Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi
Finem Di dederint, Leuconoc; nec Babylonios
Tentaris numeros. Ut melius, quidquid erit, pati!
Hor.
Seek not to know, it is not given,
The end for us ordained by Heaven;
Nor be by fortune-tellers lured:
What can't be cured, is best endured.
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.
"A bright evening to you, Mercy," Owen said, as they approached one
another; "though bright there is nothing for me. And where mayst have
been this fine afternoon?"
It was an awkward question for the girl. She answered it with another.
"Where are you going, Edward, with the sun behind St. Paul's, and your
back to Trevethlan? It should not be a long walk ye are starting on.
Better maybe to turn back with me, and walk home together."
"Mercy," said the young man, "there was a time when my heart would have
jumped at the word. It is gone. I have other thoughts now. Where am I
going? By Castle Dinas to St. Ives. There will be some talk in the
country before long."
"What for, Edward?" Mercy asked. "They tell me I have scorned you into
wild ways. I never scorned you, Edward. It is not fair of you to bring
such a saying upon me. I wish to like you, and I thank you for liking
me, but I do not like sulky love."
"My love's anyhow honest," said Owen, "and that's more than you can say
of...."
"Now shame on you," cried the girl, interrupting him. "Will you say
slander of a man behind his back? And to me, too, that know it is
slander? And is that the way to change my mind?"
"I have no hopes of that, Mercy," answered the rustic. "And, for your
sake, I hope Michael's a better man than I think. Remember the evening
under the thorns on the cliff. It is for you and not for me I say it.
And methinks you haven't heard much of Michael since he went away to
London."
"Then I didn't ask your advice, Mr. Edward," said Mercy, "and you may as
well keep it till I do. I dare say I can take care of myself. And very
likely Michael has quite plenty to do in London without the writing of
letters. And I expect he'll be down here before long, for I hear say
that Pendar'l's getting ready for the ladies, if they're not there
already. And then you can tell him what you think, like a man. So I wish
you a good evening."
"Good evening, Mercy," returned the young man, sadly, and they proceeded
on their respective ways.
Ready as the maiden was to defend her lover to another, she could not so
easily excuse him to herself. And the anxiety, for the relief of which
she had made her pilgrimage to St. Madron's Well, had come back before
she reached her mother's cottage at Trevethlan, darkened rather than
alleviated by the result of the expedition.