It was September and there was a mist in the air, which thickened as they climbed to high ground. It hung like diamond drops on the hedges giving a fresh bloom to the wild guelder roses and a velvet coat to the plums of the blackthorn. Spiders' webs were festooned over the bells of the wild fuchsias which flourished in the road-side hedges. The silence was only broken by the clop-clop of their horses'
hoofs or the cries of the gulls, mournful as they always seemed on such days.
Caroline glanced over her shoulder at Melisande who always seemed to enjoy everything more than normal people did. Now she was revelling in the mist which the others would deplore.
They were riding two abreast and Fermor was beside Melisande, John Collings with Caroline. Caroline heard Fermor teasing Melisande, provoking that sudden joyous laugher.
John Collings was saying that he hoped Caroline would soon be able to come to parties again and that he would see her in the hunting field. They missed her.
Caroline angrily felt that he was sorry for her, that he was as aware as she was of the pleasure the two behind found in each other's company. She was not listening to John Collings; her attention was focussed on Melisande and Fermor.
"The mist grows thicker," said Melisande.
"It'll be dense on the moor," said Fermor.
"What if we are lost in it?"
"The piskies will carry you off. They set a ring round you and, hey presto! they appear in their hundreds. Fee-faw-fum! I smell the blood of an English. . . . No, no, of a little Mamazel, as they call her in these here parts ..."
Caroline could not resist breaking in. "He knows nothing about it, Mademoiselle St. Martin. He is not a Cornishman and he makes fun of our legends. And his attempt to imitate the dialect is very poor indeed."
"That's not quite true, Caroline. I don't make fun. I fear the piskies, the knackers and the whole brood. I bow my head when I pass old Tammy Trequint's shack, for fear she should ill-wish me."
"She would not do that!" cried Melisande. "She is a good witch. A white witch, she is called. She does not ill-wish. She will charm away your warts and cure your whooping cough ... or give you a love potion."
"Interesting," he said. "Now I have no warts, no whooping cough . . ."
Melisande said quickly: "Mrs. Soady has told me of her. Mrs. Soady comes from a pellar family and is the sister of a footling."
"What nonsense the servants talk!" interrupted Caroline. "They should not say such things to you."
"But I like to hear. It is such an excitement. I feel a delight. To live so near us. A white witch! There are so many interesting things to learn in the world, are there not?"
Fermor leaned towards her slightly. He said: "There are many interesting things for a young lady to learn, but Caroline means—
and I agree with her—that Mrs. Soady may not be the one to teach you such things, pellar family though she may have, and whatever it is that unnatural sister of hers may 06."
"But I would learn from all. Everyone has something to teach. Is that not so? It is different things we learn from different people.''
"You see, Caro," said Fermor. "She is wiser than we are. She leaves no cup untasted in her thirst for knowledge."
John Collings said: "There's a lot of superstition about here, Mademoiselle St. Martin. Particularly among the servant class. You mustn't judge us all by them."
"As a matter of fact," said Fermor, "these Cornish are all superstitious . . . every one of them. You and I, Mademoiselle, do not belong here. I am as much a foreigner as you are. We may snap our fingers at the piskies. They daren't touch us."
He began to sing in a loud and tuneful tenor voice:
"On the banks of Allan Water, When the sweet spring time did fall, Was the miller's lovely daughter, Fairest of them all . . ."
And his merry eyes sought those of Melisande as he sang.
Caroline, setting her lips firmly, thought: Why does he? And before me! Doesn't he care at all? Is he clearly telling me that when we are married he will make no attempt to be faithful ?
She began to talk to John Collings. How much easier life might have been if she had been affianced to someone like John. He had not town ways, town manners; he did not possess the allure of Fermor; yet how much happier she might have been.
He was still singing and he had reached the end of the song as they came near the outskirts of Liskeard.
"On the banks of Allan Water, When the winter snow fell fast, Still was seen the miller's daughter, Chilling blew the blast. But the miller's lovely daughter, Both from cold and care was free, On the banks of Allan Water There a corpse lay she."
