THE WAKING OF THE HOLY WELL
"Thee'll be home betimes," said Mistress Lynn.
Lucy was standing before the kitchen looking-glass, pinning a flower
into the bosom of her cotton gown. She glanced up with a curl of
rebellion on her lips, then tossed her head and replied:
"Aye."
"Thee'll mind that now, my lass," continued the old woman; "I'll have no
bairn o' mine wandering about Cringel Forest after dark."
"You did it yourself, great-granny," said Lucy, with resentment. "Many's
the time I've heard you tell of waking the Holy Well till midnight."
"M'appen I did, Lucy," and she smiled grimly; "but I don't choose that
you should follow me. You might gang astray."
"Well, I'll be back before dark," answered the girl.
"At nine o'clock?"
"Aye, at nine o'clock! It's a wonder you don't say seven or six maybe."
"So I would if I saw a reason for it; but I don't," replied Mistress
Lynn imperturbably. "Go thy wayses now, and come back with a more
respectful tongue in thy head. I'll be glad to be rid of thy saucement
for a while."
Lucy went out into the sunshine gaily. This was one of her few holidays
in the year, and for very shame her great-grandmother could not keep her
drudging at the farm when the whole village was bent on pleasure, waking
the Holy Well. The day was Tuesday in Easter Week. The sky was blue; the
birds were in the full rush of nest-making; the leaves were coming out
like magic; everything was light-hearted.
To be sure the new curate had cast a cold eye on the festivities, and
even spoken against them from the church at the top of the village
street; but his sour looks and words could not take the sweetness out of
the day, or stifle the merriment of his parishoners. They had waked the
well on the 23rd of April for generations--long before there was a
church in High Fold, long before good St. Kentergerne had preached the
Gospel to their forefathers. They had waked it in the days when
mistletoe grew in Cringel Forest, and when they worshipped strange gods
at the Stannin' Stanes on the fellside yonder. Christianity had merely
given the old pagan custom, which it could not stamp out, a Christian
significance. No young, upstart curate, with his austere views, could
prevent the people from clinging with affection to a festivity,
sanctioned by the ages, and providing so bright a break in the routine
of their sombre lives.
When Lucy reached the churchyard crowds were already gathered. The
well--a stream of water bubbling into a stone trough by the
lychgate--was hung with garlands of ferns and flowers; the village
street was choked with traffic and booths, where nuts and gingerbread,
and gaily-coloured confections were being sold by dames in their Sunday
best. Timothy Hadwin dispensed powders, balms and essences to the
shepherds and their wives--many of whom had come miles over the
mountains, and had not been to High Fold since this time last year.
"Sixpence worth o' the linctus, Timothy. It's main good for the cough:
my man would have died last winter if I hadn't given him it regular; the
snow and the wind was sommat awfu' back the fells."
"A pound o' camomile, Tim, old man. There's nowt like camomile-tea when
your innards are no' peacefu' like!"
"Have you any o' that elder-flower water, Master Timothy, what makes
your cheeks soft?" whispered a lass, with a hasty look round to see that
no young man could overhear her.
But the chief interest of Timothy's stall was a microscope, mounted on a
brass stand, through which the folk could examine a variety of
interesting objects; a kaleidoscope, and a burning glass.
On the green, in front of the inn, games were in full swing, and in a
corner of the churchyard half-hidden by the ancient gravestones, a
cock-fight drew the male population like needles to a magnet. A big
brown bear was dancing to amuse the children; there were jugglers and
jesters from the nearest town; fortune-tellers with swarthy skins and
coral necklaces, and that dearest of delights to both old and young, a
Punch-and-Judy show.
Lucy looked about her for a sight of Joel's tall figure, but he was not
to be seen. She wandered here and there, and though she was greeted by
merry voices, and answered them merrily enough, she was disappointed.
Where was he? and why did he not meet her as he had promised? He ought
to have been on the lookout for her coming, not she for his But Peter
Fleming saw her and ran across the short, bright turf.
