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Title: A noble sacrifice
Author: Emily Grace Harding
Illustrator: T Eyre Macklin
Release date: November 13, 2025 [eBook #77224]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Walter Scott, Ltd, 1897
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NOBLE SACRIFICE ***
[Frontispiece: "SHE STOOD SPELLBOUND ON THE THRESHOLD AT THE SIGHT OF
LADY BRYN UPON ON HER KNEES UPON THE FLOOR."--P. 254.]
A NOBLE SACRIFICE
BY
EMILY GRACE HARDING,
AUTHOR OF
"A MOUNTAIN DAISY," "HAZEL; OR, PERILPOINT LIGHTHOUSE,"
ETC., ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY T. EYRE MACKLIN.
_THIRTY-EIGHTH THOUSAND._
LONDON:
WALTER SCOTT, LTD., PATERNOSTER SQUARE.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
1. THE GIPSY'S WARNING
2. LITTLE MISS PRIMROSE
3. THE STAR IN THE EAST
4. THE EARL'S VISIT
5. A MYSTERIOUS JOURNEY
6. WITHIN THE CASTLE
7. SHADOWS
8. FORTUNE-TELLING
9. SIR GALAHAD
10. THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.
11. A NEW NAME
12. A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD
13. SIR GALAHAD'S MISSION
14. THE LEGEND OF THE POOL
15. THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE.
16. THE CHAPLAIN'S VISION
17. THE VISION EMBODIED
18. THE GIPSY'S HAUNT
19. MASTER VERE'S CONFESSION
20. THE WORLD ONCE MORE
21. A LONG-DREADED SUMMONS
22. A MOTHER'S STORY
23. PERCIVAL'S PRIVILEGE
24. THE PHYSICIAN'S DISCOVERY
25. A NEW REVELATION
26. THE "LILY" AND THE "PRIMROSE"
27. BEFORE THE WEDDING
28. THE GIPSY'S TALE
29. LADY SHANNO'S VOW
30. RENUNCIATION
31. AMONG THE MOUNTAINS
32. THE RIVER-SPRINGS
33. THE WEDDING-DAY
34. A DEATH-BED
35. THE BOATMAN'S REFUSAL
36. THE CURSE UNDONE
37. FETTERS OF GOLD
38. MASTER TAYLOR AT CRAIG ARTHUR
39. THE WARNING FULFILLED
40. REUNION
A NOBLE SACRIFICE.
CHAPTER I.
THE GIPSY'S WARNING.
"All within is dark as night;
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.
Come away: no more of mirth
Is here or merry-making sound.
The house was builded of the earth,
And shall fall again to ground!"
--TENNYSON.
"'Tis many a year since the River Spirit hath burst his bonds, and
thus run riot in the valley!" soliloquised Jack the boatman, pausing
in his task of re-soling a much-worn shoe, to look out, from the tiny
window of his workshop, upon the brawling river below, which, swollen
by the winter rains to a roaring, foaming current, dashed angrily
past the little dwelling close upon its banks, threatening to sweep
it bodily away in its fury, while through the valley the wind howled
a melancholy accompaniment to the noisy music of the waters, and
moaned, like a human being in pain, in the dark woods beyond.
"It will verily be well an my bridge should prove itself equal to so
fierce a foe!" continued Jack, leaning his elbows on the window-sill,
and gazing out into the blackness, in which the frail hand-bridge,
stretched across the river, just showed itself, like a streak of
white light, in the surrounding gloom.
Jack was proud of the bridge, for it was his own. The thought of
building a bridge over the river had been his own original thought;
the device of the bridge had been his own original device, and the
money required for its erection had come solely out of his own
pocket, advanced for the public good, with no hope of its return till
after the lapse of many years, when the penny toll levied upon every
crosser should have realised the outlay. The bridge might not be
built upon very scientific principles, but in spite of many a laugh
at Jack's expense, and many a prophecy from some wise passer-by, that
it would last as many nights as days, it had already borne three
years' wear, and at least one good winter-flood before this
particular night with which we have to do. But this night's flood
was a different thing to that of two years back; indeed the
country-folk had said, as they had crossed the bridge to market on
Saturday morning, that never in their memory had the river risen so
high. And though Jack wore a cheerful countenance as he took his
toll, and assured each one that his bridge was good for sixty years,
deep down in his heart there lurked a secret fear each night, as he
lay down to sleep, that he might wake to find it had been carried
away while he slept; but since market-day three days had gone by, and
still the bridge hung bravely over the roaring stream.
Jack's little home was a noisy one at this flood-time, built, as it
was, so close upon the water's edge, that the roar of the river,
foaming and dashing over its rocky bed, was like constant thunder in
his ear. But he lived all alone, and, as he said, "did not want to
hear himself speak," so the noise did not matter. He could ply his
shoemaking trade, which he took up between times, when boating was
slack, and fishing out of season, just as well with a roar of water
in his ear as without. Moreover, he did not know but that "a bit of
a noise was company." His mind was, however, a little perturbed
to-night; there was something uncanny to his ear in the wild
whistling of the wind, and he could not settle to his work as calmly
as usual. In fact, he had a superstitious fit upon him, and felt
nervous, though he would on no account acknowledge it, even to
himself.
In order to explain the reason of this unwonted condition of his
usually well-regulated mind, we must go back some few hours, and
relate the events of the morning. At his dinner-hour Jack had gone
with a bundle of mended boots and shoes to the village, by which name
were dignified the dozen or so of thatched and whitewashed cottages,
clustered under the brow of Bryn Afon, the old Castle Hill, which
loomed above the river and the tiny workshop. Though well content to
spend his working hours and solitary nights in his own lonely
dwelling, Jack was by no means averse to spending his meal-time hours
amongst his neighbours, either discussing political matters with John
Jones over the counter of the little shop which undertook to provide
the village with the common necessaries of life--each wrapped gratis
in the leaves of the most scurrilous and Puritanical of the little
grocer's chapel sermons--or speculating with a group of ever-curious
and never-satisfied spirits upon the nature of the mysterious curse
said to hang over the half-ruined castle on the hill. Perhaps the
dreary, monotonous roar of the wind and the waters, and the wild
weather generally, had touched a chord of romance in the rough hearts
of the villagers on this particular morning, for their converse
seemed unable to take any more cheerful and healthy tone than that of
the mysterious fortunes of the Bryn Afon family--at no time anything
but a depressing subject. "Times back it was a good old family, and
as well-kept a place as you could wish to see," said Evans the
miller. "So when I was a boy I was wont to hear my old grandfather
tell; not that it was so in his time whatever, but his
great-grandfather could mind the good old days well enough." "And
that reckoning brings us back to a matter of some three hundred years
ago," remarked Master Jones reflectively; "for your family, Master
Evans, has been a long-lived one these many generations. It would
seem verily that the house were haunted, from the curious sounds that
have been heard from within, and from the unwillingness of the family
to reside therein for the space of more than three or four days
together."
"There is no saying," said the Widow Griffiths, pausing in her task
of choosing calico for her Dame School children, to shake her head
ominously, and add in mysterious tones: "I call to mind the last time
I saw the late lord ride by, as I stood at my school-door at the
Three Cross Roads--a matter of six years ago--and never a word of him
since, save only the passing-bell a few weeks after." "And he a
great favourite of King James, whatever," said the miller; "a fine
man, verily, to look upon, and as good a friend of our king as any
noble gentleman in Wales." "The love of the king stood him not in
much good stead," said Master Jones with a Puritanical sneer, "since
forsooth he must needs go the way of all his forbears, and die ere he
had reached the age of fifty, with the same cloud of mystery hanging
over his death-bed! Who knows but that the young man, his son, may
not likewise be dead ere now? It is long since we have known him to
be at the castle." "He may perchance be there now, for all we know!"
said his wife, glancing half askance up the steep greensward; "for
who has ever known when the lords of Bryn Afon have come and gone,
save for those shriekings and wailings ever heard while they are
within yon walls?" "And those times when the shriekings and wailings
were at their worst were ever quickly followed by the master's
death," said Dame Griffiths. "Verily the curse hangeth heavily, and
I for one marvel not that the young lord remains away."
"The last time I saw him," said Jack the boatman, who had listened
without speaking, "was seven years gone by, when he tarried some long
while at the castle, and was wont to spend many an hour with me,
salmon-fishing. A light-hearted young man, with pretty, fair-spoken
ways, and many a story to tell of the ways of the Court, and the
fondness the king had for his father. How my little girl used to
listen, and prick up her ears at the fine tales!" "It had been
better for her," said Master Jones, "as I said in my discourse at the
chapel after her untimely decease, that she had shown less vain
curiosity about the ways of this wicked world. For what was it but
an idle curiosity that led her into the subterranean passage, where
her end overtook her as a thief in the night?" "Peace, prithee, good
neighbours," said Jack wearily; "the child is in another world, where
it may be her fault will not be too harshly judged. But I would fain
see the curse removed, and the lords of Bryn Afon dwelling among
their people, and ruling them for their good, as surely our betters
were meant to do. Will it ever be taken away, think you?"
The usual ominous silence and shaking of heads followed this
oft-repeated query, but this time the silence was broken by a hoarse
voice, muttering in deep, harsh tones, "Will the curse ever be taken
away from the hill, say you? Ay, when the boatman's bridge cracks
across the middle, and the primrose and the lily float together down
the stream! But the curse hath already set the castle walls
a-crumbling, and they shall crumble till the end of time!"
Close at Jack the boatman's ear was the voice which spake the
mysterious prophecy; and as in anger he turned, to deny the
possibility of any such fate being in store for his beloved bridge,
he encountered the wild glance of a dark-faced gipsy-woman, whose
sudden appearance at the open doorway had already caused the
women-gossips to beat a hasty retreat into the farther corner of the
shop. "My bridge will stand these hundred years, woman!" he
exclaimed indignantly. "It was for a blessing to my neighbours that
I built it, and a blessing it shall stand, long after you and I are
laid in our graves!"
The old hag laughed harshly; and Mistress Griffiths, laying a
persuasive hand on Jack's arm, said entreatingly, "Ah, Jack, thou art
never the man to wish aught to stand in the way of taking off the
awful curse! Let the bridge break to-night and willing, if the
castle curse should go with it!" Jack laughed a sorrowful laugh.
"The woman is a witch," he said impatiently, "and her talk has no
more meaning than the screaming wind." "Eh!" said the gipsy; and
placing her lean hand on his arm, and peering into his face with her
coal-black eyes, she chanted in a monotonous tone--
"The curse shall not fall from the castle
Till the last heir lies in the grave;
And the grave shall lie deep in the river,
Wherein sleep the fair and the brave."
"_My_ bridge shall never be the death of the last heir!" muttered
Jack savagely, while his friends, in breathless silence, pressed
closer to the gipsy. She went on with uplifted finger--
"The bridge shall be broken asunder,
Shall sink in the raging deep;
And in the dark waters together
The primrose and lily shall sleep."
While her listeners were looking at each other with awe-struck faces,
the gipsy was gone as suddenly as she had come. No one followed her;
the women were too frightened; the men laughed, and declared that it
was not worth while. But when they had sufficiently recovered from
their surprise to fall into an animated discussion upon her and her
rude rhymes, they heard her voice again, singing hoarsely in the
distance--
"Together they'll float down the rushing river;
In Heaven be one for ever and ever."
"What can she mean, the old witch?" asked Mistress Evans, the
miller's wife, in a frightened whisper. "What does a gipsy ever
mean, good mistress?" exclaimed the boatman impatiently. "Had I my
will, she should verily have long ere now been put in the stocks."
And thoroughly out of temper on behalf of his bridge, he went home,
and betook himself in somewhat savage mood to his shoemaking, driving
in nails with vicious industry.
CHAPTER II.
LITTLE MISS PRIMROSE.
"A night so dark,
I could have scarce conjectured there was earth
Anywhere, sky or sea or world at all."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
During the afternoon, Master Pryce the postman, passing the boatman's
cottage on his weekly round, dropped in, as was his wont, for a chat,
and over an animated discussion upon the affairs of their king and
country Jack forgot his ill-humour, as well as the old gipsy and her
evil prognostications, and waxed warm on the subject of Puritanism
and the Prayer Book, which book Master Jones had denounced in chapel
on the previous Sunday, as "meet fuel for the flame;" a "wicked and
blasphemous opinion," said loyal Jack, "which merited nothing less
than the stocks or the pillory."
But though in his outward bearing Jack professed the profoundest
contempt for the old woman's malice, her words returned so forcibly
to his mind, after darkness had set in and he was left alone, that he
went out in the driving rain and wind, and walked slowly three or
four times over his bridge, stamping well with his feet as he went,
and leaning heavily upon its slender railings, to assure himself that
all was in good repair. And as he felt it swaying beneath him in the
gale, he murmured to himself: "'Tis ever the best workmanship that
will bend and not break!" And now, but for a feeling of nameless
mystery in the air and vague nervousness in his own system, Jack felt
tolerably comfortable again. "Nerves," said he to himself, as he
looked out from his casement to the dark woods beyond the river,
"nerves are curious things indeed--wonderful things at times! Once
set them jarring, and in sooth they are as hard to tune up again as
my old cracked fiddle. Come, Jack, my man, it was never thy wont to
possess nerves, and it is no old vagrant gipsy as shall show you the
meaning of them. Indeed you must pull yourself together, and be a
man, whatever!--That's no wind though!" he exclaimed, suddenly
throwing down the letter Pryce the postman had brought him; "no, nor
a shriek from the castle neither. 'Twas a child's cry, as sure as
I'm a loyal churchman!--and no upholder of schism, like John Jones,"
he added with whispered energy. And hurrying out, he groped his way
to the river brink, and listened. The cry was repeated, and
apparently came from the other side of the river--a little wailing
cry, as of a child in pain. Jack's blood ran cold, as he set foot on
the bridge, and slowly felt his way across in the thick darkness, and
he could not help thinking of the gipsy's ill-omened words as,
passing over the swollen stream, he felt the light bridge swaying in
the wind. He passed on quickly, but was suddenly brought to a
standstill by the sight of a woman's figure gliding across from the
opposite bank to meet him, a figure so darkly clad, that its black
robes were only just discernible in the deep gloom of the night. It
drew near, and he dimly saw the white face of a woman raised to his,
and felt, before he had time to utter a word, a soft bundle placed in
his arms--a bundle of shawls and wrappings, within which he felt the
form of a little child. "Take it across for me," the woman said
imploringly; "we have struggled long enough in the storm! Take my
baby across the river, and the blessing of Heaven shall be with you!"
"All right, good mistress," said Jack cheerily, trying in vain to
distinguish the woman's features in the black darkness; "'tis a wild
night, surely, for you to be out with the little one. I have the
babe safe in my arms; prithee follow me, and I will verily soon have
you both in as good a shelter as Jack the boatman can offer." And
cradling his little burden softly in his arms, Jack turned, and
strode back across the quivering bridge towards home, now and then
addressing a word of encouragement to the woman behind him. The
noise of the wind and water drowned the sound of her footsteps, and
it was not till the bridge was crossed, and he had set foot on the
grassy bank, that, to his amazement, he perceived she was not
following him. He gazed back across the bridge, through the
darkness, but no figure was visible, and clasping the child closer to
him, to shelter it from the driving rain, he quickly retraced his
steps to the opposite bank, looking carefully, as he went, into the
raging water below him, on either side, with a dread lest he should
discern some portion of the woman's dress tossing to and fro on the
surface, to tell him that she had flung herself into the torrent,
while he had walked on with the child. "No, I should have heard
that," he said to himself; "the wind kept me from hearing her
footsteps, but I should surely have heard that. No, she must verily
have run back into the woods, as soon as I stepped onwards with the
babe, and where will I find her, whatever?" There was no building on
the other side of the river into which she could have fled for a
hiding-place, and the narrow white road, which led away from the
river to the woods, revealed nothing to Jack's searching eye. The
darkness was so great that he could see very little but its dim white
outline, and it would have been very easy for a fleet foot to speed
along to the woods, or find a hiding-place under the thick
hedge-rows. "I should surely have turned and kept an eye upon her,"
he said; "but I made no doubt that she was following. What will I
do, indeed? It is but little gain to search for any one in this
darkness, let alone a woman dressed up as black as the night itself,
and the child will be perishing of cold. Whisht, then, my pretty, I
will even shout aloud once for her; an she will not answer me, I'll
take thee home. Hallo, mistress!" and Jack's stentorian voice rang
out manfully above the torrent's roar. But no response came to his
listening ear; nothing but the shrieking of the wind in the distant
woods, and the creaking of the branches of the old oaks in the lane.
So slowly and reluctantly he turned back, and once more crossed the
bridge to his own home, where, gently removing the shawls which
enwrapped the sleeping child, he found, safe and warm beneath her
many coverings, a little golden-haired girl, apparently between two
and three years old, who, as he gazed in speechless bewilderment upon
her, slowly opened her large dark-grey eyes, fringed with wonderful
lashes, and returned his gaze steadfastly. "This is no vagrant's
child," said Jack, aloud, with a long, low whistle. "Bless thy
little heart, my pretty, thou art as fair as a summer flower!" And
he heaved a deep sigh, as he took up the golden curls and twined them
lovingly between his fingers. The child's face was delicately fair,
only the faintest rose colour tinging the white cheeks, upon which
the long eyelashes, many shades darker than the bright hair, swept in
striking contrast. The little creature struggled up, as Jack looked
down at her, and as she shook herself free from the wrappings which
fettered her little limbs, he saw that her white dress was of the
finest texture, and trimmed with the most exquisite embroidery.
"Poor little maiden," he said, "it is clear thou art never fit to be
daughter of Jack the boatman, though it would verily seem that the
Lord hath sent thee to take the place of the little one I was wont to
hold on my knee more than twenty long years ago. What is your name,
my pretty?" "Little Miss Primrose," answered the child promptly, in
lisping baby tones, sweet as music to Jack's ear. "Who are you?"
"Dad," answered Jack with equal promptitude, thinking that to inspire
the baby with the immediate confidence of a daughter was the surest
way to make her feel at home in her strange surroundings, and perhaps
obviate the inevitable roar for "Mother," which he feared must be
impending. But Little Miss Primrose, after repeating to herself,
"Dad, dad," in a questioning whisper for a few moments, while her big
grey eyes scanned Jack's face with close scrutiny, apparently made up
her mind that he spoke the truth and might be trusted, for suddenly
scrambling to her feet, she stood on his knee, put her tiny white
arms round his neck, and kissed him. Jack gave a half sob, for the
soft touch of the baby arms and lips brought back a flood of tender
memories, now alas, mingled with deep sadness. He began his paternal
duties at once by making her some bread-and-milk, and having fed her
with it, put her to bed as comfortably as circumstances would allow.
"'Tis a rough crib for you to-night, my pretty," he said
apologetically; "but I'll knock up a new little cot for you on the
morrow, and you shall live like a princess. My mind misgives me,
that woman--mother or no mother--will scarce be fetching you away yet
a while. I would I had thought to look round for her more speedily,
but who would have so mistrusted a woman! Ah, what is this?" For as
he folded up the little embroidered frock, he discovered a piece of
paper sewn to the waistband, and hastily cutting it off, and bringing
it to the light, he read: "One who knows Jack the boatman to be an
honest and true man commits to him the care of her child, in perfect
trust that he will be to her a faithful and loving guardian, until
such time as she is claimed by an unhappy mother. Let him not seek
to know of her birth or parentage, but treat her as a daughter, for
which love and kindness shown to her he shall receive a full reward.
Two charges only are laid upon him concerning her--firstly, that she
shall never be permitted to taste strong drink, nor to witness, in so
far as it may be prevented, its dire effect upon others; and
secondly, that she shall not be suffered to venture within a stone's
throw of the Castle on the Hill, lest its dread curse fall upon her.
This mercy is prayed for at the hands of Jack the boatman by one who
claims to be a kinswoman."
After reading this strange appeal to his faithfulness and honesty,
Jack leaned back in his chair, and sank deep in thought.
"Kinswoman!" he said to himself in astonishment. "In good sooth, I
knew not there were a soul akin to me left in the world! Sure
enough, when I was but a child, there was here and there one that was
of kin to my father, but I have thought them all dead and gone this
many a year. And if not, 'tis never in these parts they have dwelt,
so what should any one of them know of Jack the boatman, whatever?
Well, I have ever tried to be an honest man, and I would be true to
this little helpless maid, an nought had been spoken of money. Yet I
cannot but say it will be a useful creature of God for the keeping of
the pretty little love in the way, to which, I trow, she has been
used. What if I shall maybe never get it? What if it be but a sorry
cheat, to get rid of a poor little stolen babe? I misdoubt me that I
must needs be the laughing-stock of my neighbours for a season, an I
confess to pinning my faith to this bit of paper! I will e'en say
nought to any one of them, save, only that the charge of this small
kinswoman hath been suddenly laid upon me. So, my pretty, I will
lock the letter away in the old chest here, and none shall set an eye
thereon, and, God help me, I will be a true father to thee." And
Jack bent his head for a moment over the little golden one on the
pillow, before he sought the rest which such an eventful day had well
earned.
When he awoke next morning, he felt as if the events of the previous
night were only a strangely vivid dream, and not till he rose and saw
the fair curly head lying on the pillow of the little corner-bed he
had improvised so hastily, could he realise that Little Miss Primrose
was no creation of his own brain, but a living fact and an actual
existence.
The little stranger submitted to be dressed and fed, and as Jack was
wondering somewhat doubtfully what to do next for his baby-guest's
entertainment, there came a knock at his door, and he opened it to
admit Master Evans the miller, who had come as early as possible to
satisfy himself that his friend's dwelling had not been swept away in
the night. The miller's astonishment at seeing a tiny golden-haired
girl seated on a high chair at the boatman's table, drumming on the
table with a spoon in a free and easy manner, as if she felt
perfectly at home, was too great to find expression in words. Jack
came to his relief. "You knew not that I was about to have a
visitor, friend Evans?" he said cheerfully. "Well, indeed, it was a
rough day for them to send the wee maid hither, but she is safe and
well, the little darling, and no way worse for the storm whatever.
She is akin to me, and being left on my hands sudden-wise, is going
to be my little daughter or grandchild, or whatsoever I choose to
make of her." "Akin to you?" said the miller. "Why then, Jack man,
I thought you reckoned to have neither kith nor kin left to thee!"
"Well, indeed I thought it," answered Jack candidly; "but in truth
there is no saying what a man may have got till it is put before him,
and it would seem that some one I thought dead and gone has tarried a
while longer here below than I thought. This little thing was sent
to me yestere'en, with a charge upon me to take care of her as though
she were my own, and though I know naught of those who sent her, kin
is kin, and I doubt not the babe will bring a blessing. It is
likewise comforting to a man to find he is after all not alone in the
world, and though I marvel somewhat at this new treasure vouchsafed
me, I am withal right glad to possess it." "It is passing strange,"
said the miller. "Also, if you indeed knew naught of your relations,
how came they, think you, to know you to be one meet to be entrusted
with the child?"
"My bridge is known in all the country-side," said Jack proudly, "and
it may be that since I built it my name has come before them as that
of an honest man, while there is no saying that they have at any time
done aught to cause me in like manner to hear of them! It may be,
that if they have not kept themselves so uprightly in the world as
they should, they have kept an eye on my family, to get a lift
onwards, if they should perchance come to need it, from such as can
boast of as honest a name as any in the country. Such as go
downwards in this world are verily soon lost to sight, while such as
go up--why, the Scripture itself saith, 'A city that is set on an
hill cannot be hid.'" And with this sententious adaptation of Holy
Writ to his case, Jack turned the conversation, and plunged into an
animated discussion of the storm and the damage it had done in the
neighbourhood. "The child will cost you no trifle," remarked the
miller, as he rose to depart. "She is a dainty little lady,
whatever, and has in her countenance naught that betokens a lowly
up-bringing, to my thinking." "That is true," said Jack; "but there
have been good looks in my family before now, Master Evans, Maybe my
own poor child would never have met with so untimely a death but for
her fair face, which had always been wont to lead her into giddy
ways." "Ah, she was fair indeed!" said the miller warmly, for all
the village had loved the boatman's beautiful daughter, and had
mourned her melancholy fate. "In sooth, neighbour Jack, I doubt not
you are right glad to have this pretty little maid to take her
place--and now I will bid you good-day--but it was the expense of the
child I had in my mind."
"They have promised money for her keep," said Jack, unwilling to take
the credit of greater generosity than was demanded of him, "but if it
should fail, well, I have enough for us both. But time will show. I
misdoubt me that my unknown relative hath made an unfortunate
marriage with one in a state of life to which she hath not been
called, for truly the apparel of the child is not that of one in our
condition of life." "You speak truth, neighbour," said the miller,
fingering the delicate white frock in which the baby was dressed.
"Ah well, I must get me to my millstones. And should a woman's wit
at times seem needful to you, friend, in caring for the child, my
good wife will be pleased to give you the benefit of her own, of
which, to speak truth, she hath not an unfair share." And so at
length the worthy miller closed the door, and left Jack and the baby
to pursue their newly-made acquaintance in solitude. But not very
long were the two left alone, for many were the visitors Jack
received during the day, some calling ostensibly to congratulate him
that the storm was over, and himself and his bridge still standing,
others boldly averring at once that curiosity was the sole object of
their visit. Little Miss Primrose sat on Jack's knee, and received
graciously the marks of approbation bestowed upon her, though
resenting all undue familiarities, and refusing to leave her refuge
to honour the most polite and insinuating guest. To the oft-repeated
request that she would tell her name, she gave in English the one
invariable answer, "I am Little Miss Primrose," and beyond that,
little information could be extracted from her. Either her baby ears
could not understand, or her baby lips frame replies to the questions
put to her, and she seemed quite content to spend the greater part of
the day on the boatman's knee, or sitting on the floor at his feet,
taking but little notice of the frequent visitors, except by the
scrutinising glances she gave them out of her wonderful dark eyes.
When a week had passed, and the villagers had satisfied themselves
that Jack had really very little to tell them about his tiny
"relative," they began to regard her adoption by him as an
established fact no longer requiring comment. Little Miss Primrose
was not likely to fade and droop for want of care and love, for Jack
regarded himself as both father and mother to her; and where
experience in the latter capacity might reasonably be found wanting,
the good women of the village were only too glad to supply him with
their own. He constructed with his own hands a wonderful cradle-bed
for the baby, and one day when a travelling-cart came round, laid out
an extravagant sum upon a variety of toys and articles of comfort for
his darling. When too busy himself to give her air and exercise, he
hired a trustworthy little maid from the village, of sufficiently
staid deportment to be trusted with the baby, and wheel her out, when
the spring-days came, in her carriage, in which she sat, like a
golden-haired queen, waving gracious hands at the birds and
butterflies as she passed. So with but an occasional outburst of
grief and frantic cries for her mother, which much distressed Jack's
kind heart during the first few days after her arrival, Little Miss
Primrose settled herself down as an inmate of the boatman's cottage,
and became quite at home.
CHAPTER III.
THE STAR IN THE EAST.
"She has wit and song and sense,
Mirth and sport and eloquence."
--HUNGARIAN.
It was just six months after the arrival of the boatman's unexpected
little guest, that very late one evening, when the long summer
twilight had almost deepened to night, a mysterious horseman was seen
by a few of the villagers, who had not yet closed their doors for the
night, riding in the direction of Jack's riverside cot. Jack never
retired to rest very early, and was still plying his shoemaking trade
by the light of a solitary candle when he too heard the clatter of
the horse's hoofs along the narrow road under the hill, and was
somewhat startled when the sound suddenly ceased before his own door,
which still stood open to let in the sweet summer breeze.
[Illustration: "HE WATCHED THE TALL HORSEMAN ENTER THE COTTAGE AND
HOLD THE CANDLE OVER THE CRIB."]
He hastened forward with a strange sense of expectancy, not unmingled
with dread, for the child had grown so dear to him, that while he had
looked forward with real pleasure to the reward, which would enable
him to do much for her comfort, he often dreaded lest in its place
should come an intimation that the unknown mother was again ready to
claim her child. A noble black horse was pawing the ground with
impatience as Jack appeared in the doorway, and on his back sat a
tall man in a long black riding-cloak, whose features were only dimly
discernible in the uncertain light, but whose voice had a gravely
pleasant ring, as he stooped from the saddle and placed a sealed
packet in Jack's hand, saying, "The child's mother sends you
greeting, with the promised reward for your care of her babe. She
charged me that I should see her, and take back to her a faithful
report of her growth and progress. And if it trouble you not at this
late hour, I will for a brief moment dismount and look at the child."
"My home is humble, good sir," said the boatman, "but methinks that
must be already known to my kinswoman, who honours me with so strange
a trust and acquaintance, while herself unknown to me. The child
sleeps yonder in her cot. I will look to your steed while you see
her." He watched the tall horseman enter the cottage and hold the
candle over the crib, so that its light fell on the tiny face nestled
on the white pillow, and lit up the halo of golden curls which
surrounded it with a soft, gleaming radiance. The piercing eyes of
the messenger softened as they dwelt upon the sweet picture of infant
beauty and sleeping innocence, and he turned away with a sigh,
saying, "She is wondrous fair--and you love her?" "As my own,"
answered Jack warmly. "She is the apple of my eye! Sir, I beg you
to tell my kinswoman that hitherto I have done for the child all that
love could do, and that her health and happiness have well repaid me;
but that now it has pleased her to send me this gift, I will likewise
do all that money shall make possible to increase her comfort and
please her baby heart." "That is well," said the stranger. "I will
assure her, on my part, that the child is in good keeping, and that
she has not been deceived in the trust she placed in you. Nay, good
Jack, no questions! I will be no mouthpiece for your kinswoman. Be
faithful to your charge, and ask me nought that she does not herself
reveal to you. Farewell; I must away." And hastily remounting his
coal-black steed, he passed on down the narrow road by the riverside,
crossed the ford just below the bridge, and was lost to view in the
wooded lane beyond. Jack went to bed with feelings of mingled relief
and perplexity. The possession of the money was pleasant; the
continued possession of the child he realised to be even a greater
joy than he had imagined in his already fond heart, but the whole
subject was one of great perplexity, and the visit of the messenger
had thrown no light whatever upon it. To stifle curiosity and live
on from day to day in unquestioning enjoyment of his darling's sweet
ways and ever-growing beauty was the only course open to him, and he
fell asleep at last with only a pleasant sense of resignation
uppermost in his mind.
To still the curiosity of his neighbours was, however, a harder task,
for he had not been at his work many hours next day before he
discovered that the ringing sound of the black steed's hoofs had been
plainly heard in the stillness of the summer night, and that every
one knew it was at his own door that the sound had ceased. But he
had not much to tell, and his friends grumbled not a little at his
dulness and want of natural curiosity. Had they been in his place,
they one and all declared, the messenger should not have been
suffered to depart in such haste, but should have been forced to give
some account of himself and his errand. However, Jack looked stolid
over the matter, and evidenced no desire whatever on his own part to
discover what the child's relations chose to conceal from him, and
declared that so long as he was allowed to keep her he was content.
And in this happy, though withal, to them, highly unsatisfactory
state of mind, they were obliged one by one to leave him.
Twice every year the mysterious black horse clattered over the
village road and stopped at the boatman's cottage, and Little Miss
Primrose was lifted up into the saddle and admired, and her little
hand regretfully kissed by the gallant horseman; and then he rode
away again, and no one was any the wiser, or any nearer the solution
of the mystery. And Little Miss Primrose herself grew prettier and
prettier, her hair more golden, and her dark eyes more deep and full
of beautiful meaning; and in spite of her lowly bringing-up, her ways
grew more and more like those of the little "Queen of the Flowers"
Jack called her. She took very happily to her new ways of life; and
while Jack was busy over his shoemaking, she would sit for hours at
the little casement which overlooked the river, watching the water
rushing below the bridge, and counting the ripples when she flung in
pebbles from a cherished store kept for the purpose of disturbing the
river's quietude, as it passed with more gentle flow beneath the
window. When the summer came, she would take out her little stool
and sit on the bridge, patiently holding a purse in her hand,
sometimes for hours together, ready for the passers-by to drop in
their toll-pennies as they crossed. She was very proud of being
toll-keeper, and would willingly spend a whole afternoon on the
bridge, with her doll for company, for the chance of bringing home
just one bright penny to dad at the time of the evening meal. "I am
the Queen of the Bridge!" she used to say proudly to those who asked
her name as they passed. And she would add graciously, "I am Little
Miss Primrose."
And so the tiny golden-haired tax-collector came to be well known in
the country-side, and was missed greatly when the winter winds blew
cold through the valley, and she had to be kept indoors. Then her
bright little face was anxiously looked for by her old friends at the
casement; and she would look out and wave her tiny hands, and tap
loudly on the window-pane if they forgot to look for her.
Jack's dwelling underwent great changes during the first year or two
after his adoption of the child, for with the money brought by the
Black Horseman, he not only improved and beautified the original
structure till it was scarcely recognisable, but added a little room
for the sole and especial use of his darling, which he fitted up with
every comfort and luxury that she could possibly need for years to
come. No little lady of distinction could have slept in a daintier
cot than the one Jack chose for his little guest, and his lady
neighbours were astonished at the taste and discretion he displayed
in the furnishing and adornment of the baby's state apartment.
Certainly it appeared that he was not considering her by any means as
a "poor relation," or thinking of bringing her up as the descendant
of relatives presumably sunk very low in the social scale. But since
the money had been paid in so regularly, Jack's theory of the low
estate of his distant kinsfolk had somewhat fallen through, and he
confessed that in the lapse of years they might possibly have done
far better for themselves than he himself had done.
It was on a dark Christmas Eve, when Little Miss Primrose was,
according to Jack's idea, about four years and a half old, that, as
she sat at the parlour window gazing out into the darkness at the big
castle on the hill, and trying to coax Jack into a promise to take
her some day to its frowning summit, she suddenly made the startling
announcement; "Dad, dad, I can see the Star in the East! Come quick,
and look!" Now Jack, who knew well that it was snowing fast, and
that no stars were visible, and who, moreover, was very busy
finishing off a new pair of boots for a customer to wear on Christmas
morning, did not look up from his work, and believing that the Bible
stories he had told Primrose on the previous evening had turned her
small brain, took no notice, beyond saying in an abstracted tone;
"There are no stars to-night, my pretty. Come away from the window;
'tis cold for you to be standing there, whatever." "Dad," said the
child, drawing herself up with dignity, "Little Miss Primrose can see
the star--a bright red star, up on the hill. You mustn't contradict
Primrose--and you've told a story!" This terrible reproof drew the
boatman to her side with a laugh, and sure enough she was right, for
far away in the blackness in which the Castle Hill was shrouded a
bright red star shone steadily, gleaming straight down upon the
river, and, as it were, gazing fixedly in at Jack's little window.
"There!" said the child triumphantly. "The Star in the East, dad!
You told me Christmas was coming to-morrow. Let us go up quick, dad,
and find the little cradle. Would the little Baby be inside it yet,
do you think?" "Bless thy little heart, my precious!" said Jack
humbly. "You always speak the truth, and your old dad didn't know
what he was talking about. Yes, there is a star indeed, and I'm
sorry I contradicted you, Primrose;" and he gave her an apologetic
embrace. "Well, come and find the little Baby, dad," urged the
child, quite satisfied, and tugging at his hand impatiently. "Come
quick!" "It was Christmas morning He came, my pretty," said Jack;
"very, very early Christmas morning, while you and I would be asleep
in our beds. It wouldn't be any use for us to go up now, Primrose.
You shall sit and look at the star awhile, and then you must be fain
to shut those great wondering eyes, and to go to sleep as fast as you
can. Then it will be quite Christmas when you wake in the morning,
and dad will tell you all over again about the little Baby." "And we
will go and see Him?" said Primrose eagerly. "We'll see," said Jack,
"we'll see. Maybe it will snow too hard. Look how the snow comes
down. Verily it is a cold night." And having succeeded in diverting
the baby's mind from her impossible request, he turned his own to the
subject of supper, muttering, as he prepared it, "'Tis a pretty fancy
of the child's, but for all that it's nothing but a light in one of
the castle windows, and that is passing strange, for who is there to
light it? 'Tis never likely the young earl has come suddenwise at
this time of the year; and if he had so done, the lights would surely
shine from many a window, not one only. Cheerful, indeed, it would
be to see them; and I would he indeed thought fit to come to the old
place and stir up the love of his people! No, that star is a riddle
to my understanding. Verily, they do tell strange tales about the
castle, and maybe the gipsy witch would tell us that some unquiet
spirit burns a lamp up there alone in some darksome chamber. 'Tis
long since she last came wandering around, with her malicious rhymes.
Ah, it is indeed well she is a woman, for I have at times found it
hard not to lay my hands upon her. Well, Primrose, my darling, you
must let the star shine by itself awhile, and come to your supper."
"The star looks at me, dad," said Primrose, quitting the window seat
lingeringly. "It looks straight in at me through the window. You
look at it, dad, when I am in bed, and tell me if God puts it out."
And when she was comfortably tucked up in her warm bed, and the long
lashes had nearly fallen over the big grey eyes, she murmured
sleepily; "Is my star put out yet, dad?" and fell fast asleep before
Jack could answer. No, it was not put out, and when Jack himself
went to rest, some hours later, it still shone through the gloom as
brightly as ever. Little Miss Primrose awoke with her mind full of
her new discovery, and Jack was much relieved to find the snow still
falling thick and fast, when he found that her desire to climb the
Castle Hill and look for the Holy Child's cradle had only revived
with greater force in the morning light. He succeeded at last in
persuading her that such an attempt was impossible, and consoled her
with the promise that, if the snow cleared off, he would carry her in
the afternoon to the little church on the hillside; "for," said he to
himself stoutly, "I can verily never bring my mind to hear Master
Jones discourse this morning at the chapel. He hath too much spoken,
in my hearing, against the king and the Prayer Book; and though I
would fain feel peace and goodwill towards him, as becomes a
Christian on Christmas morn, I must needs close my ears to his
doctrines." So Jack and his little charge spent a very quiet
Christmas morning, watching the snow-flakes fall, and talking much of
the star and its story; and in the afternoon, when the storm had
ceased, he carried her, according to promise, to the tiny ivy-covered
church, a mile away on the snowy hillside, where, since the day he
had discovered from the Black Horseman to be her fourth birthday, he
had taken her regularly Sunday after Sunday, in order that she should
grow up a loyal church-woman and faithful subject to King James; "for
I can at least train her up in the way she should go," he was wont to
say to his neighbours. "And," he would add with a sigh and a certain
vagueness of exact meaning, "if she should depart from it when she is
old, I fear it may be her mother that will see it, and not I." When
the twilight fell again over the valley, and the star shone out once
more from the black hill-top, Jack found himself almost as much
interested in its reappearance as the child herself, who shouted and
clapped her hands for joy. "But it can't be the Star in the East,
you know, Primrose," he said, when she again demanded to follow it,
"because it did not come any more when Christmas Day was over. This
must be another star, and we'll sit at home and watch it every night,
and maybe in time we will be able to find out its name." "It is my
Star in the East," would Miss Primrose answer decisively; but seeing
at last some wisdom in Jack's oft-repeated explanations, she
expressed herself content to watch it only from the window, and it
became a habit of theirs to draw close to the little casement every
evening, as soon as twilight fell, to look for the star's appearing,
and watch it shine till they were tired. Every night it shone out
regularly, as soon as darkness crept over the Castle Hill, and always
was still shining when Jack drew down his window-blind and went to
bed. Once he forgot to draw it down, and happening to wake as the
clock struck twelve, he saw the red light still burning steadily, and
lay and watched it, wondering who the mysterious occupant of the
castle might be, till between one and two in the morning, when it was
suddenly extinguished. He made a few casual inquiries next day among
the villagers, as to whether any of them had heard of the arrival of
the young earl or his servants at the castle, but no one had heard
such a report, or believed for a moment that he was likely to visit
Bryn Afon at this wintry season, and Jack let the matter rest; for
knowing that the "star" could not be seen from any house but his own,
he thought it wiser to keep this fresh mystery to himself. And about
a month after its first appearance it vanished entirely, greatly to
Little Miss Primrose's disappointment.
As she grew in years the child's health and growth were yet on each
visit more carefully noted by the Black Horseman, who appeared well
satisfied both with her physical and mental progress. One day he
brought with him a mysterious phial containing a liquid, which he
informed Jack was, by her mother's instructions, to be administered
to the child at stated intervals, and of which he should himself see
that she was unfailingly supplied. He affirmed it to be a herbal
elixir of wondrously strengthening properties and of absolute
harmlessness, and to be one of those ancient and pricelessly-valued
prescriptions of the far-famed physicians of Glyn Helen, known in all
the country-side some centuries gone by for their marvellous powers
of healing and wondrous discoveries, and still regarded by all honest
folk as supreme benefactors to the human race, and their
prescriptions to be of undying value. He assured Jack that the
elixir prescribed by her mother for Little Miss Primrose had been
bestowed upon her by a living descendant of the Mystic Brethren, who
still practised their ancient arts, and was equally well versed with
his ancestors in all their wondrous lore of plants and herbs, and
that the child's mother placed an unfailing trust in the skill of
this great physician. Therefore Jack, than whom no one was a more
faithful believer in the ancient legends of his country, more
especially in the deserved fame of these learned doctors of renown,
unhesitatingly administered the prescribed elixir at the required
seasons, though not without some secret wondering as to the nature of
the weakness or disease which the unknown mother would appear, by
enjoining its use, to wish to avert from her little daughter. But
the child showing every sign of perfect health both of body and mind
as she grew out of her babyhood and daily increased in loveliness,
her fond foster-father began to regard this daily antidote to an
unknown ill as but the whim of an over-anxious parent, and the elixir
soon began to be both administered and taken as mechanically and with
as little thought as the child's daily bread, though always without
the knowledge of any of the neighbours, the Black Horseman having
warned Jack that the prescriptions of the famous physicians of old
were ever held sacred, nor permitted to be revealed to the careless
public.
CHAPTER IV.
THE EARL'S VISIT.
"Wine above all things doth
God's stamp deface."
--GEORGE HERBERT.
"Nay, do not fear, or for a moment dream
The bridge will fall! These stays, though slight they seem,
Will steadfast, when our suns have set, still stand.
Yes, they will safely bear, at eve, at morn,
The feet of merry children yet to be;
Who, in their turn, shall, crossing, pause to see
The River hurrying by as if in scorn...."
--JOHN JERVIS BERESFORD.
The old castle on the hill had for many years been left desolate, the
last known visit of its mysterious owners having taken place on the
occasion of the coming of age of the heir and only surviving child,
now about eight years ago. There had been grand doings then at the
castle: illuminations, feasting and dancing, visitors coming and
going from the neighbouring castles, lights burning brilliantly night
after night in all the mullioned windows, for on this great occasion
no less a guest had been entertained at Bryn Afon than King James
himself. Among several Welsh favourites, none held so high a place
in the king's esteem and regard as Lord Bryn Afon, who spent much
time about the Court, and but seldom cared to dwell among his own
people in his riverside stronghold, about whose grim grey walls, fast
succumbing under the ravages of time and neglect, there clung the
dark and dreadful curse, which none dared name but in hushed
whispers, but which had for generations past only too surely held
fast each successive earl in its dread toils, each having in his turn
to fight his way to the grave through its unknown horrors, beckoned
by its relentless finger from the pleasures of the Court or the gay
scenes of foreign travel, back to its hideous clutches on the
desolate hillside, there to pass away, long ere his threescore years
and ten were reached, in a shadow of gloom and mystery which none
dared try to penetrate, and whose dark veil no gossiping retainer had
ever been known to lift to the outside world.
But hardly were the rejoicings over the kingly visit ended, and the
last guests departed, than there came a time now only spoken of in
hushed whispers by the villagers. They told tales of shriekings and
wailings heard night after night within the castle, of a lady who
walked evening after evening through the dusky avenue which led to
the entrance-gates of the castle on the farther side of the hill,
weeping and wringing her hands, and hardly had the mysterious sounds
been for a few days hushed, than the bell had tolled out from the
little church on the hill, and the country-folk around said to one
another, with pale faces, that they had expected that sound, for
that, for generations past, shrieks and wailings from the castle had
always been the warning of the approaching death of its lord. There
was a stately funeral, and the young earl, only surviving child of
the Bryn Afons, stood at the grave, with his handsome boyish face
bowed upon his hands, and the bystanders shook their heads and
whispered to one another, that for all his strength and beauty, the
curse of the castle must fall upon him, and that he too would be laid
in his grave ere he was fifty years old. There had never been any
one to explain the mystery, for no doctor or clergyman from the
neighbourhood was ever called in to minister bodily or spiritual
comfort to the dying Bryn Afons, and the servants had for many years
past been foreigners, unable to breathe, if they would, a word in
explanation of the strange family history of their masters.
