Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

CHAPTER XXXVIII. ST. SENAN’S WELL

How shall I trace this, the happiest period of my life, when days and weeks rolled on and left no trace behind, save in that delicious calm that stole over my senses gradually and imperceptibly! Each morning saw me on my way to Castle Bellew. The mountain path that led up from the little strand was well worn by my footsteps; I knew its every turn and winding; scarcely a dog-rose bloomed along the way with which I had not grown familiar. And how each object spoke to my heart! For I was happy. The clouds that moved above, the rippling tide that flowed beneath, the sunny shore, the shady thicket, were all to me as though I had known them from boyhood. For so it is, in our glad moments we cling to all things that surround us; and giving to external Nature the high colouring of our own hearts, we feel how beautiful is this world.

Yet was my mind not all tranquil; for often, as I hastened on, some passing thought would shoot across me. Where is this to end? Can I hope ever to overcome the deep-rooted prejudices of my family, and induce them to receive amongst them as my wife the beautiful and artless daughter of the wild west? Or could I dare to expose her, on whom all my affections were centred, to the callous criticism of my fine lady-mother, and her fashionable friends in London? What right had I to stake Louisa’s happiness on such a chance – to take her from all the objects endeared to her by taste, by time, by long-hallowed associations, and place her amid those among whom the very charm of her untarnished nature would have made her their inferior? Is it that trait of rebellious spirit that would seem to leaven every portion of our nature which makes our love strongest when some powerful barrier has been opposed to our hopes and wishes; or is it, rather, that in the difficulties and trials of life we discover those deeper resources of our hearts, that under happier auspices had lain dormant and unknown? I scarcely know; but true it is, after such reflections as these I ever hurried on the faster to meet Louisa, more resolutely bent than ever, in weal or woe, to link my fortune with her own.

Though I returned each night to the priest’s cottage, my days were entirely spent at Castle Bellew. How well do I remember every little incident that marked their tranquil course! The small breakfast-parlour, with its old Tudor window looking out upon the flower-garden – how often have I paced it, impatient for her coming; turning ever and anon to the opening door, where the old butler, with the invariable habitude of his kind, continually appeared with some portion of the breakfast equipage! How I started, as some distant door would shut or open, some far-off footstep sound upon the stair, and wonder within myself why she felt not some of this impatient longing! And when at last, tortured with anxiety and disappointment, I had turned away towards the window, the gentle step, the rustling dress, and, more than all, the indescribable something that tells us we are near those we love, bespoke her coming – oh, the transport of that moment! With what a fervid glow of pleasure I sprang to meet her, to touch her hand, to look upon her! How rapidly, too, I endeavoured to speak my few words of greeting, lest her father’s coming might interfere with even this short-lived period of happiness; and, after all, how little meaning were in the words themselves, save in the tone I spoke them!

Then followed our rambles through the large but neglected garden, where the rich blossoming fruit-tree scented the air, loaded with all the fragrance of many a wild flower. Now strolling onwards, silent, but full of thought, we trod some dark and shaded alley; now we entered upon some open glade, where a view of the far-off mountains would break upon us, or where some chance vista showed the deep-blue sunny sea swelling with sullen roar against the rocky coast. How often, at such times as these, have I asked myself if I could look for greater happiness than thus to ramble on, turning from the stupendous majesty of Nature to look into her eyes whose glance met mine so full of tender meaning, while words would pass between us, few and low-voiced, but all so thrilling; their very accents spoke of love!

Yet, amid all this, some agonising doubt would shoot across me that my affection was not returned. The very frankness of her nature made me fear; and when we parted at night, and I held my homeward way towards the priest’s cottage, I would stop from time to time, conning over every word she spoke, calling to mind each trivial circumstance; and if by accident some passing word of jest» some look of raillery, recurred to my memory, how have the warm tears rushed to my eyes, as with my heart full to bursting I muttered to myself, ‘She loves me not!’ These fears would then give way to hope, as in my mind’s eye she stood before me, all beaming in smiles. And amid these alternate emotions, I trod my lonely path, longing for the morrow when we should meet again, when I vowed within my heart to end my life of doubt by asking if she loved me. But with that morrow came the same spell of happiness that lulled me; and like the gambler who had set his life upon the die, and durst not throw, so did I turn with trembling fear from tempting the chance that might in a moment dispel the bright dream of my existence, and leave life bleak and barren to me for ever.

