked 
 round at him. He saw, by the rellection of the lamp-lights, 
 that her eyes were wide with fear. 
 
 * What is the matter, dear Mii^elle ? ' 
 
 * That noise — that terrible noise ! ' 
 
 * "What ! the roar of the ocean ^ ' 
 
 The thunder of the Atlantic filled the air. Di'iven before 
 the gale, the mighty billows dashed themselves to dust upon 
 the adamantine cliffs and flung their shivers high into the air. 
 The roar was continuous, but with pulsations in it, as the wind 
 rose and fell. It seemed to Mirelle as if she and Herring were 
 drifting in the vast void where there was no earth, no creation, 
 no planets, no light, no life, no God; in chaos filled with 
 howling winds and thundering unseen forces that clashed pur- 
 poseless and self-destructive. But worse still, to the outer 
 answered an inner desolation. There also, chaos was. She was 
 drifting in spirit in a void, without a hope, without an interest, 
 ■without a purpose, with heart and brain dead. 
 
 The carriage whirled down a rapid descent, and the roar 
 vaxed louder, more hungry, more terrible. No rocks could 
 Avithstand the weight of Avater hurled against them. The iron 
 walls must yield before those Titanic blows, and all the world 
 dissolve and sink beneath the angry, inky ocean. 
 
 ' Will that not cease 1 ' asked Mirelle, timidly. 
 
 * The waves can always be heard here,' answered John 
 Herring, * but, of course, only as a pleasant mutter in still 
 weather.' 
 
 * At night — does it go on all night 1 ' 
 
 * To be sure ; the sea never sleeps. In time you will come 
 to love the sound. It will be a lullaby, soothing my darling 
 to sleep.' 
 
 Mirelle shuddered. 
 
 Lights were visible, twinkling below. 
 
 * There is a little town, Boscastle, lying in that glen,' said 
 he ; * we shall pass above it on our way home.' 
 
 Home ! the word conveyed no warmtli to the heart of Mirelle.
 
 302 JOHN HERIIING. 
 
 Home is a quiet nook in the sun, among roses and mignonette, 
 ■with a kitten purring at your feet, and a blackbird singing out 
 of a syringahard by, and the white cap of Josephine seen 
 through the kitchen window, and her pleasant voice singing a 
 cantique of the Mois de Marie whilst she shells peas. Home ! A 
 cold house in a void world, without a bush or tree, without still- 
 ness, in the midst of blackness and storm, and with salt spraj 
 and the boom of breaking billows filling the air with bitter- 
 ness and thunder. 
 
 A scream over the carriage. Mirelle cried out in an agony 
 of fear at that Banshee note. 
 
 * Do not be frightened,' said Herring. * That was a gull 
 driven in by the storm. Poor Mirelle ! you will be glad when 
 we reach home. This has been a trying day for you.' 
 
 She could not answer. She did not think she would be 
 glad to reach Welltown ; she was indifferent whether she got 
 there or not. It was all one to her whether she alighted in a 
 cold home or went on for ever and ever thus in storm and snow. 
 Would it not be best of all to be allowed to descend and lie down 
 on the white bank, and wrap the white fleeces round her, and 
 BO go to sleep? Then, indeed, she would go home— to a home 
 she knew, to a home peopled with dear fiiends, saints and 
 angels, with whom she had spoken from early childhood. 
 
 The longest day has its ending. The carriage drew up 
 at last at the porch door of "Welltown. Herring sprang out ; 
 no lights were in the windows. He looked along the front of 
 the house ; all was dark. No cheering welcome of twinkling 
 candles, of ruddy fire flash through the panes. He knocked 
 loudly. Then Genefer came to the door Avith a stable lanthorn. 
 
 * What ! Master John ! Well, to be sui-e. I never thought 
 it. The day were so wisht and wild.' 
 
 * Jenny,' said Herring, impatiently, * open at once. Let me 
 in ; you knew that we were to ai-rive this evening.' 
 
 * The storm raged so bad, I thought sure you'd put it off.' 
 
 * Come in, dear Mirelle,' said Herring, greatly incensed, 
 and led his bride into the porch out of the wind. 
 
 * Have you no fires lighted ? Nothing ready 1 ' he asked, 
 angrily, of Genefer. 
 
 ' No, Master John. It be bad luck to wed in snow and 
 storm : snow cools love and wind blows it away. I reckoned 
 you knew that well enough, and would have put it off till the 
 Bun shone.' 
 
 A cold reception. The hall dark ; only a little turf
 
 THE SNOW BllIDE. 303 
 
 gmonldeiing on the hearth, giving out neither light nor 
 heat. 
 
 Mirelle came in ; she did not look round ; she was stupefied. 
 It was all one to her. She had not expected much, and was 
 not disappointed. 
 
 Genefer put the lanthorn on the table and proceeded to 
 light a couple of wax candles. Herring divested Mirelle of 
 her dark wraps. 
 
 Then the old woman looked at her. In the large gloomy 
 hall Mu-elle stood like a spectral figure, illumined by the 
 candles, the white veil hanging over her shoulders and back. 
 
 * Lord of mercy bless us ! ' exclaimed Genefer, starting back. 
 ' It be the same — the same ! God ! — the same I dreamed ! 
 The Snow Bride.' 
 
 She looked at her with dismay, then raised her hands and 
 gaid, ' That ever I should have seen the day ! Master John ! 
 Master John ! But the Lord sends strong delusions on them 
 whom He will bring to naught ! ' 
 
 * Go at once, Jenny, and get supper ready. Heap up wood 
 on the hearth. Is there a fire upstairs 1 ' 
 
 * I don't know whether there be — there was, to dry the 
 rooms; but there be nothing ready. It be a thousand pities 
 you cannot get it all undone, and, if it must be done, do it 
 another day, when the sun shines and the air be plum ' (warm). 
 
 ' This is intolerable,' said Herring, now thoroughly roused. 
 * You are determined, Jenny, to drive me beyond the limits of 
 forbearance.' 
 
 * The Lord ordains,' answered Genefer : * what will be will 
 be. There ! I'll have the fire up directly. Now, Hender ' — 
 aloud, and with her head through the kitchen door — * look spry, 
 and bring in a faggot, and clap it on the turves. Take the 
 bellows,' she said to Mirelle ; * blow away at them turves, and 
 they'll glow. I'll be oflT, and get something warm directly.' 
 But, instead of going directly, she stood in the door, and looked 
 at Herring, and said : ' The sheep always goes before the wind. 
 You may put them in a loo place, but they won't bide there : 
 they go with the wind to where they will freeze and die. It be all 
 the same wi' men. When the Lord blows, they goes before 
 His breath to their destruction, and not all the wisdom of the 
 wise will avail to keep them loo,' 
 
 * "Would you like to go upstairs, Mirelle, to your room 1 ' 
 asked Herring. 
 
 She lifted her sad eyes to his face and nodded. He took a
 
 804 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 candle and led the way. The boards creaked as tliey went up 
 the uncarpeted stairs, and the wind wailed through the stair- 
 case window, clinking the little diamond panes ; the di'aught 
 was so gi-eat that the candle was nearly blown out. Against 
 the glass the snow was patched in masses, as though the window 
 had been pelted with snowballs, and the white patches reflected 
 back the candle-light. 
 
 Upstairs was a bedroom, above the hall, and adjoining it a 
 Bmall boudoir over the porch. There was a fire on the hearth, 
 and the bedding was ranged as a wall round it, to be well aired. 
 Some billets of wood were heaped up bsside the chimney-piece, 
 and these Herring put on. He plied the bellows, and soon a 
 yellow flame danced up. The room began to look more cheery. 
 It was a pretty room; Herring had thought much about making 
 it pleasant. The paper was bright, with roses in sprigs over 
 the walls, and over the window were spi'igged curtains lined 
 with forget-me-not blue. 
 
 ' There, dear Mirelle,' he said, * I will have the boxes 
 brought up ; and I hope, in half an hour, Jenny will have 
 dinner ready for us. I am sorry for her neglect. She is a tire- 
 some, self-opinionated old woman, but you will come in time 
 to value her. She is a Cornish crystal — and rough.' 
 
 He did not leave the room at once, but stood and looked 
 round it ; he had not seen it before, since it had been done up, 
 with firelight flickering and candles lighted. He was pleased, 
 and said, ' It is pretty — is it not, Mirelle 1 ' 
 
 She looked up v/onderingly at him. What was pi'ettyl 
 What could be pretty in such a place ? 
 
 He had lighted candles on the di^essing-table and on the 
 mantelpiece. Over that hung a picture of his mother — a sweet 
 young face, with a pleasant smile on it. 
 
 ' That is my mother,' he said ; ' she is looking down on you 
 out of heaven. This was her room : I was born in it, and she 
 died here.' 
 
 In a corner, near the fire, was a little prie-dieio, and over it 
 a crucifix. Herring had procured that, becaiise he made sure 
 it would please Mirelle ; but she did not observe it. She was 
 cold, and crept near to the fire. 
 
 ' I should like to show you the boudoir. I have done it up 
 very nicely for you.' 
 
 * Oh, not now ! another time.' 
 
 • Very Avell, IMirelle, I will go and hasten Genefer.' 
 
 He left the room, a little disappointed tliat no expression of
 
 THE SNOW BRIDE. 305 
 
 pleasure had escaped her on seeing how he had thought and 
 prepared for her. Then he descended to the hall to stimulate 
 Geneter to activity, and to see to his wife being given her boxes 
 immediately. 
 
 More than half an hour passed before dinner was ready; 
 when it was on the table, and the room was bright with candles, 
 and a dancing fire was gambolling through a faggot of dry 
 sticks, Herring went upstairs to call Mirelle. He found her 
 sitting, still dressed in white, by the fire, looking into it, lost in 
 a dream, with her hands folded in her lap, and tears on her 
 cheeks. A little colour had returned to her lips, and the 
 flickering firelight, reflected in her large dai'k eyes, gave them 
 a fictitious life. She did not hear Herring enter, and when he 
 spoke she started and shivered, as though frightened. She 
 speedily recovered herself, and descended with him. She had 
 removed her veil, but was otherwise unchanged in dress. The 
 snowdrops in her bosom wei"e crushed, and their bruised heads 
 hung despondingly. Herring removed the bunch and put it in 
 his button-hole. Mirelle could not eat much ; she did not 
 speak, except in brief answers to his questions. She was appa- 
 rently thinking, and it was with an effort that she attended to 
 what her husband said. 
 
 Genefer watched her intently. The old woman's face was 
 grim and dissatisfied. She was respectful, and attended to her, 
 but without the alacrity and cordiality in her manner that 
 might have been looked for in an old family servant Avhen 
 welcoming to her home her master's bride. 
 
 When dinner was over, and Genefer had withdrawn. Herring 
 said to Mirelle, * Now, dearest, come into the ingle-nook, and 
 sit on the settle. The great back will cut off every draught, and 
 you will become warm there. I will bring my chair beside you.' 
 
 She rose, without answering, and took the place he indi- 
 cated. The settle was of oak, dark and well polished, with tho 
 four cardinal virtues carved in panels above the heads of those 
 who sat in it. It had stamped and gilt leather at the back, a 
 little way up, and a crimson cushion on the seat. Herring 
 thrust a footstool under Mirelle's feet, and, taking a chair, drev/ 
 it near her. 
 
 ' Dear Mirelle,' he said, * welcome to your future home.' 
 
 * Thank you, Mr. Herring.' 
 
 * You must not call me Mr. Herring.' 
 
 * No, I know I must not. I will do my duty. I will call 
 you by your Christian name. But you must not be angry with
 
 806 JOHN HEREINCJ. 
 
 me ; it will not come at once. I will do my best, if you will 
 have patience.* 
 
 ' Mirelle ! — nothing could make me angry with you.' 
 
 * Nothing 1 ' Then she sighed and looked into the fire 
 
 ' Is there something troubling your mind ? ' he asked, unable 
 to understand her manner. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, and looked up timidly at him, then with- 
 drew her glance before his eyes ; ' I will do my duty. You are 
 my husband, and I must let you see all my heart. It is proper 
 that you should. I will do what I know in my conscience to 
 be right.' 
 
 'I will gladly look into that dear heart, and all I ask and 
 hope is that I may find there a little sparkle of love for me.' 
 
 She shivered, and was silent again, still looking into the 
 flames broodingly. 
 
 * Dear, dear Mirelle,' he said, * although you are now my 
 wife, bound to me for ever, you have not yet given me, or 
 received from me, a kiss. You have not once told me that you 
 love me.* 
 
 Then she looked round full at him, with her large, sad, 
 dark eyes, and rested them on him for full a minute without a 
 word ; but he saw that something was stirring in her heart. 
 Then she said gravely, * I respect you very much, John 
 Herring.' 
 
 ' Respect will not do for me. I want love,' he said with 
 vehemence. 
 
 * I esteem you above all men.' 
 
 ' That is insufficient. I will be satisfied with nothing short 
 of love.' 
 
 ' I do not love you.' 
 
 Those few words went like a bullet through his heart. He 
 could not speak. 
 
 She sav/ that she had pained him unutterably. She went 
 on. * I am bound to speak the truth. I cannot lie ; I cannot 
 dissemble. What I say is true. I give you everything that 
 is in my power to give. I am yours. I believe you to be the 
 best, the noblest, the truest of men. But love ' 
 
 She slowly shook her head and sighed, and relapsed into 
 looking into the burning wood. 
 
 His power of speech was gone from him. 
 
 * You must not expect too much from me,' she said ; * I will 
 do my duty.' 
 
 * Duty ! ' he cried, and sprang to his feet. * Duty is not
 
 THE SNOW BRIDE. 307 
 
 %hat I ask for. I know you will do your duty — as an angel 
 of God will do his duty. But I ask for, and must have — 
 love.' 
 
 * I cannot, I cannot,' she said, in a desolate, despairing tone, 
 and again shook her head. 
 
 * Why not 1 Is it so impossible to love a man ^vllose whole 
 heart is yours, who thinks of and cares only for you '.< ' 
 
 * I would love you if I could ! It is not my fault. I am 
 vrilling, but I have not the power. I cannot.' 
 
 * Why can you not 1 ' 
 
 She raised her large, dark eyes and looked at him, witli a 
 dull despair in them, and her lips quivered, as she answered, 
 * Because I love another.' 
 
 That went like a second bullet through his heart, and ren- 
 dered him speechless again. 
 
 * You are my husband. I know my duty. I am bound to 
 conceal nothing from you. I am bound to tell you all that is 
 on my heart. My love is for another. I cannot help it; you 
 have nothing to fear. None can suffer from this as I do. I will 
 try from day to day to deaden it. I will be true to you in 
 thought as in deed. What I have promised, I will perform. 
 But there it is — in my heart, burning, consuming. You could 
 not put out that roaring fire on the hearth ; it must blaze till 
 it has eaten itself away. In time the fire here,' she touched 
 her bosom, * that fire, will have consumed itself and be white 
 ashes, and the hearth cold. Then you may light another fire 
 on it, but not till then.' 
 
 Herring had been standing looking at her, with one hand 
 on his brow. Now he turned away. 
 
 * Are you angry ] ' she asked piteously. * I felt in my con- 
 science that I ought to conceal nothing from my liusband ; I 
 knew that I was bound to tell you all. Are you angry ? ' 
 
 * I am in pain,' he said. His hand was on his heart. * I 
 am in deadly pain.' 
 
 * And I — I too,' she whispered, and her head drooped to- 
 wards her lap, like one of her broken snowdrops. 
 
 Herring walked through the hall to the main door. There 
 ho turned. 
 
 ' Mirelle ! ' His face was almost as white as hers. 
 'Yes, John.' 
 
 * God be with you. Good-bye.' 
 
 He opened the door. The wind tore in, and brought snow 
 with it, and the thunder of the mad sea— mad that it had 
 
 2:2
 
 308 JOHN HEERINv?. 
 
 found a barrier which it could not demolish nor overleap, and 
 in its madness tearing itself to spray. 
 
 Then the door shut, and Mirelle was alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 HUNTING THE DEVIL. 
 
 MiRELliE sat over the fire, looking into it. Had she done 
 right iu telling John Herring all her mind 1 She supposed 
 that she had, and yet she was not quite sure. Her nature was 
 so entirely frank, she had such a horror of concealment, that 
 it had seemed to her a duty, an imperative duty, to lay 
 bare her heart before her husband. She spoke out everything, 
 without disguise, to her confessor, and the husband stood to 
 her, she supposed, in much the same hght. She would be 
 guilty of a fraud, an impiety, if she allowed him to live with 
 her without knowing the true state of her affections. She had 
 thought this over a great deal, and she had satisfied her con- 
 science that she was bound to tell him all. But now that the 
 confession was made, she was frightened at the results. She 
 had driven Hen-ing from her. Whither was he gone 1 "Would 
 he return? Was it always right to speak the truth? Was 
 not perfect openness the most refined form of cruelty 1 
 
 Mirelle began dimly to see that she had acted unwisely ; 
 that she had been selfish in her desire to do her duty, and keep 
 her own conscience clear. She owed a duty to her husband, a 
 paramount duty, and the duty she owed him was to make him 
 happy. In her efibrt to do her duty to herself she had run 
 counter to her duty to him. 
 
 So she sat over the fire, in her white bridal dress, with her 
 white fiice, and cold tears distilled slowly from her eyes. 
 
 Without, the wind raged, and splashes of snow were thrown, 
 like mortar from a trowel, against the window panes. There 
 was a red carpet on the hall fioor, but the wind got under it, 
 and it rolled like a sea of blood. She could see the first roller 
 begin by the door and travel the whole length of the room. 
 The curtains over the window swayed as though some one were 
 in the embrasure stirring from side to side and pulling at the 
 curtains to keep himself covered, and yet was seeking a place 
 through which he might peep unperceived at the Snow Bi'ido 
 by the fire, melting away in tears.
 
 HPNTING THE DEVIL. 309 
 
 The tall door creaked, and the latch, to her fancy, was 
 tried ; but no hand was there. It was the wind that thrust 
 against the oaken boards and rattled the latch. 
 
 How the ocean roared ! No doors nor windows could 
 exclude that terrible all-pervading thunder. The sound was 
 not in the wind alone, it was in the solid earth. It was not 
 heard through the ear alone, it was felt by every nerve, for tlia 
 foundations and the walls vibrated. In one of the hall 
 windows was a cracked pane, and through it the wind screamed, 
 and sobbed, and wailed. Were there ships at sea, this awful 
 night 1 Were they near the coast? If so, there was no hope 
 for the vessels, none for the crew. The stoutest ships must be 
 broken against the iron cliffs, and the sailors dashed out of 
 human shape. 
 
 There were souls drifting in that fierce wind and bitter cold 
 — souls of drowned men on their way to purgatory and hell. 
 What was that piping, and sighing, and crying at the window 1 
 Poor drowned souls peering in, and pleading to be admitted ; 
 poor souls still wet with the brine, shivering with cold, feeling 
 their desolation, their nakedness, torn from the bodies they had 
 so long and so happily tenanted ; poor souls wailing and 
 gnashing their teeth, because cast into the outer darkness and 
 eternal cold. 
 
 A dog outside began to bark savagely. Had it seen the 
 wan train of weeping souls sweep by? Then he lapsed into an 
 occasional bark of distress, then was silent, then barked again. 
 
 What ailed the dog? The snow was drifting into his 
 kennel, and he was cold and could not sleep. 
 
 There were rats in the old house. The cold had driven 
 them in, and they were racing through the walls in quest of 
 warm corners and of food. In one place glass had been put 
 down to block a run ; but the rats had broken their way 
 through. Every rat that passed over the glass made it clink. 
 They were between the ceiling and the floor overhead. One — 
 two — three, one — two — three. One of the rats was three- 
 legged, he had lost a foot in a gin. His footfalls could be dis- 
 tinguished fi'om those of the other rats. He went slower than 
 the rest, that old cripple ; one — two — three, one — two — three. 
 
 Where was John Herring ? What had become of him 1 
 Was he still walking in the snow and wind ? Would he press 
 on, thinking only of his misery, till, numbed with frost and 
 weary of battling with the wind, he fell in the snow and slcpti 
 his life away ?
 
 310 JOHN HERRINQ. 
 
 Whitlier would lie go 1 What would he seek t Rest, and 
 the lulling of the terrible pain from the wound she had dealt 
 him. How could rest be got 1 Only in one way. 
 
 Then Mivelle sprang up, terrified at her own thoughts, and 
 clasped her hands over her face to hide from her the horrible 
 picture that rose before her fancy. She fell on her knees, faint 
 with fear. 
 
 The three-legged rat had found a bit of tallow-candle end 
 that had been thrust by a child through a knot in the flooring, 
 and he skipped about on three paws, uncouthly, in an ecstasy 
 of delight. But a rat with four legs came by and lusted after 
 the candle end, and fell on the cripple, and bit him. He 
 screamed with pain and for aid. Then other rats, sound in 
 limb, ran to the scene, and finding the cripple getting the worst 
 of it, took sides against him, and bit and mangled him, he 
 screaming with rage and pain all the while ; and, after that, 
 they divided the candle end between themselves, as their 
 perquisite for having come to the aid of their four-legged brother, 
 and left him the rush-wick, which he could not digest. 
 
 On the stairs was a clock — a very noisy clock, that ticked 
 loud, and made a great whir before it struck the hours. Thii 
 clock had dropped its weight, which fell with a crash the night 
 John's mother died. The weight came down but once again, 
 when Jago Herring, his father, died. A quaint old clock, with 
 a figured face representing a drooping flower and a winged 
 hourglass, and underneath the inscription — 
 
 The flower fadeth. 
 
 The hour runneth. 
 
 Sic transit gloria mundi. 
 
 Twelve o'clock ! Midnight had come, the hour when the dead 
 are abroad. 
 
 Against the wall was a mirror. Mirelle was afraid to look 
 in ir. She knew that dead men peered over the shoulders of 
 the living when they looked incaixtiously into the glass after 
 twelve at night. What face might she see there? She took 
 her handkerchief to put over it; the handkerchief was too 
 small, and was, moreover, wet with her tears. She had a little 
 shawl ; she took that up — a black shawi —and went with it to 
 the mirror, with head averted. 
 
 As she was engaged in hitching the ends of the shawl over 
 the glass she suddenly heard piercing cries, then howls and 
 loud words shouted shrilly.
 
 HUNTING THE DEVIL. 311 
 
 The shawl fell at her feet : she stood frozen to the floor,' 
 her heart stood still. The cries coutinued, waxing louder, 
 more agonising ; she heard feet racing along the passage up- 
 stairs, and then a man's voice, in gruff tones, raised in re- 
 monsti'ance. Then the door of her room was shaken, and 
 again the man spoke. She could distinguish now what he 
 said. 
 
 ' Genefer ! stand off'. You may not go in and scare them 
 wi' your screeching and devil visions.' 
 
 But the door was beaten open in spite of his protest, and 
 the feet were audible rushing over the floor of the room. Then 
 again a cry, a wail, and loud exclamations in shrill tones ; and 
 in another moment down the stairs came the feet, with sobs 
 and moans, and Genefer Benoke burst into the hall, with a 
 great cloak cast over her, her hair loose and flowing wildly 
 about her shoulders, her large grey eyes wide open, and staring 
 blankly before her, and both her hands extended in front of 
 her, now scrabbling in the air, then expanded wide, with eveiy 
 finger apart. Her feet were bare. 
 
 * I see un ! I see un ! Look where he goes ! Ah ! thou 
 foul devil ! thou spirit of the bottomless pit ! See, see ! where 
 he goes, the accursed one, with the smoke of the everlasting 
 torment swaling round and round him ! ' 
 
 She stooped and picked up the black shawl, and lashed 
 with it before her. 
 
 ' Where goest thou ? Do'y see un, Hender 1 Do'y see un ? 
 He be like a black shadow with no sartain shape, stealing 
 along, and now I sees a bit clear and then another bit. There 
 be one fiery eye peer out, and now it be gone, and there shoots 
 out another. Look in thicky corner, where he stands, and 
 gapes and mows and tosses his arms. The Lord is my light 
 and my salvation, whom then shall I fear 1 See, Hender ! he 
 has his fingers in his mouth and is drawing out the corners, 
 out — wide — wider — like gum elastic, the whole width o' the 
 room, and the fire comes out — it be the mouth of hell ! 
 Hender, Hender ! see where he be writing on the wall, and 
 the letters be letters of fire 1 ' 
 
 Then she uttered a piercing shriek, and clasped her hands 
 over her eyes, and buried her face in the black shawl. 
 
 Hender Benoke followed his wife. 
 
 * Come, come back to bed, Genefer. "What do the devil 
 mean by walking o* nights like this when it be freezing hard, 
 and folks wants to be warm between the blankets'? Come
 
 312 JOHN HERRINQ. 
 
 back, and if you must run arter 'un, run o' a summer nighty 
 ondeacent though it be — in your smock.' 
 
 ' My boy ! my John ! O master, dear Master John ! 
 the day, the day ! ' 
 
 * Come back to bed ; you're frightening the young lady.* 
 
 ' Her ! her ! the Snow Maiden that'll freeze the blood in 
 the heart of un ! Where be she 1 I cannot stay, it will be too 
 late. I've a read the writing in fire. Let go, Hender ; do not 
 hold me back ! I see the devil; he be making for the door, 
 and I must after him, and smite him, with the Lord's word. 
 Come on, you — you ! ' She grasped Mirelle by the arm. ' It 
 were you as brought the devil here to tempt vis, and you must 
 strive along of me to drive un, or he will carry the dear 
 maister away.' 
 
 She made for the porch door, drawing Mirelle after her. 
 Hender again interposed. 
 
 ' Genny,' he said, ' you cannot ; you must not.' 
 
 * Yery well then — no ! ' exclaimed the woman, letting go 
 her hold of Mirelle, ' No, no, it be none o' you can drive the 
 devil, for you be an idolater, and idolaters has their portion in 
 the lake that burneth wi' fire for ever and ever. I must drive 
 un with the "Word of God. Run, Hender ! bring me the 
 great black Bible ; quick, man. The devil be gone out at the 
 porch door.' 
 
 She dashed to the window, tore aside the curtains, and 
 cried : * I see un, I see un on the snow, going like a puff o' 
 smoke, and at every step he takes the snow glints white as a 
 flash of moon. Bring me my black Bible, that I may pursue 
 un, and catch un up, and smite un atcross the horns, and fell 
 un like an ox.' Then she came into the midst of the room, and 
 stood before Mirelle, and fixed her eyes sternly on her. 
 
 ' Down on your knees, maiden,' she said, and pointed to the 
 floor. * Down on your knees if you know how to pray, and 
 pray to the Lord for a soul, a poor, despairing, human soul as 
 is brought to great temptation, and heaven or hell stands on the 
 turn o' a hair. The Lord hath revealed to me that this night 
 be fought the battle of Armageddon, and Apollyon and I must 
 wi'estle together for a human soul. Jacob wrestled with an 
 angel till the break of day, and he would not let him go till he 
 had blessed him. And I be called to wrestle, not wi' an angel 
 but wi' a devil, and I will not let un go till I have tooked the 
 soul that he be seeking out o' his hands. Down on yovir 
 knees and help me if you can. Give me the Book.'
 
 HUNTlNa THE DEVIL. 313 
 
 Hender had come in with the Bible. She snatched it out 
 of his hands, and in another moment had slammed the door 
 behind her, and was flying through the snow, with bare feet, 
 and her black hair lashed by the wind, regardless of the cold 
 and storm, holding the great Bible above her head with both 
 hands, and crying after the black shadow that went like a pufl 
 of smoke before her, in whose treadings the snow glinted like 
 flakes of moonlight. 
 
 Hender stood in the porch looking after her and muttering. 
 But Mirelle was kneeling on the red carpet in the midst of the 
 room, and the wind got in beneath and lifted and rolled this 
 carpet about her so that she seemed to be kneeling on a red 
 sea. 
 
 All at once, Genefer stood still, threw up the Bible, caught 
 it, and clasped it to her bosom. Both she and Hender heard a 
 shot. A gun had been discharged ; the report entered the 
 room where Mirelle knelt, and she heard it. 
 
 ' Glory be to God ! ' cried Genefer ; * he be driven back, but 
 not by me. Sisera were slain by the hand of a woman, and it 
 were revealed to Deborah that so it should be. So she went 
 wi' Barak to the battle, for she reckoned that the woman into 
 whose hand the Lord would sell Sisera were herself. But it 
 were not so. Glory be to God ! The devil be driven back, 
 though not by me ! I saw Satan as a stream o' smoking pitch 
 run down "Willapark and fall into Blackapit.' 
 
 Then she came quickly back, all her excitement over. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 WILLAPARK. 
 
 £'0RTH into the storm John Herring had gone. That day so 
 desired had ended thus ! He had gained her whom he loved 
 — whom he had long loved, but only to know that her heart 
 could never be his. He had taken the Snow Bride to him, and, 
 as Genefer had warned him, she was about to chill him to death. 
 No light would rise in those eyes for him ; no smile come on 
 those cheeks for him. Those lips would not meet his ; that 
 heart not beat for him. She respected him, but she feared him. 
 Now he understood her conduct towards him through their 
 engagement and that day. She stood in terror of him; she
 
 214 JOHN HEEEING. 
 
 shi-ank from his love, because she had no love to give in return 
 for it. 
 
 Herring could think of nothing continuously. The gnaw- 
 ing pain at his heart was too intense to sufler him to think 
 connectedly. He was like one walking in semi-consciousness, 
 staggering after a stunning blow, seeing nothing clearly, 
 thinking no thought out. He did not know whither he was 
 going. 
 
 He was without hat, he was without great-coat. He had 
 gone forth in his despair, without a thought of himself, what 
 he should do, whither he should go. Did it matter whither ho 
 went ? Wherever he went he must carry this pain with him. 
 \Vhat should he dol He could do nothing, he could not 
 staunch the wound that had been dealt him ; the wound had 
 cut too deep and had severed the main arteiy of life. There 
 was no balm in Gilead for such a wound as that ; it must bleed, 
 bleed hope, energy, desire out of him. He cared nothing for 
 life now. Life was a torture cUimber, and the poor sufferer on 
 the rack turns and cries out, ' Pat an end to my agonies. Use 
 the dagger, la misericorde ! ' What is life, if granted, worth 1 
 After the rack, what is life with disjointed limbs and riven 
 heart-strings'? Who would receive as a boon so worthless a 
 gift? No; in the torture chamber none ask for life, there but 
 one desire is harboured, and that for death. 
 
 Herring had gone unconsciously towards Willapark, the 
 headland that starts into the sea, gnawed half through by vast 
 gulfs, in which the waves boil as in a cauldron. Willapark, 
 white with snow, shelved up towards the sky ; beyond was the 
 void whence came thunderings and roarings, where nothing 
 could be seen. So hitherto had he been going contentedly up 
 his white way that led to heaven, expecting felicity at the top, 
 and all at once he found himself at the edge of an unfathomed 
 gulf, and a loved hand touched and thrust him over, and now 
 he was falling into the awful void ; whither he knew not, how 
 it would end he only guessed. 
 
 By Blackapit was his little office, a small wooden erection ; 
 he could see it rising out of the snow. He had lived so much 
 there of late, had slept there so frequently, that on leaving 
 Welltown he instinctively took this direction. 
 
 He drew the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. 
 Inside all was dark, and the smell was musty ; the office had 
 not been opened for some days. He shut the door, and went 
 directly to his chair near the fireplace. There was, of course,
 
 WILLAPARK. 315 
 
 no fire there, but that did not mattei- ; he preferred sitting in 
 the dark. How the gulls screamed around the house. The 
 storm frightened them, even them, accustomed to Mand and 
 waves, and they cried and wailed as tliey fluttered disconsolately 
 over the mainland. Perhaps they thought that in such a 
 Imaging sea no fish would live, that all would be beaten to 
 pulp, and their hope of food destroyed. 
 
 Herring seated himself in the chair : it was an arm-chair. 
 He placed his elbow on the arm, and rested his throbbing 
 temples in his hand. 
 
 This was the end. She did not love him, she loved another. 
 "Who was that other ] That he did not know ; she had not 
 told him, and it did not concern him. All that concerned him 
 was the one fact that she was not his. He had purchased to 
 himself a precious heart, and when he knocked to be admitted 
 he Avas told to abide outside, the key had been given to another. 
 
 He sat on in his wretchedness, not knowing how the time 
 passed. He was becoming dead and cold in his chaii', as Genefer 
 had foreseen. 
 
 He stood up at last and struck a light. He kept tinder-box 
 and candles in the Willapark oflBce — tallow- candles they were 
 — and he lighted one and placed it on his table. 
 
 Then he opened his desk and took paper, and a pen. His 
 hand was so cold that he could not write. He tried to warm 
 it with his breath, but in vain. He must write to Mirelle. 
 If she had told him her secret, he must no longer conceal his — 
 he must let her know that he had taken care of her fortune, 
 and that it was now her own to do with it what she liked. 
 Had she known that she was wealthy, she would never have 
 accepted him, John Herring, now in purgatory, sufiering for 
 the wrong he had done her — a wrong done unconsciously and 
 in good faith. She had taken him only because she believed 
 herself to be destitute and dependent on his bounty. He had 
 acted wrongly from the first. Light came to him, as to others, 
 when too late to walk by it. Now he saw what the proper 
 course would have been. If he mistrusted Tramplara, he should 
 have confided all to Mirelle, and allowed her to choose her own 
 trustee. But no ! that would not have done ; for, had the 
 secret of the diamonds come out, old Tramplara would have 
 claimed them as the legal guardian. He was bewildered ; he 
 did not know in what way he had acted wrongly, and yet what 
 he had done, conscientiously believing he was doing right, had 
 led to disaster — had landed him in a position from which there
 
 316 JOHN HERRlNa. 
 
 was but one escape. He had been to Mirelle a worse enemy 
 than Tramplara. The trustee of her father's appointment had 
 robbed her of the money intrusted to him ; he, John Herring, 
 the trustee of his own nomination, had robbed her of her life's 
 happiness. Could he doubt for a moment that had she been 
 free she would have refused him and have given her hand and 
 fortune to the man of her choice 1 Now there lay before him 
 no remedy save one. He had chained her to him, and whilst 
 that chain remained she must sufier. Till it was broken, hap- 
 piness was impossible to her. ' Oh, Mirelle ! Mirelle ! ' the cry 
 broke from his heart. Here was bitterness past enduring, to 
 be on the threshold of happiness, and to be thrust back; to 
 have the cup at his lips, and to have it snatched from him and 
 spilled on the ground. 
 
 He lit the lire in his grate and warmed his fingers ; he did 
 not care for the comfort of the fire, he sought only to thaw hia 
 hand, to enable it to write. In his despair it seemed that 
 there was but one course open to him — to restore to Mirelle the 
 liberty of which he had deprived her. When able to write, he 
 took the pen and ink, and slowly, with many pauses, gave her 
 in full the story of the diamonds stolen by Grizzly Cobbledick 
 from Mr. Strange's trunk, then given to him by Joyce. He 
 assured Mii-elle that he had acted as he supposed best, with no 
 thought of reaping advantage to himself, certainly with none 
 of gaining her by means of her own fortune. She would do 
 him this justice. He confessed his mistake, and made the only 
 amends in his power by restoring her the freedom of which he 
 had depriv(3d her. He did not date the account, but he signed 
 it, and folded it. Then he made an abstract of all her money. 
 He stated where the remainder of the uncut diamonds might be 
 found, and what the amount of money was which he had re- 
 ceived for those he had sold, and how he had disposed of this 
 money. The room was his ofiice, and his books were in it. 
 He consulted them ; and as he went over the accounts he 
 recovered, to some extent, his composure ; but his purpose never 
 swerved. 
 
 When he had finished his task, he put the account with the 
 letter, inclosed both in one wrapper, and sealed it. J. H. was 
 his stamp ; no arms, for he had no right to bear anj'-. 
 
 Then he rose and went out, closing his door after him. He 
 walked through the snow, which was thin on the headland, for 
 the gale carried it away, and shook it into the sea or heaped it 
 in the valleys. He could see, or he thought he could see, the
 
 -WILLAPARK. 317 
 
 distant lights of "Welltown. Mirelle was not gone to bed yet ; 
 the light was red, shining through the hall curtains. What 
 was Mirelle doing 1 
 
 The snow had ceased to fall, and the air was clear of every- 
 thing save spray, which was driven over the land in scuds. The 
 headland shook under the blows of the ocean. On the left hand 
 was that awful gulf, Blackapit, an almost circular well with 
 sheer cliffs descending three hundred feet into the boiling foam 
 and fury. He approached it ; there was no rail, nothing to 
 prevent anyone from falling over. On a dark night, when no 
 snow covered the ground, anyone stepping astray would, in a 
 moment, plunge into that horrible abyss never penetrated by 
 the sun. At low water there was an inky tarn below, but now, 
 through the narrow entrance, mountains of water beat their 
 way, and when within tore themselves to froth in their agony 
 to escape, and rolled back to the entrance, there to clash 
 against another intruding billow. Then there rushed up into 
 the air a white pillar of whirling foam that fell back again upon 
 the contending surf below, unable to escape upwards. The 
 roar of the raging water in this abyss was as the roar from the 
 mouth of hell. There came upon Herring the thought of him- 
 self falling down that chasm, the hands extended, clutching at 
 the rocks, and the nails torn to the quick in frantic effort to 
 cling ; kittiwakes, gulls, and skuas shrieking and dashing about 
 him as he went dowTi into that raging, I'avening, thundering 
 void. Rest there ! — there — there ! in that frantic turmoil, the 
 very thought of which made a whirlpool in the brain ! Herring 
 sprang back with convulsive shrinking before such an end. No, 
 he could not plunge down Blackapit ! 
 
 He returned to his wooden house. It was warm and bright, 
 and the sight of the fire and of tlie candle composed his nerves 
 after that horrible dream of Blackapit. Over the fireplace was 
 bis gun — he had shot gulls with it from his window. On a 
 summer day he had taken a boat and rowed about Blackapit 
 and Welltown cove, and with a bullet killed porpoises. There 
 were seals also in these bays. How horrible was the head of a 
 seal, so human, rising straight out of the waves. He had 
 never been able to kill one, the human eyes had unnerved him 
 when he took aim. 
 
 He resumed his seat ; his candle had a thief in it, a fungus, 
 and burned dull. He snuffed the candle. Then he put some 
 fuel on the fire, and looked musingly into it. He thought of 
 how he had first known INIirelle, of her coldness towards him,
 
 318 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 how she had thrown away, or lost, his sprig of white heath. 
 He remembered the very tones of her voice when she laughed 
 at his name, Herring. He recalled her manner, as she scorned 
 the idea of his being other than bourgeois. He recollected how 
 Bhe had cast reproach on the memory of her dead father, 
 because he, being bourgeois, had dared to mate with her noble 
 mother. And he had done the same thing — had taken advan- 
 tage of her distress to tie her to him, — her the ideal of nobility, 
 purity, beauty, to himself a humble yeoman's son, of no merit, 
 and with few qualifications to attach any woman to him. His 
 breathing was short ; the pain at his heart was very real and 
 physical. His head had been clear whilst he was working at 
 the accounts, but now his brain began again to cloud over. 
 
 Then he stood up, and took down his gun. It waa 
 loaded with swanshot for the gulls. He had bullets in his 
 drawer — for porpoises. 
 
 He drew the shot and went to his drawer; the bullets 
 were not there. He turned over papers, and fishing tackle, 
 and sundry odds and ends. He came upon a little book of 
 sketches — how came they there 1 They were drawings he had 
 made as a child of six and seven, very rude, and gaily painted 
 with gamboge and carmine and Prussian blue. There was 
 Noah's Ark, and the most marvellous beasts of all kaleido- 
 scopic colours, marching up a plank into it. There was the 
 Burning Fiery Furnace, and the three men being cast in at the 
 top, comical little figures, with very little bodies, and very big 
 hands and feet, all the toes and fingers extended. Herring 
 remembered painting these pictures, at a table in a window, 
 whilst Genefer was sewing, and his father was in the hall 
 below, practising on his violin. He had painted these daubs in 
 the little porch room, now done up in white and gold for 
 Mirelle. No, the bullets were not in the drawer. He could 
 not think where he had pvit them ; his head was confused. 
 He sat down again, with the gun across his knees. When 
 had he last gone out porpoise-shooting? He could not re- 
 member. Not last summex", for he had been too fully engaged 
 then at Upaver, and only making flying visits to Welltown, 
 and. then busy with the slate-quarry. As he sat thinking, the 
 bunch of snowdrops Mirelle had worn fell at his feet. He had 
 put them in his button-hole when he removed them from her 
 bosom, and now that he stooped they dropped. 
 
 He picked up the little bunch. Poor, bruised, broken 
 fioAvers, crushed and withered like his hopes; pure flowers.
 
 WILLAPARK. 319 
 
 white as Mirelle, They had rested all day in her bosom. He 
 put them to his lips, and a great trembling like an ague attack 
 came over him. If he had asked her to give him the flowers, 
 would she have given them to him 1 Yes, but with a needle in 
 them to piei'ce his hand. She had given him herself, but with 
 herself his death- wound. 
 
 Now, all at once, he remembered where the bullets were — • 
 on a shelf in a sort of recess or cupboard at the foot of the bed. 
 He went to the place and found them. He took one, dropped 
 it down the barrel, and rammed it home. 
 
 * God forgive me,' he said, ' but there is no help for it. So 
 alone can I undo the wrong I have done ; so alone restore to 
 Mirelle the liberty and the happiness of which I have defrauded 
 her.' 
 