It was said that the young earl had declared he would never visit the
castle again after his father's death, and that he had gone abroad
with his mother directly after the funeral. Certain it was that no
one in the neighbourhood had seen or heard of him since. His
mother's remains had been laid in the family grave a year after those
of her husband, but the funeral had taken place quite suddenly, and
with no stately ceremonies, so that most of the villagers had not
even heard of her death till all was over, and whether her son had
returned to his own country or not, or whether or no he had since
wooed and won a fair bride, none could say. It was a saying in the
valley that the Bryn Afons only came to the castle to die, and the
fine old building was already half in ruins from neglect during the
past two or three hundred years.
Consequently it created considerable surprise and excitement, when,
early in the summer--when Little Miss Primrose was just past five
years old--news came suddenly to the village that the young earl was
coming to spend the summer at the castle. The report proved true,
and once more lights shone out at night from the windows, and parties
of merry riders passed to and fro along the riverside, day after day,
and the villagers stood on their thresholds to see them pass, and
held their breath in mingled awe and admiration, as they recognised
the earl himself, gay and handsome as ever, riding with graceful
ease, and chatting carelessly with one and another of the friends
around him. He had a pleasant word and smile in return for every
carefully-lifted hat and well-dropped curtsey with which his people
greeted him, and more than this none of them expected. None of the
late lords of Bryn Afon had ever shown any more personal interest in
them than this courteous acknowledgment of their homage, always
faithfully tendered, at however long intervals. The only favoured
exception to this rule was Jack the boatman, but no one was jealous
of him, for as owner of the only boats which could be hired up the
river for a considerable distance, and as master of the Bryn Afon
fishing, he held an important position, and had been more than ever
revered since he had out of his own pocket built the bridge, which
had proved such a blessing to the neighbourhood. A man who had saved
enough money to build a bridge at the cost of £60 or £70, was a man
to be respected. So no one was jealous when it was rumoured that
young Lord Bryn Afon had resumed his boyhood's acquaintance with the
boatman, and went out boating or fishing with him every day, as he
had been wont to do in those few and far-between summers when the
late earl had brought him--a handsome, curly-headed boy--to the
castle for occasional visits. For the late earl had frequented the
castle rather more than his predecessors, and Jack could recall three
bright summer weeks in different years when the boy had been his
daily companion for a few merry days, and the hero of his now
departed wife and daughter.
Now the earl entertained his guests with many a river-excursion, and
these were fine times for Little Miss Primrose, for he and his
friends liked nothing better than to take her with them on their
expeditions, to amuse them with her baby prattle, and keep them awake
when they moored their boats, and lay back dreamily on their
cushions, with half-closed eyes, sheltering themselves beneath the
friendly willows from the hot sun. They were all charmed with the
beauty and dignified demeanour of the little Queen of the Flowers,
whose mysterious committal to Jack's charge he thought it unnecessary
to acquaint them with, saying only that she was the child of a
distant relative, who had entrusted him for a time with her
guardianship. So the little lady's lofty airs, which mingled
humorously with her sweet winning ways, excited no troublesome
questionings, while they afforded endless amusement to the castle
party. She was worthy of admiration when she ran, with her bright
curls tossing in the wind, and her dark eyes shining with glee, to
toss handfuls of sweet woodland blossoms at dad's feet, or with
sudden half-shy boldness ran to the prostrate figure of the young
earl, and dropped her spoils one by one over his face, as he lazily
reclined on some mossy bank in the wood, while the boats lay moored
below. Jack was infinitely proud of his darling, and while himself
keeping at a respectful distance from the merry company on these
occasions, prided himself secretly, as he watched her with fond eyes,
on the fearless ease of her demeanour with her lordly friends, yet
ever and anon saying to himself with a sigh; "Surely the time will
come when she will fret against the rough ways of the old boatman,
and sorely desire to tread some other path, whither his clumsy feet
may scarce hope to follow!" Only once did he venture to interfere
with the company on behalf of his child, when one morning the young
earl was giving a lunch-party in the woods near the river, and the
ladies having as usual called Little Miss Primrose to their side, he
took his glass of wine and held it to her rosy lips. Then Jack, who
from his retreat at a modest distance had been watching every
movement of his darling, started forward, and almost snatching the
glass from his young master's hand, exclaimed; "Nay, my lord! Pardon
my boldness, but never a drop of strong drink shall my child taste!
I have never been a man for drink, as you know, and I would fain
bring up the child to follow in my steps at the least in that
respect." A murmur of indignation at his interference ran round
among the guests, but the earl only laughed satirically. "You know
the evil that lurks in the cup, do you, my friend?" he said, while
for a moment a dark shadow clouded his sunny face. "Well, every man
has a right to his own opinion, but in mine, you don't know half the
pleasure of life! There, take the child away--perhaps the sight of
the evil thing may be enough to harm her!" "Perchance it may,
indeed, my lord," said the boatman thoughtfully. "Forgive me, my
lord, but it is a strong point with me, and I must keep to it
whatever."
"All right," said the earl carelessly, "you and I are old friends,
Jack, and we won't quarrel over a glass of wine!" He tossed off the
contents of the glass, followed it by another, and said, as the
company rose and dispersed into the sunny glades; "Here, sit down,
Jack, and partake, with Little Miss Primrose, judiciously, of such
relics of the feast as you may think to be free from the pernicious
juice of the grape. You never approved my taste for it in those old
days when you and I went salmon-fishing. Why, I remember as it were
yesterday, how you stole a bottle of brandy I had in my pocket, ready
against any emergency, and flung it into the river, while I was
asleep in the boat!" And he laughed at the recollection. "And if I
did, my lord," said the boatman, "I meant no disrespect to your
lordship. It was my duty, for in truth I was fearful for you, when I
found what taste you had for such things at your tender years." "And
if I had----" begun the young earl eagerly. "Well, Jack," he
continued in an altered tone, "how goes the curse on yon castle?
Have the foolish tales yet died out, or do you all cheerfully doom me
to the fate of my forefathers?" "I pray God, sir, you may be spared
to threescore years and ten," answered Jack, "and to outlive these
ill rumours, which yet grow apace, and pass from mouth to mouth among
us, with none to say them nay. In truth, my lord, I am glad you have
seen fit to come thus and show your face among your people for a
season, and I would you were more often with us, for then it might be
that these idle tales would after a while die out. But, my lord, you
must indeed own that it is seemingly mysterious, when the earls of
Bryn Afon, owning this noble old castle, must needs leave it year
after year to rot and ruin, scarce dwelling therein at any time for
more than two or three days together, except when they come to die.
And then, my lord, an I may mention it without offence, there is
doubtless good reason for us to say it is haunted." A perceptible
shudder ran through the earl's frame, but he said carelessly;
"Imagination, good Jack, is generally at the bottom of these foolish
stories of ghosts and haunted dwellings. An owl, screeching night
after night on the hill-top becomes the shriek of a murdered person,
and so the tale goes from one to another of yon credulous villagers.
What form has the popular mystery taken in their simple minds? Is
there one among them who has ever dared to frame a credible story out
of so much imaginary material?" "Nay, my lord," answered Jack; "it
would ill befit any of us simple folk to spread abroad false tales of
matters concerning the House of Bryn Afon, and indeed a spirit of
fear moves our people to quietness, for ghosts are fearsome things to
deal with, and it is not well to talk over-much of them." "Aha!"
laughed the earl, "I like your wisdom, good Jack, and am well content
that my retainers should 'let sleeping dogs lie.' But confess now,
that it is a dull place for a man, haunted or not, and you cannot
much wonder that we have never greatly loved it. I am here only to
please my wife, for I own to have but little love for Bryn Afon."
And again a dark look crossed for an instant the careless face.
"Your wife, my lord!" exclaimed the boatman. "You are indeed
married? Surely, I have oft wondered who the fair lady might be that
my young master would take for his bride." "She is in truth passing
fair," said the earl, "but the blessing of good health has for some
time past been denied her, and it was to humour her sick fancy that I
came to the castle. But it is but little enjoyment this fair
neighbourhood can give her, since she has not yet once set foot
without the castle walls." "Indeed, my lord, I am grieved to hear
you say so," said Jack, "and fain would I look upon her sweet face!
If I am not too bold whatever--have you been long married, my lord,
and have you children?" "Seven years married, good Jack," answered
the young earl; "I married some few months after the death of my
mother. No, we have no children, and for my wife's part, it is a
circumstance upon which she congratulates herself, for this foolish
tale about the curse doth verily so frighten her, that she is for
ever telling me she can but hope we shall be its last victims. For
my own part, I confess that I should find good cheer in the presence
of some such golden-haired fairy as yon Primrose! However, the gods
do not favour all alike with their gifts! By the way, honest Jack,
does that old gipsy still haunt the country-side with her horrid
rhymes? I believe she is at the bottom of half the nonsense that is
afloat." "Her tales are but the same as those our forefathers have
handed down to us," said Jack, thoughtfully, "yet she has indeed
added to them detestable rhymes of her own, for which a ducking in
the river should be her portion, an she were not a weak woman! It is
long now since she has been seen hereabouts, and indeed, since she
must verily have reached by now her threescore years and ten, I can
but hope it may have pleased Providence to release her! What think
you, my lord? It was her last crazy fancy to go about the country
abusing my bridge, and prophesying its destruction! Why, indeed, she
so took away the people's faith therein, that for a long season many
refused to cross it in rough weather. But the folly hath passed, and
my bridge showeth yet no sign of decay!" "Ah!" said the earl, "your
bridge looks certainly but a light structure, but you are doubtless a
fitter judge of its strength than a cantankerous old woman." "I
trust so, my lord," said the boatman, "and I have every confidence
that your lordship's children (whom may it please God to send to you
and your gracious lady) will run many a time across my bridge in
safety, and their children after them." "I echo your wish," said the
earl, with a laugh. "Whence came to you this lucky thought, old
friend, of building a bridge?" "When my daughter was but a little
child, my lord," answered Jack, "and I asked her on one of her
birthdays what I should do for her, she said to me, 'Build me a
bridge over the river, father,' not thinking but that I could do
aught she set her heart upon, and having had long since some childish
fancy to run to and fro across the river on a bridge of her own. So
when she was dead and gone, and I had nought left in the world on
which to spend my savings, her words came back to me, and though her
feet would ne'er walk over it, I made up my mind to build a bridge
for love of her, and surely it was just the making of it whatever
that kept this poor brain of mine from turning at the loss of her!"
"Well?" said the earl, as the boatman paused. "She died a victim to
her curiosity, my lord," said Jack, with a heavy sigh. "I hold that
curiosity hath been the downfall of woman since the days of our first
parent, but that my own pretty lamb should fall a victim to the sin
was indeed ever far from my thoughts!" and Jack brushed away a tear
with his rough hand. "She lost her mother, you see, my lord, when
she was but a young child, and perchance it may have been from my
scarce knowing the best way to train her, that she grew up so
high-spirited, and was wild and wilful in her ways. But indeed, I
doubt not that she forgot her father's warning, and meant no
disobedience, when she went, poor pretty little thing, to her death."
"Well?" said the earl again, as Jack paused, fearing lest he were
making too free with his noble friend. "You know the underground
passage, my lord," said Jack, "which leads from Bryn Afon to Caer
Caradoc yonder, passing likewise through Craig Arthur on its way? My
daughter was wont at times to pass some few weeks at Caer Caradoc
with a friend of her poor mother's, who was housekeeper to the
family--for they were ofttimes at the Court, or in foreign parts, and
she was pleased to have my little girl with her for company,--and so
the child heard all manner of foolish tales from the servants about
the wonderful passage, and her poor silly little head became full of
the notion that she must needs some day venture therein by herself,
and explore its secrets, unknown to them all. I forbade her ever to
do such a thing, on pain of such displeasure as she had never yet
seen from her father; but some seven years gone by, when she had but
just turned her twenty-first birthday, and was over young and giddy
for her years, she went again to the castle, and alas, my lord, her
curiosity then did verily get the better of her, and forgetting her
old dad's warning, she went, unknown to any in the house, into the
dark passage. She never had fear in her heart of aught you could
name, and doubtless she thought it would be a fine thing to go
through to Bryn Afon, and tell us all in triumph of what she had
done. Poor little maid! My lord, one day they sent from Caer
Caradoc to tell me they had sought for her in the tunnel, and had
found her bonnet, caught on a ledge just below the mouth of the old
well, which goes sheer down, as you know, my lord, to a depth that
none may fathom, and which, as you may likewise call to mind, is in a
far corner of the passage, where it takes a sudden sharp turn, and
where no doubt her foot had slipped unwarily, and she had fallen.
"I went myself, my lord, and they let me down by the longest ropes
that could be had, into the black darkness, but my feet never touched
the bottom. They always said the well was verily like unto the
bottomless pit itself, but I had never believed it till then! My
lord, my soul grew just as dark within me as that underground tunnel,
and I cursed myself day and night for ever letting her out of my
sight. God forgive me, if I cursed Him too in my misery! The
housekeeper, that had been a friend of my wife's from their youth
upwards, fretted herself into her last illness for not taking better
care of the child, and for having suffered her unawares to get
possession of the key; but I had never the heart to blame her myself,
for there were few that could ever say my pretty daughter nay! The
woman died, poor soul, of the shock, and I--well, my lord, I scarce
can tell how I lived through my wretchedness of heart, till the
thought came to me to build the bridge. I was down by the river one
summer evening, watching the stream running by, and listening to the
swish the wind was making among the trees on the other side, when all
at once the rippling water seemed as it passed to take the sound of
my daughter's voice, saying as clear as I now speak myself: 'Build me
a bridge over the river, father! Build me a bridge over the river!'
You know, my lord, there is a tale in our valley that the river
speaks out the thoughts of those who listen to its flow, and whether
or no it was so then with myself, I know not--save only that it was
the tones of my own little girl I heard clearly as it rippled over
the stones at my feet; and then and there, sir, I marked out the spot
where my bridge should be, and I warrant you not many days were gone
by before the neighbours came gaping around to watch what they were
pleased to call 'the boatman's folly,' though, look you, the first
time they walked over the bridge they sang a different song! I put
my heart and soul into that bridge, my lord, and begrudged not a
penny it cost me, for it was for the child I built it, and what use
to save my money when she was dead?" "It was a brave thought, good
Jack," said the earl; "and think you it will some day repay your
outlay?" "I make no doubt of it, my lord," answered Jack, proudly.
"I take much toll on market-days, and in the summer many visitors are
wont to pass through our beautiful Gwynnon Valley, and across my
bridge. But e'en should it never repay me fully, I care not, for it
was verily for the benefit of my country I built it, and I take pride
in the thought that I was not mistaken. But that any old gipsy-woman
should take upon herself to prophesy its destruction, is too much for
my sufferance!" "You take her idle words too seriously, good
friend," said the earl with a laugh. "A fig for the old witch and
her evil sayings! But, Jack, you have seen much trouble. I am not a
religious man, and know no text whereon to preach you a sermon on
resignation, but honestly I hope that time has softened this blow?"
"I verily learned resignation hardly, my lord," answered the boatman,
"and the Evil One oft bade me, like the wife of Job, curse God and
die. But I was fain at last to learn that 'whom the Lord loveth He
chasteneth,' and that doubtless He saw what was good for the little
maid better than I did."
"Well, Jack," said the young earl, rising and stretching himself, "I
am glad you found comfort in your own way. After all, death is
surely preferable to a life of unhappiness? Which would you have
chosen for your daughter?" "It may be I would never have been called
upon to make such a choice, my lord," answered the boatman
thoughtfully. "So far as my eye could see, there was as happy a life
in store for my little lass as falls to the lot of most of us
whatever. But if there were to be hard things in store for her, why
then I am glad indeed for the Lord to have taken her." "Beshrew me,
if there are not hard things in store for all of us sooner or later!"
said the earl. "For my part, I confess that I find this the greatest
solace for the troubles of life. To the long preservation of your
bridge, Jack!" and he tossed off a glass of wine carelessly. "I
thank you humbly, my lord," said Jack, "but I would have put more
confidence in the toast if you had drunk it in water." "Very good,
Jack!" laughed the earl. "Verily thou art a man of principle! Well,
I am playing the part of a poor host, leaving my guests to roam yon
sunny glades alone, while I gossip with you! Have the boat ready in
an hour's time, good Jack, to row us homewards." And turning on his
heel, he strolled off into the woods, waving a kiss to Little Miss
Primrose, who, leaning against Jack's knee, condescended to raise for
a moment her dark-fringed eyes from the grapes she was engrossed
with, to say, "Good-bye, Mr. Earl!" in the most dignified of baby
voices, giving him at the same time, with a dismissing flourish of
her tiny white hand, a gracious permission to depart.
A few days later the castle was again deserted by its gay inmates,
and Jack in his secret heart was not sorry, for though it made his
heart swell with pride to see his darling in such imminent danger of
being spoilt by the grand folks' petting, yet he had a strong
suspicion that more than once the baby lips had tasted the forbidden
drink when his back was turned, and what with the mysterious warning
on the subject from her unknown mother, and his own strong
principles, this was a matter which gave him some concern. With his
love for the young earl, a deep pity was mingled in the boatman's
heart, for he saw only too well that he had become a slave to the
love of strong drink, for which even in his boyhood he had shown a
craving. But the boatman was above all men loyal to the old House of
Bryn Afon, and spoke no ill of the earl among his neighbours, who
were never tired of praising his fine face and form, as he rode by,
and who talked hopefully of better days for the castle now that the
master had once more begun to visit it, and indulged in many hopes,
which, alas, were day after day ungratified, of seeing the fair young
wife whom he had chosen. And the following summer the earl himself
was looked for in vain, and through the long bright months the old
castle again remained deserted. This was perhaps not to be greatly
wondered at, however, since Lord Bryn Afon was well known to be as
special a favourite of King Charles as his father had been of James
I., and the young king having succeeded to the throne in the March of
this year, it might be reasonably expected that he would desire the
earl's presence about his royal person at this beginning of his new
dignities.
And the honest folk of the Gwynnon Valley, being no whit behind the
rest of their compatriots in their loyalty and devotion to the House
of Stuart, rejoiced in the knowledge of the royal favour bestowed
upon more than one proud owner of those ancient and lordly castles
which crowned the summits of their fair hills, and at whose feet the
river flowed humbly through the shining meadows, rippling its
graceful homage in musical murmur as it passed. And Jack, who with
all his loyalty had not been able to shut his ears to the current
tales of drunkenness and dissipation which had too often disgraced
the Court of his late Majesty, rejoiced in the prospect of a purer
atmosphere henceforth for his beloved young lord and master, Bryn
Afon, and took pleasure in the thought that the pure and temperate
life of the new king could not fail to counteract in great measure
those evil tendencies in his friend which his royal father's
influence and example had too unhappily fostered.
CHAPTER V.
A MYSTERIOUS JOURNEY.
"I know not how others saw her,
But to me she was wholly fair,
And the light of the heaven she came from
Still lingered and gleamed in her hair;
For it was as wavy and golden,
And as many changes took
As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples
On the yellow bed of a brook."
--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
It was during the summer of the year 1625 that a somewhat strange
adventure befell Little Miss Primrose. She was now six years of age,
and every day growing in beauty and intelligence, so that she reigned
without dispute as queen of every heart in the village, and had
moreover so wound herself into the affections of good old Master
Rhys, vicar of Cwmfelin, under whose charge lay also the hamlet of
Bryn Afon, that he had some months since offered to instruct her at
his own charges in all such branches of education as might befit so
fair a damsel for any station in life which should hereafter befall
her; which generous offer Jack had been nothing loth to accept, since
in those days Widow Griffiths' Dame School was the sole repository of
learning which the near neighbourhood afforded, and to that he had
been scarce willing to send his darling, while yet sorely perplexed
in his mind as to the means of her education. For on this matter the
child's mother had expressed as yet no wishes, and this silence
thereon on her part had secretly pleased Jack, in spite of his
difficulty, for it seemed to him but a further proof of the extreme
confidence she placed in his wisdom and judgment. So day by day Jack
led his little charge along the shady lanes which lay between the
towering summit of Bryn Afon and the little church on the hillside,
beyond which stood the ancient monastery of Cwmfelin, now crumbling
into ruin, but serving in its best preserved part as vicarage for the
use of Master Rhys, who had now walked its dim corridors, and sat
hour after hour in its old wainscotted library, for the space of
twenty years, demanding no companion save only his beloved books,
which lined the oaken shelves, and which the tiny fingers of Miss
Primrose were wont to stroke lovingly, as she sat upon his shoulder
and counted their numbers, marvelling, in her infant mind, if she
must needs read through all their countless pages ere she was a grown
girl and had done with lessons for ever. And when her tasks were
done she loved nothing better than to roam hand in hand with Master
Rhys through the long stone passages and weird, unfrequented
chambers, listening to his tales of the holy monks of olden time who
had dwelt within those ancient walls; and longest of all her childish
feet would tarry in the Priests' Chamber, that she might gaze through
the hole in the thick stone wall, through which the penitents in
their cell beyond had been wont to make their confessions, and
through which she would wave tiny absolving hands upon good Master
Rhys, could she prevail upon him for a brief moment to play a
penitent's part. And from the patient old vicar she learned many
pretty fairy tales and legends of the country-side, of which none so
pleased her childish fancy as the tale of the Mystic Maiden of the
Craig Aran Pool, and of her three sons, the wise and learned
physicians of Glyn Melen, whose names were already familiar to her
ears from the lips of her friend the Black Horseman, whose wondrous
lore in plants and herbs and all healing arts, and whose goodness to
the suffering poor, had made their names to be renowned in all that
lonely mountain region which had given them birth, as well as through
the length and breadth of the fair Gwynnon Valley, and of whom even
now, after the space of three hundred years, there was known to be at
least one brave and skilful descendant on whom the mystic gift rested
in full measure, though none could say where he dwelt and practised
his arts, saving only the mysterious Black Horseman, who had indeed
confessed to Jack that the unknown mother of his foster-child had
dealings with him. But the secret of his abode was one which
Primrose, with all her wiles, could never extract from him when she
grew old enough to tease him on the matter.
It was on a fair summer's evening that the adventure referred to at
the beginning of the chapter befell Little Miss Primrose. The Black
Horseman's visits to the cottage twice in each year were great events
in her life, long looked for and remembered.
She well knew the clatter of the black horse's hoofs, however
distant, and at its first echo would run and watch eagerly for the
first glimpse of the fiery steed. She had established a firm
friendship with the strange horseman, who never failed to lift her
into the saddle before him, and ride with her some few times up and
down the road, after first letting her thrust her little hand into
the depths of his unfathomable pocket for her mother's letter, which
she was proud of delivering into Jack's charge with her own hands.
One evening, as she sat on the bridge, counting over her
toll-pennies, and thinking what a wondrously rich man "Dad" must ere
now have become with such a nightly store poured into his coffers,
she suddenly heard the well-known clatter over the stony road, and
rushed to the cottage door to tell Jack the black horse was coming.
The tall horseman took off his plumed hat to her with great
gallantry, as he always did, but instead of stooping at once to lift
her into the saddle, he called the boatman, and leaning down, with
his head against the black horse's neck, held a whispered
conversation with him, while she danced around with impatience. Then
Jack told her that the Black Horseman wished to take her for a long
ride that evening, and that if she would like to go with him, she
must first come and don her Sunday attire, that she might ride away
like a grand little lady. Little Miss Primrose clapped her hands for
joy, and was in the house, brushing out her tangled golden locks,
before Jack could finish speaking. "Wait for me! wait for me!" she
cried through the open doorway every time the proud horse pawed the
ground in dire impatience, and when at last she was ready, and sat
enthroned like a little queen in front of her dark-robed friend, Jack
looked at her with eyes fairly bewildered by her beauty. And as she
leaned her golden head confidingly against the Black Horseman's
shoulder, he put spurs to his gallant steed and galloped off, and she
turned and waved and kissed her little hand to Jack, who stood
watching her till the flying sunny curls had quite disappeared from
sight, before he turned back, with a sigh, to his cottage.
It was nearly midnight next day when the black horse returned, and
its rider handed down tenderly from the saddle into the boatman's
arms the sleeping form of his darling. "She is weary, poor little
maiden," he said; "but the long riding has nowise harmed her, and she
has gladdened her mother's heart. It may be long ere she shall again
see her. Farewell!" And with no more parley he galloped away into
the darkness, the ringing sound of his horse's hoofs lingering long
in the stillness of the silent summer night. It was late next
morning when the child awoke, and when she began eagerly to recount
her adventures they had already become an indistinct dream to her
infant mind. She chattered much about the long ride, but had
evidently fallen asleep before reaching her destination, for she
remembered nothing about her arrival, or reception by the "beautiful
lady," who had dressed her next morning, and had taken care of her
all day, telling her stories and playing with her and petting her,
and at last cried very bitterly when the Black Horseman came to say
he must take her home. "So," concluded Primrose, "I said I would
come and see her another day. And I told her all about you, dad, and
the bridge, and still she cried. And I told her, because she was so
pretty, she might walk on the bridge and pay no pennies. Then she
laughed, and the Black Horseman came and lifted me on the horse, and
soon it got very dark, and I went to sleep. Why did she cry, dad?"
"It may be that she would fain have some little girl like you,
Primrose, to live with her always," said Jack, "and cried for
loneliness at parting with you. Would you like to go and live with
the pretty lady, my darling?" "No," answered the child, shaking her
head; "I will stay with you, dad, because I love you, and the bridge,
and Master Rhys, and the funny old hole in the wall, where the wicked
people had to look through and say they were sorry. I told the
pretty lady all about that, and about all the books that Master Rhys
keeps on his shelves, and she said I must be good and learn all the
lessons he bids me, so that I may grow up wise like him." And having
exhausted her powers of recollection, Little Miss Primrose ran off,
with her favourite doll in her arms, to her seat on the bridge, where
she recounted her adventures over again to this deaf and dumb
sympathiser, whose waxen ear was the receptacle of many an infantine
confidence--generally in the form of a whispered wish that dad's
tyranny in the matter of the castle might be only for once relaxed,
that she might climb the tempting green slopes and peep through the
deep mullioned windows, or through the bars of the gate on the other
side of the hill, into the dark avenue which led to the front
entrance, which desire had taken strong hold of her mind of late, but
which, if ever expressed, Jack was wont to repress so sternly that it
was seldom she ventured to utter it aloud. The pretty lady too, she
remembered, had told her the castle was not a good place, and she
must never go near it, which hard-heartedness on the part of a
stranger the child mused over with a certain rebellion of spirit,
until gradually her adventure with the Black Horseman and the unknown
lady's image faded away into dim shadows in her memory, and in the
charms of the old monastery vicarage she forgot again for awhile her
fascination for the ruined castle.
So the years rolled on, Jack working at his shoemaking, and Little
Miss Primrose at her books all the winter months, and in the summer
spending much time in fishing upon the shady river banks, or rowing,
sometimes in Jack's big boat, filled with a gay pleasure-party from
some one or other of the castles which crowned the summits under
which the river flowed merrily, sometimes by themselves in the
coracle, a real old British coracle, of which Jack was the envied
possessor, and in which Little Miss Primrose learned at a very early
age to balance herself cleverly, and to glide fearlessly, like some
golden-haired British queen, up and down the broad, swiftly flowing
stream. The English visitors who frequented the vale of Gwynnon in
the summer months loved a row in the coracle, for but few of their
own rivers could boast such an antiquity, and the big boat too had
plenty of work during this season, when the wood-clad heights of
Craig Arthur and the desolate crags of Caer Caradoc resounded with
merriment, the ruined turrets of Bryn Afon alone reigning in silent
solitude above the clustered cottages below. The presence of Little
Miss Primrose was almost always solicited as a special favour by
these river revellers, and had it not been for a certain deep, sweet
seriousness, and a beautiful childlike unconsciousness of admiration
in her nature, she must needs have been spoilt by the open caresses
and compliments lavished upon her. But, as Jack said, "the little
maid was verily made of stuff that would not spoil," and she grew up
as sweet a flower as ever bloomed by a riverside, and as pure and
fresh in all her thoughts and ways as her own sweet spring namesakes
in the shady wood hollows. And as an opening flower too, her young
mind unfolded itself to drink in those treasures of wisdom which lay
hid in the deep oaken shelves of Master Rhys' wainscotted library,
and which, first filtered for her through his own master-mind, he
loved to pour into her eager childish ears in forms best suited to
her capacity. Many were the happy hours she spent with him, drinking
in all that she could grasp of so great a wealth of learning, and
turning with reverent fingers the pages of many a tempting volume,
for the understanding of whose contents he told her she must needs
wait till more than twice seven years had rolled over her head.
Within the old monastery walls she likewise heard many an interesting
converse between her own beloved old master and a certain cousin of
his, of some fame in the valley, one Master Rhys Prichard, vicar of
Castell Leon, a man of much learning, and well known for his devotion
to his own Welsh tongue, the use of which at this time was in many
counties fast dying out, many persons regarding it as a badge of
servitude to the English conqueror, and as a barbarous tongue, which
were best forgotten, since it tended towards the continued isolation
of the Welsh people, and hindered that complete union with their
English brethren, which, in their devotion to the Stuarts, their
hearts as a nation had for some time earnestly craved. Yet in many
villages the love of the old tongue still lived in full force, and
among its most staunch defenders was Master Rhys Prichard, who
conversed much upon the subject during his visits to his reverend
cousin of Cwmfelin, and delighted in the skill and fluency with which
Little Miss Primrose could repeat to him those famed Welsh poems, in
which, for the sake of his poorer and more unlettered countrymen, he
had embodied in popular form the Gospel story, that until such time
as a Welsh Bible should be given them, they should not be without
some book of holy comfort in their own tongue and within their own
homes. Often in passing the boatman's cottage the two clergymen
would linger for an hour before the open casement, discoursing upon
this and other matters with Jack, whose shrewd wit and well-informed
mind made him no mean controversialist, and who, while second to none
in his devotion to the English king, yet retained so strong a love
for his own country and its ancient tongue and customs, that he was a
zealous supporter of Master Prichard, and a warm admirer of his
poems; and when at last the Welsh-speaking party were rewarded by the
issue in the year 1630 of the order for the use of the Welsh Bible in
all the churches, he took to himself much credit for his share in
bringing about this much-desired consummation of the efforts of his
party, and pointed out with great pride on the following Sunday, to
Little Miss Primrose, the two Bibles and Prayer Books, now chained
together in friendly relation upon the desks of the little hillside
church. As for the child herself, her silvery tongue could prattle
as well in the one tongue as in the other, though in the spirit of
loyalty, which was very strong within her, she expressed at an early
age a decided preference for the "king's language." And in this she
was by no means discouraged by her old friend and preceptor, Master
Rhys, who, having had an English mother and an English curé during
the early years of his ministry, felt a very English heart within
him, in consequence of which the strife between himself and his
reverend cousin of Castell Leon was at times of a somewhat animated
nature, and Little Miss Primrose would often sit by and marvel at the
torrent of learned words which each would pour forth in defence of
his particular view of the matter.
Meanwhile, while affairs religious and political stirred the depths
of the quiet valley and kept it from stagnation, the old castle on
the hill grew more and more desolate. The earl remained away, and
little was ever heard of him. Since the day of his long converse
with Jack in the woods he had never again visited Bryn Afon, and the
winds howled round the old hill-top on winter nights, and the rain
beat against the grey walls which crowned the crest of the hill, and
ever and again the old gipsy wandered through the valley, each year a
little more grey-headed and wild-eyed, chanting her rude rhymes, and
arousing the boatman's wrath afresh by her ill-omened forebodings as
well as by her presumption in outliving the allotted age of man.
Twice that same red star shone out again from one of the mullioned
windows facing the river, but only for a few nights in succession, at
intervals of three or four years, and whether lighted by ghostly or
human hand Jack knew not, nor deigned to ask his brethren. Little
Miss Primrose had hailed with joy the reappearance of her star, but
Jack now felt no wish ever to see it again, for the last time it had
shone out in the darkness he had happened to meet the old gipsy,
lurking near the entrance to the castle on the farther side of the
hill, and she had told him that every night since the red light had
been burning there had been shriekings and wailings in the castle,
like those of a murdered man, and the white shadow of a woman,
walking to and fro in the avenue, moaning, and wringing her hands.
Jack had shaken the woman from him, but her words had nevertheless
haunted him, and he had been unable to sleep that night for thinking
of the young earl and the mysterious fortunes of the Bryn Afons. And
when, a few nights afterwards, the light had ceased to burn, he felt
a great relief, and prayed that he might never see it more.
CHAPTER VI.
WITHIN THE CASTLE.
"... My grief lies all within;
And these external manners of Lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul;
There lies the substance."
--SHAKESPEARE.
"In vain I trusted that the flowing bowl
Would banish sorrow and enlarge the soul.
To the late revel and protracted jest,
Wild dreams succeeded and disorder'd rest."
--PRIOR.
It was a glorious evening early in September, and Little Miss
Primrose, who knew all the fairest nooks by the riverside, was
letting the old coracle drift slowly along, between high wooded
banks, gay with festoons of bright red berries and wreaths of
woodbine and feathery clematis, enjoying to her heart's content the
soft summer air and the evening sunlight glinting through the trees,
which lit up her long yellow hair, till it looked like a halo round
the face of some sweet saint. She was dreaming, as she often dreamed
now, of her unknown mother, for she was now fourteen years of age,
and for some time past there had been growing within her heart a
craving to learn something of her mysterious parents--a craving which
betrayed itself in the far-off, dreaming expression of her beautiful
eyes, the look of one always seeking for the invisible. Deep in her
own thoughts, she drifted slowly on, all unconscious of the mute
admiration with which a fisherman, seated on a mossy knoll half-way
up the bank, was regarding her, as the coracle came slowly towards
him. The splash of his line in the water, and his sudden
exclamation, as the tug of a big salmon nearly made him lose his
balance and roll down the bank, made Little Miss Primrose look up and
become suddenly aware of his presence. And when she had looked once,
she looked again, for his face seemed familiar, and she thought him
very beautiful, for he had thick curly hair, fine features, and merry
blue eyes, and she was too young to pay much heed to the strangely
irresolute expression in the mouth, which indeed was greatly
concealed by a long, fair moustache, or to the restless, wandering
look in the bright blue eyes, which with all their merry twinkle wore
a look both of over-excitement and of dissatisfaction.
"A fine fellow, think you not so?" said the fisherman, as the child
checked her little skiff for a moment in its onward course, to gaze
with admiring eyes at the beautiful salmon he had just landed. "Dad
has never caught one so big," answered Little Miss Primrose, nodding
an admiring assent, and favouring the stranger with a swift glance
out of her dark-fringed eyes. "There are beautiful fish in the
river, sir; I often go out fishing with my father." "Beshrew me if I
know not your sweet face!" said the stranger, "and if I mistake not,
I know your coracle, fair maiden, likewise. Are you not both the
property of Jack the boatman?" "Yes, sir," answered the child with a
smile. "Do you know my father?--Not my real father, you know, but I
love him just as much." "I know him right well," said the fisherman,
"and he is verily one of the best fellows I know! So you are Little
Miss Primrose?" "Yes," she answered, "that is the name dad says I
told him I was called when I was a little baby. He does not know if
I have any other name whatever." "It is a very pretty name, and well
suited to so fair a flower!" said the stranger gallantly. "But the
primrose was only a little opening bud when I saw it last! How many
years ago? Why, eight or nine, if I mistake not! Now behold, it is
just blossoming into a full-grown flower. Jack must needs ere long
cease to call you _Little_ Miss Primrose!" "Ah, not yet, please
sir!" she said earnestly. "I would fain not be grown-up yet awhile!
I am but fourteen years old, and dad will call me his 'little girl' a
long time yet, I hope." "Well, if you are not 'dad's' own little
girl," said the stranger, "whose are you? Methinks it were a pity so
tender a blossom should be tossed about by every chance wind! Are
you a fairy or a changeling?" "I do not know, sir," answered
Primrose gravely. "No one knows. My mother sends dad money twice
every year for his care of me, but I do not know why she left me with
him when I was a little baby, and I know not if I shall ever see her.
I care not greatly to find a new father, for I love dad so much; but
sometimes I would fain have a mother like other children!" "And is
that all this little heart craves?" said the stranger. "Are you
verily well content to dwell with my old friend Jack, haunting alone
these silent river-banks like some golden-haired water-sprite?"
"Quite content," she answered, with a little emphatic nod of the
pretty golden head. "A mother is the only thing I would like."
"Alas!" said the stranger. "Would that _I_ had such a spirit of
sweet content that one gift of the gods could render me supremely
happy! But how is this fair head stored with knowledge? Craves it
indeed no key to this world's mysteries than such as yon Dame School
madam can supply? Are these great unfathomable eyes content to look
forth into the years but through the narrow spectacles she fits upon
the brows of her scholars?" "Ah, I did not mean I was content with
my knowledge!" exclaimed the child; "but that methinks I shall never
be, sir, if I should live to be a hundred! Not even when I have read
all the books on Master Rhys' shelves," she added musingly. "He is
my master," she continued, gaining confidence in the stranger, "and I
love him dearly. But his books frighten me, when I see how many
there are, and think how much I must learn ere I am fit to be
grown-up!" "What standard of knowledge and excellence would you fain
reach, ere that desirable period of human existence arrives?" asked
the stranger with an amused laugh. But a look of strange solemnity
had crept into the dark eyes of his little companion, and it was in a
voice of very real seriousness that she answered, speaking more
openly to this unknown friend than she had ever yet dared to speak to
any one: "Sometimes I think there is something before me--something
very far off--which I must needs be ready for, and I must learn a
great many things before I shall be ready for it. I cannot guess
what it is, but it feels in my heart like a hand always beckoning to
me out of a far-off darkness, through which I cannot see." "You are
too young to have evil surmisings, warning dreams, and such like,"
said the fisherman, scrutinising the child's face curiously. "Play
while you can, prithee, sweet child, and leave the grown-up time of
life to take care of itself. Heaven knows it is no such pleasant
time as it would fain show itself through the golden telescope of
youthful eyes," he muttered; "but let us e'en look through the
telescope as long as we may! Well, Little Miss Primrose, I dearly
loved, when a boy, to skim the surface of the fair-flowing Gwynnon in
your ancient coracle! Will you grant me a place beside you therein,
and beg for me some light refreshment at honest Jack's hands, an I
give you my fine salmon in exchange?" "For me, sir?" exclaimed the
child, and the anxious look in the dark eyes gave place in a moment
to a sparkle of childish joy. "It is too beautiful a present! Yes
indeed, I will be proud to row you to our little home, but you must
please sit very still, or perchance I may upset you!" The stranger
laughed, and handing his fishing-tackle to a serving-man of foreign
appearance, who had remained at a little distance, he leaped lightly
into the little barque, and talked with boyish enjoyment of his old
pastime, as the coracle sped back to the bridge. And Little Miss
Primrose chattered merrily in response, puzzling her brains to think
who this old friend of her foster-father's might be, whom she herself
so dimly recollected. She drew back suddenly, and flushed crimson,
when, as they drew to land, Jack came forward with a glad exclamation
of surprise, and greeting the stranger with a low reverence, said in
tones of delighted astonishment; "Welcome, my lord Bryn Afon! This
is indeed an honour you have been pleased to give my Little Miss
Primrose!"
It was late in the evening when the earl, after delighting the
boatman's heart by a prolonged visit, and much pleasant discourse
upon divers matters, political and religious, intermingled with many
a gay tale of court life, to all of which Primrose listened with
eager ears, returned at length to the castle, and entered his wife's
boudoir, a small yet richly-furnished apartment, with deep mullioned
windows, overlooking the river. At one of these windows sat Lady
Bryn Afon, in a listless attitude, her arms resting upon the sill,
and her gaze fixed abstractedly upon the valley below, where the
evening shades were rapidly gathering, dimming the silvery surface of
the river, and veiling the boatman's cottage in their deepening
gloom. So she had sat for hours, almost without moving, with
thoughts presumably far from cheerful, to judge by the wan, weary
look in the pale face which she turned from the window for an instant
as her husband entered. "Why, verily, sweet Guinevere, thou hast not
moved from the spot where I left thee!" he said carelessly, as he
kissed her pale cheek. "What strange fancy holds you spellbound to
this casement?" "Since I cannot come out with you, and share in your
enjoyment of the beautiful river and the summer sunshine," answered
Lady Bryn Afon, with a weary sigh, "is it not surely natural that I
should enjoy what I may from my window? And what view from the
castle is so fine as from this spot, whence the silver line of yon
fair Gwynnon may be traced mile after mile through the valley, and
whence one may watch the purple shades of evening creep slowly over
the folding hills, till they veil in gloom e'en the proud crest of
the lonely Craig Aran?" "It is, in sooth, a fine view," said the
earl, "and you do well, dear love, to enjoy it to the utmost. Yet,
since it is to you but a distant and melancholy pleasure, I doubt
each time I yield to your entreaties that I do wisely in bringing you
hither." "It is not often I urge it, Morveth!" she pleaded, looking
earnestly into his face. "For your sake it is but rarely I plead the
indulgence! Three times only, for a few short weeks, since our
marriage, and one visit of the three in secret! This is only the
second time you have shown your face here since our marriage." "I
hate the place!" said Lord Bryn Afon impatiently. "The atmosphere is
haunted with the curse!" "Break the curse then!" said his wife,
rising suddenly and standing before him, her figure drawn to its full
height, and her eyes dilating with eagerness. "Be a man, Morveth,
and break the curse! Trample it under foot! Do not let it crush you
as it has crushed your forefathers for generations!" "I am powerless
to break it, Guinevere!" answered the earl helplessly, that strange
irresolution of eye and mouth betraying itself only too conspicuously
as he spoke, and destroying all the dignity of the handsome features
and lofty brow. "It has as firm a hold on me as ever it had upon my
father, and I know the doom that awaits me, just as well as I know my
own inability to avert it!" Lady Bryn Afon shuddered. "We will not
talk on the subject," she said. "What is the good? you know your
weakness, and what wife can do, to help you in struggling against it,
I have ever done, and will do to the last. We will leave Bryn Afon.
It is not good for you to spend much time in this o'ershadowed place.
Dear," she added, laying her hand on his arm with sudden tenderness,
"you have indeed been good to me, in yielding to my whim, and in
twice burying yourself here with me, that I might gratify it. I will
leave the castle when you will, and we will travel again--what you
please." "I have a thought, Guinevere," said the earl, recovering
his lightness of manner in his usual thoughtless fashion. "I have
thought many times of late that you would be less lonely if you had
some young companion. Why should we not adopt a child, since we have
none of our own? I am right marvellously taken with yon fair child
below--Little Miss Primrose, who has beauty, grace, and dignity
enough, I trow, to be herself heiress of the ancient house of Bryn
Afon! What say you, sweet wife? Why should we not adopt her, an
Jack the boatman is willing to give her up? She is not his own, and
therefore he need not shrink aghast from such a proposition, though
she has verily crept deep down, I fear, into his rough but honest old
heart! It would be a pleasing new interest in life for you, and I
must needs confess that such a little golden-haired fairy would even
perchance make Bryn Afon itself an endurable residence."
Lady Bryn Afon listened to her husband's sudden proposition in
absolute stillness, only the tight, convulsive clasping of her hands
upon her knee showing that such an idea caused her any emotion. "The
unnatural mother who could part with an innocent babe, to leave it in
a stranger's hands," continued the earl, "for stranger Jack was, if
indeed a relative, is not likely in my opinion to come forward and
reclaim it--or what saith your woman's wit? And for the child's own
sake, surely Jack would not raise any objection? He knows well
enough that she is not his own child, and he must see, as I have done
myself, that she is gifted by nature for a far different life to what
she must needs lead as his daughter, just as--" and stooping to kiss
his wife hastily, he went on; "There, Guinevere, can you picture
yourself in a few years' time the proud mother of a graceful and
accomplished daughter, such as we might make of Little Miss Primrose?