Melisande could not refrain from laughing at the mock pathos in his voice. "But it is so sad," she protested.
"And I cannot forgive myself for making you sad!" declared Fermor. "It is just a song. There is no miller's daughter, you know."
"But there are many millers' daughters," said Melisande. "The one in the song . . . she is just in a song . . . just in the mind of the song writer. But many have loved and died for love, and that song is of them."
Caroline said: "The girl was a fool in any ease. She should have known the soldier was false; she should not have believed in that winning tongue of his."
"But how could she know?" asked Melisande.
"One can tell."
"She could not."
"Then, as I say, she was a fool."
"In my opinion," said John Collings, "she might have waited until a more suitable time of the year. I mean to say . . . drowning herself when the snow was falling! Why could she not wait until the spring!"
"She was so unhappy. She did not wish to live until the spring," said Melisande. "That was a long time ahead. She was so sad that the snow was of no importance to her."
"What a controversy my little song has aroused!" said Fermor.
"When," put in Caroline, "it is intended as nothing more than a warning to foolish young women who listen to the honied tongues of deceivers!"
"All lovers have honied tongues," said Melisande.
"A provision of nature!" agreed Fermor. "Like a thrush's song or a peacock's tail."
"But how should a young woman judge between the true and the false?"
"If she cannot, she must take the consequences," said Caroline.
"I will sing you another song," declared Fermor, "to show you that it is not always the young women who must take care."
Immediately he began:
"There came seven gipsies on a day, Oh, but they sang bonny, O! And they sang so sweet and they sang so clear, Down came the earl's lady, O.
They gave to her the nutmeg, And they gave to her the ginger; But she gave to them a far better thing, The seven gold rings off her fingers."
He sang on, of how the earl came home to find that his lady had gone off with the gipsies; and with mock feeling sang of the earl's pleading and of the lady's refusal to return to him.
"The Earl of Cashan is lying sick; Not one hair I'm sorry; I'd rather have a kiss from his fair lady's lips Than all his gold and his money."
They were all laughing—even Caroline—as they came into the town.
"Three cheers for the lovelorn Earl of Cashan for chasing away the gloom of that corpse—the tiresome miller's daughter!" cried Fermor.
They went to a hostelry where the horses had a rest and a feed while they refreshed themselves before going to the horse market, for Fermor wished to look at horses and John Collings perhaps to buy.
They sat in the parlour with the sawdust on the floor, and a girl in a pretty mob-cap came to bring them tankards of Cornish ale. Hot pasties were served with the ale—fresh from the oven, savoury with onions.
"There seems to be merrymaking in the town to-day," said Fermor to the girl in the mob-cap, for she was a pretty girl, and Fermor would always have a word and a smile for a pretty girl, no matter how much he was taken with another.
"Well, sir," she said, "there's to be a flogging in the streets to-day. You'm here in time to see i
t. 'Tis old Tom Matthews. Caught red-handed, he were, stealing one of Farmer Tregertha's fowls. The whole town's turning out to see it done."
"What revelry!" cried Fermor. "Bring us some more of those pasties, please. They're good."
The girl bobbed a curtsy and went away.
"What does she mean?" asked Melisande.
John Collings said: "Oh, these people get excited about nothing. Just another felon, that's all."
"And he is to be flogged in the street?" asked Melisande.
"He stole a fowl and was caught," said Caroline.
"But ... to be flogged in the street . . . where all can see! It is a great indignity ... as well as a pain to the body."
"Well, let us hope it will teach him not to steal again," said Fermor.
"But in the streets . . . for people to see." Melisande shuddered. "To be beaten in private . . . that is bad. But in the streets ..."
"It is a warning to other people, Mademoiselle," said Caroline. "There are some people who have to be shown that if they steal they will have to take the consequences."
Melisande was silent, and when the maid brought fresh pasties she found that she had lost her appetite.
