when john penhale carried the gypsy girl into bosula, he thought she would be off again in a fortnight or a month at most. on the contrary she curled up as snug as a dormouse, apparently prepared to stay forever. at first she followed him wherever he went about the farm, but after a week she gave that up and remained at bosula absorbed in the preparation of food.
the number of really satisfying meals the girl teresa had had in her time could be counted on her fingers and toes, almost. life had been maintained by a crust here and a bone there. she was only half gypsy; her mother had been an itinerant herbalist, her father a basque bear-leader, and she was born at blyth fair. her twenty-two years had been spent on the highways, singing and dancing from tavern to tavern, harried by the law on one side and hunger on the other. she had no love for the open road; her feet were sore from trudging it and she knew it led nowhere but to starvation; her mother had died in a ditch and her father had been hanged. for years she had been waiting a chance to get out of the dust, and when john came along, knocked out the tumbler and jerked her a florin she saw that possible chance.
a sober farmer who tossed silver so freely should be a bachelor, she argued, and a man who could fight like that must have a good deal of the lusty animal about him. she knew the type, and of all men they were the easiest to handle. she followed up the clew hot foot, and now here she was in a land of plenty. she had no intention of leaving in a fortnight, a month, or ever, if she could help it, no desire to exchange three meat meals daily, smoking hot, for turnips; or a soft bed for the lee of a haystack. she would sit on the floor after supper, basking at the roaring hearth, her back propped against john’s knees, and listen to the drip of the eaves, the sough of the treetops, the echoed organ crashes of the sea, snuggle closer to the farmer and laugh.
when he asked her why she did that she shrugged her shoulders. but she laughed to think of what she was escaping, laughed to think that the tumbler was out in it. but for that flung florin and the pricking of her thumbs she would have been out in it too, crouched under a hedge, maybe, soaked and shivering. penhale need have had no fears she would leave him; on the contrary she was afraid he would tire of her, and strove by every means to bind him to her irrevocably. she practiced all her wiles on john, ran to him when he came in, fondled and kissed him, rubbed her head on his shoulder, swore he didn’t care for her, pretended to cry, any excuse to get taken in his arms; once there she had him in her power. the quarter strain of gitano came uppermost then, the blood of generations of ardent southern women, professional charmers all, raced in her veins and prompted her, showed her how and when. it was all instinctive and quite irresistible; the simple northern yeoman was a clod in her hands.
martha had found teresa some drugget clothes, rummaging in chests that lay, under the dust of twenty years, in the neglected west wing—oak chests and mahogany with curious iron clasps and hinges, the spoil of a score of foundered ships. teresa had been close behind the woman when the selection was made and she had glimpsed many things that were not drugget. when she gave up following john abroad she took to spending most of her time, between meals, in the west wing, bolting the doors behind her so that martha could not see what she was doing.
john was lurching home down the valley one autumn evening, when, as he neared bosula, he heard singing and the tinkling of melodious wires. there was a small grove of ashes close ahead, encircling an open patch of ground supposed to be a fairy ring, in may a purple pool of bluebells, but then carpeted with russet and yellow leaves. he stepped nearer, peered round an oak bole and saw a sight which made him stagger and swear himself bewitched. there was a marvelous lady dancing in the circlet, and as she danced she sang, twanging an accompaniment on a little guitar.
“then, lovely boy, bring hither
the chaplet, e’er it wither,
steep’d in the various juices
the cluster’d vine produces;
the cluster’d vine produces.”
she was dressed in a straight-laced bodice stitched with silver and low cut, leaving her shoulders bare; flowing daffodil sleeves caught up at the elbows and a cream-colored skirt sprigged with blue flowers and propped out at the hips on monstrous farthingales. on her head she wore a lace fan-tail—but her feet were bare. she swept round and round in a circle, very slow and stately, swaying, turning, curtseying to the solemn audience of trees.
“so mix’t with sweet and sour,
life’s not unlike the flower;
its sweets unpluck’d will languish,
and gather’d ’tis with anguish;
and gather’d ’tis with anguish.”
the glare of sunset shot through gaps in the wood in quivering golden shafts, fell on the smooth trunks of the ashes transforming them into pillars of gold. in this dazzle of gold the primrose lady danced, in and out of the beams, now glimmering, now in hazy and delicate shadow. a puff of wind shook a shower of pale leaves upon her, they drifted about her like confetti, her bare feet rustled among them, softly, softly.
“this, round my moisten’d tresses,
the use of life expresses:
wine blunts the thorn of sorrow,
our rose may fade to-morrow:
our rose—may—fade—to-morrow.”
the sun went down behind the hill; twilight, powder-blue, swept through the wood, quenching the symphony in yellows. the lady made a final fritter of strings, bowed to the biggest ash and faded among the trees, towards bosula. john clung to his oak, stupefied. despite his grammar school education he half believed in the crone’s stories of pixies and “the old men,” and if this was not a supernatural being what was it? a fine lady dancing in bosula woods at sundown—and in the fairy circle too! if not a sprite where did she come from? there was not her match in the parish, or hundred even. he did not like it at all. he would go home by circling over the hill. he hesitated. that was a long detour, he was tired and his own orchard was not a furlong distant. his common sense returned. damme! he would push straight home, he was big and strong enough whatever betide. he walked boldly through the woods, whistling away his fears, snapping twigs beneath his boots.
he came to a dense clump of hollies at the edge of the orchard and heard the tinkle-tinkle again, right in front of him. he froze solid and stared ahead. it was thick dusk among the bushes; he could see nothing. tinkle-tinkle—from the right this time. he turned slowly, his flesh prickling. nothing. a faint rustle of leaves behind his back and the tinkle of music once more. john began to sweat. he was pixie-led for certain—and only fifty yards from his own door. if one listened to this sort of thing one was presently charmed and lost forever, he had heard. he would make a dash for it. he burst desperately through the hollies and saw the primrose lady standing directly in front of him on the orchard fringe. he stopped. she curtsied low.