You would find endless joy and amusement, I trow, in training and
educating the child!" "Tell me what she is like," said his wife in a
low voice, and without raising her eyes. "She is verily as fair and
sweet as the flower whose name she bears," answered the earl, "as
sweet a budding primrose as could ever have been a true daughter of
the Bryn Afons! Glorious deep eyes, Guinevere, of blue-grey hue,
fringed with the longest and darkest lashes you e'er beheld, and
then, in marked contrast, a glittering shower of thick golden curls,
falling around the purest of childlike faces! Beshrew me, if I think
not that our faithful Jack's 'distant relative' hath surely mated
with some faithless scion of a noble race! Think you not I have
drawn a glowing picture?"
Lady Bryn Afon raised her dark eyes to her husband's face, and as she
gazed with a strangely wistful intentness into his, large tears
gathered in her own, and fell slowly down upon her clasped white
hands. "Think you truly then, Morveth," she asked bitterly, "that
our miserable house is a fit dwelling for so fair a flower as you
describe? Would you cloud such a bright young life with the heavy
shadow of the curse? Morveth, tempt me not with dreams which you
know are vain! Tell me--I wish not to reproach my husband--but tell
me, are you fit to be guardian to a beautiful innocent child? Is my
life one that can be spent in constant devotion to the education and
careful rearing of a loved daughter?" The earl covered his face for
a moment with his hands, then rose abruptly.
"Always the same old tale, Guinevere," he said impatiently. "Well,
if you are content, I care not. I thought the idea might please you,
that is all." "Pleasure has little place in my life," said Lady Bryn
Afon; "you know that well, Morveth, and you know also that I am
speaking rightly. My conscience can never let me yield to any such
plan as you propose. I would die sooner than suffer this Little Miss
Primrose of whom you speak to fall under the shadow which weighs down
your life and mine! We have rather reason to thank God that we have
in our home no child of our own, upon whose young life it must
inevitably have fallen." "That thought must needs ever give you
comfort!" said the earl bitterly. "Well, I am going to my
smoking-room, and will return shortly." And he turned and left the
room.
Lady Bryn Afon returned to her lonely watch at the stone-mullioned
casement, and for some moments her bitter tears splashed down heavily
upon the crimson-cushioned ledge, on which she leaned her head. She
did not rouse herself from her mournful reverie till ten slow strokes
of the clock suddenly broke the stillness of the dark room, and made
her spring to her feet, exclaiming; "Morveth! How wicked of me to
forget him! It is two full hours since he left me!" She lit a
candle hastily, and hurried downstairs and along the deserted
corridors which led to her husband's smoking-room. A strong odour of
spirits greeted her as she opened the door, and the earl, his
handsome face flushed, and his eyes glittering with the unsteady
light and wandering expression of the drunkard, was in the act of
raising his glass to his lips, with trembling fingers, as she
entered. She sprang forward and dashed the glass from his hand,
letting the fragments and the liquid fall unheeded on the floor. "Is
this the way you keep your promise, Morveth?" she demanded
scornfully, her eyes flashing with indignant reproach. "Did you not
promise me faithfully this very morn that no strong drink should
touch your lips to-day? Are you not for one hour to be trusted
alone?" "I could not help it, Guinevere," stammered the earl, in
thick, unsteady accents. "I know I promised, but it is no good. The
craving is horrible! I have no power to resist it. I did not mean
to do it, but the devil himself holds me in his chains!" "You never
mean to do it," said his wife bitterly, "and you do it every day!
You might have kept your promise and come back to me! But alas, it
is my own wicked fault for forgetting you these two full hours in my
own torturing thoughts. Yet may I never trust you? Must I needs
ever be dogging your footsteps, or pay this price for leaving you in
freedom? Come with me, Morveth." "Just one more glass--let me have
one more glass, if you love me!" implored the earl, in the whining
tone of a child teasing for a new toy. "You are so violent,
Guinevere! Why can you not let me take my glass of wine peaceably,
without all this clamour? Do you wish the servants to see how you
treat your husband?" "I will see to that," said Lady Bryn Afon
coldly, touching impatiently with her foot the broken fragments upon
the floor. "Your servants know you well enough, Morveth. Do not
pretend a shame which you have long outlived! Nay, you shall not
touch the accursed thing again this night! Come with me at once,"
and she laid her hand on his arm, and tried to draw him away. "Take
care, Guinevere!" exclaimed the earl, his maudlin state changing to
one of sudden fury. "You go too far! Are you master of this house?
You take strange liberties with your husband! Stand off! I tell you
I will do what I will in my own house--I will not be ruled by a weak
woman!" Lady Bryn Afon turned pale as he wrested himself from her
grasp, but she quietly placed herself between him and the table
towards which he staggered. "I am not afraid of you, Morveth," she
said, fixing her eyes steadily upon him. "My will is stronger than
yours, and I will force you to obey me. If you resist me," and she
drew from her pocket a small silver whistle, "I have but to use this,
and Rhiwallon will be at my side in a moment. You will scarce,
however, wish me to rouse him from a bed of sickness to my rescue.
See, I am going to lock up all these things, and then you will come
with me to your room." The wretched earl made a quick motion
forward, as if to stop her, as she hastily placed the bottles in a
cupboard, and removed the key, but his mood suddenly changed again,
and dropping into a chair, he began to sob helplessly. He made no
further resistance, however, and allowed his wife to lead him
upstairs to his chamber, where he soon sank into a heavy stupor,
while she, wrapping a shawl round her, sat by the window, keeping
sleepless watch through the summer night. Once only she fell
suddenly upon her knees, and, throwing her arms wildly above her
head, exclaimed in heart-rending tones; "Oh, Satan, tempt me not! It
is impossible, impossible! Yet, my God, my God, it is harder than
human heart can bear!"
Little Miss Primrose watched in vain next day by the riverside for
the earl's tall figure, and the sunny September days rolled away one
by one, but he came no more to the boatman's cottage.
CHAPTER VII.
SHADOWS.
"Ah, must your clear eyes see ere long
The mist and wreck on sea and land,
And that old haunter of all song,
The mirage hiding in the sand?
And with the dead leaves in the frost
Tell you of song and summer lost."
--S. M. B. PIATT.
Hitherto the life of Little Miss Primrose had rolled on in unbroken
sunshine. Tenderly guarded by her foster-father, and protected by
the charm of her own pure loveliness and unconscious childish
dignity, she had moved among the rough villagers unharmed by sight or
sound of evil, which, however rife among the ruder sort, was fain to
hide itself at the sound of her light girlish footfall, or driven in
very shame to put on an outward garb of virtue before the pure and
fearless gaze of the River Maiden's wondrous eyes. Looked upon by
the superstitious country-folk as some mystic sprite from Fairy-land,
or even, by some few of her yet more humble and devoted admirers, as
some youthful saint from Paradise itself, ordained to walk the earth
for a season, Primrose grew into maidenhood as innocent of the
world's evil as if her unknown mother's own arms had shielded her
from her cradle. A true child of nature, she revelled in the
beauties of the far-famed Gwynnon Valley, finding endless joy and
amusement in her play by the riverside, and rambles over hill and
dale in the company of Jack or good Master Rhys, and in the dim
wainscotted library of Cwmfelin Parsonage her intellectual faculties
unfolded themselves under the old vicar's guidance like some fair
flower opening its petals to the sun. Often Jack would go with her
to the rectory, and enjoy a prolonged discussion upon divers matters,
religious and political, with Master Rhys, while she buried herself
among the treasures of those deep oaken book-shelves. Chief among
her favourites was Sir Thomas Malory's _Morte d'Arthur_, over which
she was never weary of poring. Great was the fascination of
discovering that King Arthur's knights had once been used to ride up
and down the fair Gwynnon Valley, and that Arthur had even held court
in Caer Caradoc itself, the now half-ruined castle dwelling majestic
upon its steep, solitary crag, within whose walls the boatman's own
unfortunate daughter had gone forth to her mysterious doom in the
silent depths of the earth. Sir Galahad, the pure and noble "lily
knight," was her hero and favourite mental companion, and so often
did she picture him, with holy, reverend face, riding in quest of the
Holy Grail, bearing ever about with him the purity arid beauty of his
stainless manhood, that he became almost a reality to her, a true
"first love," brave and true and tender, strong as a lion, yet pure
as a lily and gentle as a true servant of Jesus Christ--her ideal of
what a man should be. But these girlish dreams she kept locked
within her own breast, for even though her Sir Galahad was but a
ghost of the long-gone past, there was to her mind a halo of sanctity
about even the thought of love, a feeling, scarcely understood, that
the future reality would be spoiled and tainted by any foolish
trifling with the shadow. And as she grew older, the imaginary
existence of this ideal hero was perhaps the best protection she
could have against the advances of certain would-be country lovers,
from whose worship all Jack's vigilance and her own shy dignity and
reticence could scarce entirely protect her. Not least among her
pleasures were the services held within the little church on the
hillside above the old monastery, where good old Master Rhys daily
said Matins and Even-song, in spite of the ridicule of Master Jones
and his followers, and whither the sound of the bells, calling across
the hills to prayer, would often attract her feet as she returned
from some early morning or late afternoon ramble. Sometimes the
white-haired old man and the golden-haired child were the only
worshippers in the still summer silence, but Primrose learned to love
more and more those few quiet moments, stolen from her books or her
playtime, and especially she loved to gaze through the unpainted
windows at their waving background of green branches, swaying gently
to and fro in the breeze, and forming around the tiny church a soft,
mysterious green curtain, full of gentle whisperings and soothing
motion. One window only of rich painted glass could the little
building boast, placed at the east end some few years before by the
present Lord Bryn Afon to his father's memory; and when a tiny child,
the rich colours streaming from this beautiful window upon the marble
floor of the chancel had ever wondrously fascinated the eye of Little
Miss Primrose, who more than once, having tarried behind Jack on
leaving the church, had been discovered at full length upon the
chancel stones, trying to gather up the glowing colours with her hand!
Jack scarcely knew when it was that the first strange, unwonted
shadow stole over his darling's hitherto unclouded happiness, and
indeed Primrose herself could scarcely trace in her own heart its
beginning, but as she grew out of her childhood, it sometimes seemed
to his watchful eye as though some spirit of evil were wrestling with
the bright young soul, clouding its joy and veiling its sunshine.
Only for a short time and at intervals was he conscious of this
change, but he knew too well every mood of his foster-child for it to
pass unnoticed, and though she never spoke of it, and he scarcely
dared ask her if any secret thought troubled her, he did not fail to
note the paled cheek and the troubled look in the dark eyes, nor the
sudden quieting of the girl's dancing footstep, and her long hiding
of herself in some secret nook by the riverside, whence she would
return, when the fit had passed, unable or unwilling to give further
account of herself than that she had "been thinking." But Jack could
never satisfy himself that "thinking" could be enough to blanch his
darling's cheek and fringe with such black shadows her beautiful
eyes; yet, while hoping that she might open her heart to him, he
shrank from seeking the confidence she was evidently unwilling to
give.
"Dad," she said suddenly one evening, as, strolling slowly towards
Cwmfelin, they passed from the river-bank along the narrow road
beneath the castle, leaving on their right, as they reached the
hamlet, the dark, wooded lane which led to the front entrance to the
castle, where the great iron gates opened into a yet deeper and
darker avenue of grim old oaks and elms, between which the
carriage-drive to the building itself wound in dim mysterious
shadow--"Dad, the story they tell of the lady who walks in the
avenue, crying and wringing her hands, is true, for I have seen her."
"How so then, my pretty?" asked Jack incredulously. "Surely, I fear
me then, you must needs have forgotten your mother's orders, not to
speak of mine whatever!" "Nay, I did not forget them," answered
Primrose frankly, her eyes filling with sudden tears; "I disobeyed
them, dad. It was in the summer of last year, in September, when the
earl was here. You know how I have ever longed and teased to be
allowed just once to peep within yon great iron gates? Well, dear
dad, I longed very much to do so one evening when I was on my way
alone from the rectory towards home, and I had, oh, such a great wish
to see the earl's beautiful face again, and I thought perchance he
might be taking the air in the dark avenue, so I crept through the
lane to the gates, and looked through them. It was the day after the
earl had found me up the river, and had talked with us so long at the
cottage. While I looked, feeling very much frightened at the strange
black shadows the great trees made across the coach-drive, and
wishing the road did not turn so much about, that I might have had
just one peep at the castle itself, a tall lady, wrapped in a long
black cloak, and wearing a veil over her face, so that I could not
see her countenance, came walking slowly down the avenue, wringing
her hands and sobbing as she came, moaning too once and again as if
she were in great pain or wretchedness. And when she came close to
the gates and saw me, for I was too fearsome to hide myself or move,
she threw up her hands and shrieked, and turning round, fled back to
the castle, as though I were the ghost and not she! For me, I ran
home to you, dad, as though I verily had wings, but I dared not tell
you lest you should chide me for my disobedience! But indeed, dear
dad, I am sorry for my naughtiness. Think you she was really a
ghost, as people say, or the poor lady of the castle, weeping over
the curse?" "I doubt not it was the unfortunate Lady Bryn Afon
herself you saw, sweetheart," answered the boatman musingly. "And
was she then so veiled that you could see nought indeed of her
features?" "Nought, dear dad," she answered; "if she were truly the
Lady Bryn Afon, none who so saw her could ever know her again. Will
you then truly forgive my disobedience? Yet," she added musingly, "I
know not that I am so sorry as I fain would be, for in my heart there
is still much gladness that I have seen the ghost of whom I have
heard so many tales, and if she were verily the Lady Bryn Afon
herself, I fear me I am gladder still! Dad, can such a
half-penitence merit forgiveness?" Jack rubbed his forehead with his
horny hand, and looked at his foster-child with a humorous twinkle in
his eye. "Why verily, dear heart," he answered, "that were a
question best asked and answered through yon hole in the wall at
Cwmfelin Parsonage! I have truly made no study of such matters, and
had best forgive thee straightway, and have done with it!" "That is
good," said Primrose, with a little laugh, yet heaving a deep sigh as
she presently asked, "I would fain see the castle, dad! Think you my
mother will ever forbid my doing so? The earl is so kind, he would
surely grant us such a favour as to let us one day visit it in his
absence, when we could disturb no one? Think how interesting it
would be to wander through the dim corridors and deserted chambers at
our will! I would not fear the curse--would you, dad?" "Truly I
cannot tell thee, dear heart," answered Jack; "methinks I have as
stout a heart as most men, yet beshrew me if I love not better to
contemplate the outside of yon grim walls than to look within! Nay,
sweet Primrose, your mother's words may not be gainsaid, and until
she herself shall choose to withdraw them, you must indeed remain
satisfied that she has surely some good reason for her command. I
doubt likewise that the earl would for one moment lend an ear to any
curious wish on the part of ourselves or others to see the castle,
for none but such friends and domestics as the lords of Bryn Afon may
choose to bring with them in their visits to the castle are at any
time admitted within its walls. The last handmaid taken from this
their native country is said to have been the daughter of that poor
gipsy vagabond who still, as you know, roams our valley from time to
time, and who, that is to say the daughter, because of certain skill
she boasted in drugs and plants, was admitted in an evil hour to
treat our present lord's honoured father in a severe attack of
sickness." "And what became of her?" asked Primrose eagerly.
"Instead of curing the earl's sickness," answered the boatman, "she
fell herself a victim to the curse. Its woe and horror turned her
poor weak brain, and she died within the walls, another sad victim to
the curiosity of her sex. For the old gipsy, her mother, has indeed
been known to confess that it was but her desire to learn the secret
of the curse which led her to pretend a wisdom and knowledge of herbs
and their properties which she was verily far from possessing, and by
means of which she gained truly an entrance to the mysteries she
coveted, but had to pay dearly for her knowledge. And since that
time her mother, always of a wild and weak brain, has been possessed
of a burning hatred and desire for revenge upon the House of Bryn
Afon, and has done nought these many years past but wander over the
countryside, inventing rude and scurrilous rhymes, and uttering evil
prophesies which I trow are the promptings of the Wicked One." "Yet,
if she has so suffered, I can but grieve for her," said Primrose
thoughtfully. "I marvel, dad, that our earl's mother could so have
trusted a stranger, however, with the care of her husband?" "The
wench and her mother were fair-spoken, child," answered Jack; "even
as he who, as our good vicar doth tell us, can appear betimes as an
angel of light! And the poor lady of the castle, well-nigh
distraught with her misery, was fain to grasp at any shadow of
relief. Moreover, the tale goes that the gipsy wench gave out that
she was a descendant of the far-famed doctors of Glyn Melen, and in
possession of all their wondrous lore in medicine and disease, and,
as you know, there is neither rich nor poor amongst us who doubts
that some one or another of their descendants do verily to this day
dwell in the mountain, and practise their arts of healing as of old.
Wherefore it was not so passing strange that the lady of Bryn Afon
should have given ready credence to the tale, having in her sorrow
and misery but little heart to weigh the woman's merits over
carefully. I doubt not that in mercy to the House of Bryn Afon, so
evil-minded a woman was removed from this world ere a chance was
permitted her of betraying the secret of the curse far and wide
throughout the neighbourhood, which she would surely have been bold
to do had she returned to her people, or seen again the face of the
old witch, her mother." "Think you then that the curse will never be
made known?" asked Primrose. "May none ever try to undo it? I would
I were a man, that I might fight for its removal! Then at any cost I
would strive to discover it, and do away with it for ever!" "But
since thou art a gentle maiden, sweet one," said Jack, smiling fondly
at her kindling face, "it is thy proper part to abide by thine
unknown mother's commands, and to stifle thy natural curiosity in so
far as never to seek knowledge of the matter against her will. Thou
dost promise this?" he added earnestly. "Ay, dear dad," she
answered; "I will willingly keep my mother's commands, and yours
likewise, nor look down the dark avenue again, I promise you! But
tell me one thing more. Can the curse fall on any who dwell without
the castle walls--on me or you, or any of our villagers?" "Nay, my
child, Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Jack, somewhat startled at the
query. "Such a thing was never known, and I pray you think not of
it. Why indeed can it be that thought, secretly preying on your
little mind, which more than once of late has chased the colour from
your cheek and the brightness from your eye, and caused you to shun
your old dad, and think your troubled thoughts alone?" "I have
thought of it," she answered, a deep blush suffusing her fair face,
"for at times a strange shadow seems to pursue me, dad, driving me,
as it were, to some unknown evil. What it would bid me do I know
not, but of late it has once and again haunted and tormented me, for
methinks there is no evil I could wish to do, dear dad; indeed there
is not much I know of in this beautiful home where all is fair and
lovely, save at the poor old castle!"
"I pray Heaven no shadow of harm from its accursed walls may ever
darken your pure spirit, dear heart!" said the boatman, somewhat
sadly. "Nay, I beg you, suffer no such thought for one moment to
enter your mind, my Primrose, for verily I do assure you it is
impossible such evil should be permitted to befall the innocent
dwellers of the neighbourhood, and no such harm has in the memory of
man been known to fall upon any without the castle walls. That
shadow which pursues you is but a wile of the Evil One to tempt you
astray by means of that busy imagination wherewith Heaven has gifted
you, and by which he would fain terrify you with evil forebodings,
rather than suffer you to continue ever in the pleasant imaginations
of your childhood. Methinks, sweet one, the good and bad angels must
needs fight it out over each one of us, but that good guardian spirit
of your cradle will surely be ever with you and defy the evil, and I
would bid thee, child, to dwell no more in thought upon the castle
and its ill-fortunes, but in your work and play to remember ever that
you are in the hands of God, and that He gives His own angels charge
over you." "Our late king has written learned words on good and bad
spirits," said Primrose thoughtfully, "in that strange book called
_Dæmonologie_, which our dear vicar has in his shelves. Methinks I
have been a foolish girl to read too much therein without his advice,
and have perchance so terrified myself! Lately I have read many
pages of it, and have scarce been able to lay it down, but I had
perhaps been wiser to wait until I were older, ere I read such
curious lore. Indeed Master Rhys coming in one forenoon, and finding
me deep in its pages, did somewhat chide me for opening it without
his permission, and bade me remember that _all_ knowledge I might
find in his books was not 'food for babes,' and that he must
therefore assort it for me. Whereupon I murmured at being still
called a 'babe,' but he did nought but smile at me, and say at his
age he made but little account of my fifteen years!" "What else
would you then, foolish child?" asked Jack fondly. "Rejoice in your
youth while you may, sweet Primrose, and covet not in any wise the
knowledge of riper years, until you have the stronger shoulders of
age wherewith to bear its burden. Play with your flowers, and dream
the sweet dreams of childhood yet awhile, I beseech you, and wish not
the golden years of youth to pass too quickly, for with age cometh
verily sorrow to most of us, and I would fain with my last breath
shield my darling from it! Now to your books, dear heart, while I
talk awhile with Master Rhys on the subject of your confirmation, for
since you so much desire it, I trow he will counsel me to seek of
your mother the knowledge of your rightful name, which she has till
now hidden from us." "I wonder greatly if she will permit us to know
it!" said Primrose eagerly. "I fain would do so, though it will be
strange to know myself by any other name than Primrose. Yes, I would
indeed seek the grace of confirmation, an it please you, dear dad,
for Master Rhys has of late oft spoken to me on the matter, and I
have many a time thought when that strange shadow has troubled me,
that I must needs neglect none of those means of grace which may
surely help me to overcome it. It is not often that I am aught but
happy and light-hearted, dad, as you know, yet now I am growing older
the thought sometimes comes to me that strange things may be in store
for me, and perchance a life where all is not full of sunlight like
our beautiful valley. Methinks I had a curious beginning, and when I
think of it, and of my unknown parents, my heart grows full of
strange forebodings for the future." "Thy future is in the hands of
God, my child," said the voice of Master Rhys, who, walking with his
hands clasped behind his back, and his white hair bared to the
evening breeze, came suddenly upon them, as they turned a corner of
his garden-path. "What anxious thoughts fill my child's heart
to-day?" "I will, with your leave, dear master, go and have them all
blown away in your library!" answered Primrose, lifting to his a face
which had already regained its brightness. "You think but scorn of
my fifteen years, but I do assure you it is an age at which one may
indeed have serious thoughts betimes! Yet I do confess that for this
day I have had more than enough, and will gladly forget them in the
exploits of my favourite Knights of the Round Table." "Then away
with you!" said the vicar with a smile; "and you, good Jack, shall
meanwhile converse with me awhile in my study, since it is now some
days since we have exchanged many words together."
CHAPTER VIII.
FORTUNE-TELLING.
"Destiny is but the breath of God."
--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
"... God hath not taken all that pains in forming and framing and
furnishing and adorning this world, that they who were made by Him to
live in it should despise it; it will be well enough if they do not
love it so immoderately, to prefer it before Him who made
it."--CLARENDON.
Having been advised without hesitation by Master Rhys to make inquiry
through the Black Horseman as to the baptismal name of Little Miss
Primrose, with a view to her much-desired confirmation at the next
opportunity, the boatman awaited, with almost as much impatience as
his foster-child herself, the arrival of the coal-black steed and his
mysterious rider, whose usual half-yearly visit was now drawing near.
In the meantime, to divert her thoughts from the matter, he gladly
agreed to a proposal made one day by the kind-hearted old vicar, to
take her with him some fine morning on horseback to Caer Caradoc,
that grim old castle perched on a lonely precipitous crag some twelve
miles distant, which had long ago been the abode of her favourite
King Arthur and his knights, and where also, in its mysterious
subterranean passage, the boatman's lost daughter had met her tragic
fate. So one afternoon, when reading by herself in the library at
Cwmfelin Parsonage, as was her frequent custom, she jumped for joy
when Master Rhys entered the room, and holding aloft a letter in his
hand, said gaily: "A summons to our little British Queen from my Lady
Rosamond of Caer Caradoc, to spend the morrow in her company, an she
will trust herself to the care of her white-haired friend, and a
pillion on the back of his good old grey mare. What say you, child?"
"Does she indeed bid you bring me with you?" exclaimed Primrose, her
eyes sparkling. "Why indeed, dear master, there is nothing I would
like so well! I have long wished I might see my dear King Arthur's
castle, yet I could not see how it might ever be, since I dare not
ask my father to take me to a place which is to his mind so full of
sorrow. Methought the castle had been these many years left
desolate?" "And so it has been," answered Master Rhys; "a caretaker
only has dwelt there for several years past, Sir Ivor Meredith having
resided some while abroad ere his marriage. Some lingering love for
his old home has at length drawn him hither with his young wife, and
I rejoice much thereat, for I like not to see these fine old castles,
the glory of our country-side, left to the bats and owls. Lady
Rosamond is the daughter of a dear friend of mine, who honoured me
with much pleasant company and friendship at Oxford in our youthful
days, but who, alas, has some while since passed away from this
world. She is but young, thirty or thereabouts, whereas her husband,
Sir Ivor, must by now number some forty years or more. Ere her
marriage some three years since she was, as I well recollect, as wild
and tricksy a maiden as might be found, yet withal of so good a heart
and warm affection that one could but love her and pardon her faults.
I have but now parted from your foster-father, who is willing and
glad that you should accompany me, so now away with King Arthur, for
it groweth dusk, and the road is lonely, and there are now no knights
of the Round Table to afford succour to a fair-haired damsel in
distress by the way! Which knight of them all would the Primrose
choose for her liege servant?" "Sir Galahad," answered Primrose
softly. "Methinks, Master Rhys, no mortal man could e'er have been
so like our dear Lord Himself as he, and he alone was worthy to go in
quest of the Holy Grail. The knight I would choose should be like
him." "It is a worthy choice," said the old vicar, smiling, "yet I
fear me the world doth boast but few Sir Galahads." "Are men for the
most part wicked, then?" asked Primrose, lifting her large grey eyes
to his face wonderingly. "That would be a hard saying," he answered;
"yet out of the many there are but few I would see you choose for
your knight, sweet Primrose. Dream of your Sir Galahad, an you will,
my child, and let all living knights alone yet awhile. You do not
crave to leave this lonely country-side, and see the gay world yet?"
"No," she answered, shaking her head. "I love these wild hills and
the lonely river and gloomy old castle more than I could ever love
the court where the earl loves to spend his time. I wish for
nothing, only sometimes for my mother, and for her I only wish with a
certain dread, for who can tell whether she will love me, and what my
life may then be?" And musing deeply upon her unknown and mysterious
parents, Primrose walked slowly homewards along the silent roadway,
heeding nothing around her, until, passing the dark lane which led to
the castle entrance, she started violently at finding herself
confronted by the old vagrant gipsy, who suddenly appeared from the
hedgerow, and addressed her in shrill tones. Years had not improved
the appearance of the old woman, whose withered face now looked like
parchment, and whose ragged garments hung loosely about her
tottering, shrivelled limbs. But Primrose was too well accustomed to
the apparition to feel any actual fear, for once at least in every
year she was wont to reappear and wander about the valley, singing
her rude rhymes, yet never harming any one, nor noticing the
golden-haired girl, save to eye her with wild glances as she passed,
which Primrose from her babyhood had returned quite fearlessly. The
suddenness of her present appearance, however, was somewhat
startling, especially as the old crone, holding up a skinny
forefinger, placed herself in the middle of the young girl's path,
and pointing to the castle, said in a shrill whisper: "It is there
again!" "What is there?" asked Primrose, a little awestruck, but
speaking fearlessly. "The ghost," answered the old hag hoarsely;
"the ghost that walks and wrings its hands, up and down, up and down.
Yester eve, in the dark, the earl came, and he brought the ghost with
him--in the dark, child, but I saw him!" And she laughed a shrill,
horrible laugh. "He ever comes and goes in the dark, but the gipsy
sees him! Go not near the castle, child; there's a curse on it--a
curse, do you hear?" And she brought her withered face so close to
Primrose that the girl recoiled. "What is the curse?" she asked
boldly. "Why should there be a curse? Why is none brave enough to
destroy it? I would. I would live in the castle and defy it, if it
were mine. It is but some foolish tale." "You defy it--a girl like
you!" laughed the old hag derisively. "Away with you, I say! Why
should the curse fall on your golden head? Away--away from the gates
of woe!" And she threw up her arms and uttered a wild shriek. "Do
you know aught about the curse?" asked Miss Primrose, curiosity
overpowering her fear. "Why do you forever talk so much about it? I
believe it is all nonsense." "A chit like you knows naught,"
answered the gipsy scornfully. "I tell you, girl," and her wild eyes
glared, "I tell you it slew my daughter." "Ah, I forgot," said
Primrose remorsefully; then touched with a deep sympathy, she laid a
fearless hand on the old woman's arm, and said gently; "How was that?
Tell me, an it will give you comfort." "Not now, not now," muttered
the woman; "I may perchance recall it to mind another day; but my
head is old, and my memory fails me.--Let me tell thy fortune, pretty
child," she added, suddenly changing her tone. "For a little bit of
silver I can tell thee a pretty fortune." "I have no faith in
fortune-telling," answered Primrose; "but if a little bit of silver
is what you want, here it is, and you may tell me what you please in
return!" And she held out a rosy palm, half in fear, half in
amusement. "I shall believe never a word," she said, with a laugh;
"but I have often heard of fortune-telling, and I would like just to
hear what you can say." "You are proud of your birth, that is
plain," said the gipsy, peering closely in the twilight into the
little hand she held. "I see a long ancestry, and you have great,
yes, very great pride of birth----" "Indeed I have not!" exclaimed
Primrose, laughing, "for I know nothing of it. Why, dear gipsy, I do
not even know what parents I have to be proud of, much less what
ancestry!" "Hush!" said the gipsy, "you talk too fast. An you care
not to listen, I will cease." "Nay, prithee go on, dear gipsy!" said
Primrose contritely, "and I will hold my tongue. Ah! but you are
surely flattering me more than such a tiny bit of silver were worth!"
for with glib tongue the old woman ran on in a stream of poetical
language, ascribing to her young listener such virtues and
perfections of mind and person as brought blushes to her cheeks.
"You will deeply love and be loved," she continued, "yet I see no
marriage. Fate will make or mar your union. You are gentle, yet you
have a strong will, and you will make of your love what you will. He
to whom it is given will be worthy, brave as the lion, yet gentle as
the lamb and pure as the lily." "That should, methinks, be seen on
his hand, not on mine," murmured Primrose with a laugh, yet blushing
deeper in the darkness, as she thought of Sir Galahad, and wondered
if there were indeed any like him among living men. "I will tell no
more!" said the old woman suddenly, letting the girl's hand fall, and
uttering a sort of moan. "Go home, child, and may the sun shine upon
your golden head while it will!" "Why will you tell no more?" asked
Primrose. "Would you fain turn my silly head with your praises, and
hide from me my faults and my sorrows?" "I will tell no more,"
repeated the gipsy steadily; "sickness and death must come to us all,
soon or late, late or soon, who can tell?" "You cannot tell," said
Primrose. "Nay, it were better that I should let you say no more,
for God alone can tell when we shall die or suffer sickness. I would
not seek to learn it from you, for methinks it would be a sin."
"Suffer no one to tell your fortune, girl, but me," said the old
woman, as she hobbled away, rocking herself and moaning as if in
pain. "It were a pity to bring tears to such pretty eyes. Yet
methought there was but little pity left in this hard heart!
Promise, girl!" and she turned again, and eyed Primrose fiercely.
"None shall ever tell it again," answered Primrose, shutting up her
little hand tight. "It was but for fun I let you do it, dear gipsy,
and I believe not a word, I warrant you! Yet I am not sure but I
shall indeed be scolded by my foster-father. Methinks I am ever
doing for fun what I must afterwards repent of! Content you then,
good gipsy, for indeed there is none of whom I would seek to know
this future of mine on which you look so darkly mysterious! Methinks
God would have us take each day as He sends it, and by ever using it
well, so be ready against the future when it comes." "God," muttered
the old woman under her breath, "I have long since forgotten that
word. Speak it not, girl! That name has nought to do with me!" and
with a wild shriek, she shook off the detaining hand of Primrose, and
plunged into the bushes at the side of the road, whence came, in
quavering accents to the young girl's ear, as she turned slowly
homeward, the old refrain which the gipsy had ever been so fond of
singing: "And in the dark water together, The primrose and lily shall
sleep." "I marvel if by the Primrose she means me!" said the girl to
herself. But she forgot the rude rhyme quickly in the sad thoughts
of pity and sympathy for the wretched old woman, which her last
despairing words had evoked in her breast, and some few moments later
was pouring out her tale to the old boatman, and busily planning some
missionary scheme for the rescue of the poor benighted wanderer. "I
would our vicar might be able to seek her out, and turn her poor
crazy mind to some new and better thought, whatever!" said Jack.
"But he is an old man, and scarce fit to track so slippery a fish.
Moreover, I misdoubt me at times that he hath ever dwelt over much
among the dead in his library, to the forgetfulness of the living,
which it were treason to say of so good and holy a man, save only
between such true friends as you and me, Primrose! Yet every man
must follow his own bent, and I say not that he has not done much
good by his learning. I have but thought at times, that had he been
less studious and hermit-like, Master Jones might perchance have
found in him a more active enemy, and so we might have been spared
some few of the long Puritan faces in our midst! They mean well, I
doubt not, but I trust them not, and methinks they would verily as
fain burn many of us as our prayer-books!" "That is ever your
grievance against Master Jones!" laughed Primrose. "He is truly
bitter against the book, yet I think he would come short of burning
you and me! I am glad my mother did not give me to the care of a
Puritan, dad, for I like them not myself. Surely this bright world
that God has made cannot be such a sorry place as they would have us
believe? It was but yesterday, dad, that I met good Master Jones by
the riverside. The birds were singing and the sun shone, and I could
but sing too for joy because the world seemed so beautiful, but he
looked upon me with a sour countenance, and said:--(Why do they all
speak thus through the nose?)--'Prithee, maiden, stay thy singing,
and give thy mind to graver matters. Thou dost nought but sing like
the chattering birds the whole of the live-long day! Beware lest
evil fall upon thee and quickly change thy tune, for methinks thy
voice is but a snare of the Evil One!'" Jack laughed. "And what
answer made you, Primrose?" he asked. "'An I were to come and sing
for you in your quire at the chapel, good Master Jones,' I said, 'you
would never say my voice was the gift of the Evil One. Did you not
say but last Sunday to Mistress Evans, that could you but turn the
boatman's daughter from her heresy, her singing would draw all the
country-side to your chapel? Surely that was a vain speech, and
likely to turn the head of such a silly maiden as I. Nevertheless I
will rather sing here to the birds, who love their church and their
king better than you do!' With that he grew red, and said angrily:
'It is but little longer you will have a church or a king to boast
of, foolish girl. Yon building on the hillside, with all its
idolatrous ornaments and vain pomps, will lie low in the dust ere
many more years have rolled over your golden head!' 'Methinks, good
Master Jones,' I said, 'that if God had so loved to see things, He
would surely have made a whitewashed world like the inside of your
chapel, instead of all these beautiful colours of earth and sky which
we see around us!' and at that he grew redder than before, and turned
on his heel and left me to my folly. Think you I shall one day find
it to be but a sorry world, dad? Is it only because I am as yet so
young, that I find it so beautiful and full of joy?" "God's shadows
fall but where He lets them, sweetheart," answered the boatman
reverently, "and should they chance to fall sometime on you, remember
there could be no shadows but for the sun; and look therefore the
rather to his bright shining, knowing the darkness must surely pass.
Yet I pray no shadow may fall across your path for many a long year,
my darling! Now let us to bed, and may the sun shine fair on Caer
Caradoc on the morrow!"
[Illustration: "SHE HELD OUT A ROSY PALM, HALF IN FEAR, HALF IN
AMUSEMENT."]
CHAPTER IX.
SIR GALAHAD.
"A man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's heaven for?"
--ROBERT BROWNING.
Early next morning the old vicar, astride his faithful grey mare,
appeared before the boatman's cottage; and Primrose, mounting the
pillion behind him, rode away with him in high spirits, the two
affording a pretty picture of old age and youth, their white and
golden locks tossing in the fresh morning breeze. It was a gay ride,
for the sun shone and the way was beautiful, and Primrose was
triumphant at the thought of at last setting foot within one of the
many renowned old castles of the neighbourhood, none of which, save
Bryn Afon itself, interested her so much as Caer Caradoc, the ancient
abode of her mythical hero. She could fancy at every turn in the
road that she heard the clanking of King Arthur's knights, riding
their brave steeds at full speed across the valley, and would
scarcely have been surprised had she seen Sir Launcelot and Sir
Galahad themselves guarding the postern-gate, at which at length,
towards mid-day, they drew up, a trifle weary with their two hours'
ride. Lady Rosamond greeted her old friend with much warmth of
affection, and bade Primrose a hearty welcome, leading her by the
hand into the long dining-hall, and giving her a place next to
herself at the midday meal. She was young and beautiful, and in her
manner there was a sort of breezy vivacity which might be compared in
its effects upon those around her to the blowing of a strong west
wind! It was impossible to be long shy or silent in her presence,
and in spite of the state with which she was surrounded, Primrose ere
long felt quite at her ease. "What, no wine!" exclaimed Lady
Rosamond laughingly, as her young guest, with a slight flush upon her
fair face, refused the sparkling fluid offered to her. "Is it then a
fair Puritan maiden you have brought us, dear rector? She is firm,
and will not be tempted? Why then, Primrose, I would the Lady Bryn
Afon were already here to commend you. She comes anon to join us for
an hour, and were she now here I should be fain to hide my
wine-bottles beneath the table, such spite has she against them!
What think you, dear Master Rhys, on these new-fangled notions about
wine-drinking? Do you account it indeed such a deadly sin?" "I fear
it is a subject to which I have hitherto given but little thought,"
answered Master Rhys candidly. "Dwelling much among my books, I
have, I fear, too much neglected to note the evils wrought by the
love of strong drink among my parishioners, and am but newly awakened
to a sense of their greatness. It is but recently that I have given
up myself the use of all strong beverages, and that after much
consideration; but I have drawn to the conclusion of late that it is
a wise step to be taken by one in charge of souls, and in good sooth
a wise one for our people likewise to follow an they will. There is
much drunkenness around us in our country homes, and the
foster-father of my fair charge here has long put me to shame by his
example, which has indeed long influenced his neighbours for good,
insomuch that our own village is known for its sobriety.
Nevertheless, I doubt whether I had been yet awakened to any true
sense of the evil but for a pamphlet shown to me some months since by
your learned neighbour and my own esteemed cousin, Master Rhys
Prichard, and writ, as he tells me, by the scholarly pen of a young
Cambridge student--in truth, a masterful production, and greatly
creditable to so youthful a writer." "Know you his name?" asked Lady
Rosamond, somewhat curiously.
"Nay," replied Master Rhys, "the pamphlet has been anonymously put
forth, and my cousin knows not the name of its author; but young
Master Jeremy Taylor, whom he has oft met of late at my Lord
Carbery's mansion, has confessed to him that it came from the pen of
a Cambridge youth, well known to himself, and one well versed in the
subject of which he treats. It is, however, his opinion that this
young apostle of temperance has appeared before his time, and that
although the evils he combats are undoubted, yet that the spirit of
the age is not yet ripe to follow his lead, and that he is like to
wage a single-handed fight, and tread his solitary path of abstinence
somewhat hardly. Nevertheless, young Jeremy doth bid him God-speed
in his labours, giving him the comfort of his sympathy and of that
ripe wisdom and learning which have already made his university proud
of so noble a scholar. You spoke anon of the Lady Bryn Afon as one
likely to commend my fair Primrose in her own resolve upon the
matter. Is it then a subject in which she herself takes interest?"
"She has cause," answered Lady Rosamond slowly, "and I blame her not,
though I follow not her example, being not made," she added laughing,
"of that heroic mould which leads us to give up what is pleasant for
the sake of others! For this I am much taken to task, I assure you,
by the youth yonder who discourses such sweet music from the gallery."
Primrose glanced upwards through the oaken balustrade, whence the
sounds of an organ played by a master hand had been throughout the
meal entrancing her ear. But the heavy curtain drawn across the
gallery hid the player from view, and she looked at Lady Rosamond
inquiringly. "He has never confessed himself guilty of authorship,"
said Lady Rosamond, "but beshrew me if I tax him not anon in private
with the production of your anonymous pamphlet, Master Rhys. The
very name of strong drink is enough to kindle his ire, and make his
eye flash scorn upon us all!" "This is indeed a singular
coincidence," said the vicar. "Who then is this concealed friend of
yours, from whose fingers it would seem that powerful words and sweet
music alike flow with equal charm?" "He is a youth," answered Lady
Rosamond, "in whom the poetic and romantic features of character
derived from a mother of royal Welsh blood are so harmoniously
blended with the noble and manly qualities of a noble English
ancestry as to produce in himself a very impersonation of all virtues
and graces! So thinks my worthy husband, who loves the youth as a
dear younger brother, and I promise you I come not far behind him in
my own good opinion of the boy! His father was a younger son of the
noble Vere, Earl of Oxford, of poetic renown in the days of good
Queen Bess, and, as you doubtless remember, a brave and courtly
favourite of her most august majesty. He (that is to say, our young
fanatic's father) held a benefice for many years not far distant from
the fair city of Sarum, where he died some eighteen months since,
having already some months earlier lost his beloved wife, the
beautiful and saintly Lady Enid, of whose rare devotion to holy
things many a pretty tale has been told me by my mother. Her maiden
home was near to my own birthplace, and but a stone's-throw from
Montgomery Castle, where was born that saintly man, her own infant
playmate, and in after years her husband's dearest friend, Master
George Herbert, whose late cure of Bemerton, nigh to Sarum, lay at
but some few miles distance from the country rectory in which Master
Vere laboured for many years. The youth in yon gallery raves
continually of this holy and learned man, at whose feet he drank in
such inspiration to holiness as may well have fostered in him that
saintliness of character at first derived from so good a mother, and
for which he is already remarkable. He can repeat Master Herbert's
poems, I trow, by the hour together, and is ever throwing them in my
face in support of his own wild theories on the subject of strong
drink. And he laments his death even now scarcely less sorely than
that of his own father--which deaths, by a strange coincidence, took
place within some few days of each other in the month of February of
this last year,--a fitting mutual unloosing of those earthly bonds
which had long knit the two reverend friends in a deep affection."
"Say rather," interrupted Master Rhys, "a merciful exchange of
earthly bonds for heavenly. Methinks Death can cause no long
severance between holy friends! And the boy--is he an only child?"
"A brother and sister died in their infancy," replied Lady Rosamond,
"and he had in consequence a somewhat lonely childhood. He became a
scholar of Winchester, where he gained much distinction, and was
destined by his father for his own college, Christchurch; but meeting
with young Jeremy Taylor at our house some four years since, so
violent a friendship sprang up between the youths that nothing would
content our hero but the University of Cambridge and the close
proximity of his friend, then entered upon his career at Caius. So
with his father's permission he became, some two years since, being
then eighteen years of age, a scholar of Christ's, where, I warrant
you, he whiles away many a shining hour beneath the o'erhanging
boughs of Master Milton's mulberry tree, evolving his wild dreams of
an early Elysium wherein no fragrant juices of the grape shall find
place. What with the poetic atmosphere he must needs inhale daily
beneath those inspired branches, and the power of verse bequeathed
him by his illustrious grandsire, joined to the musical gifts
inherited from the fair Lady Enid, he will, I do assure him, pass ere
long into some ethereal region far above this vulgar workaday world,
where his golden visions may be dissipated by no rude shock and his
castles in the air rear themselves aloft without fear of fall! Yet
he has withal a true enjoyment of all that is good in this nether
world, and can enter with a zest I love to see into its harmless joys
and pleasures, and I do verily love to tease and plague him as to the
severity he shows towards such as he deems harmful. Since the death
of his father he has been wont to spend much of his vacation time
(being somewhat cavilled at by the lordly Veres for his heterodoxy on
the true Doctrine of Wines) in our company, a right welcome guest, I
assure you! He is destined, I doubt not, to make some mark in the
world, an he will not waste his precious moments in the putting forth
of pamphlets abusing God's good creatures! But on this subject of
strong drink he bestows so much thought, that I fear me he will mar
his prospects by over-much study in this one direction. He confesses
himself likewise to "have some special and secret mission in
connection therewith ever before his view, and with none of my
feminine beguilements can I as yet induce him to reveal it to me, nor
explain, so as to satisfy my curious mind, his great interest in so
newfangled a notion." "I would much like to see this youth," said
Master Rhys. "Can he not be persuaded to leave his organ for awhile,
and favour us with his company?" "Nay, he is 'court musician' for
the nonce," answered Lady Rosamond, shaking her head; "and having
bargained with me for a displacement of our accustomed musician, for
the sole purpose of hiding himself from strangers, I dare entreat
with him no more on the matter. I know not what fit of shyness is on
him, but he begged with such earnestness to be excused from dining
with us--a common freak of his, when we entertain guests who are
strange to him--that I could but give way to his desire for
retirement, imposing, however, upon him as a penalty the duty of
entertaining us at our meal in the manner you hear. And in truth the
handling of the instrument is many degrees better than that of our
daily organist, and a treat to the ear. The Lady Bryn Afon, I must
tell you, has a great desire to secure him for her husband's private
chaplain, having, as I said, much sympathy with his strangely
misguided notions as to our proper beverages, which notions he verily
holds fast as the Gospel itself! I do not obey his teachings, I
warrant you, yet I suffer him to preach them to me continually, for
the pleasure of hearing him talk!" "Has he then made such special
study of the matter?" asked the vicar. "His pamphlet was indeed a
scholarly piece of writing, and I can scarce believe it to be the
work of a youth of but twenty years of age." "I know not whether the
pamphlet be his or no," answered Lady Rosamond, "but I can affirm
boldly that he has already studied everything under the sun which has
been revealed to mortal man upon the matter,--and more, for, as I
tell him, I firmly believe he holds converse with the gods of old,
who, as we know, loved well their wine, and must have much experience
to relate thereon, as to its effects both on their terrestrial life
and that in which they are now expiating their excesses." "He is all
this time a nameless hero," said the vicar with a smile. "Must his
Christian name remain as unrevealed to us as his person?" "Nay, it
is no secret," answered Lady Rosamond, "save with respect to this
mysterious pamphlet, which we are making bold to ascribe to him!