When they came out into the streets they were just in time to see
the dismal procession. The victim, stripped to the waist, was tied to the back of a cart which was slowly drawn through the streets. Behind him walked two men with whips; these men took it in turn to apply a stroke to the bleeding back of their victim.
Caroline, Fermor and John looked on with indifference; only Melisande turned shuddering away. Perhaps, she thought, he was hungry; perhaps his family was hungry. How can we know that he deserves such punishment?
She was as unhappy as she had been gay a short time before when riding along the misty road.
Fermor was beside her. He said: "What is it?"
She shook her head, but he came nearer, demanding an answer. She tried to explain, although she did not think he would see her point. "The hedges and the flowers and the mist . . . they are so beautiful. And this ... it is so ugly."
"Felons must be punished. If they were not they would not hesitate to steal the coats off our backs."
They rode away to the stables and, while Fermor and John were selecting a horse, Caroline said to Melisande: "You are too easily deceived, Mademoiselle St. Martin. You are too sorry for felons and . . . for millers' daughters. Stupid people and criminals have to suffer for their mistakes."
"I know it," said Melisande. "But that does not stop my being sorry."
"It is unwise to steal ... no matter what. People have to be reminded of that."
It was unfortunate that on their way back through the town they should see mad Anna Quale, for it seemed to Melisande that the flogging of Tom Matthews was a minor tragedy compared with that of Anna Quale.
Anna had many visitors that day. Some had come in to the market and some to see Tom Matthews flogged; and they could not leave without a glimpse of Anna.
Outside the tiny cottage where she lived, a crowd had gathered. Anna's fame had travelled far, and there would not always be an opportunity of seeing her. She was mad; and her insanity was of a type which appealed to the ignorant crowd. Anna's was not a quiet introspective madness; it was not melancholy; Anna's mad fits were fits of rage in which she behaved like a wild animal, spitting and clawing at any who came near her, throwing herself against walls, trying to tear off her clothes, screaming abuse. Her fits occurred at ever-shortening intervals now, and it was considered a great treat to be an onlooker. She would throw herself to the ground, lash out with her arms and legs, bite her tongue; and her face would grow purple as she would utter shrieks and strange sounds. It was said
that devils were in her; but the devils were not always so entertaining; sometimes they sulked and would not show their presence. Everybody hoped for a demonstration of the devils when they went to see Anna, and did their best to provoke them to action; but very soon Anna was to be taken away to Bodmin where she would be put in a cage and exhibited to passers-by in that town.
It was a terrible shame, said the people of Liskeard, that Bodmin should have all the fun. There were plenty of lunatics in Bodmin; you could see their cages any day you liked. It was unfair to take Liskeard's entertainers and give them to the Bodmin folk. However, Liskeard and its visitors were determined to get as much fun out of Anna as and while they could; and for the time being she was chained up in the cottage which had recently housed her parents and their large family.
The shrieks of laughter and shouts could be heard streets away.
"What's the excitement?" Fermor asked a man in a smock and leather gaiters.
"Don't 'ee know then, sir?" cried the man.
"That is precisely why I am asking."
" 'Tis old Anna Quale, sir. A regular caution, she be. And there be so many here on account of the flogging, sir. Did you see the flogging, sir?"
"We did. But what about Anna Quale?"
"They'm taking her away to Bodmin soon. 'Tis a crying shame."
Two more men had come up—old men, their faces eager and alight. Talking to strangers was the greatest joy they knew, for passing on knowledge which was theirs and of which the stranger was ignorant was a tremendous stimulation to self-esteem. They touched their forelocks, recognizing John Collings and Miss Caroline Trevenning, although the other lady and gentleman were unknown to them.
"Well, sir, 'tis like this here . . ." began one.
"No, Harry, you let me tell it. You do take too long. . . ."
"Now, look here, Tom Trewinny, you keep out of this."