 He leaned his head on the barrel ; the steel was cold to his 
 hot and heavy brow. He rested it there some moments, 
 thinking. Then he raised it, and the round red ring marked 
 his forehead. 
 
 The gnawing pain was not there ; there Avas trouble there, 
 but the pain was in his heart. Then he lowered the butt end 
 of the musket on the floor, and, leaning forward, placed the 
 mouth of the barrel against his heart, and slid his hand down 
 it towards the trigger. A sense of alleviation of pain, a fore- 
 taste of rest, came to him, from the pressure of the gun on hia 
 heart. 
 
 ' God pardon me, it cannot be otherwise ! May He be with 
 her and bless her ! Mirelle ! Mirelle ! ' 
 
 He touched the trigger. 
 
 At that moment the door flew open. 
 
 * Maister ! dear maister ! ' 
 
 With the start, the gun was discharged, but not through 
 his heart ; the bullet whizzed past his ear, and penetrated the 
 roof. 
 
 Then ensued silence for a minute. Herring was leaning 
 back, hardly knowing what had happened, and whether be 
 were alive or dead. 
 
 The smoke filled the little room. As it cleared away, his 
 eyes saw Joyce. 
 
 * Maister ! sure you have frightened of me dreadful; but— 
 I've a brought'y the stockings.' 
 
 He did not speak. He understood nothing. 
 ' Dear maister ! what be thicky gun for ] Did'y think Jl 
 were a robber, and you fired at me 1 No, no ! I be no robber,
 
 320 JOHN HERRINa. 
 
 I be come a long way. See ! I ha* done it all myself. I 
 sed as I would. I've a bronght'y a pair o' stockings all of my 
 own knitting.' 
 
 He remained speechless. 
 
 * Look ! ' she persisted ; * put thicky gashly gun away. 
 There be no robbars here; I be your Joyce, your own poor 
 Joyce. Look ! the stockings be warm, of lambswool, and 
 vitty, and I did knit mun every bit and croom myself.' 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 ' KINKUM-KUM.' 
 
 • It be warm and comfortable in here/ said Joyce, looking 
 round her. ' Surely, I used to think it snug under the Table 
 when the winds were loud ; but there us had always a door 
 open for the smoke to go out at. There were no chimney there, 
 and there couldn't be none, for because of the great stone 
 overhead.' 
 
 Herring put his hands to his broAv. He was dazed. He 
 could not understand Joyce's presence there and then. 
 
 * What a mighty long time you've a been away from West 
 Wyke, maister ! But, sure, I have been away a bit too. I've 
 a been with Farmer Facey to Coombow. I sed I'd go to 'n, 
 and work out the liire of the waggon as brought you home 
 after you were nigh upon killed by Cap'n Sampson Tramplara, 
 and I did it. I went there, and I were there two whole months 
 by the moon. Both Farmer Facey and his wife sod I did more 
 work than two men. But, sure, this fire be beautiful. I've a 
 been out in the snow and wind all day, and the most of the 
 night too.' 
 
 Herring looked inquiringly at her. 
 
 * Where have you come from, Joyce ? ' 
 
 ' Where have I come from 1 Where else, sure, but from 
 West Wyke. I be come to look for you, and to bring'y the 
 stockings I've a knitted. I sed I would, and I've a done it.' 
 
 ' I do not understand, Joyce. From West Wyke ? ' 
 
 ' Sure-ly.' 
 
 ' Not to-day, and in this storm 1 ' 
 
 * I've not done this all in a day once for all, but I've been a 
 foot all to-day, I can tell'y. It were hard walking. But see 
 ■ she held out her feet ; they were stockinged and shod.
 
 *' KINKUM-KU5I.* 321 
 
 * Bain't that vitty ' (tidy), ' find bain't I peart ' (smart) 1 ' You 
 should ha' seen mun, though, when they was new and beauti- 
 ful; but I've a been so stogged in snow that they be now 
 wetted through and through, and all their beauty washed out 
 of 'em.' 
 
 ' You have walked here 1 ' Herring was coming out of hi^ 
 dazed condition into one of Avonder at Joyce. 
 
 'Sure I have. I'll tell'y all about it, but I must sit mo 
 doAvn by the fire ; I be that stiff and tired I can scarce stand.' 
 
 * Joyce, what is the meaning of your coming 1 ' 
 
 'I'll tell'y all right on end from beginning till now. I sed 
 I'd a been working for Farmer Facey to Coombow.' 
 'What for r 
 
 * Did you not hear me say it? He lent his waggon to dray 
 you home to West Wyke, after you was nigh upon killed.' 
 
 ' Well, what then 1 ' 
 
 ' Sure he wanted to be paid for it. There were a waggon 
 and two horses for a day, and there were that boy, Jim White, 
 along of them,' 
 
 ' Why did you not tell me ? I would have paid.' 
 
 * No,' answered Joyce, ' it were I as had the care of you. I 
 sed I would do that, and I did it. I went and worked out the 
 hire of the waggon and of Jim White myself.' 
 
 Herring looked at her with amazement. 
 ' I cannot allow this,' he said. 
 
 * It be done,' she said, with an air of triumph. • It be paid 
 and all; I paid with my arms, by work; and the farmer sed I 
 worked better than two able-bodied men, he did. And Farmer 
 Facey's wife, her were a good un ; her larned me to knit. It 
 came about so. When as first I went there, I were that shy of 
 going under the hellens, I thought I'd smother ; so I sed I'd lie 
 in the linney, and I did lie there anight or two. It were com- 
 fortable in the straw. But at last I seed the woman knitting 
 stockings, and I sed I wished her'd larn me that ; and her sed her 
 would if I'd come inside of the evenings — it were late in the 
 fall and the nights were long. Well, I were that set on larning 
 that I did; I went in. I sed to you as I'd knit your stockings, 
 and I've a done so. See, there they be. That Jim White were 
 a worrit. If he'd a let me along I'd have larned a deal faster ; 
 but I larned at last, I did. It wern't so bad and spifflicating 
 after all in the house by the great fire. The smoke didn't fill 
 the room ; her went ri^l,t on end up the chimney. Maister ! 
 when I were larning to knit stockings, I were that set up I 
 
 Y
 
 322 JOHN nERRINO. 
 
 thought I wern't like a savage no more as I used to be, but 
 were clacent like other folk, and I found like that I could abide 
 and breathe under hellens. Miss Cicely would hev taught me 
 to knit, but I couldn't wait. I had to go to Coombow and 
 ■work out the waggon and Jim White. I worked mun all out, 
 and the farmer sed I wore better to he than two labouring men. 
 "When I comed away at last, Mistress Facey her gived me thicky 
 stockings, her'd a knit mun herself, and thicky shoes, they be 
 brave and beautiful. Her gived them to me, and would take 
 nothing for 'em. I didn't reckon much of 'em at fust, but I 
 sees now I couldn't have walked here with bare feet in the 
 snow. So they be good for more than to look to.' 
 ' Why have you come here 1 ' 
 
 * I've brought you the stockings I've knitted. I sed I would, 
 and I've done it. You never came nigh to West Wyke for a 
 long time, and Miss Cicely were lost to know what had become 
 of you, and the old Squire be took worse ; and I'd done the 
 stockings, and I thought as you'd never come to see 'em. One 
 day when the Squke Avere very bad, Miss Cicely comed to I, 
 and said as how her wondei'ed why you never came, and as how 
 her wished you could know how the Squu-e were, and that he 
 were axing every day after you. Then I sed, the stockings were 
 done, and as you didn't come for mun, I'd carry mun to you. 
 Her told me where you lived. I were to go right forward to 
 Launceston, and there to ax my way to Boscastle. So I sed I'd 
 go, and I'd take your stockings. The wind were up and there 
 were going to be ice and snow, and you'd be wanting them to 
 keep your feet Vv'arm. So I came.' 
 
 ' But, Joyce, how did you find your way here, to this house 1 ' 
 
 * I came about dark to Boscastle, and I went about and 
 inquired after you, and some sed they didn't think you was 
 here, and some sed, if I wanted to find you, I must go to the 
 office, you were there mostly, and always of nights ; and they 
 gave me directions, and so I came.' 
 
 ' But, Joyce, it is now past midnight.' 
 
 * I dare say it be. I couldn't get in at the door when first 
 I found the little house, and tried, and there was no light in 
 the windows, and I thought you might not be come yet, and 
 I'd wait about a bit. So I waited on the lew side, but the 
 wind were so wild, and the snow drifted, and I were forced to 
 go away. But I came again after a while, and still the door 
 were fast. So then I thought I'd go and find a haystack or a 
 liuney, where I might sleep, and I'd come again in the morD
 
 * KINKUM-KUM. 323 
 
 ing. But I rambled about for miles, and never found nothing 
 of a place where I might lie. I got to one house, where there 
 were lights in the windows, but a dog began to b;irk, and I 
 were feared he might bite me as Fai'mer Freezes dog had bitten 
 and tore me — you mind that time as I hearkened to the wood- 
 doo, — so I didn't venture into the sbippon but corned away, and 
 then I don't know exactly where and for how long I wandered 
 about, but at last I saw a light here, and I found my way back 
 to the oihce, but I had rare tumbles and climbings over walls 
 and into ditches. However, I have found you here to last, dear 
 maister, and I be glad, I be glad.' 
 
 ' Good heavens, Joyce ! is all this true'? ' 
 
 * Sure-ly. Did I ever tell you a lie ] ' 
 
 * Since when have you been afoot ? ' 
 
 * I started afore light, I reckon about five o'clock.' 
 
 * My poor, poor Joyce ! ' 
 
 'I be none so poor now. See my stockings and shoes! 
 And do'y look here what a sight o' brave clothes I have, aa 
 Miss Cicely gave me.' 
 
 * Have you had anything to eat ? ' 
 
 ' Sure, A woman at a cottage gave me some bread and a 
 bowl of skimmed milk.' 
 ' When 1 ' 
 
 * I reckon at noon.' 
 
 * Twelve hours ago. Have you had nothing since 1 ' 
 
 ' No ; 1 couldn't wait when I corned to Boscastlo, I were 
 that longing to get on and find you.' 
 
 * Joyce, you must be starving.' He sprang up and went to 
 the cupboard, the same whence he had taken the bullet. A 
 week ago he had a loaf and some cheese there. The bread was 
 stale, but still it was edible. He brought it out, with the 
 cheese and a knife. 
 
 ' Joyce, off with these soaking shoes and stockings. Sit 
 down at the table and eat what you can. I will get you some- 
 thing warmed over the fire to drink as quickly as I can.' 
 
 The thought of what Joyce had gone through distracted his 
 attention from his own misery. There were others in the world 
 beside Mirelle, others demanding his consideration and sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 ' The Squire be took cruel bad,' said Joyce, • and Miss 
 Cicely be very desirous to see you, and that you should come 
 to the Squire. There be Upaver mine. Squire have a looked 
 
 t2
 
 324 JOHN HERRINO. 
 
 after things so long as he could, but there be nobody to do that 
 now.' 
 
 ' What is the matter with Mr, Battishill?' 
 
 * T dun know, but he be cruel bad ; and the mistress were 
 looking along the Okehampton road every day, and hoping as 
 you would come. You've been such a long, long time away, 
 and us can't get on without you no ways, that you knows very 
 well.' 
 
 He was a help to some. His presence was desired by some. 
 Only to Mirelle he was unwelcome. 
 
 ' Be this house yours 1 ' asked Joyce, looking round. * I 
 won't say but her's comfortable wi' fire and can'l and all sorts ; 
 but her's none so big as West Wyke, and not such a wonderful 
 sight bigger than the Giant's Table. I know when I gets back, 
 Miss Cicely will be asking of me about it ; what sort of a place 
 her be, and whether her be big or small, and built of stone. 
 Her's all of board, just like some of them places they runned 
 up to Ophir, where the gold waSr But that be all tore abroad 
 now.' 
 
 Poor girl, she was hungry. The bread was hard as biscuit, 
 but she ate it eagerly. Hen-ing gave her some hot wine and 
 water. 
 
 ' The old Squire be axing after you the first thing in the 
 morning. And he do fret wonderful for you. Miss Cicely do 
 say it be like a child wanting his nurse. He be gone a "bit 
 tottle " (foolish), ' I reckon.' 
 
 ' I shall go back to West Wyke to-morrow, Joyce.' 
 
 ' glory rallaluley ! I be glad. I'll have a wink of sleep, 
 and then 1*11 be fresh as a buttercup to go wi' you. I may go 
 along of you, mayn't I now, maister dear 1 ' 
 
 * Yes, Joyce. Yovi shall not walk, you shall ride.' 
 
 * I rided once afore wi' you,' she answered, ' but you know 
 nort about that. It were when you were nigh apon dead, and 
 I held your head in my arms all the way, and ycu never Avaked 
 but once, and that were on Sourton Down, and then you held 
 out your hands, entreating like, and cried something, and that 
 were all, and never spoke no more.' 
 
 ' What did I cry out ? ' 
 
 She looked steadily into his eyes, and said in a low tone, 
 * Mirelle.' 
 
 He covered his face, as a spasm contracted his heart. Joyce 
 had touched too recent a wound for him to endure the touch 
 without shrinking. Joyce saw that he was in pain. She went
 
 * K.INKUM-KUM.' 325 
 
 t» him, and, kneeling at his feet, drew his hands away from his 
 face, and looked into it ; then shook her head. 
 ' Her don't belong to you yet then 1 ' 
 
 * No, and never will.' He spoke with bitterness. 
 
 * You be changed, maister dear. I never seed you afore 
 like as you be now. You look just about a score of years older 
 than what you was once. Is it the Whiteface has done it, or 
 what be it, maister darling ? Tell your own Joyce, and see if 
 her won't go through ice and snow to serve you any day, if her 
 can.' 
 
 * You can do nothing for me.' 
 
 Still she looked at him, holding his hands, trying to read 
 his secret in. his face, with eyes full of earnestness. Then, sud- 
 denly, there came a revulsion in his thoughts. 
 
 ' God forgive me for what I have said ! You do nothing for 
 me ! — Joyce, dear Joyce, you have done for me this night more 
 than you are aware of. You saved my life once before, you 
 have saved my life again to-night, and something more than 
 my life.' 
 
 She did not understand him. How could she 1 
 
 ' Maister,' she said, ' put thicky gashly old gun away ; it 
 frightens me.' 
 
 He rose at once and obeyed, putting the gun back in its 
 old place on the crooks. 
 
 ' You be coming back to West Wyke ] ' she asked. 
 
 ' Yes, to-morrow.' 
 
 ' You'll be better there. There the old Squire be fond of 
 you, and you be so kind to me ; and there be Miss Cicely, too, 
 her's a pining likewise, acause you be so long away ; and there 
 be I,' she looked down at his feet, ' knitting stockings as fast as 
 I can knit for you. If I can do nothing more, I can do that.' 
 
 ' Oh, Joyce ! Joyce ! ' He could say no more, his heart was 
 full. Here at Welltown — wretchedness, coldness, repulsion ; 
 thei-e at West Wyke — not happiness indeed, but rest, warmth, 
 and love. 
 
 ' And, maister dear, you'll larn me the kinkum-kum. I 
 wouldn't let Miss Cicely larn me. Her began to laugh when 1 
 said kinkum-kum. But when I were bad wi' my broken arms, 
 End I asked you to say it, you didn't laugh, but you tooked off 
 your hat and said it as good as a Methody. And now, I'll 
 tell'y, that night when I drayed you out of the road into the 
 wood, and thought you was going to die, and I didn't know 
 what ever to do, I got such a pain here,' she put her hand to
 
 S23 JOHK HERRINQ. 
 
 her heart, * as I could scarce abear it. And then I went 
 down on my knees, just the same as I be now, and I put up 
 my hands over where you lay, and I cried that same kinkvim- 
 kum, and him as I knows nort about, he heard me, and he did 
 ■what he could, I reckon. He made you better, and he set my 
 pain and trou1:)le at rest. There, maister darling, I can see you 
 be in pain and trouble now. Just you do the same ; go down 
 on your knees, and say the same right on end, and the rest 
 from pain and trouble will come sure-ly.' 
 
 ' Joyce ! ' 
 
 She was still looking in his face, desiring something, with a 
 great distress in her eyes. Now, a smile broke in her eyes. 
 
 '0 rallaluley ! 'she exclaimed. 'Your face were at first 
 like Cosdon when hard frozen, but now the springs be breaking.' 
 
 The lines in his face had softened, his lips quivered, and 
 his eyes filled. Then, all at once, he fell on his knees beside 
 Joyce, and held up his hands as she had taught him, and said 
 in broken tones and slowly, ' Our Father.' Joyce repeated the 
 words. 
 
 ' Which art in heaven — hallowed be thy name.' 
 
 Joyce still followed. ' Thy kingdom come.' 
 
 The storm had passed aAvay, almost suddenly. The clouds 
 had broken ; in the west the moon hung unveiled, and cast a 
 ray of purest silver into the little room, and bathed in her 
 stainless light the poor savage and the young soldier, kneeling 
 and praying together. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 A BAR OF ICE. 
 
 Next morning John Herring returned to Welltown. He was a 
 changed man. His lightheartedness, his simplicity of character, 
 were gone for ever. Hitherto he had been a big boy, with 
 buoyant spirits and with a belief that the world was a paradise. 
 He was a man now, seeing life before him as a sad desert that 
 must be tramped over, where he must meet with suffering, and 
 count himself happy if, at long intervals, he reached and could 
 rest by a brackish pool. The world is no paradise, it is a vale 
 of Sodom, where the pits ai-e bitterness and the rivers brine. 
 It is no playground, it is a convict establishment. It is a
 
 A BAR OF ICE. 327 
 
 theatre in wbich all act tragedies, and the lookers-on mistake 
 them for farces. 
 
 Hening had spent the remainder of the night by his fire, 
 revolving in his mind what miist be done. Joyce slept soundly 
 on his bed in the corner, tired oxit with her trudge through the 
 snow. Herring had inado her take off her gown, and had 
 thrown an old fishing coat of lii.s ov^er her. Though he sat 
 over the fire thinking of his own future and Mirellp's, he cared 
 also for Joyce's boots and gown and stockings, that were 
 drying by the stove, and turned them, and took thought that 
 they were not burnt. 
 
 In the morning he sent Joyce into the village of Boscastle 
 to detain the chaise in which he had come to Welltown the 
 previous evening. Then he went to see Mirelle once more. 
 
 He was, as Joyce had observed, greatly oldened and altered. 
 One night had worked the change in the outer as well as in the 
 inner man. There comes a time to all when the rose-coloured 
 sjiectacles must be laid aside for those of blue glass. The time 
 comes sooner to some than to others. It had come now to John 
 Herring, and the aspect of everything was changed to him, 
 
 Mirelle was unaltered. She was pale, indeed, but that was 
 her usual complexion, and her eyes were red, but they had been 
 red the day of her marriage. She was more collected than on 
 the previous evening, and Herring was more composed. 
 
 He entered the house without Genefer perceiving him, and 
 went upstairs to the little porch-room. Whilst he' was in 
 the hall he heard Mirelle's steps above, and knew she was 
 there. 
 
 She did not seem surprised to see him. She received him 
 with ease and gentle kindness, not as a husband, but as a 
 friend. There was in her heart a sense of relief: she could 
 speak with him on an understood footing, and she would not 
 be subjected to demonstrative affection. Herring was pre- 
 pared for this. She saw that he was looking worn and ill, but 
 she made no remark. She was the cause of the change in his 
 appearance, and she knew it. She regretted it, but it waa 
 inevitable. 
 
 Mirelle was dressed in a sober dark gown. Every trace of 
 bridal white had been put away. When he entered, she was 
 engaged on her trunks. 
 
 * Your jewels are here,' he said, showing her a secret drawer 
 in a large old cabinet. ' I give you the key. Do not leave it 
 about ; though nothing is to be feared from Genefer or Hender,
 
 328 John herkinO. 
 
 yet it is wise to keep articles of value under lock and key, aad 
 
 not to trust the key to any one.' 
 
 ' They are of no value. They are paste.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, they are not. I took them, to a 
 jeweller, who examined them. Some of the stones had been 
 abstracted at some time, and replaced by artificial diamonds, 
 by whom and when, I cannot, of course, say. I have had all 
 these taken out, and true stones of good quality put in their 
 places. The necklet and diadem are now perfect as at first.' 
 
 Mu-elle was surprised. 
 
 * You think the set of diamonds was originally complete.' 
 ' I am convinced it was so.' 
 
 'And that the stones had been removed and paste substitutes 
 put instead into the sockets.' 
 
 ' I believe so.' 
 
 ' Then you do not think my father gave what was worthless 
 to my mother 1 ' 
 
 ' I cannot suppose so. It is not likely. The pendant was 
 tampered with more thoroughly than the rest of the set, 
 because it was removable. Probably after that had been 
 altered, one by one the stones of the necklace were removed. 
 Some person in need of money disposed of the stones as the 
 need came.' 
 
 Mirelle thought. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, ' I have no doubt it was done by Antoinette.' 
 
 * Who was Antoinette 1 ' 
 
 *My mother's maid, who did everything for her. I am 
 glad to think that my father was not guilty of a mean act. I 
 thank you for clearing his memory from such a stain. Hence- 
 forth I shall believe that Antoinette was guilty.' 
 
 ' So be it ; and from henceforth I hope you will realise the 
 necessity of keeping precious stones under lock and key. 
 Show them to nobody unnecessarily, and, above all, show 
 nobody where they are kept.' 
 
 They spoke to each other with perfect coolness and self- 
 possession. Pyramus and Thisbe met and conversed with a 
 wall between ; John Herring and Mirelle were separated by 
 an invisible wall, but it was one of ice. 
 
 ' I have brought you, as well, the key of my ofi&ce ou 
 Willapark. I keep there my accounts of the slate-quarry. 
 Should anything from the ofBce be required, the foreman will 
 come to you. If not asking too much, I would wish him not 
 to be given free run over it, and that yoii should be present
 
 A BAR OF ICE. 329 
 
 when he wants anything. There are things there which I do 
 not care for him to turn o^er, papers and accounts among 
 which I do not wish him to rummage. You will do me this 
 favour 1 ' 
 
 ' Certainly. Are you going away 1 ' 
 
 'I am going away for awhile. You know that I am 
 working a valuable silver lead mine on the borders of 
 Dartmoor, and it must be looked after.' 
 
 Why did he not say where it was — ' near "West Wyke 1 
 where you and I first met, where your father died 1 ' He did 
 not say this, because it would be painful for him to say it, 
 and for her to hear it. The name would call up recollections 
 they must endeavour to crush out of their minds. 
 
 * You will return again ? ' 
 
 * I will come back to see how the slate-quarry progresses. 
 I had purposed building a breakwater, but I shall not now 
 carry out this purpose.' 
 
 'Why not r 
 
 ' The lead mine is sure to engross my time and attention. 
 I shall be here but little. My interests will be centred in the 
 silver lead.' 
 
 ' Very w-ell.' 
 
 * I shall provide for your comfort. You will have, as 
 before, your own account in the bank, under the same name, 
 Mirelle Garcia de Cantalejo. You will draw from the bank 
 what you require.' 
 
 ' I thank you, Mr. Herring. You are very kind.' 
 
 * You will do with the money what you like ; you are 
 entire mistress of it. You will pay for the expenses of the 
 house from it, and keep what company you like. There are 
 not many neighbours, but such as there are will call, and they 
 will be hospitable to you, and glad to receive hospitality from 
 you. I dare say you will require additional servants. 
 Genefer ' 
 
 ' I beg jonr pardon, I do not wish to have that woman in 
 the house. She frightens me.' 
 
 ' She is a worthy, devoted soul. You are sure to like her 
 when once you have learned her value.' 
 
 ' She frightens me ; I thought I should have died of fear 
 last night.' 
 
 ' I cannot consent to her dismissal. She was my nurse, 
 Bhe has been with me from my birth, and loves me as if I were 
 her own child. When I look back I see how her life has been
 
 330 JOHN HERKING. 
 
 devoted to me. Besides, the home farm is let to Hender, and 
 he and she must live here : there is no other house for them, 
 and the outbuildings are included in the lease. It is unavoid- 
 able. If I could have gratified you in this particular I -would 
 have done so, but I cannot.' 
 
 Mirelle became, if possible, colder. She bowed her head 
 stifHy. 
 
 * Very well,' she said, after a pause, awkward to both : ' if 
 it cannot be, I must endure this cross also. But I entreat you, 
 do not say me nay to my next petition.' 
 
 ' I will not. I would refuse yon nothing, you may be very 
 coufident, but the impossible.' 
 
 ' It will not be impossible for Orange and her mother to 
 come here and reside with me.' 
 
 Herring took a hasty turn vip and down the room. The 
 request vexed him greatly. There was something in Orange he 
 did not like, something in her manner towards Mirelle which 
 made him mistrust her professions of affection, something — a 
 coarseness of mind vt'hich he suspected rather than perceived, 
 v/hich he shrank from voluntarily bringing into contact with 
 the unsullied purity and delicacy of Mirelle's soul. 
 
 ' Is this also refused me 1 ' asked Mirelle. Then her cold- 
 ness giving way, the assumed stiffness yielding to her natural 
 emotion, ' Oh, John Hei-ring, do not be unkind to me ! You 
 have been so good, so much better to me than I deserve.' 
 
 * I — I unkind to you, Llirelle ! ' In a moment also his 
 assumed coldness cracked, and the warm suffering heart showed 
 its blood through the rent, as the black crust of lava that 
 descends Vesuvius breaks, and the fire of the core is seen 
 glowing between the rough edges. 
 
 'I tell you the truth, my friend,' she said. 'I will caU 
 you my friend ; that you have been ever since we have known 
 «3ach other — that you are still.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Herring, I'egaining his composure, 'what I Ijave 
 been, that I am and shall be, your friend — nothing more.' 
 
 * I tell you the truth, that woman Genefer nearly killed 
 
 me last night. I was sitting over the fire till late, after ' 
 
 Bhe hesitated. 
 
 ' After I left you ; yes, go on.' 
 
 * After you left me, after I had driven you away, mj 
 friend, my poor friend ! ' She looked up into his eyes piteously. 
 He turned his away ; he could not bear to look into the soul 
 that wa.s not his, that never could be his. She went on;
 
 A BAR OF ICE. 331 
 
 * After you were gone, 1 sat on till very late, thinking. I was 
 unhappy, and I cried. I sat by the fire ; you can understand, 
 I was in trouble about myself and about you. After midnight 
 I was roused by hearing the most dreadful shrieks and the 
 rushing of feet along the passage overhead.' 
 
 ' That was nothing,' said Herring, forcing a smile. ' My 
 good Genefer has strange fancies that take her perversely at 
 unsuitable seasons. She was only driving the devil.' 
 
 ' But I cannot bear hearing the devil driven in the depth 
 of the night, in a lonely house, in the midst of a raging storm. 
 It will kill me. I have been very ill, you must remember, 
 with a nervous fever, and it has left me weak and liable to be 
 shaken by strange events. I fear that I cannot bear such an 
 event again. I cannot stand much.' She looked now full of 
 entreaty and helplessness — a frightened, feeble girl, in dread of 
 strange things, she knew not what. 
 
 * That is true. I will see and speak to Genefer before I 
 leave. I must give some explanation of, and excuse for, my 
 hurried departure, and at the same time I will be peremptory 
 with her on this point. She must not do such a thing again. 
 If she wants to drive the devil, she must drive him in her own 
 chapel.' 
 
 'This house is so lonely and cold. I nmf^t have someone 
 always with me, some one whose presence wiii be a protection 
 against fears, some one whom I can consult about matters that 
 concern the house. I am wholly ignorant about these ; I am 
 only a girl just come from school, and come into a strange land. 
 When I was at Dolbeare T slept with Orange, and I should 
 like to have her here to sleep with me again. Then, if I 
 heard noises in the night, I would cling to her, and she is so 
 strong and so brave that she would protect me and revive my 
 courage.' 
 
 ' I do not like Orange.' 
 
 ' May I not have her here ? I must have some one, and I 
 had rather have her than any one else.' 
 
 Herring again paced the room. A great re^Dugnance to this 
 proposal rose up in his heart : he had no real and reasonable 
 grounds for it, but he had an instinctive dread of the plan. 
 
 * You will not i^efuse me thLs,' pleaded Mirelle. ' See ! I 
 did not ask you for all those generous and kind things you have 
 devised for me. But a man does not understand the feelings 
 of a woman. You are strong and unable to comprehend my 
 terrors. To you they are childish and absurd, but they are
 
 3o2 JOHN HERRIIsa. 
 
 very real and serious to me. I only ask you this one thing— 
 if Genefer must remain, let Orange come.' 
 
 lie could not resolve to give his consent. 
 
 ' Would it not be better if I were to find you a suitable com- 
 panion, some lady, young, and, if you desired it, of your own 
 faith 1 ' 
 
 ' How can I tell that she would suit me 1 There were many 
 girls, my schoolfellows, at the Sacre Cceur. They were of my 
 own age, and all were good Catholics, but with several of them 
 I could not live, and with some I should not care to live. How 
 can I tell that you would find me just the very girl that I 
 should like? No, I know Orange. We do not think alike. 
 She has not faith. She is older than I am, and though com- 
 panions we are not intimates ; but I know her, and she loves 
 me; she has good sense and she can advise. That is all I 
 want.' 
 
 ' Was there no girl at your old school whom you would like 
 to ask to come to you ] You must have had some dear friend 
 there.' 
 
 * Yes, there was la Princesse Marie de la Meillerie ; we 
 were close friends. But conceive ! I could not invite her to 
 this place of banishment, wk"Bre there is not a tree nor a flower. 
 This world here is not nature in flesh and clothing, it is the 
 skeleton of nature, and it demands the enthusiasm of a geo- 
 logist to admire such a country. My companions, again, were 
 of the haute noblesse, and were not of the sort to become gouver- 
 nantes to young unprotected ladies.' 
 
 * No, I see that.' 
 
 * Moreover, who would come here, where you have a church 
 picked bare to the bones of all that surrounds and sweetens re- 
 ligion 1 My friends are Catholics, and love a living church, 
 not one which is only bones, though the smallest of bones be 
 preserved and in situ, and the entire skeleton be well set up.' 
 
 ' I dare say it is so.' 
 
 * Then you will allow Orange Trampleasure and her mother 
 to come to me. See you ! they are at Launceston, and ai-e left 
 without money.' 
 
 ' I promised in your name to place five thousand pounds to 
 the account of Miss Orange.' 
 
 * Yes, I do wish that. But that is not sufficient. They 
 are not comfortable at Launceston. It was there that they met 
 with their great reverse. It was in that house that Mr. 
 Trampleasure died. The people of Launceston suflered by the
 
 A BAfi OF ICE. 333 
 
 failure of the gold mine, and they will not forgive Mrs. Tram- 
 pleasure and Orange, though only the old man and ]\Ir, Samp- 
 son were guilty of MTong towards them. I know that Orange 
 and her mother would like to leave the town, and go elsewhere, 
 where they are not known. That also is a reason why I wish 
 them to come to me.' 
 
 * Very well,' said Herring : ' if it must be so, let it be so. 
 It is a compromise, and a compromise is never satisfactory. I 
 retain Genefer and you Orange. Ask them to come here to 
 yovi on a visit of a couple or three months — temporaiily — nob 
 as a permanence, and only till they have made up their minds 
 where they will finally settle.' 
 
 'I must accept this,' said Mirelle, with a sigh: 'you were 
 so very, very kind to me before — now that we are married, you 
 are only half as kind.' 
 
 ' Do not speak like this,' said Herring, hastily. * I am 
 what I was before, a friend, nothing further — I can be nothing 
 ^iirther.' 
 
 * You will be always my friend ] ' 
 
 * Always.' 
 
 He drew a long breath. His heart was swelling and likely 
 again to rend the crust and show its fires. He conquered him- 
 self and held out his hand. 
 
 ' You will find that one drawer of my desk in the office is 
 locked ; I keep the key to that. Everything else is open to 
 you. Good-bye ! ' 
 
 * What, so soon ? ' 
 
 ' I am going away in the carriage that brought us to this 
 place yesterday.' 
 
 * Ah, well ! — to the silver lead mine.* 
 'Yes.' 
 
 * What will be your address % * 
 
 * You will not need it.' 
 
 * Shall you soon return ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know. Good-bye.* 
 
 They shook hands. Mirelle's lips trembled and her eyes 
 filled. She bore Hei-ring a sincere legard ; she felt her deep 
 indebtedness to him. She had treated him with great cruelty, 
 and had caused him unspeakable suffering. This was a chilly 
 separation. She felt inclined to say something better than 
 'good-bye ' — that is, to say ' Stay.' But she could not do this. 
 
 They touched hands through the walls of ice that intervened. 
 and that froze the word on her tongue.
 
 334 JOHN nEimiNa. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 WELCOJIE HOME ! 
 
 The weather clianged with the capriciousness proverbial in the 
 West of England, There a week of continuous frost and east 
 winds is almost unknown. No sooner has the snow been 
 shaken over the hills than the sky repents of its cruelty, and 
 bi'ings a wai'm breath over the face of the land, before which 
 the white mantle vanishes as if by magic, and the grass cornea 
 forth greener than before. 
 
 It was so now. The wind had changed after midnight, and 
 R rapid thaw had set in. Herring returned to Launceston in 
 the carriage in which he had left the day before. The post-boys 
 had removed their favours, and the earth was putting off hers 
 as well. Herring took poor Joyce back with him. When she 
 came to Launceston, she desired to push on. She wished, she 
 said, to go to Coombow and see Mistress Facey. Herring was 
 obliged to remain the night in Launceston ; he had to make the 
 arrangements with the bank that he had undertaken. 
 
 He did not go to Dolbeare. He saw no one but the banker ; 
 and then he went on his way by coach. He did not pick iip 
 Joyce. Perhaps he overtook and passed her on the road without 
 noticing her ; his mind was full of his own troubles, and he 
 had no attention to bestow on the road and those who were 
 on it. 
 
 When he passed Okehampton his thoughts took a turn. 
 The grand bulk of Cosdon rose before him. The soft glory of 
 the evening sun was on it ; the snow had not thawed oft" the 
 mighty head, though it had gone from the valleys, except where 
 drifted and screened from the wind and sun. The rooks were 
 wheeling and cawing ; they anticipated fine weather, and were 
 thinking of overhauling thsir last year's nests. Valentine's 
 Day, for birds as well as for maids and men, was only a month 
 oif. The rooks blackened a field ; the worms had come out 
 after the frost to enjoy the sun and soft breeze, and the rooks 
 were enjoying the worms. * Caw, caw ! ' 
 
 Then the guard blew his hoin, and away they went, a rash 
 of black wings, but to no great distance. They settled in a 
 couple of oak trees, and waited till the coach had gone by. The
 
 WELCOME HOMEl 335 
 
 coachman cracked his whip. That alarmed them more than 
 the horn ; it resembled the report of a gun, and they sprang 
 into the air Avith loud remonstrances against a repetition of the 
 St. Bartholomew's Day of last rook-shooting. ' Caw, caw ! ' 
 They danced a minuet against the blue sky overhead — a minuet 
 of iucomparable intricacy. There be three things, said the wise 
 king, too wonderful for me — the Avay of a bird in the air, the 
 way of a ship in the sea, and the way of men and maids. The 
 ship darts from side to side, tacking against adverse winds, 
 aiming at a port which she seems to avoid • and the way of 
 maids with men sweethearting, in the Valentine days, in sweet 
 spring, is much the same, full of tricks and evasions, disguises 
 and cross purposes, Avonderful as the way of a ship, wonderful 
 as the mystic dances of the rooks overhead. 
 
 The air was warm, the sounds were spring-like, the beautiful 
 moor was glorified by the sun, setting in a web of golden vapour. 
 The scene was familiar to Herring, associated with pleasant 
 days. He got off the coach at the bridge over the Taw, that he 
 might walk quietly up the hill and over the downs to West Wyke. 
 Windows were glittering in the sun like gold leaf. There was 
 one that was open and swinging in the light air. It flashed 
 across the valley shafts of fire, welcoming flashes to the broken- 
 hearted man toiling up the hill. In a thorn-bush the sparrows 
 were chattering — hundreds holding parliament, all their little 
 voices going together, and none attending to what the other 
 sang or said. Lo ! in the hedge, already, a celandine, the glossy 
 petals as glorious as those flickering windows. A sense of rest 
 after long trouble came npon Herring. He stooped and picked 
 the celandine — January, and these bright heralds of sunshine 
 out already, come forth to welcome him home to West Wyke. 
 
 How soothing in his ear sounded the murmur of the Taw, 
 rushing over the old grey granite boulders, breaking from the 
 moor to run ci quiet course through rich meadoAvs and among 
 pleasant groves. The gentle rush had a lullaby efiect on the 
 troubled heai-t of the walker. A very different sound this from 
 the boom of the Atlantic against Willapark and the churning 
 of the imprisoned billows in Blackapit. 
 
 A track led off the road to Upaver. How was the mine 
 getting on 1 The track was well trampled and the wheel marks 
 many ; that was a choering sign. Hard by stood a post which 
 Tramplara had set up, painted Avhite, Avith a board on it and a 
 hand pointing moorAA'ards, 'To the Gold Mines of Ophir.' Some- 
 one had sci'ambled up the post, scratched out tho ' To/ and
 
 336 JOHN HERRINGf. 
 
 written in its place ' Damn,' giving thereby coarse but emphatic 
 expression to the general sentiment. Herring smiled bitterly 
 as he noticed this. Next he came to the cottages. 
 
 * Good evening, sir ! Glad to see you home again.' 
 
 The speaker vi^as a labourer returning to his fireside, his 
 day's work over. Herring did not remember him, but the man 
 knew him, and his tone showed pleasure. 
 
 Home ! Was this home 1 
 
 * How is all going on with you 1 ' asked Herring. 
 
 * Well, sir, my missus hev given me another little maiden. 
 That makes fourteen childer. Eight maidens and six boys, but 
 we've a buried three.' 
 
 ' You have your quiver full.' 
 
 * They bring their love wi' them, sir ; and that, I reckon, 
 you'll find when you've a home of your own, and a wife, and the 
 little uns coming every year,' 
 
 Herring sighed. 
 
 ' Good evening, sir. Here be my nest.' 
 
 'Good-night.' Then Herring went on — home? Before him 
 was West Wyke, and the last glimpse of the sun was on it. 
 The window of West Wyke it was that had flashed tho welcome 
 to him. 
 
 The old ash trees, the old gateway with the grey owls, the 
 old chimneys, the old ivy-mantled porch, the old firelight flicker- 
 ing through the hall window. A moment moi'e, and the old 
 welcome. 
 
 With an exclamation of delight, Cicely sprang from a stool 
 by the fire to meet him, as he entered without knocking ; 
 entered as he would to his home. He was no stranger, to knock 
 and ask for admission. He went straight in, and in a moment 
 felt that he ought to have more hands than two to give to those 
 who grasped them. 
 
 The old Squire and Cicely held him. 
 
 * Oh, John, dear Cousin John, you have come at last ! ' 
 ' John, John, I am so glad to see you again.' 
 
 But who was that, also, on her knees, insisting on having 
 his hand to cover it with kisses, sobbing and laughing, with 
 tears and joy in eyes and voice 1 ' Oh, lallaluley ! the maister 
 be come back from that whist place ! ' Yes — Joyce ; the true, 
 devoted Joyce, who had only stayed an hour at Coombow with 
 Mrs. Facey, and then had walked on, all night, and had come 
 in — nay, burst in, on the Battishills in the morning, with the 
 tidings that the master was on his way back to West Wyke.
 
 Welcome homei S37 
 
 Over the cliimney-pieco, about the pictures, wherever it could 
 be stuck, was bright holly with red berries. And see ! hanging 
 from the black beam, a bunch of mistletoe. 
 
 Herring's heart was full. He could not speak, but he took 
 Cicely's head between his hands and kissed her; he stooped and 
 lifted Joyce, and pressed his lips to her cheek ; and the old 
 Squire's arm encircled him, and drew the young head down 
 beside the old grey one. 
 
 The tongues of all failed. Herring raised his eyes, over 
 which a mist was forming, and saw above the doorway an iu- 
 Bcription in red holly berries — ■ 
 
 "Welcome Home I 
 
 By degrees only did the flush and fever of joy in these good, 
 simple souls subside, and Herring was able to recover his com- 
 posure. 
 
 Then the young man stood by tlie Squire's chair and looked 
 at him ; his heart reproached him for having deserted him for 
 so long a time. 
 
 * We hoped you would have dropped in and eaten your 
 Christmas dinner with us, John,' said Mr. Battishill. ' We set 
 your chair at the table, and a sprig of holly by your plate, in 
 hopes you would arrive.' 
 
 * I am very sorrj , sir, that I was not here. I should have 
 been far happier here among such dear, kind friends.' 
 
 'It is you, John, who have been a kind friend to us,' said 
 the old man. * Just consider. If you had not rescued the 
 mortgages out of Tramplara's hands when you did, they would 
 have fallen to the creditors, the directors of Ophir, and we 
 should have been turned into the cold. 
 
 * You repay what little I have done for you a thousand 
 fold,' answered Herring. 
 
 There was a flush on the old man's cheek, caused by ex- 
 citement. 
 
 ' Now we have you here again,' he said, ' you must remain 
 ■with us, at all events, for some time. Consider this as your 
 home.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Herring, ' I have no home elsewhere.' 
 He spoke sadly. Cicely looked hard at him. He wont on, * I 
 will stay on with you till I tire you out with my society.' 
 