The month of August was drawing to a close, as we sauntered one fine evening towards the sea-shore. There was a little path which wound round the side of a bold crag, partly by steps, partly by a kind of sloping way, defended at the sides by a rude wooden railing, which led down upon the beach exactly at the spot where a well of clear spring-water sprang up, and tracked its tiny stream into the blue ocean. This little spring, which was always covered by the sea at high-water, was restored, on the tide ebbing, to its former purity, and bubbled away as before; and from this cause it had obtained from the simple peasantry the reputation of being miraculous, and was believed to possess innumerable properties of healing and consoling.

I had often heard of it but never visited it before; and thither we now bent our steps, more intent upon catching the glorious sunset that was glowing on the Atlantic than of testing the virtues of St. Senan’s Well, for so was it called. The evening, an autumnal one, was calm and still; not a leaf stirred; the very birds were hushed; and there was all that solemn silence that sometimes threatens the outbreak of a storm. As we descended the crag, however, the deep booming of the sea broke upon us, and between the foliage of the oak-trees we could mark the heavy rolling of the mighty tide, as wave after wave swelled on, and then was dashed in foam and spray upon the shore. There was something peculiarly grand and almost supernatural in the heavy swell of the great sea, rearing its white crest afar and thundering along the weather-beaten rocks, when everything else was calm and unmoved around; the deep and solemn roar, echoing from many a rocky cavern, rose amid the crashing spray that sent up a thin veil of mist, through which the setting sun was reflected in many a bright rainbow. It was indeed a glorious sight, and we stopped for several minutes gazing on it; when suddenly Louisa, letting go my arm, exclaimed, as she pointed downwards —

‘See, see the swell beneath that large black rock yonder! The tide is making fast; we must get quickly down if you wish to test St. Senan’s power.’

I had no time left me to ask what peculiar virtues the saint dispensed through the mediation of his well, when she broke from my side and hurried down the steep descent. In a moment we had reached the shore, upon which already the tide was fast encroaching, and had marked with its dark stain the yellow sand within a few feet of the well. As we drew nearer, I perceived the figure of an old woman hent with age, who seemed busily occupied sprinkling the water of the spring over something that, as I came closer, seemed like a sailor’s jacket. She was repeating some words rapidly to herself; but on hearing our approach, she quickly collected her bundle together under her remnant of a cloak, and sat waiting our approach in silence.

‘It’s Molly Ban!’ said Louisa suddenly, and growing pale as she spoke. ‘Give her something, if you have any money, I beseech you.’

There was no opportunity for inquiring further about her now, for the old woman slowly rose from the stone by the aid of a stick, and stood confronting us. Her figure was singularly short, scarce four feet in height; but her head was enormously large, and her features, which were almost terrific in ugliness, were swarthy as a gypsy’s. A man’s hat was fastened upon her head by a red kerchief which was knotted beneath her chin; a short cloak of faded scarlet, like what the peasantry of the west usually wear, covered her shoulders, beneath which a patched and many-coloured petticoat appeared, that reached to the middle of her legs, which, as well as her feet, were completely naked, giving the old woman a look of wildness and poverty which I cannot attempt to convey. The most singular part of her costume, however, was a rude collar she wore round her neck of sea-shells, among which, here and there, I could detect some bits of painted and gilded carving, like fragments of a wreck. This strange apparition now stood opposite me, her dark eyes fixed steadily on my companion, to whom, unlike the people of the country, she never made the slightest reverence, or showed any semblance of respect.

‘And was it to spy after me, Miss Loo, ye brought down yer sweetheart to the well this evening?’ said the hag, in a harsh, grating voice, that seemed the very last effort of some suppressed passion.

Louisa’s arm grasped mine, and I could feel it tremble with agitation as she whispered in my ear —

‘Give her money quickly; I know her.’

‘And is your father going to send me back to jail because the cattle’s got the rot amongst them? Ha, ha, ha!’ said she, breaking into a wild, discordant laugh. ‘There will be more mourning than for that at Castle Bellew before long.’

Louisa leaned against me, faint and almost falling, while drawing out my purse hastily I held forth my hand full of silver. The old hag clutched at it eagerly, and as her dark eyes flashed fire, she thrust the money into a pocket at her side, and again broke out into a horrid laugh.

‘So, you’re beginnin’ to know me, are ye? Ye won’t mock Molly Ban now, eh? No, ‘faith, nor Mary Lafferty either, that turned me from the door and shut it agin me. Where ‘ll her pride be to-morrow night, when they bring in her husband a corpse to her? Look at that!’

