The same scene is acted over again, and the second batch of guests display just as good appetites as the first, and keep us all actively employed. A third party succeeding, evidently possessing as vigorous powers of demolition as those who had gone before, I am fain to resign my post of carver-general to Old Hazy, who very kindly undertakes it for me, and discharges it to the entire satisfaction of the guests.
Meanwhile, other amusements have been going on. The boats have been put in requisition. Ned Culcheth, who plies a famous oar, having had plenty of practice on Marston Mere, has taken his wife and little Grace on a trip to the upper end of the pool, while the second boat has been manned by two of the miller’s men, and filled with young village-folk of either sex, whose songs and merry laughter can be heard during the whole of their passage across the sheet of water. Ned happens to bring back his party at the very moment of my quitting my post at the refreshment-table, and I am just in time, therefore, to assist Sissy to land.
A hubbub at the further end of the green now informs me of the arrival of the pair of fortune-tellers. Disengaging them selves, as well as they can, from the crowd, by whom they are instantly surrounded, the two gipsy women make towards me. As they approach, I have no difficulty in recognising my old acquaintance, Peninnah, while her companion must certainly be Rue. The charms of the latter have not been exaggerated, either by Old Hazy or his niece. Look at her as she comes along. If that is not a pretty girl, I don’t know one when I see her. What with her singular personal attractions, and her characteristic and picturesque attire, she offers quite a study for you, if you are a painter. Slight in figure, and pliant of limb, her movements are as easy and as agile as those of a fawn. Her features are cast in a delicate mould; nose fine and straight; lips ripe and full, and as vivid as carnation; teeth like a casket of pearls. You must expect her complexion to be dark, but there is a rich glow beneath the skin that gives it inexpressible warmth and beauty. Her eyes are large, black, and full of fire, yet veiled by long silken eyelashes, that mitigate their radiance. Her brows are dark as night, and her jetty tresses are coifed by a coloured Valencian handkerchief which she wears, coquettishly tied, over the back of her head. Her dress is somewhat showy in point of colour, and fanciful in make, but it suits her perfectly. There, I have done. You ought to have her before you.
Gipsy women wear well, or possess some secret for the preservation of their charms. Old age comes upon them at once, and not by degrees. Peninnah’s hair is as raven black as ever, and her eyes as bright; but her cheek-bones are higher than they used to be, and her features generally sharper and more prominent. Still, she may be reckoned a handsome woman. Her countenance has an expression of greater cunning than I remember noticing in it before, and her glances are restless and suspicious. She marches boldly up to me; but, notwithstanding her confident air, I can see that she rather doubts the reception she may meet with. She addresses me in the usual formula — asking leave to tell my fortune. I refuse.
“Nay, let me see your hand, my handsome young gentleman,” she says: “it ben’t the first time I have looked at it. I told you your fortune truly then, and I’ll tell it as truly now. Ask him to let me look at his hand, my pretty young lady,” she added to Ora. “I know he won’t refuse you.”
“Oh! you are quite mistaken if you suppose I have any influence over Mr. Clitheroe, my good woman,” Ora rejoined. “ He won’t mind what I say.”
“Try,” Peninnah cried. “I warrant you’ll succeed.”
Ora looked at me, and unwilling to disoblige her, I held out my hand to the gipsy-woman’s inspection.
“Give me a piece of silver,” Peninnah said; “gold would be better, if you have it.”
“Silver must suffice,” I replied, giving her a half-crown.
“What do you discover?” I added, as she gazed into the palm of my hand, and attentively perused its lines.
“A good deal,” she replied; “a good deal that you will be glad to know. But you must step aside with me to hear it, for it won’t do to speak before all the world.”
“Oh! you needn’t be under any apprehension, my good woman,” Ora said. “Mr. Clitheroe won’t mind our hearing what you have to tell. Will you, Mervyn?”
“I am sure he will,” Peninnah rejoined, “and therefore I daren’t speak. But I will tell you thus much, my pretty young lady, that he’s a young gentleman as is born to good luck, though his troubles ben’t yet entirely over.”