Percival Vere is his name, but at Christ's College they have
nicknamed him 'Sir Galahad,' saying truly that it is a yet more
fitting appellation for one, the purity of whose countenance and
spotlessness of whose life and fame do render him a right worthy
impersonation of the sacred Knight of the Holy Grail. His father
would have had him called Lancelot, after his noble grandsire
Lancelot Ap Gryffyth, lord of brave lands and right worthy descendant
of that unfortunate king of ours, whose head King Edward of England
caused so ruthlessly to be hung up upon the gates of Carnarvon City.
But the Lady Enid would have her son bear no name of sinful knight,
e'en though it were the name her own brave father bore right
worthily, and called the boy Percival, trusting that he might rather
choose the ways of purity and peace, in which that more holy knight
of old had walked.--Now, Primrose, there were a noble ambition for
our gallant youth--to win back the ancient kingdom of his
forefathers!" "Has he then so warlike a wish?" asked the girl.
"Indeed, no!" said Lady Rosamond with a laugh. "The English half of
him is over-much devoted to our poor King Charles, I warrant you,
e'er to suffer the Welsh half to incite him to rebellion! Moreover,
it were to his fanatical mind a far nobler ambition, I trow, to win
the principality from what he is pleased to call the slavery of
drink, than from its subjection to the English sovereign! But,
indeed, dear Master Rhys, the youth is not singular in his love for
the king, for the Welsh love the Stuarts with all their heart, and my
husband assures me they will rise as one man in defence of our
troubled monarch should his enemies e'er drive him to extremity."
And while her hostess and her old friend plunged into political
matters to a depth where Primrose could not well follow them, she
glanced again at the curtain across the gallery, where the soft music
still rolled on, the player all unconscious of being so long the
topic of converse. A soft colour rose in her face. She had then
come to Caer Caradoc, there to find in truth one of the brave knights
of old, and none other than her own hero! Would there were in the
thick curtain a hole but ever so small, through which he might for a
moment be revealed! This day was indeed to be a memorable one, for
was she not also to see at last, visibly in the flesh, the mysterious
Lady of Bryn Afon Castle, whom none in the valley had ever yet
beheld, not even the good vicar himself? She had little expected
such a pleasure as this. "We met soon after my marriage at Court,"
she heard Lady Rosamond say presently, in answer to some query of the
vicar's, "and have ever since remained good friends, though we have
met but little, since I have been much abroad with my husband, for
his health's sake. And indeed I have as yet spent but little more
time, as you know, at Caer Caradoc, than the Lady Bryn Afon in her
strangely-doomed castle. She has a greater love for it, however,
than her husband, and has confessed to me that more than once, weary
of the busy Court life, she has escaped from it, with his consent, to
the solitudes of yon steep, and there by stealth passed a little
quiet time, unknown to the villagers, greatly to her own
refreshment." "She does not then share his fear and horror of the
curse?" said the vicar. "Whether so or no," answered Lady Rosamond,
"she has a strange love for the poor ruined stronghold, and tells me
she is at times well content to pass her days in quiet contemplation
of the beautiful scenery which she can well enjoy from her windows,
without going forth to be the gazing-stock of the villagers. It is
not without difficulty that I have persuaded her to visit us to-day,
and it is wholly to your fair Primrose here that we are indebted for
her graciousness, for so much has she heard the earl, her husband,
talk of the river-maiden in bygone days, that she must needs come and
see her for herself. Come; much pleasant converse hath made us tarry
long over our meal. Let me, ere our noble friend comes, do you the
honours of my castle." And grace being said by the vicar, they rose
from table, and went first in search of that marvellous underground
passage, much used in former times as a means of communication
between the three strongholds of Caer Caradoc, Bryn Afon, and Craig
Arthur, which latter was a noble and most beautiful castle crowning a
wooded height immediately above the river some few miles from Bryn
Afon: and at a little greater distance on its other side from Caer
Caradoc. "But now," said Lady Rosamond, "it has remained ever unused
since the day when the fair daughter of Jack the boatman met within
its gloomy walls her untimely fate." "I would not greatly like to
travel so many miles below the earth," said Primrose, returning with
a shudder to the light of day, after penetrating with Lady Rosamond
some little distance along the narrow passage by means of lighted
candles. "Fie, you have no courage!" said Lady Rosamond with a
laugh. "Methinks you fall short in bravery of your fair relative,
who, it would seem, went to her tragic death out of mere curiosity,
though, in truth, it seemeth to me also, I must confess, that the
curiosity of the bravest of my sex would scarce be enough to lead her
into such a place of darkness and horror alone. Faugh! a few yards
are quite enough for me! For what would you venture through the
tunnel then, Primrose, since the sin of our mother Eve were not a
motive strong enough?" "If one I loved were at the other end,
methinks I could go through bravely," said Primrose, blushing softly.
"A brave answer," said her friend with a laugh. "What will not a
weak woman do for love? Yet if my lord were so to try mine, my heart
misgives me I should fail him! May he never so cruelly make trial of
my constancy! Come, look at the view from this window. See how
grandly the cliff sweeps away beneath us, down great depths into the
valley. Think how bravely we could level our enemies from us; an
they tried to scale these crags to attack us, with what a mighty fall
they would plunge headlong down yon steep, while we---- What, thou
art pale, sweet Primrose! An you were a soldier's daughter and wife
like me, your cheeks would glow and your heart swell within you at
the picture. Hark! I hear the bell and the barking of the dogs. My
Lady Bryn Afon is arriving. I pray you finish the tour of our castle
in our good guide's company, while I greet her. Llewellyn, you will
anon conduct our guests to the withdrawing-room, where we shall await
them."
CHAPTER X.
THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.
"O, pray you, noble lady, weep no more;
But let my words, the words of one so small,
Who knowing nothing knows but to obey,
* * * * * * *
Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow
From evil done; right sure am I of that,
Who see your tender grace and stateliness."
--TENNYSON.
Half-an-hour later Llewellyn, the guide, ushered Master Rhys and his
young charge, whose heart was beating with some excitement at the
prospect of the interview, into the room where Lady Rosamond, ever a
picture of youth and beauty and gay contentment, stood looking forth
from one of the casements, her arm linked in that of her friend,
whose pale and statuesque style of beauty formed a marked contrast to
her own brightness and vivacity. Primrose gazed on the lady of the
mysterious castle with a sort of fascination, withdrawing modestly
into a corner of the deep casement after being presented to her,
while the vicar and the two friends interchanged civilities. Her
face was one of striking interest, the complexion very pale, and the
expression of the features marked with a deep melancholy. Her eyes
were wonderfully large and dark, and deep shadows lay beneath them,
as though they had watched and wept greatly. Much of both pride and
sweetness lay in the curves of the beautiful mouth, and face and form
both generally betokened a character of great strength and
individuality, a woman in whom great pride and haughtiness were
tempered and chastened by infinite sorrow--a woman who could love
intensely and suffer in proud silence--who might have sinned
perchance for those she loved, and be still repenting in tears and
bitterness. Her raven hair was already deeply tinged with grey, yet
her face was still young in spite of its many lines of pain, and she
could scarcely be over forty years of age. Her voice, too, charmed
Primrose; it was deep and low and full, like the tones of an organ,
and when she turned and spoke to the young girl, calling her out from
her quiet corner, a light broke out amidst the shadows on her face
which made her very beautiful. Primrose felt herself entranced,
while at Lady Bryn Afon's bidding she told her the strange story of
her babyhood and adoption by Jack, of all his great love and care for
her during her lonely childhood by the riverside, of the mysterious
visits of the Black Horseman, and the occasional glimpses of the gay
outside world, gained during the earl's short and far-between
sojourns at the castle. She told also of the good old vicar's
kindness, and of all she had learned from him in her daily tasks in
his study, and of her love for his tiny church on the hillside, where
the green branches waved across the windows, and round which the
summer breezes played their soft whispered accompaniment to the
chanting within; and next she confessed her great desire to offer
herself as a candidate at the Confirmation which the Lord Bishop of
St. David's had given out to be held at the ensuing Michaelmas, and
for that reason to obtain in the meanwhile the knowledge of her
rightful name from her unknown mother. And as Lady Bryn Afon bade
her talk without fear of all that was in her heart, saying that from
what her husband had told her she had long felt a deep interest in
her story, Primrose owned the deep longing she felt at times to see
her mysterious mother, and her frequent secret wonder as to whether
she would indeed ever bear to leave her foster-father and go to her
should she bid her. "Methinks you could not choose but go to her,"
said Lady Bryn Afon musingly, "though truly the parting would be a
hard one for both of you. You are brave, sweet Primrose, though
withal of tender heart, and had your unknown mother a mission for you
to fulfil in life for her sake, your courage would, I trow, scarce
fail you. Think you so?" "I will do my mother's bidding, cost me
what it may," answered Primrose steadfastly. "It can but cost me
dear to leave the father who has loved and tended me so truly, but I
oft think this pleasant life by the riverside must one day have an
ending, and that something more must needs await me in the future. I
know not what it may be, but of late, when I have been happiest in my
play, I have felt a foreboding in my heart, of what I know not,
but----" "It needs not to be a foreboding of evil, sweet one," said
Lady Bryn Afon gently. "Let not any shadow of evil fall upon your
bright spirit--only be brave and strong and ready against aught that
may befall you. Surely, too, your mother, be she whom she may, will
never separate you wholly from him who has been more than father to
you from your cradle? But crave you never also to see your real
father?" "Dad has been so true a father to me," answered Primrose
frankly, "that I have felt no want of any other, as I have at times
of a mother. Only now and again I have thought it would be a brave
thing to have for my real father such an one as one of King Arthur's
knights of old, of whom I love to read in our dear vicar's library,
or indeed such a noble knight as our own earl, who has oft shown me
kindness as a child! But these are but vain and idle thoughts, which
have come to me when I have been at times puffed up with pride,
because dad has tried to make me believe I come from a noble
ancestry! Dad loves me so, he would make me a queen an he could!
Yet I tell him I am well content to be a humble Primrose, growing by
the riverside." "An the Primrose would not wither," said Lady Bryn
Afon with a half-sad smile, "I would fain transplant it for a season,
and see to what perfection I might rear it in a sunny southern clime!
What say you, dear child, to making a short stay with me, with your
mother's leave and that of your good foster-father? I go anon to
spend the winter months beneath the sunny skies of Italy, for my
health's sake; and since I must needs be parted from my husband,
whose presence the king will require at that season, I seek for some
companion in my travels, and would fain have about me so bright and
gladsome a maiden as yourself to cheer me. I would care tenderly for
you, and after some few months you should return to your dear
guardian filled with new thoughts, and your mind enriched with new
beauties. What say you?" "I would dearly love to see foreign
lands!" exclaimed Primrose with sparkling eyes, "and could dad indeed
spare me without too much sorrow, I would gladly go with you, sweet
lady. But it is too much honour you do me, for you know I am but a
country maiden, of lowly bringing-up, and knowing nought of the ways
of houses such as this one, or of great ladies such as you are." "An
your ways displease me, child, I will be at liberty to correct them,"
answered Lady Bryn Afon with a smile. "You must know that my lord,
the earl, has oft brought this thought before my mind, and long since
he bade me steal you away from the boatman, an I could do so, for a
time, knowing how sorely I pined at times in my loneliness for a
daughter of my own. An your mother and your foster-father will
consent, you shall, when the summer is over, spend a week with me at
Court, and see the gay world ere I part from my husband and take you
over the seas. I love not the Court myself, nor the ways of the
world, and am at all times glad to escape into peace and quietness;
but men think not as we do, and a wife's place is beside her husband.
I could not presently leave him, but that our physician bids me, with
stern authority, to depart for my health's sake, and promises me
faithfully to care well for him the while I am gone. Think you you
will have means of communication with your mother betwixt the present
time and Michaelmas?" "The Black Horseman's visit draws near," said
Primrose. "Twice every year he comes to bring dad money from my
mother, for my bringing-up in comfort. In a week from now we look
for him, and much I long for his coming that I may send a letter to
my mother, begging her to let me know my name without delay, since it
is just before Michaelmas that my Lord Bishop will hold his
confirmation, and so rarely are they held in these remote parts, that
being already fifteen years of age, I am loth to lose my chance. In
that letter also, if dad is willing, and our dear vicar thinks also
well of it, I will beg her also to consider your great kindness, and
to let me know at once her decision." "That is well," said Lady Bryn
Afon. "Now, my child, farewell, and may we spend a happy winter in
each other's company! You are very fair, sweet river-maiden! May
you be as good as you are beautiful! It is not ever so." And as she
kissed the young girl's blushing cheeks, she sighed, and a faint
colour rose in her own pale face. "Methinks I have scarce had my
fair share of your converse, dear friend!" cried Lady Rosamond,
saluting the Lady Bryn Afon affectionately, as she was about to
depart, "and I shall perforce charm you out of your solitude again
ere you leave the castle. You have, moreover, made no inquiries as
to the health of your future chaplain, who thus shamefully plays the
truant while I entertain my guests! I fear me he hath perchance
overheard somewhat of our converse at dinner, and having gathered so
fair a share of our goodwill towards him, hath retired into some
corner to blush unseen." "Bid him from me to take some thought for
the body," said Lady Bryn Afon, "nor grow too pale and spirit-like
over his books for this workaday world. An he will wage a successful
war against the intemperance in our midst, he must needs have
strength for the task. It is verily a crying sin, and I pray his
labours may bring forth fruit. I would speak a word aside with you,
Rosamond, an our friends will deem it not amiss, for I may not at
present see you again in these parts, since I journey to-morrow
towards London to rejoin my lord."
While bidding farewell to the vicar and his young charge, about an
hour after Lady Bryn Afon's departure, Lady Rosamond whispered in the
ear of Primrose; "I pray you, sweet child, to grant the favour my
Lady Bryn Afon asks of you, for she sorely stands in need of
comfort." And Primrose answered; "At my mother's bidding, I will
indeed gladly do so."
So the grey mare turned her back upon Caer Caradoc, and bore her
riders swiftly back through the valley, bright with the evening
sunlight, and at the cottage by the riverside the vicar deposited his
fair young charge, weary, yet full of happiness after her day's
pleasure, and as yet feeling herself too much in Dreamland to realise
the possible parting for a season from her foster-father, which was
before her. As she sought her pillow, one regret only lingered in
her mind, and that was, that "Sir Galahad," the musician, had not
revealed himself! She would fain have seen one who could discourse
such sweet music, and who bore, as it seemed, all the graces and
virtues of her hero. It was good to think that there existed at the
least one living man worthy to bear the noble name of that stainless
knight of old, even though it were given him but in jest; and as she
thus pondered, the sounds of the organ seemed to mingle with the
music of the waters beneath her casement, and softly lulled her to
sleep.
Meanwhile the boatman sat long absorbed in thought before he could
seek his own couch, for to him this possible six months' separation
meant more than Primrose was likely to foresee. To him it appeared
as the beginning of a long-dreaded new state of things, in which his
darling must drift farther and farther from him, and which was but
the beginning of the end, ever surely drawing nearer, when she would
be his charge no longer, but would be called forth to that as yet
unknown place in the great world for which he felt she must be
destined. It was in his power to refuse Lady Bryn Afon's request
without further parley, and without consulting the mysterious mother,
of whom he often thought with deep indignation, that she could bring
herself to dwell apart from her own offspring, and trust to her
bringing-up by one who, if a relative, was none the less a stranger.
Yet his unselfishness prevailed, for he could not but see that for
the child's own sake he must not refuse to procure for her, if
possible, the great good and pleasure of travelling in foreign lands.
After making his unselfish resolve, he began to find consolation and
food for his pride in the reflection that Primrose would no doubt be
presented at Court by her ladyship during their brief sojourn in
town, and that the king and queen themselves would have the honour of
beholding his darling's wondrous loveliness. But the girl assured
him that since she was as yet but fifteen years old she was likely to
find herself far more at home in the royal nurseries than in the
presence of their majesties, and would be better satisfied to look
upon the beautiful countenance of King Charles at a safe distance.
CHAPTER XI.
A NEW NAME.
"She hath no scorn of common things,
And, though she seem of other birth,
Round us her heart entwines and clings,
And patiently she folds her wings
To tread the humble paths of earth."
--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
"There is not any virtue the exercise of which even momentarily will
not impress a new fairness upon the features."--RUSKIN.
The Black Horseman had ever been an inscrutable being, and never did
he show himself more so than when, a week or so after the visit of
the vicar and Primrose to Caer Caradoc, the latter, on his arrival
late one evening at the cottage, presented him with the letter to her
mother, upon which hung such new and exciting issues, telling him
with much eagerness of its contents. She had hoped he would show
great surprise and wonderment at this strange new turn in her
fortunes, and be perplexed equally with herself and her foster-father
at the interest thus curiously shown in her by a great and almost
unknown lady. But the muscles of the Black Horseman's face relaxed
nothing of their immovable gravity as he listened, and the piercing
black eyes which he turned on Primrose, when she had concluded her
tale, conveyed nothing beyond their usual intense scrutiny, whereby
they seemed indeed to read her very soul, yet revealing no emotion of
his own the while. "Are you not surprised?" cried Primrose, stamping
her foot with impatience. "Methought I could at last tell you news
that would startle you! Are you ever ready, good sir, to hear all
things without surprise or wonder? I would I could take you unawares
just once only, and make you put off that inscrutable face you wear,
and perchance let fall some of your secrets! Your face is ever full
of secrets, yet I could as soon drag good Master Jones into our
little church on the hillside yonder as drag one of them out of your
heart!" The Black Horseman stroked his fierce iron-grey moustache,
and smiled at the girl's mock wrath--that rare smile which her
winning ways alone seemed able to summon to his stern countenance.
"It would be an unfaithful servant who should suffer himself to be
taken unawares," he said; "also, were you of my age, fair Primrose,
and an experienced physician to boot, you must needs be full of
secrets. Methinks some part of our mother Eve's curiosity hath
fallen even to your share!" Primrose blushed. "My life has an
unfair share of mysteries, dear sir," she said with a smile, "and I
think I may be pardoned if I have also an undue share of curiosity!
But now I am at rest on one of those points over which I have
pondered, for I know you to be a learned physician. Thus far you
have betrayed yourself!"
"I am the physician honoured by your mother with her commands," he
answered, "and entrusted with the care of her health. To such
knowledge of me you are welcome, fair child! Nay, no more
questionings! Let us to business. It is your wish to accompany the
Lady Bryn Afon on her travels this winter." "My mother's wishes must
be mine," answered Primrose. "My dear father here and our vicar
counsel me to go, telling me it is good for me to see somewhat of
other lands while I am young, and to learn the languages spoken by
other people than ourselves, and to see their manners and customs;
and so I feel myself, although I would fain not be parted from dad
even for a day. Yet, if I am perchance some other maiden than I
seem, it may be well not to slight so kind an offer, whereby I may
profit myself, and become more worthy of my mother's name. Of all
this she will judge, and I will abide by her answer." "That is well
spoken," said the Black Horseman; "I will convey your letter to her
with all safety, and return with her answer with what speed I may.
Perchance in a week's time you may again see me; earlier I dare not
promise, for travelling is tedious, and I am no longer so young as
when I first made my journeys to and fro on your behalf, fair
Primrose." Indeed, the physician's coal-black hair was now deeply
tinged with grey, and his beard likewise, and somewhat of the ravages
of Time began to be apparent in his rugged and powerful countenance.
Yet he was not yet much past the prime of life, and the eagle glance
of his eye was as keen as ever, and as he rose to depart Primrose
could not but gaze at his tall, well-knit figure and handsome
features with admiration. He stooped and kissed her little hand
gallantly, and was gone in the deepening summer twilight, while she
stood wondering with what further questionings she dared torment him.
The week dragged slowly, for both the old boatman and his
foster-child felt that their hearts would be lighter when the matter
was once settled, and Primrose too awaited with much interest and
curiosity the new knowledge of her hitherto unknown baptismal name.
Her heart beat fast when, once more as she stood upon the bridge one
fair evening, she heard the well-known horse-hoofs clattering in the
distance, and ran forward to greet the Black Horseman as he drew up
beside the cottage. "Nay, I will not dismount," he said, "for I
sleep to-night at Caer Caradoc, where it is my business to acquaint
the Lady Rosamond with her charge concerning you. She has herself
offered to conduct you safely to London, whither, as you will find,
your lady mother bids you repair to join the Lady Bryn Afon early in
the month of October." "Does Lady Rosamond then know my mother?"
asked Primrose in surprise, "I know the Lady Rosamond," answered the
Black Horseman, "and have been so fortunate as to learn her purpose
of travelling to town, and her willingness to take you in charge.
Doth this my knowledge so surprise you, fair Shanno? Perchance the
Black Horseman, though himself unknown to this neighbourhood, may,
notwithstanding, know more of some of its occupants than they wot
of." "Shanno!"[1] exclaimed Primrose, forgetting her first surprise
in a second. "Dear Black Horseman, is that my new name--my real
name, that my mother gave me at my baptism?" "Like you its sound?"
asked the mysterious physician with a smile. "Shanno!" the girl
repeated to herself as if in a dream. "Shanno!" and her voice
lingered lovingly over the last syllable in the sweet, musical
fashion of her Welsh countrywomen; "yes, it is a name I have ever
loved, and I am well content. Dad, what think you of my new name?
Is it not one full of music and sweetness? Or is it but my vanity
which gives it any beauty? For, like a child with a new toy, I am
like to be vain of my new possession!" "Nay, I like it well," said
Jack fondly; "but 'Primrose' thou wilt ever be to thy old
foster-father. A pale winter Primrose wast thou put into my arms,
and the little bud I have cherished in my bosom can have no new name
for me, now that I watch it day by day opening into a full-blown
flower." "I would not have you call me aught but my own dear,
childish name, dad," she answered eagerly; "your Primrose I will ever
be, nor think of myself as 'Shanno' save only on high days and
holidays!" "That is well," said the Black Horseman, and again that
rare smile lit up his austere countenance as he looked at the girl's
sparkling face. "Now, fair child, and you, good Jack, I must bid you
farewell, for the evening groweth apace, and the road to Caer Caradoc
is long." And so saying he put spurs to his gallant steed, and
galloped away down the narrow roadway alongside the river, and
Primrose, entering the cottage, sat down at the boatman's feet to
read her mother's letter. It ran as follows:--"My beloved
daughter,--Since your sweet face hath won my Lady Bryn Afon's heart,
it is my wish that you should travel with her as she desires, obeying
her wish in all things, and striving, as far as in you lies, to
comfort and solace her by your presence, and by the exercise of those
tender and winning arts with which a good Providence hath, I rejoice
to hear, gifted you, in addition to much beauty of countenance; for
which good gifts I counsel you, my daughter, to thank Him with all
humility, praying continually that they may never prove to you a
snare unto sin. You may perchance marvel, and your dear
foster-father likewise, that after my oft-repeated injunctions laid
upon you to avoid the castle of Bryn Afon, I should thus, as it were,
suffer you now to plunge into the very jaws of the lion, by becoming
the companion for a season of its sorrowing mistress; but I pray you
bid your dear father, from me, to take no thought upon this matter,
seeing that the lady is well known by hearsay to myself, and I have
no fear of committing you to her care, knowing that she will be to
you a true friend and guardian during such time as you remain with
her, nor suffer any breath of evil from her connection with her
ill-starred house to fall on your fair head. At the close of the
winter months, since she must needs return to her lord and husband,
you will then likewise return to the care of your excellent
foster-father, whom I pray you ever to cherish with fond affection.
He will, when the time of your departure comes, commit you to the
care of the Lady Rosamond of Caer Caradoc, whose offer to conduct you
herself towards London hath been gratefully received by the Lady Bryn
Afon, who looks with eagerness for your arrival, and who will, during
your sojourn with her in town, make it her pleasure to overlook your
wardrobe, making such additions thereto as she shall deem fitting for
one whom she chooses for her travelling companion. Wherefore I send
you gold in sufficiency, that you may feel yourself in no wise a
burden upon her bounty. I pray you, sweet daughter, be not tempted
by the glitter and glamour of the Court, and remember ever the sacred
vow by which I bound you in your cradle, never to taste any manner of
strong drink--the cause for which vow you shall know, should you be
spared to the age of one-and-twenty, and I be likewise spared to tell
you; to which good time, yet some long, weary years hence, I look
forward with deep yearning, and pray God to bring us both!" "Then
when I am twenty-one years old," said Primrose, when she and Jack had
reached the conclusion of the letter, "my mother will, it would seem,
take me to live with her. Think you not so, dear dad?" "It would
seem so," answered Jack half sadly. "It were only just and right
that mother and child should after so long and passing strange a
separation be at last united, and I will not grudge you whatever! yet
my poor heart doth verily fail me at the thought, and I confess I
like not greatly even now the prospect of my lonesome winter hearth.
I fear me, Primrose, in foreign lands you will forget the language of
Wales, and esteem it but a barbarous tongue on your return; yet I
pride myself the king himself can find no fault with your English!
And for that I must needs thank our good vicar, and rejoice that we
have had among us so apt a scholar, and one so well versed in the
English tongue and customs, at whose feet you have learned what a
well-born maiden should. It is well that our youths should as now
boast themselves of their training in the noble schools and
universities of England, and I pray this may ever be their ambition,
since there is much need of good learning among our Welsh clergy in
these sad days, when heresy and schism are creeping all unawares into
our principality, and subtle whispers reviling us for our national
loyalty to our church and our king may be heard going from ear to ear
in this our once peaceful valley. Ah me! it was an evil day when
Master Jones set foot among us, bringing his false doctrines and his
hatred of princes to be sown like pestilent seed amongst us! Our
good rector has told me it was at Cardiff he picked up such ill
notions from one who is even now preaching there scurrilous teachings
against what he and his party are pleased to call the 'wickedness of
popery and prelacy.' I thank God I have ever loyally striven to keep
you from such teachings, dear heart, and that I may truly say that I
can send you forth into the presence of the king and the archbishop
themselves with no feeling of shame or disloyalty to my king and
country! You love both right well; is it not so, my darling?" "As
well as any English maiden I am like to see," answered Primrose
stoutly, "and maybe even better, since you tell me there is already
much disloyalty in England, whereas our little Wales has yet a right
loyal heart, in spite of some few such mischief-makers as Master
Jones! And should I have the honour of speech with his Majesty," she
added with a laugh, "I will tell him that he has no braver subject in
his United Kingdom than my dear foster-father, Jack the boatman, and
will e'en assure him that Wales had nought to do with that most
wicked and treacherous Gunpowder Plot made against his royal father,
of which you and our vicar have told me so many tales. I can scarce
believe, dear dad, that ere long I shall see for myself those grand
Houses of Parliament, and perchance even be permitted to look into
the very cellar where the wicked Guy Fawkes lay hid! And I cannot
forbear hoping that the Lady Bryn Afon may some day let fall some
tale about the castle here, and its curse, of which I fain would know
the cause! It is surely strange that no one in all the country-side
should have knowledge of so curious a history?" "There are many
tales thereupon," said Jack, "but none may say if any one among them
has any truth whatever. There is a tale of treachery on the part of
one of the ancient lords of the castle, on which account some say the
curse was uttered; but the rights of the story I know not, nor
whether the curse fell from the mouth of a mortal man, or, as some
say, from the lips of the Evil One himself. It is a mystery, I trow,
which no vain curiosity on our part, sweet one, may solve." "I will
believe no treachery," said Primrose valiantly. "So noble and
ancient a house could never have been guilty of deeds of shame and
dishonour. My lord, the present earl, has too noble a countenance to
have traitors for his ancestors!" "Thou art ever faithful to thy
noble friend, my darling!" said Jack with a smile, "and I love him
dearly also. Yet, methinks, with all his beauty of countenance and
dignity of presence, there is somewhat in his eye which I trust not
wholly. Think you not so?" "Nay, I was but a child when I last saw
him," answered Primrose, "and his eyes seemed to me the most
beautiful and blue and glittering I had ever seen! I have ever
looked upon him as a brave and unfortunate hero, and I will not be
disenchanted! You gaze upon his eyes with superstition in your own,
dear dad, and hence you see in them ghosts and goblins and all manner
of evil and uncanny shadows! For my part, I would that you and I
might dwell in the castle for one whole year, with some trusty
guardsman at our side, and I believe we would soon show that the
curse is but an old wives' fable!" "Heaven forbid that you should
ever enter its accursed walls!" said Jack, crossing himself devoutly.
"I pray it may ne'er be my lot so to do. Come, I will walk across
the fields with you to Evensong, for my heart groweth heavy with the
thought of losing thee, sweetheart, and methinks the prayers will
sound comforting to mine ears." "And I must tell dear Master Rhys my
new name," said Primrose, rising eagerly from her low stool at his
feet, "and let him know that he must now finish his instructions for
my confirmation with all speed, that I may not lose our good Bishop's
blessing ere I depart. I pray you, dear dad, not to be sorrowful at
my leaving you, for it is but for a few short months that I go. And
if you are sorrowful, what must I needs be, seeing that I must go out
into the great world at the side of a stranger, and be forced to
learn terrible new tongues, and look upon strange foreign faces which
are like to terrify my poor wits even with the thought of them!"
The old boatman looked lovingly into the girl's sweet upturned face,
and kissed her glowing cheeks with lips that trembled somewhat; and
though he smiled upon her as she took his hand and they sallied
forth, he smothered at the same time a deep sigh, which welled up
from a heart heavier than he dared confess.
Who, in that far distant and strange land of Italy, could comfort his
darling with that silent sympathy, at such times far better than
words, which she so sorely needed when that strange, mysterious
shadow crept, as it was wont at long intervals, over her bright young
spirit--a shadow unconfessed to any one but himself, and between the
times of its unwelcome and sudden visitation as completely forgotten
by the girl herself as if it had never existed? Who could tell what
depth of loneliness and isolation her childish heart might suffer,
when there was no one at her side to understand this curious and
mysterious form of suffering which she seemed called upon to bear for
a season? Often had Jack wondered whether to confess this unknown
shadow of evil, which, whether a mental or physical disturbance, was
none the less an actual source of occasional very real suffering, to
the sagacious Black Horseman, or even to the girl's mother herself;
but he always returned to the conclusion that it would perhaps be
soonest forgotten and outgrown the less it was talked of or dwelt
upon by any of those around her, and since after all it came but very
seldom, and passed so utterly away between whiles, he shrank from any
recognition of it which might in the slightest degree emphasise its
existence upon her mind. And daily, during the few remaining summer
weeks before the coming confirmation, did the good old man pray that
the Holy Spirit of God might then so fully overshadow her sweet
girlish soul, that no designs of the Evil One might ever have power
to harm her. It was on a fair September forenoon that Primrose, to
his fond eyes the very picture, in her soft white robe, of
unconscious loveliness and girlish purity and innocence, responded
with brave, unfaltering voice to her new name, "Shanno," in the fine
old church of Caer Cynau, and knelt before the good Bishop of St.
David's to receive the blessing she had long humbly desired. And
many who were present in the congregation remembered for many a long
day afterwards the wonderful beauty of expression on the sweet face
of the boatman's mysterious foster-daughter, in whose deep grey eyes
the very light of Heaven itself seemed to shine, and on whose
wondrous wealth of golden hair the bright sun shone till her head
seemed verily surrounded with an angelic halo. For as in the days of
her early childhood, the superstitious country folk still looked upon
Primrose as a being scarce of earth, not indeed from any want on her
part of truly human delight in all the joys, or of tears in all the
sorrows, of earth, but that they had many of them such lingering
belief in wood-nymphs and water-sprites, and in fairyland in general,
that her mysterious committal to the old boatman's charge was to
their minds easiest to be accounted for in some such romantic
fashion; and more than one old village crone had aroused Jack's ire
by venturing to prophesy that ere many more years should pass, the
maiden would be once more claimed by her own invisible people, and
vanish from his side as suddenly as she had come! Alas, it was but
too soon that she was now indeed to vanish, though for a season only,
from his sight! And it was with a feeling of vague disquietude
mingled with his pain that he parted from her some days after the
confirmation, and sent her forth under the care of the gay-hearted
Lady Rosamond and her trusty suite into the great world, which seemed
very far away from the peaceful Gwynnon Valley.
[1] The author has taken the liberty of spelling this name according
to its sound as expressed by English spelling.
CHAPTER XII.
A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD.
"To have an ideal is in some sort to ennoble life. Nothing ... can
be more dreary or more debasing than to drift through life without
one."--KNOX-LITTLE.
"And indeed He seems to me
Scarce other than my own ideal knight,
Who reverenced his conscience as his king;
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong;
Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd to it;
Who loved one only, and who clave to her."
--TENNYSON.
Long and dreary seemed the winter months to Jack the boatman in his
lonely cottage by the river, with no bright young voice or light
sound of bounding footsteps to break the stillness of the long
hours--no sweet and loving companion to cheer his daily rambles when
work was done, or to share the peaceful warmth and comfort of the
fireside, when the dark days crept on apace, and the long evenings
must needs be spent within doors. And scarcely less was the loss
felt by the old vicar, who had so long been used to the merry voice
and quick girlish tread which had been wont almost daily to wake the
echoes in the long ghostly passages of the old Monastery Vicarage;
and many a time, weary of the unaccustomed silence within his walls,
did good old Master Rhys sally forth to seek the company of his
friend the boatman, often meeting him half-way down the narrow road
between Cwmfelin and the river, bound on the same errand, equally in
need of consolation. The first letter sent by Primrose after her
departure was hailed with great joy by her faithful guardian, and
gave such proof of her happiness and enjoyment that he could but
rejoice in her good fortune. She told him of her journey towards
London in the care of the Lady Rosamond and the Black Horseman, and
of the warm welcome given her on her arrival by the Lady Bryn Afon,
and also by the earl himself, who had commended his wife to her care
with many amusing sayings and pretty compliments. And she told of
all the wonders of the great city--of the fine shops, where such
beautiful attire as she had never dreamed of had been purchased for
her; of the theatre, where the earl himself had more than once
insisted on taking her, to see some of the renowned plays of the
great Master Shakespeare; and of the Court, where she had, in spite
of her youth, as Jack had truly foretold, been presented to their
royal majesties in company with many other beautiful maidens, and
where the king had been pleased to pay gracious compliments to the
beauty of the Welsh damsels, even inquiring whether another so fair a
maid-in-waiting might not be found for his queen in the beautiful
vale of Gwynnon by much searching! And how he had spoken with much
affection, in her hearing, of the earl's most noble father, saying
that he had ever been his own royal father's most faithful friend, so
that she had felt herself even more highly honoured than before, in
being chosen for the service of so greatly favoured a family. And
next, after another week or so had elapsed, there came another
letter, written from the noble castle of Ludlow, whither, at the
invitation of the Earl of Bridgewater, who was at that time President
of Wales, the earl and his lady had been persuaded to repair, much to
her own delight and joy, in order to be present at the first
representation of the wonderful mask of "Comus," lately writ by
Master John Milton of rising fame and repute, whom Primrose had
already been privileged to meet at a banquet ere her friends had left
town. Much she wrote of this beautiful play, and of the cleverness
with which the earl's children took their several parts in its
representation, earning for themselves much praise thereby from the
writer, whom she described as a grave and somewhat austere-looking
person, but of a most beautiful countenance, and so wondrously
learned in his conversation that all were wont to listen to him
still-bound. "Though," she added, in a burst of loyalty and
enthusiasm for those gracious personages whom she had so recently
seen face to face and heartily loved, "Master Milton does not wholly
please me, in spite of my pleasure in his beautiful play, and the
admiration I must needs give to his noble face and marvellous
talents, for he has but little love for the king and queen, and were
he in our little Gwynnon Valley I do verily believe he would walk
hand in hand with Master Jones, our grievous enemy, and shake his
learned head sadly over our beloved little church on the hillside!
Yet it would seem a shame to cherish even this grievance against him,
for so skilled is he in verse-making that my Lord Bridgewater
prophesies great things for him in the future, saying that if he
mistake not his name will presently vie with that of the great Master
Shakespeare in renown." And having further described at length the
beauties of the castle and of the neighbourhood, this second letter
concluded with loving words which assured Jack's hungry heart that in
the midst of her new pleasures and delights he was by no means yet
forgotten for a moment by his foster-child.
Later on there came at intervals long letters from Rome, whither,
after a sad parting between the Lord and Lady Bryn Afon at the close
of their stay at Ludlow Castle, she, with her young charge and their
attendants, had travelled by slow stages, on account of her great
delicacy of health, and where they would remain until the spring.
And all they had seen by the way Primrose described so cleverly that
Jack could almost feel as though he had himself been with her, and
might henceforth pass as a man of travel among his neighbours, since
he could discourse upon the marvels of London and Rome, not to speak
of many other places of lesser note, with such assurance and in so
masterly a manner! In his loneliness he derived much consolation
from the esteem and increased reverence with which he began to find
himself regarded by his neighbours, Master Jones alone causing him
much indignation of spirit by his sour words against those in high
places, and his evil forebodings for all such as a good Providence
had made young and beautiful. For all which hard and ill-natured
sayings Jack revenged himself by a particular application towards him
each Sunday morning of all such sentences in the Litany or elsewhere
as bore upon heresy and schism, and so felt comforted.
During these months some excitement was caused in the valley, of
which Jack wrote a full account to his foster-child, by certain
preachings against the sin of drunkenness, delivered in towns and
villages, in the form of lectures, held in barns and outhouses or on
the open village green, by a certain youth of learned parts and
eloquent address, reputed to be a Cambridge student and a guest at
some one or other of the castles in the vale,--some said Caer
Caradoc, others Gelli Aur, beyond the river, which latter house he
had been seen to enter in company with young Master Jeremy Taylor,
known to be a frequent guest of the Lord Carbery, its owner. But
none knew the name of the strange youth, and since he could discourse
with equal zeal and eloquence in either the Welsh or English tongue,
it was a matter of dispute whether he were or no a native of the
Principality, most persons, however, inclining to believe him such,
since the English rarely showed themselves capable of grappling so
successfully with the Welsh tongue. It was but for a few weeks at
the time of Easter that he appeared, but the country-side soon rang
with his fame, and the people flocked from miles around to hear him,
so powerful was his eloquence and so winning his manner and his
countenance. Ringing words did he speak in town and hamlet against
the sin and shame of the drinking habits so prevalent in the fair
vale of Gwynnon, which he indeed confessed was no worse a part of the
world in this respect than many others, yet spoke of it as that
special region in which he felt called upon by God to lift up his own
voice against the evil and point out a better way. Wherefore he was
by some blamed for youthful imprudence, and by others for fanatical
zeal and contempt of God's good creatures, while some few spoke of
him as a prophet raised up to do a mighty work in the country, and
some even, speaking with reverence of his beautiful countenance and
high and holy living, were ready to believe him an angel sent from
Heaven. "In none of which lights," wrote Jack to Primrose, "I may as
yet regard him myself, not having had as yet the privilege of seeing
or hearing him. Yet I can but regard him as a godly and right-minded
youth, and I pray that he may rid us of the evil against which I
myself have long testified."
But the hope which Primrose secretly indulged, of perchance meeting
with this impersonation of her favourite hero (for that he was the
youth so beloved by Lady Rosamond and her husband she had no doubt),
was not realised on her return to the vale of Gwynnon, for the brave
young lecturer had already returned to his studies at Cambridge, and
the summer months brought him no more to the valley, nor was further
news heard of him throughout the year, though his words were not
forgotten, and his new and strange doctrines upon the subject of
strong liquors were the talk of all the country-folk, and a matter of
much dispute among the more thinking ones among them, whereby some
beginning of good worked surely in certain hearts, if unconfessed.
It was in the month of May that Primrose journeyed once more into far
South Wales in the good Black Horseman's charge, he having received
orders from her mother to await her arrival in London, and convey her
safely to her guardian's care. Yet, glad though she truly was to
return to her home and her beloved foster-father, she left the Lady
Bryn Afon with many tears, for the lady herself was greatly overcome
at parting from her, assuring her that during their few months'
sojourn together she had grown to love her as a dear daughter, and
would sorely miss her. And so tenderly had she indeed treated her
that Primrose heartily re-echoed her wish that they might ere long
meet again, and returned to the home of her childhood feeling that
she had left some large portion of her heart in her new friend's
keeping; though it needed but one glimpse of the shining river and
the dear old cottage, with the boatman's figure in the doorway, to
bring back all the old love into her heart, and make her feel almost
ashamed at having been so happy away from him. If she had gone away
beautiful, she had returned to him ten times more so, Jack thought,
when the first greetings were over, and he stood a little way off
from her, and surveyed her from head to foot, with eyes of wondering
admiration. She still wore her golden locks curling over her
shoulders in sunny profusion, and every year her dark eyes of
blue-grey hue seemed to deepen and glow with greater wealth of
unspoken thought beneath their heavy lashes, which, much darker than
her hair, swept over her cheeks in marked contrast to their dazzling
fairness. Surely, thought Jack, there could be no maiden on earth
more beautiful or more unconscious of her loveliness than this sweet
Primrose of the valley, who had been so strangely and mysteriously
wafted by unknown winds into his garden, that under his care she
might attain such perfection! So once more the young girl took up
the threads of her old life, her rambles by the riverside, and
frequent visits to the little church on the hilltop, and her studies
in the old library at Cwmfelin, not forgetting much poring over the
history of King Arthur and his knights, who played so great a part in
her imagination, nor her dreams of Sir Galahad, the ideal hero of a
pure maiden's thoughts. And since the mysterious world of love must
needs unfold itself to her in some form or other, for good or ill, it
was well for a maiden so curiously circumstanced as she was that her
mind should be filled with so high an ideal of masculine perfections,
and thus dwell so far above the coarse admiration of the country-folk
that their vain compliments passed unheeded. For by this time there
would come many young strangers across the bridge on a summer's
evening, paying toll ungrudgingly for the sake of but one glimpse of
the old boatman's beautiful foster-daughter, who might chance to be
walking along the banks, or sitting with her book in some shady nook
by the water's edge. And though fair Shanno noticed none of them
even by so much as the lifting of an eyelid, hearing but the tramp of
some sturdy young miller over the footway, or the rough tones of some
worthy young farmer who must needs cross the bridge to talk of the
crops with a friend in the hamlet, yet Jack received their toll with
but a surly countenance, and did they linger to talk of the weather,
casting meanwhile curious glances along the riverside, he would
threaten sudden rain and storms, and counsel them to hurry on to
their friends an they would not get a sorry wetting. These young
men, however, would brave much for one sight of Primrose's shining
eyes and golden locks, and though she took no heed of them, Jack
thought it prudent to discourse to her much in private upon the
vanity of mere earthly beauty, ever holding up as a warning his own
lost daughter, to whose light-hearted folly and vanity of spirit he
attributed her tragic fate, blaming himself greatly that her
exceeding beauty had led him to spoil her overmuch, and neglect that
care for her soul for which he was responsible.