With these words she threw her cloak on one side, and showed the blue jacket of a fisherman which I had seen her sprinkling with the water as we came up.

‘The blue water will be his winding-sheet this night, calm as it is now.’

‘Oh, Molly dear, don’t speak this way!’

‘Molly dear!’ echoed the beldame, in an accent of biting derision. ‘Who ever heerd one of your name call me that? Or are ye come for a charm for that young man beside you? See, now! the sun’s just gone; in a minit more the sea ‘ll be in, and it’ll be too late. Here, come near me! kneel down there! kneel down, I say! or is it only my curse ye mind?’

‘She’s mad, poor thing,’ said I, in my companion’s ear. ‘Let her have her way; do as she bids you.’

Sinking with terror, pale as death, and trembling all over, Louisa bent one knee upon the little rock beside the well, while the old hag took her fair hand within her own skinny fingers and plunged it rudely in the well.

‘There, drink,’ said the old woman, offering me the fair palm, through which the clear water was running rapidly, while she chanted rather than spoke the rude rhyme that follows —

The last words had scarcely been uttered when Louisa, who apparently had been too much overcome by terror to hear one word the hag had muttered, sprang up from the stone, her face and neck covered with a deep blush, her lip trembling with agitation, while her eyes were fixedly directed towards the old woman with an expression of haughty anger.

‘Ay, ye may look as proud as ye like. It’s little I mind ye, in love or in hate. Ye are well humbled enough now. And as for you,’ said she, turning towards me a look of scornful pity – ‘you, I wish ye joy of your fair sweetheart; let her only keep her troth like her own mother, and ye’ll have a happy heart to sit at your fireside with.’

The blood fled from Louisa’s cheek as these words were uttered; a deadly paleness spread over her features; her lips were bloodless and parted; and her hands firmly clenched together and pressed against her side, bespoke the agony of the moment. It lasted not longer; for she fell back fainting and insensible into my arms. I bathed her face and temples from the well; I called upon her, rubbed her hands within my own, and endeavoured by every means to arouse her; but in vain. I turned to beg for aid from the woman, but she was gone. I again endeavoured to awake Louisa from her stupor, but she lay cold, rigid, and motionless; her features had stiffened like a corpse, and showed no touch of life. I shouted aloud for aid; but, alas! we were far from all human habitations, and the wild cries of the curlew were the only sounds that met my ear, or the deep rushing of the sea, as it broke nearer and nearer to where I stood. A sudden pang of horror shot across me as I looked around and below, and saw no chance of aid from any quarter. Already the sun was below the horizon, and the grey twilight gave but gloomy indications all around. The sea, too, was coming fast; the foam had reached us, and even now the salt tide had mingled its water with the little spring. No more time was to be lost. A projecting point of rock intervened between us and the little path by which we had descended to the beach; over this the spray was now splashing, and its base was only to be seen at intervals between the advancing or retiring wave. A low, wailing sound, like distant wind, was creeping over the water, which from time to time was curled along the round-backed wave with all the threatening aspect of a coming storm; the sea-birds wheeled round in circles, waking the echoes with their wild notes, and the heavy swell of the breaking sea roared through many a rocky cavern with a sad and mournful melody. I threw one last look above, where the tall beetling cliff was lost in the gloom of coming night, another on the broad bleak ocean, and then, catching up my companion in my arms, set forward.

