Читать книгу A Woman of Samaria - Rita - Страница 12

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The difficulties of translating modern Cornish into comprehensible English having been conquered, Sarah Webbe and her friend became possessed of the following facts:—

The old house of Penharva belonged to a family of that name, all more or less eccentric. Its present owner was a certain Miss Ursula Penharva, in whom the family eccentricity seemed to have run more than ordinary riot.

She had been a comely young woman once, and indeed report went that she was to marry a handsome Englishman—friend of a cousin—one John Trevenna, of Truro. The young man, however, jilted her on the very eve of the wedding, and since then she had elected to shut herself up in darkness and loneliness in the dismal mansion on the cliff's. Two old servants attended to her, but no one outside Penharva House had seen her for many a long year. She refused herself to relatives and friends alike, and the two domestics were so reticent and surly that the outside world got neither hints nor help from them.

"But the child—how did that come there?" exclaimed Marian Sylvester, at this stage of the history.

"The child. Ah, now do 'ee say so? Then my old woman was right."

He waded once more into incomprehensible depths, and Miss Webbe struggled bravely to get him out. She produced a legend of a veiled lady, seen twice, who came and went no one knew how or whence.

Mrs. Sylvester grew tragic with despair, and declared Cornish imagination had no limits. While there were such things as trains and coaches, ladies, even veiled ladies, couldn't drop from the clouds or vanish into space; neither to the best of her belief did golden-haired babies grow on myrtle boughs of deserted gardens.

She went homewards with Miss Webbe more than ever curious about her discovery. She talked of nothing else for many days, and even succeeded in inoculating her prosaic friend with a kindred interest in this mysterious neighbour.

Meanwhile the month of her visit drifted on to a close. By that time the fascination of the scenery and place had taken strong hold of the London lady. She had drunk tea in an old farmhouse at Gurner's Head. She had stood on the Logan Rock, and surveyed the Scilly Isles from the vantage point of the Land's End. She had revelled in sunshine and harmony of colour, such as painters loved and sought. The broad seascape had become familiar to her, and sailing ships and brown sailed fishing smacks were things of delight and interest. The changing face of the ocean, the curving coast and fairy bays had thrown their spell around her. A town looked commonplace and dusty after the lavish loneliness of nature. Society seemed but a hollow note of imitation after the charm and music of that wondrous sea.

For this is the spell of the West Country coast. A spell cast by wizards of old, a witchery breathed out of mystic caves and sounding in the breath of the soft salt winds and myrtle-scented breezes; a witchery looking forth from skies of blue and grey, weaving itself into sight and sound and sense as the eye travels, or the ear listens, or the fancy roams.

And when the time of departure drew near Marian Sylvester confessed that she envied her friend her little Cornish home more than she envied the possessor of Marlborough House, or the denizens of Mayfair mansions.

"Why do you live in London?" asked Sarah Webbe; and common-sense asserting itself and pushing aside a host of shallow pretences, in which neither health nor rational reasons held any part, echoed, "Why?"

True, social claims, women's clubs, and various fashionable obligations of the season loomed in the background, but pitted against a strong friendship, many mutual interests, and the perfectly inexplicable fascination of this land of wizard and saint, they dwarfed into comparative unimportance. In the end Marian Sylvester arranged to let her town house next season, and, for a time at least, rent a cottage that would be tenantless the following midsummer. It was not ten minutes' distance from that occupied by Miss Webbe. She went back to London, where she stayed till the following August. She then selected enough furniture to suit her miniature domicile, and despatched it, in company with Liberty muslins and rugs, art mattings, and basket chairs, to Penzance. From thence it was to be conveyed, and unpacked under Sarah Webbe's direction and supervision.

The Ebury-street house had been put in the hands of house agents. Economy and health rejoiced in the new scheme, and a plentiful store of books, work, (and sketching materials) uttered protests against any possible dullness should the winter fail to fulfil Sarah Webbe's confident predictions.

Laughing at her own enthusiasm Marian Sylvester stepped into a third class carriage at Paddington one August morning. There was the usual hustle and confusion of departure on the platform. Porters were hurrying late arrivals into carriages for Bristol or Exeter or Plymouth.

The Penzance portion of the train was not at all crowded; quite the reverse. For ten minutes or so it had seemed that Mrs. Sylvester would have her carriage to herself; but suddenly the guard flung open the door, a porter threw in a travelling bag and rug strap, and a young girl followed breathlessly. She was tall and slight, and very simply dressed in dark serge, and a plain black straw hat, round which a black gauze veil was twisted and tied under his chin. She selected the furthest corner of the carriage, opposite to its solitary occupant, and turned her face at once to the window in a manner that looked like a decided avoidance of anything suggesting railway acquaintanceship. Marian Sylvester took out a collection of papers from her travelling bag, and for a time devoted herself to their perusal. Since trade enterprise has thought fit to vulgarise country and riverside with hideous advertisements and vulgar puffing of quack medicines, it is scarcely worth while for the modern traveller to waste eyesight or leisure in attempting to admire Nature. Mrs. Sylvester devoted her attention to the affairs of the nation and Society's plans for the winter until the train reached Bristol. Then thinking that the girl must be tired of that monotonous window gazing she leant forward and offered her the "Queen."