 * That can never be. There is Upaver crying out for you ; I 
 am past attending to that. 1 am not what I was a few mouths 
 ago. The wheels ai*e becoming rusty and the gear breaks.' 
 
 z
 
 338 JOHN HERIlINa. 
 
 Cicely looked from her father to Herring questioningly. 
 Did John note the change in the old man 'i A change there 
 was ; he was failing in many ways. Just now the delight 
 of seeing Herring again had revived him; nevertheless the 
 change was observable enough. The eager look had gone 
 out of the eyes, and the lips had become more tremulous than 
 ever. 
 
 As Cicely turned her eyes from one to the other, there 
 dawned on her the truth that a change had come over John 
 Herring — a change greater than that which had passed upon 
 her father. She had not been apprised of this by Joyce, and 
 was unprepared for it. She noticed it first with incredulity, 
 then with perplexity, and she resolved to speak with him on 
 the subject. The man was not the same. The same in out- 
 ward feature, in colour of hair and eyes, but he was not the 
 same in expression. He was aged. A wave had passed over 
 Lis head, and he had come forth half drowned. The elasticity 
 was gone from his tread, the sparkle from his eye, the dimple 
 from his cheek, the laugh from his lips. The eye had become 
 more steady, lines had formed on his brow and in his cheeks ; 
 the lips had lost their flexibility, they vrere closed and firm. 
 He no longer held his head erect with strong self-consciousness ; 
 he seemed to have acquired a slight stoop, the head was some- 
 what bowed. 
 
 It was clear to Cicely that Heriing had undergone some 
 grievous trial, of what sort she could not guess, and that he 
 had emerged from it with a strengthened character, though 
 with a saddened heart. Cicely did not indeed take this in all 
 at once. Her curiosity was roused and her attention fixed, 
 and by degrees the greatness and significance of the change 
 forced themselves upon her. 
 
 The old man observed nothing. But now Joyce, who had 
 been thrust into the background, insisted on asserting herself. 
 
 ' See, dear maistei-, what be come to your Joyce. Do'y 
 look here ! ' 
 
 She stood forward in the light — the light of several 
 candles, lit to welcome Herring home. She wore a dark-blue 
 serge gown, and a white kerchief round her neck, and crossed 
 over her bosom. Her luxuriant dark hair was combed and 
 pruned, and fastened up under a white cap. The gown was 
 short, and showed white stockings and black shoes. Her Avild 
 face was subdued and softened, the rudeness had gone out of it, 
 and a strange tinge of sweetness aad modesty had come in
 
 WELCOME home! 339 
 
 place of the savagery. She was really a handsome girl, of 
 splendid physique, easy in every motion. 
 
 ' Did'y ever see wonder like this 1 ' asked Joyce, holding out 
 her skirts and apron, and showing her white stockings. ' And 
 see how grand my hair be. What do'y say to this, maister 
 dearr 
 
 * Why, Joyce, I congi-atulate you with all my heart. This 
 is what I have been wishing for, but never hoped to see.' 
 
 * You have wished for it — you ! O glory and blazes ! I be 
 glad.' 
 
 'I told you as much, Joyce,' said Cicely Battishill. 
 
 * I know you did, miss, but I couldn't believe it. I thought 
 you sed it just to persuade me on,' 
 
 * Cousin John, we have enlarged our household to-day. 
 We have taken Joyce in. Her dread of going under the 
 " hellens " has given way. She will learn to make herself 
 useful. Now, Joyce, you may go back to the kitchen, and help 
 Charity to get sujjper ready.' 
 
 * What has become of the old man — Gi'izzly 1 ' 
 
 ' We allow him to sleep in one of the linneys, and he is 
 given broken meat once a day. He has fallen into bad ways of 
 late. Ophir injured him as much as it injured his superiors, 
 only in a different way. He learned from the workmen to 
 drink, and now he loafs about the country trying to get some- 
 thing given him by inconsiderate persons to keep his throat 
 wet. He is at IJpaver a good deal ; there the miners make 
 game of him, and treat him. He has taken to smoking. I 
 have threatened that if he carries his pipe into the shippon, I 
 shall refuse him the linney as a bedroom, and he will have to 
 return to the Giant's Table.' 
 
 * I am glad that he and his daughter are parted.' 
 
 * There was no chance for her as long as she remained 
 under his thraldom. Fortunately she had set her head on 
 going for two months to a place called Coombow, and that 
 opened the way to her leaving Grizzly altogether. He is a 
 hopeless savage. We did believe at one time that he was 
 capable of improvement. He worked hard on his patch of 
 land. But Ophir diverted him from the upward path, and 
 since then he has been going down hill nearly as fast as his 
 barrel when it broke from its tether.' 
 
 ' Well, John,' said Mr. Battishill, ' I must not let Cicely 
 engi'oss you. Come and talk to me. I will tell you what we 
 havG been doing at Upaver. We have got the leat cut, and 
 
 z2
 
 340 JOHN EEKRINa. 
 
 the wheel and crushers in place, and a smelting house run up. 
 I have not been able to go there myself, but the foreman, a very 
 worthy, sensible fellow, comes up every other day and reports 
 progi'ess. I have seen to the accounts as you desired ; but I 
 am not what I was. My head has become confused, and I 
 have had to ask Cicely to help me out with the accounts. I 
 hope you will not find them in a great muddle, but I was 
 never very precise, and ladies do not understand the difference 
 between debit and credit sides of a balance sheet. The table 
 of work is left with me, and I pretend to look it over, but 
 have not the means of verifying it. I do not think much has 
 come out of the mine yet. I cannot say the profits are large. 
 Indeed, the credit side of the book is blank.' 
 
 'I do not expect anything yet. I am content that the 
 machinery should be in place and in working order. Now I 
 am here, we will attack the lode,' 
 
 * There is the rub, John ; the machinery is up, but not in 
 worldng order; the leat is cut, but the water won't run 
 along it.' 
 
 ' That will soon be rectified, and then the profits will como 
 in freely.' 
 
 * I hope so, John.* 
 
 * I am sure of it, sir. Do not you lose heart.' 
 
 * I have made such a failure of life, John, that I have ceased 
 to be sanguine. I can see nothing in the retrospect but blunders 
 and losses.' 
 
 *No, sir, you have made mistakes, but all must do that 
 before reaching success. Upaver was your own discovery.' 
 
 * That is true, very true. I think we will christen this mine 
 Yvlieal Battishill.' 
 
 * Do you not think Wheal Cicely would sound better?' asked 
 John Herring, 
 
 * My suggestion is the best,' said Cicely, colouring. * Let it 
 be "Wheal Friendship.' 
 
 A bright and cosy supper. The great fireplace full of 
 crackling flame. A white cloth on the black oak table near the 
 fire, and silver and glass upon it sparkling in the candlelight, 
 and the flicker of the flames embracing a huge faggot. 
 
 * Good luck never comes alone,' said the Squii-e. ' What do 
 you think ! My dear old friend, John Northmore, has sent me 
 a couple of pheasants. I have not seen him for many years, 
 and I do not know how he comes to remember me now ; how- 
 ever that may be, he has, and most opportunelv. Here comes one
 
 WELCOME HOME! 341 
 
 of his pheasants to table, I thought I was forgotten of all the 
 world, but — I hope it is an omen of coming success to Wheal 
 Friendship — old friends are beginning to remember that there 
 is such a man as Richard Battishill, J,P.' 
 
 ' Shall we sit down 1 ' asked Cicely. * Everything is ready.' 
 
 •Although my cates be poor, take it in good part ; 
 Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart,' 
 
 quoted the Squire. * You a-re godfather to the wine, John. It 
 is some of the case you ordered down from Exeter. We will 
 drink in it success to Wheal Friendship.' 
 
 The old man was garrulous and cheerful during supper. The 
 family plate was brought out in honour of John Herring, and 
 the Spode china, red with burnished gold in leaf and scroll. 
 How bright and comfortable the table was ! how warm and 
 cheery the room ! What kindly, bappy faces were round the 
 table ! This was something like home. 
 
 The pain did not leave John Herring's heart, the cloud did 
 not remove from his brain, but, under the influences now 
 brought to bear upon him, the pain lost its first poignancy, and 
 the cloud hung less deep. At the conclusion of supper. Cicely 
 persuaded her father to go to bed. The old man was obstinate 
 at first. * He liked to be with John, and to chat with him 
 over the fire. He had just begun to enjoy his v/ine. The room 
 had only now become warm — why should he be banished to his 
 cold chamber upstairs 1 He had not seen John for months ; he 
 had business to discuss with him. There was a good story he 
 remembered, which he wished to tell him ; ' and so on, a string 
 of reasons why he should not go to bed. But he was weak, 
 and, though he was obstinate for a few minutes, yielded to his 
 daughter's perseverance, and she helped him upstairs. John 
 Herring remained by the fire. He was glad to be alone ; he 
 stood with his back to the fire, thinking. Two nights ago— 
 forty-eight hours only — had passed since he had gone home to 
 Welltown with his bride. Home ! — was that home 1 The 
 house half buried in snow was cold within, the reception was 
 cheerless, no fire, no table spread, and, worst of all, no love 
 from her whom he had taken to be his wife. He had been 
 driven from that home with despair in his heart. He returned 
 to West Wyke : the sun was shining, the birds singing, the 
 flowers opening, the house was decked to receive him, and the 
 tind hearts therein bounded to meet him. 
 
 Which was his real home 1 He raised his eyes to the door
 
 342 JOHN nERRlNG. 
 
 as it opened to readmit Cicely Battishill, and read over it, in 
 Bcarlet letters, ' Welcome home ! ' 
 
 Cicely seated herself opposite him in the ingle nook, and the 
 soft firelight played over her pleasant face and glowing auburn 
 hair. She was a thrifty body, and she had put out all the 
 candles save two on the great table. These were not really 
 needed — the firelight filled the room. 
 
 * How do you think my father is looking ? ' she asked. 
 
 * He is gi-eatly altered. I fear that his anxiety about both 
 Ophir and Upaver has been too much for him.' 
 
 * Ophir did upset him greatly, but Upaver — ^Wheal Friend- 
 ship, I mean — has done him good ; it has occupied him, and 
 taken his thoughts from his own infirmities. He thinks he is 
 deep in business, and that amuses him. He schemes all sorts 
 of things and suggests them to the foreman, who is too civil to 
 gay that they are impracticable. No, Upaver has been to him 
 not a care but a distraction. That which ails him is general 
 failure of power. The doctor has visited him and is very kind, 
 and he can do nothing. The new parson at Tawton, Mr. 
 Harmless Simpleton, has also called, and seen my father. He 
 is a very admirable and agreeable gentleman.' 
 
 ' Your father seemed cheerful this evening.' 
 
 * Yes, he was excited by your return. It has given him the 
 greatest pleasure to see you here again. You do not know how 
 he clings to you. Cousin John, I cannot express myself as I 
 ought, but I feel very deeply thankful to you for having relieved 
 and brightened the closing days of my father's life. We were 
 threatened with disaster, and it seemed at one time as if he 
 would sink, and utter ruin would cover and blot us both out. 
 You have saved us, and now the dear old man's evening is like 
 one which succeeds a day of cloud, when suddenly all the vapours 
 roll away, and a blaze of golden sun glorifies the landscape. I 
 believe that my father is as happy as he possibly can be now 
 that he has you here.' 
 
 Herring made some commonplace remark in reply. 
 ' Yes, we owe a great deal to you — more than we can ever 
 repay,' said Cicely. 
 
 * You are going to make my fortune at Upaver,' said he, 
 half jestingly. 
 
 * Oh, John ! that is nothing to you. You do not care about 
 that.' She paused for a couple of minutes, with her eyes on 
 the fire, rocking her foot, her hands clasped over her knee. 
 Presently she turned towards him, with sympathy in her honest
 
 WELCOIIE HOME I 343 
 
 ©yes and in her trembling moutli. ' Do not be offended if I tell 
 you what I have observed. There is a great change in you. I 
 am sure you have gone through a time of great trouble. We 
 were selfish, and vexed, and impatient, because you did not 
 come to us. We thought you were amusing yourself elsewhere, 
 and had forgotten us, and how much we depended on you. We 
 had no suspicion that you were unhappy. I can see that you 
 have had your cup of bitterness. Neither my father nor I have 
 asked you any questions about yourself at any time, and we 
 really know nothing about yourself and your belongings. I do 
 not want to know anything now that you do not wish to tell 
 me. Indeed, indeed, I would do or say my best to comfort you, 
 if I thought that I were capable of making you happier by my 
 interference. There was something you said just now to my 
 father — it was only one sentence, but I saw that it contained 
 in it the kernel of mu.ch trouble. JVIy father bade you look on 
 this house as your home. Then you answered that this was 
 the only home you had. Did you really mean what you said?' 
 ' Yes, Cicely. I have no home anywhere, except this that 
 you offer me.' 
 
 * You have lost Welltown ? ' 
 
 He hesitated. Then he said in a low tone, ' I have lost it 
 in one sense. It has ceased to be a home to me ; the acres re- 
 main — that is all.' 
 
 ' Oh, John, I am so soriy for you. I know you loved the 
 place. I know what an ache it would give me to lose West 
 Wyke.' She did not in the least understand what his loss 
 really was. He did not enlighten her — indeed, it was not 
 possible for him to do so. 
 
 Presently she returned to the charge. 
 
 * Have you any brotners or sisters ] ' 
 « None.' 
 
 * And your father and mother are dead 1 ' 
 
 'Yes. My mother died when I was born, and I ^vv^s 
 reared by a nurse. I know her only by her picture.' 
 
 ' John, tell me,' — she looked at him very earnestly, and with 
 her expressive and sweet face full of compassion — * tell me — have 
 you no one, then, to love you ? ' 
 
 He shook his head. * No one.* 
 
 ' At Welltown — no one 1 ' 
 
 * My nurse. No one else.' 
 
 ' How lonely in the world you must be 1 ' 
 ' Utterly,' he answered.
 
 344 JOHN nEraiiNG. 
 
 Then she brightened up, and, dashing some tears from her 
 eyes, held out her hands to him laughingly across the glowing 
 hearth. * There, there, poor boy ! We have been talking of 
 Cornwall. There you may be alone and unloved, but here, in 
 old Devon, under the shadow of Cosdon, you have a home, and 
 hearts that care a great deal for you ; there is my father, here 
 am I, then there is Joyce, and lastly my white cat ! See ; ho 
 is up on your knee this moment. There ! never again say that 
 you are solitary and unloved. It is not true, it is utterly false. 
 Good night. Cousin John 1 sweet sleep, happy dreams, and a 
 glad awaking to you ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 TWO BEQUESTS. 
 
 Next morning John Herring went early to Upaver. The 
 wheel was up, and the leat had been cut. But the wall sup- 
 porting the axle of the wheel was improperly built, and the leat 
 was improperly levelled. Much that the contractor had under- 
 taken to do had been left undone, and most that he had done 
 was done so badly that it had to be done over again. 
 
 Herring called for the day-books, and soon saw that the 
 men working for day wage had taken three days to do what 
 might have been done in one, and that was work which need 
 not have been done at all. 
 
 Ophir had demoralised the entire neighbourhood. The 
 object aimed at there had been to make a great display of 
 activity, but to produce nothing. What had been begun at 
 Ophir, the workmen supposed was to continue at TJpaver. 
 
 Herring rang the bell of the mine, and called the men 
 together. He dismissed the foreman on the spot — that civil 
 and intelligent foreman whom Mr. Battishill esteemed so highly. 
 He told the men that henceforth he would be their captain ; he 
 would be at Upaver every day, and would set every man his 
 work, and what he set each man he expected him to execute. 
 A fair day's work for a fair wage, and no payment for idle 
 hours. Those who disliked his terms might go elsewhere in 
 quest of new Ophirs. There was one subsidiary matter he 
 wished to speak of Old Grizzly Cobbledick was much at the 
 mine, and was treated by the men. He disapproved of this. 
 He would not have the old man given drink and made sport of
 
 TWO BEQUESTS. 345 
 
 there. If he would work, he should be given work; if he were 
 determined to get drunk, be must get his drink elsewhere. 
 
 Then Herring examined the adit. 
 
 Much the same story there as outside. The work had been 
 gone on with anyhow, the ore thrown out with the cable. 
 
 He did not return to West Wyke to dinner in the middle 
 of the day ; he was too busy. He remained in the mine, and 
 made the men dig whilst he was present. The vein ' bunched,' 
 and the bunch of nearly pure metal was before him. A rich 
 profit was a certainty. 
 
 When the men knocked off work, he turned to go to West 
 Wyke. He was covered with dirt, but he was in good spirits. 
 He had not been mistaken. Upaver mine would clear the 
 property of its incumbrances, and repay every penny that had 
 been sunk in it. Mirelle's money had been invested in the 
 mortgages ; Mirelle's money had been spent on the mine. Her 
 money was not only safe ; it was where it would yield excellent 
 interest. 
 
 As Herring came away, he found Grizzly awaiting the men 
 leaving work, to beg of them tobacco, a draught of cyder or 
 spirits, or some coppers. 
 
 ' I want to speak to you,' said Herring. * Come along 
 with me.' 
 
 Grizzly trudged at his side. There had been a rude savagery 
 in the man when Herring had first known him which was not 
 without its dignity. Old Cobbledick had then worked on his 
 own land, grown his own potatoes, lived in his own house, and 
 thrashed his own child. The consciousness of independence 
 had given him an upright carriage and an open and haughty 
 look. All this was gone. Ophir had robbed him of the one 
 redeeming element in his nature. He had found it easier to 
 beg than to work. He had abandoned all attempt at labour 
 for a livelihood, and Avith that had lost independence. Formerly 
 he had been defiant in his sense of freedom, he was now cringing 
 in his submission. He had been a temperate man, drinking 
 only water; now he drank whenever he could find anyone to 
 treat him, and whatever was given to him. Association with 
 men higher than himself in civilisation had lowered, not lifted, 
 him. It is so with all savages when brought in contact with 
 civilisation ; some seize the moment, and mount, others are 
 cast into deeper degradation than they knew before. It is so 
 with ourselves when set within the orbit of higher and nobler 
 forces than we knew before. They exercise on ua a centripetal
 
 346 JOHN HEERING. 
 
 or a centrifugal energy. Cobbledick was debased. His rags of 
 old had become him, they now made him repulsive ; he had 
 ceased to be a man, and had become a scarecrow. 
 
 ' I \v^ant to speak to you, Cobbledick,' said Herring, walking 
 on his way, the old man at his side. 
 
 ' Your honour ! I be all ears. It be the backie sure-ly haa 
 a come into your head.' 
 
 * It is the drink. Grizzly ; the drink.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' exclaimed Cobbledick, * to think I lived these scores 
 and scores of years without a knowing what it were. But now 
 — glory rallaluley ! Praises be ! I can get drunk when I 
 meets a real gemman.' 
 
 ' Grizzly, 1 have forbidden the men at the mine to give you 
 anything. If you choose to come there and work, I will find 
 you work that you can do, but if I discover that the men give 
 you drink, and encourage you in your idle, vagabond ways, I 
 shall dismiss them, and find others who will obey me. Mark 
 this. Grizzly, not another drop of anything, in treat or other- 
 wise, do you get at Upaver, Go back to the Giant's Table, and 
 dig your fields there like a man, instead of slouching about, 
 picking up halfpence and sips of gin, a wretched beggar.' 
 
 * I ain't to get nothing to Upaver 1 ' asked Cobbledick in- 
 credulously. 
 
 ' Do you not understand plain words 1 Not a drop. I wiU 
 not have Upaver a curse to you and others, such as 0])hir 
 was. If you will work, I will give you tasks equal to your 
 powers.' 
 
 ' Ekal to my powers ! ' roared Grizzly ; * look at my hands 
 See, they be two, three times as big as yours. I could break 
 every bone in your body with mun. I be strong ; I reckon 
 stronger than most of they fellows down to Upaver.' 
 
 ' Very well, then, work.' 
 
 * I won't work. I ain't forced.' 
 
 * No, I am sorry for it. It is a mistake that you are given 
 broken scraps from West Wyke. That keeps you from famish- 
 ing, and emancipates you from the necessity of working.' 
 
 ' You'd cut me off that next, I reckon.' 
 
 * Yes, I would.' 
 
 * You would ! ' repeated the old man malevolently. * You 
 takes away my liquor, and my meat, and my daughter as ought 
 to work and keep me in my old age, and — ' he turned and 
 looked up in Herring's face — * you took the box from under the 
 hearthstone.'
 
 TWO BEQUESTft. 347 
 
 Herring started. The old man observed his advantage and 
 chuckled. 
 
 * Grizzly, it is quite true that I took the box. You had no 
 right to it ; j'ou had stolen it from the carriage that was upset. 
 I took it that I might return it ' 
 
 * Oh, in coorse, in coorse, you returned the box at once, and 
 all that was in it, to the young lady with the white face.' 
 
 Herring could not answer. The old man, with his natural 
 shrewdness, saw that he had gained an advantage. Of the 
 value of the contents of the box he had no idea. He de- 
 termined to improve his advantage. 
 
 ' You took tliicky box, as you take to plundering me of 
 everything I has. I reckon you'd like to take from me the 
 chance of sleeping in the linney.' 
 
 * Yes, I would. Grizzly. AVhatever I deprive you of is for 
 your own advantage. It is not safe for you to lie in the straw 
 of the Hnney. I know that you have gone in there more than 
 once, tipsy, and smoking your pipe.' 
 
 ' WeU, what then 1 ' 
 
 * "Why, you may be setting fire to the ^.inney, and burn 
 that and the house, and yourself as well. However, to return 
 to the box. If that box had been found in your possession by 
 anyone but myself, you would have been sent to prison. The 
 box was not yours. It was stolen. If I desire now to deprive 
 you of drink, it is because drink is degrading you. I want to 
 force you to work.' 
 
 ' I won't work no more,' said Cobbledick angrily. * There 
 be the backie, also. You've never paid me that.' 
 
 ^ What tobacco 1 ' 
 
 ' Ah ! when you was sick, and my Joyce nussed you under 
 the Table, you got in debt to me a score pounds and one more ; 
 that be as many as you've a got fingers and toes, and your head 
 throwed in to make another. That be what you've owed me a 
 long whUe, and never paid yet. There were that old Tramplara, 
 he owed me scores and scores of backie, but he never paid me 
 none at all. He went scatt. I did think you were a gemman, 
 and would serve a poor man better.' 
 
 ' I do not understand about the tobacco.' 
 
 * Loramussy ! it be easy enough to understand, sure-ly. 
 You was brought here in a waggon ; well, that waggon had to 
 be paid for, and my Joyce paid with her work, and then she 
 was a neglecting of me. You were brought to my house, and 
 I had to cJQar out and go elsewhere, and after that Joyce did
 
 348 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 nothing more for me. You expect me and my Joyce to work 
 for'y, and you never pay a brass farthing ! No gemman be like 
 that. I call that a proper blaggard trick, I do.' 
 
 ' Good heavens, Grizzly ! If you want to be paid for the 
 use of your house because it served as my hospital, by all 
 means name the price. I will pay you in tobacco if you desire 
 it. How much do you require 1 ' 
 
 ' As many pounds as you've fingers and toes, and your head 
 chucked in.' 
 
 ' You shall have them.' 
 
 * And then,' pursued Grizzly, ' there be Joyce. What hev 
 you gone and tooked 'er away from me for ? Oh, ah, you've 
 not? That be fine. Her worked peaceable enough for her 
 poor old vaither till you come by and turn 'er head with your 
 talking and sweethearting ' 
 
 * Grizzly ! ' exclaimed Herring angrily, * hold that villainous 
 tongue of yours at once.' 
 
 ' Ah, you vlon't want to be told of all the wrongs you've a 
 done to me. C^h dear I the deal of pains and expense as her hev 
 a put me to, wl at with her rearing, and her feeding, and her 
 clothing, and — that is to be all for nort. AVhen her be good 
 full growed and able bodied, and might work for her old 
 vaither, then you draws 'er away for reasons of your own, and 
 leaves me without a child. Now her can't think of me nor 
 work for me, nor light a fire for me, nor cook a biling of turnips, 
 nor wire a rabbit — all becos you've a turned her head so as her 
 can think, and talk, and work, only for the young maister, and 
 I'm to bide content with a score and one of backie. That ain't 
 in reason. That ain't how a gemman would act. Why, there 
 were a man t'other day to Okehampton market, brought his 
 wife there with a halter round her neck and sold 'er there for 
 half-a-crown — not for backie, but for a real half-crown in 
 silver.^ Her were oldish, and not like my Joyce. If I be to 
 part wi' Joyce, I'll take nort but silver for her, and I won't be 
 content wi' less nor four half-crowns. I've got to make my own 
 fire now, and do everything myself. Not you, nor Miss Cicely, 
 nor the old Squire shall stay me. I won't sell 'er not a penny 
 under four half-crowns and some'ut over to wet the bargain 
 with. If you don't accept my terms I'll have her back, and if 
 her sez her won't come back I'll do by her as I did afore — I'll 
 
 ' The author knew the woman thus purchased, and the man who 
 bought her, and with whom she lived till her death. The transaction 
 took place about forty years ago, as described.
 
 TWO BEQUESTS. 349 
 
 just ecatt all the bones she has to her body. Her got her bones 
 o' me, and I've a right to do what I will wi' my own. I can scatt 
 mun or I can sell mun. And I won't sell mun a penny under 
 five haK-crowns, that be my figure, and blast me blue if I takes 
 a shilling off. I'd rather break her bones first and dung my 
 pertaty ground wi' 'em. Feel my hands, how strong they be.' 
 He suddenly laid hold of Herring's wrists, and his grasp was as 
 an iron vice. HeiTing was a strong man, but he was unprepared 
 to meet and resist such strength as the old savage exhibited. 
 
 * Did her give you the shining stones in the box? I reckon 
 it were so, and her knows what to expect for doing that, and 
 I'll do it. Did I go and take the box from the carriage ? And 
 can the constable come and carry me off to gaol for that 1 Then 
 surely, if I say to un, there be the young Squire to West "VVyke 
 have a been to the Giant's Table and have a took away my 
 daughter, then if there be justice for one there be j-iitice for 
 another, and the constable will come and carry you to g :ol also.' 
 
 Herring walked on quicker. He was alarmed for Joyce. 
 It would be wrong to send her back to her father. She had 
 risen to a higher level than he ; she could not associate with 
 him longer. Moreover, he was uneasy at his threats, for the 
 wretched old man, as he knew, would execute them without 
 compunction. 
 
 ' Six half-crowns I sed, and if you won't buy her of me for 
 yourself, and give me the money in silver, I'll fetch her home 
 to the Table, and I'll scatt every iDone in her body, I will, glory 
 rallaluley ! You ain't a going to take everything from me, and 
 give nothing in return.' 
 
 * There ! ' exclaimed Herring angrily ; * take that.' He 
 drew his purse from his pocket, and dashed it at the old man. 
 It struck him on the chest, and Grizzly had his hand on it in a 
 moment. 
 
 * I can catch,' said he. ' The men chucks me bits of tlieir 
 pasties, and I can snap like a dog. I never lets mun drop.' 
 
 * Take that and torment Jo^'ce no more. You will find 
 ample in that purse to supply you with tobacco, and drink too, 
 if you will have it. Take it, you despicable scoundrel, and 
 leave the poor girl alone.' 
 
 ' A sale be a sale,' said Griz/ly. * If you've a bought her, 
 you have her and I've nort more to say to her. I sed seven 
 half-crowns. Dash my brains out if I sed a penny less.' 
 Cobbledick opened the purse and peeped in. * Oh, rallaluley 1 
 them be guineas ! golden guineas ! they be worth more than
 
 3.50 JOHN HErjlI!>Q. 
 
 eight lialf-crowns, the price I axed for Joyce, I reckon. Shan't 
 I only smoke backie and get drunk. Glory ! glory ! ' 
 
 ' Do as you will. Soma men cannot be helped. One must 
 let them go to the devil their own way. You are one, and the 
 sooner you go the better.' 
 
 ' I be going. I be going as fast as I can ! ' exclaimed the old 
 man, misunderstanding him. 
 
 ' Then go, and do not ti'ouble Joyce any more.' 
 
 ' Oh no. I've a sold her to you. Don't'y come and try to 
 cry off the bargain, and want your guineas back. This be 
 scores better deal than that of the man with his wife in 
 Okehampton market. Now, what about the linney ? ' 
 
 ' You may not sleep there,, not on any accoimt, if you ar& 
 bent on getting drunk and smoking. I'll send you down some 
 stra^' with which to litter the Giant's Table.' 
 
 '-' Oh, rallaluley ! this be fine games.' And the old savage 
 dsshed off over the moor. 
 
 Thus ended Herring's attempt at refox-mation of Grizzly 
 Cobbledick. He had gone forth that morning resolved to 
 check the old man in his downward career by cutting off the 
 occasion of drinking, and he had supplied the man with the 
 means of drinking himself to death. 
 
 Ho\?rever, he went his way, relieved in mind, to "West Wyke. 
 He had saved Joyce from further unpleasantness from her 
 father. 
 
 Cicely met him in the porch, 
 
 * You have been a long time out,' she said. ' My father has 
 been calling for you all day. He is very feeble; you will 
 notice hoAv different he is from what you saw him last night. 
 The excitement of your return stimulated him, and now has 
 come the relapse. Hark ! I hear him calling.' 
 
 Herring v/ent in with her. 
 
 * Papa has only come down this afternoon. I persuaded 
 him to lie in bed during the morning, but when he thought 
 you would be returning from Upaver, he insisted on being 
 dressed and descending to meet you.' 
 
 ' John, is that you ? ' called the old Squire from his chair by 
 the fire. 
 
 ' Yes, sir. I have been all day at Upaver. I have got news 
 to tell you. "We have come on a bunch of metal which I hope 
 will clear you of all care.' 
 
 Mr. Battishill nodded, ' Yes, yes ! ' 
 
 The news did not seem to intfircst Lim greatly. Herring
 
 TWO BEQUESTS. 351 
 
 saw -wifcli concern that he was looking feeble and old. He had 
 fallen back sadly after the flicker of last night. 
 
 ' I am not strong,' said the Squire ; ' I cannot speak loud or 
 long to-day. Come here.' He took Jolm Herring by the hancl. 
 'Come, Siss3^' He beckoned Cicely to draw near. 'John, I 
 fear my time is coming to an end. I have been trying to-day 
 to become interested in Upaver, but I cannot. I can only fix 
 my mind on one thing. Perhaps, when that is settled, then I 
 may be able to hear about Upaver, but not till then.' 
 
 ' Do not lose heart, Mr. Battishill, now that you are on the 
 threshold of success.' 
 
 ' It is this, John. Should I have another stroke, or be 
 unable to attend to matters, what is to become of Cicely] 
 What is to become of West Wyke 1 I want your promise that 
 you will stand by her and the old place.' 
 
 * I will do all I can for her, and for West Wyke. You may 
 rely on me, sir.' 
 
 ' I felt convinced in my own mind that I might do so, and 
 yet I desired your promise. I became troubled, and clouds 
 came over my spirits. As Sebastian says, " My determinate 
 voyage is mere extravagancy." It always has been so with me. 
 I have set my mind on the wrong things, and gone the wrong 
 ways to work when I took anything in hand. But it is not so 
 now. Owls can see in the dark, and so can I. If I have made 
 blunders hitherto, I v/ill hit straight this time. I have your 
 promise, have I not, John ] ' 
 
 * Yes, Mr. Battishill.' 
 
 * You will not desert poor Sissy. She has no relations, ajid 
 I have positively no one in the world to look to except yourself, 
 whom, upon my word, I have come to love and regard as a 
 son.' The old man patted Herring affectionately on the 
 Bhoulder. 
 
 ' I give you my promise, sir.' 
 
 * There ! that makes me content,' said the old man. He 
 had taken Cicely's hand in his left, he held John by the right. 
 All at once he put their hands together. ' There ! ' he said, and 
 chuckled, 'as Hamlet says, " There is a kind of confession in 
 your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to 
 colour," I know jo\x love each other. I give Cicely to you, 
 John, and my blessing. You vfill take care of her — and, you 
 will quarter the owls.' 
 
 He leaned back and his eyes closed. He was satisfied that 
 at last he had done the ri<]rht thing at the right time. The
 
 352 JOHN EERRlNd. 
 
 fatal faculty of making muddle and miscliief followed him to 
 the end. 
 
 Herring turned to Cicely and released his hand. She was 
 trembling. 
 
 'Yoa, Cicely, insisted that we were cousins. You have 
 heard your father : he has made the relationship closer. We 
 are henceforth brother and sister.' 
 
 She looked up, then her eyes fell, and the colour rose and 
 Bank in her face. 
 
 * Yes,' she said faintly ; * I understand perfectly, brother 
 Joh7i.' 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 CAST UP. 
 
 ' It be good for the soul to see men die,' said Genefer, entering 
 Mu^elle's room. ' Come along of me, mistress.' 
 
 * What is it, Genefer ] Do not frighten me.' 
 
 ' In the midst of life we are in death. It teaches us how 
 frail and uncertain our life be. Come and see 'em die afore 
 your naked eyes.' 
 
 * Genefer, I will not ! ' Mirelle held back in alarm. 
 
 ' You must come. The wreck is drifted right into Welltown 
 cove, and it will be your own rocks as will break the ribs of the 
 vessel and cut the flesh off the bones of the drownded. If there 
 be a chance to save any of the poor creatures on board of her, 
 then you must be there to direct what is to be done. You be 
 mistress here now. I know my duty ; so do Hender. When 
 the master weren't here, and afore you corned, it were different. 
 But now, it be not Hender nor me as be answerable. It be 
 you as is put in authority, and have to say to this man. Come, 
 and he cometh, and to another, Go, and he goeth. If you bide 
 at home and do nothing, then let 'em be drownded, and them 
 as has done good shall enter into life, and them as has done evil 
 shall go into everlasting death, and the blood of the souls that 
 be lost shall rest on your head.' 
 
 * But what is it r 
 
 * I tell you there be a vessel drove by the storm right in, 
 and her be drifting into Welltown cove. It be no good her 
 trying to get into Boscastle Harbour, with the white horsea 
 galloping. Her comes side on upon the reef, and will go scatt 
 afore your eyes.'
 
 CAST UP. 353 
 
 • Can notliing be done 1 ' 
 
 'You must be there and see/ answered Gonefer Benoke ; * if 
 there be lives to be saved, they will be saved, but you must bo 
 there to see to it.' 
 
 Mirelle put on her cloak and hat, and went forth. This 
 was a duty, and Mirelle had a strong sense of obligation to do 
 her duty, whenever it was presented before her. 
 
 The storm of last night had subsided, and the wind had 
 shifted. A thaw had set in, and the sun was streaming over 
 the melting snow. The blue sea was strewn with foam streaks. 
 Though the wind had abated, the sea was still churning, Tlie 
 passion of the night could not abate at once ; the pulses of the 
 Atlantic were throbbing. The sight was magnificent. The 
 billows that rolled upon the headland were at once shattered, 
 and sent up columns of foam white as the snow upon the 
 ground. Earlier, the morning sun had painted rainloows in 
 the salt drift, but now the sun liung over the sea, and, if he 
 painted them still, did so unseen by those on land. The whole 
 coast was fringed with a deep border of tluttering white lace. 
 The air was salt, and the lips of all who faced it became briny. 
 Out at sea stood the IMeachard, an islet of inaccessible black 
 rock, capped with turf. On this no snow rested. The waves 
 besieged the Meachard on all sides, like the rabble of Paris 
 attacking the Bastille ; they appeared to explode on touching 
 the rock into volumes of white steam, that rushed up whirling, 
 and swept the crown. The reflection of the sun in the sea was 
 shivered into countless, ever-changing flakes of fire. Over the 
 surface of the water the gulls were fluttering in vast numbers 
 — they seemed like sea foam vivified. 
 
 This was the sea after the storm, already exhausted, and 
 with relaxed power. What must it have been in the height of 
 its rage, during the night 1 
 
 ' Where is the ship 1 ' asked Mirelle, looking in vain for a 
 vessel on the unee.sy surface. 
 
 * Look ! ' old Gcnefcr pointed. 
 ' What, that] It is so small.' 
 
 ' There be men aboard, living and calling on God now, and 
 In ten minutes they'll be standing afoi'e their Judge. They can 
 look out of their eyes now, and see you up here on the cliff in 
 your black gown, and in ten minutes their eyes will be full of 
 salt water, and able to see nothing. They can cry alou 1 for 
 mercy now, and in ten minutes the time of mercy will bo over 
 for each, and the time of retribution will be begun I ' 
 
 A A
 
 354 JOHN HERRIKG. 
 
 Mirelle could hardly believe that the little cockleshell drift- 
 irig on the rocks before her could contain men in jeopardy of 
 their lives. It was but a cockleshell, a child's ship made of a 
 walnut. But there were men and women on the headland 
 watching intently and with interest the fate of that petty boat, 
 and an excise officer stood there with his telescope to his eye. 
 
 ' She is the " Susanna " of Bristol,' said he. 
 
 * Her's never been in our harbour,' observed a Boscastle man. 
 ' I reckon there be about four aboard. Her be about the size 
 to carry four.' 
 
 ' What be the lading, Pentecost 1 ' 
 
 ' That don't matter to you or I, Gerans,' answered Pentecost. 
 ' Times be altered when an honest man might profit by what 
 the Lord sent us.' 
 
 ' It do seem a deadly shame that a man may not accept tho 
 good gifts Providence showers upon him, but the Government 
 must interfere.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' put in Gcnefer, ' that be the way of things. The 
 sower sows his seed, and the fowls come and carry it away. 
 The Lord sows His word, and the Church passons come and 
 take it away that it can bring foi'th no fruit, and leave nort in 
 its place. It is the same when He sends a storm and casts a 
 ship ashore. A Christian man may not stoop and take up a 
 keg of brandy the Lord has rolled to his feet, but the 'xisemen 
 must come and talce it away, so to speak, out of his mouth.' 
 
 ' There be five shillings for every corpse as be picked up and 
 brought to burial,' said another. ' But I'd rather have a keg 
 of spirits than a corpse any day. Besides, who's to earn a 
 ci^own like that 1 They may do it on the shores of Essex that 
 be mud and sand. But here ! old Uncle Zacky goes about 
 after a storm with a sack, and picks up what gobbets of human 
 ilesh he can find on the shore, but the parish won't give un more 
 than half a crown for as much as he can carry up the cliffs, and 
 that takes a sight more picking up than would a whole corpse. 
 These bain't times in which honest men may live.' 
 
 ' I say, maister ! ' called Pentecost to the preventive man ; 
 ' spose her be laden with sea coal, and the coal come ashore. 
 Do'y put your foot down on that and say nobody ain't to shovel 
 that up, it belongs to his Majesty, God bless him 1 And next 
 tide the coal be all licked dov/n into the belly of the ocean, and 
 'b no good to none.' 
 
 * AVhat be the good of us keeping donkeys 1 asked Gerans ; 
 ' I reckon they cost us something for hay in winter. Us don't
 
 CAST UP. 355 
 
 keep donkeys for noi-t; us keep 'em to bring up the clilTs wliat- 
 ever comes ashore. And ns is to have the expense of keeping 
 donkeys and not to put 'em to no use ! We are to keep the 
 donkeys for the delight of cur eyes, as beautiful objecks of 
 nature,' 
 
 • I reckon her be laden with cloam ' (earthenware) ' ovens,' 
 said Pentecost, 'I -wish his Majesty joy of them when they 
 comes ashore. If Job were here and wanted a shard to scratch 
 himself withal, and ventured to pick up a bit of scattered cloam 
 off the beach, you'd be down on him in a jiffy, wouldn't you now, 
 maister 1 ' 
 
 The preventive offi.cer took no notice of the gibes cast at 
 him ; he kept his telescope on the vessel. 
 
 ' Her be on the breakers now,' said one of the men. 
 
 ' What be the good of staying here? ' asked another. * There 
 be no chance of getting nothing unless us was to chuck this chap 
 over the cliffs first.' 
 
 ' Don't say that, Pascho; there'll be five shillings for every 
 corpse we can bring up tlie cliffs. And if we manage to save 
 one alive, surely the young lady here will give us a trifle and a 
 drop of cyder to drink her health and the corpse's. I seez it in 
 her eye.' 
 
 ' I will give you ten guineas for every man you save,' said 
 Mirelle, vehemently, * and as much as you can eat and drink.' 
 
 ' Didn't I tell you so 1 ' exclaimed Pentecost, ' Look alive, 
 boys! There be the ship gone scatt ! Down the cliffs with 
 you all, and see if we cannot earn a few gold guineas and drink 
 long life to the lady and the corpse as we brings up alive.' 
 
 The ship had struck. The waves and foam swept over her, 
 and in a few moments she went to pieces. Some figures were 
 discernible battling with the water. It seemed to Mirelle im- 
 possible that these tiny ants were sufferers, that they were of 
 human flesh and feelings like herself — they seemed so small. 
 There w^as nothing horrible in the sight ; it was not so shocking 
 as the drowning of mice turned out of a trap into a bucket. 
 When Gulliver cried with pain in Brobdingiing, the giants 
 laughed. In a microscopic creatui-e the agony of death must be 
 microscopically small. 
 
 Mirelle looked on the drowning pigmies, quite unaT)le to 
 realise the awfulness of the event, her sympathy stirred by hesr 
 reason, not by her heart, for the appeal was not such as could 
 move the sympathy save through the brain. 
 
