Читать книгу Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 2 - Watson William Davy - Страница 4

Madron church-town, the mother of the thriving port of Penzance, is a small irregular hamlet, situated on an eminence overlooking its well-grown offspring, and the salt marshes which skirt the coast in the direction of Marazion. It is approached by a steep and winding road, but the prospect from the churchyard will well repay the labour of the way. And many a pilgrim, when he turns from the landscape spread beneath to the memorials at his feet, and feels the breeze from the sea breathe lightly over his cheek, will be mournfully reminded how many have sought a refuge on that genial shore from our English destroyer, beguiling themselves and those dear to them, with the hope of eluding his pursuit, but sinking, nevertheless, under his ruthless embrace; for on the tombstones round him the stranger will read of other strangers, from far distant places, with names unknown to Cornwall, once graced, he may imagine, with youth and beauty, of whose history it is there written that they "came to Penzance for the benefit of their health." Those simple words, repeated on every side, tell the melancholy end of many a romance.

Up the hill, on an early day in February, a trim country girl was climbing with a step that betokened some indecision of purpose. She was dressed in a dark blue frock, short and full in the skirt, and a red cloak of scanty dimensions, which hung over one shoulder and under the other arm. She was hot, and carried her bonnet, decked with some of the first primroses of the year, in her hand, while her black hair hung round a pair of bright eyes of the same colour, and cheeks always red, and now redder than usual. A very pretty rustic was Mercy Page.

It is some four miles from Marazion to Madron, and further still from Trevethlan; but that is not much for a Cornish maiden. Mercy had walked all the way. But she had not walked with the free quick step usual to her, nor did their wonted open smile play round her provoking lips. Her look was anxious, and her pace uncertain. And now that she was toiling up the hill, and perhaps approaching her destination, she not unfrequently stopped, and with her finger in the corner of her mouth, tried to scrutinize herself, while she seemed to be regarding the prospect. For Mercy had a kind of idea that she was on her way to do what was at least foolish, if not wrong, and she had always been a very good girl.

But with all this hesitation, she still advanced. She crossed Madron churchyard, and went out of her way to drop a flower on the grave of a cousin who lay there, making a longer pause on the occasion than any which had previously interrupted her walk. However, she proceeded at last, and soon turned aside from the main road by a tiny streamlet. She followed the rivulet's course, as it wound along beneath a bank covered in the summer with broom, gorse, and heather, from amidst which, here and there, a graceful silver birch flung its long tresses on the breeze, until she arrived at a sort of bay or inlet, where the trees grew more thickly, and in the very depth of which lay, still, silent, and dark, encircled by rude stone-work, a well of water, the source of the streamlet which had guided the maiden's steps—St. Madron's Well.

Mercy cast a sharp glance before her, and was glad to see that there was no person near the fountain. She went up to it herself, and bent over the mirror-like surface, and might see her image rising dimly to meet the salute. Could that limpid water tell a maiden's fortune? Was it conscious of the reflection of her features? Could it read their gentle lines, and foreshow by any ripple of its own, the destiny of her who looked upon it? And was such inquiry sanctioned by the saint who had blessed the fountain? Was it not profane so to forestall futurity? Such questions flitted vaguely through Mercy's bosom while she gazed into the tranquil well. An expression of awe stole over her face; and when, as she changed her position, a straggling briar which had caught her cloak twitched it, she started like a guilty thing, and turned suddenly with a flush on her cheeks and forehead, deeper even than that called forth by exercise. She did not smile on discovering the source of her alarm, but began to search among the pebbles of the brook for some smoother and rounder than common. Having collected two or three of this description, she returned to the fountain, and from trembling fingers, and with eyes half afraid to watch the result, dropped one of the stones into the water. There was a little splash, and then the circling wavelets grew larger and larger, and broke against the sides of the well, and a new ripple arose from each point of contact, and the undulations crossed one another in every direction, and became fainter and fainter, until the surface once more motionless, again presented the maiden with the semblance of her own pretty features, just as she saw them before the disturbance.