“No, I should think not,” Ora cried, with a laugh.
“Why don’t you let the woman see your hand, Miss Doveton?” I said.
“Because I’m afraid,” she replied.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” Peninnah exclaimed, in a coaxing voice. “I will tell you nothing disagreeable — that I promise you.”
“On that condition I am willing to try your skill,” Ora returned, taking off her glove, and resigning her white little hand to the gipsy woman.
Peninnah studied its lines attentively for a few minutes, and then looked up perplexed.
“Mind! you are only to tell me what is agreeable,” Ora cried. “I am almost as superstitious as my uncle, and if misfortune were predicted, I should be miserable.”
“Don’t be uneasy, my sweet young lady,” Peninnah said. “Tour path is a path of flowers, as far as I can see. But I thought there was an early marriage; and something that I can’t make out seems to hinder it. I should like to look at that gentleman’s hand,” she added, pointing to John Brideoake, who was standing at a little distance, watching what was going forward.
“Why at his hand?” Ora demanded, colouring.
“Oh! be sure I have good reason for making the request, my sweet young lady,” Peninnah said. “Will you allow the poor gipsy woman to see your hand, sir?” she added to John.
But he coldly and decidedly refused, crossing his arms upon his breast.
“Never for such a purpose,” he said. “I have no faith in your practices, and will never encourage them.”
“As you please, sir,” Peninnah replied, fixing her dark eyes upon him, “but if I were to tell you all I have just learnt, you would own there is some truth in the art I practise. Let me look at your hand, young lady,” she added, turning to Apphia, who was standing near her brother.
“On no account,” Apphia rejoined, uneasily, and clinging to John.
“What! you are also afraid of me? — ha!” Peninnah exclaimed, with a half contemptuous laugh. “Have you no curiosity to peer into the future — no wish to know what will befal you? Your brother despises my art, and thinks me a cheat. Show me your hand, and you shall see whether I deserve to be so accounted.”
“Yes do, Apphia,” Ora cried, rushing up to her. “I want to hear what she will say.”
“Well, since you desire it, I will not oppose your wishes,” Apphia said, “though I am quite as incredulous as John.” And as she spoke, she surrendered her hand to Peninnah, who rapidly traced its lines.
“Ah! what is this I see?” the gipsy woman exclaimed. “You say you are incredulous. Now mark my words. You will be suddenly summoned from this place, and will go — shall I tell you where?”
“No, I don’t care to learn,” Apphia said, with evident uneasiness.
“I can tell you whither you will go, and what will occur to you,” Peninnah pursued. “Strange things are in store for you, and great surprises — some risk, perhaps, of which I can give you a warning, if you will listen to me.”
“Desist, woman,” John Brideoake interposed. “I will not allow you to listen to her longer, Apphia.” And taking his sister’s arm, he drew her away.
A sudden cry startled me at this juncture, and turning, I found it had proceeded from Sissy Culcheth. After disembarking from the boat, Sissy had seated herself on the bank near the weeping willow with little Grace, and was so much occupied in playing and chatting with the child, that she had not noticed the arrival of the gipsy pair. Grace at last perceived them, calling Sissy’s attention to Peninnah, who was now close at
hand. On beholding her, Sissy started to her feet, with the half scream I have described. Ned Culcheth heard the cry as well as myself, and was instantly by her side, anxiously inquiring what was the matter.
“There she is!” Sissy exclaimed, in accents of alarm. “That’s the black gipsy ‘oomans who told me my fortunes, and said you would kill me. How she looks at us! I wish she would go away. She frightens me.”
“Shake off your fear, Sissy,” Ned cried. “She shan’t meddle with you. Away with you, woman!” he added, with a menacing look at Peninnah.
“I don’t want to meddle with her,” the gipsy woman replied. “I bear her no ill-will. But my words came true, and she knows it. Let her think over what I did say, and she’ll find I was right. She has had a narrow escape; but the danger is past now, and the rest of her days will be free from trouble.”
“Well, there’s comfort in that, at all events,” Ned said.