 The fiirst to sink was the mate. We will fly over the water 
 
 A a2
 
 356 JOHK HERRIKQ. 
 
 with the guils, instead of straining oiii' eyes from the cliffs. Are 
 the gulls about us screaming or laughing 1 The first to sink 
 was the mate. He was an old seaman, a godfearing man, 
 honest of heart, who had left the sea because he had earned 
 enough to maintain himself on land in his old age. But he had 
 lent his money to a younger brother, to enable him to set up a 
 small shop in Bristol. The brother failed and ran away, leaving 
 a wife and four little children wholly unprovided for. So the 
 old man went to sea again to earn enough to support his 
 brother's deserted wife and children. He sank. The gulls are 
 cynics — they laughed. 
 
 The second that sank was the captain ; a fine man, upright, 
 rough in exterior, but soft-hearted. He had been an unlucky 
 man. Engaged to a girl he had long loved, after many years of 
 waiting, in which both turned the corner of life, he was now 
 making his last voyage before he married her. She was at 
 Bristol, preparing the little house they had taken. She had 
 put flower-pots in the window, and was this morning setting a 
 geranium there, to make the ^^lace look bright for the return of 
 William and her own marriage. Then he sank. She would 
 not see him again. The gulls laughed. 
 
 The third who sank was a boy, the only son of a widow. 
 The boy bad wanted much to go to sea, but he was the darling 
 of his mother, and she would not suffer him to go with any but 
 our captain, whom she knew and could trust with the only 
 being on earth she loved. Now he was gone, and the widow 
 must weep. The gulls laughed. 
 
 The fourth who went down was a sailor, a careless fellow, 
 drinking and heeding neither angel nor devil ; but there was a 
 vein of gold in his heart waiting to be brought to the surface. 
 It is said that on midsummer night all buried ti'easures rise and 
 shine. Midsummer night had not come to him yet. Another 
 year, and he would be a better man, but this other year was 
 denied him. He sank, and the gulls laughed. 
 
 These were all who sank, but there was one who came ashore. 
 He and the boy Avere clinging to the same piece of timber. Then 
 this man kicked the boy on the chest and so he fell off and went 
 down, and this man had the balk to himself. The waves went 
 over him, and he lost consciousness, but not his hold. He was 
 saved, and the gulls, wheeling above, laughed and scoffed more 
 loudly than before. 
 
 Up the narrow track cut in the face of the cliff this man 
 vs'^as carried.
 
 CAST UP. 35'7 
 
 ' By goU ! ' said Pasclio, * I hope tlae chap ain't dead, but he 
 looks cruel bad. It makes all the difference to us between five 
 shillings and ten guineas.' 
 
 ' Now look here, you niggers ! ' exclaimed Pentecost, angrily. 
 * What be all you a coming up and making believe you are 
 helping] You've had nort to do with the saving of this chap, 
 and so don't you come putting in your claims for a share. Go 
 back and see if you can't pick up a corpse or two as will find 
 you in liquor or backie for a week or a fortnight. The ten 
 guineas is to share between five of us, and that will bo four too 
 many. I lugged un out of the water.' 
 
 'Ah, but I sqivsedged the water out of his chest,' said 
 Pascho. 
 
 ' And if I hadn't held the rope,' said Gerans, ' you'd have 
 all been swept into the water and become crowners' sittings.' 
 
 * There ! ' said Pentecost, ' chuck him across a barrel, and 
 let the water run out of him.' 
 
 * There be no ban-el here ; lay him flat.' 
 
 ' Yes, in the snow indeed. Do you think I want to risk 
 my honest orauings that way ? He must be took to bed and 
 hot bricks be put to his feet.' 
 
 ' Where is he to go to ? ' asked Pascho. 
 
 * To Welltown, of course ; where else 1 There ain't no 
 other house nigh.' 
 
 ' Let the young lady see un,' said Genefer. 'It be a rare 
 fine sight for the soul to see a man hanging atween life and 
 death. Let her see un.' 
 
 The men laid their unconscious burden at the feet of 
 Mirelle. 
 
 She looked into the face with mingled sympathy and terror. 
 The figure seen battling with the waves had grown big — human 
 size now, it was no longer an ant. She could feel pity. 
 
 As she looked, she started and shrank away, holding up her 
 hands to shut out what she saw. 
 
 ' There ! ' said Genefer, ' it be a brave and improving sight. 
 I reckon it do as much good to the soul as a lump of sugar with 
 a drop of peppermint on it does to the stomick when out of 
 sorts. It warms and strengthens and gives tone. He be a 
 young man. Well, the Lord, I reckon, has got a work in store 
 for he, as He has called him out of the deep, and has given him 
 the life back as were trembling at the door of his heart to 
 leave. As for the rest, thev be cut off in their sina. Take hira 
 to Welltown.'
 
 358 JOHN HERUING. 
 
 * Stay, stay ! ' exclaimed Mirelle, interposing with velie- 
 mence. ' He shall not — he shall never go thither. Never, bo 
 long as I am mistress there.' 
 
 ' Is he to lie here on the snow 1 ' asked Genefer, * You 
 will have to give an account of it if he do, and die in conse- 
 quence.' 
 
 ' He shall not be taken to Welltown.' 
 • The men looked at each other. 
 
 ' Where be we to carry un to, then ? ' asked Pentecost. 
 
 ' If he die, I'm dangcd if it be fair if you deny us the ten 
 guineas. He has life in him now, and if he lose it, it will be 
 your fault, young lady. We've done our parts and earned our 
 money.' 
 
 * Take him where you will, but not to Welltown.' 
 
 * There is no other house near.' 
 
 ' Here,' said Mirelle, her hand trembling ; ' here is the key ; 
 take him into the slate-quarry office. There is a bed there.' 
 
 ' Ay, let him go there,' said Genefer ; ' he can be cared for 
 there just as well as at Welltown.' 
 
 The men stooped and raised the unconscious man again. 
 Mirelle covered her eyes — the man saved was Sampson Tram- 
 plara. 
 
 She had pi-omised ten guineas — and that ten guineas had 
 saved his worthless life. Well for her had she at this juncture 
 ofTeied fifty to have him tossed back into the sea. The men 
 would not have done it for twenty — there were too many 
 present ; they would have hesitated for thirty. But for fifty, 
 he would have troubled her no more. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 TWO DISOBEDIENCES. 
 
 Next day Orange arrived. Mirelle had sent for her; she 
 could not remain longer alone at Welltown, especially now that 
 young Sampson was so near. She did not go to the office on 
 Willapark to see him ; she did not inquire after him. But she 
 told Genefer that he was to be supplied with whatever he 
 needed, and was to remain where he was till he was well 
 enough to leave, and then he was to go his way. 
 
 As soon as Orange arrived Mirelle told her that Sampson 
 had been saved from drowning after shipwreck, and was at the 
 office ; and Oi-ange went immediately to see him.
 
 T\"0 DI^OCliUlENCES. 359 
 
 SaiuiDson was now quite recovered from Lis submersion. 
 The fire Avas lighted in the stove, and the room was warm. 
 
 ' Oh ! you have come, have you 1 ' he asked, when Orange 
 entered. * Not wise, I reckon, unless j'ou are bent on bringing 
 observation on me. What is this I hearl I am on Herring's 
 land and in his office ! This is a queer state of affairs ; but tho 
 wheel of fate in its revolutions lands one in strange places, and 
 places where one would least like to be. How came you 
 here 1 ' 
 
 Orange explained to him what had taken place since his 
 disappearance ; how IMirelle had been married to John Herring, 
 and she had been brought to Welitown. 
 
 * That's queer. I haven't seen either him or her.' 
 
 * I am told that he has been called away on business — 
 military, I suppose — and you cannot be surprised if she has 
 not chosen to see you. She knows well enough whe you are. 
 But now, Sampson, about yourself. How came you here? 
 And — are you safe, quite safe, here 1 ' 
 
 ' No, I arn't, that's the cuss edness of it all. I can't stay 
 here, especially now the Countess Candlesticks knows of my 
 presence and has got a tongue in her head. If I stay here I 
 shall be taken, and I can't go, because I have no money to go 
 with.' 
 
 * How came you here ? ' 
 
 'Cast up by the sea, I reckon,' answered Sampson. 
 ' But how came you to be wrecked 1 ' asked Orange. 
 
 * Why, because I was aboard ship,' 
 
 * You may as well answer me civilly,' f-aid his sister. 'If 
 you get away from this place, it will be by my help, and I 
 must know all about you, and whither you want to go,' 
 
 * Curse it,' said Sampson, ' if you want to know whence I 
 have come I will tell you — from Bristol, and if you want to 
 know why I left, it is because Polly Skittles has blown on mo. 
 If you want to know where I am going, you must be content 
 to remain in ignorance, for I don't know myself.' 
 
 * But, Sampson, how came you to be in Bristol ? ' 
 
 * Because it was not my intention to run to France, or any 
 place where I could not speak a word of their damned parley- 
 vous. I don't see why a fellow should not lie snug in England 
 instead of going into exile abroad. So, when I had to leave 
 Launceston, I cut off first to Plymouth ; but there I became 
 funky, that was too near home, and so I made for Bristol, and 
 there I've been enjoying myself ever since, and might havo
 
 360 JOmS HERRINa. 
 
 been living at ease like a figliting cock but for Polly 
 Skittles.' 
 
 * You behaved abominably, Sampy. You carried off all the 
 money that was in the house, and left mother and mo abso- 
 lutely destitute.' 
 
 ' Oh, ah ! I was not such a fool as to leave anything. 
 Everyone for himself is my maxim. But be reasonable ; if I 
 had left money you would not have had it, the creditors would 
 have been down on you and have carried off everything. By 
 George ! I have had many a laugh over that Ophir since I 
 have washed my hands of it. That was a rare plant, better 
 than Polpluggan. And father did come out splendid in it. 
 The way in which he beat old Flamank's covers and bagged 
 his game was superlative. Well, he died like Wolfe at Quebec, 
 " They run ! Who run 1 " " The Ophirites." And didn't they 
 run 1 ' 
 
 Sampson clapped his knees and roared. 
 
 * It strikes me that it was you who ran,' said Orange, sul- 
 lenly. * Now, tell me, what ai-e you going to do 1 ' 
 
 ' I'll tell you one thing I have learned, and I had to go to 
 Bristol to learn it. Orange, never trust a woman. I might 
 have been all right now but for Polly Skittles. I was an ass, 
 I allow that. I sent word to her at the Pig and Whistle where 
 I was, and asked her to come to me and share my fortune with 
 me. Well, she couldn't keep her tongue in hor head, but was 
 bragging about the rich man .she was going to marry, and so 
 from hint to circumstance, and all Avas blown. The beaks 
 were on the scent and after me, and I had to make a run for 
 it. I got on board the " Susanna " for Port Isaac. I thought if 
 I managed to get there, I might give them the slip again. 
 And now, damn it all, here am I stranded at Boscastle, and 
 Avhen the nevrs reaches Bristol that the " Susanna " has been 
 lost, it will be known also that I am saved, and the beaks will 
 be after me again.' 
 
 * What has become of the money, Sampson 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, blast it ! there is the mischief. I brought away all I 
 had with me, and it has gone down in the " Susanna." I did 
 have some trifle about me when I came ashore, but those who 
 saved my life relieved me of my purse. That was natural, and 
 I cannot complain ; I'd have done the same. But I am mad 
 to think that all the gold of Oj^hir lies at the bottom of the 
 A tlantic' 
 
 ' What is to be done now ? '
 
 TWO DISOBEDIENCES. 361 
 
 'Tou must provide me with money.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, Sampy. I — I have nothing. You know that 
 ?/ell enough.' 
 
 * I don't know anything about it. You're clever enough to 
 get what you want. You hooked Captain Trecarrel fast enough 
 when you bad set your mind on having him.' 
 
 Orange became scarlet. ' You are cruel, Sampson ; you 
 are worse, you are brutal. I will have nothing more to say to 
 you.' 
 
 * Yes, you will,' said he, insolently. * If you don't, I'll go 
 myself to Welltown, and force that pale-faced fool to give me 
 money.' 
 
 'You know that she was plundered as well as others. Her 
 money was sunk in Ophir.' 
 
 * I know that she can take her husband's money now. I 
 suppose she has wit enough to keep the keys of his cash- bos 
 Women are not such fools as to omit that.' 
 
 ' I cannot ask her for money ; indeed I cannot, Sampy.' 
 
 * Look here, Orange. How the devil am I to get away from 
 this place without blunt 1 And how am I to live when I get 
 away without ditto ? You don't suppose I can dig and plough, 
 do you 1 ' 
 
 ' 1 tell you I have nothing.' 
 
 ' Then you must get me something. I've been overhauling 
 this oiBce and I can find nothing in it. There is a drawer 
 locked in the desk that I have not opened and examined, but I 
 shall know its contents before long, even if I have to break the 
 lock. I don't, however, expect to get much out of it. A man 
 does not leave money in such an uninhabited place as this.' 
 
 ' If I get you a little you must be content Avith that.' 
 
 * If you get me a little I will be content with it only as long 
 as it lasts, and when spent, then I shall want more.' 
 
 * What folly this is ! You cai'ried off every penny you 
 could lay hands on, and now you ask for money from those you 
 have plundered ! ' 
 
 ' I do not ask you for your own money, I know you have 
 none to give. I want some of Mirelle's money, or her husband's 
 — it ia all the same. Get me her diamonds if you can. Do 
 you not understand 1 I dare not remain here above a day 
 longer ; I must be off before the beaks arc on my ti-ack. How 
 is a man to get away without a penny in his pocket 1 He must 
 halt and beg on his road, and where he begs, there he is 
 observed. I must double on the hounds on their way hither.
 
 ^62 JOHN HEREixS^a. 
 
 If I make for Batli I shall do. They aie sure to run to Port 
 Isaac, whither the " Susanne " was bound.' 
 
 ' I Avish you were safe avvay. I do not relish your being 
 here. It would be exceedingly unpleasant for me were you 
 taken whilst I am at Welltown. I do not want ugly stories to 
 get about this neighbourhood, for here my mother and I will 
 have to live.' 
 
 * I don't suppose you do,' answered Sampson ; ' more the 
 reason why I should be given facilities for clearing off.' 
 
 ' I really do not know what to do. I might represent to 
 Mh'elle that you had lost everything, and ask her for a little 
 money, a few pounds ; but I cannot, I will not, entreat for a 
 large sum.' 
 
 * Why not ? ' 
 
 * Because it is against my own interest. I am not yet 
 settled into the house. I have but arrived to-day, and if my 
 mother and I are to take up our quarters here, I must not 
 begin by making myself disagreeable to the hostess. You know 
 what Mirelle is. She is simple in some things, but when you 
 think you are going to turn her round your fingers, you dis- 
 cover that she is the most impracticable person you ever had to 
 deal with.' 
 
 * I say, Orange, what about those diamonds of hers 1 ' 
 
 * They are paste.' 
 
 * I don't believe it.* 
 
 * She gave me part of the set ; the pendant and the stones 
 in that were all artificial.' 
 
 '' You fool,' said Sampson, ' that was why she gave you the 
 brooch. If they had been real, do you suppose that she would 
 have made you such a handsome present 1 ' 
 
 ' I do not know,' answered Orange, sullenly. She was 
 angry with Sampson, and she wanted to get rid of him. It 
 would suit her very well to live with Mirelle. She hated 
 Launceston, and wished to leave it. She trusted that some- 
 thing was going to be 4one for her by Mirelle in fulfilment of 
 the promise made by John Herring on the wedding day, but 
 she was not certain. At all events it was most convenient for 
 her to live with Mii'elle, and, if she were given money, to lay 
 it by. She had indignantly rejected the suggestion of taking 
 Captain Trecarrel, but she loved him still, and she entertained 
 a lingering hope of future reconciliation. If he wanted her, he 
 would come after her. She had sufiicient sound sense to knov/ 
 that he could not marry her if she was without private means,
 
 irrO -DISOBEDIENCES. 363 
 
 because he was poor himself. She was jealous of Mirellc. 
 The Captain had hovered about her ; Mirelle had drawn him 
 off from her. She was not at all sure that the Captain would 
 desist from his attentions now that Mirelle was married. She 
 wished therefore to be ^^ith her rival so as to watch her. 
 
 ' Orange ! ' 
 
 ' Well, Sampson.' 
 
 * I say. We were always allies.* 
 
 * To what does this introduction lead ? ' 
 
 ' Where does Mirelle keep her diamonds 1 ' 
 
 * I do not know. I have come here to-day for the first time.' 
 
 * I wish you would find out.' 
 
 * I can find out fast enough.' 
 
 ' I say, Orange. If I could finger them, you wouldn't see 
 much of me for many a day, and that is what your sisterly 
 heart desires.' 
 
 ' I wish I could be sure of that.' 
 
 * You are not over fond of the Countess Candlesticks, I 
 reckon.' 
 
 *I hate her,' answered Orange, vehemently. 
 
 * You would not mind getting those diamonds for me, would 
 you 1 She don't want them. What use can she make of them 
 in a desert like this ? She would not miss them.' 
 
 * I tell you, Sampy, I do not know where they are, and what 
 is more, if I did know, I would not give them to you. I am 
 not going to risk my place in the house for you.' 
 
 ' Who is to see you take them "2 Lay the blame on me. 
 Find out where they ai"e and tell me, and if accessible I will 
 work my way into the house and get them.' 
 
 ' It won't do ; it won't do, indeed. If I knew where the 
 stones were, I would not mind telling you ; and if you could 
 get them without risk of detection, and without in any Avay 
 involving me, I would not care. But I veill not help you to 
 them.' 
 
 * If I had them, I'd be off to America at once.' 
 
 ' There — I must go now/ said Orange, rising, * I will try 
 to get you something, but you must not expect much.' She 
 turned to go oiit. She was flushed and annoyed. The pre- 
 sence of Sampson was vexatious to her, and might prove in- 
 convenient. 
 
 * Stay a moment. Orange. Have jon any keys about you ? ' 
 
 * I must go — yes, I have. I brought away the bunch from 
 Dolbeare, in my haste. What will mother do without them ? '
 
 364 JOEN HERRING. 
 
 'She can send for the blacksmith, I cannot. Leave them 
 with me. I Avant to look inside that drawer. There is a file in 
 the cupboard, and I can make a key fit the lock I intend to 
 open. Thank you, Ox'ange. You are a good sister — worthy of 
 me. You do credit to your father also. Now you may go.' 
 
 In the night a tap sounded at the door of Willapark 
 ofiice. Sampson had been working hard and was tired. He 
 was snoozing in the chair over the fire. He started instantly 
 to full consciousness and in alarm. His fears subsided when 
 the door opened, and he saw Orange enter, very white and 
 trembling. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, * what have you brought me?' 
 
 * A little money,' she answered, * not much. I could not 
 get much for you. I have had a quarrel with Mirelle — about 
 you.' 
 
 * Have you brought me tlie diamonds 1 ' 
 
 * No, and did not intend to do so ; but I know where they 
 are, and they are Avhere you cannot get them.' 
 
 ' Where is that 1 ' 
 
 * In a very strong oak bureau in the room over the porcfe^ 
 and in a secret drawer in the well of that. That room cannot 
 be entered except through the hall, main stairs, and Mirelle's 
 bedroom. So put the thought of the diamonds out of your 
 head. The bureau is always locked, and Mirelle keeps the key. 
 Even if you got into the i*oom, which is not possible, unob- 
 served, you would not be able to open the cabinet. There — 
 that is the end of that foolish dream, and I am glad of it. 
 Had you taken them, I might have been suspected. 1 have 
 had a quarrel Avith Mirelle — about you. But I must sit down 
 a moment, Sampson, and then run back.' She was out of 
 breath ; she spoke in short sentences, breathing hard between 
 each. * When we were together, she began to sj^eak about the 
 pendant she had given me, and to ask for it back. She said 
 she would have the paste diamonds removed, and real stones 
 put in their places. She told me that her necklace had been 
 examined, and that it had been found that some only of the 
 stones in it were false. A lady's maid of her mother had 
 tampered with the jewels. Then she desired to compai-e my 
 brooch, with its paste diamonds, with the I'eal stones in her 
 necklace ; she got up and went to the bureau ; she took the 
 key out of her purse. There was a secret drawer opening out 
 of a sort of well in the middle, and she brought the set pf
 
 TWO DISOBELIENCES. 365 
 
 stones out of that. After that we had compared the false with 
 the real diamonds she returned the necklace to its place, re- 
 locked the cabinet, and replaced the key in her purse. Then 
 we began to speak about you. I told her that you were 
 without any money, that you had lost everything in the ship, 
 and had been further robbed by the men who saved your life. 
 She asked what of? — of the stolen money ? I then begged her to 
 let you have something to help you to get away. She set her lips 
 and put on that stubborn look I know so well. She would give 
 nothing. You had robbed Mr. FUimank and many others, and 
 it was your duty to surrender yourself and suffer for your mis- 
 deeds. If you had any conscience and honour, that was what 
 you would do, and she would not help you to evade the conse- 
 quences of your own acts. My blood rose, and I spoke 
 sharply. She was cold, hard, and obstinate. At last I got her 
 to give me something, not for you, but for myself. She and her 
 husband had made me a promise on their wedding day to give 
 me some trifle, and I asked her if she purposed fulfilling that en- 
 gngement, or whether it was only an empty promise. Then 
 she replied that Herring had made the pi'omise and would 
 fulfil it, and that, if I was in immediate want of money, she 
 would give me a small sum, all she could spare, for she had not 
 more coin in the house. I was foi'ced to be content. Here 
 are twelve guineas; take them and be oif. I can get you no 
 more. There is no more to be got.' 
 
 ' Well, Orange, I must take what I can get. The diamonds 
 can wait. I have found something better than them in the 
 locked drawer.' 
 
 * What is it, Sampson 1 Money 1 ' 
 
 ' No, not money. Do you like John Herring, Orange 1 ' 
 'No.' 
 
 * I hate him,' said Sampson. 'You do not love Mirolle, I 
 believe 1 ' 
 
 * I hate her ! ' answered Orange, passionately. 
 
 * What I have found may serve to wipe off mutual gi^udges. 
 
 * I am glad of it ; use your knowledge.' 
 
 * I intend to do so on the pi-oper occasion.' 
 
 ' Well, good-bye, Sampson ; I must return. Mirelle must 
 not know that I have been here. I hope I have seen the last 
 of yon for some time.' 
 
 ' I do not know. I must have a word with John Herring 
 before I disappear entirely.' 
 
 foolish Mirelle! Herring, before leaving, had laid on
 
 366 JOHN nERRINQ 
 
 her two injunctions — to entrust no one witli the secret of where 
 she kept her jewels, and to allow no one to enter his office un- 
 attended by herself. She had disregarded and disobeyed both, 
 injunctions. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 TWO EXITS. 
 
 John Herring said nothing to Cicely in allusion to what had 
 passed ; he could not do so. Pie was naturally reserved about 
 himself, and he could not tell her of his marriage without telling 
 her also of his separation from his wife. The questions Avould 
 spring to her lips : ' When were you married 1 Why have you 
 left her 1 Why are you now staying at West Wyke instead of 
 at Welltown 1 ' These were questions she would naturally ask, 
 and which it would be impossible for him to explain to her. 
 His trouble was his own ; the heart knoweth its own bitterness, 
 and a stranger intei'meddleth not therewith. A woman de- 
 lights in poTU'ing forth her giief;:; into a sympathetic ear; a man 
 hides liis suflerings, and resents sympathy as an insult. Herring 
 had said enough to let Cicely understand the position in which 
 he stood towards her — that of a brother, a position he would 
 never abandon ; she had recognised this, and had accepted it. 
 
 Herring thought night and day of INIirelle; he could not 
 shake the burden off his heart, and, whatever his distractions, 
 it remained oppressing him, an ever-gnawing pain. He won- 
 dercd what Mirelle was doing ; whether she liked Welltown — 
 that place he loved so well. When the sun shone out of a clor..r 
 eky, he thought, it is fine to-day at Welltown, and Mirelle will 
 go upon the cliffs and hear the gulls scream and look at the 
 twinkling sea ; she will inhale that wondrous air, which to him 
 who breathes it is the inspiration of life in long draughts. 
 Would she dare to go in a boat to Blackapit, when the sea was 
 still, and look up those walls of inky rock striped with ledges, 
 on which the sea birds nested, up into the blue sky above, in 
 which even by day stars can be discerned 1 Had she wandered 
 to Minster Church, down in a valley embowered in trees, with 
 the ruins of the old monastery crumbling about it 1 O how 
 happy he would have been to be able to accompany her to the 
 loved si^ots, wild and picturesque, that had been his delight in 
 boyhood ! Would she venture on an excursion to S. Kneigh- 
 ton's Kieve, and pick there the maiden-hair fern, dancing in 
 the draught of the foiling water ] Would she visit Pentargou,
 
 TWO EXITS. SG7 
 
 tliat glorious cove, with precipitous walls of rock black aa 
 night, over which a stream bounds in a long fall to meet the 
 sea? 
 
 He thought of her sitting by the fire, in her white bridal 
 dress, so lovely, so sad, so like a phantom from another world. 
 Mirelle haunted him ; she filled his whole heart. Later he 
 would return to Welltown, when Le and she bad had time to 
 realise the relation in which they stood to each other, and the 
 first poignancy of the disenchantment was past. 
 
 Mirelle was to him the ideal of purity and perfection. He 
 knew his own unworthiness ; be was not the man wdio ought to 
 own her as wife; he Avas rude and simple. She should be 
 placed on a pedestal in a temple, to be approached by wor- 
 shippers on bended knees. Tlie snowdrops were out in the 
 West Wyke garden ; Herriug plucked one every morning and 
 wore it all day. Miixdle had woin snowdrops in her bosom 
 when she married him. The snowdrop was her appropriate 
 flower, white and fragile. 
 
 Herring was at Upaver all day. The mine was turning out 
 better than even he had anticipated. There was no question 
 now about the extinction of the debt on West Wyke. Mr. 
 Battishill's profits would blot that out and redeem the mort- 
 gages. Mirelle's money sunk in the machinery would yield a 
 dividend befoi-e the year was half out. Herring saw to every- 
 thing himself; he inspired the men with energy. The contractor's 
 bad work at the buildings was made good. His mind was oc- 
 cupiod from morning to night ; but he never forgot his trouble 
 for one moment. It was ever there rankling in his heart; it 
 took the gloss off success. 
 
 Mr. Battishill had sunk into a condition of mental feeble- 
 ness and bodily exhaustion that engap,ed his daughter's constant 
 attention. The old man could not be left alone; he no longer 
 rose from his bed to take his old seat in the hall. 
 
 When Herring came back from Upaver, he went upstairs to 
 the Squire's room, where he found Cicely knitting, and he sat 
 there for an hour talking to the sick man, trying to interest him 
 in what was going on at the mine. After dinner with Cicely 
 in the hall, he went up again and read Shakespeare to Mi*. 
 UattLshill. The squire was always ready for that. He had his 
 favourite passages, and these he repeated after Herring, but his 
 power to follow the movement of a scene and to distinguish 
 characters was gone. Old familiar sentences caught his ear, and 
 he murmured them after Herring, as he a-rght follow a prayer.
 
 868 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 but liis mind did not take in the sense. Yet he never wearied 
 of this Shakespeare reading; it was like "w ell-remembered 
 melodies striking his ear, and lulling him to sleep. 
 
 When the Squire had had enough, he always laid his thin 
 hand across the book, and said in the words of Coriolanus, * I 
 am weary ; yea, my memory is tired.' Then Cicely, John 
 Herring, and Joyce knelt together by the old man's bed, aiid 
 he folded his hands and said the one familiar prayer ; and then 
 Cicely and the rest bade him good night and left him. 
 
 Sometimes the old man would become vxneasy, and ask John 
 whether he would protect Cicely. ' You will always stand by 
 her, will you not, John 1 ' 
 
 Herring was obliged to give him the assurance he required. 
 
 * You are my children.' 
 
 * Yes, sir; brother and sister.' 
 
 * Brother and sister,' repeated Cicely. 
 
 Then the old man murmured, * And she is fair, and, fairer 
 than that v.'^ord, of wondrous virtues.' 
 
 The Vicar of Tawton, the Eeverend Harmless-Simpleton, 
 was frequent in his calls. He was an amiable and well-inten- 
 tioned man. The Simpletons are a large family, that have 
 never thriven at the bar, in medicine, in the army and the 
 navy, but the Harmless- Simpletons (the two surnames united 
 by a hyphen) have for several generations ma<le the Church 
 their happy hunting ground. They have gone up in the 
 Church like corks in water. The fiittest livings, ]>rebendal 
 stalls, and even bishoprics have been showered upon them. As 
 Napoleon won all his battles by one rule, so the Harmless- 
 Simpletons acquired promotion by one simple principle. In 
 the field of doctrine they never taught a truth without first 
 treating it as a taxidermist treats a frog, killing, disembowelling, 
 then blowing out the fleshless, boneless skin with wind, and 
 varnishing the empty nothing. In the field of morals thoy 
 never attacked a real enemy, but discharged their parks of 
 ordnance, brought down chai-ges of heavy dragoons, and displayed 
 the most skilful strategy against imaginary foes. 
 
 When the Reverend Harmless-Simi)leton called, he divided 
 his visit into two parts, one of which was devoted to Mr. 
 Battishill and the other to Miss Cicely, in the ratio of three to 
 seven. Mr. Battishill was pleased to see and hear him, and 
 Miss Cicely became deeply impressed with the reverend gentle- 
 man's amiability and good intentions. 
 
 So, little by little, the old Squire faded away.
 
 TWO EXITS. 369 
 
 There waa another old man, who, much about the same 
 time, made his exit from the stage, but in an altogether difierent 
 manner. 
 
 Grizzly Cobbledick had been denied the linney in which to 
 lie at night, ' like a heckamal in a haystack.' lie was obliged, 
 much as he objected to it, to return to the Giant's Table. As 
 he feared that his old woman would be disposed to trouble his 
 repose there, he provided himself with the means of sleeping 
 Boundly, in the shape of a stone jar full of spirits. Moreover, 
 he paid a libation to her manes every night. He threw some 
 drops of gin into the fire, saying, ' There, old cat ! take that, 
 aud lie quiet.' 
 
 Grizzly was so far civilised by association v/ith men that he 
 knew the value of money. He had lost his shyness in the 
 presence of men and his reluctance to appear in the neighbour- 
 hood of houses, and he would go into Zeal and hang about the 
 taverns for di-ink and tobacco. 
 
 Now he had money of his own, and he launched into 
 extravagance. He purchased a jar of hollauds, and carried it 
 off with him to the Table, to comfort him at night — that he 
 might lie in the straw and suck and nod, then suck and doze, 
 open an eye and suck once more, and then drop off into a 
 drunken stupor. 
 
 That which amused and puzzled bim greatly was to see the 
 spirit flame when he cast some drops on the fire. "Water 
 quenched fire ; how came a lic^uor to leap into flame 1 This 
 was more than his dull mind could take in. But it seemed to 
 him that the essence of fire must be in the spirit, that was why 
 it warmed him within, and danced and glowed in his veins. 
 John Herring had been as good as his word. He had sent him 
 straw, and the straw was heaped up at the back of the 
 chamber, 
 
 * Take care, Grizzly,' said the man who brought him tho 
 bundles. ' Take care that your fire don't get to it ; keep it well 
 off.' 
 
 Grizzly had sense enough to do this. When he was sleepy 
 the old man went backwards into the straw, disappearing 
 entirely with the exception of his head and the hand that held 
 the stone jar. The only firing was peat, and that did not flame. 
 
 When Herring cast him his purse, it was with the words : 
 * Some men cannot be helped. One must let them go to the 
 devil their own way. You are one, and the sooner you go the 
 better.' 
 
 BB
 
 370 JOHN HEWllNa. 
 
 Then Grizzly replied, ' I be going — I be a going as fast as I 
 can.' 
 
 He kept his word. He went even faster than he intended, 
 
 and the way he went was this. 
 
 He was sitting over the fire one evening. He had his stone 
 jar under his arm, and he was patting it. 
 
 ' Her be running dry, her be,' said he. * Poor thing ! let 
 me hold'y up and try again.' He spoke to inanimate objects 
 as though they were endowed with souls as reasonable as his 
 own. ' There ! ' said he, as he cast a few drops on the fire, and 
 laughed at the flames that leaped up ; * that be the blue blazes 
 I've a swore by all my live and never knowed 'n, to see to, I 
 reckon. Now there hain't another drop left. What ever shall 
 I do ? I have got more money, but no more spirits, and what 
 be I to do all night long 1 Ah ! I be a poor lorn creetur, I be. 
 My old woman, her deserted me first, and a mighty shabby 
 tiick that were. Do'y hear me a speaking of 'y, old cat ? Then 
 my daughter, Joyce, her left me — that is, I sold her when her'd 
 a gone of herself. 'Twere good for me I got some money out 
 of the deal : if I hadn't, her'd have cut and run all the same.* 
 Pie sat and poked the red turves together. * I wonder,' he said, 
 'what there be in thicky barrel I took from Ophir] Like 
 enough there be first-rate drink in her. Old Tramplara weren't 
 one to do things by halves. Her be hid away under the fern. 
 I reckon I'll have her otit and try.' 
 
 He groped beneath the straw to a nether layer of bracken, 
 and from under that rolled a small keg. 
 
 ' There ain't much comfort to be got out of she,' he said, 
 * her be so gashly small. I wonder what there be in her ] Her 
 be hard to open.' 
 
 He put the little barrel down by the fire. 
 
 * I reckon I could manage a hole wi' my old stone knife. 
 Then he got the flint tool, and worked it between his palms on 
 the end of the keg. The fire was getting low ; he threw on 
 some more turves. Then he ventured on a wisp of straw to 
 make a blaze and assist his eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, rallaluley ! ' he exclaimed, * I've got the hole drilled 
 thi'ough at last.' 
 
 He had stolen this little barrel fi-om Ophlr during the dis- 
 order occasioned by the discovery of the imposition. It w&a 
 the only thing that he thought might possibly be of service to 
 him. He took it away, and liid it under the fern at the back 
 oi" the dolaien, intending to examine its contents at his leisure.
 
 TWO EXITS. 371 
 
 * Why, there be no drink here at all,' said he in disgust, 
 when he had put his lips to the hole he had made. ' What be 
 this 1 I've a got my mouth full of grit ; it be black as coal. 
 Blast me blue, but I will let my old woman taste it too.' 
 
 He let the contents run out in a little stream ; then he 
 gathered a handful of the grains and cast it into the Hro to his 
 'old woman.' The contents of the keg then found l heir way 
 out in a more expeditious manner than through the hole he had 
 bored. The keg contained blasting powder. 
 
 Thus it came about that he fulfilled his ])romise faster than 
 he had intended. Thus also it is that one of the most interest- 
 ing monuments of a prehistoric age will not appear on the 
 Ordnance Map of Devonshii-e now in process of execution. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 
 
 John Herring had fulfilled his promise. He had made over 
 five thovisand pounds to Orange Tramplara. No sooner was 
 this effected than it was whispered in the ear and the same day 
 proclaimed on the housetops of Launceston. The proclamation 
 reached Trecarrel. When Captain Trecarrel heard it, and had 
 satisfied himself that this was not an empty report, he began to 
 reconsider the state of his feelings towards Miss Orange. Five 
 thousand pounds was a sum for which he might dispose of him- 
 self. It was not much, but more was not to be had in that 
 neighbourhood. The Captain was without sisters and cousins 
 scattered over the country, beating the covers for heii-esses for 
 him and blowing the horn when they had started one. He was 
 forced to hunt for himself. 
 
 Five thousand pounds at five per cent, is two hundred and 
 fifty pounds a year. Two hundred and fifty pounds per annum 
 would enable him to keep his head above water — only his head, 
 not his shoulders, but that would be better than to be ovei-- 
 washed by every wavelet. Now that old Mr. Tramplara waa 
 dead, there was no one to look closely after settlements — that 
 was something. Captain Trecarrel was then in very particular 
 want of money, and there was no money to be got through any 
 other channel than the hymeneal ring. The property waa 
 already mortgaged, and the Captain covld not encumber it 
 further without cutting off his only means of subsistence. 
 
 B B 2
 
 372 JOHN HEEIIINO. 
 
 He heard that Orange, followed after a fortnight by her 
 mother, had moved to Welltown, near Boscastle, and was 
 Btaying with Mr. and Mrs. Herring. The report was not quite 
 accurate, for Mr. Herring, as we knov/, was not there. Report 
 has the knack of interjecting into the best substantiated infor- 
 mation an element of inaccuracy. He knew Herring, and 
 thought that through him he might get the quarrel with Orange 
 patched up — at least, through him he would obtain admission to 
 the house where she lived. Herring would know nothing of 
 the flirtation with Mirelle, and therefore would not scruple to 
 admit him ; and, once in, he would manage Orange. What 
 girl could resist his handsome profile, his moustache and blue 
 eyes ! 
 
 Trecarrel knew that Orange loved him, and he knew also 
 that when a woman loves, her pride and resentment give way 
 whenever it pleases the lover to resume the assault. He would 
 not be precipitate ; he would be friendly at first, with a tinge of 
 restraint and a savour of coldness in his manner towards her. 
 This would yield by degrees, and they would soon recover their 
 old intimacy and stand towards each other on the same footing 
 as of old. 
 
 ' I know perfectly well,' said the Captain, ' that there are 
 hundreds, I may say thov^sands, of girls with fortunes who 
 would give their ears for me, but the provoking thing is that 
 they have never heard of me, nor can I obtain access to them. 
 There are Birmingham and Manchester manufacturers' daughters, 
 there are the girls of Bristol and Liverpool merchants, without 
 family position, and with vulgar names, who would jump with 
 all their moneybags into my arms, if I could only ofler myself 
 to them. But how am I to do so? I know nobody in Bir- 
 mingham, Manchester, or Liverpool moneyed society, and I am 
 unacquainted with any bridges. Between me and them thero 
 is a great gulf fixed, and though I would fain go to them, and 
 they as gladly come to me, yet my tongue must parch in penury, 
 and they must yawn in the bosom of Croesus. The means of 
 intercommunication fail. I am getting on in life, I am thirty- 
 four, and I ought to be doing something towards paying off my 
 mortgages. I had rather have a girl with ten thousand than 
 one with five, for then I should be twice as comfortable and 
 connubial aflfection twice as strong ; but if the girl with ten bo 
 not obtainable, I must be content with her who has only five. 
 I wonder whence that five thousand came ? I suspect old 
 Tramplara put away money iii bis wife's name, and she has it i
 
 TH3 RETURN OF THE WANDERER. J^7S 
 
 and that this five thousand has hocn placed to her daughter's 
 account as a bait to draw me. If the old ■woman has money, 
 it ■will come to Orange in the end ; she is bad every winter with 
 her throat, and this is a trying climate for throats, the tem- 
 perature changes with such rapidity. The old woman would 
 surely not be such a fool as to act the King Lear, and make 
 over all she has to her daughter. She must have a reserve fund 
 of at least five thousand more. By George, I'll risk it ! ' 
 
 So Captain Trecarrel took the Camelford coach as far as 
 ' Drunkards all,' and walked from that point to Boscastle, 
 making a man carry his valise. This was the cheapest way of 
 travelling, and the Captain did evei-ything as cheaply as he 
 could, not because he liked it, but because he could not help 
 himself. He put up at the Ship, where was a cosy Httle parlour 
 and a clean bedroom. He would be comfortable there. He 
 had brought his drawing materials with him, for the purpose of 
 making water-colonr sketches. When making his drawings he 
 painted his subject in Indian ink, and then gave a Prussian 
 blue wash to the sea, and a wash of Prussian blue and gamboge 
 together over the grass and trees, and a wash of sepia to the 
 rocks. Then he imagined a woman in a red cloak to be standing 
 in a suitable position, and the picture would be complete. Gulls 
 could be added * to taste ' by two little wet dabs with the brush 
 and flicks with his handkerchief. "When an evening light was 
 wanted, by way of variety, the picture was submitted to a wash 
 of pink-lake and gamboge in equal proportions. That was how 
 water-colours were managed seventy years ago. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel sketched in the harbour, then ] le sketched 
 in Willapark, and crept on to Welltown, where he found the 
 old house so picturesque that he sketched it also. But the 
 hedge was damp to sit on, so he ventured to the front door to 
 borrow a chair, and having got one from Genefer he seated him- 
 self opposite the house, and began his drawing. He was a long 
 time over it, as he was scrupulous about the details, nnd before 
 it was completed Orange Tramplara came towards him. She 
 was returning from Boscastle, where she had been making a 
 few purchases. It was not possible for her to reach the front 
 poor without passing Trecarrel, and she had no hesitation in 
 doing so, as she had no idea who was there sketching. He had 
 an umbrella open to screen him from the wind ; but there was 
 a little hole in the umbrella, and through that he had perceived 
 her. She was abreast of the Captain before she recognised him. 
 He uttered an exclamation of surprise, started, and upset his
 
 374 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 sketchbook, box of colours, and glass of water into tbe 
 road. 
 
 *I am very sorry, Captain Trecarrel,' said Orange, 
 much agitated. * I fear I knocked your things over with my 
 cloak.' 
 
 * Not at all, Orange. Bless my soul ! Who would have 
 expected to see you here 1 In the name of all the seven 
 wonders, what has brought you to this place, which I sujiposed 
 was inhabited by wreckers only 1 ' 
 
 Orange had recovered herself, and made as though she 
 would pass on with a bow. 
 