Was Mercy any the wiser? She drew a long breath, and murmured to herself, "he is not–" She had heard that if the well were unruffled, the oracle pronounced the person inquired of to be dead. The oracle, it may be presumed, was generally favourable to hope. But Mercy wished to learn much more than this; and those changing and intermingling ripples had to her been as hieroglyphics to the eyes of the profane. She dropped another of her pebbles into the well. Again the same sight, and the same disappointment. Vainly did Mercy try to shape the little waves into words, or letters, or symbols. She could not make out even a "yes" or a "no." Once more she tried the experiment, and becoming more enthusiastic, pressed the pebble to her lips before she let it fall.

Still it was all the same. The oracle was dumb. Mercy was inclined to revile St. Madron. She had grown excited; felt reconciled to the practice of the black art, and ventured on a step, which, when she started from home, she vowed to herself nothing should induce her to take.

There was a cottage, or rather a hovel, which the maiden had passed on her way to the well, and which she had shunned. The bank formed one of its sides, and it was hard to say where the ground ended and the dwelling began. The walls were built of rough stones, the interstices between them being filled with moss, which had accepted the employment willingly, and grown and flourished. The roof also was of turf, and thus the abode had a vegetable aspect, and looked like an unusually large clump of green, such as one sees often on a moist common, tempting one's foot to press it, or suggesting the idea of an unpleasantly soft pillow. This was the nest of Dame Gudhan, the self-constituted priestess of St. Madron's Well. She was a toothless, deformed, ugly old woman, who lived with her cat, which she had succeeded in training to poach, and bring the game it killed home to be cooked, instead of wasting it raw in the open field. Friend she had none but pussy, but she enjoyed a high reputation as a witch; and many a girl travelled many a mile to ascertain from Dame Gudhan the colour of her future's hair and eyes, and all his other good qualities.

Now the sibyl had observed the detour which Mercy made to avoid passing near her hut, and observed it with due professional pique. To consult the spirit of the well without the assistance of its minister was to defraud the latter of her rightful perquisite, and depreciate the science of witchcraft. So, whenever Dame Gudhan perceived a timid devotee steal furtively to the well, she would lie in wait for her return, and favour her with unsought predictions of a nature less agreeable than strong. Eying Mercy from the door of her den, the old hag thought her appearance indicated one quite able to afford a fee, and proportionate to the idea was the sibylline wrath. But in order to increase her anger to the proper pitch, Dame Gudhan trod hard upon her cat's tail; and the animal, resenting the affront, inflicted a long scratch upon its mistress's shin. Thereupon ensued a hideous war; a yelling as of the evil demons with which the pythoness pretended to be familiar; unintelligible to vulgar ears; requiring an interpreter from the oyster-quays. It may be supposed the witch had the best of the argument, for after a while, pussy issued from the hovel with her tail trailing behind her, and trotted off in a crest-fallen fashion, stopping now and then to look round sulkily, and shake her whiskers with impotent spite.

Dame Gudhan speedily followed grimalkin, tottering along on a stick, and muttering to herself, chewing her rage as a horse champs the bit. She encountered Mercy at the opening which led to the well.

"Didst read he would be hung, lass?" she squealed, while all the muscles of her yellow wrinkled visage twitched frightfully. "Didst read he would be hung?"

With all her heart Mercy wished herself safe back at Trevethlan.

"Dost tremble?" continued Dame Gudhan. "What wilt do when the day comes? There's murder in thy face—a red spot on thy brow."

Poor Mercy gasped for breath, and leaned against the bank. She had thrust her hand into her pocket, but was too much agitated to find what she wanted. The old crone divined her intention.

"Na," she screamed. "The spirit won't be bought. The cord's about thy neck, and the gibbet's reared for him. The tree grows no more in the wood. It is felled, and hewn, and squared. The hemp is reaped, and beat, and spun. In an evil day came ye to the blessed well, and passed by Dame Gudhan without seeking her advice. Said is said."

By this time Mercy had succeeded in producing a little purse of red leather with a steel clasp. Her fingers shook very much as she opened it, and tendered Dame Gudhan a bright new shilling, its sole contents. The hag was satisfied with the effect of her fierce prophecy—one she had often vented on like occasions, and looked at the coin with greedy eyes, chattering her teeth, and smacking her lips.

"That was his new-year's gift, I reckon," she said.

She was wrong, and the mistake restored Mercy's fleeting courage.

"Take it, dame," said the maiden.

"Ye'll lack a new ribbon at Sithney fair. And what for? Said is said."