"Methinks, dad," said Primrose seriously one day when he had been
thus discoursing for some length of time; "methinks you have been
much in the company of Master Jones of late, and have had some secret
thoughts of turning Puritan like him, for your talk has grown sad and
solemn, and you seem to fear that because these golden locks, which
you say are so beautiful, have been bestowed upon your Primrose, she
must needs be in fear of turning into a yellow butterfly. Think you
then that I am indeed so vain and frivolous, and so much in danger of
singeing my wings?" "Nay," said Jack fondly; "I know thou art as
good as thou art beautiful, sweetheart, and I will not thou shouldst
liken me to Master Jones whatever. But I would have you beware of
the rude youths of the country-side, three of whom have had the
presumption within this last week to ask my permission to sue for
your hand." "Is it so?" said Primrose wonderingly. "Poor youths;
are there not maidens enough beyond the river to please them? Bid
them not pay toll for so vain an object, dear dad, and tell them this
hand would fain be free for many a year to come. Why, I am but
sixteen years old, and scarce account myself yet to be grown-up, much
less fit to be sought in marriage. I fear me, dad, likewise, that it
might not be my mother's wish to see me a miller's wife, riding to
market on a Saturday morn upon my sacks of flour, nor yet behind some
stalwart farmer upon a stout grey nag, to sell my wares in tall hat
and white apron in the open street! Tell the youths I thank them for
their courtesy, but do not think of marrying yet awhile; and when I
do----"
"Well, what then, dear heart?" asked Jack, with a laugh at the
thought of his darling in market costume; "who would be worthy of my
daughter's hand?" "Nay, it is but an unworthy hand," she answered
with a blush; "and I hope it is not in pride and wickedness that I
spurn the poor youths, who I doubt not are each worthy of a far
better maiden than I. But I would fain have a beautiful marriage,
dear dad, with one whose like I have never yet seen, or none at all,
and so I will stay by your side, and think no more of such matters,
if you will pray the youths to stay beyond the river and marry whom
they will." So those poor young men came no more over the boatman's
bridge at eventide, and his bag lost many a toll-penny, while they
rode round to market another way, that they might see no dazzling
vision upon the riverside to cause them a needless heartache. And
the colour came again to the cheeks of the poor country maidens when
they found that the Queen of the Bridge would have none of their
sweethearts, and they repented that they should ever have asked the
old wandering gipsy woman to cast upon her a wicked spell or an evil
eye, or aught else that might mar her loveliness. For still from
time to time the old woman came forth from her unknown haunts in the
mountains, and tramped from village to village, chanting her rude
rhymes and muttering her vengeful threats against the bridge, nothing
daunted when the old boatman reminded her that she had uttered them
for twenty years or more in vain, and that his bridge still bestrode
the angry winter torrents bravely.
"The day will come," she would mutter, her black eyes burning with a
glittering light. "The castle is doomed, and none may save it, and
doomed likewise is the boatman's bridge. For there is none living
that shall withstand the power of the dread curse nor stay the roar
of the waters when the river-spirit bursts his bonds and is let loose
upon the valley. Woe, woe to the House of Bryn Afon! For the curse
shall but cease when the walls crumble to dust, and the last heir
sleeps a long last sleep in the black waters. And woe to the bridge
that shall bring the last heir of the doomed race to destruction!"
And as she passed on and was lost to sight her quavering,
high-pitched tones would be heard in the distance, singing that rhyme
which always brought Jack's wrath to boiling-point--
"And in the dark river together
The Primrose and Lily shall sleep."
Why should the old witch dare thus to bring his darling's name into
her rude songs, Jack would angrily ejaculate, but to annoy and
terrify a poor innocent maiden, who had nought, and never should have
aught, to do with the old castle and its ill-starred race! But
Primrose laughed at his wrath, saying she had long since known that
the old gipsy had destined her to an ill fate, since she would not
confess what she had read in the lines of her hand, and that for her
part she was far more inclined to wonder who might be the Lily, the
partner of her woe, than to trouble her mind as to whether such woe
were ever likely to befall herself. "For," said she with a smile,
"since there would seem to be some in this world who must needs dwell
side by side through a long lifetime with those they love not,
methinks to die beside one I love would be far sweeter, and a fate to
be craved in preference. What think you, dad?" "Thy life has been
so sheltered, sweetheart," answered Jack; "what know you of life and
its unhappy ones?" "I am growing old, dad," she answered, shaking
her golden locks with an air of wisdom, "and since I have travelled
with the Lady Bryn Afon I have learned many things I knew nought of
before, and heard some few tales of this naughty world, by which I
have seen that all in it is not so fair as I have thought, and that
it is truly as our Prayer Book hath it, a 'troublesome world, full of
waves and storms,' which words I have before often wondered over,
finding it so little troublesome in this beautiful valley, full of
flowers and birds and sunshine, and the love of so good a guardian!"
"The waves and storms are for the wicked," said Jack, drowning, in
his urgent desire to banish all shadows from his child's pathway,
certain misgivings as to the truth of his theology. "I pray they may
never buffet you, my darling!" But Primrose shook her head. "Our
dear vicar preaches different doctrine, dad," she said seriously,
"and says that such ills must needs afflict the righteous, that they
may be chastened and purified like gold in the fire. And since I
have thought of these things, it has seemed to me that I would fain
not for ever dwell myself in the sunshine, since such may not be the
lot of all, but that I would rather be chosen to side with the weak
and sorrowful. And also I have feared lest, were I ever in the
sunlight, it should be a sign to me that I must needs be counted
unworthy to share in the sufferings of our Lord." Her voice fell
reverently, and as Jack watched her and saw the dreamy, far-off look
in those beautiful eyes, in which he noted every changing expression,
a shiver passed over him, he scarce knew why, save that he could not
bear the thought of any possible pain or sorrow in store for one so
young and wondrous fair. "Methinks thou art already one of God's
saints, my child!" he said fondly, yet half in sadness; "and thou
hast surely been surrounded from thy cradle upwards by His good
angels, who shall keep thee from all spells of the Evil One, and from
the vain threats of his crafty messengers. But let not the old witch
cross my path yet awhile, lest the old Adam rise up within me and bid
me give her such a ducking in yon river as would doubtless rid us of
her for ever, and bring her blood upon my head! 'Tis well she is a
weak woman, or my hands would verily have been long since laid upon
her in wholesome correction!"
CHAPTER XIII.
SIR GALAHAD'S MISSION.
"Thinkers are scarce as gold: but he, whose thoughts embrace all his
subject, pursues it uninterruptedly and fearless of consequences, is
a diamond of enormous size."--LAVATER.
The winter following the return of Primrose to her old home brought
her no repetition of the previous year's travels and gaieties, and
only such news of her friend Lady Bryn Afon as an occasional letter
afforded. These letters, however, gave her much pleasure, being
always written in most loving and gracious terms, and showing
particular interest in her pursuits and studies, which latter the
lady begged her to pursue diligently, more especially her practisings
upon the harp, she herself having instructed her in this art during
their sojourn together abroad, and having bestowed upon her a most
beautiful instrument for her own possession, which was pronounced by
a certain old harpist of Caer Cynau, from whom she continued to
receive instruction, to be one which the ancient bards of Wales
themselves might touch with pleasure! Of these now extinct musicians
of renown this venerable harpist declared himself a direct
descendant, and considered himself no mean successor, and was even so
gracious as to discern some sign of their ancient skill in his young
pupil, which he set himself with all pains to develop to the best of
his power, finding in her own increasing enjoyment of the art and
growing skill a full reward of his labours.
The Lady Bryn Afon exhorted Primrose to profit well by his teachings,
as well as by all such means as the vicar's great learning afforded
her of storing up information during the shining hours of her youth.
She told her that her own state of health progressed but sadly, and
that she must needs again winter abroad, but this time in company
with her husband, who was loth again to part from her for so long a
time, and to whom the king had granted leave of absence from his
royal person that he might cheer her with his society as befitted a
true and loving husband. So the long winter months wore away once
more in the valley, and very happily for Primrose, who, having
herself no wish to part again so soon from her faithful guardian, was
glad that her services were not immediately required, and that she
had leisure during the long winter evenings for much reading and
study, and for bringing to a greater perfection her playing upon her
beloved instrument, ere she should be again summoned into her
friend's presence.
Meanwhile much talk went on in the hamlet and in the neighbouring
villages as to the young Cambridge student, and the fresh crusade
against the sin of drunkenness and intemperance which some said he
was waging anew during the Christmas season in the parts about Caer
Caradoc. It seemed that during a temporary stay in the Lady
Rosamond's household, he was wont to go forth as a prophet throughout
the country-side, calling people together, with the consent of their
clergy, in barns and outhouses, as in the previous spring-time, and
testifying with wondrous eloquence against the sin so rife amongst
them, and showing forth the virtue of self-control and moderation in
the use of all the good gifts of God, as well as pointing out that
high path of self-denial for the good of others, which must needs be
humbly trodden by many if they would ever see this shameful and
terrible evil uprooted from their midst. And some said that he drew,
in such beautiful language, pictures of the day when men should
return home wise and sober from fair and market--at which noisy
gatherings he had likewise often openly addressed the people--and
should be greeted by happy, smiling wives and children, finding a
happy, holy home to be their lot rather than a brawling hovel of
misery, that he had drawn tears from the most hardened eyes, and that
some few of the most notorious drinkers had even been known to ride
home from the Christmas market without having to be once rescued from
the ditch by their companions, which surely pointed to a better state
of things, since it was no uncommon sight, late on a busy market-day,
to find the men stretched prone in the ditch by the roadside, while
their nags cheerfully nibbled the grass which grew around their
foolish-looking prostrate forms, not to speak of those who, too
intoxicated with strong liquor to ride home in safety, must needs
often place themselves, two on the same poor beast, holding one
another tightly, and lurching dangerously from side to side, while
the second sorry-looking nag came on alone behind, with drooping
tail, as though ashamed of its owner. But Primrose, who, although
she would have blushed to confess it, would fain have seen this young
preacher of novel doctrine face to face, looked for him in vain in
the hamlet of Bryn Afon, for neither there nor to the village of
Cwmfelin or any other in its immediate neighbourhood did he come at
this season, though his fame was noised abroad, and himself the topic
of converse at every fireside; by some held up for admiration, by
others to ridicule; yet his mission always held to be a high and
holy, if withal a fanatical one, and his character to be without
reproach.
"They say that the youth is to be made my Lord Bryn Afon's chaplain,"
said Jack the boatman, while discussing the young prophet one day in
the following summer with Master Rhys. "An it be true, I would that
he might persuade the noble earl to reside more among his people! So
we should doubly profit, being the better for the presence of our
master in our midst, and I trow not much the worse for so godly an
example of sobriety as this young man might show us." "It would
doubtless be well," said Master Rhys, somewhat sadly; "for though our
valley be in good sooth fair as the Garden of Eden, it is yet but
over plainly marked by the trail of the serpent. For my own part, I
lament sorely that I have grown old ere this matter has been plainly
brought before me, and that now when my eyes are opened to see the
evil, my age renders me thus incapable of embarking on such a work as
our unknown young friend, even ere he enters upon his ministry, has
been bold enough to begin. Methinks he must indeed be fully armed
with the courage of his opinions, for at the university it can be no
light thing boldly to stand out against a multitude of gay companions
and denounce the evil. He will, I fear me, likewise find himself a
sorry subject for jesting when he enters upon the duties of his
chaplaincy, for at Court this question will scarce yet commend itself
for discussion, save in ridicule. Nevertheless our king doth set his
Court a godly example in private life, whatever may be said of his
kingly qualities, and I would fain know it to be more widely
followed." "Our king is a good man," assented Jack heartily, "but I
would have seen him wedded to a lady of our own church rather than to
a Papist, for there is much talk against her in many parts of our
land, and that is greatly to be bewailed, since the Scripture forbids
us to 'speak evil of dignities,' let alone the loyalty of our own
hearts! Alas, that even in our own principality, than which no part
of his Majesty's domains is more loyal, there should already be a
wagging of bitter tongues, and a passing to and fro of seditious
words, such as cause my spirit to burn within me! Had it not been
for the favour shown to my Lord Bryn Afon by his late Majesty, I fear
me we might have lent even more readily than now an ear to the
pestilent doctrine of Master Jones and his followers, whose number, I
thank God, is yet but few! But King James showed ever a true
discernment of the worth of an honest Welshman, and who indeed more
fit to be counted his friend than the Lord Bryn Afon, who can boast
of lineage as ancient as any in our principality, and whose British
blood dates back to a time when the Saxon conqueror was unknown?"
"You are verily a true patriot, friend Jack," laughed the vicar, "and
withal can speak a good word for your conquerors, which bespeaks the
nobility of your soul! Well, should troublous times be before us,
for which we do well to be prepared, you will at least ever remain
staunch to the authority you have so long recognised, and be a true
friend to your king and your church." "So help me God," answered the
old boatman reverently. "Had I lived in the time of my ancestors, I
would have fought for the freedom of my country even as they, but
since it has long been the will of God that the English should rule
over us, I have not seen it my duty to contend against them, since He
has been pleased to call me to a state of life in which I find myself
under their lawful dominion. They have treated us well, methinks,
and shown much confidence in us of late years, besides special
favours to many of our most noble families, and I am well content,
save only that I cannot agree with such of my countrymen who, in
their over-zeal for all that is English, would fain forget wholly
their native tongue, and gladly see it die out from our midst. There
I follow them not, but rejoice to think that our ancient language has
still some few such brave supporters as your own most learned cousin
of Castell Leon, good Master Rhys Prichard, whose efforts to maintain
it I have ever seconded to the best of my poor power. I warrant you
his Gospel Poems are nowhere more oft on the lips of the children, or
better engraved on the hearts of the poor and unlearned, than in your
village of Cwmfelin, or our little hamlet here by the river." "They
have done a good work," said Master Rhys, "and greatly do I esteem my
good cousin for his labours, though I do still confess, to my shame
as a Welshman, an unfair love for the English tongue! But for that
you have ever pardoned me, knowing how my long residence in an
English cure as a younger man was fain to bias my good taste! I well
remember your joy and pride in our first Welsh Bible placed in the
church some five or six years since, good Jack, and how your fair
Primrose gazed with admiration at the big volume, and touched with
awe the chains which bound it to the desk! Ah me! I oft look round
upon my little church and its simple treasures with fear and
trembling in these troublesome times; for that dark storms are
brewing, I doubt not, and it has been ever before me of late that the
day is coming shortly when we who remain loyal to our church will
stand in greater danger than heretofore, if not of our lives, yet of
our livings being wrested from us, and our churches desecrated." "I
pray Heaven such evil may not come in your day, good sir," said Jack,
"though I likewise have evil forebodings, and am sometimes pleased to
think that our seclusion doth somewhat profit us, if only in the
saving of our ears from the pillory! Methinks that youthful
enthusiast of Cambridge must needs take care of his, for in these
days over-boldness will scarce go unchallenged!" "Should he be much
about the Court in his service of chaplain to Lord Bryn Afon," said
Master Rhys, "he is likely to give no displeasure to our present
sovereign by his teachings, for none can deny that King Charles doth
set an example of high and holy living in his own person, such as he
can scarce fail to appreciate in others." "And such too," said Jack,
"as with all reverence to his royal father, was not by any means
shown forth by him. Had our young prophet lived in his day and
preached in his Court his doctrines of abstinence and self-denial, it
had perchance been better for King James--peace be to his
memory!--and worse, I trow, for himself! He had been fortunate then
to have escaped with his ears!" "There is but little doubt that the
late king hastened his death by his excesses," said Master Rhys.
"Temptations, such as are common to man, are not always best resisted
in high life, and we must needs be thankful that the Court of to-day
is purer and more sober. I doubt not the young man will gain some
royal support for his new doctrines." "I pray the Lord Bryn Afon
himself may profit by them," said Jack earnestly, "for he has need,
though to none but yourself, good sir, would I say it.--How now,
Primrose? Thy readings over, child? What book hast thou now stolen
from thy pastor's shelves?" The young girl drew from under her arm a
copy of Spenser's _Faery Queene_, over which she had been poring for
some hours in the vicar's library, while he had taken his afternoon
walk to the hamlet, and indulged in his long chat with the old
boatman. "It is not King Arthur to-day," she said with a smile.
"What think you, dad? Passing the village shop a few moments since,
I bethought me of a trifle I needed there, and going in to purchase
it, I laid my book upon the counter, whereupon Master Jones seized
upon it like a vulture upon his prey, and reading its title, flung it
from him as though it had been a coal red-hot from the fire. 'Have
pity on my book, since it is a borrowed one, good Master Jones!' I
said. 'What has it done to deserve such treatment at your hands?'
'It is a pestilent volume, forsooth,' said he, speaking thus"--and
Primrose imitated the good man's nasal twang to such perfection that
her hearers were convulsed with laughter--"'a book which no godly
damsel should look upon, a book full of evil imaginations and lying
wonders, writ by one of Satan's messengers, to lure the young ever
nearer to the pit of destruction. Beware, young woman, lest the vain
visions of unholy poets ensnare and destroy your soul!' 'You would
fain burn the book together with our Prayer Books, is it not so?' I
said; 'and many more precious volumes, I doubt not, an you could lay
violent hands on them! Have you then gained much ill for your own
soul by its perusal, that you are thus bitter against it?' 'Heaven
forbid!' he answered, uplifting his hands in horror, and rolling the
whites of his eyes till I verily feared some fit was overtaking him.
'I would not touch the book with a pair of tongs, much less look
therein!' 'Then,' I said, 'methinks, good sir, it is a wicked sin
you commit, in so slandering good Master Spenser, when you know not
one word of his writings! An you will read the book all through, and
meditate thereon with deep attention, I will gladly hear what you
have to say upon it; but as yet I fear me I can feel but little
respect for your opinion, and will be gone.' Whereupon he looked
sadly foolish, and covering his face with both hands to hide his
confusion, he murmured as I left him: 'Alas, that a lost soul should
dwell in so fair an exterior!" "Beshrew me!" exclaimed Jack
indignantly, "if I e'er suffer thee to set foot again within his
doors! Let him meddle with thy soul at his peril! I fear me thy
beauty doth subject thee to many an insult, sweetheart!" "Nay, I
thought no harm of his speech," she answered, laughing. "He has ever
been wont from time to time to make me a pretty compliment, but so
carefully wrapped with bitter flavourings that it could scarce offend
me by its sweetness! I pray you, dear dad, be not angry against him,
for I doubt not he means well by his warnings, and I half fear that I
ought perchance to repent me of my sauciness. Is it not such counsel
which is on the tip of your tongue, dear Master Rhys?" and she looked
up with a loving smile at the old vicar, who patted her head and
smiled back at her benignantly. "Nay, my child," he answered; "my
tongue is in no present mood for scolding. But I have news for you.
The Lady Rosamond bids me take lunch with her on the morrow at Caer
Caradoc, and says that being just now somewhat lonesome, without
guests or gaieties, she would enjoy the favour of your company for a
few days, should your guardian think fit to spare you to her, and to
entrust me with your escort." Primrose clapped her hands, "A few
days at Caer Caradoc!" she exclaimed. "I would indeed like to see
more of King Arthur's old castle, if I might. What say you, dad?
Will you let me take advantage of her kindness?" "Ay, right
willingly, dear heart," he answered. "She shall accompany you, good
sir, with my great good will, for it were hard on so sweet and
dutiful a daughter to keep her from aught that can give her pleasure;
and since your own friendship towards the Lady Rosamond is a warrant
to me that she will be safe in her keeping, I can suffer her to
depart without fear. It is ever before me that again ere long the
Lady Bryn Afon may perchance have need of her company, and since her
own mother too may likewise claim her ere many more years are past, I
shall do well at times to accustom myself to her loss by dwelling for
a season without having her sweet face to look upon." The old man
heaved a heavy sigh as he spoke, and Primrose clung closely to him,
for greatly though she longed for the time when her unknown mother
should reveal herself, she yet felt her whole future to be so
enshrouded in mystery, that she could but anticipate it with dread,
and a certain shrinking from anything that threatened to break up her
peaceful existence with her foster-father in the beautiful Gwynnon
Valley. "Heaven grant she may treasure you as I do, my darling!"
murmured the old man solemnly; "and may let me find a place at your
feet in those high places which my mind ever pictures as your
portion! The bell ringeth for Evensong. I will lay aside my work
and walk across the hills with you, sweet one, since some few lonely
days must pass ere I kneel by your side again."
CHAPTER XIV.
THE LEGEND OF THE POOL.
"... The legend tells how sad
The shepherd left his flock to watch the mere;
And how at times his grief grew wild, and glad
He hail'd the star which tells that day is near;
But ne'er to him his love did reappear.
Yet some aver, when dawn begins to break
On one, the longest day of all the year,
A breathing's-space, the maid, for old love's sake,
Doth raise her golden locks above the gloomy lake."
--JOHN JERVIS BERESFORD.
The gay-hearted Lady Rosamond greeted her old friend and his young
charge on the following day with much enthusiasm, welcoming Primrose
heartily as her guest, and herself leading her to her chamber,
remarking as she did so, that she hated ever to have servants at her
heels, and intended to wait upon so fair a maiden with her own hands.
"For which I doubt not I shall presently suffer the wrath of my liege
lord," she said with a gay laugh; "for he would have me so surrounded
with my minions, for fear that I should in any wise overtax my
strength, that I can at times scarce move a finger without their
help! For my own part, I love greater freedom, and care not for my
maidens' assiduities, wherefore my lord and I often come to high
words, I do assure you, sweet Primrose, and you must e'en be prepared
to keep the peace betwixt us, an you would not see blows exchanged
betimes. You laugh, girl, and believe me not? Ah, well! I will not
wish you a better consort than my own, for I were scarce so wild and
wayward, I promise you, an he did not spoil me so! This, let me warn
you, is King Arthur's own chamber, in which you shall take your rest
right royally. Should his spirit haunt you in the night-time, you
will not be afraid?" "That I dare not promise," answered Primrose,
"for I have never yet chanced to see a ghost, and since they are
fearsome things, I cannot tell how I might bear the sight. But I
need scarce fear the shade of King Arthur, having ever held him in
such admiration that he would not have the heart to harm me!" "Nay,
then, the chamber is not really haunted," said Lady Rosamond,
laughing; "and nought but the holy face of Sir Galahad shall visit
your dreams, I promise you. You have never yet seen my Sir Galahad,
have you?" "Never," replied Primrose, "for during his last visit to
these parts, of which we heard rumours at Christmas-tide, he did not
vouchsafe to offer his services either to Master Rhys or to any of
our near neighbours, and his first visit of all was during my stay
with the Lady Bryn Afon, so that I have never yet had the opportunity
of listening to his masterful lectures. It is true, is it not, that
he is already chosen by our Lord Bryn Afon to be his chaplain after
his ordination?" "Yes, he is so honoured, if honour it be," answered
Lady Rosamond; "but he has yet over a year to wait ere he is of age
for the taking of Holy Orders, and beyond that a couple more years of
self-imposed waiting. I warrant you I spare him not for his
presumption in opening his mouth in public ere he is of sufficient
age and discretion to enter the pulpit! And that, as you see, he has
no mind to enter yet awhile, since he has made this fixed resolve not
to seek ordination before the age of five-and-twenty, in order (as I
must suppose) that he may, after two added years of study, wield yet
more weighty weapons of learning and oratory! He is verily a
Quixotic youth, but my husband and I regard him with an unbounded
admiration, and shall grudge to relinquish him to our neighbours of
Bryn Afon, since we at present enjoy his company some two or three
times in a year. You must know that his course at Cambridge is now
completed, and he has this past Easter-tide taken his degree with
splendid honours, which have driven him forth to hide awhile his
blushing countenance abroad, in company with his bosom friend, Master
Jeremy Taylor, who has likewise marvellously well acquitted himself.
After the vacation is ended they will grace the sister University
with their talents, having both had Fellowships at the College of All
Souls, in the city of Oxford, conferred upon them in reward for their
labours. Greatly rejoiced are they, I warrant you, at so pleasing an
opportunity for continuation of their mutual study and delight in one
another's society! Our neighbour, the Earl of Carbery, across the
river, is vastly taken with young Master Taylor, but he is scarce
likely to bury himself in a Welsh chaplaincy or remote town
hereabouts, having before him excellent prospects of preferment in
England. The eye of Archbishop Laud is said to be upon him, and I
doubt not he will make his mark in the Church one day, as might my
friend Percival Vere likewise do easily enough, but that I fear
neither eye of king or archbishop hath power to stir within him aught
of earthly ambition, his whole soul being given to the saving of us
all from the bitter fate of the drunkard! Ah, well, he will find a
stauncher supporter of his strange theories in Lady Bryn Afon than in
me, and indeed, were I in her place, I might see greater cause to
agree with him." "How so?" asked Primrose wonderingly. "He that
must needs shoot does well to find a high mark for his arrows,
child," said Lady Rosamond; "and our apostle of temperance will find
such a mark easily enough, I promise you. But this is idle talk, to
pass no further than betwixt us two. Come, I hear the gong sound for
our midday meal, and my lord will chide me if I tarry." And like
some gay butterfly she fluttered off to the banqueting-hall, her arm
round Primrose's waist, greeting her husband in the doorway with a
hearty embrace before presenting to him her blushing young guest, who
hung back somewhat shyly at the sight of the grave, stately Sir Ivor,
whom she had never before seen. "Now I beg of you, Shanno,"
exclaimed Lady Rosamond, "to stand in no awe of my husband! He has
truly a grave and almost reverend exterior, but within he has a kind
heart; and since he has these many years tolerated my wiles with a
good grace, you may know he is scarce so terrible as he appears!"
Whereupon Primrose could but laugh heartily, while the grave muscles
of Sir Ivor's face relaxed, and he joined in the laugh against
himself, with perfect understanding of his wife's gay speeches. And
after a few kind words from him, Primrose grew quite at her ease, and
the meal passed merrily enough, the earl telling many interesting
tales of the old castles, legends of King Arthur, and more recent
stories of the part Caer Caradoc had played in the old warfare
between Wales and England, and of marvellous escapes made in such
times by means of the wonderful subterranean passage into which he
offered to take her one day, on condition that his wife would prove
her affection for him by accompanying them. ''Tis a hard trial of my
constancy!" said Lady Rosamond, shivering with mock terror. "I will
make no rash promises. Perchance before fair Shanno leaves us she
may instil more strength into my poor weak soul than it can as yet
boast; but if not, she shall not go without me, for never shall it be
said of your wife that she suffered a hapless maiden to be lured into
the deeps of the earth to her destruction! So, Primrose, you must
needs rouse me to a greater height of courage than now, or make up
your mind not to hazard your life in such an abyss of darkness." "I
am not sure if I have courage enough of my own," said Primrose; "but
I would dearly like to explore the passage, and would trust that the
bravery of Sir Ivor might avail for us all. Think you, dear Master
Rhys, that my guardian would forbid me to go in company with others?"
"Nay, I think not so," answered the vicar, "for you will be safe
enough in Sir Ivor's keeping, since I know him to have been
acquainted from boyhood with every twist and turn in the tunnel. I
would like well enough to accompany you myself, but that my old bones
are too venerable for such stooping and rattling over loose stones in
darkness!" "No such penance shall be enforced upon you, dear
friend," said Lady Rosamond. "We will engage ourselves this forenoon
with pastimes less fatiguing to our limbs and nerves, and leave this
expedition until some day when you are no longer with us. Come,
Primrose, we will walk in the garden awhile, and you, dear friend,
will find us there anon, should you be disposed to come and see my
summer blossoms. Meanwhile we will leave you to the tender mercies
of my liege lord, who will weary you with discussion of king and
parliament while we turn our attention to lighter matters."
Primrose found that time by no means hung heavily upon her hands in
the society of her cheerful hostess, and the days passed gaily enough
within the grim old castle walls. Each day she rode out with Lady
Rosamond and Sir Ivor, exploring the beautiful country in many
directions hitherto unknown to her, visiting with them other ancient
castles and venerable mansions, which vied with Caer Caradoc in
rugged stateliness and historic interest; and even penetrating one
day far up into the wild Craig Aran range, where hill after hill
rolled away in soft shadow or purple darkness, and green valleys
broke away on every side, clothed with woods in all the soft
freshness of their mid-summer beauty, while far ahead loomed the
rocky Peak, which formed the summit of the ridge, towering giant-like
above the softer and more rounded hills below, and shelving steeply
down to the mysterious Pool at its base--a silent sheet of black
water, shut in on three sides by the steep walls of the mountain-top,
where there ever reigned a wonderful silence, broken only by some
distant sheep-bell, or call of shepherd-boy or cowherd on the plain.
"About a mile or so from yon Peak," said Lady Rosamond, "there stands
a lone farmstead, which the Lady Bryn Afon loves to frequent in the
summer-time. It is a desolate spot, far removed from the nearest
village, and even from other farms or cottages, but it charmed her
long since by its romantic situation and the beautiful scenery
around, and she loves to pass some quiet weeks now and again within
its walls, at such times as her lord is detained unusually long about
the Court. For my part, I should mope my life away in such a region,
with none but a curious old farm-woman and her family, who speak not
one word of English, for my company! But the Lady Bryn Afon has so
great a love for this barbarous tongue of ours, and is moreover so
solitary a spirit, that, as I say, it is her delight to bury herself
there when she may. There is a marvellous legend of some fair
maiden, who appears on Midsummer Eve from out the lake, and wanders
round its shores. I know not the precise story, but Master Rhys
Prichard, at whose house we shall tarry awhile on our way homewards
for refreshment and an hour's pleasant converse, will repeat it for
you, for he is learned in all our mystic lore beyond most men. Ah,
Primrose, I have a thought! We will come and watch for her, you and
I, next Midsummer Eve, an we are alive! I have longed many a time to
prove for myself the truth of the tale, and you must perforce behold
the enchanted spot ere many more years roll over your head, else your
education as a good Welsh maiden will scarce be completed. Alas,
that the thought did not come to me a week since! then could we have
cajoled my lord into a charming midnight excursion this Midsummer Eve
just passed." "I would dearly love to go!" said Primrose, her eyes
shining with excitement. "I know the tale well, and dad has often
said he would do his best to take me some day to see the magic lady;
but he is old, and would be over-much wearied by the journey, besides
that we should scarce know ourselves how to accomplish it. It would
indeed be delightful, an I might next year go with you! Or even, if
we could not go by night to see the fairy maiden, it would be joy
enough to see the old farmhouse and the wonderful lakes, and to climb
the Peak and look upon the world from the top of the mountain!" "You
shall see it all, child," said Lady Rosamond; "and we will certainly
see the supernatural as well as the beauties of nature! Should it
fail us, I will e'en write forthwith a treatise in contradiction of
the legend, and all other tales of equally lying folly! Tell me the
tale then. I forgot that you were e'en such a student that for
book-lore I must blush for very shame in your presence!" Whereupon
Primrose related the story, which ran as follows:--
"In days of yore there dwelt in the valley beneath the shadow of the
lofty Craig Aran the widow of a peasant and her only son, whose only
riches were their flocks and herds, over which the youth watched
tenderly from day to day on the lonely mountain-side. For the sake
of his own fair countenance, as well as for the sake of a share in
those goodly herds, the young man's hand was greatly craved in
marriage by many a loving mother in the country-side for her fair
daughters, but on none of these comely maidens did he look with
favour, being ever occupied with daydreams of an ideal maiden, so
wondrous fair that none yet seen might bear compare with her.
"One day it fell that as his eyes were fixed in deep thought upon the
glassy surface of the lake, which lies so still beneath yon Peak, he
beheld a herd of white oxen rise from the water, driven by a swan,
which, as he gazed, grew into a lovely maiden, with eyes as blue as
the sky and as bright as the stars, and gleaming golden hair, which
clothed her like a beauteous outer raiment almost to her feet. His
heart, long untouched by mortal maiden, melted within him at the fair
vision, more fair, in sooth, than all his dreams, and, stretching out
his arms towards her in deep yearning, he offered her of his bread.
But with a smile she glided from his clasp and vanished, laughing,
beneath the wave. A second day he came, and once more the beautiful
vision appeared to his longing eyes, and he again offered her his
bread to eat, but she vanished from sight as before, so that he went
home sadly, and pined for days in secret, till, no longer able to
bear alone his woe, he confessed to his mother the strange tale and
the love he bore the magic maiden. She bade him seek his love yet
once again, and on the eve of Midsummer Day he trod in trembling the
lonely path up the mountain-side, and lay till midnight on the shore
of the black lake, consumed with impatient longing for the fair
vision. At last to his wondering gaze there appeared upon the dark
surface of the water a slice of magic milk-white bread, of which, as
it drew near to his outstretched hand, he partook, kneeling
reverently upon the bare earth the while. Then once more the phantom
herd glided forth to land, driven by the wondrous maiden, who, rowing
swiftly in her golden shallop to the shore, cast herself with joyful
cry into his longing arms, and together they partook of what remained
of the magic bread, and confessed their mutual love on the lake's
dark brink, ere he led her homewards. So, through the eating of this
wondrous bread, their souls were knit in one, and she became his
loving bride, promising all wifely love and obedience, with this
warning only, that since she, an immortal maiden, was thus wed to
mortal man, he must needs ever bear in mind, that should he in all
the course of their life together e'er chance three times to strike
her, she and her fair herds must return at once to their own people.
Some years they dwelt together ere any shadow crossed their path;
fair children were born to them, and their flocks and herds
multiplied exceedingly; but one day, while they were still in the
flower of youth, they were bidden to a christening, and he, finding
that she lingered awhile, not greatly moved on account of her own
primeval faith to witness the ceremony, struck her in play upon the
shoulder, chiding her for her tardiness; whereupon she bade him
beware, and ever bear in mind that he had once done the forbidden
deed. Long after, at a wedding-feast, her far-seeing soul warned her
of great sorrow in store for the newly-married pair; she wept
bitterly, and once again her husband, lightly chiding her for thus
marring the feast with her tears, touched her arm in gentle reproof,
and once again in solemn warning she bade him beware. After many
years again, they were bidden to a funeral, and she, knowing well the
happiness of the holy departed, could not forbear to laugh softly to
herself as she mused thereon. Her husband, grieved that any should
think her light-hearted in the midst of woe, again tapped her gently
on the shoulder, whereupon her mirth suddenly ceased, and she grew
still as death. Then, rising quickly, she bade him farewell in great
sorrow of heart and was gone, and he watching her, horror-struck,
depart, beheld her vanish from his sight, not in the guise of his
long-wedded wife, but in the fairy form of the golden-haired maiden
of old. Alone she wended her way to the solitary hills, calling her
cattle around her, and in long procession they followed her to the
lake, in which they disappeared. Her husband, broken-hearted, ne'er
trod again the shores of the mysterious lake, but her sons watched
oft for her, and one day saw at last the maiden in her shallop of
gold appear on the surface, but they saw in her no similitude of
their aged mother, and turned away weeping. Then a voice drew them
back suddenly, and turning once more to the lake they beheld with joy
their beloved mother, who spake lovingly with them, promising to
teach them wondrous lore of herbs and plants, that they should heal
their neighbours and become wise in all physicians' learning; and
also she promised ever to be with them in their work, sustaining them
by her magic presence. So day by day her sons went to cull simples
on the mountain-side at eventide, and in time waxed wondrous wise,
and worked cures which made their names famous throughout the
country-side. They also had lands given them, and lived to a great
old age in peace and plenty, and in doing good to their neighbours.
And the shepherds, keeping their flocks on the mountains, were wont
to hear a voice speaking with these learned brothers as they culled
their herbs in the 'Physicians' Dingle,' and sometimes there they
even saw at their side a radiant form.
"And there have never been wanting in any age since the time when
this wonderful thing befell, wise and marvellously learned physicians
in the valleys below Craig Aran, who could trace their descent from
the mystic maiden who wedded the young shepherd of Glyn Melen, and
even at this very day there is said to be one at least remaining of
those skilled medicine-men, though none in our valley can tell where
he may be seen."
"A charming legend truly!" exclaimed Lady Rosamond, "and right well
told. Shame upon me to have presumed to live thus long without
acquainting myself with so pretty a tale, save in such shreds and
scattered fragments as my maids have at times let fall! Well, look
you, sweet Primrose, should we both be alive at this same time next
year, nothing shall content me but Sir Ivor shall perforce convey us
both on Midsummer Eve to yon farmhouse of Glyn Melen, where we will
obtain a night's lodging, stealing forth at midnight to prove the
truth of your tale. And should it prove false, I bid you beware of
my lord's vengeance, for I shall hardly persuade him to undertake
such a fool's errand, such scorn thinks he of all 'old wives'
fables,' as he must needs call them! And should we drag him forth at
dead of night for nought, I tremble even now to think what satire we
must endure at his hands, and for very shame and fear I shall lay all
the blame on you, I promise you!" "I will bear willingly your share
and my own likewise," answered Primrose eagerly, "an you can but
prevail upon Sir Ivor to grant your request; an the fairy maiden will
not rise at our bidding, we shall yet have seen enough to make his
wrath well worth enduring, for the scenery by night will be grand
enough to repay us, and we would have right good fun, I doubt not."
"Well, it is a bargain," said Lady Rosamond. "An you can prevail
upon your good foster-father to entrust you again to my keeping, with
as much ease as I shall cajole my liege lord into accompanying us,
'twill be arranged without great trouble! You will not believe it,
fair Shanno, of one so grave and stately, but I have but to put my
arms round his neck and whisper in his ear, and I might ask for a
kingdom! I wish you may have as good a husband as mine! I marvel at
times to think you are not already wed. So fair as you are, you must
needs ere now have made havoc of many hearts!" "I trust not," said
Primrose, with a blush. "That would seem to me but a sorry ambition;
and must that be the forfeit poor men must needs pay for looking on
my face, I would fain dwell unseen in the valley, as now, all my
days!" "Fie, thou art over serious, child," said Lady Rosamond with
a laugh. "An aching heart is the forfeit men must ever pay to beauty
such as yours! You will get used to the thought in time, I warrant
you. Confess now; have you never yet set one aching, to the best of
your knowledge?" "I know of none," answered Primrose demurely.
"Truly there were some three or four stalwart youths from the farms
near by, who awhile ago would pass me on the bridge, and sigh, and
clasp their hand to their heart as they went by, and who moreover
were bold enough to ask my hand--not of me, for that they dare
not!--but of my foster-father; but methinks I need feel no sorrow on
their behalf, since they have all since repented of their folly, and
married sweethearts of their own way of life. And as for others,
why, I have lived in too great solitude to see them, besides that my
mind is ever too filled with thoughts of my mother, to have room in
it for marriage. I would fain find her first, and learn who I
rightly am, and why she has so strangely dealt with me, ere I dream
too much of lovers and weddings." "You are a wise and dutiful
daughter, sweet one," said Lady Rosamond caressingly, "and I wish for
you none other than the best of mothers, and the happiest of lives.
Yet since Heaven has blessed me with so good and true a husband, I
can but wish for you that you may some day meet with such another!
It is good to have a partner of all one's joys and sorrows, and a
brave companion ever at hand, whom one may plague to one's heart's
content! Think you not my lord and I are a pattern couple?"
"Methinks you are a truly happy one," said Primrose softly; "and I
think no scorn of married life, for all I am in no haste to enter
upon it, for it must surely be the most beautiful life to live, if
God so wills it. Yet since it is a life which so many seem to mar
with great miseries, I would fain never enter upon it at all than
miss its beauty, as they." "Beware lest you ever shine, a solitary
star, in a dark sky of your own making!" said Lady Rosamond, holding
up a warning finger. "It is thus that I threaten young Percival
Vere, who while chivalrous as any gallant knight of old towards our
sex, must needs, like the shepherd of your tale, hold such particular
virtues and graces to be needful for his own ideal maiden, that 'tis
scarce in any mortal damsel he will find them! Methinks I had best
counsel him likewise to visit yon Pool some day at midnight's
witching hour, for it would be but fair to give him such a fine
chance of wooing an immortal maiden, since he will scarce e'er find
any one of her earthly sisters to his choice! Nay, I will cease my
foolish chatter, dear heart, since it brings such blushes to your
fair cheeks. I will e'en leave both you and our 'lily-knight'--for
so you must know they call him at Christ's College--to soar to your
mountain-tops an you will. I do verily suppose the atmosphere of
such heights, being nearer Heaven, must needs be purer and clearer
than what we more earthly beings are privileged to breathe below, and
I grudge you not your soaring, since it hath so charming effect. Now
blush not, girl! Why, verily, your face is like a weather-glass!
Does no one then ever tell you of all your charms? I knew my own, at
your age, well enough, I promise you, and had I then so fair a rival,
could have died of envy!" "Ah, talk not so!" said Primrose. "You
think not how you may turn my poor head with such idle talk. And if
you lived in our hamlet, with Master Jones ever at your elbow to warn
you of the evil of setting too high a price upon your perishing
beauty, you would not wantonly strive to stir up my vanity. I would
you could see Master Jones and hear him discourse! But I fear me he
would be so over-much shocked at your levity, that he would be struck
dumb, and but roll the whites of his eyes in silence, thus----"
"Fie, Primrose!" said her friend with a laugh, "so to mock the good
man! Ah, it is he of whom dear Master Rhys told me, who upbraids you
for study of the _Morte d' Arthur_ and the Faery Queene, and the good
old _Tales_ of Master Chaucer. Speaking of King Arthur, do you know
that my Sir Galahad, who, as I told you, is of Welsh birth on his
mother's side, is descended from none other than Ap Gryffyth himself,
our last luckless king, of whose lost crown he is the rightful heir,
and whose head was hung up on the gates of Carnarvon by our hated
conqueror, the first Edward of England? I tell you I do so regard
the youth, that I would fain go a-fighting to regain his crown and
kingdom for him, an he had left in his recreant bosom but one spark
of loyalty to his dead relative wherewith to encourage me! You and I
would lead a rebellion, Primrose, and Caer Caradoc should be stormed
by King Charles's armies, and we would smuggle away the young Ap
Gryffyth through the secret passage. You should save him, and he
would marry you out of gratitude, and make you Queen of Wales! There
is a sweet romance for you! The only drawback is that the youth is a
miscreant wretch, having but a romantic love for his royal ancestor,
and a poetic pity for his hapless fate, while from his English father
he has imbibed so strong a spirit of loyalty to the English nation
and the House of Stuart, that he will die for King Charles sooner
than aid us in our noble scheme! Well, never mind. My husband is
ever telling me that I am full to the brim of misdirected energy, but
better that, say I, than none at all!" "Since your ladyship is so
keen on war and bloodshed," said Primrose, "your courage must surely
not fail at the prospect of entering the secret passage! Have you
forgot Sir Ivor's promise? And to-morrow is my last day in your
company." "I would fight bravely in open daylight," said Lady
Rosamond valiantly, "yet my proud spirit quails in the dark like that
of any frightened child! Man, I tell you, child, and still less
woman, was not made to crawl on all-fours for miles, by the light of
a solitary candle, which, on the verge of the bottomless well is sure
to be extinguished by some satyr's breath below, precipitating us to
unknown depths of darkness! Such places are relics of barbarous
times, when efts and pixies dwelt in the land. Yet sooner than be
outdone by a girl like you, I will e'en adventure myself into the
passage! Long ago I would have done so, save that in me the
curiosity of my sex is ever so evenly balanced with sloth and
laziness that I am willing enough to forego knowledge of that which
gives me trouble. So it was with me as a child, whence my present
ignorance on divers subjects, fragments of which were but driven in
upon the surface of the brain with cuff and blow. Ah well! I will
go, as spoke my lord and master, to 'prove my love for him;' then,
should I perish, I shall at any rate feel a martyr's consolation."
CHAPTER XV.
THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE.
"As one who, from the sunshine and the green,
Enters the solid darkness of a cave,
Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen
May yawn before him with its sudden grave,
And, with hushed breath, doth often forward lean,
Dreaming he hears the splashing of a wave
Dimly below, or feels a damper air
From out some dreary chasm, he knows not where."