 ' No, Orange, I will not permit you to slip away thus. I 
 want you to be in the foreground of my picture, as you have 
 ever been in my thoughts. A marvellous piece of good fortune 
 has brought us face to face. On a desert island those who 
 liave been cast up by the sea forget old grudges and shake 
 hands. I will not be thrust aside in this wild and lonely spot 
 because once upon a time we had a lovers' quarrel.' 
 
 ' I am surprised to see you here, Captain.' 
 
 * The surprise is mutual. I heard that you and Mrs. 
 Tramplara had retired to Falmouth. Are you lodging at this 
 old fixrmhouse for your mother's health ? ' 
 
 ' This is Welltown, the house of Mr. Herring.' 
 
 * This ! bless my soul ! I thought he lived in a stately 
 mansion in a deer park, not in an old ramshackle box like this. 
 The world is smaller tban I imagined. I have been making a 
 sketching i our of the North Coast from Hartland to Boscastle, 
 and I intei id continuing it to the Land's End. I have some 
 thought of i^ublishing my sketches in mezzotint, coloured by 
 hand. Yc u know my impecuniosity. I thought to turn an 
 honest pen ay this way without degradation.' 
 
 * Have you been long here 1 ' 
 ' Only a few days.' 
 
 * Where are you staying 1 ' 
 ' At the Ship.' 
 
 ' What sort of entertainment do you meet with there ? * 
 
 * Ham and eggs to-day ; to-morrow, by way of variety, eggs 
 and ham. Those are the changes. Nothing else is procurable 
 all down the coast from Hartland to the Land's End. I am 
 told, wherever I go, that next week a sheep or a cow will be 
 killed, and then mutton-chop or beef-steak will be had. But 
 the cow or sheep moves befoi-e me as I proceed on my journey^ 
 and I never overtake it.'
 
 THE KETDRN OF THE WANDERER. 375 
 
 * We dine early. Will you join us 1 ' 
 
 So peace was concluded. The difficulty in concluding it 
 was not gi-eat, as Oi'ange was as inclined to meet the Captain 
 as he had been to meet her. Indeed, her readiness to strike 
 hands and forget the past alarmed him. He was of a suspicious 
 cihai-acter, and her manifest desire to renew the old acquain- 
 tanceship made him dread a ti'ap. 
 
 He did not know that Orange was getting deadly tired of 
 Boscastle. Of society in the neighbourhood there was little. 
 The only gentlefolks of county position were the Phyllacka of 
 the manor. Old Sir Jonathan was a stately gentleman of the 
 past generation, somewhat pompous, who moved suri'ounded by 
 his seven daughters, as the judge encircled by the javelin men. 
 The daughters were extraordinarily alike, and though the 
 utmost effort had been made to distinguish them at the first by 
 giving each two or three names, nevertheless Orange felt she 
 might spend a lifetime in their company without being able to 
 know Miss Grace Po-meroy from Miss Anna IMaria Amy, or 
 Miss Elizabeth Gilbert from either or from Miss Catherine 
 Penhelligan. They never called separately, but called, all 
 seven together, with Sir Jonathan in the midst. They never 
 walked in batches, but walked in a system rotating round Sir 
 Jonathan like the planets round the sun. When Mirelle and 
 Orange retui'ned their call, they found Sir Jonathan sitting at 
 the fire in a hollow square composed by his daughters, and 
 when one rose to shake hands, her place was occupied by 
 another, whilst Sir Jonathan remained, bowing but inaccessible, 
 behind their petticoats. The extraordinary thing about the 
 Misses Phyllack was that they all seemed of the same age ; 
 their manners were alike, the expression of their faces equally 
 sweet, the tones of their voices equally soft, like the cooing of 
 •wood-pigeons. They were all equally resolute never to admit 
 a stepmother. 
 
 Even if Orange had contemplated it seriously, it was hope- 
 less to break through this bodyguard of daughters, capture and 
 carry off Sir Jonathan. After the call the old gentleman 
 ventured to remark, * A fine girl that ! ' whereupon ]\Iiss Grace 
 Pomeroy objected that she was coarse, and Miss Anna Maria 
 Amy that she had bad feet, and Miss Elizabeth Gilbert that 
 Khe had a temper, and Miss Catherine Penhelligan that she was 
 inelegant in her postures, and so on to the seventh, when Miss 
 Grace Pomeroy took np the subject again, and poor Orange 
 would have been picked to the bone, had not Sir Jonathaa
 
 376 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 withdrawn his provocative remark with, * Very true, my dears> 
 very true ; my eyes deceived me.' 
 
 Orange would have been glad enough to become Lady Phyl- 
 lack, but to become Lady Phyllack the knight must be got at, 
 and to get at him the circle must be broken. There was no 
 Arnold of Winkelined at Boscastle to open a road through 
 which Orange might dash in. Not a single Miss Phyllack had 
 been lured from her post, all still were Misses Phyllack and 
 coheiresses. It cannot be said that the ladies looked upon 
 marriage as an evil to be avoided in their own persons, but, 
 unfortunately for them, there were no marriagea.ble young 
 gentlemen in the neighbourhood. To find them they must go 
 afield to Exeter or Bath, but to go there was to expose Sir 
 Jonathan to fascinating widows and designing old maids ; and 
 though the knight occasionally suggested a migration to some 
 fashionable resort, the daughters unanimously refused their 
 consent, in their dread of it leading to a stepmother. 
 
 The seven young ladies received Mirelle readily into their 
 society, but were cool towards Orange. The seven bosoms 
 instinctively and together felt suspicious of Orange, and, after 
 the remark their father had made, hostile towards her, as a 
 dangerous person who must be kept out of Sir Jonathan's 
 sight. 
 
 Orange had found that storm-beaten coast a very dull 
 world. When Captain Trecarrel appeared in it, she felt relief 
 and saw a chance of escape from it. Poor Mirelle Avas not pre- 
 pared to receive the Cajitain with composure. The remem- 
 brance of what had passed between them on Christmas morn- 
 ing Avas too fresh, and she felt too keenly that it was her 
 confession of love for him that had separated her from her 
 husband, and would remain as a barrier keeping him away. 
 She had been living a peaceful and lonely life at Welltown, 
 and from seeing no more of Trecari-el her feelings towards him 
 had become less intense. In time she hoped that this acuteness 
 would be sufficiently blunted to enable her to think more of 
 John Herring. She knew that it was her duty to love him, 
 and she would try to do so, but to do so she must first forget 
 Trecarrel. She was struggling with her heart, to hold it down, 
 and bend it towards her husband. She allowed no thought to 
 recur to Trecarrel. She shut her eyes against every flash of 
 recollection that illitmined him, as if to remember him were a 
 Bin. None suspected what Avas passing within, under that 
 frozen exterior. She seemed wholly emotionless, and yet
 
 THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 377 
 
 Orange knew that she was unhappy, was suffering, though she 
 neither knew the extent nor the occasion of her suffering. 
 Orange, who had never striven against any inclination or 
 current of thought, had no suspicion of the systematic, de- 
 liberate and obstinate battle Mirelle was fighting with her own 
 heart. 
 
 And now, when the first resistance was broken, when she 
 had gained some little successes, preludes of a complete 
 victory, the Captain reappeared, introduced into the house by 
 Orange to turn the scale of battle against her conscience. 
 Mirelle received him with courtesy, but with coldness. She 
 listened to his conversation without seeming to take interest in 
 it, but out of civility she ventured to say a few words and ask 
 a question, and directly dinner was over she withdrew to her 
 boudoir with an apology, and without a request that he would 
 renew his visit. Captain Trecai-rel was a little disappointed at 
 his reception. He had been profuse in his expressions of 
 delight at accidentally renewing acquaintanceship, and had been 
 pathetic on his distaste for ham and eggs alternating with eggs 
 and ham. 
 
 When Mirelle left the hall, she hastened to her own room, 
 and threw herself on her knees. The trial was more than she 
 could bear. The sight of Trecarrel had vindone in one moment 
 the work of months. 
 
 Orange made amends for Mirelle's neglect. She begged the 
 Captain to come there again for early dinner, whenever he was 
 sketching in that direction ; and as Captain Trecarrel found that 
 the beauties of the portion of the coast south-west of Boscastle 
 were superior to those on the north-east, he was there a good deal. 
 He was surprised to find that neither Mii-elle nor Orange knew 
 anything of the sights of the neighbourhood. He volunteered 
 to escort them. He insisted on taking them to S. Kneigh ton's 
 Kieve, on driving them to Tintagel, and on their exploring tlie 
 ruins of King Arthur's Castle together. They must visit Blacka- 
 pit in a boat. There was a seal-cave that ought to be seen — it 
 was a long way off and must be visited by boat — but the weather 
 was splendid, and the sea was as calm as the Atlantic can be 
 on this coast. The weather was indeed delightful, and the 
 saddest heart could not resist the spring influence which swelled 
 the buds and inspired the birds with song, 
 
 IMirelle allowed herself to be drawn on these excursions 
 only with extreme reluctance. Orange was bent on going, and 
 It was not proper to allow Orange to go alone with the Captain.
 
 378 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 A third person must accompany them, and Mrs. Trampleasure 
 couki not be induced to leave the house, her Bhiir's Sermons, 
 and EolHn's ' Ancient History.' Mirelie felt that the place 
 was dull for Orange, who, with her fulness of life and spirits, 
 needed amusement. She was unable herself to provide her 
 with disti'actious, and she therefoi-e yielded to Orange's solici- 
 tations that they should accept the Captain's oilers, and make 
 these expeditions with him. But Mirelie hoped that each 
 would be the last. The Captain was always on the eve of 
 leaving to prosecvite his tour, nevertheless there he remained. 
 This was becoming unendurable to Ivlirelle ; the strain on her 
 was too great. Captain Trecarrel was very civil to Orange, 
 but in her presence never more than very civil. Orange gave 
 him every possible encouragement, but he still hesitated. He 
 would not speak till he had sounded Mii^elle as to the source 
 and extent of Oi-ange's property and expectations, and Mirelie 
 never gave him the opportunity of speaking with her alone. 
 Till he knew for certain what Orange was worth, and whether 
 the five thousand pounds were really hers, or merely fluttered 
 in his face to lure him on, he would not commit himself. Nor 
 Avas this the only cause of his hesitation. Since he had come to 
 Boscastle he had heard of the Misses Phyllack, seven co- 
 heiresses, and he had done himself the honour of calling on Sir 
 Jonathan. There was some remote connection, between the 
 families which justified him in paying a visit now that he was 
 in the neighbourhood. He was graciously received by the 
 young ladies, whose hearts were set in a flutter by his lan- 
 guishing blue eyes, and cordially by Sir Jonathan, who was 
 delighted to have some one to talk to. So he dropped into the 
 manor-house of an evening to take a hand at whist, and to talk 
 about remote cousins, and to be an apple of discord among the 
 seven sisters. If the seven Misses Phyllack had but one hand 
 between them on which he could put the ring. Captain Tre- 
 carrel would not have hesitated to marry them all ; but one 
 out of seven coheiresses meant one seventh of Sir Jonathan's 
 property when Sir Jonathan was dead, and the old knight 
 looked remarkably robvist; it meant also very little indeed, 
 should the old gentleman max-ry again, and beget a son. Now, 
 over the walnuts and wine one evening, when the daughters 
 were out of hearing, Sir Jonathan had ventured on a remark 
 about Orange : ' Fine woman that — deuced good-looking ; my 
 daughters won't let me look at a handsome face, but I may 
 give them the slip some day.' This made Trecarrel uneasy,
 
 THE RETURN OP THE 'WANBERER. 379 
 
 and next day he redoubled his attentions to Orange, and made 
 no call at the manor. 
 
 Orange watched IMirelle, and saw th;vt she loved Captain 
 Trecarrel. She saw it in the struggle made by Mirelle to 
 escape his society, by her reluctance to join in the excvu^sions 
 he proposed. Orange was suspicious of the Captain. Was he 
 there for her sake, or becavise he was still attracted by IMirelle ? 
 She watched him closely. He was attentive to Mirelle, and 
 his eye rested on her inquiringly now and then, when he 
 thought he was unobserved. 
 
 Why, unless he still loved Mirelle, did he not ask Orange 
 to be to him what she had been before 1 What stood in his 
 way 1 That he was waiting till he knew all the particulars 
 abovTt her five thousand pounds, and till he had made up his 
 mind about the Misses Phyllack, never occurred to her. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 
 
 For some time the stress of work at Upaver, and anxiety about 
 both the success of the mine and the decline of Mr. Battishill's 
 health, had kept under the yearning of John Herring's heart to 
 see Mirelle again. Love was ever paramount, pain ever present, 
 but he resolutely suppressed his desire to be with her. Duty 
 kept him at West Wyke, and av^aj from Welltown. 
 
 When, however, Mr. Battishill's life had ebbed away, and 
 the first grief of Cicely was overpassed, and when Upaver mine 
 was in full working order, when the spring Avas well on, and 
 earth and sky were full of love, and joy, and hope, then the 
 hunger of his heart became exacting. He must return to Well- 
 town, see Mirelle, and may-be renew his pain. 
 
 The spring flowers were very lovely, and he brought bunches 
 of them to Cicely ; but that Avas not the same as offering them 
 to Mirelle. It was pleasant to hear Cicely's gentle voice, with 
 the faintest touch of Devonshire brogue in it ; but that was 
 nothing to the delight of listening to the tones of Mirelle's 
 English tinged with French. He must see and hear her again. 
 He could endure his banishment no longer. 
 
 The lodestone mountain drew ships to it, and when they 
 came near extracted from them their bolts and nails, and the 
 vessels went to pieces at its feet. Mirelle was his Jodestone,
 
 380 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 and, even at the risk of a final and fatal wreck to his happiness, 
 he must see her. 
 
 He still entertained the hope that in time Mirelle might 
 learn to desire his presence, might come to think that life at 
 Welltown would be pleasanter were he there to enliven it, might 
 cease to shrink from him in that vague terror she had shown 
 when he had told her his love, and when he had married her. 
 She regarded him. Might not this regard deepen into a warmer 
 sentiment 1 
 
 Herring had told Cicely nothing. She had not made a 
 second attempt to force her way into his confidence. It is 
 difficult to say to what extent she suspected the state of his 
 heart. She certainly had no knowledge of his marriage. 
 Mirelle was never mentioned by either of them. He knew that 
 Cicely instinctively disliked her, and she knew that he admired 
 her, though she hardly suspected that he did more than greatly 
 admire her. 
 
 Herring's position at West "Wyke was anomalous. The 
 people — that is, the workmen at the mine, and the farmers and 
 cotters on the estate — called him the young Squire, and supposed 
 that he was a near relative, and the heir to the property. They 
 sometimes spoke of him as young Squire Battishill. There 
 were few neighbours of the class of the Battishills, and those 
 that were had long ceased to call on the old gentleman and his 
 daughter. They themselves were mounting in the world, and 
 the Battishills were falling. He gave no entertainments, and 
 kept no carriage, not even a gig. This class therefore did not 
 concern itself with the affi\irs at \Vest Wyke, after it had done 
 the civil thing of attending his funeral. Nevertheless John 
 Herring felt that the situation was unsatisfactory. He would 
 have liked to take Cicely to Welltown to stay with Mirelle, for 
 change of air and scene, and to have persuaded Mirelle to return 
 with them to "West Wyke, when he was recalled by the concerns 
 of the mine. But, as matters stood between him and his wife, 
 this was not possible. 
 
 At times he fell into a daydream, which brightened hia 
 spirits for a few hours. He thought that perhaps now Mirelle 
 might bid him stay by her. Then his future would be changed, 
 the spring would burst forth in his heart, as in surrounding 
 nature. Till then the frost must lie within. He must go home 
 and learn his fate. He could stay away no longer. No — no I 
 West Wyke was not home. He must see if the ice were thaw- 
 ing at Welltown.
 
 A PRIVATE INTER VIE"W. 381 
 
 So he bade farewell to Cicely and Joyce, set the men at 
 Upaver theii- tasks, and departed. 
 
 There was another motive in his heart drawing him back to 
 Welltown — another beside his desire of again seeing Mirelle. 
 In the locked drawer of his office desk he had left his confession 
 to Mirelle — his confession of the fact that all the money that 
 had been spent to buy up the West Wyke mortgages, that had 
 been sunk in Upaver, and that which had been given to Orange, 
 and that also which Mirelle was now enjoying, was her own, 
 the proceeds of the sale of the uncut diamonds her father had 
 brought to England from Brazil — the diamonds in which he had 
 invested his fortune as a convenient and portable form in which 
 to transfer it from one country to another. He did not v/ish 
 Mirelle to see this. He did not wish it, for his own sake and for 
 hers. For good or for ill — it seemed wholly for ill — the thing 
 had been done, and could not be recalled. By no means could 
 the effects of the 'mistake be avoided. If she knew the circum- 
 stances, nothing she could do would alter them, and the know- 
 ledge would only give her additional and renewed pain, for she 
 might well suppose that had it come to her earlier she would 
 have been saved from taking the fatal step that could not now 
 be retraced. Putting his own wishes aside entirely. Herring 
 could see that the only chance of happiness open to Mirelle was 
 for her to accept the situation, draw towards him, and learn to 
 love him. Were the truth now to break on her, the breach 
 would become irreparable. He knew that he had acted towards 
 her unselfishly and conscientiously, and the error into which he 
 had fallen had been an error of judgment. But would she 
 believe this? Was it not far more probable that she would 
 suppose he had acted with selfish premeditation from the first, 
 and thus become for ever embittered against him 1 
 
 His anxiety about the confession grew as he thought this 
 over and fevered him as he walked. He resolved directly on 
 Lis arrival to destroy the document. Why had he not done so 
 before instead of leaving it ] Because he had been flurried at 
 leaving, and had thought that it might be useful on some future 
 occasion. The drawer was locked, and therefore he had no 
 cause for fear, but nevertheless he was uneasy. Other keys 
 besides his own might unlock it, and though he did not believe 
 that Mirelle "would wilfully and knowingly pry into what he 
 wished to keep concealed, yet it Avas possible that his wordt; 
 relative to the locked drawer when he left her had been un- 
 heeded, and that, finding a key whei-e with to open it, she might
 
 382 JOHN HERIIIJJO. 
 
 look in for some mislaid paper or account needed by the fore- 
 man of the slate-quarry, and when the drawer was opened sba 
 would see the packet lying in it addressed to herself. Herring 
 went accordingly to Willapark first, and with his private key 
 unlocked the ofiice, and then locked himself in. The office was 
 much as he had left it, and yet not entirely. Some one had 
 been there. The chairs were in unusual places. The position 
 of the desk Avas changed. Probably Genefer had done this in 
 dusting or cleaning. He opened the drawer immediately, and 
 saAv that the packet was gone. 
 
 Herring sat down on his bed to think. He was almost 
 certain that the letter had been put in the locked drawer, and 
 yet, when he came to revolve in his mind the events of the night 
 and morning when the letter had been written and put away, 
 he found that he could be certain of nothing about it save that 
 he had written, made up, and addressed the packet. He had 
 purposed putting it in the drawer and locking it up. He 
 believed he had done as he purposed, but it was possible that, 
 in the confusion and distress in which he then was, he might 
 have omitted to do so. If the letter had been put elsewhere, 
 it must have been put in his cupboard. This cupboard con- 
 sisted of a set of shelves that had been run up in a recess, com- 
 bined with an extemporised wardrobe, Adhere he kept his suit in 
 which he went out boating and shooting. 
 
 The cupboard was not closed with a door, but had a curtain 
 on an iron bar in front of it, which latter turned on a crook. 
 He went at once to this closet and thrust the bar and curtain 
 aside so as to get into the recess and examine tlie shelves. To 
 this place he had gone for the bullets on that turning night in 
 his life. He mounted a stool to explore the upper shelves. He 
 would not leave one imsearched till he had found the missing 
 packet. V/hilst thus engaged he heard a key put into the lock, 
 and the door opened. He was surprised, and remained where 
 he was, screened from view. 
 
 Then he heard Mirelle say : ' Captain Trecarrel, I sent for 
 you to meet me here in private, as I have something to say to 
 you which I do not wish Ora.ige to hear, because it concerns 
 Orange.' 
 
 * Mirelle,' replied the Captain, ' I also have been desirous of 
 seeing you in private, as I also have something to say to you 
 which is not for Orange's ears.' 
 
 Thefii"st impression on Herring's mind on hearing these words 
 vraa surprise at Llirelle's indiscretion in arranging a private
 
 A TRIVATE INTERVIEW 383 
 
 interview with the Captain. Not a shadow of suspicion of 
 other motives than what were honourable crossed him. It had 
 never occurred to him thatTrecarrelwas the man Mirelle loved. 
 Had he known this, nevertheless not a thought of anything un- 
 worthy of her would have entered his mind. He saw that she 
 had acted in ignorance of conventional proprieties. His first 
 impulse was to step forward and show himself. On second 
 thoughts he refrained fi'om doing so. He refrained forMirelle's 
 own sake. If he were suddenly to emerge from behind the 
 curtain it would bring home to her at once the impropriety of 
 her conduct, embarrass and distress her, and place both her and 
 the Captain in a very awkward position. The interview was 
 about Orange, and there could be no reason why he should not 
 overhear it, and indeed take a part in it, unless it were, as he 
 supposed, concerning the Captain's engagement to Orange. If 
 that were so it would be kindest to allow Mirelle to have her 
 few words about it with Trecarrel, and he — John Herring — 
 would tell her immediately after that he had overheard the 
 conversation.' 
 
 ' Je vous donne le pas, Monsieur le Capitaine.' 
 
 * Je le prends de bon gre, madame,' replied Trecarrel. * But 
 as I think in English and not in French, perhaps you will allow 
 me to say what I want in my native tongue.' 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 * In the first place, then, let me speak about my book on the 
 Cornish Coast scenery. I think it advisable that you should 
 possess early copies — proofs before the plates are worn. I think 
 you offered to take three copies at five guineas.' 
 
 ' I believe I did. Have you secured a publisher 1 * 
 ' No, not yet, but that is a matter of secondary importanco. 
 A publisher can always be secured for drawings such as mine, of 
 scenery that has such historic interest — King Arthur, Uther 
 Pendragon, Gwenever, and so on.' 
 « No doubt.' 
 
 * If not inconvenient to you, would you mind letting me 
 have your subscription at once 1 I want, you undei-stand, to 
 secure you unrubbed copies.' 
 
 ' You shall have the money to-morrow.' 
 
 ' You quite see that I am pressing this entirely in your own 
 interest. There is a material difference between early copies 
 and late impressions, and first subscribers who have paid up 
 will, as a matter of strict justice, be given the best and sharpest 
 copies.'
 
 384 JOHN HEERINa. 
 
 'Quite so.' 
 
 * There was another matter on which I wished to speak to 
 you. A man was saved from the wreck of the " Susanna" in 
 the winter. That man gave out his name as George Bidgood. 
 You, I understand, gave him shelter. You are aware who 
 
 he is r 
 
 ' I saw him brought ashore,' 
 
 * You know then that he is no more George Bidgood than I 
 am. George Bidgood was the seaman onboard the " Susanna," 
 and was lost in it. The man who was rescued from the waves 
 was Sampson Tramplara, but, as he desired to disguise the fact 
 that he had been saved and was alive, he took for the occasion 
 the name of the drowned man, and there was no one in Bos- 
 castle who knew otherwise except yourself. Sampson dis- 
 appeared after that, but he has just turned up again, as it 
 happens, at an awkward moment for himself, for the " Chough" 
 has come into harbour, and the mate of the " Chough " — a little 
 smack that trades between this place and Bristol — knew Bid- 
 good intimately, and the same man had learned in Bristol that 
 a swindler had made off in the " Susanna," and was supposed 
 to have been lost in her. Last night Sampson was at the Ship 
 Inn drinking, when the mate of the " Chough " came in and 
 joined the party. In the course of conversation Sam])son was 
 spoken of as Bidgood ; this led to an explanation, and then the 
 mate charged him with being the man Avhom justice was pur- 
 suing, disguising himself under Bidgood's name. There was a 
 disturbance, Sampson was drunk, and in the scuifie he stabbed 
 the mate, and made his escape.' 
 
 * Mon Dieu ! le pauvre homme ! est-il mort 1 ' 
 
 * No. The man is not dead, but he has been mortally 
 wounded. However, the condition of the mate concerns us 
 only in a secondary manner — the fate of Sampson is that with 
 which we have to do.' 
 
 ' He must suffer for what he has done.' 
 
 ' Will you speak to Orange, and tell her what has taken 
 place 1 ' 
 
 Mirelle hesitated a moment, and then said, * If necessary I 
 will do so.' 
 
 ' It is necessary. Sampson must not be taken here. The 
 mate is mortally wounded ; Sampson must be helped to escape. 
 If he wants money and means of escape he must be provided 
 with them.'
 
 A PRITATE IKTEKTIE^V'. 385 
 
 * I will not assist him with money or means of escape. He 
 has done wrong, and must take the consequences.' 
 
 * You are right, no doubt, in principle, but the world cannot 
 go on upon principle ; it must have its workings eased to suit 
 convenience. It will never do that he should be taken hei-e, 
 and your relationship to the scoundrel come out.' 
 
 ' It cannot be helped.' 
 
 * But you must consider Orange and her mother. By the 
 way, there is another matter I must mention. I have had a 
 talk with Sampson — of course, before this last unpleasant affair 
 with the mate of the " Chough." He was not shy of me, for he 
 knew I would not betray him. During our conversation he 
 let drop some insinuations against your — against Mr. Herring. 
 He says that Mr. Herring robbed you of the greater portion of 
 your fortune, without either you or Mr. Tramplara, your guar- 
 dian, knowing or suspecting it.' 
 
 ' Stop,' said Mirelle haughtily ; * not another word, Captain 
 Trecarrel. Mr. John Herring is incapable of acting otherwise 
 than honourably, and I refuse absolutely to listen to slanders 
 that issue from the mouth of Sampson Trampleasure.' 
 
 ' You are right, Countess, quite right. I was as indignant 
 as you are now. I positively refused to believe it. But he 
 proceeded to enforce his hints with circumstances.' 
 
 ' Captain Trecarrel, you must have understood me very im- 
 perfectly. I refuse to hear another word on this offensive and 
 insiilting topic. If you have done speaking about the escape of 
 Mr. Sampson Trampleasure, let me say what I desire to say. 
 Mr. John Herring is an honourable man, and in his absence I 
 am the guardian of his honour.' 
 
 ' I also shut my ears when Sampson said what he did,* 
 continued Captain Trecarrel ; * I had no intention of saying 
 anything to you about the reflections he cast on the chai-acter 
 of your husband, which might be disagreeable for you to hear ; I 
 mention this only as supplying an additional reason for getting 
 Sampson Tramplara out of the way, even by heljnng him with 
 money. It would be most unpleasant for you were he to make 
 disclosures affecting John Herring's character ■' 
 
 ' He can make no such disclosures. John Herring's character 
 cannot be impeached.' 
 
 * Certainly — I used the wrong term ; were he to hint ' 
 
 * The hints of such as he can do no harm.' 
 
 * There you are wrong ; they would be eagerly listened to. 
 and believed. John Herring is not here to defend himself, and 
 
 c c
 
 386 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 as you say you are the guardian of his honour, I think it is 
 your duty to save him this annoyance.' 
 
 ' If that be so, let him escape. It goes against my con 
 science, but, to save my husband unpleasantness, I will do 
 what you ask. I will give him money. You may take my 
 purse.' 
 
 ' Excuse me. I shall not see the fellow. He is not likely 
 to show again at the Ship, nor am I likely to come across him 
 anywhere in my walks. But he will not leave without having 
 seen Orange. She must have provided him with money before, 
 and his return to Boscastle now means that he has spent all 
 ehe let him have, and wants more.' 
 
 * I will speak to Orange, and give her money. But now 
 that this hateful subject is settled, you will allow me to speak 
 to you about Orange.' 
 
 * I am ready to hear anything you may say.' 
 
 Mu-elle hesitated. She began to tremble, and cast her 
 eyes on the ground. ' Orange,' she began — ' that is to say, I 
 mean — but. Captain Trecarrel, it is hard for me to say what I 
 want, and you ought not to have put the necessity on mp of 
 saying it. You are not acting fairly by Orange, or — by me. I 
 am sure that — that Orange regards you very, very much ; you 
 were engaged to marry her, and I tliink — I do think you are 
 bound in honour to do so. She is not happy; I can see that 
 she frets. You are trifling with her heart. Why are you 
 here ? Why do you not prosecute your journey 1 Time presses ; 
 ycu must finish your series of sketches whilst the fine weather 
 lasts. Why, then, do you remain here, and come up to Well- 
 town every day, and make excursions with us, and — why do 
 f on not leave us in peace 1 ' 
 
 ' You, you, Mirelle, urge me to make Orange Trampleasiire 
 my wife after ' 
 
 She cut him shoii;. ' You are bound to marry her. Do 
 you not see that yourself 1 You were engaged to her before 
 that miserable affair of Ophir intervened to destroy her 
 happiness.' 
 
 ' After what I told you, Mirelle, that Christmas Day ? ' 
 
 ' Forbear ! ' said Mirelle ; ' never recur to, nor allude to 
 that again, I have forgotten it — that is, I try, I pray to for- 
 get it. Yes, I entreat yon to take Orange.' 
 
 * There are several objections,' said Trecarrel. 'In the first 
 place, I cannot afford it.' 
 
 * Orange has five thousand pounds,
 
 A PRIVATE intehview 387 
 
 * Has she no more 1 ' 
 
 * Not that I am aware of.' 
 
 * What puzzles me is, how did she come by the money ? I 
 thought everything had gone when that scamp Sampson bolted.' 
 
 'That is easily explained. John Herring gave her the 
 money.' 
 
 ' He gave Orange five thousand pounds ! This is incredible. 
 What claim had she on him 1 ' 
 
 ' She had been kind to. me. I asked him to do it.' 
 
 * An exemplaiy husband ! But how the deuce did he come 
 by so much money 1 I know what Welltown is worth. He 
 cannot have saved it — men in the army spend, they do not 
 save ; he cannot have made it. He did not inherit it. 
 Whence did it come?' 
 
 ' That concerns neither you nor me to know.' 
 
 * Orange then really has, of her own, five thousand pounds.' 
 'Yes.' 
 
 * Has she prospects of more 1 ' 
 
 * I believe not.' 
 
 ' Five thousand pounds ! By the way, would it be possible 
 to organise a picnic conjointly with the Misses Pbyllack to 
 Crackington Cove*? The old knight to stay at home.' 
 
 * Captain Trecarrel, you are evading the point. You are 
 trying to turn the subject. I am anxious; I am troubled. 
 Do not play with me. It cost me a severe struggle to make 
 up my mind to speak to you alone, and on this subject.' 
 
 * Why should it cost you a struggle ? ' 
 
 * It has — that is enough. Do you not see ? I am pleading 
 for a — a sister ; for her happiness. Can you not understand 
 that I am shy of doing this, and that I only do it as a duty, 
 and for the sake of a sister 1 ' 
 
 'Mirelle!' said the Captain, slowly. He looked hard at 
 her, ' That is not it, I can read your heart more clearly than 
 you think. You are desirous of getting me to marry Orange so 
 as to erect a double wall of duty between yourself and me — it 
 is because you doubt your own fortitiide unless double-steeled 
 with a sense of twofold duty ' 
 
 ' Captain Trecarrel ! ' exclaimed Mirelle, in deadly ter'ror — 
 for he had divined and given expression to her real motive, * I 
 pray you, say nothing about me. Put me altogether out of 
 )-our thoughts. Speak only of Orange.' 
 
 ' You see there is this confounded business about Sampson 
 in the way. Suppose the fellow be apprehended — and the 
 
 cc2
 
 388 JOHN HERRINO. 
 
 •whole of Boscastle is alive and out after him — and suppose th? 
 mate dies, as is most probable, Sampson will swing. Do you 
 not see that I cannot well quarter the chevronels with a 
 gallows 1 ' 
 
 ' He shall escape — he must escape. Orange shall have the 
 money ! Captain Trecarrel, either take Orange or go your 
 way to the Land's End.' 
 
 * I want time to consider.' 
 
 * Take time, but not too much. Now leave me.' 
 
 * Oh, Mirelle, is not this cruel of you — of you who knew 
 the state of my heart, what I have suffered, and am suffering 
 
 Btill ' 
 
 * Leave me ! ' said Mirelle. She trembled in every limb. 
 * Leave me ! — leave me ! ' 
 
 He hesitated a moment, and then went out. 
 
 She stood looking at the door. Then her pent-up feelings 
 burst forth. She cast herself on her knees, and sobbed and 
 cried, ' My God ! my God ! forgive me ! I love him still ! I 
 have striven against it ! Thou knowest the secrets of the 
 heart. I love him stUl ! ' Then the door burst open, and 
 Orange came in, her face livid with rage, and her large eyes 
 flashing hate. 
 
 'What is this? — is this? — you meet Captain Trecarrel in 
 secret and alone here ? ' 
 
 * I beg your pardon, Miss Tram pleasure,' said Herring, 
 stepping forward ; * not in secret nor alone. I have a right, I 
 presume, to see any one or two in my own room that I choose.' 
 
 Mirelle looked up dazed. Her eyes were blind with tears. 
 She understood nothing of what was going on, neither how 
 Orange had come in, nor whence Herring had risen. 
 
 Orange looked first at Herring, then at Mirelle, still kneel- 
 ing and with tears in her eyes and on her cheeks, and laughed 
 scornfully. 
 
 ' I apologise, Mr. Herring. I have intruded on the con- 
 fession of a penitent.' 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 THE PORCH ROOM. 
 
 Herring gave his arm to Mirelle to conduct her back to 
 Welltown. He did not say much to her, as his own heart waa 
 full, and she, he knew, needed time to recover herself.
 
 THE PORCH ROOM. 389 
 
 Now he knew all. He had never suspected an attachment 
 for the Captain, but had supposed that she had lost her heart 
 to some one in France. What he now learned increased his 
 trouble. Separation from a lover on the other side of the 
 Channel might, in time, have effaced or obscured his image, 
 but Trecarrel was too near to be forgotten. Herring saw that 
 Trecarrel had perceived that Mirelle's efforts to bring about a 
 reconciliation and re-engagement with Orange were dictated by 
 alarm for herself, by her desire to erect a double barrier 
 between herself and the man she loved, so as to afford her 
 conscience a double reason for mastering her affection for him. 
 
 Herring did not wish to speak with Mirelle on this subject 
 till later — till he had had time to think over the situation in 
 which he and she were now placed. He therefore said a few 
 words on ordinary topics during the walk to Well town. He 
 observed that she seemed even frailer and more bloodless than 
 before. The strong air of the coast had not braced her into 
 vigorous life, but seemed to overpower the feeble life that pul- 
 sated in her veins. 
 
 ' You do not grow stronger, Mirelle 1 ' 
 
 * I am well in body,' she said. 
 
 * I do not think so. You ought to see a doctor — you look 
 60 thin and white.' 
 
 ' The only doctor I need is the sun,' she answered, ' and hia 
 visits are so few that they must be costly.' 
 
 * But this wonderful stimulating air ' 
 
 * There is too much air. It is never at rest — always blow- 
 ing. I dislike the wind. And the sea is always tossing and 
 thundering. The leaves on the plants, the blades of grass, 
 are never still, but always fluttering and swaying. The waves 
 are ever battering and gnawing at the rocks. Oh for a Mediter- 
 ranean — a tideless sea ! I want peace, stillness, a calm ; with 
 the sun shining, and no sea near, and no noise save the hum of 
 bees. Here there are no bees ; the wind carries them out 
 to sea, and they drown in the brine. You do not understand 
 me. Here there are no butterflies ; the wind breaks their 
 wings. You do not comprehend my state of mind.' 
 
 ' Yes, I think so. You like a hot climate.' 
 
 * I love warmth, but I love stillness better. That is what 
 my soul craves for and cannot obtain. Here the flowers do not 
 bloom — they blow away. Here the birds do not sing — they 
 scream. Here we have weeks of gloomy skies. I want no 
 shadow at all, save that of a cross flung over a hot, white road.
 
 390 JOHN narauNQ. 
 
 Bub one sees no crosses here, only signposts. We bear our 
 own crosses hammered red-hot into our lives.' 
 
 The evening was beautiful. The sun was setting over the 
 sea, making a road of quivering gold upon the waves. The air 
 was warm. Herring looked round. The scene was grandly 
 beautiful. He wondered that Mirelle could not love it. 
 
 He went into the house, and had tea in the hall with her 
 and Mrs. Trampleasure. Orange feigned a headache and did 
 not appear. 
 
 Then he ascended the stairs with Mirelle to the little boudoir 
 or porch room ; he must have a conversation with her in private 
 before again leaving. 
 
 The room was small ; it was pleasant, prettily furnished 
 with rose-coloured satin curtains, the walls white and gold. 
 But the damp had come through the paper and formed black 
 fungoid stains, disfiguring all one side. There was no fireplace 
 in the room, so that it could only be used in summer. In the 
 corner stood the bureau in which Mirelle kept the jewels, a - 
 bureau of inlaid wood, with ornamental brasswork about the 
 locks and handles. The chairs were white and gold. Herring 
 had spent a good deal of money on this room, hoping that it 
 would please Mirelle, and that she would be hapj^y in it. 
 
 He took a chair. She seated herself in the window on the 
 low seat. She opened the casement, and the summer air was 
 wafted in, bearing on its wings the murmur of the sea. 
 
 ' Mirelle,' he said, ' I overheard all that passed in the oflBce 
 on Willapark. I vras there when you came in, but I did not 
 show myself, lest by so doing I should cause you embarrass- 
 ment. Excuse my saying it, but I do not think you acted 
 wisely in inviting Captain Treearrel to meet you there.' 
 
 ' No, I do not think I did, but I could not in any other way 
 get a word in private with him.' 
 
 * And you wished to urge him to marry Orange. I think 
 with you that in honour he is bound to take her.' 
 
 * Yes, I wish that very much.' 
 
 * At the same time I think your interference ill-calculated 
 to advance the cause you have at heart. It was indiscreet of 
 you, Mirelle.' 
 
 * Perhaps so. You are always right, and know what ought 
 to be done, and do it.' After a pause, she said : * Yes, it was 
 not wise of me. I will never do it again. But then, consider, 
 I was alone, and had no one to advise me, for in this matter I 
 could not consult Orange. When I was at the Sacre Ccevu', I
 
 THE ronCH ROOM. 391 
 
 knew my way about the dear home in the dark, but here I am 
 in a world without orientation. All the familiar landmarks fail 
 me, all the ways lead in unknown directions. I am translated, 
 morally, into a country that I am expected to travel through 
 without a map or a guide.' 
 
 ' Mirelle, if you like, you have only to say the word, and I 
 will stay here as your adviser. You are too weak.' 
 
 ' No, my good friend, I am not weak.' 
 
 * "Weak in body, Mirelle — not weak in character.' 
 
 * 'No ; I will always do my duty, as I see it.' 
 
 * You are too inexperienced to be left alone.' 
 *I have Orange with me.' 
 
 'But what is Orange as an adviser? You confessed as 
 mvich just now when you admitted you were without a guide. 
 Mirelle! I am sure Orange does not like you. She is' — he 
 was about to add 'jealous,' but he checked himself — '.she is not 
 a desirable person to have about you perpetually. I do not 
 trust her sincerity.' 
 
 ' I do. I have never done anything to make her dislike 
 me.' 
 
 He remained silent. It was difficult for him to speak the 
 truth, and yet it must be spoken for her sake. 
 
 ' Orange is strongly attached to Captain Trecarrel ; that 
 you know,' said Herring. ' Now a loving woman is a suspicious 
 woman. He will not renew his engagement with her, he 
 shirks doing so; and she seeks an explanation of his conduct, 
 and finds it where she has no right to look for it.' 
 
 Mirelle turned her face to Herring, 
 
 ' I told you all, that evening after we had been married. 
 You know that something passed between him and me, not 
 much, just enough to ' 
 
 ' Yes, Mirelle, you told me that your heart was a treasure 
 I might not possess, but you did not inform me to whom you 
 had surrendered it.' 
 
 ' I did not 1 I failed in my duty. I intended to do so, 
 my friend.' 
 
 ' You did not, but now I have found it out.' 
 
 ' Oh, John Herring, do not say that I surrendered my 
 heart. That I never did. It was drawn from mc, and I 
 fought against it, I prayed against it. God help me ! I have 
 been very miserable : I am miserable still. You are not angry 
 with me ? I could not help myself.' 
 
 •I— I angry with ;?ou? No, Mii'elle, never; you have
 
 392 JOHN HBRRINQ. 
 
 done me no wrong. If wrong has been done, it has been done 
 by me to you.' 
 
 ' I have suffered, because since I married you 1 knew it was 
 wrong to think of another man, and I do believe I should have 
 conquered in the end had not Captain Trecarrel come here. T 
 thought he came after Orange, and I have done my best to 
 promote her interests. I want him to go away, and then I 
 will begia my battle over again. He wUl leave now, and in 
 time I shall have conquered the thoughts I ought not to 
 harbour.' 
 
