The Countess of Bellarmine

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　From Noughts and Crosses: Stories, Studies and Sketches.

　　Few rivers in England are without their "Lovers' Leap"; but thetradition of this one is singular, I believe. It overhangs a darkpool, midway down a west country valley--a sheer escarpment ofgranite, its lip lying but a stone's throw from the high-road, thathere finds its descent broken by a stiff knoll, over which it risesand topples again like a wave.I had drawn two shining peel out of the pool, and sat eating my lunchon the edge of the Leap, with my back to the road. Forty feetbeneath me the water lay black and glossy, behind the dotted foliageof a birch-tree. My rod stuck upright from the turf at my elbow,and, whenever I turned my head, neatly bisected the countenance andupper half of Seth Truscott, an indigenous gentleman of miscellaneoushabits and a predatory past, who had followed me that morning tocarry the landing-net.It was he who, after lunch, imparted the story of the rock on whichwe sat; and as it seemed at the time to gain somewhat by the telling,I will not risk defacing it by meddling with his dialect.

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　　"I reckon, sir," he began, with an upward nod at a belt of larches,the fringe of a great estate, that closed the view at the head of thevale, "you'm too young to mind th' ould Earl o' Bellarmine, thatowned Castle Cannick, up yonder, in my growin' days. 'Ould Wounds'he was nick-named--a cribbage-faced, what-the-blazes kind o' varmint,wi' a gossan wig an' a tongue like oil o' vitriol. He'd a-led thefore-half o' his life, I b'lieve, in London church-town, by reasonthat he an' his father couldn' be left in a room together wi'outcomin' to fisticuffs: an' by all accounts was fashion's favourite inthe naughty city, doin' his duty in that state o' life an' playingHamlet's ghost among the Ten Commandments."The upshot was that he killed a young gentleman over a game o'whist, an' that was too much even for the Londoners. So he packed upand sailed for furrin' parts, an' didn' show his face in England tillth' ould man, his father, was took wi' a seizure an' went dead, bein'palsied down half his face, but workin' away to the end at the mostlift-your-hair wickedness wi' the sound side of his mouth."Then the new Earl turned up an' settled at Castle Cannick. He was awifeless man, an', by the look o't, had given up all wish to coax thefemale eye: for he dressed no better'n a jockey, an' all hisdiversion was to ride in to Tregarrick Market o' Saturdays, an' hanground the doorway o' the Pack-Horse Inn, by A. Walters, and glower atthe men an' women passin' up and down the Fore Street, an' standdrinkin' brandy an' water while the horse-jockeys there my-lord'ed'en. Two an' twenty glasses, they say, was his quantum' between noonan' nine o'clock; an' then he'd climb into saddle an' ride home tohis jewelled four-poster, cursin' an' mutterin', but sittin' his marelike a man of iron."But one o' these fine market-days he did a thing that filled themouths o' the country-side."He was loafin' by the Pack-Horse door, just as usual, at twoo'clock, rappin' the head o' his crop on the side o' his ridin'boots, drawin' his brows down an' lookin' out curses from under 'emacross the street to the saddler's opposite, when two drover-chapscame up the pavement wi' a woman atween 'em."The woman--or maid, to call her by her proper title--was adark-browed slut, wi' eyes like sloes, an' hair dragged over her facetill she looked like an owl in an ivy-bush. As for the gown o' her,'twas no better'n a sack tied round the middle, wi' a brave piecetorn away by the shoulder, where one o' the men had clawed her."There was a pretty dido goin' on atween the dree, an' all talkin'together--the two men mobbin' each other, an' the girl i' the middlecallin' em every name but what they was chris'ened, wi'outdistinction o' persons, as the word goes."'What's the uproar?' asks Ould Wounds, stoppin' the tap-tap o' hiscrop, as they comes up."'The woman b'longs to me,' says the first. 'I've engaged to makeher my lawful wife; an' I won't go from my word under two gallon o'fourpenny.'"'You agreed to hand her over for one gallon, first along,' sayst'other,' an' a bargain's a bargain.'"Says the woman, 'You're a pair o' hair-splitting shammicks, the pairof 'ee. An' how much beer be I to have for my weddin' portion?'(says she)--'for that's all I care about, one way or t'other.'"Now Ould Wounds looked at the woman; an' 'tis to be thought he foundher eyeable, for he axed up sharp--"'Would 'ee kick over these two, an' marry me, for a bottle o' gin?'"'That would I.'"'An' to be called My Lady--Countess o' Bellarmine?'"'Better an' better.'"'I shall whack 'ee.'"'I don't care.'"'I shall kick an' cuff an' flog 'ee like a span'el dog,' says he:'by my body! I shall make 'ee repent.'"'Give 'ee leave to try,' says she."An' that's how th' Earl o' Bellarmine courted his wife. He took herinto the bar an' treated her to a bottle o' gin on the spot. At nineo'clock that evenin' she tuk hold of his stirrup-leather an' walkedbeside 'en, afoot, up to Castle Cannick. Next day, their banns wereaxed in church, an' in dree weeks she was My Ladyship."'Twas a battle-royal that began then. Ould Wounds dressed the womanup to the nines, an' forced all the bettermost folk i' the county topay their calls an' treat her like one o' the blood; and then, whenthe proud guests stepped into their chariots an' druv away, he'd fallto, an' lick her across the shoulders wi' his ridin'-whip, to breakher sperrit. 'Twas the happiest while o' th' ould curmudgeon's life,I do b'lieve; for he'd found summat he cudn' tame in a hurry.There was a noble pond afore the house, i' those days, wi' urns an'heathen gods around the brim, an' twice he dragged her through it inher night-gown, I've heerd, an' always dined wi' a pistol laid by hisplate, alongside the knives an' prongs, to scare her. But not she!"An' next he tried to burn her in her bed: an' that wasn' no good."An' last of all he fell i' love wi' her: an' that broke her."