A curt refusal. "Thank you, I never read in a train," somewhat surprised her. But she was good-natured, and she thought of weak eyes and overstrained nerves, and suggested that the girl was wise in making such a resolution. Trains were responsible for much loss of eyesight, but still, on a long journey what was one to do?

Her voice and manner were so friendly that the girl could not well maintain her ungracious distance. "It is a long journey," she agreed, "and the trains are so slow after one leaves Plymouth."

"Do you know Cornwell well?" asked Mrs. Sylvester.

"No. I have only been there on short visits," said the girl. A certain hardness came into her voice. She turned her face to the window. But Mrs. Sylvester was not easily discouraged.

"I went there for the first time last summer," she said, "and was so delighted with the climate that I have taken a cottage about five miles from Penzance, and am going to live there for a time. I hear the winter is as enchanting in its way as the summer. Do you happen to have been there in the winter?"

It seemed a simple question to bring that sudden hot flush to the girlish cheek, a question to send a tremor through the clasped hands lying gloveless on her lap.

"Yes, once. It was very beautiful," she said, coldly.

"I suppose you are going to stay with friends?" continued her companion. "Do you remain at Penzance?"

"No," said the girl abruptly.

Marian felt rebuffed. "Excuse me," she said, "I am afraid I seem rather a curious person. But pray don't think I meant to intrude on your affairs."

She turned away, and produced sandwiches and cake, and proceeded to have her lunch. She offered the girl a sandwich, which—repenting apparently of her previous discourtesy—she accepted. She had brought nothing with her in the shape of refreshment, and at such youthful improvidence Marian Sylvester wondered.

She did not like to study the face too intently, but, as the girl pushed back her veil, its beauty and yet tragic meaning struck her with unconquerable interest. It was such a young face, and yet held such a history. The large brilliant eyes wore that look of tears and rebellion against fate that is so rarely seen in youth. "Sorrow and she have made acquaintance," thought Mrs. Sylvester. "I should like to know her story."

The colouring of the face was delicately lovely, but the strange stillness and composure of it were unsuited to its beautiful youth. One looked for dimples in the rounded cheek and dainty chin, for smiles on the curved red lips, but there was only frozen calm, the calm of endurance, passionless yet rebellious, the resignation of one worsted in an unequal battle, yet keeping weapons ready for its renewal.

Marian, than whom few of her sex were more curious, glanced, and looked, and pondered, and wished the girl could be drawn into conversation. Meanwhile the train dashed on and reached Exeter almost up to time. Marian got out, stretched her cramped limbs, bought some fruit and a local paper, and returned to her carriage. Some more travellers had got in bound for Plymouth. She therefore made no further effort at conversation with her silent companion, but read and dozed or watched the flashes of red earth country, as the train skirted cliff and river and sea until the boundaries of Devon lapsed into the beauties of Cornwall.

With the usual courtesy of rival railway companies, the Cornish train is timed to meet the incoming express at Plymouth. As a rule it misses it, and passengers find it steaming out of the station, or anticipating their arrival by four and a half minutes, just as their train draws up. By some chance or fluke, however, Mrs. Sylvester actually caught the Cornish so-called express, and again found herself and her silent companion sole occupants of a carriage. Marian was too delighted and excited at seeing familiar names, crossing enchanted ground, to keep quiet. The girl, too, seemed less absorbed and reserved. They talked of the quaint titles of the stations, and wondered why they had such apparently foreign derivations. They tried to pronounce Menhenoit and Doublebois as the porters did, and failed signally.

The last glow of sunset was still lingering over Mount's Bay as the train ran in. The tide was full, and the blue water swept up almost to the sleepers of the line. St. Michael's Mount towered against a sky of rose and gold, weird and majestic as befitted its traditions. Fishing boats preparing for the night's cruise danced lightly over the sparkling water. The port was crowded and busy. White sails of yachts and pleasure craft chased each other in the golden evening light. A fresh breeze from the sea blew a welcome to the town-worn travellers.

"It is more beautiful than even I thought!" cried Mrs. Sylvester. But the girl made no response to this. She drew down her veil, reached the Gladstone bag from the rack and rolled her rug together.

"I am going to the hotel," continued Mrs. Sylvester. "You, I suppose——"

"No, I am staying with a friend some miles beyond the town. I will say good-by."

"Good-by, then. I hope we shall meet again. If you are anywhere in the direction of Lamorna, I wish you would come and see me. My cottage is called The Myrtles. It stands a little off the high road. You can't mistake it."

"Thank you. My stay here is very short. I fear I shall have no time for visits."

Her hand was on the carriage door. She glanced up the platform, then suddenly shrank back with a faint cry. Marian did not hear it. She had caught sight of a familiar face, and leaned forward in eager welcome.

"Sarah! Why, Sarah, my dear, you don't mean you have come to meet me?"

She sprang from the carriage. The girl had turned her back, and was bending over her rug-strap which had come unfastened.

"She here? Of all the people in the world that she should be here!"

Her face had a wild, scared look, and her hands were shaking.

"Any luggage, Miss?" said a porter at the carriage door.

She started. "That bag," she said; "and call me a cab, please. A closed cab."