For the first few moments I felt not my burden. My beating heart throbbed proudly, and as I pressed her to my bosom, how I nerved myself for any coming danger by the thought that all the world to me lay in my arms! Every step, however, brought me farther out; the sea, which at first washed only to my ankles, now reached my knees; my step became unsteady, and when for an instant I turned one look on her who lay still and insensible within my grasp, I felt my head reel and my sight wander as I again looked out on the dark water that rolled around us. We were now near the rocky point which, once passed, placed us in safely; and to reach this I summoned up every effort. Around this the waves had worn a deeper track, and against its side they heat and lashed themselves to foam, which boiled in broad sheets around. A loud cheer from some one on the cliff above us turned my glance upwards, and I could see lights moving backwards and forwards through the darkness; before I could reply to the voice, however, a large wave came mantling near, gathering force as it approached, and swelling its gigantic mass so as to shut out all besides. I fixed myself firmly to resist the shock, and slightly bending, opposed my shoulder to the mighty roll of water that now towered like a wall above us. On it came, till its dark crest frowned above our heads; for a second or two it seemed to pause, as the white curl tipped its breaking edge, and then, with a roll like thunder, broke over us. For an instant I held my footing; at length, however, my step tottered; I felt myself lifted up, and then hurled headlong beneath the swollen volume of water that closed above my head. Stunned, but not senseless, I grasped my burden closer to my heart, and struggled to regain my footing. The wave passed inwards as I rose to my feet, and a sea of boiling foam hissed around me. Beyond, all was dim and indistinct; a brooding darkness stretched towards the sea, and landward the tall cliffs were wrapped in deep shadow, except when the light that I had seen flitted from place to place, like the dancing wildfire. A loud cheer from on high made me suppose that we were perceived; but my attention was turned away by a low, moaning sound that came floating over the water; and as I looked, I could see that the black surface swelled upwards, as if by some mighty force beneath, and rose towering into the air. The wave that now approached us was much greater than the former one, and came thundering on as if impatient for its prey. My fear was of being carried out to sea, and I looked hastily around for some rocky point to hold on by; but in vain. The very sands beneath me seemed moving and shifting; the voice of thunder was in my ears; my senses reeled, and the thought of death by drowning, with all its agony, came over me.

‘Oh, my father! my poor father!’ said a low, plaintive voice beside my cheek; and the next instant the blood rushed warm to my heart. My courage rallied; my arm grew nerved and strong; my footsteps seemed to grasp the very ground, and with a bold and daring spirit I waited for the coming shock. On it came, a mighty flood, sweeping high above us as we struggled in the midst. The blue water moved on, unbroken; for a moment or two I felt we were borne along with a whirlwind speed; then suddenly we touched the strand – but only for a second, for the returning wave came thundering back, and carried us along with it. My senses now began to wander; the dark and gloomy sea stretched around us; the stars seemed to flit to and fro; the roar of water and the sounds of human voices were mingled in my ears; my strength, too, was failing me, and I buffeted the waves with scarcely consciousness. Just at that moment, when, all dread of danger past, the gloomy indifference to life was fast succeeding, I saw a bright gleam of light flying rapidly across the water; the shouts of voices reached me also, but the words I heard not. Now falling beneath, now rising above the foamy surface, I struggled on, with only strength to press home closer to my bosom the form of her my heart was filled by, when of a sudden I felt my arm rudely grasped on either side. A rope, too, was thrown around my waist, and I was hurried inwards towards the shore amid cries of ‘All safe! all safe! not too fast, there!’ A dreary indistinctness of what followed even still haunts my mind. A huge wood-fire upon the beach, the figures of the fishermen, the country-people passing hither and thither, the tumult of voices, and a rude chair in which lay a pale, half-fainting form. The rest I know not.

It was dark – so dark I could not see the persons that moved beside me. As we passed along the grassy turf in silence, I held a soft hand in mine, and a fair cheek rested on my shoulder, while masses of long and dripping hair fell on my neck and bosom. Carried by two stout peasant-fishermen in a chair, Louisa Bellew, faint but conscious of the danger past, was borne homeward. I walked beside her, my heart too full for words. A loud, wild cheer burst suddenly forth, and a bright gleam of light aroused me from my trance of happiness. The steps were crowded with people, the large hall so full we scarce could force our way. The door of the parlour was now thrown open, and there sat the pale, gaunt figure of Sir Simon Bellew – his eyes staring wildly, and his lips parted; his hands resting on each arm of his chair – motionless.

Bursting from those that carried her, Louisa sprang towards her father with a cry; but ere she reached his arms he had fallen from his seat to his knees, and with his hands clasped above his head, and upturned eyes, poured forth a prayer to God. Sinking to his side, she twined her hands with his; and as if moved by the magic of the scene, the crowd fell to their knees, and joined in the thanksgiving. It was a moment of deep and touching feeling to hear the slow, scarce articulate words of that old man, who turned from the sight of her his heart treasured to thank the great Father of Mercy, who had not left him childless in his age – to mark the low sobs of those around, as they strove to stifle them, while tears coursed down the hard and weather-beaten cheeks of humble poverty, as they muttered to themselves their heartfelt thanks for her preservation. There was a pause; the old man turned his eyes upon his child, and, like a dammed-up torrent breaking forth, the warm tears gushed out, and with a cry of ‘My own – my only one!’ he fell upon her neck and wept.