"Come and dance with me," he said; "the old blind fiddler is striking up
a jig."
Lucy slipped her hand through his arm, but still looked round for Joel.
She caught sight of his head rising above a gravestone as he watched the
cock-fight. A slight flush mounted to her brow; her eyes sparkled still
more brightly, and she tripped down the street to the place where the
fiddler sat on a bench tuning his strings, never casting another glance
behind.
"Thee's the best dancer in High Fold, Peter," she said gaily; "it's like
swinging in the air to dance with you. Come on, lad, my feet can't bide
still when they hear the music."
She looked a bonny lass with her jetty curls and blue eyes. She floated
through the dance like a feather; she laughed like a bell. Peter was in
a mood to be attracted by her smiles. He had spent his holiday in
delightful idleness; he had been petted at home and made much of by the
villagers, and, though his head had not been turned, his heart was in a
condition to be easily stirred. He enjoyed a flirtation in much the same
way as he had enjoyed eating a stolen apple when he was a boy--the
excitement of getting it attracted him, and gave a flavour to the thing
attained.
Lucy was ready to aid and abet him. She received his attentions with a
coy humour, ate gingerbread rabbits with him, danced with him, and gave
him a flower from her hair to wear in his button-hole. But her thoughts
were elsewhere, and her eyes again and again strayed in Joel's
direction. It was a salve to her wounded feelings to see that he had
noticed her, and was standing sulky and aloof on the outskirts of the
crowd. She would punish him well, and then forgive him, as she always
forgave him, and would always forgive him for worse offences.
"Where's Barbara?" asked Peter, as Lucy rested on the grass and he
fanned her with a dock leaf. His eyes, too, had been straying, seeking
for a golden head and stately throat above the throng.
"She's nursing a sick sheep," replied her sister. "Poor Barbara! there
is never any fun for her!--not that she wants it as I do, but something
always comes in the way to spoil her outings."
"Barbara's an angel," said Peter.
"She is that!" answered Lucy fervently.
He clasped his hands behind his head, and looked up into the face of the
girl beside him. He never had any inclination to look at Barbara so; he
never lay at her feet and talked nonsense. There was something of a
man's attitude towards another man in his way of regarding her. She was
strong and self-reliant and high-minded; he only dimly understood her.
But that which he did understand drew his deepest reverence. He had two
sides to his nature, as most folk have; and though Lucy appealed to the
happy, homely, youthful part of him, with Barbara he was a
serious-hearted man, who knew that life was no game, and who purposed to
live strenuously in his appointed place.
The afternoon wore on towards evening. The sun was getting low, and the
church flung a dark shadow on the graveyard. The folk drew together in
groups, sat themselves down upon the benches, and streamed in and out of
the Wild Boar. Before it, on a plot of grass, the bear was dancing.
It looked mangy and starved. Yet even in its present condition it kept
some of the majesty of its early years, when it had been free to wander
among the forests of a distant land. Gentle and timid it was among the
human beings that stood around, laughing at its clumsy ways, and
sometimes prodding it with sticks; but it turned at bay when a snarling
dog ventured too near.
The gipsy--a long, lean fellow, whose eyes smouldered--leaned against
the horse-trough and piped. He looked, among the fair-haired country
folk, as much of an alien as the bear dancing on an English green. His
slack, nervy figure needed but a word to make it taut as steel. He had a
barbed stick by his side, and a chain, from the animal's collar,
fastened to a ring round his wrist. He was much bedizened with coloured
ribbons and brass buttons.
Peter stood on the steps of the inn and watched the scene with keen
pleasure. He liked the bear, although its eyes were dim with neglect,
and its fur clotted and evil-smelling. It suggested to him the infinite
variety and complexity of life. Its proper home was in distant forests;
it had feelings and instincts which he could not even imagine; its
destiny had no parallel with his; yet by its patience, gentleness and
power to suffer it was linked with his own nature. He liked the gipsy,
for he felt a chord of fellowship between them. Here was one who
disdained to sleep, eat and die among the crowd; who lived a roving life
in the green lanes, coming and going as he pleased, free as air. Such a
life attracted Fleming, who cared more for liberty than a dry bed. He
liked the village folk--nay, he loved them, though they stood
open-mouthed, like children, and were pleased as children at the
ungainly ambling of the bear. He knew that they were stolid,
narrow-minded; but round them his affections twined. They were the root
from which he sprang.