--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
On the following day a solemn procession descended the stone steps
which led to the door of the famed secret passage, and after some
shrieking and pretence at fainting on the part of Lady Rosamond, she
and Primrose, attended by Sir Ivor, and preceded by two of the
men-servants carrying lanterns, plunged into the dark recesses of the
tunnel. At first the darkness and the stooping posture which had to
be maintained were considerably trying to the two fair ladies,
though, having once started, neither would give in nor own to the
slightest fatigue. And as their eyes became more accustomed to the
dim light, it seemed to grow stronger and brighter, and they were
able to see the ruggedness of their path, and choose their steps more
warily. The walls also gradually increased in height, so that in
many places they could walk for some distance without stooping,
though again at times there would be a sudden fall, and they were
fain to crawl on hands and knees through some narrow tunnel, emerging
somewhat exhausted, yet finding the situation far too exciting to
allow of actual weariness. "I would we could walk through to Bryn
Afon!" exclaimed Primrose. "That would be a grand adventure!" "It
is little short of twelve miles in distance, my child," said Sir
Ivor, "and bravely though you are still travelling, I dare hardly
take on me the responsibility of such a journey for either of you!
Were Lord Bryn Afon at the castle and aware of our intention, so that
he might admit us, and allow of our returning by the road, after
sleeping off our fatigues, it would perhaps be another matter." "Ah,
I would he were there!" cried Primrose; "yet an he were"--and her
face fell--"I might not venture there with you, for by my mother's
orders I have ever been most strictly forbidden to set foot within
the castle walls. I often marvel why she has such dread of the curse
which has fallen upon it." "Bryn Afon Castle is avoided by all,"
said Sir Ivor, "so that your mother's prohibition is not so passing
strange. The rumour of the curse is widely spread over the country
hereabouts, and has been so these hundred years and more, and there
are few among Lord Bryn Afon's Welsh friends who ever venture a foot
therein. In truth, I believe that none are e'er admitted, save only
the friends he himself brings with him when he sojourns there awhile,
and also myself and Lady Rosamond, the Merediths of Caer Caradoc
having ever been faithful friends of the family. Now we will proceed
some few yards farther, and shall then arrive at the bottomless well,
which you, Primrose, will doubtless contemplate with some interest.
And after that, my men, I must bid you return, for we must not forget
that we have tender women in our charge, for whom such rude paths
were never destined, and we have already walked some three or four
miles." "Now, is it not provoking to be a weak woman?" exclaimed
Lady Rosamond. "I am just beginning to enjoy most thoroughly my
subterranean career, with never a thought of fatigue, and my tyrant
orders our return! Ah, let us go on bravely to Bryn Afon. I will
bear home the drooping Primrose upon my own shoulders." "It must not
be, dear heart," replied Sir Ivor with a smile. "Moreover, you would
see no greater wonders than at present. The passage but winds on
mile after mile as now, with more or less of roughness on the
pathway, and ever and anon blocked with these wearisome tunnels.
Within some three miles or so of Bryn Afon it branches off, however,
in two directions, one leading quickly to yon fair castle of Craig
Arthur, whose wooded heights and peeping grey turrets hanging just
above our river we all love so well, the other winding onwards, as
you know, to Bryn Afon. Now, beware how you tread. Turn the lantern
this way, Llewellyn, and give me your hand, sweet wife, and your
other to Primrose. Here is the bottomless well." They stood and
looked down into the black abyss, Lady Rosamond and Primrose gazing
into its gruesome depths with a sort of fascinated awe. Above the
well was an overhanging mass of rock, and the narrow pathway wound so
closely round the dark corner that, but for the strong iron rails
with which Sir Ivor had of late years securely fenced it in, an
unwary passer-by might only too easily plunge by one false step into
its yawning depths. "And is there truly no bottom?" asked Primrose,
shuddering, as she thought of Jack's fair young daughter, hurrying
with giddy footsteps along the rude pathway, and then, but one step
more, and cruel death in this horror of darkness! "So it has always
been said," answered Sir Ivor, "and the sad story of the boatman's
daughter served only to strengthen the idea, since her body was never
discovered." "Dad has ever believed," said Primrose, "that her body
was caught upon some ledge of rock at an untold depth. Men tried
with ropes to discover it, but it was never found, neither could the
bottom of the well be reached by the bravest of them. Dad says, too,
there is a horrible tale of a wheel far, far below, which sucks down
aught that is thrown into the well, and was so devised centuries ago
as a horrid punishment for doomed prisoners. But he does not dare to
dwell upon so terrible a thought." "It is so, according to the old
traditions," said Sir Ivor, "and legend says, moreover, that by
placing the ear as close as may be to the surface of the well, the
swishing sound of the wheel may be plainly heard." They stooped,
leaning their heads through the iron rails, over the top of the well,
and from far below heard clearly a faint, whispering sound in the
water's black depths, so distant that in the dead silence of the
ghostly corridor the ear could but just detect it. Primrose
shivered, and Lady Rosamond sprang up, exclaiming, "After that I have
had enough and will return home, Ivor, with all dutiful obedience. I
have experienced a horror sufficient to satisfy the most morbid
craving. Primrose, you are pale as death, and verily your 'each
particular hair'--and mine likewise--'doth stand on end,' as good
Master Shakespeare hath it. I doubt the wisdom of suffering you to
gaze upon this awful spot, child. Tell her a cheerful tale, Ivor, to
banish the thought from her mind, else will the vision of the
boatman's daughter haunt her to-night in her dreams. Poor old man, I
do verily pity him from my heart." "I am glad to have seen the
place," said Primrose, "for many a time I have thought upon her sad
fate, and have wondered if it could be true. Now I see it is but too
likely a fate to befall any rash wanderer in this gruesome darkness.
But I cannot forbear thinking that surely those left in charge of the
castle were much to blame for letting her by any means gain
possession of the key of this horrible place." "The housekeeper,
left in charge at the time of the sad occurrence, never recovered
from the shock," said Sir Ivor, "and her death was doubtless hastened
by the remorse from which she suffered for her carelessness. The
girl was however wild and wilful, and none will ever know where the
fault lay. I now keep the key ever about my own person, nor dream of
leaving it in the care of servants; but without so melancholy a
warning, I doubt that I should have been so careful over it, so that
I cannot too severely blame those before me for their seeming want of
thought. In my father's day the passage had not been long wholly
disused, and he was so well accustomed to allow myself and my
brothers to roam freely about it, that fear of the well had little
place in his mind. For our part, we were bold, lawless young
termagants, and having no mother to restrain us, did much as we
would, knowing scarce the name of fear. At the time of the accident
my father was abroad, and my brothers and myself at Oxford, where I
well remember the news reaching us, and our horror at such an event
having come to pass in our absence. I was myself, on my return home,
lowered into the well so far as the longest ropes would surfer me to
descend, but nought was at any time discovered of the poor girl's
remains, the bonnet caught on yon ledge of rock close to the well's
mouth being the only means of judging of her sad fate."
"And did you and your brothers at any time reach the end of the
passage?" asked Primrose, "More than once," answered Sir Ivor,
"having agreed beforehand with Lord Bryn Afon, then a boy much of our
own age, to admit us. He was but rarely at the castle, his father,
the late earl, loving it not much better than his predecessors; but
on those rare occasions it was our greatest joy to penetrate into the
doomed building, to roam the ancient corridors and wake the echoes in
the deserted dwelling-rooms, few of which were maintained in such
order as to be habitable." "Then," said Primrose eagerly, "since you
have been within the castle, and known the Lord Bryn Afon as a boy,
did you never perchance discover the secret of the curse?" "It was a
matter on which no word was ever breathed," answered Sir Ivor. "The
present earl, as a boy, was ignorant of its nature, and his parents
caring not to speak of it, their friends durst not, in kindness, ask
them any questions thereon. Since my friend has grown to manhood he
has ne'er shown any confidence in me in this particular, ever
affecting to treat it lightly, as a thing unworthy of comment. Yet
that he does not in his secret heart so regard it is shown plainly
enough by the strong aversion he has ever manifested towards his old
home." "Methinks it weighs sorely upon Lady Bryn Afon also," said
Primrose, "for her face is much worn with care and pain, and often
while I was in her company I heard her sigh most sorrowfully when she
thought I was not by, and more than once I have found her with tears
upon her cheeks." "She has reason for her sorrow," said Lady
Rosamond, "for you must know that she married against her father's
will, and has ever since been wholly cut off from her own people, and
this is ever a most wearing grief to her, indeed so painful that even
to me, her friend, she will not speak of it. True, I am much younger
than she, and of too frivolous a deportment, I trow, to encourage
much secret confidence; yet I have more heart--and so my lord will
bear me witness--than one would give me credit for, perchance! But
the Lady Bryn Afon is one of those self-contained souls who are by
nature strong enough to bear their burdens unaided; and whereas I
should betray my griefs to the world with noisy lamentations, she
finds greater solace in wrapping them up closely in her own breast.
Indeed I should scarce have heard from her own lips even such scanty
news of her marriage as I have told you, and have learned it but from
a conversation held one day between her husband and mine. The men
are greater gossips than we, I warrant you! The unfortunate Lord
Bryn Afon confessed that although he had never repented him of his
hasty marriage, for the love it had brought him, yet he could but
fear the lack of an heir to his house to be a punishment sent by God
for his youthful imprudence in marrying secretly, and in spite of the
curse he oft bewails his childlessness. Now, Primrose, our gallant
feat is accomplished, and though my poor back doth verily ache to
distraction, yet I am glad I have done the deed. How good is the
daylight! Come, child, we will repair to our chambers, and remove
these dust-stained robes, and rest our weary frames awhile ere we are
summoned to our evening meal."
It was with great joy that Jack the boatman welcomed his
foster-child, on the following day, once more to her riverside home.
Tiny indeed it seemed to Primrose, after her week's stay within the
spacious old castle, yet her small apartments were so filled with
marks of Jack's love and thought for her every want, that she lay
down to rest, when night came, full of content, and feeling a sweet
sense of pleasure at being once more lulled to rest by the soft
plashing of the river, as it rippled over the pebbles below her
lattice. Much she had recounted to Jack ere they had sought their
rest, and passionately had he clasped her to his breast, when she had
told him of her visit to the bottomless well, thanking God from his
heart for having given him so sweet a flower in place of the tender
blossom so ruthlessly destroyed long years ago! And Primrose, as she
nestled in his arms, felt that whatever might lie before her in the
future, no life could surely be dearer than the years of happy
childhood spent with her tender guardian in the beautiful Gwynnon
Valley, where every bird that sang, and every blossom that blew in
spring, had whispered thoughts of love and beauty in her ear, and
lifted up her soul to God.
* * * * * * *
The talked-of Midsummer Eve excursion to the Craig Aran Pool was not
destined to take place the following summer after all, for in the
spring of that year Sir Ivor's health gave way, and the whole of that
year and the following were spent by himself and his wife abroad; and
it was not until the month of April in the year when Primrose reached
her twentieth birthday that they returned to Caer Caradoc, and once
more took up their abode in their ancient stronghold. Primrose in
the meantime had also spent another winter abroad with Lady Bryn
Afon, and so the years sped away towards the looked-for yet dreaded
time of her coming of age, but one more year hence.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE CHAPLAIN'S VISION.
"The ideal may never be found, yet even then its creation--unless
life is a shadow and the soul a deceit--is a prevision of the
infinite, a promise of ultimate fruition--an intimation of
eternity."--_Essay on_ BROWNING (_Quarterly Review_).
Fair shone the moon over Craig Aran on Midsummer Eve, proudly soaring
above the Peak in her fleecy white cloud-coverings, which ever and
anon stooped low to wrap its dark summit for a moment in their soft
embrace, then rising again into the deep blue heaven were wafted far
into its mysterious heights by the gentlest of summer breezes. Far
below the Peak lay the silent lake, black and dreadful in the shadow
of the mountain, and around it reigned an unearthly stillness,
unbroken by song of bird or distant sheep-bell, such as by day were
wont to break from time to time the dead silence, for now it was
midnight, and as Percival Vere stood at the summit of the Peak and
gazed at the dim, mysterious expanse of hill and dale, it seemed to
him that all the world was sleeping, save himself; and to the young
chaplain, but newly ordained to his holy office, there seemed a
fitting harmony between the silent, awful beauty of this midnight
scene and his own thoughts, beautiful in their new-found, sacred joy,
yet awful too as they measured the new responsibilities which must
henceforth ever fill them with holy dread. Sent on by Lady Bryn Afon
on the previous day to her favourite retreat, the old farmstead a
mile or so below the summit of the mountain, to prepare its occupants
for the reception of herself and her attendants, himself included, he
had heard much talk of the mystic Pool and its legendary Midsummer
Eve visitor between the members of the farm household, and having
never yet visited the far-famed region, he had wandered thither,
impelled more by his intense love of nature to seek out so beautiful
a spot, and there feel himself alone with God, than by any very firm
expectation of verifying the truth of the legend. Yet having had his
romantic Welsh impulses stirred more vividly than usual some few days
since by Lady Rosamond, who had assured him that, did he but gaze
fixedly upon the lake, on the stroke of midnight, he could not fail
to see the mystic maiden, he could not but confess to himself, as he
descended the precipitous green slope which led from the top of the
Peak to the shores of the lake, that were she indeed to reveal
herself, the apparition would scarce surprise him. He laughed, as he
carefully picked his steps among the boulders which strewed the steep
greensward, at his own pleasure in so boyish a freak, and gazed at
the dark and gloomy water with mingled feelings of amused incredulity
and vague expectancy. "Maiden or no maiden," he said to himself,
"this nightly view of the mountain is well worth seeing, and I am
content to bear my Lady Rosamond's derision, after suffering her
persuasions to lead me to so glorious a vision of Nature's beauties.
How marvellous is this unearthly stillness! Even the light breezes
which whispered on the mountain-top are hushed in this dim,
mysterious valley. Methinks 'twas such a stillness Moses must have
felt in the mount, ere the voice of God broke the awful silence. The
sleeping world doth verily seem full of God's presence, and surely
'tis through these hours of silent loveliness that His angels pass to
and fro on their errands of mercy! I marvel not that One should so
oft have sought the mountain-top alone, to hold closest commune with
His Father. For here no breath of this world's evil seems possible,
and the very air around breathes nought but peace. I will rest
awhile here beneath the shadow of the mountain-side, and drink deep
draughts of this pure atmosphere, ere I descend once more to yon
lonely farm, where methinks, in spite of their rude exterior, the
inhabitants have learned after their fashion, from such wondrously
pure and beautiful surroundings, something of that 'peace which
passeth man's understanding.'"
The young chaplain's limbs were weary after long wandering and
climbing by hill and dale, and as he sat and leaned his head against
the rock he hardly knew for awhile whether he woke or slept. He had
forgotten the expected vision, and his thoughts had travelled away to
the sermon he was preparing for delivery on the following Sunday in
the tiny church of Glyn Melen, far up in the mountain wilds, and then
they had become curiously vague and indistinct, finally landing him
in dreams, out of which he suddenly awoke with a start. He had slept
but five minutes, but with a sudden recollection of the legend he
pulled out his watch in haste, wondering whether he had after all
slept through the witching hour of midnight, and missed his chance of
verifying the mystic tale. No, it wanted yet five minutes to the
enchanted hour, and once more he closed his eyes, and his thoughts
travelled back to his sermon, and strove to disentangle it from his
dreams. Opening them again suddenly, and gazing upon the lake not
many yards away from his rocky retreat, what was his wonder at
beholding a gloriously beautiful maiden, in clinging white raiment,
gazing sorrowfully at the black surface of the water! He rubbed his
eyes, mistrusting their powers of vision, and looked again, and as he
looked the maiden moved slowly along the shore of the lake, gliding
round it softly and slowly, wringing her hands as she went. She was
wondrously fair! The moonlight shone upon her wealth of golden hair,
which rippled to her waist in streams of glittering gold, and lit up
her white robe till it glistened like true fairy raiment around her
slender form. Her face was pale, and her large dark eyes, as she
raised them in passing, seemed full of unearthly beauty, and sent a
strange thrill through Percival's frame. The startled expression
too, which filled them, as she fixed them for a second full on his
face as she passed, but made the vision more real, and he shrank back
into his rocky hollow, wondering if he were not dreaming. A second
time she passed, and then a third, but her eyes were no more raised
to his, and she glided by more quickly, as though terrified at the
near presence of a mortal. After the third time of her passing he
heard a sudden splash in the water, and covering his eyes for a
moment, with an odd sensation of dread lest he should see one so fair
plunge into the dark and gloomy abyss, he opened them again, to see
but the ripples ever widening towards the shore. That a feeling of
superstitious awe came over him at this wonderful vision, Master Vere
could not deny, and for awhile the still midnight air, so lately
peopled in his thoughts with angelic beings, seemed filled instead
with uncanny visitants from a doubtful world. His thoughts seemed to
be precipitated suddenly, not only from heaven to earth, but surely
to regions below the earth! And yet--so beautiful a vision could not
be from the Evil One? The spiritual beauty of those large sorrowful
eyes and that sweet pale countenance haunted him. Could there indeed
be truth in these weird old legends, and if so, for what intent were
such visions permitted, and whence came they? He walked to the brink
of the lake, and gazed steadfastly into its black depths, no longer
ruffled by the smallest ripple, and showing only a motionless
surface, dark and silent as the grave. No breath of human life save
his own seemed stirring in the vast solitude; only the pale, cold
moon sailed proudly overhead, ever and anon hiding her shining face
beneath some fleecy cloudlet, ere the light breeze caught it and
wantonly tossed it into a thousand fairy fragments. "I conjure thee,
maiden," said the chaplain, in half serious, half comic earnestness,
"if thou art a reality, show thyself again for one moment, that I may
know whether or no I am in right possession of my senses, or but the
victim of some foolish hallucination, bred by my long wandering in
the unearthly silence of this mountain!"
But no voice answered from the mysterious Pool, and no motion upon
its dark surface betokened that the immortal maiden would vouchsafe
to grant a perplexed mortal's prayer.
"I dream, doubtless," said the chaplain, "or else the supernatural
element dwelling in my Welsh blood doth take advantage of these
lonely surroundings, to gain the mastery over my English
common-sense! Yet whether it be with my bodily eyes or but with
those of a disordered mind, I doubt not for one moment that I have
verily seen the appointed vision, ay, and would fain look again upon
one so fair! My heart hath ever yet been in my own keeping, nor felt
any temptation to surrender to the fairest of mortal maidens, and
shall it now be confessed that it succumbs to a mere phantom of
immortal loveliness? Avaunt, Satan! Thou dost but tempt me with thy
sorry wiles, and because I have presumed to feel upon yon
mountain-top that I was nearer to God than others, thou dost hurl me
back to earth, and show me by means of lying visions that I am even
weak as other mortal men! Since the path I have chosen must needs
bring upon me much obloquy and ridicule, not to say, perchance, some
suffering and distress, is it not well that I should suffer no dreams
of earthly bliss to enthral me? And do I not daily thank God that as
yet such thoughts have come to me as no more than idle dreams? Yet
though I have ne'er as yet beheld one for whose sake I have been
tempted to forsake the path of duty, it is at times a passing sweet,
and surely no sinful dream, to imagine ever at my side one who would
be willing to share my hard path with me, and help me, by sweet and
gentle influence, to sway the hearts of men towards the path of
temperance and sobriety! Such a spirit of love and tenderness and
high purpose surely looked forth from those deep-fringed eyes, which
gazed with so affrighted a look upon me as the mystic maiden passed!
Ah, Percival, Percival, thy poor heart is surely turned with folly,
an thou canst thus allow thyself to linger over the memory of an
unearthly vision, created by thine own weak imagination, if perchance
not by the Evil One! Now let me seriously think upon the matter.
Granted that I have truly beheld the heroine of ancient legend, and
that she is at times as truly seen by others, what purpose is served
by her being thus permitted to appear year by year to mortal eyes?
And since there must surely pass many a Midsummer Eve when no mortal
foot treads this lonely fastness at midnight's witching hour, what
then avails her unwatched wringing of pale hands, and lonely
wandering around yon Pool? Summon your powers of English reasoning
to bear upon this Welsh folly, Percival Vere, and see if by
hard-headed logic you cannot rid yourself of these supernatural
influences!" And turning his back valiantly, and in some sort of
indignation, upon the scene of his perplexity, the young chaplain
sped down the mountain-side towards the farm, finding in hard
exercise an excellent antidote to the supernatural.
After a few hours of sound slumber he awoke next morning to find the
sun already high in the heavens, and his own midnight vision to
appear in the broad light of day but as a half-forgotten dream. It
was, however, forcibly brought to his recollection during the morning
by Lady Rosamond, who, much to his surprise, appeared towards midday,
in company with her husband, telling him that they had travelled from
Caer Caradoc on the previous day as far as a lonely hamlet some three
or four miles distant from Glyn Helen, where they had rested for the
night, or rather for so much of it as remained to them after a
midnight visit to the Pool beneath Craig Aran. "You were surely not
at the Pool?" exclaimed the chaplain. "It is true that I myself
repaired thither at your ladyship's urgent entreaty; but I did not
understand that you also purposed to come and prove the truth of your
legend, and I verily believed myself to be the only human being amid
such midnight desolation." "I know right well you thought so,"
answered Lady Rosamond calmly; "and aware that you were enjoying the
sensation to the full--for such is the selfishness of man--I would
not for worlds break the spell by intruding upon you my own giddy and
light-hearted personality. We concealed ourselves in a snug niche in
the rock on the farther side of the lake--having seen your evident
desire for, and belief in, your own solitude--whence we had as good a
view of the fair vision as you doubtless had yourself, and whence we
saw you steal forth spellbound from your own retreat after the maiden
had plunged once more beneath the waters, and heard you mutter
certain dark sayings upon the brink, though whether exorcisms upon
the evil thing, or imploring invitations to so wondrous an apparition
to again reveal herself, we were unable to tell. Nevertheless, we
beheld clearly enough how your
"'Eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,'
Did 'glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,'
in vain search after so witching a vision! Was it not so, Ivor?" "I
marvel that in such bright moonlight I failed to see you," said the
chaplain. "It is true I was much wrapped in thought, and looked for
no one, being all unaware of your intent to follow me in my quest;
yet, since you saw _me_----" "'Tis not to be wondered at," said Lady
Rosamond. "It was my wish to watch unobserved the effect of the
sight upon you, knowing you to be an unblushing unbeliever in my
mysterious tale, and moreover, fearing lest in the presence of so
unrestrained a tongue as mine the Fates should not be propitious. It
was easy enough to conceal ourselves, I do assure you. An we had
been so much engrossed by the apparition as you were, forsooth, 'tis
likely enough we had likewise failed to distinguish aught else! Now
confess 'twas no wild-goose chase on which I sent you? You misjudged
me sorely, and went forth, as I well know, but as Isaac of old, to
meditate in the fields at eventide, thinking scorn of me and my old
wives' fables; but what say you now? Spoke I not truly? See, Ivor,
how the tell-tale blood rises to his cheek! He is not even yet
disenchanted. Ah, good Master Vere, you have ever scorned the
maidens within your reach;--now I shall indeed laugh to see you sigh
and grow pale for love of the unattainable!" "Fie, Rosamond," said
Ivor; "methinks our friend will scarce approve such light jesting.
You wrong him likewise, for Sir Galahad is to my thinking too
chivalrous a knight to 'think scorn' of a woman." "He will ne'er
find one in this mortal world to his liking, nevertheless," answered
Lady Rosamond. "He expects more virtues than the best of us can
realise. Now confess, Sir Galahad, after your night's experience,
that there must needs be, as our good Master Shakespeare hath it,
'more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your
philosophy?'" "My philosophy hath verily acknowledged limits,"
answered the chaplain with a smile, "but I have not yet come to a
decision as to whether such visions belong to either earth or heaven,
or perchance may not appertain to quite another region." Lady
Rosamond clapped her hands, and laughed as though some secret delight
were too much for her. "A gallant speech truly!" she said. "I blush
for you, Percival Vere, that you can harbour in your bosom such
thoughts of one so fair. Go to! Thou art a hopeless youth, and I
have done with you! You were ever proud as Lucifer, and you are loth
to confess that you were in the wrong and I in the right with respect
to our ancient legend, in which, as an Ap Gryffyth, you are bound to
believe with all your heart." "My heart beareth witness to many
things," said the chaplain with a smile; "and amid its timely
counsels I find a warning against too ready a credence of the Lady
Rosamond's wiles, at such times as a more frolicsome mood than
ordinary doth overtake her! Wherefore the matter of my midnight
vision must needs be yet more fully weighed in my mind ere I dare
commit myself to any solemn avowal of the legend's truth." "The
broad light of day has made you once more bold in your incredulity,"
said Lady Rosamond. "But you have confessed already your belief--or,
not to offend you, I will call it your suspicion--that your fair
vision was an ambassador from the nether world, and to that, good
Master Percival, I will hold you! Verily you are scarce more
chivalrous after all than your renowned grandsire towards our poor
sex! I trow he must needs have loved indeed some of your
nether-world phantoms, to make him so bitter of speech against us all!
"'If women could be fair, and yet not fond,
Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,
I would not marvel that they make men bond
By service long to purchase their goodwill;
But when I see how frail these creatures are,
I muse that men forget themselves so far.
'To mark the choice they make, and how they change,
How oft from Phœbus do they fly to Pan;
Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range,
These gentle birds that fly from man to man;
Who would not scorn, and shake them from the fist,
And let them fly, poor fools, which way they list?
'Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,
To pass the time, when nothing else can please,
And train them to our lure with subtle oath,
Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease;
And then we say, when we their fancy try,
To play with fools, O what a fool was I!'*
* Poem by Vere, Earl of Oxford; died 1604.
There, friend Percival, how gallant a grandfather hadst thou! Yet do
I pity him, poor man, for I doubt not he had himself by nature a
constanter heart than most, and was at some period sorely tried by
one of my sex! What shame that some inconstant ones should so drag
our good name in the dust! I scarce can in my mind's eye see you
'fawn and flatter,' proud Percival, e'en to gain the goodwill of a
mystic water-sprite! Well, a truce to folly,--your reverend
countenance looks grave over your grandsire's woe, unless it be over
my unseemly mirth?--The Lady Bryn Afon, whom I encountered yesterday
on my journey hitherwards, bade me assure you of her arrival towards
sunset this evening, and moreover of her husband's wish that you
should remain in attendance upon her for so long a time as she is
pleased to sojourn in this wild spot, since he has himself no
immediate need of your services, and would fain have you lay by a
store of new strength in this healthful region, after your past
months of hard reading."
"He is kindly considerate for my welfare," answered the young
chaplain; "and if he truly has no urgent need of me, I confess that a
short stay in this lovely spot will please me well enough. Lady Bryn
Afon's apartments are in perfect readinesss, due preparation having
been made for her waiting-maids likewise, and for the companion she
brings with her." "She brings then a guest?" asked Lady Rosamond
carelessly. "Know you who she may be?" "I have understood,"
answered Master Vere, "that the far-famed river-maiden was again in
attendance upon her. My Lord Bryn Afon has told me of the strong
attachment she has formed for her, and of her having already
accompanied her in her travels abroad some few years since. He
appears well satisfied that the maiden is a fitting companion for
her." "Know you aught of this fair maid of Gwynnon?" asked Lady
Rosamond. "Nay," he answered, "save only some tales of her deserted
infancy, which have reached my ears during the times of my lecturing
in your neighbourhood, together with some mention of her great beauty
of countenance, and devotion to her foster-father." "Yes, 'tis a
strange tale," said Lady Rosamond. "Since that time I have myself
seen somewhat of her, and do also entertain no small affection for
her. Well, we must be going, for Sir Ivor begins to wear a grave
countenance over my unwearying tongue! We shall have no fear in
leaving our fair friends to your reverend charge. My lord and I ride
homewards to-morrow after a night's sojourn with good Master Rhys
Prichard, and shall shortly after repair to town, which will
doubtless be our next place of meeting with you. Adieu! reverend
knight, and may no more supernatural visions disturb the even tenor
of your way!"
CHAPTER XVII.
THE VISION EMBODIED.
"Could you but know what 'tis to bear, my friend,
One image stamped within you, turning blank
The else imperial brilliance of your mind,--
A weakness, but most precious,--like a flaw
I' the diamond, which should shape forth some sweet face
Yet to create, and meanwhile treasured there
Lest nature lose her gracious thought for ever!"
--ROBERT BROWNING.
It was in the dusk of evening when Lady Bryn Afon, accompanied by her
serving-maids and Primrose, arrived at the solitary farmhouse beneath
the lonely heights of Craig Aran. The ride over hill and dale from
their halting-place of the previous day, some three or four miles
from Glyn Helen, was wonderfully beautiful in the evening twilight,
the mountain-tops bathed in the rosy light of the setting sun, and
the lower hills waving in soft outline, one below another, in purple
shadow or mysterious blue distance, with here and there a wooded
valley, whose wealth of June leafage caught the sunset glory, and lay
bathed in yellow glow. The last half mile to Glyn Melen Farm was a
steep descent down a narrow, rugged lane, closely shut in on both
sides by high hedges and steep, grassy banks. At the bottom of the
lane a white gate opened into a peaceful orchard, through which a
wide pathway led to the door of the quaint, low-roofed house, where
the travellers were to spend the next few weeks. Here they were
warmly welcomed by the farmer's wife, an elderly woman, whose snowy
cap, tied beneath her chin, and surmounted by a tall black hat,
surrounded a sweet and gentle, though homely face, which lighted up
with genuine pleasure at the sight of her well-known guest and her
fair young companion, and whose torrent of Welsh eloquence caused the
olive-cheeked Italian serving-maids to open round eyes of wonder.
Her husband and two comely daughters chimed in with a hearty
greeting, and she then handed a note to Lady Bryn Afon, who, reading
it, said in English to Primrose; "Our chaplain craves our pardon for
neglecting to bid us welcome, but knowing it is ever our wish that he
should fulfil every duty of his sacred calling, he has gone forth, at
a sudden summons, to a sick bed, whence, since it is at some long
distance, he must needs be late in returning. You must know,
Primrose,"--for the young girl was looking at her with an inquiring
as well as half-startled expression in her eyes,--"that during our
stay here he is relieving an aged clergyman in charge of a scattered
parish on the mountain-side; for though my husband and I would fain
have seen him take holiday for a season, his active mind must needs
thus find employment, and rather give rest to others than to itself.
Methinks it is as well he should be absent to-night, for despite the
brightness of your eyes, you must needs plead guilty of some fatigue,
and I confess that my own limbs are weary after last night's
adventure! We shall do better to seek an early couch, rather than to
enter upon any such lengthy topics of converse as Master Vere would
too surely beguile us into. What think you, dear one, of our lonely
dwelling-place? Can you cheerfully pass some three or four weeks in
this mountain fastness with such pleasures only as nature can afford
us?" "Nature has ever been my best companion," said Primrose with a
smile, "and oftentimes, save indeed my dear foster-father and my
books, my only one for long months together; and here, in your sweet
company, dear madam, and surrounded by such wonderfully beautiful
scenes, I have no fear of being dull." "That is well," said Lady
Bryn Afon, kissing her with loving gentleness, while a strangely
wistful expression crossed her pale features. "I am glad you are so
well content to be for a time once more my companion. I much desired
to have you with me in this, to me, much-loved spot, and to make you
love its strange and solitary beauties as I do." "And I am so glad
you had need of me this summer," said Primrose, "for we cannot tell
what next year may bring forth, since next April I shall reach my
twenty-first birthday." "And then?" said Lady Bryn Afon inquiringly.
"Then," said Primrose, "I may at any moment expect a summons from my
mother, and may never again be at your command as now. For who can
tell what strange changes our meeting may bring to my life?" "Dread
them not, sweet one," said her friend affectionately. "Take what
present joy God gives you, and wait in patience for what may
hereafter befall. Be she whom she may, your mother can scarce fail
to love so fair and sweet a daughter!" "I hope she may indeed love
me!" said the girl wistfully. "Yet, after so strange a desertion of
me in my babyhood, I cannot tell. But I will think no more of my own
matters, nor let the thought of the future trouble me in this
beautiful place!" And bidding Lady Bryn Afon an affectionate
good-night, she went to her little white-washed chamber, and fell
asleep, wondering on what errand of mercy the chaplain might be bent,
and if he were indeed the very least like Sir Galahad of old! On
going downstairs next morning, Primrose found that she must take her
morning meal alone, Lady Bryn Afon being still too much fatigued to
rise for some hours. The chaplain, moreover, having not yet
returned, the morning prayer could not be said, and the young girl,
free as soon as her meal was over to roam whither she would, betook
herself to an exploration of the premises without further delay.
Beyond the farmyard and the greensward, where cows, pigs, and geese
wandered in full liberty, lay a second well-wooded orchard, similar
to the one on the front side of the house, and passing through it,
Primrose found herself in a shady copse, through which bubbled a
merry little brooklet, in which she gleefully bathed her face and
hands; then, finding no one in sight, took off shoes and stockings,
and waded down the cool stream, till it emerged from its shady
hiding-place into the open grassy plain beneath the hill, and, joined
by other tiny streamlets, became a wide and noisy river, forming a
barrier between the farm-lands and the mountain-slopes beyond, too
deep for her to wade across. But donning her shoes once more, she
soon discovered a rude extempore bridge, consisting of well-worn
boulders, which lay at wide intervals across the stream, yet were
wide enough to allow her to jump merrily from one to another,
sometimes nearly losing her footing on their slippery surface, but
finally landing her safely on the other side, at the foot of the
steep green slope, up which lay the narrow track to the Craig Aran
Pool. She pursued the path for some distance, not knowing whither it
led, and was delighted when, on reaching the summit of the slope, she
saw stretched out before her the undulating table-land, where lay the
mysterious lake at the foot of the towering ridge overhead. "Lady
Bryn Afon will have no need of me before noon," she said to herself.
"I will wander on and visit by daylight yon uncanny spot, and see if
I can discern the maiden's footprints along the Pool's brink. What
did the chaplain, I wonder, think of the vision, and will he also
come and seek for them anon! But methinks she trod too softly to
leave much trace behind her. Ah, if I had known he would be there, I
could not have dared, and I trow he would have had no vision! And
now he is at the farm, and I must presently face him! I doubt that I
will ne'er play for the Lady Rosamond again without a better
understanding of her wiles! How fiercely the sun begins to beat upon
the hillside! I fear me I shall be chidden for venturing thus far in
the heat of the day, but I will rest awhile by the Pool, under the
rock where we sat on Midsummer Eve; I shall then return in time
enough for our midday meal. How still the black lake appears! as
black now in the full blaze of the noonday sun as in the dim light of
the midnight moon. Nay, I see no footprints; the fairy footfall was
e'en light enough, in spite of my Lady Rosamond!" And a merry laugh
rang out in the mountain stillness, startling a young pedestrian,
who, having clambered down a rugged watercourse from the summit of
the mountain, was advancing, unperceived by Primrose, to the brink of
the lake, while her eyes were still bent on the ground in search of
the footprints, her form concealed from him by a jutting rock. He
came yet a few steps forward, then stood, transfixed at the sight, on
the Pool's edge, of a maiden scarcely less beautiful than the vision
of Midsummer Eve, and clad, like that fairy form, in pure white
robes, adorned only with her own wealth of golden hair. As he gazed
upon her, the old moonlight spell seemed again to take possession of
him, and he stood for some moments like one enchanted, while she
still looked upon the ground. Yet surely that girlish laugh had been
of a truly mortal ring! He would presently accost her, and so break
the spell, and return home a wiser man. He moved a step nearer, and
then, the sound arousing her attention, she turned in sudden surprise
and looked at him. "Sir Galahad!" burst involuntarily from her lips,
and for a few seconds they both stood and gazed upon one another,
spellbound! Yes, that pale, pure face, and those deep far-searching
eyes, which, bent so intently upon her, seemed to read her very soul,
could belong to none other than to the "lily knight," of whom she had
heard so much, and whom, must the truth be told, she had so often
wished to see. She was not disappointed in the sudden vision. It
was truly the countenance of one worthy to bear the name of her ideal
hero--a refined, spiritual countenance, which, though bearing plainly
upon it the marks of a daily conflict with earth's evil, yet shone
with a beauty not of earth but of heaven, while in the depths of
those far-seeing eyes, shaded with their long and heavy lashes and
glowing with the fire of intense energy, there mingled likewise the
deep abiding peace of a soul at rest with God, and the wistful
longing a holy soul must ever feel to win a sinful world to its own
loved Master. Such thoughts flashed like lightning through the young
girl's mind ere, with a sudden blush, she withdrew her eyes from the
chaplain's face, and strove to frame some suitable remark with due
self-possession. "I fear me I startled you, madam," he said, raising
his hat courteously, "but until I emerged this moment from the
shelter of yon rock, I thought myself alone in this vast solitude,
and but that I presently heard you laugh as surely none but mortals
can, I had as like as not greeted you with exorcisms upon my lips,
taking you verily for a repetition of my strange vision at this place
two nights agone!" Primrose's laugh rippled forth again
irrepressibly. "I thank you, sir," she said, making him a graceful
reverence, such as his reverend bearing and habiliments seemed to
warrant; "'tis true you startled me for a moment, for I too thought
no living being nearer than yon shepherd on the distant hill-top.
But had you terrified me with your exorcisms, I had indeed rushed in
affright from you! Do I then bear aught of resemblance to the maiden
whom you saw on Midsummer Eve, and did she in truth appear to you as
the legend says?" "You are indeed her very counterpart," answered
the chaplain, "with but such difference in your appearance as is
caused by the present shining of the sun in place of the more ghostly
glamour of the pale moon, who then rode in the heavens, triumphant
doubtless in her own powers of deception. Yes, I saw the mystic
maiden, doubtless, as clearly as I now see you, fair mistress, and
did I then dream, as I have since assured myself was the case, why
then I surely dream again, and now behold but the same vision in
mortal guise." "I cannot now explain to you the riddle," said
Primrose, with a little shake of the head; "you must needs discover
it, if riddle there be, for yourself. Yet I will e'en assure you for
your present comfort, that I, whom you now behold, am nought but
mortal maiden! Others, however, were witnesses of the fairy vision
besides yourself, among them one whom, methinks, you count as a
friend, the Lady Rosamond of Caer Caradoc?" "I know it," he answered
gravely. "Well, since I find you not to be the fairy for whom I
mistook you, must I needs leave you to the blazing heat of this
noonday sun, or may I have permission to escort you somewhither--be
it only to caves in the rocks, where pixies dwell?" "You mistrust me
even now," said Primrose. "I fear me your nightly vision hath
wrought overmuch upon your mind. I was myself but now searching
after the damsel's footprints, but she has left not one behind her.
Could I but show you the print of a mortal shoe, perchance it would
set your mind at rest, and you would feel less disturbed? I am going
below to Glyn Melen Farm, where I wait upon my Lady Bryn Afon. An
your way should lie in that direction, I will gladly accept of your
company, good sir, for the great silence that ever reigns upon this
mountain doth seem to press like a weight upon the brow! Is it not a
marvellous stillness, and does not the distant tinkle of the
sheep-bells steal sweetly from the heights above? Have you come from
the summit of the mountain? I would fain climb there one day, for
the view must be passing wonderful!" "It is so indeed," said Master
Vere enthusiastically; "and though the climb is steep, yet its
trouble is well repaid. Yet I would beg of you not to venture the
climb in solitude, for it is giddy work, whether you ascend by yon
precipitous greensward, or by one of these dry watercourses, where a
loose rock giving way or a false step might hurl you back headlong."
"Nay, I will not be over venturesome," answered Primrose, "for I am
in Lady Bryn Afon's charge, and must needs do her bidding, but she
will not refuse to let me adventure myself in company with her
serving-maids or the farm damsels." "I am also going to the farm,"
said the chaplain, "being likewise in attendance of a different sort
upon her ladyship, whom I treated but discourteously yestere'en, in
leaving her to arrive without a welcome. But I was summoned unawares
to the bedside of a dying man, and am but now returning from the
lonely hamlet where his body lies, on the farther side of the
mountain." "And you have not slept all the night?" said Primrose
gently, for she noted that he walked wearily. "I will rest anon," he
said. "Nay, I am not much to be pitied, for surely since I could
give up my rest two nights agone for the sight of an idle vision, I
might well do so again, to give peace to an immortal soul. I am
glad, fair mistress, to learn that we are both to be for a time
inmates of the same household, since I would fain benefit myself for
a season in the presence of those virtues which rumour has for some
time past whispered in my ear as being the rich dower of the fair
maid of Gwynnon." "You compliment me too well, good sir," said
Primrose, blushing rosy red. "Rumour hath been over bold, I do
assure you, and methinks the gain will be on my side rather, for I
will confess that I have more than once wished to meet with one of
whom both the Lady Bryn Afon and Lady Rosamond have spoken with so
great affection. Besides, you must know that not long since our
valley was ringing with your fame as a preacher and testifier against
the sad drinking customs of our people, and my dear foster-father
wished many a time that he might have had speech with you upon a
subject which is very dear to his own heart." "Is it so indeed?"
said the young chaplain eagerly. "I am right glad at all times to
welcome sympathy, I must confess, for you must know that my labours
meet with no favour in most quarters, and are accounted the delusions
of a wild fanatic and wicked despiser of God's good gifts! Yet I
cannot keep silence while my heart burns within me at the evil I see
around, and I must needs testify, even should my outspokenness bring
me to the star chamber and the pillory, or worse." "Will you dare,
when you are in attendance on the Lord Bryn Afon at Court, to speak
these new doctrines openly?" asked Primrose; "for all tell me that
they are new opinions, and that no other man has yet dared to lift up
his voice openly against the evils of strong drink as you have done."
"I thrust them not down unwilling throats," answered Master Vere,
with a smile, "for in all things the law of charity appears to me to
be a rightful rule for us to follow, yet there are many occasions on
which I must speak or be consumed with the fire within me; and that I
have already given offence to some in high places I doubt not, for
all, alas! are not men of high and holy living like our king." "Do
you not love our king?" said Primrose enthusiastically. "I had the
honour of being presented in Court some few years since by the
kindness of Lady Bryn Afon, and methinks the sweet gravity of his
noble countenance and the rare beauty of his smile have ever since
made of me a stauncher royalist maiden than before! For you must
know that in our tiny hamlet by the riverside we have great
dissensions upon political matters, the most part of us being, like
my own dear foster-father and our good vicar, zealous cavaliers,
while some few, led away by the teachings of one who of late years
has worked much mischief in Cardiff and its neighbourhood, are fast
sowing the seeds of schism and discord in our midst, having even set
up for themselves a chapel in which to pray and preach against our
church and our king, openly confessing that they would love nothing
better than to burn our Prayer Books; and I trow they would willingly
enough burn us likewise, an they could! Ah, but our king will never
suffer you to be put in the pillory, Master Vere, for aught you may
teach, for even we, in our ignorance of the world and in the
seclusion of our lonely valley, have heard that he holds you in great
esteem, and rejoices that his friend the Lord Bryn Afon should have
secured for his chaplain one whose influence cannot fail to be for
good!" "I do verily love my king dearly!" said the young chaplain,
his pale face glowing under the earnest gaze of his fair companion's
sparkling eyes, "and I cannot but rejoice in the kind favour he has
been pleased to show me; yet with all my love for him, I cannot but
see the weak and unstable side of his nature, and feel that in time
of peril I might have too true cause to echo the words of the
Psalmist--'Put not your trust in princes.'" "Now I like you not!"
cried Primrose, "for thus taking away your sovereign's character!
Methinks you can but love him with half a heart, an you will not
trust him!" "Nay, I feel nought but love and loyalty to him,"
answered the chaplain, "and will die willingly for him, an the day
come when I must needs choose betwixt him and his enemies. Yet I
cannot but grieve over those faults which, as a king, do plainly show
themselves in him, and which, I fear me, may, in spite of his soul's
true goodness, bring him one day to much evil. Think not too hardly
of me, I pray you, fair mistress, for thus openly speaking my mind!
I do assure you I would not so speak of my loved king to any one in
whom I did not place the fullest confidence--such as, pardon me, your
face bids me, at this our first meeting, place in you." "You do me
too much honour, good sir," answered Primrose, drooping her head to
hide the swift blush of shy pleasure which dyed her cheeks at such
words from her ideal knight. "And I will not again doubt your true
love for his Majesty. Mine were but idle words, and you must pardon
their folly, for I trow we women are wont to worship our heroes in
more unjudging a fashion than you men, who have a sterner and wiser
judgment, and a more just weighing of merits and follies. We will
think no ill of them, nor see their faults, until they deceive us,
which may perchance be sad unwisdom, yet, methinks, is woman's
nature." "I would fain not suffer any words of mine to destroy by
one jot your faith and loyalty," said Master Vere earnestly. "Since
we men must needs do battle against the ugly things of life, and drag
them forth to light that we may the sooner o'ermaster them, it is
surely well that there are ever hands ready to bury them out of
sight, and shroud them gently with tender touch and guileless
thought. Suffer me to guide you across these rude stepping-stones,
for the river is swollen and rough to-day, and their surface offers
but treacherous hold to the foot."