“oh, jan, jan,” she laughed. “jan, come here and kiss me.”
“teresa!”
she pressed close against him and held up her full, tempting mouth. he kissed her over and over.
“where did you get these—these clothes?” he asked.
“out of the old chests,” said she. “you like me thus? . . . love me?”
for answer he hugged her to him and they went on into the kitchen linked arm in arm. martha in her astonishment let the cauldron spill all over the floor and the idiot daughter threw a fit.
the drugget dress disappeared after that. teresa rifled the chests and got some marvelous results. the chests held the hoardings of a century, samples of every fashion, washed in from wrecks on the twelve apostles, wardrobes of officers’ mistresses bound for the garrison at tangier, of proud ladies that went down with indiamen, packet ships, and vessels sailing for the virginia colony. jackdaw pickings that generations of penhale women had been too modest to wear and too feminine to part with. gowns, under gowns, bodices, smocks and stomachers of silk, taffeta, sarsenet and satin of all hues and shapes, quilted, brocaded, embroidered, pleated, scalloped and slashed; cambric and holland ruffs, collars, bands, kerchiefs and lappets; scarves, trifles of lace pointed and godrooned; odd gloves of cordovan leather, heavily fringed; vamped single shoes, red heeled; ribbons; knots; spangled garters; feathers and fans.
the clothes were torn and faded in patches, eaten by moth, soiled and rusted by salt water, but teresa cared little; they were treasure-trove to her, the starveling. she put them all on in turn (as the penhale wives had done before her—but in secret) without regard to fit, appropriateness or period and with the delight of a child dressing up for a masquerade. she dressed herself differently every evening—even wearing articles with showy linings inside out—aiming only at a blaze of color and spending hours in the selection.
the management of the house she left entirely to martha, which was wise enough, seeing she knew nothing of houses. john coming in of an evening never knew what was in store for him; it gave life an added savour. he approached adam and eve, his heart a-flutter—what would she be like this time?—opened the low door and stepped within. and there she would be, standing before the hearth waiting for him, mischievous and radiant, brass earrings winking, a knot of ribbons in her raven curls, dressed in scarlet, cream, purple or blue, cloth of gold or silver lace—all worn and torn if you came to examine closely, but, in the leaping firelight, gorgeous.
sometimes she would spend the evening wooing him, sidling into his arms, rubbing with her cheek and purring in her cat fashion; and sometimes she would take her guitar and, sitting cross-legged before the hearth, sing the songs by which she had made her living. pretty, innocent twitters for the most part, laments to cruel chloes, phyllises and celias in which despairing colins and strephons sang of their broken hearts in tripping, tuneful measures; morris and country airs she gave also and patriotic staves—
???“tho’ the spaniards invade
????our int’rest and trade
and often our merchant-men plunder,
????give us but command
????their force to withstand,
we’ll soon make the slaves truckle under.”
such stuff stirred john. as the lyrics lulled him, he would inflate his chest and tap his toe on the flags in time with the tune, very manful.
all this heady stuff intoxicated the recluse. he felt a spell on the place, could scarcely believe it was the same dark kitchen in which he had sat alone for seventeen years, listening to the stream, the rain and the wind. it was like living in a droll-teller’s story where charcoal burners fell asleep on enchanted barrows and woke in fairy-land or immortals put on mortal flesh and sojourned in the homes of men. reared on superstition among a race that placed balls on their roofs and hung rags about holy wells to keep off witches, he almost smelt magic now. at times he wondered if this strange creature he had met on the high moors under the moon were what she held to be, if one day she would not get a summons back to her own people, the earth gape open for her and he would be alone again. there had been an authentic case in zennor parish; his own grandmother had seen the forsaken husband. he would glance at teresa half fearfully, see her squatting before the blaze, lozenges of white skin showing through the rips in her finery, strong fingers plucking the guitar strings, round throat swelling as she sang—
“i saw fair clara walk alone;
the feathered snow came softly down . . .”
—and scout his suspicions. she was human enough—and even if she were not, sufficient for the day. . . .
as for the girl, with the unstinted feeding, she put on flesh and good looks. her bones and angles disappeared, her figure took on bountiful curves, her mouth lost its defiant pout. she had more than even she wanted to eat, a warm bed, plenty of colorful kickshaws and a lover who fell prostrate before her easiest artifices. she was content—or very nearly so. one thing remained and that was to put this idyllic state of affairs on a permanent basis. that accomplished, her cup of happiness would brim, she told herself. how to do it? she fancied it was more than half done already and that, unless she read him wrong, she would presently have such a grip on the farmer he would never throw her off. by january she was sure of herself and laid her cards on the table.
according to her surmise john took her forthwith into st. gwithian, a-pillion on the bay mare, and married her, and on the third of july a boy was born. it was a great day at bosula; all the employees, including martha, got blind drunk, while john spent a delightful afternoon laboriously scratching a letter to carveth donnithorne apprising him of the happy event.
upstairs, undisturbed by the professional chatter of wise women, teresa lay quietly sleeping, a fluffy small head in the crook of her arm, a tired smile on her lips—she was in out of the rain for good.
it is to be presumed that in the donnithorne vault of cury church the dust of old selina at length lay quiet—the penhales would go on and on.