It was Peter's habit to find some likeness between himself and the world
about him. Many of his ideas he had imbibed from Timothy Hadwin, who
when he was a child had taught him Latin and Greek, and used every
opportunity to impress the boy with a sense of the mystery of the
universe.
Life touched life through the three kingdoms. The tiniest flower in the
hedgerow and the king on his throne were but links in one great chain.
It was this sense of his relationship to the whole living creation that
gave breadth to Peter's outlook, intensity to his mind, and power to his
bearing. He tried to understand, and he deeply loved all nature. His
college friends looked upon him as a crank, yet they respected him
greatly; for they once saw him bridle and ride a bucking horse that no
one else dared approach.
While the gipsy lazily piped upon his whistle, and the bear continued to
dance, Peter entered the inn and persuaded the scolding housewife--whose
head was fairly whirling with so much coming and going--to ransack her
store for some of last year's honey. She gave it to him reluctantly;
but, then, he would never be denied anything when he asked for it. He
fed the beast with the melliferous morsel and such was the creature's
appreciation that he insisted upon following Peter, wagging his head
from side to side with a most ludicrous motion, as though coaxing him
for more.
"You're a cupboard lover, my friend, I fear," said Peter.
The bear sat down, whoofed and whimpered, while his master twitched at
the chain.
"Hungry, eh?" Peter poked him in the ribs. "You look like it; never saw
a bigger bag of bones in my life! Here, you fellow, why don't you feed
him better?"
"What's that to you?"
"I don't like to see a hungry brother."
"Get up," said the man to the bear; but it would not move, and continued
to whimper and look at Peter. The gipsy grasped his stick in one hand,
while he shortened the chain with the other. His temper was rising.
"Leave the poor brute alone," interposed Peter; "it's only crying for
its supper, like little Tommy Tucker. Nay, now, leave it alone."
"Is it yours or mine, master?"
"Why, mine. See what a fancy it's taken to me!"
He laughed good-humouredly.
"I've a notion the beast would make a nice pet. What'll you sell him
for, you fellow?"
The gipsy took no notice; he thought that Fleming was fooling him. He
raised his stick threateningly, but before the sharp point, which the
bear had learnt to know and fear, could descend, it was twisted out of
his hands.
"Might is right," said Peter, with a broad grin.
The man was angry; his was a nature that could ill brook crossing. He
clenched his fists, and came nearer, but he looked twice at his
antagonist, and decided that discretion was the better part of valour.
Peter was not only broader than himself, but taller, and he had heard
that the gentleman was a great wrestler.
"Ho, my good fellow," said Fleming, "are you going to fight me for him?
Better come into the inn and settle the matter over a pot of beer."
"What do you want the bear for, master?"
"To play with--poodles aren't in my line. I need something big. Besides,
I've an idea you'll be sending him to the knacker's in a week or two,
and I'd like to save him from such a fate."
The gipsy looked him over, wondering if he were in jest or earnest.
"Honest! quite honest!" said Peter, reading the man's glance.
The gipsy's eyes began to sparkle, and he turned towards the inn.
"Come on, master," said he; "if you wants the bear you shall have him."
They went in, while Jake the rat-catcher called after them:
"Don't let the fellow cheat you, lad. He wouldn't get sixpence for the
carcase if he sold it for dog's meat. There isn't a crow-picking on its
bones."
Peter and the gipsy were not long within. They came out laughing, the
latter wiping his mouth, his dark, lean countenance showing signs of
satisfaction.
Fleming pulled his flute out of his pocket, played the tune that the
bear's master had been whistling, and the ungainly beast began to dance.