For now the two young travellers had arrived at the foot of the last
green slope, and between them and the farm copse brawled the noisy
river, higher now, and more turbulent in its course, than when
Primrose had crossed with light foot some few hours earlier. Master
Vere sprang lightly upon the first slippery stone, and Primrose
taking his offered hand, they jumped from boulder to boulder with
much merriment, ever and again but narrowly escaping a headlong
tumble into the foaming stream; and being after all but youthful, if
withal a reverend and learned chaplain, what wonder if Percival
hesitated one brief moment on the farther shore ere he released those
clinging slender fingers! They walked silently through the copse to
the farmhouse, each conscious of a strange new thrill unfelt before
in either heart, and Primrose repaired to Lady Bryn Afon's chamber
with a sense as of some sudden new life within her, which gave
greater lightness to her step, and more glowing brightness to her
radiant eyes. The two ladies took their midday meal together; and
afterwards, Lady Bryn Afon being still fatigued with her journey, she
lay on her sofa idly, while Primrose amused her by recounting her
morning's adventure; and in the cool of the evening they sat together
in the shady copse awhile, at the edge of the streamlet, and the
young girl brought out her beloved harp, and discoursed sweet music
to the gentle accompaniment of the rippling brook.
[Illustration: "PRIMROSE TAKING HIS OFFERED HAND, THEY JUMPED FROM
BOULDER TO BOULDER WITH MUCH MERRIMENT."]
The evening breeze wafted the sounds gently through the open casement
of the room where the chaplain sat deep in study, and ever and anon
he was fain to close his book and sit like one entranced, while for a
moment he allowed his morning's fair vision to haunt his thoughts
unchecked. He was tempted to stroll forth likewise into the cool
copse, and beg to be a closer listener to the pleasant strains, but
the fear of intruding an unwelcome presence held him back, and he and
Primrose met no more that day, save when the household met for
evening prayer in the tiny white-washed chamber which he had fitted
up as an impromptu chapel in which to hold the daily services of the
church. As none of the farmer's family could speak one word of
English, these were said in the Welsh tongue; but Master Vere was as
well versed in this language as were Lady Bryn Afon and Primrose, and
all three were able, to join heartily in the hymns, in which the farm
damsels uplifted voices of more power than sweetness, making the
rafters ring with strains which, if somewhat uncouth to English ears,
yet possessed of their own a sort of wild, barbaric beauty, and a
weird, melancholy music, which haunted the ear. Meanwhile, the two
dusky maidens of the south were fain to sit and tell their beads in
the solitude of their own chamber, marvelling somewhat at the
barbarous people's hearty worship in which they might not join, and
half-tempted to steal in and listen, if they might not understand!
But the fear of the displeasure of the good old priest at home in
their own sunny valley held their footsteps, and made them tell their
beads the faster. Primrose, for the first time seeing the young
chaplain wear the pure white robe of his sacred office, could not but
think that so clad he looked even yet more worthy to bear the name of
her ideal knight, Sir Galahad. If ever outward garment did truly
represent the inward purity of the soul, then surely it was so in the
case of this youthful minister of God, whose deep yet clear-shining
eyes were as windows through which a holy soul looked forth, and
which, as Primrose gazed into their far-seeing depths, seemed
truly--as spoke those words of Holy Writ, which came into her
mind--to be "looking not at the things that are seen, but at the
things that are unseen." Yes, her ideal Sir Galahad had been no
empty shadow of an impossible stainless life, but a real, living
knight, who now walked once more on earth, as it were, in the person
of this holy man, so worthy to bear his name. "I am glad there is
one like him among living men," she said softly to herself in the
silence of her own chamber. "I have not dreamed foolishly of a
knight who should be crowned with virtues impossible to mortal man,
and live but in my fond fancy, but of one who truly walks this
present world in the steps of my hero of old, whose name he bears
right worthily, though it be but in jest among his fellows."
And in the dreams of the chaplain himself there were
strangely-mingled visions of Lady Bryn Afon's fair-haired attendant
and the golden-haired maiden of the mystic Pool, who ever, in his
dream, walked round and round the dark lake, now together in loving
concert, with arms entwined after the fashion of mortal damsels, now
blending mysteriously into one radiant being, around whom played the
sweet strains of invisible harp-strings, but who, on his approach,
fell headlong into the black water, with resounding splash, and was
lost to view, while ever from the watery depths sounded those same
mysterious harp-strings, now wailing as in bitter woe over the
drowned maiden.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE GIPSY'S HAUNT.
"Love is ... the passion of soul for soul, an exchange of ideals, a
response of depth to depth of human life."--_Essay on_ BROWNING
(_Quarterly Review_).
Percival Vere awoke next morning to a consciousness that some subtle
change had come over his being, and after a day spent in some
pleasant mountain rambling with Lady Bryn Afon and her fair
attendant, during which sunny hours he made profounder study of the
river-maiden than she had any idea of, he found himself utterly
unable to settle his mind to any other kind of study, when, in the
cool of the evening, he gathered his books around him and strove to
turn his thoughts into severer channels. At length, in desperation
over his own want of strength of mind, he gathered two or three of
his unopened volumes under his arm and wandered out over the
mountain-side, to inquire within himself as to the strange tumult of
new feelings, which possessed him all the more overwhelmingly because
he had as yet had none of those experiences of them so common to
youth; and as he climbed the steep mountain-paths, he reasoned
severely with himself on the weakness of permitting the witchery of a
midnight vision so to throw its mocking glamour over his senses as to
make him succumb thus easily to its mortal resemblance. It was quite
true that no maiden yet had e'er had power to take his heart by
storm; not that he had been at any time guilty of a lack of
chivalrous feelings towards the fair sex, or of lack of due
admiration for their peculiar virtues and graces, but that these very
virtues, only imperfectly realised in any of the fair ones with whom
he had as yet come in contact, had but served to heighten his idea of
their possible perfection, and to raise his ideal woman to a pinnacle
which, as Lady Rosamond loved to remind him, might perchance ever
rear itself aloft in his imagination only, and be impossible for any
poor mortal woman to attain. Moreover, so wholly had his heart and
mind been given up since his early youth to his preparation for the
duties of his sacred calling, and especially for those sterner duties
which must lie in his path with regard to that vice which he had for
some years past felt himself imperiously called upon to combat, that
dreams of love and fair companionship had found but little harbour in
his mind, stealing in upon his deeper thoughts but as transient
visions, to be driven forth and bidden keep their place till a more
convenient season. And such season, in the course of the peculiar
work he had undertaken, the young student had boldly told himself
might never occur. Now for the first time such dreams leapt forth in
dazzling radiancy, and refused to be driven back. There was nothing
for it but to look them fairly in the face, and, if sinful, reject
them finally, once and for all. If not sinful--if indeed for him
there might be the bliss of a pure earthly love, which should be the
true sacrament of a deep spiritual union, and might be indulged in
without casting any shadow on his union with his God--then--ah, how
beautiful might life become--how infinitely sweet would be the work
for Christ, shared between two beings, whose love for Him would be
their own strongest bond of union, and whose souls would ever be as
one in their service of Him in this world, and in their yet closer
worship and service in the world to come! To have loved one who
could not share in the deepest longings of his nature would have been
an impossibility to the young chaplain, whose heart was so far
uplifted above the things of mere mortal sense, that they alone could
never enchant him. But in the pure, sweet face of her whose image
had taken thus sudden possession of his heart he saw a true picture
of the beautiful soul within, and read clearly those deep, inner
sympathies which, more than her exceeding mortal loveliness, touched
his own soul, and had already struck within it that strange new
chord, which, whether it sounded for joy or sorrow, could never be
silent again. Percival Vere wandered on, far over the mountain, in
the still eventide, by hill and dale, nor stopped his march and his
musing till, far up on the lonely mountain-side, he came upon one of
nature's beautiful spots which he had often wished to see--the cavern
whence sprang the far-famed river Gwynnon, bubbling up in this
solitary hiding-place out of the secret places of the earth, and
trickling forth, down its steep, rocky bed, in hurrying eagerness to
reach the sunny valley, where it might spread itself at will over the
flowery meadows, and become the broad and noble stream, for which,
little trickling handful of water as it now was, it felt itself to be
destined. A second streamlet, venturing forth more shyly from out a
smaller cave hard by, joined it with slower and more timid footstep,
rippling modestly over its smooth pebbles, till, caught by the
noisier streamlet into its passionate embrace, the two sped gaily
together down the mountain-side in one laughing little river. "Thus
should our lives flow together," said the young chaplain, following
with shining, eager eyes the course of the merry brooklet below his
feet; "and thus, in the sunlight of God's continual presence, should
our hearts expand with love to Him for His goodness, and our lives
run over in deeds of thanksgiving and of charity, which should spring
up as flowers beneath our feet along the valley of life!--Ah! who
speaks? Methought no living thing but the singing birds shared with
me this rugged, solitary spot." He turned hastily and saw, peering
out from behind some rough thorn bushes, an old woman, whose
tottering form, clothed in ragged garments, withered countenance, and
leering eyes presented a somewhat startling spectacle, thus bursting
suddenly upon him. With one hand the old hag grasped a stout knotted
stick, with which she supported her trembling limbs, while with the
other she pushed away the brambles, and suddenly grasped the
chaplain's arm. "Who are you," she muttered, "that dares to track me
to my hiding-place, which is known to no man but him to whom I choose
to reveal it? You have come to spy out the source of the river,
which is my secret, which I guard night and day, and choose not that
every mortal eye should look upon. I know well how to terrify away
those whom I will not to find the secret springs--but you--as my eye
saw you from behind these thorns, my spirit quailed for sudden fear
of you, for you are the 'lily-knight,' whose eyes are ever fixed on
Heaven, where He dwells whom I dare not name! I know you and I fear
you, but you shall fear me too. When I let loose the springs into
the valley, then you shall tremble! Then woe, woe to the boatman and
his bridge in which he vaunts himself, and woe to you, lily-knight,
and to her you love! The boatman scoffs and heeds not my warnings,
but the day will come." She stopped, breathless; then seizing
Percival's hand, suddenly changed her tone, and whispered: "A silver
coin, good sir, and I will read the lines for you truly--or a bit of
bright red gold, and maybe somewhat of the ill I see may not come to
pass!" "Nay, my good woman," said the chaplain, "my fortune is in
God's keeping, and it is He who 'holds the waters in the hollow of
His hand, and metes them out whithersoever He will.' I fear not your
warnings, nor would have you fear me, but rather make of me a friend
who may lead you to seek a higher Master than him you now serve. I
come not to pry into your secrets, having had no knowledge of your
dwelling here in the mountain; yet, since you have revealed yourself,
will you not suffer me to see further into your hiding-place, that I
may tell whether a silver coin left in your keeping may procure you
some greater comfort?" The old hag's eyes glistened, and still
keeping a tight hold upon his arm, she dragged him after her into her
thorny retreat, where, as the bushes closed behind them, an open
space in the thicket lay before them, in the midst of which rose up a
steep wall of rock, towering upwards to a great height, and breaking
away, on the side which faced them, into a deep, yawning cavern,
which evidently, as Percival saw by peering into its dark depths, led
far away into the solid earth. "This is my castle," said the woman
with a hoarse chuckle, "where I eat and sleep, and keep guard over
the river-spirit, when I am weary and have grown rich by wandering
through the valleys, telling pretty fortunes to youths and maidens.
Give me the silver coin! My store is well-nigh spent, and I must
soon go forth again to earn my bread. And I grow old and faint, and
am often like to die by the way. I would fain die and be buried here
by the river springs, for there is no curse here like yon castle in
the valley. My daughter died in the castle--the curse drove her mad.
Nay, I will hear naught of your God, He loves me not, and I have long
forgotten Him! What, you will have no pretty fortune for the silver
coin? I can see true love in your hand, but neither long life, nor
wedding, nor fair children! There, leave me, and bring but the bit
of red gold another day, and I will look for better things. But
beware when the river breaks loose in the valley, and beware the pale
Primrose, who dwells on its banks, an you will not carry an aching
heart to your grave. Go!" And shaking him off suddenly, and
brandishing her stick wildly in his face, she tottered to her heap of
rags in a dark recess of the cavern, pressing the silver coin
ravenously to her lips. Percival Vere advanced one moment to her
side, and kneeling for a second upon the stony floor, murmured: "May
God have mercy on your soul!" and left the cavern, sick at heart, but
with a firm resolve to seek out this poor lost sheep upon the
mountain, until, beneath the mask of the Evil One, he had found again
the lost image of God in her soul. On his return to the farm he
found it too late for any conversation with Lady Bryn Afon and
Primrose, but giving some account of his adventure at the morning
meal on the following day, he found Primrose deeply interested in his
encounter with the old gipsy, to whose frequently recurring presence
in the hamlet of Bryn Afon she had been from her early childhood so
well accustomed. "I was even curious enough to suffer her to tell my
fortune," she said, "but I repented me afterwards of so doing,
fearing I had been sinful. In truth, it was scarce worth the silver
she demanded, for though fair in part, it was clouded by evil
forebodings so dark that she would not even confess them!" "Pay no
heed to her witcheries, sweet one," said Lady Bryn Afon; "she ever
bears ill-will to aught that is young and fair. I would that you had
not suffered her to tell her idle tales in your hearing! Yet you
have too good sense, I warrant, to let aught of her dark speech
trouble you?" "Indeed, I have scarce given it a thought," said
Primrose, "and have but pitied her the more for leading so miserable
and unholy a life. Did you also submit your hand to her scrutiny,
Master Vere?" "Nay," he answered somewhat gravely; "yet I could not
choose but hear some of her sayings while she grasped my hand and
gazed upon my unwilling palm ere I could withdraw it." "I hope she
prophesied nought but good concerning you?" said Primrose somewhat
shyly. "I will not reveal her forebodings," he answered with a
laugh, yet with a flush suffusing his countenance for a moment.
"They were worth nought, and such folly were best not repeated. But
I will visit the poor soul again while we remain in this
neighbourhood, and do what lies in my power for the comfort of her
mind and body. Perhaps Lady Bryn Afon would allow me to escort
herself and you thither one afternoon? A pillion on the back of one
of our worthy host's stout farm-steeds would convey you both in
comfort and safety, and I would fain have you see the beauty of the
wild and lonesome spot, whence issue the springs of your fair river
Gwynnon. And in my charge you will not fear the old gipsy's uncouth
speeches, should she again emerge from her secret cavern?" "I would
much like to see her too in her strange home," said Primrose, "for I
am well used to her wild figure and rude rhymes, and have no fear of
her. And I have long wished to see the beautiful caves where the
Gwynnon rises. You will let us go, will you not, dear madam, some
day when you are not too much fatigued?" "Willingly," she answered,
"for while we remain in this beautiful spot we shall do well to see
all we may of its neighbourhood. On the morrow, if Master Vere's
duties permit, we will make our expedition, and carry with us such
comforts as the poor soul may find acceptable." So, on the forenoon
of the day following, the little cavalcade set forth, the two ladies
mounted on the back of a stout cart-horse, while the chaplain walked
at their side, beguiling the time with recounting many ancient
legends of the country-side, and with much learned discourse on the
subject of his crusade against the evils of intoxicating drinks, upon
which subject he waxed eloquent under fire of Lady Bryn Afon's
searching questions, proving himself to have inquired into the matter
with no prejudiced mind, but with a calm judgment and a deep study
both of books and of human nature which could not be gainsayed. And
in favour of his views he quoted many excellent passages from the
writings of his revered friend, Master George Herbert, with whom, as
a boy, he had been wont to hold much converse on this particular
matter, and whose example of sobriety and godliness had inspired him
with a zeal and courage which he confessed humbly that he might
otherwise have sorely lacked. And so, listening to his talk, and to
the quaint yet charming verses of his sainted friend, over which his
lips lingered in loving utterance, the rough travelling appeared to
come to only too speedy an ending, and the wondrous caverns were
reached ere either of the fair travellers had a thought of weariness.
Their appreciation of the beautiful spot was as hearty and
enthusiastic as he could have desired, but Primrose, on peeping
boldly into the gipsy's cave, found it empty, and they were fain to
leave their gifts behind them, trusting to her speedy return from
some one of her wild expeditions to enjoy them.
The ride home was very beautiful in the soft evening twilight, and by
Primrose and Percival the "yellow valley" (Glyn Melen) in its wealth
of gorse-bushes in fullest bloom had never been seen through more
golden spectacles. They were too happy for many words, but their
eyes met ever and again in a mutual sympathy and understanding which
was perhaps yet more eloquent, and which was not unnoticed by Lady
Bryn Afon, who, as she watched them, sighed once or twice to herself,
with an expression of mingled pleasure and perplexity.
The days that followed were golden days, whose light lingered on
through the dreary months of separation which ensued for the two
young people, who each in their secret heart felt every day more and
more drawn to the other, ever finding new topics of mutual interest
and new tastes in common, and ever feeling their souls to be more
firmly knit together by those higher aspirations and longings after
the "things unseen and eternal," which alone can form the basis of a
true, unending love. Yet no word of love ever passed between them,
for Percival, knowing the strange circumstances of Primrose's life,
and that the still-continued waiting-time for her unknown mother was
one of which he dared not take advantage, kept a tight rein upon
himself, and would often spend hours in solitude upon the mountains
rather than intrude, save at Lady Bryn Afon's bidding, into the
presence of her whom, he could not but confess to himself, he dearly
loved. There were, however, many pleasant hours which he spent in
their company, whether reading aloud to them, as they sat at work in
the copse or orchard, or listening in the dusky twilight to the sweet
strains which Primrose drew from her beloved harp by the side of the
stream, or guiding the sure-footed old horse to the tiny church in
the nearest village on Sundays, and at other times to some beautiful
spot in the mountains, which he had discovered in his own rambles,
and would fain have them enjoy with him. And now and then there came
brief moments to each of unacknowledged bliss, when, left alone with
books or music, for some short space of time their tongues seemed to
loosen mutually, and their hearts to draw nearer in sweet converse
and unspoken sympathy, But at such times Primrose often wondered why
the chaplain would as it were suddenly withdraw into himself,
shutting himself up within a wall of impenetrable reserve, which she
dared not break, and more than once abruptly leaving her, on the plea
of forgotten duties, causing her to think sorrowfully for the rest of
the day that she must needs have in some way vexed him, until at
their meeting on the morrow he would again silently reassure her
heart by a glance which betokened an unbroken friendship, or an
involuntary pressure of her hand which made her heart throb with a
strangely sweet pleasure.
CHAPTER XIX.
MASTER VERE'S CONFESSION.
"Thank God for love, though love may hurt and wound,
Though set with sharpest thorn its rose may be."
--SUSAN COOLIDGE.
"This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower, when next we meet."
--SHAKESPEARE.
"Percival," said Lady Bryn Afon on the last night of their stay at
Glyn Melen, as he sat with her in the copse reading aloud, while
Primrose was busy within doors directing the waiting-maids as to the
packing of their mistresses' possessions previous to their departure
on the morrow--"Percival, pardon me for asking so bold a question,
but have I done well in suffering you thus to share with me the
companionship of my sweet young friend during these happy weeks? I
have watched you both not without some secret misgivings; yet,
knowing I could trust you, have forborne to interfere with your
happiness, content to leave all in the hands of a good Providence,
yet reproaching myself at times for having perchance unwisely
permitted you both at once to be my companions in this solitary
dwelling, where you have of necessity been thrown much together.
Forgive me, dear friend, for thus venturing to address you, but
Primrose is to me as a dear daughter; and you--for the love and
devotion you bestow upon our unhappy family, I can but regard you
also with somewhat of a mother's affection!" "I am grateful for the
confidence you have placed in me," said the young chaplain earnestly,
"and I can but assure you that no word of the love I feel for your
most sweet and fair companion has yet passed my lips, or shall pass
until she is under her own mother's care, which she tells me will
probably not be until a year from now. It is true that in her my
soul has seemed verily to find its ideal, and that I can but feel
there is betwixt us some sweet unspoken tie, which in myself I know
to be the truest love man can offer woman, yet which I dare not yet
presume to think upon as an assured treasure. I have wrestled many
an hour with myself alone on the mountain-top, that I might by no
word or act betray your confidence, or, above all, suffer this
earthly love to take away aught from that supreme love and devotion I
have but lately sworn to my Master in Heaven. Against His will I
dare not seek for myself a bliss for which my soul yearns with deeper
longing than I can tell; but can I only keep this earthly love in due
subjection, regarding it as a priceless gift to help me the better to
serve Him, I can but feel He will perchance look with favour upon us
both, and in His good time suffer me to become the unworthy possessor
of so fair and lowly-minded a helpmeet."
Lady Bryn Afon's eyes filled with tears. "I have no right to betray
a maiden's secrets," she said, "nor have I sought to win them from
her; but I have been young even as Primrose, and methinks can read in
her transparent countenance and clear truthful eyes more than she
wots of. But Percival, be that as it may, you are both wise and
right in your decision to keep strict silence for the present, for
the history of fair Shanno is a passing strange one, and neither you
nor she must surely fetter yourselves by any ties but those of
friendship, while her future with her as yet unknown mother remains
hid in obscurity." "For me, I should feel no fetters," interposed
the young man eagerly. "I would fain be at her side when that
dreaded moment of meeting comes, to shield her from all possible ill,
and take her away from any sorrow it may chance to bring her into the
shelter of such a home as I could offer. It is for her sake alone
that I cannot yet feel it right to seek to bind her by any promises,
nor even seek the confession of a love which I scarcely dare yet hope
for, and which might bring trouble upon her. Nay, I promise you that
I will keep silence, nor attempt to seek her out during the coming
years of separation, darkly though they lower before me." "That is
well," said Lady Bryn Afon. "And as to her, poor child, she will
again be happy by her riverside in her loving guardian's care, even
though a new-felt loneliness will, I fear me, be her portion for
awhile after these happy weeks. Percival, have you verily no fear in
thus giving your heart away to one of whose birth and parentage you
are wholly ignorant? Have you no fear of what the future may chance
to reveal? And will the proud descendant of Ap Gryffyth and the
Veres not hesitate to seek in marriage one whose mother has confessed
herself to be of kin to such an one as honest Jack the boatman--of
long descent indeed, and of a good old family, but withal a humble
one?" "I fear me my love hath so fully eaten up my pride," answered
Percival with a smile, "that I would fain win this fair woodland
flower and wear her next my heart, be she whom she may. Let even
shame and disgrace o'ershadow her unknown parents' history, I would
but the more gladly shelter her beneath my own great love from every
lingering breath of evil, and even so feel myself the more worthy of
the name I bear. Dear madam, trust me that my honour shall be as
great as my love, and all shall go well. Hush, she comes!" And
tripping lightly over the greensward came Primrose, surely more fair
than ever, her white summer gown falling in soft folds around her,
and her wealth of golden hair, still floating childlike over her
shoulders, glittering like streams of gold in the evening sunlight.
And as Percival Vere looked at her a great trembling seized him, and
he buried his face in his hands. "You are weary, Master Vere," she
said, throwing herself on the grass at Lady Bryn Afon's feet, and
resting her head upon her knee. "You have read too long aloud, while
I, who would fain have come and relieved you, have been making ready
with much sorrow for our departure from this beautiful place on the
morrow. I fear me the mountains have made me faithless to the valley
and the river I love so well!" "Nay, I am not weary," answered
Percival. "I did but close my eyes because I saw a vision.
Methought as you crossed the grass I was again by the pool at
midnight, beholding the mystic maiden, and the illusion is not yet
dispelled!" He looked at her with a smile, and yet with so perplexed
an expression that Primrose laughed merrily in spite of her sad
heart. "As we shall part on the morrow," she said, and her voice
trembled a little as she spoke, "and as I would not have you ever
wondering and perplexed in mind until we meet again, I will e'en make
my confession. I was myself the immortal maiden!" "I have suspected
it!" said the chaplain triumphantly, "yet I have not been able to
account for your so deceiving me. Was it so indeed? Then now I can
understand." "Indeed I did not then know you were there!" cried
Primrose eagerly. "Until I saw yon watching me from your dark corner
under the rock, I thought in truth that no one saw my folly but Lady
Rosamond and Sir Ivor, and you, dear Lady Bryn Afon! It was at Lady
Rosamond's bidding I played the maiden's part, since she declared she
had no patience to wait for the true vision, and I would do just as
well, moreover saving her from having had her climb for nought! And
lest any one should perchance be near besides ourselves, she cleverly
threw a large stone into the centre of the pool at the moment when I
should by right have plunged therein to my watery abode, in order, as
she said, that the illusion should be complete, trusting that the
sudden sound might make a chance spectator close his eyes for a
moment in horror, and so let me slip into my hiding-place behind the
rock unobserved." "She truly devised well," said the chaplain with a
laugh, "for it was even so with me, whom she had persuaded into
proving with mine own eyes the truth of her wondrous tale! As you
stood by the lake, I heard the sudden splashing, and clasped my hands
before my eyes in horror at the thought that I must needs see you
plunge into that black abyss; and when I withdrew them I saw but the
ripples on the surface of the water--and you----" "Were laughing in
glee not many yards away," said Lady Bryn Afon with a smile. "In
truth it was a naughty trick of Lady Rosamond's, but Primrose did it
right well." "But indeed I had no thought that you were there!" said
Primrose, looking at the chaplain earnestly. "I truly thought it but
a jest among ourselves. Now I know why my Lady Rosamond bade me
beware of you, for that you looked upon me as a child of the Evil
One!" "I am over cruelly maligned," said Percival, swallowing with
difficulty the eager words with which he was on the point of
repudiating an idea so wholly contrary to his mind. "But Lady
Rosamond ever loves a jest, and I will confess that she practised her
deception right well. I thank you, fair Mistress Primrose, for
enlightening my credulity, and now I must bid you good-night, for I
have much study to complete before midnight."
Primrose lay motionless upon the grass for some moments after he had
left them, and Lady Bryn Afon stroked tenderly the fair head upon her
knee, but said nothing; only when they parted for the night she
folded her in a close embrace, and bade God bless her with an
unwonted fondness, which went to the young girl's heart. Sleep
closed that night unwilling eyelids. Lady Bryn Afon and Primrose lay
long awake, each occupied with thoughts of their own, and Percival
Vere stole forth from a restless couch at midnight into the
mountains, to wrestle and pray in solitude and silence, till the
first rose of dawn flushed the heavens.
At Caer Caradoc, on the following forenoon, Primrose was met by her
old friend the vicar of Cwmfelin, and with a loving embrace from Lady
Bryn Afon and a last long look and pressure of the hand from Master
Vere, that brief dream of bliss came to its close.
CHAPTER XX.
THE WORLD ONCE MORE.
"Thy friend put in thy bosom: wear his eyes
Still in thy heart, that he may see what's there.
If cause require, thou art his sacrifice."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
"It were all one
That I should love a bright partic'lar star,
And think to wed it; he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere."
--SHAKESPEARE.
The few months immediately following Primrose's visit to Glyn Melen
verified Lady Bryn Afon's prediction that a new loneliness would make
itself felt in her hitherto happy existence with her faithful
guardian. Glad though she was to return to the shelter of those
loving arms, as well as to her old haunts by the riverside and her
beloved books in the vicar's library, yet there was ever present with
her a sense of loss, and of something in her life which waited for
fulfilment--an uncertain feeling, half pain, half pleasure, that a
cup of bliss had been just tasted, and then snatched again from her
lips, and might, or might not, await her again somewhere in the dim
future. Yet she found a sort of trembling comfort that in her
loneliness of spirit she was not alone--that many miles away that
same loneliness was surely felt by another, in whose thoughts dwelt
the same vague delicious hopes which filled her own. This she
frequently told herself, blushing deeply in secret over her own
boldness, she had perhaps no right to think or build upon, yet a
secret knowledge of its truth ever lay like a hidden well of gladness
deep in her heart, and refused to be gainsaid by any reasonings.
More than ever were the pages of the _Morte d'Arthur_ conned over in
the stillness of the dim wainscotted library, and as she sat in some
shady nook on the banks of the Gwynnon, and pictured to herself, as
had long been her wont, the holy Sir Galahad riding forth along the
vale in quest of the Holy Grail, it was ever the face and form of the
young chaplain that were worn by the "lily-knight" of old, and ever
the pure and steadfast gaze of his deep and dark-fringed eyes which,
as the imaginary figure passed, seemed to bring her a message of
undying faithfulness to love and honour. "He would surely have been
counted worthy to go in quest of the Holy Grail," she murmured to
herself, as she recalled with mingled pain and joy the pure young
face, uplifted to heaven in the tiny whitewashed church in the
mountains. And softly she said over to herself the words from her
favourite book, with which he had one day concluded a sermon, and
which she had long ago read over and over, till she knew them well by
heart: "Do after the good and leave the evil, and it shall bring you
to good fame and renown. All is written for our doctrine, and for to
beware that we fall not to vice or sin, but to exercise and follow
virtue, by the which we may come and attain to good fame and renown
in this life, and after this short and transitory life to come unto
everlasting bliss in Heaven, the which He grant us that reigneth in
Heaven, the Blessed Trinity. Amen." Primrose recalled to mind how,
after the service, she had told the chaplain how well she knew and
loved those words, and how he had made answer, that "to do good and
leave the evil" had ever been the motto his father had bidden him to
make his own, and that because he had the words framed and hanging on
his wall at Christ's College, and because of his known love and study
of the pure and ideal character of Sir Galahad, he had himself been
so most unworthily nicknamed by his companions, and in consequence
had ever humbly striven to deserve in some poor sort so good a name,
though it were given him but in idle jest. And he had told her
further how much he had wondered at hearing this name fall unawares
from her lips on the day of their first meeting by the Craig Aran
Pool, upon which she had explained to him that from her childhood she
had accounted Sir Galahad to be her own ideal knight, and that Lady
Rosamond having told her of his bearing the name in jest, and she
herself feeling sure that she whom she then beheld was Master Vere
and no other, had let fall the name in her sudden surprise and
bewilderment--adding somewhat saucily, that she as yet had seen no
reason to doubt its fitness, after which speech she remembered even
now the earnest gaze of his eyes which had met hers as though they
would read her inmost soul, and the half-sigh with which he had then
turned hastily from her and changed the subject. "I may not dare
presume to think he loves me," was often her last thought at night,
in the silence of her own chamber, "but I know that I may feel I am
accounted worthy to be named among his friends, and that, for one of
unknown parentage like me, must be all I dare to covet or suffer to
enter my dreams. And to possess the friendship of one who leads so
pure and holy a life is methinks far more to be desired than the love
of any other man, wherefore I will daily pray for the continuance of
so great a blessing, nor dare to ask for that of which I must ever
feel myself far too unworthy. And since it is not enough for us to
'leave the evil,' but we are also commanded to 'do the good,' I will
ask our vicar to set me tasks to do for him among the poor and
suffering, which will surely help me better to fulfil that good
saying, than to be ever wandering and dreaming by the riverside, as I
have hitherto done. For though it is fair and sweet to lie in the
shady copse, and listen to the singing of the birds and the rippling
of the water, and dream pleasant things all the livelong day, yet who
can tell in this world of sin and sorrow whether any of those dreams
may ever come to pass, or whether I may not myself be bidden to take
up my cross, and share the lot of those who are called upon to drink
the bitter cup of suffering with their Lord?" So, as the pleasant
summer months went by, and the cold winds of autumn blew shrill
through the valley, the light step of the Fair Maid of Gwynnon, who
ever bore her hero's image in her heart and his example before her
eyes, went hither and thither on errands of mercy, and her sweet face
and voice of music brought sunshine and joy to many a sick bed and
weary heart in the lonely hamlets around. And to old Jack the
boatman she ever seemed to grow more fair and winsome, and as he
thought upon the coming day of separation his heart sank more and
more within him, and vague feelings of unrest and sad anticipation
disturbed his mind. It was a gay summer in the valley, for the
weather being unusually warm and bright, many guests tarried in the
castles in the neighbourhood, and constant pleasure-parties went up
and down the river, and Jack plied a thriving trade with his boats
and his ancient coracle, and greatly did his heart rejoice to see the
admiration with which all beheld his foster-child, and likewise the
ease and modest grace with which she bore herself among them. And
more than all others came the boat of Sir Tristram Ap Rhys, a gay
young knight from the old grey-turreted mansion which crowned the
wooded heights of Craig Arthur, who, chancing to spend the summer,
contrary to his usual custom, in his Welsh castle, heard much of the
wonderful beauty of the river-maiden, and must needs pass continually
up and down the river, to gain one glimpse of her golden hair and
radiant eyes, making some pretext, too, as he grew bolder, to draw up
his boat under the bridge, and call at the boatman's cottage for a
drink of water, or to borrow a fishing-rod, or make some other sorry
device, until at length Primrose grew weary of his gallant speeches
and the bold glance of his merry blue eyes, which no coldness on her
part could check; and would run, at the first distant glimpse of his
boat, into safe hiding in the lanes or copses, feeling a sort of
foolish anger, poor child, in her heart, that any one should dare
look with love into the eyes that were ever filled with Sir Galahad's
image, or press with soft gallantry the hand round which his fingers
had more than once closed with a tightness for which he was wont
afterwards too late to bring himself to task. And when Sir Tristram,
catching her one day unawares beneath the willows, drew up swiftly to
land, and beneath their shade, in sudden transport and triumph, vowed
such love and constancy as he avowed had never before been felt by
mortal man for maiden, she wept tears of sorrow at the thought that
her beauty should be such a snare to mankind, that even against her
will she should cause them such pain and sorrow of heart as she now
saw depicted in Sir Tristram's boyish countenance, when he tore his
long curls for misery at her cruel rejection of his love, and avowed
she had broken his heart. But she did not know, in her girlish
innocence, that he had already torn out many a curl for many a
maiden, and must needs to the end of time break his heart afresh for
every fair face that refused to smile upon him. So with tears she
sorrowfully bade him depart--tears shed half in anger at his
presumption, half in sorrow for his grief, and Sir Tristram rowed
away down the stream with heart-rending sighs, and many languishing
glances back at the spot where she stood, and soon growing weary of
fishing in the fair Gwynnon, returned to town, to drown his sorrows
amid the gaieties of the Court.
Every night Primrose gazed at the windows of Bryn Afon Castle ere she
retired to rest, to see if any lights were burning to bear witness of
the earl's presence, and of perchance the presence likewise of a
certain one among his attendants, whose name grew in absence ever
dearer to her heart; but the old battlements frowned darkly night
after night from the steep hill-top, and no sign of life was heard by
day in the long avenue which led to the castle on the farther side of
the hill, and up which she had gazed with curious, wistful eyes,
through the bars of the great iron gates, on that eventful evening
long ago in the days of her childhood, when she had beheld,
awestruck, the ghost of the weeping lady. Since that day she had
never again ventured near the forbidden ground, but once and again
during this summer she had entreated Jack to listen at the gate for
any sound of life from within--but in vain.
So that season passed ere aught was again heard of the owners of the
castle, and as the summer days drew to a close Jack the boatman's
heart began to grow sore within him, for beyond this last year of
happiness lay sorrow and parting--sorrow inevitable for himself, and
who could tell whether much or little of joy for his foster-child?
More and more was he fain to seek comfort in his anxiety within the
walls of the little church on the hillside, where Primrose too loved
as of old to steal in at the hour of Evensong, and say her prayers
amid the soft chanting of the wind in the tree-tops, and watch the
waving of the branches to and fro athwart the unpainted windows,
veiling their bareness with a soft-glowing tracery. And to and fro
over hill and dale went the young girl and her faithful guardian day
after day on those errands of mercy, the fulfilling of which gave to
her a curiously happy sense of nearness to that one who was ever in
her thoughts; and treading thus in the lowly footprints of the
servant, her own feet unconsciously trod with ever-deepening love and
faithfulness in those of his Master, who daily drew her nearer to
Himself by means of this beautiful human love for His friend, and
taught her out of the abundance of her love for him to look upon her
poorer brothers and sisters with a new depth of affection,--the
overflow of her own happy heart.
It was not until the end of the month of October that a letter, half
expected by both her guardian and herself, came from Lady Bryn Afon,
begging her once more to give her the pleasure of her company for two
or three months, which she purposed to spend abroad, in order once
more to escape the severity of the English winter; and gladly though
she would have spent this last Christmas-tide with Jack, neither he
nor Master Rhys thought it wise that she should refuse such another
kindly-offered opportunity of benefiting herself by foreign travel.
"We know not what your mother may expect of you, sweetheart," said
Jack; "but whether much or little, I would not that she should be
disappointed in her child, whatever; and for that the world is large
and the men and manners thereof are various, it is well that your
eyes should see and your ears hear as much of its wonders as is
permitted to them ere you pass away for aye from the safe shelter of
your childhood." So with mingled joy and sorrow, Primrose once more
departed in the Black Horseman's charge one fine November morning, to
join Lady Bryn Afon in town, ere they repaired together to Paris,
whence by easy stages, suited to Lady Bryn Afon's delicate health,
they proceeded to Nice, and thence to Florence, where they purposed
to remain some weeks, returning home early in the spring, by sea,
after visiting Rome and Naples. Of all Primrose saw in these
wonderful cities it would take too long to tell, but her keen delight
in music and pictures and scenery, and in all the varied new
interests which surrounded her, gave continual pleasure to Lady Bryn
Afon, as well as to her old foster-father, at such intervals as her
long and brightly-descriptive letters reached him. And good old
Master Rhys was scarcely less interested than his friend Jack, when a
letter came, telling of their unexpected meeting once more with
Master John Milton, who was at that time passing some weeks in
Florence, and who had become a frequent visitor at Lady Bryn Afon's
house, greatly delighting both herself and Primrose by his learned
and profitable conversation, telling them much of his own literary
work, and of his most kind and courteous reception in the learned
academies of Florence and other parts, and above all charming them by
his account of his late visit in person to the renowned Galileo at
his little villa at Arcetri, where he dwelt, a prisoner indeed, yet
still in his old age and blindness pursuing those studies for which
he suffered punishment. And over his cruel lot, said Primrose,
Master Milton waxed eloquent in indignation, till she herself longed
also for but one glimpse of this marvellous scientific discoverer,
and had been fain to assure Master Milton, that would he but procure
for her one moment's interview with so great a man she would pardon
him all his heresy against the church and king, and ever after read
his learned poems with an unprejudiced mind. Whereupon Master
Milton, afterwards pouring forth at times torrents of fiery eloquence
against bishops and other such terrible evils, was wont to suddenly
check himself with a smile, saying that it were too grievous a
forfeit for his bold utterance of his opinions, that his poems must
on that account perchance ever go unread by so fair a Welsh maiden.
Yet the purchase of her goodwill by introducing her to the renowned
prisoner appearing for the present time impossible, he felt himself
more free of utterance! And so Master Milton went on to Rome, and
Primrose did not see Galileo, though many other wonderful and
beautiful things she saw which time and space forbid me to relate.
And after some little time she also with Lady Bryn Afon journeyed on
to Rome and thence to Naples, returning home early in the month of
April by sea, greatly to her delight and enjoyment. So the warm
spring days brought her once more to the sunny Gwynnon Valley, and to
her simple home and tender guardian's homely care, and she set
herself to a full and lingering enjoyment of the few weeks yet
remaining ere her twenty-first birthday came round. Of the old
castle on the hill Jack had no news to tell. Lord Bryn Afon and his
chaplain had neither been seen nor heard of in the valley during the
long winter months, and although Primrose knew already well enough
that they had spent the winter in town, Lord Bryn Afon having been in
attendance upon the king, yet she felt a certain unreasonable
disappointment at their having paid no short visit to the ruined
castle, having suffered her imagination to place them there at
intervals during the winter months, and to view them both, more
especially the chaplain, holding pleasant intercourse with Jack by
the riverside--in which intercourse who could tell but that her name
might have found by chance some humble place?
So the sweet spring days ran on, when the smiling valley grew full of
new life and beauty day by day, but when Primrose sadly felt that for
her each new bud was surely opening for the last time, and every bird
singing a song which told of coming pain and parting--of old life
ended and new life begun--of love which they were sure of finding in
their leafy homes, but which for her was shrouded in dim uncertainty
and doubt and longing. For ere many more days should pass, that
dreaded birthday must come round, and her unknown mother would claim
her--and who could tell if she would really love her with half the
love of the tender guardian from whom she must part, and who could
tell, moreover, whither that mother might take her--how far from Sir
Galahad, and with what doubt and dread of their never meeting more?
CHAPTER XXI.
A LONG-DREADED SUMMONS.
"Who, grown familiar with the sky, will grope
Henceforward among groundlings?"
--ROBERT BROWNING.
It was on a bright evening in the end of May that the clatter of the
Black Horseman's horse-hoofs, now every day looked for by Primrose
and her guardian with mingled feelings of interest and apprehension,
was once more heard along the narrow road by the riverside, and the
old man, clasping his foster-child to his heart in a long embrace,
put her from him again with stern resolution, and went forth to greet
his guest, and receive the long-dreaded summons from her mysterious
unknown mother. He took the letter indoors, while the Black
Horseman, with thoughtful consideration for his feelings, refused his
invitation to enter the house, and promised to return in an hour's
time, to receive his answer. Primrose crept to his feet, and with
her head on his knee they read the letter together in silence. It
ran as follows:--"To Jack the boatman, a most loving, though erring
kinswoman sends greeting, offering to him her most hearty thanks for
his loving and tender care bestowed upon her child for the past
nineteen years, and promising him faithfully that she will never make
attempt by word or deed to sever the deep bond of affection between
them, but will ever promote their continued intercourse so far as in
her lies, now that the hour has at length come when she must claim
her child for her own, and remove her from the happy home of her
childhood. Her mother bids her make ready to accompany the Black
Horseman to town in one week's time from this present date, where she
shall be received into the most fond and tender care a mother can
offer. And should all go well, she shall accompany her mother later
in the year for a short season to the farm Glyn Helen, below the
Craig Aran mountain, whither her faithful guardian shall likewise be
invited to repair, and where much that cannot well be put into
writing shall be made clear to him. An unworthy mother can add no
more to what she fears can be but a sorry and unwelcome summons, save
an assurance of the great love and impatience with which she awaits
her beloved daughter, and of the undying gratitude she bears to her
honoured guardian."
"It is well," said Jack in a broken voice. "It is but the fulfilment
of long expectation, and it is better so. I am an old man whatever,
and shall but become daily less fit for the guardianship of so much
beauty. So fair a flower could ne'er be left to bloom alone, and
then wither and die upon these lonely river-banks. It is but right
that it should e'en be transplanted without delay to some fair
garden, where other peerless blossoms shall be fain to hang their
heads before its radiant beauty, and where the highest culture this
world can give shall bring it yet to greater and more complete
perfectness! Yet I can but fear me lest the world may sully my
blossom's sweet purity, and by adding more earthly bloom, dim
Heaven's own pure loveliness!" "Hush, dear dad, I pray you!" cried
Primrose, hiding her blushing, tearful face in her hands. "You would
fain turn my poor head, ere I leave you, with your loving speeches!
Yet I will ever pray that I may ne'er be less worthy of them than you
now account me. And doubt not that, after my own dear mother, and
perchance the father of whom she tells me nought, you will ever have
the first place in my thoughts." "That were a rash promise, sweet
one!" said Jack, a humorous smile lighting up his rugged face.
"Where will you then put your husband whatever?" "Ah, I had
forgotten him!" said Primrose innocently; then, colouring crimson at
so bold a speech, she hid her face, and trembled at the thoughts
which followed her careless words. "He dwells then already in your
thoughts--is it so?" said Jack, with a half-sigh. "Ah, well! 'Tis
ever so with young men and maidens, and I will not grudge thee to one
who is worthy. Indeed, I could easier give thee up to a tender
husband's care than to this unknown mother! Yet I know not verily
who shall be accounted worthy to wear my sweet flower next his heart,
since even the gay Sir Tristram, who had lands and gold and a
handsome countenance to boot, must needs be sent away weeping!" "I
have looked upon the sun," said Primrose quietly, "and beside his
light all other stars look pale. Perchance, dear dad, I may never
wed. Do you not remember how on my hand the gipsy saw no marriage?"