 'Mirelle — one word. Shall I stay here? I shall not 
 trouble you with my presence more than is absolutely necessary. 
 My old office shall be my home, but I shall be at hand to 
 advise and to help you.' 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 * I have no right to say Go, or Stay. You must act as you 
 see fit. You are master here ; you are my husband ; this is 
 your house. But if you will listen to my prayer, I will ask 
 you to go away again — not for long, for a little while. I want 
 rest ; I want to be quite alone with God and my own heart. I 
 have got a wrestle to go through, and I had rather undertake 
 it without a spectator. Do not be afraid for me. I shall come 
 out victorious in the end, I do not doubt that. Only, these 
 wrestles take a great deal of strength out of me. "When I feel 
 better, and know that the worst is over, I will write to you, 
 and then come, and I shall be able to see you. You are still 
 my friend — nothing I have said or done has altered that ] ' 
 
 * No, no— Mirelle.' 
 
 * I always respect and honour you. I know that you are 
 upright and good, and I would love you if I could. I may do 
 so some day, but the weed must be rooted out before the grain 
 is sown.' 
 
 'Yery well, Mirelle. You said as we walked back from 
 Willapark that here we have the cross hammered into our 
 lives. You have yours, I have mine. It must be so. Per- 
 haps a better time may be in store for both of us. ' 
 
 * Perhaps.' She looked sadly out of the window. The sun 
 had set, and the golden path on the sea was turned to quick- 
 silver. She rose and moved towards the door into her own room. 
 
 * I am very tired. Shall we say Good night 1 ' 
 
 * And good-bye. I leave before morning.' 
 
 * It is best so.' 
 
 She hung about the door, looking timidly at him. Her
 
 THE PORCH KOOM. 393 
 
 hand was on the latch, and it shook ; she removed it, but pre- 
 sently put it on again. 
 
 ' When am I to return 1 In a month, or two months 1 ' ha 
 asked. 
 
 She shook her head. * I cannot say; I will write to you. 
 Qive me your address before you leave.' 
 
 * There are one or two little matters connected with oui 
 affairs here that ought to be discussed.' 
 
 'Here is the key of my bureau. "Will you write your 
 instructions ? They shall be carried out faithfully. I am very 
 tired. You said I was weak ; I am weak in body. Write at 
 my desk, and leave the note in it, and the key in the lock.' 
 
 * Very well, Mirelle ; good-bye ! ' 
 
 ' Then she raised her great dark eyes to him, and came 
 tremblingly towards him. 
 
 * Kiss me,' she said ; ' you have a right to that/ 
 
 He took her pale face between his hands, and reverently 
 kissed her cheek, and a salt tear off it was received by his lips. 
 He knew that she did not love him, he knew that her cheek was 
 offered him only because of the strong sense of duty at her heart, 
 and because she felt that some reparation was due for the bitter 
 pain she had caused him. 
 
 When he had let her go she bowed her head, and with 
 lowered eyes and a hectic spot of colour on the cheek that he 
 had touched, without another word or look, she disappeared 
 through the door. 
 
 Herring sat for a few moments with his hands over his face, 
 and then went to the bureau, opened it, and, taking some 
 paper, wrote on it his address, and various memoranda relative 
 to the house and quaiTy. When he had done he closed the 
 desk, turned the key, descended the stairs, and left the house. 
 As he went through the gate he thought he saw a man behind 
 the wall near the entrance to the yard, and, supposing this was 
 Hender, Herring cast him a good night. There was no reply, 
 but this caused him no surprise ; Hender was a surly man, not 
 addicted to the courtesies of life. Herring did not give him 
 another thought ; he had enough to trouble his mind without 
 care for Hender's manners. 
 
 His conversation with Mirelle had been, in a measure, 
 satisfactory — as satisfactory as he could expect. There was 
 some faint hope before him ; she was doing her best to over- 
 come that unfortunate passion which stood as a dividing wall 
 between them. Time would assist her efforts, which Herring
 
 S94 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 knew were sincere, and then perhaps she might come to care 
 for him. She valued him now ; she had not shrunk from 
 him as before, but had freely volunteered a kiss. She had 
 assured him that but a short while would elapse before she 
 would recall him. When the weed was eradicated, then the 
 corn would grow. The hope set before him was not a great 
 one ; still it was something to have a hope at all. He went 
 back to Willapark, resolved to examine the quarry accounts, 
 write iiistructions to the captain, and depart that night on his 
 return to West Wyke, He would walk back, and therefore 
 not go by IjOAinceston, but strike across country into the 
 Hols worthy and Okehampton road. 
 
 Not many minutes after Herring had left Welltown, that 
 man whom he had observed behind the yard wall crept forth 
 with a ladder that he had taken from an outhouse. He looked 
 cautiously about him, and then planted the ladder noiselessly 
 against the porch. He threw off his shoes, and swiftly 
 ascended. The window of the boudoir was open, as Mirelle had 
 left it, and the man lifted himself in through it. He stole 
 •across the room over the soft carpet to the bureau. The sky 
 was full of twilight, and everything in the room could be dis- 
 tinguished. The window faced north, and the northern sky 
 was illumined with silvery light. A streak of yellow light 
 beneath the door showed that Mirelle's candle was burning in 
 her bedroom. The man listened. He heard steps coming 
 along the passage. Then a door was opened. It was that into the 
 adjoining bedroom, and a voice was heard speaking. The man 
 smiled ; he knew the voice well — it was that of Orange 
 Trampleasure, and she was speaking to Mirelle. 
 
 Then he turned the key in the bureau, opened it, and 
 searched the well. He soon found the secret drawer, and re- 
 moved from it the diamonds. He was about to close the desk, 
 when he noticed the papers Herring had written, his address, 
 and memoranda. The man caught these up hastily, and then 
 with a low, bitter laugh, and a look full of malignity in the 
 direction of Mirelle's door, he put in their place the packet con- 
 taining Herring's confession to his wife, written the night of his 
 marriage, and stolen from his drawer by Sampson Tramplara. 
 That man who now placed the letter where Mirelle must find it 
 was the same who had stolen it — Sampson Tramplara. 
 
 All this was the work of a few minutes. As rapidly as he 
 had ascended the ladder and entered the room, so did h« 
 descend, replace the ladder where he had found it, and disappear.
 
 NEMESIS. 395 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 John Herring was engaged on the accounts in the office for 
 Bome hours. Whilst thus engaged he heard the door open be- 
 hind him, and, when he turned to look who had come in, saw 
 Sampson Tramplara. 
 
 * What brings you hither 1 ' he asked, springing to his feet, 
 and flushing with anger. 
 
 ' What brings me hither ? ' repeated Sampson, and laughed. 
 * You, Mr. John Herring. I want a quiet talk with you.' 
 
 * Go away at once ; I have nothing to say to you.' 
 
 ' But I have something to say to you, Mister John. In the 
 first place, I want a change of clothes.' 
 ' You must go elsewhere for them.' 
 
 * No, I am going nowhere else. I have set my heart on a 
 boating suit hanging in yonder cupboard, or wardrobe, or what- 
 ever you call it. I have come for that. There are reo>sons that 
 prevent my appearing in public, and in the costume that I now 
 wear, becoming though you may think it. Those reasons are 
 that, if I am seen, I shall be arrested— first, for that confounded 
 Ophir, and, secondly, because last night I stuck a knife into a 
 man with whom I had a brawl in a tavern. So now I call you 
 to find me the suit of clothes in which I may escape. The 
 reason, because it is not to your advantage that I should be 
 taken here. Remember, I am the cousin of your wife ; you 
 have married into my family. Mivelle gave me shelter Avhen 
 shipwrecked, and though she knew who I was, like a sensible 
 girl, she held her tongue. My mother and sister are your 
 guests. If you refuse me clothes, I shall go to your house, and 
 be taken there, in the society, in the presence, of Mrs. John 
 Herring and her cousins. That will be nice and cieditable to 
 the family, will it not? That will be highly entertaining to 
 the ladies, will it not ? I reckon that fellow whom I stuck 
 will hardly recover, and if he dies I must swing for it. Credit- 
 able to the family, to be able to boast of Cousin Sampy who 
 was gallowsed. I suppose I shall be hung in chains here. 
 Pleasant to have a cousin of Mrs. John so exalted within a 
 eniff whenever she walks abroad.' 
 
 ' Take the clothes you want,' said Herring ; * be quick, and 
 be off.'
 
 800 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 Tramplara went to the recess, and took the garments he re- 
 quired, and proceeded to divest himself of his own clothes, and 
 invest himself in Herring's boating and chooting suit. 
 
 * They fit me as if made for me,' said Sampson. * A good 
 substantial suit this. And here is J. H. on the buttons ; that is 
 in style. Look at me. We are the same height, and about 
 the same build ; we have about the same coloured hair. It is 
 a d — d pity that I have not your luck. I want something 
 more now.' 
 
 Sampson proceeded to roll up his old suit. 
 
 * It will not do to leave these garments about ; they would 
 betray my change of skin. I must throw them over the cliffs. 
 It is a fortunate thing that there are no sands here, on which a 
 bundle confided to the waves can be washed ashore. Here the 
 waves and rocks worry what is given them past all recall, 
 within a surprising short time. Look at me. This suit be- 
 comes me. We might be brothers. Now, brother John, I 
 want something wherewith to line the pockets, which I find 
 are empty.' 
 
 Whilst talking, Sampson transferred the contents of the 
 pockets of his old coat to the breast pocket of the waistcoat of 
 his new suit — an inner pocket. As he did so he laughed, and 
 looked comtemptuously at Herring, who was not observing 
 him. That which he transferred was the case containing 
 Mirelle's diamonds. He put that in the inner pocket of his 
 waistcoat, which he buttoned tightly over it. 
 
 * Look here ! ' said he ; * this is all the cash I have, a crown 
 and a halfpenny. Is a crown and a halfpenny enough to carry 
 me across Cornwall and out of England ? I want some blunt, 
 and I will trouble you to find me some.' 
 
 * Go along, you scoundrel ! It is enough for me to have 
 allowed you my old clothes — I will give you no further 
 assistance.' 
 
 * That is a pretty name to give me — scoundrel ! Pray what 
 reason have you for thus entitling me ] ' 
 
 * Every reason. You and yours robbed Mirelle of what 
 her father had left.' 
 
 ■ Sampson laughed. 
 
 ' Oh, this is beautiful ! Virtuous innocence condemns im- 
 penitent vice. Brother John, we are both in the same box. 
 It don't become you to ride the virtuous horse ; it trots 
 beautifully along a smooth road, but I think I can lay some- 
 thing in its way will trip and tumble it over. You have
 
 L 
 
 NEMESIS. 397 
 
 had your pickings, and a d — d richer find yours was than 
 mine.' 
 
 Herring looked at him speechless. "Was this a random 
 shot, or did he know anything ] 
 
 ' You are a proper person to act the moral character. 
 James Strange left my father sole trustee of everything, did he 
 not ] How much of all he left did you allow him to finger, eh ] 
 How much did you keep back for yourself?' Sampson paused 
 for a reply. He stood opposite Herring, with his hands on his 
 hips. * Don't you think it possible that cousin Strange, in 
 leaving Brazil, sent over as much ready money as he thought 
 he might want, and put the bulk of his property into diamonds, 
 which he could dispose of in London at any timel By his will 
 he constituted my father sole trustee of everything — that is, of 
 money and diamonds. My father never caught sight of the 
 diamonds, never laid a finger on one of them, for a very good 
 reason : they were stolen by virtuous John Herring.' 
 
 * This is false.' 
 
 * No, it is true. You did not rummage the trunk of cousin 
 Strange, or take them out, that I'll allow ; but you received 
 the stolen jewels, and the receiver is as bad as the thief, is he 
 notr 
 
 Herring could not speak. 
 
 * My father was constituted trustee. If you had been 
 honest, when you received these diamonds you would at once 
 have taken them to him. You were not honest. You kept 
 them.' 
 
 ' Sampson Trampleasure, I kept them only for Mirelle, in 
 her interest. I knew the character of your father, I knew 
 what he was doing with the rest of the money intrusted to him, 
 and I would not risk the rest of her propei-ty.' 
 
 * Who authorised you to keep it 1 ' 
 
 * I acted as my conscience dkected.' 
 
 * Conscience ! ' exclaimed Sampson derisively, * I like to 
 hear that word pleaded ; it always means, when interpreted, 
 self-interest. Some men follow their consciences as a gardener 
 follows a wheelbarrow, by pushing it along before him. Answer 
 me, — would the law have authorised you to keep back the 
 diamonds ? ' 
 
 * No, the law would not.' 
 
 * Then who authorised you ? Did Mirelle ? Did you con- 
 sult her about them? I am at a loss to know what other 
 authorisation you could find.'
 
 398 JOHN HEEEINGf. 
 
 ' No, I did not spoak of tliem to lier — and that for reasons 
 of my own.' 
 
 ' No, I know you did not. Yon acted on what you call 
 conscience, and I, self-interest. I will tell you what you did 
 v/ith Mirelle's money. You were soft and sweet on Cicely 
 Battishill ' 
 
 ' Hold,' said Herring angrily ; * I dare you——' 
 
 * I will not be stayed. You pitied the girl ; you were con- 
 stantly with her ; you were tender and foolish. I do not dispute 
 your good taste. White and roses, and auburn hair — a young 
 fellow might do worse than pick up with Cicely. Well, for her 
 sake you sold some of the stones, and bought up the mortgages 
 on West Wyke, held by my father. Was that fair? My 
 father had refused to invest Mirelle's money in that, and you 
 took her money unknown to him and thus employed it — only 
 for the sake of pretty Cicely.' 
 
 ' I will not suffer such words to be spoken,' said Herring. 
 ' I have never regarded Miss Battishill in any other light than 
 that of a sister.' 
 
 ' A very affectionate brother jfou have been ! So very fond 
 of this dear pink-and-white sister, that you desert your wife 
 and spend all yotir time with her. You ran away the day 
 after your marriage, and have not shown your face to your 
 wife since till this day ; and now you are off again, allured 
 back to West Wyke by the superior attrf.ctions of Cicely 
 Battishill.' 
 
 Herring's blood boiled up, and he struck Sampson in the 
 face between the eyes, and sent him staggering back against the 
 wall. 
 
 ' Dare to say another such word again ! * 
 
 * I will dare,' answered Sampson, when he had gathered 
 himself together. He quivered with rage. * I will dare, be- 
 cause it is true. Are you not going back now to Cicely 1 You 
 know you are.' How did he know this? Herring wondered. 
 He had no idea that Sampson had possessed himself of the 
 address left in the bureau. 
 
 ' Who bought liis wife with her own money, eh?' pursued 
 the enraged Sampson. ' Cobbledick told me once of a man who 
 bought a wife in Okehampton market for a crown. You have 
 bought Mirelle. That man paid a crown for her out of his own 
 pocket ; but you, you picked Mirelle's pocket for the purchase 
 money. Is not this true 1 Was ever a more dastardly act done 
 than that? You called me a scoundrel. I may not have
 
 NEMESIS. 399 
 
 always acted on the square, but, by God, I never did such a 
 
 crooked job as this. Did you know that Mirelle was over 
 head and ears in love with Captain Trecarrel ? Of course you 
 did. You knew that well enough, and, lest he should many 
 her, you kept from her the secret of her wealth. You let her 
 and the Captain suppose they were too poor to marry, and so 
 he was ready to sell himself to Orange for five thousand pounds 
 when in heart he was tied to Mirelle. "Was that honourable— 
 was that gentlemanly — was that honest ? Eh ! Answer me 
 that. No, no, my friend, virtuous John. You were too 
 clever. You wanted to steal the fortune a-nd wipe the guilt 
 oflf your conscience, and so you marry Mirelle whilst spooning 
 that other one. But how do you manage this ? Mirelle don't 
 care a snap of the fingers for you. "VVhen the failure of Ophir 
 brought ruin on my family, you allowed my lady to feel the 
 misery of beggary, and then you came to the rescue and over- 
 whelmed her with your generosity — mind you, generous you 
 were with her money. You relieved her necessities out of her 
 own purse, and never let her suspect it, in the hopes of rousing 
 in her the feeling of gratitude to her great-hearted protector. 
 What could the poor girl do but accept you as a husband 1 She 
 could not live on your alms ; that would not be decent, would 
 it? A lady cannot receive four hundred a year and a house 
 from a young oflicer and pi^eserve her character. She viust 
 marry him, or relinquish what he has given her, and that latter 
 alternative she cannot take without involving Orange and my. 
 mother in poverty. Thus it was that you drove Mirelle to 
 accept you. A very ingeniously contrived plan, certainly. 
 Look how all the parts hang together, very perfect, and faulty 
 only in this, that I was not consulted. A very ingenious plan, 
 but cursedly Avicked. By God ! even I would have shrunk 
 from so dirty and scoundrelly a trick, and I am not squeamish. 
 Give me some money,' 
 
 Herring held out his purse — a steel purse of interwoven 
 links, with steel clasp, a present from Mirelle. His head had 
 fallen on his breast ; he was broken with shame and humilia- 
 tion. This that Sampson had said was true, but Herring had 
 never seen his conduct in the light that Sampson turned on it. 
 It had never occurred to him that Mii-elle could not accept his 
 bounty without accepting him — that he had, as Sampson had 
 said, driven her to take him, using her necessities as the whip, 
 and that he had, in fact, bought her Avith her own money. Ho 
 saw this now vividly, and the sight overcame him. He had
 
 400 JOHN HERjRINa. 
 
 been led by his conscience into conduct unworthy of a man of 
 honour; he was degraded in his own eyes. Sampson took the 
 purse, counted the money in his hand, returned it to the purse, 
 tsnapped it, and slipped it into his pocket. 
 
 * That will do for a time. Well ! you called me a scoundrel. 
 Which is the biggest scoundrel of the two, Blackguard Sampson 
 or Virtuous John ? You regard my father as a robber of 
 orphans ; which robbed the orphan most ] My father lost her 
 six thousand pounds ; you plundered her of more than twice 
 that amount, and with it you carried off her happiness. Faugh ! 
 Virtuous John ! even I turn away in disgust from you. I 
 stand white and shining as an angel beside you. Nor is this 
 all. No sooner is Mirelle yours and you can conscientiously 
 keep her money, than you break her heart by deserting her for 
 another girl with more pink in her cheeks than my Lady White 
 Lily.' 
 
 Herring looked up; he was deadly pale, and his lips 
 trembled. * This is false.' 
 
 * What ! is it false that you left Mirelle directly you had 
 brought her hither ? ' Sampson waited for an answer. There 
 could be none. It was true. 
 
 ' Is it false that you returned at once to West Wyke] * He 
 waited again. It was true. Herring had returned. 
 
 'Did you inform your wife whither you were going?* 
 Silence again. Herring had not told her ; he had declined to 
 do so. 
 
 * No, you evaded telling her. You went back to West 
 Wyke — to Cicely the rosebud, and you have been with her — • 
 your pretty pink-and-white sister — ever since. How kind to 
 Mirelle to rescue her rival from ruin with her money ! You 
 think Mirelle will appreciate this when told. And told the 
 whole story of your dealings she shall be this very night.' 
 
 * Have done,' said Herring, in a low tone. ' Leave me 
 alone.' 
 
 * No, not yet,' answered Sampson triumphantly. ' You 
 have insulted and injured me, and I shall not leave you till I 
 have made you sting and writhe. You robbed Mirelle of that 
 which ought to have been put into the hands of my father and 
 me, her diamonds ; that is offence number one. You insulted 
 me at West Wyke, and threatened me with a ruler ; that was 
 offence number two. I took a fancy to Mirelle, and might 
 have contrived to win her and her money, but you stood in the 
 way by retaining her diamonds, and with them you kept a hold
 
 KEMESI3. 401 
 
 over lier destiny ; tliat wns offence number tliree. rou ex- 
 posed Ophif — you brought that pretty and flourishing affair to 
 an end before it was ripe ; that was a bad offence, number 
 four. To you I owe tlie vagabond life I have been living ever 
 since, number five; and to you a blow just now received, to 
 make up tho number to six. Shall not I repay these when I 
 may ? Do you not know that, now my father is dead, I step 
 into his position as trustee of Mirelle's fortune, till she is three- 
 and-twenty ? There is no provision in the will relative to 
 marriage. If you, curse you, had not brought the dogs of 
 justice out of kennel and set them after me, I would claim the 
 diamonds of you, and exact every penny you have spent. I 
 cannot do it now, situated as I am. You have hunted mo 
 down for that very reason — you dreaded me, lest I should find 
 out your fiaud as you found out mine ; you forestalled me, and 
 now you drive me out of England to prevent me from re- 
 claiming from you what you have no right to retain. You are 
 very clever; I never gave you credit for half your talent. But 
 for all your cleverness, you shall not escape. You think that 
 your wife need know nothing of what has taken place. She 
 shall know everything. Do you remember a confession yovi 
 wi^ote to her "i Well, I took it from the drawer where you had 
 hidden it, and I have given it into her hands. That was the 
 first mouthful ; she shall receive next my commentary on it.' 
 
 * What ! ' exclaimed Herring, white, trembling, the sweat 
 standing in beads on his brow. 
 
 * Ah ! you may well be scared at the thought. That trust- 
 ful Mirelle, who believed in you as the most honourable of 
 men, has learned this night what you are — a despicable thief. 
 She has discovered what you really are, and how you circum- 
 vented her, and robbed her of her libei-ty, and forged out of 
 her own gold the chain that binds her to you. She knows now 
 the man she has married — and from this night forward she 
 loathes him.' 
 
 Herring could not speak ; his heart stood still. 
 
 ' She is now, I doubt not, pacing her bedroom, cursing that 
 man whom she once respected, but whom she now knows to he 
 dishonest, untruthful, and treacherous, the man who has 
 blighted her entire life.' 
 
 Then Sampson laughed at the poor, paralysed, broken 
 wretch before him, eyed him from head to foot, turned his 
 lack, and with his one hand in a pocket, and the other swinging 
 bLs bundle of old clothes, he left the office. 
 
 D D
 
 402 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 Without was night, black and stainless. 
 
 * I have given him a worse blow than he gave me, I guess,^ 
 said Sampson ; * now all I have to do is to dispose of this 
 bundle and then make off to Falmouth as fast as I can. By 
 heavens, I wish the night had not fallen so dark ; I cannot 
 make out whither I am going. I can hear the sea, and when 
 I reach the edge I shall see the foam, and then over goes the 
 bundle. It makes me laugh to think how John Herring looked. 
 I might have been stabbing him all the time with a little 
 knife ; but faith, I reckon my words went deeper than knives. 
 I wish it were not so confoundedly dark. Curse it ! — where 
 amir 
 
 Where ? 
 
 Below was Blackapit, with the waves leaping in that caul- 
 dron of darkness. 
 
 One minute more and the leaping waters were flinging 
 Sampson Tramplara from side to side, and the gulls were 
 flapping their wings and screaming applause over a bruised and 
 lifeless body. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 A DEAD MAN. 
 
 Herring was back at West Wyke. Everything went on there 
 as iisual. The mine was worked systematically. The absence 
 of John Herring for a few days mattered little. West Wyke 
 never altered. Since it had been built, no squire had added a 
 room or an out-house. But from year to year it ripened and 
 mellowed, the lichens spread over the stones in wider patches 
 of orange and white, and the stones became more wrinkled, and 
 the ribs of the roof more prominent through the slopes of small 
 slate. 
 
 Cicely was the same — sweet, sunny, simple. Herring 
 thought that nowhere in the wide world could a more restful 
 spot be found than this, or more soothing society. Cicely 
 saw that he looked more broken after this last visit to 
 Welltown than after the former. What was the mystery 
 that hung over his life — what the grief that consumed his 
 heart ? His former visit had transformed him from a youth 
 to a man, but this had aged him almost to decrepitude. 
 Cicely observed this, but she said nothing. She troubled 
 him with no inquiries, she did not even allow him to per-
 
 A DEAD MAN. 408 
 
 oeive that she noticed a change. The change was not so 
 much in his exterior as within. A cleavage had gone down 
 into his moral nature. On the former occasion his hopes had 
 been shattered, now his faith was shaken. Before he had been 
 broken-hearted, now he was broken-spirited. His intei'view 
 with Sampson had shaken his confidence in himself, he could 
 no longer rely on conscience as a safe guide, and he knew of no 
 other prompter to action. He reviewed his course of conduct 
 again and again, and always came to the same conclusion, that 
 he was justified in what he had done. What was the alterna- 
 tive course — the course from which conscience had turned him ? 
 That was to have given up the bos to Trampleasure and washed 
 his hands of all responsibility. But that would have been 
 selfish conduct ; it would have been cruel as it was heartless. 
 No doubt he had been influenced by his love for Mirelle when 
 he concealed his discovery fi'om the legal trustee, but he would 
 have done the same for any other helpless person similarly 
 situated, knowing as he did that to betray the secret was to 
 ruin the ward. And to what had he been led 1 To the wreck- 
 ing of two lives, of his own and that of Mirelle. If he had 
 acted according to legal instead of moral right, this would not, 
 perhaps, have taken place. How is a man to govern his life — 
 what is to be the mainspring of his actions ? The statute law, 
 or the law of God written in the heart? Herring had lost 
 faith in the guidance of consciencej in the directing hand of 
 Providence. He remembered the words of Mirelle c^ the walK 
 to Welltown, 'All the familiar landmarks fail me, all the 
 ways lead in unknown directions, I am translated into a 
 country that I am expected to travel through without a map 
 or guide.' Those words, which were void of meaning to him 
 when spoken, precisely described his present condition. The 
 framework of his moral consciousness was shaken and out of 
 joint. In time, perhaps, he would recover, but at present the 
 shock had thrown him out of his perpendicular. In Japan, the 
 land of earthquakes, every tower is held upright and together 
 by a huge pendulum of beamwork hanging free. The moral 
 conscience is the pendulum in man. When that is strapped 
 and braced to the girders and buttresses without, a little shock 
 throws the whole system into ruin. It must hang free if it is 
 to serve as a source of stability ; otherwise, it precipitates ruin. 
 The human heart can endure any amount of disappointment so 
 long as it maintains its faith in the eternal Providence, but 
 when that fails, its powers of endurance are at an end. Then 
 
 D D 2
 
 404 JOnN HERIIING. 
 
 tlie wave of bitterness rises and washes over the soul and leavea 
 it like the Desert of Nitre, strewn with bones. The dew of 
 heaven may drop, the showers may fall on it, but the white, 
 bitter surface thenceforth can never laugh into verdure. 
 
 John Herring did his work mechanically. He took neither 
 pleasure nor interest in it. The mine might prosper, it probably 
 would, and the result would be evil. He would clear the estate 
 of Cicely from its encumbrances. What for 1 — good 1 nothing 
 led to good — to find that he had done mischief in his effort to 
 help her. Everywhere men and women are striving to amend 
 wrongs, and only succeed in shifting the suffering from the 
 shoulders of one class on to another. Everywhere dirty pools 
 are being scraped out, only to discolour and defile the wattr 
 that is disturbed. Everywhere tortured humanity is being 
 inoculated with matter that will expel one disease by preparing 
 the soil for another, 
 
 * Please, miss,' eaid Joyce, one Sunday, to Cicely, who had 
 Just returned from chuixh, * there be that fool of a Jim "White 
 from Coombow have a come all the way, and what he be come 
 for I don't know.' 
 
 'What Jim Whiter 
 
 * A bviffleheaded sort of a chap,' said Joyce, in a tone between 
 shyness and disgust ; ' he it wei^e as brought me and the master 
 here that day as he were nigh upon killed by Sampson 
 Tramplara.' 
 
 Herring looked up, he was at the table. He had not been 
 to church ; why should he go to church to be bidden follow 
 conscience when conscience leads astray ] Why should he seek 
 for light Avhen the only light afforded is that of Jack o'lanthorns 
 that lead into mires ? He said bitterly, ' Joyce, why did you 
 bring me hither 1 ' 
 
 * I couldn't do nort other — I did it to make you well again.' 
 She had followed her conscience, and her poor light had led 
 
 her to save his life. AVhat for ? — to make Mlrelle miserable 
 and himself miserable. Better a thousand times had he died 
 then. 
 
 ' But, Joyce, what about Jim AVhite ? What does he want ? ' 
 
 * Well, miss, I dunnow exactly what he wants, but he've a 
 walked all these miles, and he've a got to go back again, so 
 what I want to know is, may he have his meat here, as he ain't 
 a going to get nort else ] * 
 
 * Certainly.' 
 
 *And he may Imve a drop o' cyder to his meat? Jim
 
 A DEAD MAN. 405 
 
 White be one as can't get on without that. And he smells o' 
 cyder now like as old vaitlier's cask did when it were fresh.' 
 
 * By all means, Joyce,' said Cicely, ' and you may invite him 
 to come here once a month.' 
 
 Joyce flushed up. *I — I don't want the bufflehead to bg 
 coming here. I've a told 'n so scores and scores o' times, and 
 I'll tell him if he comes again he'll get neither meat nor cyder. 
 He were here about a mouth ago, I reckon, and he sed he'd 
 that partikler to say as could only be sed between four eyes. 
 So he sat in the kitchen on ona chair, and I on another, a full 
 two hours by the clock, and he never opened his mouth all that 
 time but once, to ax why the great beam went across the ceiling. 
 There ! he shall have his meat this Sunday, and, by the blue 
 blazes, he shan't have it of me no more.' Then she stepped up 
 to Herring. ' Please, maister,' she said, * Jim White have a 
 brought 3^ou a paper from Okehampton, a " Saturday News " ; 
 he sez he thought you'd a like to see 'n. I didn't think the 
 chap had it in 'n.' 
 
 * Thank you, Joyce, and thank Jim White, and here is a 
 present to him for his mistaken kindness to me on a formei? 
 occasion.' 
 
 * But,' said Joyce, ' I may tell 'n that you don't want the 
 paper again. He be that stupid he might make the bringing 
 of a paper an excuse to come here every Sunday. I know,' she 
 exclaimed brightly — ' I know what I'll do. I'll tell 'n if he 
 comes again you'll up with your gun and bang off wi' it as you 
 did at me to Welltown that night.' 
 
 * Very well ; as you like.' 
 
 When Joyce had retired. Herring took up the paper 
 indifferently. It could not interest him, for nothing interested 
 him now. 
 
 *I wish you had been at church to-day, John,' said Cicely; 
 
 * Mr. Harmless-Simpleton preached us a very good sermon.' 
 
 * Indeed — on what text 1 ' asked John Herring, carelessly. 
 
 * After death, the judgment.' 
 
 Herring laughed bitterly. * Cicely,' he said, ' the order is 
 inverted. The judgment comes first, and after that — after a 
 long and weary interval — death. At least that is my 
 experience. 
 
 She looked at him with a distressed and puzzled expression. 
 
 * Dear Cousin John, what has come over you ? you are so 
 different from what you were.' 
 
 * What has come over meV he echoed ; ' the judgment and
 
 406 JOHN HBRRING. 
 
 condemnation. There ! ask no more questions. Take the 
 paper and look at it ; there is nothing in it to interest me.* He 
 pushed it across the table to her.' 
 
 ' Do you take no interest in politics, John 1 ' 
 
 * No ; they are only Ophir over again.' 
 
 * John, I cannot understand you. Why are you so changed 
 in your view of life 1 At one time you were hopeful and 
 believed in good, and now you despair and believe only in evil. 
 You make me vinhappy.' 
 
 * Then I am fulfilling my destiny. The curse is laid on me 
 to blight all I come across.' 
 
 * That is utterly untrue.' 
 
 * We see life in difierent lights, Cicely. In after years you 
 will recognise that my view is the true view. Fortunately, the 
 young who start in life are nursed in delusions, or they would 
 refuse the race,' 
 
 ' John,' said Cicely, * what is the meaning of this ? ' She 
 had been turning listlessly over the paper, listening to Herring's 
 words, and troubled in her mind about him. ' Here stands 
 your name — and Welltown, your place in Cornwall.' 
 
 * What ! ' he asked ; * let me look.' And he took the paper 
 hastily out of her hands. 
 
 He read of the discovery of Mr. John Herring, late of Well- 
 town, who had disappeared from home on a certain night, but 
 without any suspicions having been raised tiU his body was 
 found in Blackapit at low water a few days later, terribly 
 mangled and defaced. It would not have been possible to 
 identify the body but for the clothes worn by the deceased, and 
 which had been taken from the place in his office where they 
 usually hung. Moreover, the pocket contained a steel purse 
 known to have belonged to the deceased gentleman, and in the 
 breast-pocket was discovered a magnificent set of diamonds, the 
 property of his wife, which she always kept in a concealed 
 drawer, the secret of which was known only to herself and Mr. 
 Herring. According to what had ti-anspired, the last time 
 the deceased was seen alive was by his wife, seated at the 
 bureau in which these diamonds were. Apparently he had 
 removed the jewels before leaving; for what purpose it was 
 impossible to conjecture, especially as it was suspected that the 
 deceased gentleman had committed suicide. It was reported 
 that he had written a farewell letter to his wife at the bureau 
 where she saw him, intimating his intention ; but this letter she 
 absolutely refused to produ ,e at the inquest. This melancholy
 
 A DEAD MAN. 407 
 
 event had cast a deep gloom over the entire neighbourhood, &c., 
 
 Herring read this paragraph over twice before he could 
 understand it, and even then he understood it only imper- 
 fectly. But the main points flashed out. Sampson Tram- 
 plara had fallen over the rocks, and his body had been mis- 
 taken for that of himself because of the clothes he wore and 
 the purse in his pocket. How Sampson had obtained the 
 diamonds he was unable to divine, but he suspected that the 
 letter alluded to was that containing his confession, which 
 Sampson had told him he had given to Mu-elle. He sat 
 looking mutely at the paper, his mind working. 
 
 'What is it, John?' asked Cicely; but he did not hear. 
 Then she came to him and looked over his shoulder. 
 
 ' John,' said she, putting her hand on him and shaking him ; 
 * John, what is the meaning of this 1 ' 
 
 ' Cicely, it is as I said — after judgment, death. Do you 
 Bee 1 I am a dead man.' 
 
 There was silence in the room. She was collecting her 
 thoughts. What did this all mean ? 
 
 * John,' she exclaimed, * what is this 1 — you have a wife ! ' 
 
 * No — a widow.' 
 
 Then he stood up, and walked twice up and down the room, 
 his face white as ashes, his hands behind his back, and his 
 head bowed. Cicely followed him with her eyes; she was 
 bewildered. 
 
 * It is best as it is,' said he to himself. * Mirelle is set free. 
 John Herring is dead.' 
 
 Then the truth rushed in on Cicely's mind. 
 
 * Oh, John, John ! Was she — Mirelle, your wife? ' 
 
 He looked at her. He did not answer ; she saw the mute 
 agony in his face. 
 
 ' Oh, John, poor John ! now I understand all ! Now I 
 know why you have been so unhappy. I am sure she never 
 loved you.' 
 
 ' No, Cicely, she never loved me.' 
 
 ' She could love no one.' 
 
 * You are wrong ; she loved another.' 
 Again there was silence. Cicely's eyes filled. 
 
 Herring paced the room again. Cicely could not see him 
 uow, her eyes were too full. 
 
 * Oh, John ! dear, poor John ! * 
 
 * Cicely,' he said, standing still in the midst of his tramp, 
 
 ^
 
 4.G8 JOHN nEfiiaxa. 
 
 • what has happened ia best for every one. Let it be. From 
 henceforth John Ilor'ring is dead. If you will, I am John 
 Battishill, your biother.' 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 AN AIUIEST. 
 
 A HLUSTERTNG day ; the rain splashinj; against the windows of 
 an inn at Plymouth. Mirelle sat in tho window ; there was a 
 balcony with balustrade before it, and the water dripped in- 
 cessantly from tho rail u})on tho swimming balcony. 
 
 Mirelle was in mourninc;; her face loolceil preternaturally 
 white in her black dross, llcr eyes were sunken, her lips thin 
 and tremulous ; but thei'e were spots of almost colour in her 
 cheeks, speaking of feverish excitement, not of health. Genefer 
 Benoko was with her. 
 
 ' Mistress/ said the old woman, * be it still too late to bid 
 you turn back? I tell'y I don't believe as the master be dead. 
 I don't believe it, though I saw him dead with my own eyes. 
 For tho eyes of the understanding be keener and cleixrer than 
 thoy of the flesh. Whou Saul the jjersccutor wore cast to the 
 ground on his way to Damascus, he opened his eyes and saw 
 no man. That be the state of most. They've their eyes open, 
 but they sees naught that they ought +o see. They goes 
 through tho world and they don't see the snares that be set on 
 every side, .and the .aiigels that compass them about, and tho 
 Providence as is leading of them. Tho eyes of the flesh be 
 open, but the eyes of tho undoi'standingsce nothing. With tho 
 eyes of the soul 1 see tho master still alive. Afore you came 
 to AVclKown I saw you; and I saw what was to bo, in a 
 visiiMi, and whether 1 were in the body or out of the body at 
 tho time I cannot tell — Codknowoth; but this I do say, that 
 what 1 then saw with tho spiritual eye don't accord no ways 
 with wliat the natural eye declares. But what do I speak of 
 this to you for as if you knowed naught about the spiritual 
 eye 1 Sure alive, you lead a life of pi-ayor as do I. Well, I 
 will tell'y what were revealed to me. I fell into a trance, 
 having my eyes open, and I saw the master with his arms 
 round you — tho Brido of Snow — and he looked up to you, 
 seeking in you that he never saw.' 
 
 Mirelle bowed her face in her hands. 
 
 'And with the warmth of his he:irt you melted awaj,
 
 AN AUKIilST. 401) 
 
 diM]) by dro]). \'\o jv socii liow ymi'vo a l)iv>n (Iiawiiiij ri^hfc 
 HWiiy tn»»r .sinct^ (Ik^ «l,iy lit< hioui^ht. yoii to Wolllowii, ti\ar by 
 1t\'\r — !is soc ! you 1)« luollin';; now. And in my vlsioii I siiw 
 tliut you (lissolvtnl cloan awjiy and your ])laco know you no 
 inon^; but, nov(>rth(^li'.ss, tlu^ ninsl(>r iiMUMinod, with his t\vu\H 
 rxtoiuK'd and his oyos uplifti'd, ns (houi^h kMII soc'kiinj; )'i''i» I'll 
 lu) giTW coUl, ancl liin liair whilo, and his tears ii-c, and lii.s 
 hoart woro frozon doad. You wms j^onn first, and, al'ItT a 
 Bpaco, ho; it bo aijjainst tho (rnlh of niy vision that ho sshouUl 
 dio first and you afUM-.' 
 
 '(ionoviovi<, thoro can bo no »h)ubt whadnor nlutut what 
 has happonod. 1 wouM ohi^ort'nlly ^ivo my bfo (o n>s(oro his, 
 but that cannot bo. I know for ci>rtain that ho is doatl. I 
 havo many and woii^hty reasons A)r so bolitn-ins:^.' 
 
 * Wi\at reasons] It bo truo on(ni>;h (hiit your d!;uuonds 
 nud tho |mrso woro Aiund on him, as well as hisownold cU>thoA 
 Ihat J'vo a. sowoil Iho brass buttons on — I know tluMU W(>11. 
 Ihit what about (hat 'J Tho dovil bo crafty, and given power 
 to diH'eive.' 
 
 * I havo olh(>r reasons.' 
 
 ' 1 ask you what! ^'ou may loll me, for wo shall never 
 meet, in (he ilesh aj;ain.' 
 
 ' I le wrote (o nu> (iu> nij^ht ho died. Ho had b(>en talkinuf 
 to n\(> in my boudoir, and was very mihappy. 'rh(M\ he told 
 iu(> he wouhl writo mo Honu>thinu;, and I i:;a,vo hiui llu< key of 
 my cabinet, whero W(>ro my diamonds and my m rilinj^ 
 materials. WIkmi I opeiuid tho desk next morniuij; (he jewels 
 were fjono, and 1 found his I(>tt(M'. In (hat letter ho (old me 
 (liar, ho bade me farewell for ever,' 
 
 ' Ilo un<ant to go abroad.' 
 
 'No, (Jienevi6v(\ tho letter said mon> than (hat. It in(i- 
 matod (hat. wluui I reeiMvinl it, 1 should b(> ■' 
 
 « Whatr 
 
 * What I nowam — a widow.' 
 
 * It be a temptation of (h(< tlevil,' said (uMu>fi«r, ' who is 
 mighty to deeeiv(>, who bo come «lown with gn^at wrath for 
 that lie hath a short (ime. ^'ou never let no one see (ho 
 letter 1 ' 
 
 'No, Unfor{.una((>ly I spokt* of it. (o ()rang(\ and that, is 
 liow anything cauio out about it. I thought she would have 
 boiMi more disere(^t.' 
 
 •Well, well!' sighed (lenefer ; 'the world be full of de- 
 lusions. Now you bo going U'vok to Franco and to wicked
 
 410 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 idolatry. There be no call of God in that, to leave the land i>f 
 light for that of darkness.' 
 
 ' Genevi6ve, do not speak on this subject. You and I caa- 
 not see alike. I am seeking rest, I am weary, utterly weary of 
 the life I have led in England. It is viseless your attempting 
 to argue with me, and to dissuade me from it. I am weary of 
 the wind and the clouds and the rain and the roar of waves 
 without, and of the troubles that toss and overcast the soul 
 within. I must go back. I must find peace. I count the 
 hours till I am within those blessed happy doors of the Sacre 
 Coeur again ; and, when once within, I will never, never, never 
 leave that home. Come, Genevieve, help me on with my cloak 
 and hood. I must go out ; the rain has ceased, and I will see 
 if there be a chance of the storm abating.' 
 
 * Mistress, the packet won't sail with a gale on shore such 
 as this. It would be tempting of Providence.' 
 
 * You will come with me. I am impatient of the delay. I 
 must see what the sky and sea look like, and you must attend 
 me, as I cannot stand unassisted against the force of the wind. 
 Oh, Genevieve ! where I am going I shall feel no storms — I 
 shall be in perfect shelter, and at rest.' 
 