"Eh, lad, yon's a nice new pet you've gotten. Your mother will be main
pleased to have it sitting in the chimney-nook," said one of the crowd.
"Take it to bed with thee," remarked Dusty John, who had long ceased to
wonder at the vagaries of his son, but was rather pleased with them than
otherwise. "It will keep thee warm o' nights."
"Nay, nay, it's ower moth-eaten to have much warmth in it. Best hap it
up in camphor, Peter, and get some of Old Camomile's powder to put away
the fleas."
* * * * *
Meanwhile Lucy had found Joel. The sun had set, and the rooks were
flying home above Cringel Forest.
"Come with me up the dale," she said softly.
He was not disposed to be friendly.
"Cheer up, lad," she continued. "Let's be kind again."
With a face still lowering, and his whole frame the very embodiment of
injured pride, he turned and walked beside her.
He was jealous of Peter, yet sensible that he was to blame, not she.
"You'd better marry Peter," he said at last, breaking the silence.
"Who talks of marrying?" replied Lucy, coolly.
"He's got money and brains. He'd make you a worthier husband than I."
He kicked the stones out of his path and switched the heads off the
primroses that were growing by the wayside. The truth was, which Lucy
did not know, that he had been betting and had lost. When they came to
the edge of the forest, and the open dale lay before them, all gloomy
with shadows, Lucy turned.
"Good-night, Joel," she said, and made as if to go. "I'm sorry you're so
cross. It's spoilt my day, my only holiday; good-night."
But he flung his arm round her, his anger vanishing like a cloud that
has discharged its ill humours.
"Stay," he said. "I know I'm a brute. But let us go back. There'll be
more dancing, and we'll trip the moon up into the sky and out of it
again. I'm a better dancer than Peter. He's too heavy on his toes--you
found that, eh?--rather a clumsy fellow, too loose in the make to be a
comfortable partner. Come back. Come and see the rockets and torches.
We'll have a good time, lots of fun. Who knows whether we'll see the
wakes together again?"
She relented at once, dissolved like snow in the sun, when she heard the
pleading tones of his voice.
"But I promised great-granny."
"Stay," he repeated, and began to draw her back to the forest.
"I daren't, Joel; she'd never forgive me."
"Only a little longer."
"Nay."
Yet why should she not stay? Her great-grandmother had enjoyed such
occasions to the full when she was young. Why should Lucy not do the
same? She might go home, bid the old woman good-night, and when the
doors were barred, and the candles out, and Mistress Lynn thought she
was safely in her bed, slip downstairs, and escape by the cow-house. She
asked Joel what he thought of her plan.
"I'll wait for you," he said, "don't be long. But there's Barbara! She'd
never consent. Stay now do, Lucy; don't go in. Let's go back to the
village, and you can face the din to-morrow morning. Lay all the blame
on me."
She shuddered.
"You don't know what great-grandmother's like when she's roused! But
Barbara's at Ketel's Parlour. It's not likely she'll come home to-night,
unless the sheep is dead. The sheep don't often die in her hands, for
she looks after them as though they were sick bairns. I'll not be long,
Joel."
She slipped from his arms like a child bent on mischief, laughing under
her breath, yet not altogether at ease--it was no light undertaking for
anyone to try and hoodwink old Mistress Lynn.
The great-grandmother looked at the clock as soon as she entered, and
seemed grimly surprised at Lucy's punctuality. A cotter's wife rose from
the settle and hurried away, so as to get her share of the festivities.
She had been keeping the old woman company during the girl's absence.
"Sit thee down now," said Mistress Lynn, "and tell me about the wake."
"I's so tired, great-granny," yawned Lucy.
"Tired! At your age I could dance till dawn and not be too tired to milk
the kye at sunrise."
Lucy sat down with an aggrieved expression.
"If you'd let me dance till dawn I'd maybe have had the better grace to
tell you about it," she replied with some spirit.
"Well, get away to bed. Thee's got a sharp tongue that it's no gert
pleasure for an old woman to hear."