It was a fine instance of conscientious scruples, that affected reluctance of the old woman to receive the maiden's money.

"Take it, dame," Mercy repeated.

"The spirit never lies," said the hag, taking the shilling; "but he sometimes explains his words. Come ye back to the well. Said is said. We'll ask him what it means."

So saying, she hobbled on her stick up the little dell. Mercy looked after her doubtfully, and was more than inclined to walk rapidly away; but, yielding to the fascination which commonly attends inquiries like hers, she at last followed the old crone, and overtook her at the well.

"Now, lass," said the enchantress, "an evil rede I read ye but now, and evil it may be. But forewarned is forearmed. Ye need na be frightened. And so ye saw nought in the dark water. Ye could na hear his voice. Ye kenned na whether he laughed or frowned, or promised or threatened. Smooth and still, deep and dark. Reach me thy hand. Stand by my side, and when I press thy fingers, then drop the pebble."

Injunctions which the maiden obeyed with tremulous emotion. The old hag knelt down by the fountain-side, and bent over the water until she nearly touched it with her lips, mumbling some incantation. Suddenly she squeezed Mercy's hand in her grasp, and the maiden let fall the pebble which she held in the other. At the sound of the splash the witch raised her head a little, and seemed to scan the ripples which circled on the surface of the well. It was only for a moment, and then she started to her feet, dashed a handful of water in Mercy's face, and screamed:

"Wash it off, wash it off. The spirit never lies. Said is said. Away, lass; away."

She waved Mercy off, and the maiden retreated backwards before her, step by step, until she reached the lower end of the ravine, unable to remove her eyes from those of the fortune-teller. On the open ground Dame Gudhan passed her without uttering another word, and hobbled quickly away to her wretched abode, taking no notice of her cat, which had now returned home, and appeared disposed to make up the late quarrel by purring and rubbing against the old woman's wounded shin.

Mercy, exhausted and terrified, watched her until she disappeared within her dwelling, and then, feeling relieved from her presence, and moved by a sudden impulse, she dropped on her knees and implored, in her own homely manner, the forgiveness of Heaven for what she had just done. She rose somewhat tranquillized, and took her way homeward with a quick step.

Fortune-tellers, unlike Dame Gudhan, generally give good tidings, and in the few cases where it is otherwise, they are disbelieved. Were it not so, the trade would be ruined. People forebode quite sufficient evil for themselves, and seek a conjuror for comfort, not for aggravation of their uneasiness. A strange fatuity it is that prompts such attempts to raise the veil which hides the future! Were the object accomplished life would be valueless; its interest would be gone; there would be nothing left to live for, and we should be unable to die; we should be fatalists by experience. The impatient reader, who peruses the last chapter of the novel first, has still to learn in what manner the author educes his catastrophe; but the miserable victim of foresight would be acquainted, not only with the close, but with all the incidents of his coming career. And difficult it is to see how human strength could bear up against such a certainty, where the vision was of ill. So the inquirer is apt to discredit the information which he came to seek, when it proves to be unfavourable to his desires.

Mercy Page, already fortified by her silent prayer, soon regained her ordinary cheerfulness. Her spirits rose as she walked, and she tripped lightly along, in happy forgetfulness of Dame Gudhan's frightful denunciations. So she passed under the pretty hamlet of Gulvall, with its picturesque church-tower peeping forth from the embosoming trees, and descended to the hard sands of the sea-shore. For the tide was out, and the beach afforded a short cut to Marazion. Blithely and briskly the maiden sped over the ribbed plain, until she saw in the distance, advancing to meet her, a figure which she recognized.

At that moment there was no individual, perhaps, whom Mercy less desired to see than Edward Owen, her discarded suitor. The woman cannot be worth winning who takes pleasure in rejecting an honest admirer, and Mercy was not a village coquette. She sincerely regretted that Owen's attachment could only be a source of sorrow to himself. She deplored it the more, because the disappointment seemed to have driven the lover into some irregular courses. Now Mercy had sought St. Madron's Well with a vague idea of confirming her belief in the fidelity of a more favoured suitor; and, passing by the rude shock of her interview with Dame Gudhan, it was not on her return from such an errand that she was pleased to meet his rival. Meet him, however, she must, and did.