Part 15

'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 nursing 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? 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, whereby 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 therein. I reckon the new mistress be one of the Lord's snares 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 badwaddled' (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. Every 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 endured, 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 weren'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 beautiful, 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 expecting something as never came and never could come. And you laid your 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 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 your fingers, and dripped in streams 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 uplifted--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--you were hard ice.'

*CHAPTER XL.*

*NOEL! NOEL!*

Christmas 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 much 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 was 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 utmost 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, thought her lovelier than he had ever seen her. There was none of the proud self-reliance in her face now that had marked her when she first came to Launceston. She was thin, tremulous, and frail as a white harebell; with a frightened, entreating look in her large dark eyes, 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 ignorance.

'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 nappy 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 Christmas day, a day of joy and reconciliation, of peace on earth, and general goodwill. Why rip up a sore? Let the past be forgotten, 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 forwarded to her, and reached her, fortunately, after the death of her trustee.

Trecarrel was not a man to love deeply any one but himself. His feelings for Orange had never been strong; if he cared for any one beside himself, it was for Mirelle. Had he offended her by his letter? 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.

'Yes; Orange had sprained her wrist, and she asked me to address the letter for her.'

'I was disappointed on opening it. I knew your handwriting at once; it was so unlike that of an Englishwoman, so French in its neatness. An Englishwoman scrawls, a Frenchwoman 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. Flamank's house.'

'I did not receive it.'

'The loss is not great. It was sent to inform you that I 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?'

'Yes; my head was bad. I did not know anything or any person for several days.'

'I fear these wretched troubles have been the cause. O that I could have been near to give advice and protection; but important business--military, of course--called 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 Dolbeare was bought by you.'

'All was bought in my name.'

'And the Trampleasures, _mere et fille_, are your guests. How long will this continue?'

'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 reply. 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 side.

'Old Tramplara's death was, of course, a great shock to me,' continued Trecarrel; 'so sudden, too, arresting me 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 surprise.

'I may as well tell you the whole 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 orientation. 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. Trampleasure 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, he made my prospects contingent on my taking Orange as wife. Then the sum I wanted would be given as her dower. You understand. Well, being a light-hearted, giddy young fellow, I fell into the arrangement, 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. 'I 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 her beauty as I might admire a well-built horse or spaniel, but my heart had not been touched.'

'Oh, Mr. Trecarrel!' exclaimed Mirelle, putting her white fingers together, 'let me out of the carriage. I must walk; I shall faint; I feel very ill.'

'Dear Mirelle--you will let me call you Mirelle?--you must not walk; you are not strong enough.'

'I pray you! I pray you!'

Then he stopped the coach, opened the door, and had the steps lowered.

'The lady is faint. Go slowly, coachman. She wishes to walk 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,' answered 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?'

'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! Roast beef and plum pudding and mince-pies! Good Christian men rejoice! Pudding sprigged with holly, and over the pudding brandy sauce, blazing blue! Noel! Roast beef garnished with horse-radish! Noel! Mince-pies piping hot. Turn again, Whittington, to your Christmas dinner. Noel! Noel! Noel!

Mirelle did not hear the bells.

'No, I cannot walk,' she said.

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 will 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 distressing situation in which I found myself, bound 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 understand 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 gentleman 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 elsewhere. 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 disgust and despair. That day would bind me for life to an uncongenial companion, and separate me for ever from her whom I felt, whom I knew, to be essential to my happiness. Is it a marvel that, when circumstances occurred which 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? 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 handkerchief 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 through the marketplace and along the High Street, whilst the bells rang merrily, merrily, Glad tidings of great joy! Roast beef and plum pudding and mince-pies to those who can afford it; to the poor--nothing.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

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