“Ay, but I have yet more comfort for her,” Peninnah went on. “The dearest wish of her heart will be gratified.”
“What’s that you tell me?” Sissy cried, gazing eagerly at her.
“The wish nearest your heart is to possess a child like this — ben’t it?” Peninnah said. “Let me look at your hand, and I will tell you whether you will have your wish.” And as Sissy extended her hand — not without some misgiving — towards her, she added, “Ere three years are flown you will be the mother of two children.”
“You promise me this, my good ‘oomans?” Sissy exclaimed, joyfully.
“Soh! I am a good woman now,” Peninnah cried. “But no matter! good or bad, my words will come to pass.”
While Peninnah was thus occupied, Rue, who was standing a few paces off, signed to me to follow her, and moved towards the edge of the mill-pool. Struck by her manner, which seemed to indicate that she had something to communicate to me, I complied, and soon drew near her. Without appearing to notice my approach, or even looking at me, she said, in a low tone, “Be cautious where you go! you are in danger.”
“From whom?” I demanded.
“I dare not give you further explanation now,” she replied; “but I will try to have a word with you before I leave.”
Here we were interrupted by Peninnah, who, calling sharply to her daughter, bade her to come back to her at once.
As soon as I could get an opportunity, I took Ned Culcheth aside, and told him to keep an eye upon the gipsy pair. “But be careful not to alarm them,” I said. “When they take their departure, follow them, and find out where they go. I am concerned to give you all this trouble, Ned. But I know you are willing — nay, anxious to serve me.”
“‘Anxious’ is the word, sir,” the honest fellow replied. “I was thinkin’ of doin’ it of my own accord; and I trust to bring you tidings before many hours of the whereabouts of Phaleg and his hopeful son — perhaps of the sly old fox, Pownall himself. That gipsy girl is woundy pratty — pity she comes of such a bad stock! I’ll just give Sissy a hint of my plans, that she meyn’t be uneasy when I go.”
Another interruption. Busy Miss Hazilrigge comes up, and tells me she has been looking for me everywhere. She urges me to call for a country dance, and acting upon her suggestion, I at once engage Ora, and then clapping my hands to attract general attention, bid the musicians strike up their merriest tune. The signal causes an immediate stir amidst the assemblage, and in another moment some twenty or thirty young couples stand opposite to each other on the green. Ropes of flowers are then distributed to the dancers by Miss Hazilrigge, who is followed by Rivers, with a large basketful of these wreaths, and the mode of using them is explained by the kind lady. All the damsels are greatly pleased with the garlands, and of course their partners cannot be behind them in admiration. In an instant we were all in our places — Ora, who is full of animation and delight, standing opposite to me. Mr. Mavis and Sissy Culcheth form the second couple — and Ned and little Grace, who is perfectly wild with pleasure, the third. All being in order, the dance commences — and in right earnest. If mistakes are now and then made in the figure, and the ropes of flowers get occasionally entangled, and bring somebody to the ground, or knock off a hat or a bonnet, our enjoyment is not diminished by these incidents. On the contrary, they add zest to the dance. After a little practice, and with Ora’s directions, the lads and lasses manage the ropes of flowers extremely well, and, when several couples are dancing, the effect is uncommonly good. Instead of hands across, the ends of the garlands merely are taken, and when going down the middle, the lads not unfrequently twine the flowery ropes round their partners’ waists, or hold them above their heads. Ora is enchanted, for the idea of the garlands has originated with her. Though flushed with exertion, she declares she is not in the slightest degree fatigued, but will go down the dance again. The tune is changed, at her request, and we are just about to set off, when I become suddenly transfixed.
The musicians play on, but I heed them not. Mr. Mavis vociferates, “Now, sir, push it!” — the worthy man means poussette. Sissy stares, and Ora playfully chides me. But I do not stir.
I was transfixed in the manner I have described by the arrival of a tall, gentlemanlike, military-looking personage, attired in black, whom I instantly recognised as the stranger I had seen near the grave in Marston churchyard. He was standing near Cuthbert Spring, who was evidently pointing me out to him — and unless I was mistaken, the stranger regarded me with peculiar ‘nterest. At all events, I felt an interest in him for which I could in no way account. Who could he be? and how came he to be with Cuthbert Spring? Suddenly it occurred to me that he must be Major Atherton. Yet why should Major Atherton take an interest in me, or I in Major Atherton? That remained to be seen.