"How'd it be if you shared the prize?" asked Fermor. "A sentence each, eh?"
They looked at him oddly. Gentry, for sure. But a foreigner with a fancy way of talking. Trying to be smart too; and they did not like foreigners.
John Collings said: "What is this all about, my good man? We're in a hurry."
"Well, sir, 'tis Anna Quale. She'm in the cottage there, and they be going to take her to Bodmin soon. We've always looked on Anna as ourn. Regular caution she's always been. You could see her lying in the market square, kicking and screaming and lashing out like . . .
with all the devils calling out of her mouth. Then all of a sudden she'd go quiet . . . just like all the devils had come out of her. And they had too, sir, through the mouth. There's some in this town as has seen 'em. Then she'd get quiet and walk away."
"So they're taking her away and the people don't like it?"
"That's how 'tis, sir. They'm taking their last look, you might say. You see, sir, she's chained up now . . . and has been this last day or so since the rest of them Quales was drove out of the town. They'm a bad lot, them Quales. Two of the girls in trouble and the mother and father no better than they should be . . . begging the ladies' pardon. We got a party together . . . with whistles and such like . . . and we gave they a riding out of the town. That left Anna, sir; and now she be alone they've chained her and they've ordained to send her to Bodmin."
The crowd about the cottage had turned to look at the four on horseback and, since some of them had fallen away from the cottage door, Melisande had a glimpse of one of the most horrible sights she had ever seen in her life.
Standing just inside the room, into which it was possible to step straight from the street, was a creature who looked more like a wild beast than a human being.
Melisande saw bare arms, mottled purple, hanging at her sides, saw the dirty skin, showing through dirtier rags, the hair which hung about the creature's face, the slobbering mouth from which came a hideous muttering sound. But it was the eyes which Melisande would never forget as long as she lived. They were bewildered, tormented eyes, wild, defiant and yet somehow appealing for help.
And in that brief second a boy in the crowd, close to the door of the cottage leaned forward. In his hand was a long branch with which he prodded the mad woman. She tried to grasp the branch, but as she nearly succeeded in doing so, the boy would pull it away. Sh
e lunged as far as the chain would allow; the ring about her waist must have caused her a good deal of pain; and as the boy again prodded her and she tried to catch the branch she cried out a second time in suppressed rage. It was clear that this had been going on for some time.
The crowd shrieked its merriment and the gentry looked on indifferently at the amusements of the poor. Only one person in that assembly experienced a passion as great as that of the tormented. Melisande, without a second's hesitation, without stopping to think of anything but the mad creature's pain, slipped from her horse, handed the reins to John Collings who happened to be nearest and was too astonished to do anything but take them, ran forward and snatched the branch from the boy's hand.
"Do not!" she cried. "It is wicked. So cruel!" In the stress of the moment she had spoken in French.
The boy, at first startled, had released his hold on the branch; he tried after that brief hesitation to retrieve it. He kicked out at Melisande, as he tried to reach for the branch which she held above her head; and as he did so, she brought it sharply down across his face.
A pair of hands seized her . . . two pair of hands. She was aware of angry distorted faces about her, of a sudden roar of fury. She heard the word: "Foreigner!" They were forcing her to the ground.
But Fermor had leaped from his horse, had thrown his reins to John Collings and was in the midst of the crowd.
"She be French!" someone was shouting.
"They French have tails. . . ."
"Now be a chance to see for ourselves. ..."
"Stand back, you swine, you oafs, you country fools . . . stand back!" That was Fermor, eyes blazing, his arms swinging out. Someone staggered and fell, and Fermor had Melisande in his grasp.
"Get to your horse ... at once!" he said.
She obeyed. None tried to stop her. Fermor was facing the crowd with that arrogant insolence which they knew so well and which they had respected and obeyed all their lives.
"How dare you!" Fermor was shouting. "How dare you molest a lady!"
He had backed away from them and in a second or so he had leaped into his saddle.
It began in Vauxhall Gardens Page 12