 Mirelle was, as she said, on her way to France. From the 
 time that she knew she was free, one absorbing desire had 
 taken hold of her — the desire to fly from England and return 
 to the convent of the Sacred Heart, there to bary herself from 
 the world. The world, against which the sisters had warned 
 her, she had seen. It was full of unrest, brutality, self-seeking, 
 and imposture. She thought all day of her escape, she dreamt 
 of her return all night. So completely had this idea taken 
 hold of her that it excluded all other thoughts ; it possessed her 
 like a fever. She could not think of John Herring. Even 
 Captain Trecarrel was far from her mind. She wanted nothing 
 for the future but perfect quiet within the sacred walls of the 
 Sacre Cceur. 
 
 Those of old who were accused of witchcraft were kept 
 without sleep till they confessed. They were denied a moment's 
 doze, till, in the craving for rest, they admitted whatever they 
 were charged with, ready to face the flames if only they might 
 first fold their hands and close their eyes and sigh away their 
 spirits into oblivion. 
 
 Some such a craving had come over Mirelle. She had been 
 denied the rest she desired, she had been distracted by responsi- 
 bilities she did not understand, buffeted by rude associates,
 
 AN ARREST. 411 
 
 placed in situations f'all of bewilderment, deprived of tlie mini- 
 strations of religion, and, now that the possibility of escape 
 opened to her, she became almost mad to seize it. 
 
 Mirelle had told her intention to Orange, who warmly 
 approved of it, and Orange and Genefer had accompanied her 
 to Plymouth, where she was to take passage to France, They 
 had spent a night on the way at Dolbeare, and Genefer was to 
 return with Orange the day after Mirelle had departed. 
 
 An arrangement had been proposed by Orange, and readily 
 acquiesced in by Mirelle, that Mrs. Tram pleasure and Orange 
 were to remain at Welltown, at least for a while, and take 
 charge of the estate ; they were to retain a certain portion of 
 the receipts, and forward the rest to Mirelle. 
 
 Mirelle was to have sailed on the day when we have reintro- 
 duced her to the reader, seated in the inn window at Plymouth, 
 but the storm had prevented the packet from sailing. Her 
 passage was paid, her berth taken, and her luggage was on 
 board. If the weather abated, she would leave England for 
 ever on the morrow. 
 
 Attended by Genefer Benoke, Mirelle went out upon the 
 Hoe and looked forth on the noble bay. There was then no 
 breakwater across its entrance, arresting the violence of the 
 swell. The waves, driven by a southwesterly gale, rolled in 
 from the sea and foamed about the headlands that jutted into 
 the harbour. They tossed and danced about Drake Island and 
 Mount Batten, and ran hissing upon the white marble shore 
 beneath the Hoe. The rain had abated, but fresh showers 
 were coming on, stalking over the angry sea and staining it to 
 ink beneath them. There was no sign of a cessation in the 
 gale. It came on in furious gusts, before which Mirelle 
 cowered and clung to Genefer. As she turned on one occasion, 
 a gentleman standing near, also observing the sea, saw her face, 
 and uttered an exclamation of surprise. She raised her eyes 
 and met those of Captain Trecarrel. 
 
 * Mirelle ! ' he exclaimed, and hastened to interpose his um- 
 brella between her and the wind. ' How unexpected ! What 
 brings you to Plymouth 1 It is my fate to light on you where 
 least anticipated. I have completed my excursion and filled 
 my portfolio. I returned by the south coast to see whether it 
 furnished material for a second issue of pictures, and here I 
 am at Plymouth meditating a return to Launceston as soon aa 
 the weather clears. I was so shocked to hear of your loss. I 
 always respected John Herring as a worthy, well-meaning man.
 
 412 JOHN HERtllNO. 
 
 There was no pretence about him, no affectation of being other 
 than he was. I have no doubt that his death was an awful 
 blow to you — so sudden, and the manner so dreadful. You 
 have my warmest sympathy. Poor fellow ! poor fellow ! Well, 
 well, the world is short of a good sterling man it could ill afford 
 to lose. I hope his circumstances were all right, no money 
 trouble ? ' 
 
 Mirelle shook her head. 
 
 * You do not think that distress about over-expenditure can 
 have affected his brain ? Inability to meet calls ? ' 
 
 ' He was well off — rich — much richer than I thought,' said 
 Mirelle, sadly. ' But pray, Captain, spare me now,' 
 
 * Allow me your arm,' said Trecarrel ; the wind is so high 
 that I am in momentary fear of your being blown off the cliff 
 and being carried out to sea.' 
 
 * The wind is on shore,' said Mirelle, 4rily. 
 
 * True, true ; I had not observed it. Bah ! here comes the 
 rain, driving as you say on shore and irresistible. Under these 
 circumstances there is no cowardice in beating a retreat and 
 evacuating the Hoe to the enemy. Shall we descend 1 Where 
 are you staying? At the Royal? Let me accompany you 
 home. What ! Genefer Benoke here 1 How do you do, Gene- 
 fer? Sad time you have had at Welltown. My heart has 
 bled for you all. I would have flown to the spot to offer my 
 services, but some sorrows are too sacred to be intruded on. I 
 never was more shocked in my life than when I heard of the 
 accident, if accident it may be called, but I suppose it really 
 was that, if he was unembarrassed in circumstances.' So talk- 
 ing, asking questions and getting no answers, Captain Trecarrel 
 accompanied Mirelle back to the inn. He did not wait to be 
 invited to enter, but accompanied INIirelle upstairs. 
 
 ' Now, tell me all about it,' he said. ' I would not return 
 to Welltown after the sad event through delicacy of sentiment ; 
 I thought it might augment your trouble. So I continued my 
 sketching tour, and really made some capital drawings. The 
 weather, however, proved detestable, and after a while I gave 
 up the north coast and took a flying survey of the south. And 
 now, tell me why you are here. What can have brought you 
 to Plymouth 1 ' 
 
 * Captain Trecarrel, I am on my way to France, to the con- 
 vent of the Sacre Coeur, where I was educated.' 
 
 * Nothing of the sort. Yo\i are going to stay in England.' 
 Mirelle shook her head. * No ; my mind is made up. In^
 
 I 
 
 AN AEREST. 413 
 
 deed from the moment that I knew my hushand was dead, and 
 that I was a free agent, I had no doubt as to what I must do.' 
 
 * You are not dreaming of shutting yourself up in a con- 
 vent 1 ' 
 
 * I am going home.' 
 
 * Home ! What do you mean by home ? * 
 
 * I mean whatever you associate with rest and fragrance and 
 holiness, with love and innocence and happiness. Some find 
 this ideal in a family. I have never had any experience of 
 home in this sense ; the only family I have been with was that 
 of the Ti'ampleasures, and that in no way comes up to my ideal. 
 I will not say more about that. No ; what I mean by home is 
 that which I know — the convent of the Sacre Coeur.' 
 
 Trecarrel rubbed his chin musingly, and then pulled his 
 moustache. * If you become a nun, what is to become of Well- 
 town 1 You are, I presume, well off. Herring had no brothers 
 and sisters, and that falls to you I suppose. Are j'ou thinking 
 of selling John Herring's property, of calling in all your avail- 
 able funds, and bestowing everything on the convent and the 
 beggars of Paris ? ' 
 
 ' I have not this thought. Orange and her mother will 
 reside at Welltown and manage the estate, and let me have the 
 money I need.' 
 
 * And who will check their accounts — who look after your 
 interests 1 ' 
 
 'Orange will send me what I want. I do not require 
 much.' 
 
 ' What did my poor friend John Herring die worth — that is, 
 how much has come to you, Mirelle 1 ' 
 
 * I do not know the value of the Welltown estate.' 
 
 ' But I do,' said Trecarrel, sharply. ' Six hundred nett, on 
 the outside. Is that all ] ' 
 
 ' No,' answered Mirelle ; ' there is a great deal more money 
 than that. Many thousand pounds. There are the mortgages 
 on West Wyke, and there is a mine somewhere about there, 
 and money beside.' 
 
 ' All yours? ' asked Trecarrel, turning bis melting blue eye 
 on Mirelle, and stroking his moustache. 
 
 ' I suppose so.' 
 
 * And this is all to be left to the unchecked management of 
 Orange. 
 
 ' Yes ; Orange is so kind and sensible, she will know better 
 than I what ought to be done, and how to do it.'
 
 414 JOHN EEREIJ^O. 
 
 ' Mirelle,' exclaimed tlie Captain, standing up, and placing 
 himself before the fire, occupying the entire rug, ' you are not 
 going to leave England; you are not going to shii-k your 
 duty ! ' 
 
 * My duty 1 I have done that to the best of my powers, 
 which are small. No, Captain Trecarrel, I must go back whence 
 I came. You cannot conceive how abhorrent to me has been 
 the life I have led since I came to England ; it has nearly 
 killed me. Look at my hands ; they were plump when I left 
 France, compared to what they are now. My strength is gone ; 
 a very short walk now tires me out. I was strong before. I 
 have had no illness whatever except that fever at Dolbeare 
 before I was married, but my soul has been sick ever since I 
 .^eft France, and now I feel a sort of instinct in me that if I am 
 to live I must spread my wings and escape over the water to 
 dear France and nestle into the old convent home again.' 
 
 * No, Mirelle, you would not find rest there, you may take 
 my word for it. You would carry thither something in your 
 heart which would forbid your finding rest there. Look me in 
 the face and say that this is not so.' She could not do this; 
 there was truth in his words. ' No, dear Mirelle, that old con- 
 vent life is no more to be returned to than childhood. You 
 may, as an adult, go back into the nursery, and buy a rattle and 
 feed yourself with pap out of a spoon ; but you cannot revive 
 the old childish buoj^ancy of heart and brightness of hope^ — you 
 go back into infantine surroundings with the care-furrowed 
 heart of age. You would not be happy in the convent, because 
 you return to it a woman, and you went out a child. There is 
 something more to be considered ; you have contracted obliga- 
 tions which you have no right to cast ofil You own an estate 
 and a fortune, and this gives you influence and power for good. 
 This you have no right to ignore. You have been transplanted 
 by Providence to a place where religion is as dead or diseased 
 as when Saint Morwenna came to the same coast twelve hun- 
 dred years ago. Do you suppose she came to it by choice ? Do 
 you think that she never yearned to be back in the stillness 
 and indolence of her dear convent at Burton ? She came to our 
 Cornish coast from a sunny home in the midlands, among lime- 
 trees and buttercup pastures, and from a church where there 
 was sweet music and rich sculpture and all the splendom'S of 
 Catholic worship, and inhabited a rude hovel overhanging the 
 sea, into which the storm drove between the ill- jointed stones ; 
 away from trees and flowers, and mvisic and worship, simply
 
 AN ARREST. 415 
 
 and solely because she was callod to live there, and duty tied her 
 to the spot. Now we venerate Saint ]\Iorwenna as a Virgin 
 Apostle of the Cornish Coast, as one who brought light to those 
 in darkness, the truth to those in error. You are a Catholic. 
 Was it any choice of yours which took j'ou to Welltown 1 You 
 were taken there by Providence, and Providence has set you a 
 task which you have no right to leave undone, has given you a 
 post which you dai-e not desert. Those poor wretched Cornish 
 are like shipwrecked men lost in night and storm, not knowing 
 whither to steer, and led asti'ay by wreckers' lanthorn?. You 
 are sent among them as a second Morwenna, to lead them to 
 the true port, to show them the only true light.' 
 
 ' I — I — I ! ' Mirelle trembled, and her heart sank within 
 her ; she had not strength and courage to execute such a task. 
 
 * Yes, you. With your means and position you can do a 
 great deal. Who is there at Boscastle to oppose you— Sir 
 Jonathan 1 He will do nothing. How do you know but that 
 you may win his daughters and so save their souls 1 Who ia 
 there of influence for miles round except yourself and the Phyl- 
 lacks ? Build a Catholic chapel at Boscastle, down in the 
 midst of the people. Establish there a priest and a mission, 
 and every soul brought into the true fold will bless you.' 
 
 Mirelle was silent. 
 
 ' I am pointing out to you a duty. You have seen no priest 
 since you were married ; you must suffer me to be your director. 
 Has not what I urge struck you before 1 ' 
 
 * No,' answered Mirelle, faintly. ' But see ! I can do much 
 that you say, and yet live in France. I will endow a mission 
 at Boscastle and build there a church.' 
 
 * You cannot set a missioner thei'e without a soul to support 
 him ; he must have one or two Catholics near, or he can do 
 nothing. Now you understand what I said. If you fly abroad 
 you take trouble along with you, and you will not rest in your 
 convent. It is the story of Jonah over again, and see — see this 
 storm sent to arrest you, to send you back to Nineveh, from 
 which you were flying.' 
 
 * How cruel you are — ho'w cruel ! I have been so hoping, 
 longing, sighing to escape.' 
 
 Cruel indeed he was, and mean beneath conception. He 
 used the words and arguments which he knew would tell with 
 her, not that he cared for the souls of the Boscastle people, or 
 for the advance of the Catholic Church, but because he coveted 
 her money and the estate of Welltown.
 
 416 JOHN HEimiKG. 
 
 * That is not all,' continiied Captain Trccarrel, and liis tond 
 changed from that of exhortation to that of pleading ; his voice 
 melted, and sounded as though tears were welling up in it — it 
 became soft and tremulous. ' You have no right to run away, 
 dear Mirelle, for another reason. You know — you know ' — 
 his voice became broken; then, with a gulp, swallowing his 
 agitation — ' you know what I mean.' 
 
 Mirelle trembled. She did not know what he meant. 
 
 * You have no right to sacrifice another as well as yourself. 
 You know, Mirelle, how I have loved you ' 
 
 * Stay, stay ! ' exclaimed Mirelle, piteously. * Do not speak 
 to me again like this. I must — I must go. If only to pray for 
 my poor husband's soul, I mu,st go.* 
 
 ' Mirelle, tell me — do you believe that he wilfully destroyed 
 himself]' 
 ' I do.' 
 
 * For what reason ? There were no money troubles 1 ' 
 ' None whatever.' 
 
 * Why, then, did he commit suicide 1 ' 
 
 She was silent. She could not explain. He considered for 
 a while, and then said, ' How is it that there had been such an 
 estrangement between you from the beginning 1 I understand 
 he left you the day after the marriage, and did not return till 
 that day which ended in his death. This is very mysterious, 
 and points to some great cause of trouble between you. Did 
 he love j^ou 1 ' 
 
 * Indeed he did. Too well.' 
 
 * Did you love him 1 ' 
 
 She did not answer, but her head sank on her bosom. 
 
 * Tell me, Mirelle — is it true that he wrote to you the night 
 of his death 1 I heard a report to that effect.' 
 
 * Yes, it is true.' 
 
 ' What did he say in that letter 1 ' 
 
 She hesitated. ' He said that he bade me farewell for ever. 
 He said that when I read the letter I should be free.' 
 
 * Why did he write thus ? ' 
 
 She made no answer, but covered her face. 
 
 * Tell me, Mirelle — did he know of my — of oar * 
 
 * Spare me — spare me ! Oh, Captain Trecarrel, if you must 
 know all, he knew that I did not love him in the way in which 
 he loved me, and the knowledge of this made him so miserable 
 
 that You know the rest. And now, do you not see that 
 
 I have his death on my conscience, and I must do what I can
 
 AN ARREST. 417 
 
 to expiate this sin, and do what I can for the poor despairing 
 Boul that I drove to despair ? ' 
 
 * Set your mind at ease, I do not in the least believe in his 
 self-destruction. A man about to commit suicide does not first 
 fill his pocket with diamonds worth several thousand pounds. 
 The finding of the jewels upon him is conclusive evidence that 
 ho did not meditate self-destruction, but, on the contrary, 
 meant to live comfortably on the proceeds of their sale else- 
 where. John Herring — you may take my word for it — made 
 up his mind, as he could not be happy with you, that he would 
 go elsewhere, probably to America. Now, a man cannot start 
 afi-esh in life penniless without great inconvenience and dis- 
 comfort : so he laid his hand on that which was convertible 
 into money, to start him in the New World. You do not 
 suppose John Herring intended to strangle himself with a 
 diamond necklace, do you ? If he did not, the supposition of 
 his ha,ving meditated self-destruction is untenable beside the 
 fact of his having taken the jewels. No ; he possessed himself 
 of them because he had not sufficient cash in hand, and as he 
 made his way over the cliffs — it was a dark night — he missed 
 his path and fell down Blackapit. There you have the solu- 
 tion of the entire mystery. Set your mind at ease ; the guilt 
 of his death does not weigh on you, and there is no need for you 
 to expiate it in a convent.' 
 
 Mirelle breathed more freely. This explanation did really 
 seem the correct one, and the relief it gave her was great. 
 
 ' Now, then,' said the Captain, ' I have knocked this non- 
 sense of cloistering yourself on the head.' He rang the bell, 
 and, when the servant appeai-ed, he said, * Send to the packet, 
 and have the Countess Garcia's boxes brought back. She is not 
 going to sail in her.' 
 
 Mirelle raised her hand in protest, but in vain. The strong 
 will and determination of the Captain was more than she could 
 resist in her present weak condition. 
 
 ' Listen now to me, dear Mirelle,* he said, and, leaving the 
 fire, came towards her. * The barrier that has stood between 
 us has fallen. What is there now to hinder you from becoming 
 my wife ] I have loved you from the first moment that I saw 
 you, and — do not deny it — you have loved me. You married a 
 man for whom you did not care — a worthy man, but not one a 
 heart like yours could cling to, even if disengaged ; and disen- 
 gaged it was not. Duty obliged you — obliged both of us — to 
 smother and conceal our mutual Jove. But the fire was not 
 
 E £
 
 418 JOHN HEREING. 
 
 extinguislied, and now that the obligation to keep it undei 
 exists no longer, it bursts forth in flame once more. You shall 
 not go to France. If you do, in spite of me, I will follow you, 
 and claim you from the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. You have 
 no right to run away ; you owe me reparation for the suffering 
 I have undergone. Shall I own to you something ? I knew 
 that you were going to sail in the packet ; I knew what you 
 purposed doing; and I came to Plymouth to prevent it.' 
 Mirelle looked up at him with surprise. 
 
 * Yes, dearest, when I knew that you were free I had no 
 rest. I saw my hopes of happiness revive. Hender Benoke 
 was in my pay. He kept me informed of what was taking 
 place and what was meditated at Welltown. In love as in 
 war, all things are lawful.' 
 
 Mirelle was now standing near the window, leaning against 
 the angle of the window splay, with the curtain behind her. 
 Her face was turned away. She could not look at the Captain, 
 but she saw nothing through the window panes. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel came towards her. She felt his approach, 
 she did not see it, and she trembled violently. She was power- 
 less. The events of her short life in the world had broken 
 down her force of character and power of resistance to a supe- 
 rior and resolute will. 
 
 * Mirelle, dearest Mirelle,' he said, in a voice vibrating with 
 pathos, * you said, a little while ago that the only knowledge 
 you had of home was a cloister ; there is another and a fonder 
 home — in the arms, on the heart, of a good and honourable 
 man.' He put his arms round her and clasped her to him. 
 
 At the same moment the door opened, and Orange came in, 
 very wet, with cheeks glowing with exercise; but when she 
 saw the Captain holding Mirelle in his arms, and stooping to 
 imprint a kiss on her lips, she turned the colour of parchment. 
 
 * Orange ! ' exclaimed the Captain, recovering himself at 
 once. * Delighted to see you. Mirelle is not going to France ; 
 Bhe is not going to immure herself in a cloister ; she returns to 
 Laixnceston, and thence to Welltown to-moi-row, and she has 
 very kindly offered me a place in her carriage as far as Launce- 
 Eton. I do not in the least object to a seat with my back to 
 the horses,'
 
 I 
 
 419 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 E.I. p. 
 
 The chaise was ready to take Mirelleback again. She was de 
 pressed. A strange sinking, a sickening fear had come over 
 her heart, the reaction after the excitement she had gone 
 through, the eager expectation of a return to the convent, and 
 then the arrest on the threshold of escape. Slie had painfully 
 schooled herself not to think of the Captain, and even now she 
 shrank from thinking of him lest she should be committing a 
 mortal sin. Even now, with the knowledge before her that he 
 whom she had loved would claim her and be to her more than 
 friend and support, she failed to feel anything but disappoint- 
 ment that she was not on her way back to the Sacre Cceur. 
 She loved Trecarrel, but her love for him was not now the pre- 
 dominatmg feeling of her heart; her craving for rest and shelter 
 prevailed over the other passion. Even now, if she could, she 
 would have prosecuted her journey, and it was with a lingering, 
 longing look that she gazed on the sea. Only duty, that 
 supreme sense of submission to duty, drove her back. Captain 
 Trecarrel knew her character perfectly when he a}>pcaled to 
 this. The prospect of enjoying his love, of leaning on him, 
 blunted the edge of her disappointment : it did no more than 
 that. 
 
 Mirelle had not slept that night. Indeed she had not slept 
 for several nights. Hitherto she had been kept awake by her 
 fever of excitement at the prospect of return to the home of her 
 childhood; last night she had been wakeful from other causes, 
 disappointment, and bewilderment at the new landscape spread 
 before her eyes. She looked like a girl convalescent from a 
 long and dangerous sickness. 
 
 ' Do you think, miss, her be fit to travel 1 ' asked the host- 
 ess, compassionately, of Orange. ' Her looks a'most like death 
 herself.' 
 
 * She suflfers from the heart,' answered Orange coldly. 
 Orange Trampleasure was not herself. A hard look had 
 
 come over her face. The ripe, sensual lips were set and con- 
 tracted, and a threatening light glimmered in her eyes. 
 
 * That other young lady do have a temper. I wouldn't be
 
 420 JOHN HERSING. 
 
 the one to cross her,' said the hostess to the chambermaid when 
 the cliaise departed. 
 
 Nor -was Genefer herself the confident person she had been. 
 Genefer was wont to speak as the oracle of the truth, to speak 
 and act as though whatever she said and did was inspired. She 
 had no doubt about her own infallibiKty, and every contrary 
 opinion to hers she regarded as instigated by the devil. But 
 this morning her confidence was gone ; almost for the first time 
 in her life she did not see her way clear before her. She had 
 urged Mirelle to retvirn to Welltown, and Mirelle was return- 
 ing; but now Genefer doubted whether the advice she had 
 given was wise and good. She did not like the Captain, and 
 the Captain had succeeded in convincing her mistress when she 
 had failed. 
 
 ' The Lord have hid the thing from me ! ' she muttered as 
 she mounted the box. She sat looking before her, waiting for 
 the light, that she might see her way ; but it did not come. At 
 intervals she sighed, and muttered, ' I misdoubt me sore. But 
 the Lord have closed my eyes that I cannot see.' 
 
 Strange as it may seem, the old woman had taken a strong 
 h'liing for Mirelle, and it was not only becaiise she thought 
 Mirelle's object in retuniing to an idolatrous land was wrong 
 that she opposed it, but also because in her rugged but warm 
 heart she was attached to her and did not like to lose her. 
 There was a singleness of mind and a spirituality of vision in 
 the Snow Bride which impressed as well as puzzled Genefer. 
 How one who was not. a Dissenter could live an inner life, and 
 pray much, pei"plexed her, but she recognised in Mirelle a good 
 deal that was akin to herself, and she found that Mirelle entered 
 into her spiritual experiences with interest and sympathy. 
 
 Orange sat by Mirelle, and Captain Trecarrel was opposite 
 the latter. He made himself very agreeable, had a fund of con- 
 versation on a variety of topics, but found his companions in 
 no responsive mood. He tried to interest Mirelle in the scenery, 
 which was lovely, but Llirelle was absorbed in her thoughts and 
 disinclined for conversation. The day was fine, the views look- 
 ing back over Plymouth Bay and the woods of Mount Edg- 
 cumbe, the Hamoaze crowded with ships, and the winding 
 estuary of the Tamar, were charming — hardly less beautiful 
 were those in front, of Dartmoor. Mirelle leaned back in the 
 chaise, the hood of which was thrown back, and the air fanned 
 her face and soohhed her. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel could hardly withdraw his eyes from her;
 
 E.LP, 421 
 
 Blie seemed to him the most lovely woman lie had ever seen. 
 He had an artist's appreciation of beauty of feature. The deli- 
 cate and perfect chiselling of the nose and nostril ; the finely 
 formed, sensitive mouth; the pure brow, and, when she looked 
 up, the solemn depth of her large eyes ; filled him with admira- 
 tion. A little lock of her dark hair had strayed over her fore- 
 head, and the soft warm air trifled with it in a tender, playful 
 manner. Mii-elle put up her fingers to put it in place, but un- 
 successfully ; it stole forth again, again to flutter in the light 
 air. 
 
 Orange watched Trecarrel jealously ; she saw how his eyea 
 turned to Mirelle whenever he dare look at her without rude- 
 ness, and how his admiration of her beauty grew. The Captain 
 spoke to her occasionally, but only by the way, his remarks were 
 mainly directed to Mirelle, and when he turned to Orange she 
 felt that he was doing so out of civility alone. His thoughts 
 were not with her, but with her companion. Orange was not 
 herself on this day ; her usual colour had deserted her, and the 
 sensuous fulness of life which throbbed in her seemed to have 
 ebbed, and left her flaccid and pulseless. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel was aware that he had behaved badly to 
 Orange, and had incurred her resentment; this made him 
 nervous in her presence, and to hide his discomfort he redoubled 
 his efibrts to be agreeable. Finding that no conversation was 
 to be got out of Mirelle, he finally turned his eflforts to Orange, 
 and endeavouied to amuse her with his adventures at the little 
 inns on his sketching tour. 
 
 But still, as he talked, his eyes reverted to the face of 
 Mirelle, and Orange's life returned in a throb of spleen. She 
 rose in her seat and said sharply, 'We will change places, if you 
 please. Captain Trecarrel.' 
 
 * Hush ! ' said he ; * do not disturb her. She sleeps.' 
 
 The fresh air puffing in her face, and the warm sun, after 
 the sleepless nights, had operated on the weary brain, and 
 Mirelle had dropped ofi" into unconsciousness. Orange was 
 aware of this without looking round, by the confidence with 
 which the Captain allowed his eyes to rest on her face. Mirelle 
 was breathing gently, and her face had become wonderfully 
 peaceful and deathlike under the influence of sleep. The stray 
 lock wantoned in the air on the pure ■vvhite brow, but could not 
 wake her. 
 
 * Do you really wish to sit with your back to the horses 1 * 
 nsked Trecarrel in an undertone. ' You will tlien ho.ve the sua 
 in your eyes.'
 
 422 JOHrt HERRIK*;. 
 
 * Yes, let us change places.' Her voice was metallic. 
 
 * Then, for the love of Heaven, do not wake her with mov- 
 ing. Stay ! here we are at a long hill. I will get out and 
 walk up it to relieve the horses, and then you can change with- 
 out disturbing Mirelle.' 
 
 ' If you are going to walk, I will walk also.' 
 They both alighted at the bridge over the Walkham, and 
 fell behind the carriage. Trecarrel Avas uneasy ; he feared that 
 Orange was going to speak to him unpleasantly, on an un- 
 pleasant subject. 
 
 * She is so deficient in breeding,' said he to himself, ' that she 
 persists in forcing herself and what she regards as her wronga 
 upon one.' 
 
 ' How lovely she is ! ' exclaimed the Captain, mth want of 
 tact ; ' but terribly fragile. She looks as if she were as likely 
 never to wake out of the sleep into which she has fallen, as she 
 is again to unclose her beautiful eyes.' 
 
 Orange made no answer. Her heart was beating ; the rush 
 of life had returned to her veins. She walked at his side in 
 silence for some little way, then suddenly burst forth with, 
 ' What is the meaning of this, Captain Trecan-el 1 ' 
 
 ' The meaning of what, my good Orange 1 You must be 
 more explicit.' 
 
 ' Why is Mirelle returning 1 How have you succeeded in 
 changing her from her purpose 1 What inducement have you 
 held out to her to lure her back to hated Welltown 1 ' 
 
 ' The highest, the purest of all,' answered the Captain, with 
 dignity. ' For what is higher and purer than duty 1 ' 
 
 Orange looked round at him. 
 
 ' What do you mean by that 1 ' she asked harshly. ' Duty — 
 duty to whom 1 ' 
 
 ' To self — to conscience. I have pointed out to her obHga- 
 tions she must not cast off.' 
 
 'Duty — obligations!' echoed Orange, roughly. 'What 
 farce is this ? Have you turned preacher? ' 
 
 * I have advised Mirelle as a friend. She has no one else 
 capable of giving her counsel.' 
 
 ' Indeed 1 I am nothing 1 ' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. Orange. I do not ignore your high 
 qualifications for advising her as to her social duties; but 
 when we step out on moral ground, there I must beg leave to 
 observe that only one of her own faith is calculated to direct 
 her.'
 
 E.r.t. 423 
 
 Orange stood still and stamped her foot. Her liancls 
 clenched convulsively. 
 
 * Captain Trecarrel ! do you suppose me such a fool as to 
 believe you when you take up this tone 1 I know you too well. 
 I have suffered too severely from your selfishness and cruelty 
 not to know that you are working in your own interest, dis- 
 regarding everything and every one save some mean and selfish 
 aim. Captain Trecarrel, you were bound to me by the most 
 Bacred vows, short of those made at the altar ; you took a base 
 advantage of my misfortunes to shake me off, when a man of 
 honour and chivalry would have blushed to desert me. I 
 humbled myself before you into the dust. I am covered with 
 shame at the thought of such self-abasement before one so 
 unworthy. You were without feeling for me, without love, 
 without compassion, without generosity. After that you sought 
 me again, when I had fled from Launceston to conquer my own 
 heart in seclusion. You sought me out, you followed me to 
 my place of retreat, to trifle with me again, to waken up in me 
 what was going to sleep, to torture me, and to sting me to 
 madness. Take care t take care ! What have I done to you, 
 that you should do this great wrong to me ? I wag a good- 
 hearted and gay girl, without gall and bitterness, and you have 
 turned my heart into a cauldron boiling with furious and hate- 
 ful passions. Take care, I say ; take care lest you di-ive me to 
 desperation.' 
 
 * My dear, dear Orange ' 
 
 * Have done with " my dear, dear Orange ! " ' she almost 
 shouted. The anger was boiling in her heart and puffing out 
 the veins in her throat and temples. ' I am " dear " to you no 
 more. Captain Trecarrel, you have had no mercy on me, and I 
 appeal no more to you to consider my wrongs ; but I do appeal 
 to you on behalf of Mirelle, whom you so greatly admire, whom 
 you profess to consider so lovely, whom you are guiding in the 
 way of moral obligation. Have you no pity ? Do you know 
 to what you are driving her back ? Can you not let her alone 
 and allow her to escape whilst she may 1 Her heart is set on 
 return to France and to her convent. Why should she not 
 follow her heart and go ] Why should you stand in the way, 
 and lay your hand on her and arrest her ] Let her go. It is 
 not now too late. Let her follow her own wishes and leave 
 England. Do you not see that, tossed as she has been into a 
 turmoil of troubles, they are killing her 1 It is a whirlpool 
 sucking her in and sufibcating her. Do not you incur the guilt
 
 424 JOHN HEERINa. 
 
 of her destruction as "well as mine, you moral instructor ! You 
 have ruined my happiness, and with it my moral sense. You 
 are thrusting her back out of happiness into death. She has 
 been like a captive escaping from a dungeon, catching a glimpse 
 of sun and laughing for joy, and now you, as a savage gaoler, 
 come and drive her back into the rayless vault again, and cast 
 a stone over the door. Cruel, cruel man ! ' She panted for 
 breath. ' See,' she continued, ' see how fine the day is ! The 
 packet is now at sea with her prow turned towards France. 
 But for your interference Mirelle would be on board, she would 
 be standing on deck looking eagerly forward to catch the first 
 sight of the loved land, her heart beating high with hope, her 
 eye bright with returning happiness, her cheek flushed with 
 renovated life. Let her go back to Plymouth and take the 
 next packet.' 
 
 Captain Trecarrel said nothing, but, drawing a silk 
 handkerchief from his pocket, he dusted his boots and faintly 
 hummed a tune. 
 
 Orange's passion increased at his insulting indifierence. 
 
 ' Captain Trecarrel,' she said, * have you no regard for anyone 
 but yourself? You think, do you, that some day Mirelle will 
 be yours, and with her all she has 1 ' 
 
 * Orange,' said the Captain, coldly, ' as you pretend to know 
 me, I may return the compliment, and admit that I know you. 
 Now what is the meaning of this sudder sympathy with 
 Mirelle 1 I know you do not love her ; I have eyes in my 
 head which have long ago convinced me that you do not even 
 like her. This outbreak of zeal for her welfare and happiness, 
 I am led to believe, covers — as you were pleased coarsely to 
 remark to me — some selfish aim. And that aim I can discern 
 Avithout difiiculty, I understand,' he added with a sneer, 'that 
 Mirelle had constituted j^ou treasurer and agent and plenipoten- 
 tiary over all her property, landed and funded and invested, 
 with perfect liberty to deal with it as you listed, and without 
 anyone to control your proceedings and check your accounts. 
 And that after her experience of how the Trampleasure family 
 deals in trust matters ! sancta sim2)licifas 1 ' 
 
 Orange looked at him sullenly. 
 
 ' Think so if you will, but I tell you you are mistaken.* 
 She stepped before him, barring his road, and held out her 
 hands. ' Captain Trecarrel, I give you one chance more. Let 
 her go. Send her to her convent. Have pity upon both her 
 and me.' Then her rage swelled into a paroxysm ; she grasped
 
 E.i.p. 425 
 
 his shoulders with her strong hands, and shook him. ' Captain 
 Trecarrel, will you be advised, will you be ruled 1 Do not 
 think in your heart that ever she will be yours, and AVelltown 
 joined to Trecarrel ! That will never, never be. Let her go. 
 You alone can save her. The carriage has halted for us at the 
 top of the hill. Now call to the postillion to turn his horses 
 and drive back to Plymouth.' 
 
 Captain Trecarrel released himself, with a feeling of disgust 
 at her violence and ill-breeding. 
 
 ' Let us catch up the caiTiage, Orange,' he said coldly ; ' we 
 have dropped far behind. You are excited, and hot, and 
 unreasonable. If you wish to hear what directions I shall give 
 to the driver, you must wait.' 
 
 They walked on hastily, side by side, Avithout speaking. 
 Orange's breath was like a flame between her lips. 
 
 The post-boy had drawn up the horses at the head of the 
 hill. As they prepared to step into the chaise, Captain Trecan-el 
 remarked — 
 
 * She is asleep still. Bless me, she looks as if she might 
 sleep away into death without those looking on being conscious 
 of the change.' 
 
 Orange took her place opposite Mirelle, and Captain 
 Trecarrel sat by the sleeper's side. 
 
 * You really wish this ? ' he asked of Orange. 
 
 ' Yes ; give the word to the post-boy,' she answered, looking 
 him hard in the face. 
 
 ' Drive straight on,' shouted the Captain ; * we are ready.' 
 
 Orange sank back in her seat and said no more. Trecarrel 
 looked about him, and admired the richness of the scenery, as 
 the road descended to the beautiful valley of the Tavy, rich in 
 woods, with glimpses of granite moor ridges rising picturesquely 
 above it, an^ 'ktcIow the little town of Tavistock, with its grey 
 church and abbey nestling by the foaming moorland river. The 
 scene was charming, and the Captain wished he had time to 
 sketch it. 
 
 Presently Mirelle woke — woke with a start and shiver. 
 
 ' Orange ! ' she said, ' you frighten me. Why do you look 
 at me in that strange manner 1 ' 
 
 ' I did not know that I was looking at you at all,' answered 
 Orange, and she turned away her face. 
 
 ' I am cold,' said Mirelle ; ' we have our backs to the sun.' 
 
 * You have been asleep, and have become chilled,' said the 
 Captain, sympathetically. * Let me wrap my warm cloak about
 
 426 JOHN HEKRIN(i. 
 
 your shoulders ; you must not catch cold. We are now half- 
 way to Launceston.' 
 
 Then Genefer murmured, * The Lord put a l.ying spirit into 
 the mouth of the prophets, and they said unto Ahab, Go up 
 unto Eamoth Gilead and take it ; and he went up and fell 
 there. I cannot see ; my eyes are holden. The Lord hath not 
 spoken unto me by word or sign or revelation, and I know not 
 if I counselled right when I. said, Return.' 
 
 Nothing of interest and worthy of record occurred during 
 the rest of the journey. Mirelle was brighter, refreshed by 
 her sleep, and she tried to enter into conversation with the 
 Captain, but Orange remained obdurately mute. At the gate 
 of Launceston Trecarrel descended and offered profuse thanks 
 to Mirelle for the drive which had saved him the expense of 
 coaching home. The evening had fallen and it was dusk ; the 
 chaise was driven rapidly into the gate of Dolbeare, and drew 
 up on the terrace. 
 
 The house was locked ; no one now lived in it. Orange 
 had taken the key with her to Plymouth ; she handed it to 
 Genefer, whilst the post-boy let down the steps, and she de- 
 scended. Genefer went, with the key in her hand, towards the 
 door, when suddenly she stopped, uttered a cry of terror, and 
 fell back. 
 
 ' What is the matter 1 ' asked Orange, impatiently. 
 
 * Do'y see un 1 Do'y see uu 1 There he stands.' 
 
 'Who? what? No one is there,' answered Orange in a 
 tone of irritation. * You foolish woman, go on.' 
 
 ' I see an old man in red ; he be there standing with hia 
 walking-stick waving it, and signing to us not to come in. He 
 has his hand out, as though to thrust us back. He stands in 
 the doorway.' 
 
 ' This is sheer crazy folly,' exclaimed Orange. * Here, give 
 me the key ! ' She snatched it from Genefer's hand, and 
 thrusting her aside went forward. 
 
 Genefer turned her head and uttered another cry. Mirelle 
 had fainted. 
 
 * She saw him too, I reckon — that man in a red coat, with 
 the white hair and the gold-headed cane,' said the old woman. 
 ' Lord, enlighten me ! What be the meaning of all this, I 
 cannot tell.* 
 
 Orange threw the house door open, and the unconscious 
 Mirelle was borne into the hall by Genefer and the post-boy, 
 and placed in an arm-chair, where she ^adually recovered. 
 
 y
 
 R-LT. 427 
 
 * I'll be quick, darling,' said Genefer, * and get a fire lighted 
 and something warm, and I'll bring you yoar supper up to 
 your own room.' 
 
 * You are over-tired,' said Orange. * Genefer is right ; go 
 to bed.' 
 
 When the Tram pleasures had removed to Welltown nothing 
 definite was settled as to where they would permanently take 
 up their abode ; the furniture and all the contents of Dolbeare 
 had therefore been left there undisturbed, to be removed should 
 they elect to live elsewhei'e. It was convenient to them to 
 have the house in condition to receive them at aiiy time for a 
 short or lengthy stay as suited them. On their way to Ply- 
 mouth Mirelle and Orange had spent the night there, and 
 Genefer had attended to their requirements. Now that they 
 had returned, the old servant's hands were full of work. She 
 lighted the fire in the kitchen and in tlie dining-room, filled 
 the kettle and set it on to boil, and began to prepare for supper. 
 This occupied some time, during Avhich she was unable to 
 attend to Mirelle. When the supper was ready she brought it 
 into the dining-room, and found Orange there seated musing 
 by the hearth. 
 
 * How be the mistress now 1 ' asked Genefer. 
 
 * I do not kiiovr. I have not been upstairs.' 
 
 Genefer looked up at the pastille portrait above her head, 
 and said, ' Him it was that I saw in the doorway with a warn- 
 ing vave of the hand, and he sought to bar the door enti'anco 
 with t^e stick, that we mJght not come in. I durst not have 
 passed, but when you went forward, Miss Orange, then he 
 seemed to vanish away like smoke. I reckon the mistress saw 
 un too, for her fainted with fright at the same moment. Did'y 
 ever hear, now, who he might be 1 ' 
 
 * No, I know nothing of him,' answtrod Orange, shortly. 
 
 * I reckon he don't come for naught,' said Genefer, 'But 
 a veil is on my face in the reading of eve: its, as there be on the 
 hearts of the Jews in the study of Script ure, and till that veil 
 be taken away I see naught plain.' 
 
 * Go about your work,' said Orange, impatiently, ' and do 
 not trouble me with your foolish fancies.' 
 
 Genefer looked at Orange, and shook her head, and 
 muttered, 'There be some folks Uke the fleece of Gideon 
 on which the dew never falls though the grass around be 
 wet.' 
 
 Then she prepared a tray, and carried some supper upstairs
 
 428 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 to Mirelle. *Ah !' she continued, 'and tliere be others on 
 whom the dew drops in plenty whilst all around is dry.' 
 
 She found her mistress seated in a high-backed, old-fashioned 
 chair covered with red baize. She had her shawl wrapped 
 about her. 'There, my pretty,' said the old woman; 'see, 
 I've a brought you something at last.' 
 
 * Oh, Genevieve, I am very cold,' said Mirelle. 
 ' Shall I light the fire, darling?' 
 
 *I should like it. I do not think I am well. I am ex- 
 hausted, and sick at heart. Feel my hand how it shakes.' 
 
 Genefer took the little white hand between her own, 
 stroked it, raised it to her lips and kissed it. 
 
 ' You love me, Genevieve 1 ' Mirelle lifted her large eyes 
 and looked earnestly into the old woman's face. 
 