How long I should have continued in this state, if Ora had not roused me, I cannot tell. But at last she succeeded in diverting my attention from the stranger, and dragged me into the dance.”
“Why, Mervyn,” she cried, “what on earth is the matter with you? Don’t you see we are all waiting? Pick up your garland, and come down the middle with me at once. How slow you are, to be sure! You seem to have lost all your spirits.”
I did my best, but my interest in the dance was gone, and I proved so dull a partner, that Ora began to scold once more, and again inquired what had produced such an extraordinary change?
“I can’t account for it myself,” I replied, “but a person has just arrived, whose looks seem to exercise an unaccountable influence over me. You can see him. He is there — standing near Cuthbert Spring.”
“I can see nothing extraordinary about him,” Ora replied, “except that he is very tall — and for a person of his years, tolerably good-looking. Who is he?”
“I should think he must be Major Atherton, whom Cuthbert Spring proposed to bring with him.”
“Oh, no doubt!” Ora cried. “I hope he will prove an agreeable acquaintance. But come, exert yourself, do, sir! Major Atherton, I perceive, is watching us! Let us show him that we can execute the dance with spirit.”
Stimulated by her remarks. I shook off the sort of lethargy into which I had fallen, and acquitted myself so well, that I soon regained my merry partner’s good opinion. At last the dance was over, and Ora then said, “Now let us go and take a nearer view of this mysterious individual. Upon my word,” she whispered, as we approached him, “for an elderly gentleman, he is remarkably good-looking. He has a distinguished bearing, and a very fine countenance.”
Here we were greeted by Cuthbert Spring, who left his friend, and came towards us. After shaking hands with us, and paying Ora a few compliments in his usual gallant style, he congratulated me on the success of the fete — saying that the arrangements were excellent, and everybody looked happy.
“My friend, Major Atherton, is greatly pleased with the entertainment,” he went on. “You must allow me to present the major to you, Mervyn, and to you, also, Miss Doveton.”
I expressed the pleasure I should feel at the introduction in fitting terms; but inquired of Cuthbert whether
he had known Major Atherton long, as I did not remember to have heard him mention him before.
“Perhaps not,” Cuthbert rejoined, with an odd smile. “Atherton is one of my oldest friends, and I have a very great regard for him. He has been abroad for some years. But he shall speak for himself.” So saying, he called to his friend, who immediately complied with the summons, and stepping towards us, was formally presented to Ora and myself. He certainly did seem very proud-” — this Major Atherton — excessively proud, for he merely bowed — rather stiffly, too, I thought — on his introduction to me, and directed his conversation chiefly to Ora.
But though annoyed by his haughtiness, I was resolved to make him talk to me, and I therefore remarked:
“I think I have seen you before, Major Atherton?”
“Indeed, sir? — where?” he exclaimed, quickly.
“In Marston churchyard,” I replied; “and under somewhat singular circumstances.”
“No more of this now, I entreat you, sir,” he cried, with sudden emotion. “I know to what you refer. But I did not suppose you had been there. I now recollect that some one came upon me unawares. You were the person, I suppose. I will give you an explanation of the circumstance on a mere fitting occasion.”
“What is this?” Cuthbert Spring cried, quickly.
“Oh! nothing — nothing,” I replied, not willing to press my inquiries further. —
“Though you are unacquainted with Major Atherton, Mervyn,” Mr. Spring said, after consulting his friend by a look, “I ought to tell you that he is an old friend of your family, and knew your mother extremely well.”
“Did he?” I cried. “Then I understand it all, and require no further explanation. We must know each other better, since this is the case, Major Atherton.”
“We must, sir,” he answered. “Your mother was a most amiable person — far too good for him she married.”
“Hold, major!” I cried. “Praise one parent as much as you please, but say nothing against the other.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 480