Lucy went upstairs, and moved about for a while, then she sat on the
edge of the bed and waited. It was a tedious waiting, but she dared not
creep downstairs, and let herself out by the cow-house door till there
was some likelihood of her great-grandmother being asleep.
At last she thought that she might venture. She took off her shoes, and
slipped noiselessly down; the stairs were made of stone, so they could
not betray her by creaking. On the wall opposite the kitchen was a
little round beam of light. It shone through a hole in the door, where
a knot had come out. Lucy was surprised; she wondered what Mistress Lynn
could be doing with a light at this hour. She put her eye to the hole
and looked through. She could see the bed, and the old woman's hands,
but not her face.
The candle flung a misty light on a pile of glittering coins in one
withered hand. Her great-grandmother was counting them, dropping them
one by one into a bag.
Lucy was riveted to the spot. She could not tear herself away, even
though Joel was waiting, hidden in the copse just below the house. She
could hear a faint click as the coins fell against one another. That bag
was filled. The thin old hands picked up another, and poured its
contents upon the quilt. Lucy watched like one fascinated. She saw her
great-grandmother pick up several bags, and count many handfuls of
money--some of it silver, some of it gold. She waited until the candle
was put out, and she heard the curtains softly drawn. Mistress Lynn had
composed herself to sleep.
Lucy opened the cow-house door and stole out into the night. A clear
moon was shining; the foam of the beck looked like white horses tossing
in the wind, and the primroses glimmered like stars. Joel was still
waiting.
"You can't say that I haven't patience," he said.
Lucy began to speak excitedly.
"I've seen such a sight, lad, such a sight! I've seen great-granny
counting her money."
"I knew she'd got a store somewhere," he replied. "I wish I had! It
would come in very handy just now."
"But, Joel, she's old, and when she dies----"
"We'll all be rich folk, Lucy."
"And we can be married then, lad, and put Forest Hall in trim, and be
happy."
He laughed, but not very spontaneously.
"There goes a rocket over the trees," he said.
"It goes up like my hope," replied Lucy.
But the thing burst and was gone.
"Prophetic, I fear," said Joel.
When they came under the black shadow of the crag on the top of which
Forest Hall was built, they paused and glanced up.
The moonlight brought the battlements into relief against the sky, and
shone silvery upon the fir-tree, growing out of a niche, and sweeping
the front wall with its feathery boughs. The house was very high,
strange and frowning, grander than it ever looked by daylight.
Joel gripped Lucy's hand with a sudden excess of feeling.
"I'll never part with Forest Hall," he said, as though he saw in his
mind's eye someone who wanted to take it from him. "I'll never sell the
old place. If I go down into ruins, it shall go down into ruins with me.
We'll fall together."
"Don't talk so fiercely, Joel," replied Lucy, gently smoothing his
fingers to take the strain out of their grip. "Forest Hall will some day
be refurnished from cellar to garret, and you and I will live there like
a pair of cooing doves. Haven't you told me so many a time?"
"Of course, Lucy," he said, relaxing.
They walked on again, and near the outskirts of the forest met Peter and
his bear.
"Hulloa, what have you there?" said Joel, while the girl drew back, not
caring to be caught alone with him at this time of the night.
"A lap-dog for you, Joel."
"The deuce have you! And what do you expect me to do with it?"
"Give it housing room. You've got an empty shed, haven't you?"
"Two or three. You're a rum chap!" and Joel laughed, for he could never
keep his resentment in his friend's breezy presence.
"There's a good fellow. May I put Big Ben--such is his name, I'm
told--into one of them?"
"Great heavens! do you want me to take the bear?"
"It's as gentle as a lamb! Would you like to see me put my head in its
mouth?"
"No! lead it away, fix it where you like; but I say, Peter, you don't
expect me to look after it, do you?"
"Give it lodging only! Jake's going to see to its board. Many thanks,
Joel. I'm off to-morrow, but I'll be up to bid you good-bye in the
morning. Come along, you limping Ursus, it's time you were abed."