 * Ah, I do, I do, sure-ly.' 
 
 ' I am so glad, Genevieve, because I do not think there are 
 many who love me.' 
 
 ' Do'y think it was the red man in the doorway that 
 frightened you? ' asked Genefer. ' You seed un, did you not 1 ' 
 
 * I do not know,' answered Mirelle. ' I hardly remember 
 what occurred. I had a sense of a great wave of terror coming 
 over me, but what caused it I no more remember, for my 
 consciousness went from me.' 
 
 ' He've a got a kindly enough face, there be no vice in it,' 
 said Genefer, as she knelt at the heai'th and was engaged on 
 the fire. ' I reckon he don't walk for naught; it ain't only the 
 bad as wanders. Samuel appeared to Saul before the battle of 
 GUboa. Many of the saints that slept arose, and appeared in 
 the holy city. We have Scripture to show that it be not the 
 bad only as walks. I've a seen my mother scores of times, and 
 her were a God-fearing woman. But father were a darning 
 blaspheming drunkard, and I've never seen him once. I 
 reckon the red man were a peaceable sort of a chap, and if he 
 walks, 'tain't along of his sins, but because he be sent to fulfil 
 the wise purposes of Heaven.' 
 
 Genefer put the poker against the bars of the grate. 
 
 * There, mistress, I hope you'll be warmer soon, but the 
 kindling be damp and the chimney has cold air in it, and the 
 fire won't draw kindly. Now I must go.' 
 
 * Oh, Genevieve, must you really go ? I do not like to be 
 alone, I am frightened.' 
 
 'Is it the red man you fear? Do'y think he'll walk 
 through the room while you are lying bed? Lord bless'y, I
 
 R.I.P. 429 
 
 think nani^ht of such spirits. It be the black devils is tlio 
 ohaps to scare one ; I've a seed them and hunted 'em many a 
 time.' 
 
 ' No,' said Mirelle, * I'm not afraid of him. I do not know 
 exactly what I fear, but something that I cannot describe has 
 come over me. Oh, Genevieve, I wish that you could sleep in 
 this room with me.' 
 
 * I don't see how to manage that, my dear. I couldn't 
 move my bed myself up here. But you've no occasion for it, 
 neither. There be Miss Orange close at hand, and only a door 
 between. You ask her, and her'll leave the door open between 
 you.' 
 
 'No, no,' said Mirelle, nervously. 'Could you fasten that 
 door, Genevieve 1 ' 
 
 * Which 1 There be but two doors, one is on to the landing, 
 and the other into Miss Orange's bedroom.' 
 
 * I mean the latter door.' 
 Genefer went to it. 
 
 ' I cannot fasten it. It be locked already, and the key on 
 the other side.' 
 
 ' Is there no bolt ? ' 
 
 * No, mistress.' 
 
 * Never mind, it cannot be helped,' with a sigh. 
 
 Then the lock was turned, the door opened, and Orange 
 came through carrying a bolster. 
 
 ' You like to lie with your head well raised. I have 
 brought you this ; you will sleep the sounder for it.' 
 
 Then she went up to Mirelle's bed and placed it with the 
 pillows. 
 
 ' Thank you. Orange. How very kind and thoughtful you 
 are ! ' said Mirelle. 
 
 Orange went up to her. Orange had lost her colour, and a 
 hard, restrained look had come over her face. 
 
 ' How are you now 1 ' 
 
 ' A little better ; not much. I feel very cold.' 
 
 * It is heart,' said Orange, ' that ails you. That will stop 
 some day — or night. Stop in a moment when least expected.' 
 And without another word she went back through her door 
 and re-locked it. 
 
 ' Shall I unpack your box, mistress ? ' asked the old woman. 
 * It won't do for you to stoop. It might bring the swimming 
 in your head again. It is only for me to stay up a bit later 
 to finish the housework.'
 
 430 JOHN EERRIKG. 
 
 ' Thank yon, deai% kind Genevi6ve. I am much obliged, I 
 
 shall be very glad of it,' 
 
 Genefer uncorded and unlocked the trunk and removed 
 from it what she thought would be necessary for the night. 
 
 ' Shall I bring out this Christ on the cross 1 ' she asked, 
 holding up the crucifix Herring had bought for his bride. 
 
 ' Oh, please do so. I shall be glad to have it.' 
 
 * Ah ! ' said the old woman, ' if the fear and sickness of 
 heart come over you again, you can look to that and take com- 
 fort. I be not that set against images such as this, that I 
 would forbid and destroy them. Since you've been to "Well • 
 town I've a looked on this here many scores of times, and it 
 have done me a deal of good, it have.' 
 
 Then she planted the crucifix in the middle of a small table 
 at the head of the bed, between a couple of wax lights that 
 were burning there. 
 
 Mirelle shivered. ' Oh, Genevieve ! what have you done ? 
 Do you know that with us we put a crucifix and candles in 
 that way at the head of a bed where some one is lying dead 1 ' 
 
 ' Let be,' said Genefer. ' Sleep is a figure of death, and if 
 you cannot sleep under the cross you are not fit to die under 
 it. Remember Avhat IMiss Orange said. You sufier from the 
 heart, and it may stop at any hour ; so be always ready.' She 
 went again to the hearth. ' Drat the fire, it won't burn, least- 
 wise not readily; there be too much cold air in the flue. 
 There, mistress, now I must go ; I've my work to do down- 
 stairs.' 
 
 ' May I have a rushlight for the night, Genevieve 1 ' 
 
 ' My dear, there be none in the house ; I'd go gladly and 
 fetch you one, but the shops be all shut in the town. There, 
 good night, and God be Avith you.' 
 
 * Where do you sleep, Genevieve ? ' 
 
 * At the far end of the house, up the other flight of stairs.' 
 
 ' If I should want you ? If 1 should call in the night ? * 
 Mirelle looked anxiously, pleadingly at her. 
 
 ' My darling, it would be no good. I should never hear. 
 But what do that matter 1 Miss Orange be close at hand, and 
 you've but to call if you feel ill, and her'll run and wake me 
 up, and I'll go for the doctor fast as lightning, so there, 
 don't'y fear any more.' 
 
 Mirelle sighed. * Give me a kiss, Genevieve, before you 
 
 go-' 
 
 * With all my heart, precious ! ' and the old woman kissed
 
 K.i.P. 431 
 
 her fondly on the cheek, and then raised and kissed both her 
 hands in succession. 
 
 Then Genefer left. It was not possible for her to tarry 
 longer with Mirelle. There was much that had to be done ; 
 the supper things to be removed and washed up, some kindling 
 to be got ready for the fire next morning ; the kitchen fire to 
 be put out, and a Little tidying to be done in the parlour and 
 the hall. Genefer would have enough to do next morning, 
 getting breakfast ready, and she would leave nothmg till then 
 that she could possibly get done that night. 
 
 Whilst she was in the dining-room clearing away the 
 supper things, she looked hard at the pastille portrait. 
 
 ' Whatever did the old man mean by walking and standing 
 in the doorway with that warning gesture 1 ' 
 
 She stood in front of the picture for some time, trying to 
 decipher something in it which escaped her. At last, hopeless 
 of discovering what she sought, she resumed her work. 
 
 ' There, there ! ' she said, ' I've been wasting the one bit of 
 candle I have, and her'll hardly last me out all I have to 
 do. Whatever be hidden now from me, the day will bring 
 forth.' 
 
 After the old woman had finished the washing-up in the 
 kitchen and had extinguished that tire and raked out the fire 
 in the parlour, she went into the hall, which was littered with 
 packages, boxes, trunks, cloaks, and calashes. Genefer disliked 
 disorder, and she set to work putting the sundry articles into 
 some sort of order, though the next day all would again be 
 removed to the carriage for the continuation of the return 
 journey to Welltown. 
 
 ' I wonder what time of night it be ! ' she said, as she 
 looked up at the clock. ' Twelve ! Bat no, sure it cannot be. 
 Her's not ticking. Her's standing still. To be sure, her's not 
 been wounded up for ever so long. Loramussy ! the candle 
 will never last me out. I shall have to go to bed in the dark, 
 and that ain't pleasant where there be spirits of dead men 
 walking. But ' — she shook herself — ' is that seemly of thee, 
 Genefer Benoke, to be afeared of spirits'? The Lord is my 
 light and my salvation, whom shall I fear ] The Lord is the 
 strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid \ ' 
 
 Genefer's confidence was somewhat shaken by hearing a 
 door opened, and by seeing a white figure on the stairs, slowly 
 descending. 
 
 * Lord, mistress ! ' she said, after she had recovered from
 
 432 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 the first shock of alarm, when she recognised Mirelle ; * sure 
 enough you did give me a turn.' 
 
 Mirelle was in her long white nightdress, her dark hair was 
 unbound, and fell over her shoulders. The white, deHcate feet 
 were bare. 
 
 ' What be the matter, darling? ' 
 
 Mirelle took each step on the stair hesitatingly, with foot 
 poised before her, as though feeling in the air, before she lowered 
 it. She descended in this way very leisurely, as one walking in 
 a dream, or one blind, groping the way in an unknown place. 
 Her hand was on the banister, and the bar ti-embled. 
 
 She reached the landing, and stood under the clock. She 
 made no attempt to descend farther. 
 
 * Oh, Genevieve, the fire is gone out.' 
 
 * I reckon the wood were damp,' said the old woman. * It 
 be too late, and not possible to light it again now.' 
 
 * And the candles are flickering in their sockets.' 
 
 * There is not another in the house. Look at mine.' 
 
 * It will be so dark.' 
 
 * Do not be afraid. The Lord will give you light.' 
 
 * It will be so cold.' 
 
 * You will be warm in bed.' 
 
 ' O no ! it is colder there than outside.' 
 
 She remained without speaking, waiting for Genefer to say 
 Bomething, but the old woman oJSered no remr-rk, not knowing 
 what to say. 
 
 Still she stood there, hesitating, and the banister rattled 
 under her hand laid on it. 
 
 ' There, there,' said Genefer, ' lie down and shut your eyes, 
 and you will soon be asleep.' 
 
 * I cannot sleep.' 
 
 She still stood there, irresolute. 
 
 * Is the fire burning in the parlour ? I should like to go in 
 there, and sit there.' 
 
 * I've just put him out.' 
 
 * Then — that in the kitchen.* 
 
 * He's out likewise. There, there, go to bed like a good 
 dear. There is no help — it must be.' 
 
 ' Genevi6ve, I asked Mr. John Herring to send you away. 
 
 You frightened me. I am very sorry. Will you forgive me for 
 
 doing so 1 ' 
 
 ' To be sure I will. I am not one to bear malice.' 
 ' Do you really think, Genevieve, that he is alive ? '
 
 B.I.P. 433 
 
 ' I do. I cannot doubt it.' 
 
 * Oh, promise me, if ever you see him, and I not, tell him ' — 
 Bhe paused — ' tell him that now I wish, with all my heart, I 
 had loved him as he deserved.' 
 
 Then she went upstairs again, in the same slow, reluctant 
 manner, step by step, ascending backward, feeling each step 
 behind her with her bare foot before planting it, and raising 
 herself to the higher level, and she kept her eyes fixed on 
 Genefer as though dreading to lose sight of her. At last 
 Mirelle's hand, feeling behind her, touched the latch of her door, 
 and the chill of the metal sent a shiver through her. 
 
 Slowly, very slowly, she pressed the door open behind her, 
 walking backwards still, with a sad despau'ing look in her large 
 dark eyes fixed on Genefer. 
 
 And Genefer, standing below, said, * Sweetheart, go to your 
 bed, and, may you rest in peace ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 DIVIDING THE SPOILS. 
 
 * Never was more shocked in my life ! ' said Captain Trecarrel, 
 ' I really have not recovered it yet. So young, so beautiful, so 
 good ! and you, my sweet Orange, I observe, are greatly over- 
 come. It does you credit ; it does, upon my life.' 
 
 Captain Trecari-el was seated in the parlour at Dolbeare 
 with Orange; the latter was looking haggard and wretched. 
 
 * And it was heart that did it,' said the Captain ; ' I always 
 said that heart was her weak point, and that it must be 
 economised to the utmost, spared all excitement, everything 
 distressing. There has always been that transparent look about 
 her flesh that is a sure sign of the heart being wrong. Poor 
 angel ! I have no doubt in the world that she was greatly 
 tried. She has not been happy ever since she came to England ; 
 one thing or another has risen up to distress her, circumstances 
 have conspired to keep her in incessant nervous tension. She 
 felt the death of poor John Herring severely ; that alone was 
 enough to kill her. Do not take on so much, Orange ; there is 
 moderation in all things, even in sorrow for the dead.' 
 
 * Leave me alone,' said Orange, hoarsely. ' Do not notice 
 
 BQO.* 
 
 *I see this painful occurrence has shaken you,' continued 
 
 F F
 
 434 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 Captain Trecarrel. * I knew you regarded her ; I had no idea 
 
 that you loved her. Indeed ' 
 
 ' Leave me alone,' said Orange, emphatically. 
 
 * Well, well ? When wiU be the funeral 1 ' 
 
 * To-morrov.' 
 
 * I shall certainly attend, to show the last tribute of respect 
 to one whom I greatly esteemed. Indeed I may say that next 
 to you. Orange, I never admired any woman so much. She has 
 taught us one lesson, poor thing, and that is not to trifle with 
 the heart, which is a most susceptible organ, and must be 
 guarded against strong feeling and excitement. Do not be so 
 troubled about this matter, Orange ; it is bad for the health, 
 over much sorrow debilitates the constitution. You are really 
 not looking yourself. Think that every cloud has its silver 
 lining, and this fleeting afiiiction, I make no scruple to affirm, 
 is trimmed throughout with gold. Have you reversed it? 
 Have you studied the other side? Have you looked into 
 matters at all 1 ' 
 
 ' What matters,? ' 
 
 ' Well, to put it broadly, pecuniary matters. One is reluc- 
 tant to advert to such things at such a solemn time, but it is 
 necessary. The sweet luxury of grief cannot be indulged in 
 till these concerns are settled, and they considerably accentuate 
 or moderate it. You and I, Orange, ax^e practical persons : wo 
 feel for what we have lost, but we do not let flip the present or 
 overlook the future. You are her nearest of kin, and therefore, 
 of course, everything she had will fall to you. By the greatest 
 good luck her husband predeceased, and Welltown came to her, 
 and from her will doubtless pass to you. Besides Welltown, 
 what was she worth 1 ' 
 
 * I do not know — I do not care,' answered Orange, in atone 
 of mingled impatience and indifierence. 
 
 * This will not do. Orange,' said Captain Trecarrel ; * you 
 really must not succumb. Good taste imposes its limits on 
 sorrow as on joy. If you come in for ten thousand pounds you 
 do not dance and shout, and if you lose a friend you do not sink 
 into the abyss of sulky misery — that is, if you make any pre- 
 tence to good breeding. I know what a sensible, practical girl 
 you are. Come, pluck up heart and help me to look into her 
 concerns. I have done my best, my very best, for you so far, 
 and I will not desert you now. The moment I heard of the 
 event I flew to your assistance, I ofiered my aid, and I have 
 been invaluable to you. You cannot dispute it. But for ma
 
 DITIDING THE SPOILS. 435 
 
 there might have been an inquest, which would have been 
 offensive to your delicacy of sentiment. I explained to the 
 doctor her constitution, and the troubles she has gone through ; 
 how she felt her husband's sudden death, the languor that has 
 since oppressed her, her fainting fits, the swoon into which she 
 fell after her exhausting journey; and he saw at once that heart 
 was at the bottom of it all. I settled with the vinderLaker, saw 
 to everything, made every arrangement, and you have not been 
 troubled in the least. I even went after the milliner about 
 your mourning. You cannot deny that I have been of service 
 to you, and I am i-eady to do more. All that is nothing : now 
 comes the most trying and difficult task of all — the settlement 
 of her affairs ; but I am ready to undertake that also, to save 
 my dear Orange trouble ; only I ask, as a preliminary, that all 
 the requisite information shall be placed at my disposal.' 
 ' Later,' said Orange, uneasily ; * after the funeral.' 
 'No,' answered Captain Trecarrel, 'not after the funeral, 
 but now. My time is valuable. I shall have to go to Exeter 
 in three days, and I should like to have everything ready to 
 take with me. If there be a will — which I do not suppose there 
 is — I will prove it for you; if there be not, I will obtain letters 
 of administration for you. You must really let me know what 
 her estate was worth. Have you the means of ascertaining ? ' 
 
 * I do not know.' 
 
 * But you must know, or rather you must put me in the 
 way of ascertaining. Have you looked whether there is a will 1 ' 
 
 ' No, I have not.' 
 
 * Have you got her desk 1 ' 
 ' It is upstairs.' 
 
 * Bring it down, and we will overhaul it together.* 
 Orange rose and left the room. She returned a few minutes 
 
 later, with the large desk that had belonged to Mr. Strange, 
 and after his death had been appropriated by Mirelle. Mirelle 
 had removed from it all his Portuguese letters, tied them in 
 bundles and put them away, and had transferred to it her own 
 treasures from a school writing-desk full to overflowing. It was 
 a strange thing that this desk was thus explored in search of a 
 will at so small an interval of time since we saw John Herring 
 seated at it, at the opening of this story. 
 
 ' This is the sort of thing I detest,' said the Captain. * It 
 jars with one's feelings, and vulgarises bereavement. However, 
 it does not become us to give way to our emotions ; we must do 
 our duty. Give me the key.' 
 
 7 F 2
 
 43G JOHN fiEKRINO. 
 
 He unlocked the desk, and turned over the contents ; he re- 
 raoved many articles and placed them on the table. What 
 trifles were there ! — trifles that had been collected at school and 
 were preserved as treasures, each made precious by some inno- 
 cent association and sunny memory. A little book in which 
 her school companions had inscribed verses and signed their 
 names. Wrapped up in silver paper and tied with white silk, 
 a lock of hair from the head of Marie de la Meillerie, cut on the 
 day of her first Communion. In a pill-box a raisin out of 
 Mirelle's birthday cake, many years old. Some lace-edged 
 pictures of saints, spangled red and blue and gold with foil 
 stars. A medal of Notre-Dame de Bon Secours. Some feathers 
 off a pet bullfinch that had died and cost many tears. A twig 
 of blessed palm. John Herring's notes and some little presents 
 he had made her ; but not one relic of Captain Trecarrel — all 
 such had been burned on her marriage ; she had kept them till 
 then. Also a little deal box, in which, softly nested in cotton- 
 wool, was a glass peacock, with spun glass tail — a memorial of 
 one happy day spent at the house of the Countess La Gaye, who 
 had taken Mirelle and her daughters to see a glass-blower, and 
 the man had made the peacock under their eyes, and had pre- 
 sented it to Mirelle. All this rubbish Captain Trecarrel tossed 
 aside carelessly. If it ever had any value, it had it only to her 
 who could appreciate those trifles no more. Then he pounced, 
 with trembHng hand, on a paper in John Herring's handwi-iting 
 — a statement of the property of the Countess Mirelle Garcia de 
 Cantalejo, and with it a much larger paper in many folds. He 
 opened this latter, glanced at it, and tossed it aside with an ex- 
 pression of disgust. It was a pedigree of the family of Garcia 
 de Cantalejo, with heraldic blazonings. The smaller paper soon 
 engrossed his whole attention ; Captain Trecarrel's eyes opened 
 very wide. John Herring's confession was not there ; Mirelle 
 had destroyed it, lest it should ever be seen by anyone but hei'- 
 self. She had, however, preserved the statement. 
 
 * My dear Orange ! — my dear, dear Orange ! ' his voice shook 
 with emotion and excitement. ' I had no idea that the lining 
 was so warm and so rich. There are the West Wyke mort- 
 gages, there is a silver lead mine, about which I knew nothing 
 — well, I was aware some time ago that he was paddling in 
 something of the sort near Ophir, but 1 did not know that it; 
 was being worked; when I heard of it, it was not begun. 
 Then there are uncut diamonds. Bless my soul ! uncut dia- 
 monds ! How did they escape the fingers of your excellent
 
 I 
 
 DIVIDING THE SPOILS. 437 
 
 father, I wonder? Where can they be? Oh, I see, at the 
 bank. We must take out letters of administration to authorise 
 you to withdraw and realise. Why Orange ! my dear, dear, dear 
 Orange,' he put his hand under the table, took that of INIiss 
 Trampleasure, and pressed it with fervent affection ; * the 
 barrier that has stood between us has fallen. Happiness is in 
 view before us. You will forgive and forget any little past 
 lovers' quarrels. Amantium irce anioris integratio est, as the 
 syntax says. Let me tott all up as well as I can. Welltown is 
 worth six hundred nett, as far as I can judge, and it is vinencum- 
 bered. Then there are your five thousand, which will bring 
 in, say two hundred and fifty. It is impossible for me to esti- 
 mate the value of Mirelle's own property, as the silver lead 
 mine is only now beginning to give dividends, I suppose — I see 
 by the paper that money has been sunk, and there is no entry 
 of return, but then Upaver is quite a new affair. What it is 
 worth I cannot conjecture. Then there are the West Wyke 
 mortgages, and the uncut diamonds, and I suppose money in the 
 bank The estate must be worth at least a thousand per annum, 
 without including Welltown. My dear, dear, dear Orange, 
 my heart overflows with affection. I will teU you, Orange, 
 what will be the best plan of all for both of us. Let us get a 
 special licence and be married at the earliest time possible, pii- 
 vately, of course, because of the affliction under which you are 
 suffering, and then I can manage all the matter of Mii-elle's 
 estate with the utmost simplicity, as my own. It will save a 
 world of trouble, and possibly some expense. By Jove ! this is 
 not all. We had left out of our calculations the set of dia- 
 monds. Where is it ? Oh, here it is in its etui on the other 
 side of the desk. Orange, do look at the stones ! they are 
 magnificent. They must be worth a great deal of money. I 
 am no judge of stones, but these strike my uninitiated eye as 
 being of the purest water — not a tinge of yellow, not a flaw in 
 them. I can see this, Orange, that our income is likely to be 
 some two thousand a year. I could cry tears of joy at the 
 thought. Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous as the 
 supposition that John Herring had committed suicide with this 
 set of diamonds in his pocket. The thing is psychologically 
 impossible. With such a source of wealth in one's pocket ona 
 would begin to live ; all previous existence would be tadpolism, 
 now only would one stretch out legs and arms and begin to 
 jump. My dear, dear Orange, I do believe that you and I are only 
 now about to sip the nectar of life. Here — try on these jewels/
 
 438 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 * I had rather not,* said Orange, shrinking back. 
 
 ' I insist. I want to see you in them. Lord bless you I 
 they never could become that pale little thing ; colour, warmth, 
 flesh and life are wanted to carry this. Here, Orange, let me 
 try it on.' 
 
 He rose to put the diamond chain about her neck, when a 
 hand interposed and grasped it. 
 
 Trecarrel and Orange looked round, startled, and saw John 
 Herring standing before them, with hard, bitter face, very pale, 
 with contracted brows. He had entered the room without 
 their hearing him. The Captain had been too much engrossed 
 in his discoveries to have ear for his footfall on the carpet, and 
 Orange too abstracted in her own gloomy thoughts. 
 
 At the sight of Herring, Trecarrel drew back, and his jaw 
 fell. He looked at Herring, then at Orange, then at the 
 diamonds, and, lastly, at the schedule of Mirelle's property. 
 
 ' By heavens ! ' he gasped. ' Confound it ! you alive ! 
 Then Orange is only worth five thousand.' 
 
 Oi'ange had recoiled into a corner, blank, trembling, speech- 
 less. 
 
 Herring was perfectly collected. 
 
 'Put everything down,' he said in hard tones. *Do not 
 lay finger on anything again. Leave the house at once.' He 
 looked at the Captain with contempt and anger. 
 
 * And you. Orange Trampleasure, already engaged in divid- 
 ing the spoils of the dead before she is laid in her grave ! You 
 will find a carriage at the gate. Rejoin your mother at Well- 
 town, and leave me in the house alone with Genefer and — my 
 wife. I cannot sufier another presence here.' 
 
 He gathered the little scattered trifles together, the lock of 
 hair, the raisin, the glass peacock, the tinsel pictures, with soft 
 and reverent touch, and placed all together in the desk. The 
 jewels he re-laid in their etui, and relegated it to its proper 
 eompartment. Then he locked up the desk. His face was 
 cold, collected, with hard lines about the mouth, and a hard 
 look in the eyes, in which no sign of a tear was manifest. 
 He removed the desk to a shelf in the cabinet, then he went 
 out and ascended the stairs. 
 
 At the sound of his step, a door at the head of the staircase 
 opened, and Genefer came out, with her eyes red, and tears 
 ■'littering on her cheek. 
 
 * It be you, to last. Master John. I knew it. I knew you 
 wasn't dead. God be praised ! Even out of the belly of the
 
 DIVIDING THE SPOILS. 439 
 
 whale ; when the waters compass me about, even to the soul ; 
 when the depth hath closed me round about, and the weeds 
 are wrapped about my head, I will say. Salvation is of the 
 Lord.' 
 
 Herring was about to pass her, but she stayed him, barring 
 the door, lookiag hard into his face, 
 
 ' Oh, Master John ! you must not go in looking like that, 
 as the fleece of Gideon without dew. St&y and let me tell you, 
 afore you see the sweet flower of God, His white lily, what 
 was her message to you, the last words her uttered in this 
 world. Her was standing where I be now, and her said to me : 
 " Promise me, if ever you see him, to tell him that I wish with 
 all my heart I had loved him as he deserves." That were 
 the olive leaf in the mouth of the dove as her flew back to the 
 ark.' 
 
 The old woman opened the door and went forward, leading 
 the way, with her arms uplifted, saying, * The dove found no 
 rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned into the ark, for 
 the waters were on the face of the whole earth : then He put 
 forth His hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto Him into 
 the ark.' As the old woman said these last words, she touched 
 the crucifix and the right, transfixed hand of the figure on it. 
 
 Genefer drew back. 
 
 The white blinds were down in the room, the atmosphere 
 was sweet with the scent of violets. At the head of the little 
 bed was a table covered with a linen cloth, and. the crucifix 
 between bunches of white flowers and lighted wax candles was 
 on it. Upon the bed lay Mirelle, her face as the purest wax, 
 and a wreath of white and purple violets round her head, 
 woven by the loving hands of old Genefei-. The hands, con- 
 trary to the usual custom, were crossed over the bi-cast. 
 Genefer had seen this on a monument ' of the old Romans,' and 
 she had thus arranged the hands of Mirelle, thinking it v.^ould 
 be right so for her. 
 
 Herring stood by the bed looking at the pure face. Then 
 he signed with one hand to Genefer to leave. The old woman 
 went out softly. Herring still looked, and drawing forth a 
 little case, opened it, and took out a sprig of white heath and 
 laid it in the bosom of his dead wife. 
 
 * Mirelle ! once you refused it when I ofiered it you, once 
 you refused it when ofiered you by Trecarrel, now you will 
 keep and carry with you into eternity my good luck which I 
 now give you.'
 
 440 JOHN HERRINa. 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 Several weeks had passed. John Herring was back at "West 
 AVyke, grave, calm, with a gentle expression in his face and a 
 far-off look in his eyes. The hardness and bitterness had gone, 
 never to I'eturn. The Snow Bride would not freeze him to 
 ice. He, in time, would thaw away like her. On his first 
 return to "West Wyke he had come back with blasted hopes, 
 on his second with dislocated faith. Now he returned with 
 recovered moral balance, not indeed hopeful, for hope is a 
 delusion of youth, but able to look life in the face without a 
 sneer. 
 
 Cicely received him with her usual brightness and sym- 
 pathy. It was always pleasant to see her kind, sweet face, and 
 to know what a good and honest heart beat in her bosom. 
 
 Herring had never been to her other than uncommuni- 
 cative, partly out of natural modesty, j^artly because they were 
 out of harmony over Mirelle. But Cicely had a woman's 
 curiosity, and would not be left in the dark as to what had 
 taken place; and she felt real sympathy for John Herring, only 
 she did not know how to exhibit it, because she did not know 
 what course it should take. So she put to him questions, and 
 with tact drew from him the entire story. 
 
 ' Where does she lie, John ? ' she asked in her soft tones, 
 full of tender feeling for his sorrow. They were sitting together 
 in the porch, looking out on the old walled garden, with its 
 honesty, and white rocket, and love-lies-bleeding all ablow. 
 * Have you laid her in Launceston churchyard, or removed her 
 to Welltown ? ' 
 
 He shook his head. *No, Cicely; neither under the 
 shadow of Launceston church, nor exposed to the winds and 
 roar of Boscastle. She lies in the sunny cemetery of the Sacre 
 Cceur.' 
 
 Cicely said nothing. Indeed, neither spoke for some time. 
 Presently, however. Cicely, who had laid her needlework in her 
 lap, and had rested her folded hands on it, and was looking 
 dreamily across the garden, said, ' Mirelle was your ideal, John.' 
 
 * She is my ideal. Cicely.' 
 
 Miss Battishill looked round at him. She was very pretty.
 
 INTRODUCIOnY. 441 
 
 with her copper-gold hair, and the reflection of the sunlight in 
 the garden illumining her sweet face of the most delicate white 
 and purest pink. * I remember your speaking to me— almost 
 when first I knew you — about Mirelle as your ideal, and I 
 thought what you said was extravagant and unreal. But I was 
 in fault. There was no exaggeration, and all was real to 
 you.' 
 
 ' It was, and is so still,' 
 
 ' Now, tell me the truth, honestly, cousin ; does the posses- 
 sion of such an ideal in the heart conduce to happiness 1 ' 
 
 ' On the contrary, it saddens.' 
 
 * Then why do you not shut your eyes to such alluring but 
 unsatisfying fancies ? Why are you not satisfied with what is, 
 instead of sighing after what may be 1 ' 
 
 ' Cicely, it seems to me that the world is divided between 
 those with ideals and those without. When I say without, I 
 mean that the great bulk of mankind are, as you say, content 
 with things as they are. They are without ambition after the 
 perfect ; they are satisfied with the defective. Such men put 
 forth their hands, and without effort gather happiness. They 
 ask for nothing very high, and certainly nothing above them. 
 They are vulgarly happy, enjoying what is on their level and 
 attained without effort. But there are others who are not thus 
 easily satisfied. They form in their minds an ideal from which 
 every imperfection is cast off", and the formation of this ideal in 
 their hearts deals it its death-wound. The ideal is the ever- 
 unattainable, and if happiness consists in obtaining the desired, 
 happiness can never be theirs, because the ideal can never be 
 reached. Hope also is killed along with happiness, for how can 
 you hope for the unobtainable ? The ideal may be of various 
 sorts. It may be sought in moral, social, political, religious 
 perfection ; in Woman, in the State, in the Church, in Art ; 
 but is always pursued with disappointment — I had almost said 
 with despair. When I was a child, I was told by my nurse 
 that under the root of the rainbow lay a golden bowl, and many 
 is the rainbow I have run after in hopes of finding the golden 
 chalice from which could be quaffed immortality. As I grew 
 older and always failed, I found that the rainbow moved before 
 me as I advanced, and that the cup of supreme felicity could 
 never be pressed by my lips. That is the picture of all idealists. 
 We have given up every hope of attaining the Iris we look on, 
 but we still follow it.' 
 
 ' I think yours is a sad story, John.'
 
 442 JOHN HERRING. 
 
 * Perhaps so, but I do not know. Mirelle has been my ideal, 
 and therefore unattaiuable.' 
 
 'But, John, suppose she had really loved you, and been 
 everything you could wish as a wife — you would have been 
 happy.' 
 
 ' I should have been happy — yes ; but my ideal would have 
 died. I remember a story that Genefer — by the way, you do 
 not know her — my old nurse, told me many years ago of a man 
 of Trevalga, who saw a pixy, a beautiful fau-y who haunted the 
 glen and waterfall of S. Kneighton. He saw her when she was 
 bathing, and took away her white garment, and refused to 
 restore it till she allowed him to kiss her lips. She wept and 
 pleaded, but in vain. Then she suflered him to draw her to 
 him and to touch her lips, but the touch of mortal flesh 
 withered her. She shrivelled Hke a faded rose and lost all 
 beauty, and became as a wizened hag; and he went from his 
 mind and drowned himself in the Kieve. I cannot conceive of 
 Mirelle other than one far, far above and distant from me. It 
 is possible, had things been as you say, that I might have dis- 
 covered imperfections.' 
 
 * Of course she had her imperfections,' interrupted Cicely, 
 with a slight touch of impatience in her tone. ' I do not wish 
 to say a word that may wound you, but, my dear John, nothing 
 human is perfect, and certainly Mirelle had her short-comings 
 apparent enough to me.' 
 
 ' Then, better a thousand times that things should be as they 
 are, that these imperfections should not have been seen by me j 
 and now, I know they are swallowed up in a faultless splendour. 
 If Heaven gave me my choice, I would choose this.' 
 
 * Do you mean seriously to tell me that you would not have 
 Mirelle restored, and restored to be yours entirely 1 ' 
 
 ' I would not. I had rather have my unapproachable ideal 
 Bhining down upon me from afir, than have my ideal dissolve 
 in my arms into the commonplace. The ship sails by the star 
 but never attains to it. I can look up, and I am content. I 
 ask for nothing more.' 
 
 'This frame of mind is to me inexplicable. It is unworthy 
 of a man of reason to strive for the unreachable. When a person 
 of sense sees that what he or she has wished i,j not to be had, 
 that person makes an effort and accommodates herself to cir- 
 cumstances.' She coloured a little. 
 
 * That is to say — some weary of pursuing an ideal, and 
 settle themselves down to enjoy what they can obtain. I can
 
 INTKODUCTORY. 443 
 
 quite understand that ; and perhaps it is the most practical 
 course, but it is, to some, impossible.' 
 
 * But that is the most — it is the only, sensible course, Tlie 
 other offers a mere treadmill round of duties, "without hope to 
 Bpur you on, and happiness to reward you.' 
 
 ' No doubt you are right ; and yet it is impossible to some. 
 I have set up pure and perfect womanhood as my ideal ; but 
 others have ideals of different nature. The young politician 
 starts with an ideal of a perfect commonwealth before him, and 
 he is sanguine of redressing grievances, of elevating politics to a 
 noble patriotic passion instead of mean party rivalry. But after 
 a while he finds that every reform brings in fresh evils, and, if 
 it does away with some wrongs, it inflicts others ; he finds that 
 it is impossible to be patriotic without partisanship, and that 
 those w^hom he strives to raise are unworthy of being raised. I 
 believe the leaders of the Revolution in France were earnest 
 men with their ideal before them, and, striving after a perfect 
 state of liberty and fraternity, they called up a E-eign of Terror. 
 I saw once an enthusiast who had taken to educate a pig ; he 
 taught it letters, he washed the beast clean, and dressed it in a 
 coat, but, when left to itself, it wallowed in the next mire and 
 forgot its alphabet. I have no doubt that a young curate starts 
 on his sacred duties with the sincere hope and belief that he 
 will do good : he preaches with earnestness, thinking to 
 waken the religious sense of his people, he establishes schools to 
 instruct the young, and presently finds that all he has done is 
 absolutely useless — the people will not be regenerated, his 
 sermons are profitless, and his educated children read only 
 ncious literature. It is the same But I see I weary you.' 
 
 * I do not understand you.' 
 They were silent awhile. 
 
 Presently Cicely said : ' John, do you not think your own 
 weakness may be at the bottom of all the trouble you have met 
 •with 1 I do not speak with any intention to be unkind. You 
 will allow that.' 
 
 Herring thought a moment. ' I do not know. Cicely, that 
 I could have acted other than I have, and been true to my con- 
 ecience. I might have taken the selfish line, and cast aside 
 those responsibilities which seemed to me to be forced upon me, 
 and, no doubt, then I should have been light-hearted and boyish 
 to the present moment, laughing, shooting, riding, spending 
 money, a careless young officer without much thought of the 
 morrow. But I had rather have my sorrows and walk uprightly.
 
 444 JOHN HEERING. 
 
 I am better for having an ideal and following it, though I shall 
 never catch it up.* 
 
 Cicely did not pursue the subject: she stooped over her 
 work, took it up, and averting her pretty face said, as the colour 
 mantled her white throat and deepened in her rosy cheek, ' John, 
 you have been candid with me : I will be equally frank with 
 you. I will make a confession to you.' She hesitated a moment, 
 and then said, ' Mr. Harmless-Simpleton has asked me to be 
 his wife.' 
 
 ' I wish you joy with all my heart, dear Cicely,' said Her- 
 ring, warmly. ' He is a good, well-intentioned, amiable man, 
 with whom you are sure to be happy.' 
 
 ' Vulgarly happy,' said Cicely, drily. 
 
 Herring coloured. * I beg your pardon. I meant no dis- 
 paragement when I used that term. I meant only ordinarily 
 happy, happy as the buttercups, and the birds and bees, as all 
 nature that is content with the place God has given it, and the 
 sunshine and sweet air that surround it. Why should you not 
 be so ] It is no privilege to have an ever-aching void in the 
 heart, to be ever stretching after tlie moon. You will be happy 
 in a sphere where you will do good and be beloved. "When do 
 you intend to be married 1 ' 
 
 ' I do not know. There is no occasion for delay, and there 
 is nothing to precipitate matters. But now — when I am 
 married and settled into the "Vicarage at Tawton, what is to 
 become of that queer Joyce 1 Is she to come with me ? ' 
 
 * I — I ! ' Joyce was there in the door to answer for herself. 
 * Wherever the maister be, there be I too. He sed as how he'd 
 never wear no stockings more but what I'd knit; and you 
 wouldn't have he go barefoot 1 ' 
 
 John Herring turned his head, and looked at Joyce. 
 
 * You had better remain with JNIiss Cicely. I do not want 
 you.' 
 
 * I will not,' answered Joyce, resolutely. * I go with you.* 
 
 * Then, I dare say, Genefer will find work for you on the 
 farm, or in the house at Welltown. But you wiU not be so 
 comfortable or happy as here.' 
 
 * I care not,' said the girl. * I must follow you. I belongs 
 to you. You bought me of vaither for shining gold. No, 
 Miss Cicely I follow the maister.' 
 
 ' Go your ways,' said Cicely : * you are each of you, in 
 your several ways, idealists, and each following the unattain- 
 able.'
 
 INTEODUCTORT. 445 
 
 * And now, beginning life,' said Herring, ' all that has gone 
 before is introductory to the real life ; a rough and painful 
 initiation into the axioms on which the problem wiU have to 
 be worked out. "We know now where we stand, and which is 
 the direction in which we must set our faces, to plod on 
 our way forward, hopeless indeed, but still, conscieutiouslj 
 forward.* 
 
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 LAVINIA. By the Author 
 
 of ' Dr. Antonio &c. 
 HESTER KIRTON. By 
 
 Katharine S. Macquoid. 
 BY THE SEA. By Katha- 
 
 rine S. Macquoid. 
 THE HOTEL DU PETIT 
 
 ST. JEAN. 
 VERA. By the Author of 
 
 'The Hotel du Petit St. 
 
 Jean.' 
 SIX MONTHS HENCE. 
 
 By the Author of* Behind 
 
 the Veil ' &c. 
 THE STORY OF THE 
 
 PLEBISCITE. By MM. 
 
 Erckmann-Chatrian. 
 GABRIEL DENVER. By 
 Oliver Madox Brown. 
 
 Uniform with the above. 
 TAKE CARE WHOM 
 
 YOU TRUST. By Comp- 
 
 ton Reade. 
 PEARL AND EMERALD. 
 
 By R. E.Francillon. 
 ISEULTE. By the Author 
 
 of 'The Hotel du Petit St. 
 
 Jean.' 
 AGARDEN OF WOMEN. 
 
 By Sarah Tytler. 
 BRIGADIER FREDERIC 
 
 By MINI. Erckraann-Cha. 
 
 trian. 
 FOR PERCIVAL. By 
 
 Margaret Veley. 
 LOVE THE DEBT. By 
 
 Richard Ashe King 
 
 ('Basil'). 
 RAINBOW GOLD. By D. 
 
 Christie Murray. 
 THE HEIR OF THE 
 AGES. By James Payn. 
 LOLA : a Tale of the Rock. 
 
 By Arthur Griffiths. 
 FRENCH JANET. By 
 
 Sarah Tytler. 
 
 MAUDE TALBOT. 
 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 KATHERINE'S TRIAL. 
 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD, 
 THE BEAUTIFUL MISS 
 
 RIN3TON. 
 BEN MILNER'S WOOING, 
 
 BAR' 
 
 Story 
 
 THE COUNTY: 
 
 of Social Life. 
 BEHIND THE VEIL. By 
 
 the Author of ' Six Months 
 
 Hence.' 
 THE RAJAH'S HEIR. 
 
 By a New Writer. 
 ADRAUGHT of LETHE, 
 
 By Roy Tellet, Author of 
 
 'The Outcasts.' 
 EIGHT DAYS: a Tale of 
 
 the Indian Mutiny. By 
 
 R. E. Forrest. 
 A WOMAN OF THE 
 
 WORLD. By F Mabel 
 
 Rolinson. 
 THE NEW RECTOR. 
 
 By Stanley J. Weyman. 
 DARK : a Tale of the Down 
 
 Country, By Mrs. Stephen 
 
 Batson. 
 STANHOPE OF CHES- 
 TER : a Mystery, By 
 
 Percy Andreae. 
 
 London: SMITH, ELD^R, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.
 
 ■406.1 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
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