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　　"One day--the tale goes--she made up her mind an' ordered a shay an'pair from the Pack-Horse. The postillion was to be waitin' by thegate o' the deer-park--the only gate that hadn't a lodge to it--atten o'clock that night. 'Twas past nine afore dinner was done, an'she got up from her end o' the table an' walked across to kiss th'ould fellow. He, 'pon his side, smiled on her, pleased as Punch; for'twas little inore'n a fortni't since he'd discovered she was theyapple of his eye. She said 'Good night' an' went up-stairs to packa few things in a bag, he openin' the door and shuttin' it upon her.Then he outs wi' his watch, waits a couple o' minutes, an' slips outo' the house."At five minutes to ten comes my ladyship, glidin' over the shortturf o' the deer-park, an' glancin' over her shoulder at thelight in his lordship's libery window. 'Twas burnin' in truewatch-an'-fear-nothin' style, an' there, by the gate, was the shayand horses, and postillion, wrapped up and flapping his arms forwarmth, who touched his cap and put down the steps for her."'Drive through Tregarrick,' says she, 'an' don't spare whip-cord.'"Slam went the door, up climbed the postillion, an' away they wentlike a house afire. There was half-a-moon up an' a hoar frostgatherin', an' my lady, lean in' back on the cushions, could see thehead and shoulders of the postillion bob-bobbing, till it seemed hishead must work loose and tumble out of his collar."The road they took, sir, is the same that runs down the valley aforeour very eyes. An' 'pon the brow o't, just when it comes in sight,the off horse turned restive. In a minute 'twas as much as thepost-boy could ha' done to hold 'en. But he didn' try.Instead, he fell to floggin' harder, workin' his arm up an' down likea steam-engin'."'What the jiminy are 'ee doin?' calls out her ladyship--or words tothat effec'--clutchin' at the side o' the shay, an' tryin' to stiddyhersel'."'I thought I wasn' to spare whip-cord,' calls back the post-boy."An' with that he turned i' the saddle; an' 'twas the face o' her ownwedded husband, as ghastly white as if 't burned a'ready i' theunderground fires."Seem' it, her joints were loosed, an' she sat back white as he; an'down over the hill they swung at a breakneck gallop, shay lurchin'and stones flyin'."About thirty yards from where we'm sittin', sir, Ould Wounds caughtthe near rein twice round his wrist an lean't back, slowly pullin'it, till his face was slewed round over his left shoulder an'grinnin' in my lady's face."An' that was the last look that passed atween 'em. For now feelingthe wheels on grass and the end near, he loosed the rein and fetchedthe horse he rode a cut atween the ears--an' that's how 'twas,"concluded Seth, lamely.Like most inferior narrators, he shied at the big fence, flinchedbefore the climax. But as he ended, I flung a short glance downwardat the birches and black water, and took up my rod again with ashiver.

　　THE END.