And she laughed lightly. "Beshrew the old witch and her vile
sayings!" exclaimed Jack indignantly. "My bridge bears a living
testimony to her falseness, for it stands as stoutly as of yore, in
spite of her warnings, and your marriage, my sweet one, hangs upon no
wicked words of hers." "Nay, I did but jest," answered Primrose;
"yet ever and anon I call her words to mind, and her wild song about
the Primrose and the Lily rings in my ears. If I must some day sleep
in the river, I would fain know who is the Lily who shall sleep there
with me, and why so mournful a fate must needs be promised us!" "She
can know nought of the 'lily-knight,'" she added to herself,
musingly; "and even if she should know of there being one so called,
why should she bear us both such ill-will as to foretell for us both
a watery grave? Ah, what folly thus to dwell upon her dark sayings!"
And laughing at her own childishness, Primrose banished the old gipsy
from her thoughts, and she and the boatman went forth together, to
tell to the vicar of Cwmfelin the wonderful news of her mother's
summons.
A week later the painful and long-dreaded parting was over; Primrose
had looked for the last time upon the home of her childhood as a
home, and had left the sunny Gwynnon Valley in the Black Horseman's
charge, to go out into the unknown world before her.
We will not dwell upon the old boatman's sorrow and loneliness of
heart, which were fully shared by good Master Rhys, who had also
looked upon Primrose as a dear daughter; but, leaving for a time the
fair vale of Gwynnon, we will follow Primrose to town, where, after a
journey made as easy and pleasant in those days of toilsome
travelling as the good physician knew how to make it, she arrived
safely in his charge, and was taken to the large and handsome
residence close to Hampton Court, in which she was to find her
mysterious parent.
Inscrutable as ever, he had vouchsafed no information whatever to his
young companion, on the journey, as to the future conditions of her
life, beguiling her thoughts instead with much talk about the various
towns and villages through which they passed, and with much learned
discourse upon those struggles between the king and Parliament, which
had already reached far-distant Wales in fragmentary and disquieting
rumours, and were agitating England every day more violently, and
more sorely perplexing men's hearts. So that Primrose felt her heart
stirred within her, as she entered the great city of London once
more, and felt herself to be in the midst of the struggling passions
of men whose hearts were daily beating higher with conflicting
emotions and desires, and where the general stream of public opinion
tended--who knew whither? "Sir Galahad said he would die for the
king," she said to herself, when her mind seemed sore perplexed with
all the Black Horseman told her, first on one side and then on
another, and she was fain to rest her woman's heart upon the judgment
of one she would trust against the world; "and if he thinks him a man
worth risking life for, then so do I, and I will e'en die for him
likewise, if needs must. My heart is for the king, I know right
well, and my reason shall not condemn my heart while the words of
Holy Writ bid us 'render obedience unto the king as supreme.' That
Book surely never bids us take up arms against our sovereign, be his
faults what they may, and since he is still a good and holy man in
private life, I will love him as before and think no ill." To which
loyal resolve the Black Horseman bade her ever be true, for he was
likewise himself a true-hearted cavalier, and though not blind to the
faults of Charles as king, loved him too truly as man to feel any
sympathy with his bitter foes, who, alas, were daily increasing in
number and in power.
CHAPTER XXII.
A MOTHER'S STORY.
"I leave myself, my friends, and all for love.
Thou, thou hast metamorphos'd me;
Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,
War with good counsel, set the world at nought;
Made wit with musing weak; heart-sick with thought."
--SHAKESPEARE.
It was late one sunny afternoon when, the tedious journey at length
accomplished, Primrose alighted before the door of her unknown
mother's stately residence, and having taken leave on the threshold
of the Black Horseman, who promised to call again later in the
evening, was escorted by a powdered and liveried serving-man through
a spacious entrance-hall to a small but luxuriously-furnished
apartment, which, he told her, was her ladyship's boudoir, and where
she would presently come to receive her. "Her ladyship!" Primrose's
heart beat fast as she seated herself on a low-cushioned chair by a
window which looked out upon a gay pleasaunce, and thought to
herself: "Is my mother then really some great lady, and withal my
foster-father's kinswoman! How strange to be transplanted suddenly
into all this splendour! How will she greet me, a poor country
maiden, with but such little knowledge of the world's ways as the
Lady Bryn Afon's passing kindnesses have given me? She comes! Ah,
Heaven, protect me in this trying hour!"
The door opened softly, and ere Primrose dared raise her eyes, soft
arms were clasped about her slender form, and loving, burning kisses
were pressed on her cheek and brow and lips by one the recognition of
whom took away her breath, and made her for a moment turn sick and
faint with overpowering feelings. It was none other than the Lady
Bryn Afon herself! "My darling--my beautiful daughter!" she murmured
in a broken voice; "did you ever dream of this? In the long hours
you have spent at my side, when I have yearned to clasp you to my
heart with all a mother's love, did no secret yearning fill your own?
Call me 'mother' but once! Let me hear the sweet name my heart has
these long years craved in secret bitterness to hear but once fall
from your lips, and I will wait patiently for the love I ill deserve,
yet would fain believe you will perchance not find so very hard to
give me. Oh! my darling--my little baby whom I tore from my breaking
heart nineteen long years ago--tell me you will try to love me a
little, and forgive me these weary, bitter years of parting! Not
bitter though to you, thank God, but to me--ah! none but He can ever
know a mother's suffering in such a plight as mine!" "Dear mother,"
whispered Primrose softly, kissing her pale cheek, "I have long loved
you dearly as the kindest of friends and benefactors, and though this
sudden surprise has taken away all the words I fain would utter, yet
let me stay awhile thus in your loving arms in silence, and the truth
of the strange dream will gently steal over me, and I shall be the
better able to tell you presently of all the love I have stored up in
my heart these many long years for my unknown mother. Indeed I have
ever felt drawn to you with strange affection, yet I never dreamed of
being your child, and it still seems to me too wonderful for truth!"
"As yet, sweet one," said Lady Bryn Afon, "it must be truth to you
and me alone. Tell me, my child, since I have borne my sad secret
these many weary years alone, will you be brave enough to share it
yet awhile with me only?" "Your will is mine, sweet mother," said
Primrose gently. "As yet I have no thought but for you--that we have
found each other. It shall be enough till you are pleased to tell me
more." "You shall hear more anon," said Lady Bryn Afon. "That is my
brave daughter. Now let me take you to your chamber, where I will
tend you on this first evening with my own hands, and afterwards,
when we have supped, and you are refreshed after your journey, we
will have much talk together."
[Illustration: "'MY DARLING--MY BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER!' SHE MURMURED."]
Primrose followed her newly-found mother to the apartment prepared
for her, and suffered herself to be tenderly waited upon and cared
for, feeling as though she were in a trance, from which she would
surely awake presently, to find herself once more in her own tiny
chamber, looking out upon the rippling Gwynnon. And through the
evening meal which followed, when, in kind consideration for her
fatigue and strange new feelings, Lady Bryn Afon dismissed her
powdered attendants, and waited upon herself and her daughter in
quiet new enjoyment, she could hardly speak, or even think clearly,
for the whirling of her brain at the thought of the strange things
which had befallen her.
It was not until they had once more retired to the boudoir, and
Primrose had thrown herself at her mother's feet upon the hearthrug,
and had grown gradually soothed and calmed by the soft touch of the
loving motherly fingers in her golden hair, that she suddenly started
up with the hitherto unthought-of question; "Then is the beautiful
earl, whom I worshipped in my childish days, and who was so good to
me, indeed my own father? Sweet mother, in finding you I had
forgotten I must needs also learn to love a new father, other than my
dear old dad, who has been all to me? Can it be that I am the Earl
of Bryn Afon's daughter?" "'Thereby hangs a tale,' sweetheart,"
answered Lady Bryn Afon, catching her breath painfully for a moment.
"Have patience with me, and you shall know all of my own sad history
and yours that I may at present tell." "But tell me first, dear
mother," cried Primrose eagerly, "may I see my father to-night? Is
he here with you? Methinks I will soon learn to love that beautiful
hero of my childhood, and learn to call him 'father'! Oh, when you
said just now that you and I alone must at present share this happy
secret, you did not surely mean apart from him!" Tears filled her
mother's eyes. "I feared me it would be a wound for your loving
heart, dear daughter," she said in a trembling voice. "Yet it must
be even so for a time. Trust me, and all shall at last, I hope, go
well. Yes, you are indeed the earl's own daughter, yet for reasons I
dare not put aside, I may not yet suffer him to know of your
existence, save only as my sweet and dearly-loved companion; and
you--you must yet save up for him in your heart that store of love
which, you tell me, you have these many years saved up for me, and in
time, I pray God, it shall not be wasted. Only wait a while. I have
waited nineteen years to claim my only child! Let her be brave
likewise, and wait her mother's pleasure ere she claims a father!"
"I will trust and obey you, dear mother," said Primrose, though tears
of disappointment stood in her eyes; "but shall I not even see him?
I should dearly love to look upon his face, if it were but once, and
methinks I could pretend bravely to be nought save your humble
attendant." "He is now out of town with our chaplain," said Lady
Bryn Afon; "but he returns ere long, and you shall then see him, if I
may surely trust you, ere I take you with me once again to spend a
few happy weeks at Glyn Helen, which I hope to do next month, when my
husband will be in close attendance on the king. I grieve to thwart
your loving heart, my darling, but you shall hear my tale, and after
that judge me as you will. Tell me first, however, ere I begin my
relation, whether you know aught of the curse which hangs over our
family, and whether your faithful guardian has indeed been true to
the trust I placed in him?" "I know nothing of it, dear mother,"
answered Primrose, "but the fact of its existence, and that it is
said to have hung over the family for some centuries. In what its
nature lies I have never known, nor indeed does my foster-father or
any one else know it, to the best of my belief. There is at times
some talk thereon among our villagers, but it is now to them an old
tale, and no one among them appears to know its true origin or the
cause of its continuance. All I have ever learnt is, that for some
generations past the Earls of Bryn Afon have refused to reside at the
castle, save at short intervals, during which they have lived in
great retirement and secrecy, their stay within its walls being
sometimes known only by the lights in the windows, and the shrieks
heard from time to time from within by those bold enough to venture
near the walls. There is a tale too, that at such times as the
shrieks are heard, a lady may be seen walking to and fro in the dark
avenue, wringing her hands and weeping; and this, I must confess, I
have myself seen, for one day--only once, dear mother!--my childish
curiosity got the better of my obedience, and I stole round the lanes
at the farther side of the hill, and stood a long while peering
through the great iron gates of the avenue, hoping I might see the
mysterious lady. For which I was chidden afterwards by my
foster-father, yet found consolation, I fear me, in the fact that I
had verily seen the ghost, sin though it had been! She wore a long
dark cloak, and came so near the iron gates that I feared she must
see me, and as she came, she wrung her hands and sobbed pitifully.
Suddenly she raised her head, and fixing her eyes for a moment upon
me, as I gazed speechless with wonder between the iron bars, turned
and fled, with a bitter cry, up the long avenue again towards the
castle. I told no one what I had seen till long afterwards, when at
last, my conscience having oft reproached me for my disobedience, I
confessed my vision to dad and to good Master Rhys, who bade me put
the matter speedily from my thoughts." "It was your mother, yearning
with breaking heart to clasp you to her arms, whom you saw, sweet
one!" interrupted Lady Bryn Afon. "But go on, my child." "Also I
heard at one time, that although the lords of the castle avoided it
so strangely during their lifetime," continued Primrose, "yet that
each one of them had always come thither to die, being driven so to
do, as people say, by some strong spell, which they may not overcome.
And the people say too, dear mother, that they have all died in turn
a terrible death, and that at such times the castle is full of
shrieking and wailing, though none can tell the cause of their
departing this life amid such woe. That is all I can tell, dear
mother. What the curse may be, I know not, nor have I much fear of
it, for I have ever held such reports to be but idle tales." "I am
thankful that you have not learned the knowledge of its nature, my
child," said Lady Bryn Afon, drawing a quick breath of relief as
Primrose ended her tale. "Seek not to know it, save at my bidding, I
beseech you! I marvel at times that it has not been sooner
discovered; yet, well, it is far better so. Now listen, Primrose, to
my tale....
"The story of my early life, of my relationship to your guardian, of
my secret marriage with your father against my own father's will or
knowledge--that part of my tale you shall hear fully at another time.
"I will now pass over my early disobedience and sin, and begin my
story at the time when the consequences of my ill-doing first thrust
themselves miserably into my girlish dreams of bliss, and shattered
them at my feet. I married at just over one-and-twenty years of
age--a wayward, impulsive child still in all my words and actions,
very beautiful, so my proud young husband constantly assured me, but,
as you must know, from the fact of my being the boatman's kinswoman,
and therefore of humble parentage, utterly ignorant, not only of the
ways of the great world, but of all those arts of education which
befitted her whom the Earl of Bryn Afon should choose as his wife and
the partner of such a life as he was called upon to lead. I had,
like yourself, heard nought of the curse, beyond the flying rumours
passing ever from mouth to mouth about the country-side, and in my
daring youth, rather rejoiced over my own bravery in thus wilfully
ignoring its existence, and consenting to share the life of one who
thought himself surely doomed in his turn to bear its woful burden.
The first few months of our married life were spent in travelling,
and passed by in one short dream of bliss, from which the first
awakening came when my husband took me to town, and began, among his
gay and educated companions, to discover that I was on all points of
worldly knowledge but as an ignorant child, unable, in spite of my
proud bearing, to take that part in the life and conversation of the
Court which he had rashly expected of me, and I as rashly had ne'er
dreamed of being unable to fulfil. It would be wronging him to say
that he at any time conveyed to me his disappointment and chagrin in
open words of blame, but I grew daily more conscious of the presence
of such feeling in his thoughts, and of my own unfitness for my new
station; and by-and-by, to add to my secret trouble, came the
knowledge of my husband's sad failing--a cross to me all through my
life--his inability to resist the direful temptations of strong
drink. This knowledge too only grew upon me gradually, but ere I had
been a year married it had become too evident, and I could no longer
blind my love-bound eyes to the sad fact of my husband's miserable
weakness. At last the climax came to my misery, when one evening,
while under the influence of wine, he revealed to me the secret which
he had vowed never to disclose lest it should mar my happiness--the
dread secret of the curse of the Bryn Afons family. That I will not
reveal to you, my sweet daughter, for since in your up-bringing I
have striven to avert from you every chance of its influence, I feel
that it were better to keep you still in ignorance so long as it
shall please God.
"The following morning, when my husband was once more in possession
of his sober senses, I entreated him to tell me if the tale he had
told me were indeed true, and he assured me that it was so, but with
bitter regret that he should unawares have allowed me to share its
burden; for he was still ever loving and tender with me, and I too,
in spite of my sorrows, loved him dearly.
"But now must follow the most bitter portion of my story. Appalled
at what I had heard, I took, during the sleepless hours of the
ensuing night, a stern resolution. That very day I had looked
forward, with all a young wife's pride and joy, to whispering in my
husband's ear a new-found secret, which, I well knew, would be to him
no less a source of joy and delight than to myself; but now--I dared
not utter it! I dared scarce dwell myself upon the thought, that a
child of mine must bear the woe which for three hundred years and
more no Bryn Afon had escaped! My brain reeled with the terror and
misery of it, and my resolve was taken. My husband should never know
my cherished secret, and my child should be saved from the dread
curse which hung like a sword over the head of its unhappy father.
Next day I told my husband that a strong desire had taken possession
of me to make myself more fit to wear the honours of a lady of the
House of Bryn Afon, by educating myself in those arts of learning and
grace in which I knew myself to be so sadly deficient, and I begged
him, on my knees, to send me away from him for the space of two or
three years, into a convent in France or elsewhere, where I might
grow more worthy of my dignity as his chosen wife, and whence I might
return to him with the full consciousness that I should not disgrace
by any acts of folly or ignorance the great name I bore. How I
gained my point I scarce know, for he was grievously loth to consent
to so painful a parting, yet at last my tears and prayers, and, I
think, a certain sense that I had reason in my request, prevailed
over him, and he allowed me to depart, promising that he would not
seek me out in my retirement, nor disturb the quiet of my mind and
studies by any communication with me whatever during my absence. Ere
I left him, I begged his physician, the Black Horseman, who was ever
our most faithful friend, to have him always in his most tender
keeping the while I was absent from him, and through his kind
assistance (for he only in the world had knowledge of my secret) I
was placed in a small convent in Brittany, in private apartments,
under the special supervision of the Lady Abbess--a lady he had known
well in his youth, and in whom he placed the fullest confidence, and
in whose loving hands a sweet sense of peace and security stole over
my agonised spirit ere I had been many weeks in her company. Under
her skilful instruction too I made, before your birth, rapid progress
in many studies, besides becoming easily acquainted, in that French
household, with the language of the country. My strange history had
been of course made known by the Black Horseman to his old friend,
whom I shall ever regard with feelings of the greatest love and
devotion for the care she bestowed on you, my little fragile blossom,
thus secretly entering this troublesome world, and thus cruelly
concealed by a stern Fate from any knowledge of the father who would
so dearly have loved you!
"But such was my unutterable dread of the curse that I dared not
suffer him to share my joy and pride in my sweet new possession, and
none but a mother's heart can know the unspeakable horror of darkness
which was wont to fall upon me, as I looked forward to severing
myself from you, as I knew I must too surely do ere you should grow
to love me too well. Ah, my sweet Primrose, should your glad spirit
e'er be shadowed by a passing cloud, think not it is any shadow of
the curse which pursues your innocent soul and mars its peace! That
has been surely averted from you, and whate'er of sadness and
darkness may perchance e'er weigh upon you is but the faint re-echo
of your mother's woful suffering of spirit, as for weary weeks she
weighed from one bitter hour to another your helpless claims upon her
against those of your loved father! You tremble, sweet one! Have I
then too truly bequeathed to you such an heritage?" "Some passing
clouds of nameless woe, sweet mother," answered the young girl
thoughtfully, "have indeed from time to time weighed down my spirit
with mysterious pain, which I might take to be some shadow of the
curse upon my forefathers, did you not assure me I am indeed wholly
free from so dread a foe. It is but at long intervals that such
clouds have oppressed me, and now they have some long time since been
wholly banished. Yet were it not so, dear mother, I would willingly
bear for your sake such passing sufferings as my small share of your
great trouble of heart. Would indeed it were more I could have borne
for you!" "Nay, sweetheart," answered her mother fondly, "I would
have given my life to save you one passing pang, and I do but dwell
on this point for a brief moment, that I may thoroughly assure you of
your own immunity from the curse of your unhappy fathers, and show
you other good reason for any chance heaviness of spirit which may
briefly o'ercloud your happiness. Now, put this thought wholly from
you, and listen once more to my tale....
"For nearly two years you, my sweet unconscious baby, shared my
convent solitude, and beguiled my long hours of study with your
infant wiles; and during that time I formed the plan of committing
you to the care of Jack the boatman, whose character I had from
childhood well known and trusted, and in whose charge, albeit under
the very shadow of your own blighted home, I felt I could sooner
bring my heart to leave you than anywhere else. The Lady Abbess
would fain have kept you at her side, but I would not have you
brought up in the Roman faith, neither could I endure the thought of
the sea ever rolling betwixt us, so at the close of the bright spring
month of April, just after your second birthday, I brought you over
to the land of my birth, where, hiding ourselves with trusted friends
of Rhiwallon's, my ever faithful friend and physician, in that lowly
homestead far up in the mountains, which you know and love as the
farm Glyn Helen, we played together through the spring and summer
days, and you learned to call yourself by your baby name of 'Little
Miss Primrose,' as your infant feet wandered hither and thither in
search after the flowers you loved. Just those few short months I
sunned myself in the light of your bright infant presence in the
loneliness of our mountain retreat, ere I could summon courage for
that terrible moment of agony, when, on a dark and raging winter's
night, after walking mile after mile with you in my arms amid driving
rain and howling winds, I arrived at the bridge built by the boatman
across the Gwynnon, close to his own home, and chancing there to meet
him in the midst of the frail footpath, placed my warm living burden
in his arms, and rushed away into the blackness of the night,
well-nigh mad with the bitter aching of my heart. How I lived
through the next few days I know not, and but for the care of the
Black Horseman, whom I had summoned to meet me at Caer Cynau, I must
verily have lost my mind by reason of my agony; but his tender
ministrations restored me to health, if not to happiness, and under
his charge I journeyed to town, to my husband's home, where, after
our strange separation, he received me with loving welcome and open
arms, finding in my new accomplishments and apt acquaintance with the
French and Italian tongues that I had used the time of my absence in
the manner I had promised, and rejoicing with a boyish delight, which
used to be one of his great charms, over what he was pleased to call
the 'wonderful progress' I had made in my various studies, as well as
over the added dignity and grace of person and carriage which he
vowed I had gained during the three years of our separation. Nothing
at any time in the years that followed ever led him to have the least
suspicion of his unknown daughter's existence; but how often my heart
has been torn asunder by his repeated wish that God had given us
children! And how it was well-nigh burst within me in times past,
when, during our short sojourns at Bryn Afon, fascinated by the
infant beauty of the boatman's foster-child, he has more than once
begged me to adopt you for my own, declaring that no true Bryn Afon
could e'er be to me a fairer daughter! Oh, Primrose, weep not, I
pray you! I have indeed suffered as few women, methinks, are called
upon to suffer, but I have deserved my punishment. I have sat from
early eve till dawn of day at the casement of my chamber in the
castle, which overlooked the river, just to watch the light burning
in your window at my feet, and feast my eyes on the poor roof that
sheltered my darling, my husband ever coming to my side, wondering
what strange fascination held me rooted night after night to the same
spot." "And I have watched your light too, sweet mother," said
Primrose, "calling it one Christmastide my 'Star in the East,' and
when I was older, ever looking for it year after year with childish
interest and pleasure, and much joy and wonder when once or twice, at
long intervals, the sight of it again rewarded my long watching.
But, dear mother, tell me, was your long hiding of me indeed
necessary? Have you truly found the curse to have such dread effect
upon my poor father, that you have felt you have verily had no choice
but to keep my birth secret from him?" "Yes, I have done well, my
child," answered Lady Bryn Afon gravely. "Had my heart broken, as I
oft thought it needs must, I would have let it break sooner than call
you from your happy, innocent home into the blighted atmosphere of
ours. But once, in your early childhood, did I suffer Rhiwallon to
bring you to Glyn Helen, where I was then staying, that I might for a
few brief hours sun myself in your infant presence ere there were
fear of your carrying away any permanent recollection of me; and how
I suffered in that renewed parting God only knows! But Primrose,
sweet one, prithee dismiss all thought and fear of the curse from
your own mind. The steps I have taken to avert it from you have
surely kept even its shadow from falling upon you, and so shall it
ever be, an you will do my bidding faithfully, and neither seek to
learn its nature nor crave a further knowledge of your father than I
dare at present permit. The time may come when I may, without danger
to you, suffer him to know of your existence, and perchance in the
years to come he may be granted the now little-dreamed-of joy of
clasping to his heart an heir to his name and estate, who shall,
owing to the sorrows you and I have undergone for its sake, be free
from the dread taint of its forefathers! But enough now of this
dream. What think you, sweet daughter, of the baptismal name
bestowed upon you in the tiny Breton church wherein one of our own
countrymen ministered, within a stone's-throw of the Convent, to a
handful of English church people, and by whom you were duly
christened according to our own Church's rites? To my ear the name
Shanno hath a sound of soft music. Your father's mother bore the
name, and it is well loved by him. Like you also its sound?"
"Yes, dear mother," answered Primrose, "I am well content to bear a
name my father loves, and which belongs to the House of Bryn Afon;
and I have also ever liked its sound. It was strange, at my
Confirmation, to possess suddenly a new and unaccustomed name, and
now it seems to me that I must surely be dreaming all these strange
new things of which you tell me! Yet it is a happy dream, to find so
sweet and loving a mother!"
"And you will not despise her for her lowly birth, my darling?" asked
Lady Bryn Afon somewhat wistfully. "You, who belong to a proud and
ancient race, you will try to think kindly of one who is but too
unworthy of being the mother of an earl's daughter, and who,
moreover, in her youth has greatly erred, and yet has one more
ever-present grief and sin, which she has not yet disclosed to you?"
"It is not for me to judge my mother's past," said Primrose gently;
"and whatever your birth, dear mother, you show no sign that you have
not ever been as great and noble as now. I marvel not that my dear
father loved you, for you must indeed have been wondrously beautiful,
and fitted by nature for your high station. Do you truly think that
I may indeed see him just once ere we travel into Wales? Do you fear
lest any likeness in me to you or him may betray me?" "Nay, I fear
not so," she answered, "for nature has so evenly blended his likeness
and my own in your fair face and features, that you bear no very
marked resemblance to either of us, having rather a beauty and
radiancy all your own, my sweet one, which makes your fond mother's
heart glow with pride as she beholds you! You bear perhaps a greater
resemblance to your father's mother, a lady of noble English birth,
than to his Welsh ancestors. You shall see her portrait in the long
gallery at the castle some happy day, when hand in hand we wander
through the silent corridors and deserted chambers of your ancestral
home; and by her side you will likewise see the lovely Lady
Gwendolen, to whom you do indeed bear a very striking
resemblance--insomuch that, somewhat to my terror, your father
himself noticed the likeness you bore to his unfortunate sister the
last time he beheld you, and on that account felt the more drawn
towards you. But he is so wholly unsuspicious of a daughter's
existence, that my fears were groundless, and I speedily found, to my
relief, that he regarded the likeness as a mere curious coincidence,
without a thought of its true cause. She died at the early age of
seventeen within the gloomy castle walls, in all the radiance of her
youth and beauty!" "Was she too a prey to the cruel curse?" asked
Primrose sadly. "Indirectly so, I fear it must be confessed,"
answered Lady Bryn Afon, "But fear it not, dear heart, for on you it
can have no power. Our learned Rhiwallon himself accounts you wholly
free from its influence; and," she added smilingly, "you must ne'er
feel any shadow of distrust of one of the skilled and far-famed
'Physicians of Glyn Helen!' It is not every maiden who has been
privileged from her cradle with such high and sacred ministrations!"
"Is the Black Horseman indeed that one living descendant of the
Mystic Brethren, who has ever been said to dwell apart in some
unknown haunt, and practise in secret their ancient arts for the good
of his fellows?" asked Primrose eagerly. "I have oft wished to meet
with one in whose existence I have believed from childhood, but of
whose dwelling-place none have ever been able to give account! How
came you to discover him, sweet mother, or what led him to reveal
himself to you?" "His ancestors," replied Lady Bryn Afon, "have
these some centuries past enjoyed high favour and repute with the
royal houses in Wales, and our loved Black Horseman is descended in
direct line from that far-famed and learned Rhiwallon who for his
wondrous skill in medicinal lore was chosen by Rhys Grug, Prince of
South Wales, in the thirteenth century, to be his private physician.
I know not whether or no before that time the descendants of the
Craig Aran shepherd's mystic bride had practised their healing arts
in such high places, but there is no doubt of the renown of this
bygone Rhiwallon, nor of our own dear physician's descent from his
family; nor again of the favour shown to each learned doctor
successively by noble Welsh families from the time of Rhys Grug and
onwards. Our present Rhiwallon's father was in the service of the
Caradocs for years, and through their means he himself became
acquainted with your father in their boyhood, and also, to his own
sorrow, with the fair Lady Gwendolen, whom I afore mentioned, with
whom, by means of the secret passage, he enjoyed many a stolen
interview, your father knowing their mutual love, and delighting,
with all a younger brother's pride, in being permitted to share their
secret and abet their schemes and stolen meetings. They were but boy
and girl, but his love for her was true and deep; and when, as I told
you, at the age of seventeen, death overtook her, he was sorely
broken-hearted, and to this day has ever remained faithful to her
memory. During his stolen visits to the castle, he discovered its
fatal secret, and for the sake of his lost love, whom he believed a
victim, though indirectly, to the family curse, he resolved to devote
himself to her house for the remainder of his life, and so, being
commended by the Caradocs to your grandfather's notice, became in due
time your own father's private physician, since when his sole desire
has been to seek the removal of his secret sufferings by every means
in his power. He puts great faith in a certain herb, on which he is
ever experimenting in his laboratory, and from which he even yet
hopes some future day to work wondrous effects. Yet at present he is
sadly forced to own himself at every turn baffled by this dread evil,
which he can as yet mitigate only, but not overcome. But he is a
good as well as wise and learned friend, and his influence with your
dear father is great; and now, combined with that of our beloved
chaplain, who has likewise devoted himself, for reasons of his own,
to our unfortunate house, may verily be potent for good." "Poor Lady
Gwendolen!" said Primrose softly. "I am glad her lover is faithful
to her memory! I marvel not that so sad a life-sorrow should have
given such sternness to his countenance, and wrought in it such deep
lines of pain. I have oft studied his face with wonder, seeing
therein surely some sad secret history of woe. That may perchance be
the reason why he has ever from my babyhood been so tender with
me--that I bear, as you have told me, some little likeness to his
lost love in my own countenance. He has ever borne patiently with my
childish wiles for the sake of that sweet and fair Lady Gwendolen!
Poor Black Horseman!" And burying her face in her mother's lap,
Primrose relapsed into wondering silence, and long they both
remained, deep in thought, till Lady Bryn Afon roused herself at
last, and gently led her daughter to her chamber, where she lingered,
to brush out with her own hands her wealth of golden hair, saying
with a half-sad smile, as she lovingly twined them in her fingers;
"These tresses are worth a kingdom!" Then bidding her sleep well,
nor be disturbed by any thought of what had passed between them, she
retired to her own apartment, leaving Primrose, in spite of her
injunction, to toss restlessly from side to side for hours, thinking,
too deeply for sleep, over her strange history, and wondering above
all if the chaplain as yet knew aught of it, and what could be his
own secret reason for devoting his services, as the Black Horseman
had done, to her ill-starred house.
CHAPTER XXIII.
PERCIVAL'S PRIVILEGE.
"Life is--to wake not sleep,
Rise and not rest, but press
From earth's level, where blindly creep
Things perfected, more or less,
To the heaven's height, far and steep."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
Time forbids us to dwell at any length upon the few short weeks spent
by Shanno at her new-found mother's side in London, or upon the
marked notice and favour shown her by the king and queen, whose great
kindness but strengthened the love and devotion she had ever secretly
cherished for them--for the king more especially, whose beautiful yet
sad countenance and melancholy eyes haunted her with a peculiar
fascination. And also she at that time met for the first time the
great Archbishop Laud, whose name was already but too sore a source
of strife, and with him his learned chaplain, young Master Jeremy
Taylor, on whom, for his wisdom and holiness of life, she looked with
awe and reverence, and, for his great friendship with Percival Vere,
with a certain tenderness of spirit which she could not disguise from
herself. Many a time she listened with a beating heart to his warm
praises of his friend, sometimes timidly venturing herself to draw
him into conversation upon her father's beloved chaplain, and ever
finding herself pleasingly rewarded for such boldness by the great
affection with which Master Taylor spoke of his friend, dwelling
enthusiastically upon the wonderful purity and spotlessness of his
life from boyhood, and upon those charms of manner which, combined
with a strong will and high moral purpose, as well as with learned
parts and wondrous eloquence of speech, had won for him the love and
esteem of all his fellows, among whom, said Master Taylor, he had
ever, as it were, diffused a purer atmosphere than that breathed by
ordinary men, and shown forth a noble ideal of living, which, if they
sometimes ridiculed, they could but secretly reverence. And to such
talk of him, whose image she ever cherished in her pure girlish
heart's inmost shrine, the Earl of Bryn Afon's unknown daughter
listened with glowing cheeks and brightly-shining eyes, and Master
Taylor, reading in those liquid depths the secret which they
unconsciously betrayed, and which he was perhaps the quicker to
apprehend because of his own newly-found joy in a good wife's love,
rejoiced in the goodness of his heart that so good a gift might
likewise be in store for Percival as the love of this wondrously fair
maiden, the Lady Bryn Afon's cherished companion, in whose
countenance goodness and purity of soul were evenly blended with
beauty of feature, and in whose mind, as he wrote to his friend
Master Vere, all fair graces were mingled, the striving of each for
the mastery adding piquancy to the one harmonious whole.
We can also make but passing mention of the one happy day Primrose
spent in her father's company on his return to town with the Black
Horseman,--happy indeed, yet her pride and joy in him were mingled
with bitter sadness in spite of the thankfulness and pleasure with
which she received his great kindnesses towards herself, and saw the
evident marks of tender love, existing despite all the strange
circumstances of their lives, between himself and her mother.
"Fain would I boast so fair a daughter!" he exclaimed, betwixt a
laugh and a sigh, as he bade her farewell on the morning of her
departure with Lady Bryn Afon into Wales, he himself being forced to
remain in attendance on the king, and being left in the safe charge
of his faithful physician, while the chaplain, now at Oxford for some
few days, also at his bidding took holiday for some weeks. And
Primrose, at his words, had much ado not to burst into tears, and
fall at his feet, confessing that she did indeed bear to him that
sweet and holy relation. "I pray you take care of my sweet wife," he
added gaily. "I am but loth to be again so quickly parted from her,
but she droops like some fragile flower during the hot season in
town, so that I am fain to banish her to breathe her own native air
awhile. And in such fair companionship I have no fear for her
happiness."
So they parted, and once more the long journey into Wales was
accomplished in safety, and on a bright June evening their attendants
conducted them and their dark-eyed maidens to the farm Glyn Melen,
and gave them over into the welcoming arms of the honest farmer and
his family, and to the warm greeting, so unexpected by Primrose as to
take away her breath and all the colour from her cheeks, of the
chaplain, Percival Vere.
"I knew not that Master Vere was again to be our companion, dear
mother," said Primrose, when, Evensong having been said in the
impromptu chapel, she and Lady Bryn Afon retired to the latter's
chamber for a few moments' chat ere they parted for the night; the
young girl's heart secretly glowing with the consciousness of the
deep gladness shining in the chaplain's eyes, as he had clasped her
hand in bidding her good-night, and shyly conscious too that she had
by no means been able to hide the equal gladness in her own. "Your
father proposed but a few days since that he should join us here on
leaving Oxford," answered her mother, "knowing how well he loves
these beautiful mountains, and that overmuch study during the past
year has appeared somewhat to tell upon his health. He was a
pleasant companion, methinks, last summer. Thought you not so, sweet
daughter, with ever a ready wit and store of converse, both learned
and lively, wherewith to beguile some few of our quiet hours? I
would there were an organ in this humble dwelling, that you might
hear him discourse the wonderful music by which he has so won the
king's heart, that he already, ere his Ordination, graciously offered
him the post of Court Musician. But his heart was so set upon taking
Holy Orders, and especially upon waging war in this, his mother's
native soil, against the crying sin of intemperance, that he returned
his Majesty a courteous refusal of the honour." "He chose a holier
calling," said Primrose softly, "and I trow the king bears him no
ill-will for his refusal, for I heard him speak of him to my dear
father with much affection, calling him by that name 'Sir Galahad,'
which Lady Rosamond long ago told me he bore among his companions,
and which, methinks, he well deserves. Think you not, dear mother,
he might be counted worthy to go in quest of the Holy Grail?" Lady
Bryn Afon looked searchingly at her daughter, as she answered with a
smile; "Indeed the real Sir Galahad can scarce to my thinking have
worn a more holy countenance, or led a more blameless life than our
young chaplain, for whom I have a very high regard and esteem. Did
you ever note, Primrose, what beauty those long and dark eyelashes
add to his face--such lashes as babes and maidens often boast, but
which are a rare feature of masculine beauty? There is a pretty
story told of this peculiar feature of his countenance." "Prithee
tell it me, sweet mother," said Primrose, hiding her face in her long
golden tresses, which her mother's fingers had unbound and let fall
in glittering showers around the slender form nestling against her
knee. "Percival's mother, the beautiful Lady Enid Ap Gryffyth," said
Lady Bryn Afon, "was from her early childhood gifted with a
singularly pure and religious tone of mind, and in very early
girlhood resolved to devote herself wholly to good works, and never
to marry, lest, as the Apostle Paul saith, she should be counted as
one of those whose care is rather to please their husbands than their
Lord, which thought her holy mind and affections could not bear to
contemplate. But ere she had been long returned from the convent
where she had been educated, it so befell that she was bidden to
visit the mother of the sainted Master George Herbert, who had been
her own mother's dearest friend during the years of her sojourn at
Montgomery Castle, and who, though now a second time married and
dwelling in other parts, ever retained a warm affection for the
Countess Ap Gryffyth and her beautiful daughter, the latter having
been born in the same year as her son George, and having been his
infant playmate. This lady was, at the time of the Lady Enid's visit
to her, spending some few weeks in Oxford, where she had resided for
some years after leaving her Welsh castle, and previous to her second
marriage, and where she had many friends, among whom none were more
welcome nor more frequent guests in her house than our dear
chaplain's father, younger son of the renowned Vere, Earl of Oxford,
then a scholar of Christ Church, and reading for Holy Orders. He
was, although some few years older than her son George, who was then
a student of Trinity College, Cambridge, one of his most attached
friends, and withal a man of singular grace and virtue, not to speak
of much beauty of countenance, and it was not long ere a deep and
true affection sprang up in his heart for the fair and gracious Welsh
maiden; and she, against her most earnest convictions, likewise fell
deeply in love with him, and at last, unable to resist his pleadings
and her own warm affection, together with the great desire of her
parents and of her kind friend that she should accept him as her
husband, she consented to break her resolution and become his wife,
which happy event took place two years later, after he had taken
priest's orders, and settled in a curacy not far from that parish, in
the county of Wilts, of which he afterwards became rector. But for
this breaking of her resolution, fair Enid afterwards, in the midst
of the deepest and holiest conjugal bliss, suffered such agonies of
soul that she earnestly besought Heaven, praying her husband to do so
likewise on her behalf, to grant her some visible sign that her act
had been pardoned, or not accounted so displeasing to God as she had
feared, owing to the tender age at which she had made her resolution.
And in answer to their mutual prayers, there was granted her a
vision, in which it was revealed to her that her first-born child
should bear a special sign of resemblance in his person to the human
form of our Blessed Lord, as a token of God's favour towards himself,
and a reward to her, his mother, for her life of purity and devotion,
from a child, to His service. And being granted in her dream a
vision of our Lord Himself, holding her child in His sacred embrace,
she noted in both their countenances the same deep earnest eyes,
fringed with long and heavy lashes; and afterwards, when her
firstborn son was placed in her own loving arms, and her first eager
glance scanned his tiny face, she recognised those same wondrously
long and sweeping lashes, shading the yet closed eyes of the
unconscious infant, and thanked God humbly for so graciously-bestowed
a sign of His favour. And as the babe grew into boyhood, this
feature of beautiful likeness to the Christ of her vision grew ever
more and more apparent, and she brought him up to regard it as a most
sacred mark of the Divine favour, which must ever bind him to loyal
and devoted service to God and His church, exhorting him also on her
death-bed, not many years since, that as he bore in his outward
features this wondrous resemblance to his Lord, so he must ever be
ready to bear likewise, if need be, the inward likeness of His
sufferings. So she died, as Lady Rosamond, from whom I had this
story, tells me, a most holy and peaceful death, being followed from
this world not many months later by her most truly loving and devoted
husband and chivalrous knight, Lancelot Vere, the two leaving behind
them but this one surviving son--out of three children born to
them--Percival, our dear young chaplain, who methinks has trod right
worthily in the steps of such holy and noble parents, and whose
inward life has ever been a true and lowly following of Him of whom
he received so wondrous a mark of love and favour." "It is a
beautiful story, mother," said Primrose softly, her eyes shining with
tears of love and pride. "I thank you for telling it to me. Think
you he will not mind my hearing it?" "Nay," said Lady Bryn Afon, "I
think not so, and were he so to do, I could bear his chiding!
Listen, my sweet daughter. For reasons I thought good, I told him
some weeks since of our relationship, so that in any converse you
may, during our stay here, hold with him, you may feel at ease and
rest, knowing that betwixt us there is no concealment, and that I
have, by suffering him thus to share our secret, shown both to
yourself and him the great love and trust I bear him and place in
him. Perchance, my sweet one, you perceive some hidden current in my
thoughts, and marvel that I do not speak more plainly; but wait a
little in patience, and enjoy your summer days together, and my
secret thoughts may in time be revealed." So, embracing her daughter
affectionately, they parted for the night, and Shanno sought her
couch, wondering much over her mother's words, and trembling with a
secret joy she dared not yet openly contemplate.
The days that followed were bright with a radiance, for which the
summer sunshine, glorious though it was, could claim but little
credit.
The readings and harp-playings by the brook-side, the rambles on the
mountain, the sweet twilight talks in the warm late evenings, in the
copse, or in some shady nook on the hillside, all bore some subtle
charm, felt none the less because of Lady Bryn Afon's presence, and
indeed felt by herself, in her love and sympathy, hardly less keenly
than by the two young lovers themselves. For lovers they could no
longer, in their secret hearts, deny themselves to be, and Primrose
could not fail to note, though no word of love had as yet been
interchanged between them, that the veil of reserve so often worn by
Percival, and falling like a sudden wall between them during the
previous summer, now never shadowed their pleasant intercourse, nor
suddenly broke off the sweet interchange of those confidences into
which they were wont to drift during any few happy moments in which
they found themselves alone. Yet she noted likewise that the
chaplain's face bore signs of struggle and conflict waged with his
own soul during the past year--conflict, the reason of which she
could not know, though she might dimly guess at its cause in her own
most secret ponderings; but surely leaving the mark of its severity
upon the pure and noble countenance, of which she daily made loving
study, and which, in its mingled power and sweetness, strength and
holiness, exerted a voiceless influence over her own soul, uplifting
it in greater love to that Holy Being whose human semblance it was
permitted in its measure to wear.
"You seem greatly devoted to my father," said Primrose, one day when
they had been speaking much together of him, and of that sad weakness
which it was Percival's life-aim to combat wherever he found it.
"And since he has the misfortune to be addicted to so sad a failing,
it seems to me wonderful that in the goodness of God you of all men
should have been chosen by him to be his friend and chaplain." "I
love your father for his own sake," said Percival, "having learned to
do so in my boyhood's days, when, during sundry visits to Sir Ivor's
town residence in my vacations, I have frequently met him. But I
have moreover a special reason for devotion to the House of Bryn
Afon, which, methinks, you know not, and of which I will tell you, an
you permit me. You know I am, on my mother's side, the last direct
descendant of the luckless Ap Gryffyth, the last King of Wales, whose
name was betrayed by a Bryn Afon to Edward I., and whose head, as the
chronicler hath it, was hung up, after his body had been slain in
battle, upon the gates of the city of Carnarvon." "I knew you were
the last Ap Gryffyth," exclaimed Primrose, "but I never knew indeed
that it had been a Bryn Afon who betrayed the unfortunate king! Was
it so indeed? Methought my father's family had ever been renowned as
bearing special loyalty to their sovereign?" "So it was," he
answered. "Lord Bryn Afon was his sovereign's dearest friend, but in
a moment of weakness--the cause of which I must not reveal, since I
should thereby betray the family secret, which you are not yet to
learn--he betrayed him into the hands of the English; for which act
he afterwards suffered the most grievous remorse, and not only so,
but, I grieve to say, that when he crawled in despair and
wretchedness to Ap Gryffyth's feet, to sue his pardon, as the
unfortunate king was being seized upon the battlefield, Ap Gryffyth
spurned him with his foot, and in the bitterness of having proved his
bosom friend faithless, invoked upon his head a curse so awful, that
all who heard it trembled, and the miserable earl fell senseless on
the ground. That curse, uttered by my ancestor, sweet Mistress
Primrose, is the one which, in deadly fulfilment of his words, has
been visited upon the Bryn Afons from generation to generation from
that time until now, no heir to the doomed house having ever escaped
the terrible effects of those awful imprecations. Do you wonder
then, that I, knowing as I do the curse to be no imaginary woe, but a
fearful reality, have resolved to devote my life to its removal, or,
at the least, its mitigation, by every means in my power?" "It is a
noble resolve!" said Primrose, her eyes kindling with enthusiasm,
"and surely it is a sacrifice few could demand of you, since the
fault lay on the side of my poor father's unhappy family, and that
his miserable ancestor drew upon himself, by his own disgraceful deed
of betrayal, the awful punishment!"
"That is true," said Percival, "yet it had been nobler in Ap Gryffyth
to forgive him, after the example of his Master, who, hanging on the
bitter cross, cursed not, but prayed for the forgiveness of His
murderers! And for a family, once noble and honoured above almost
any other in Wales, to suffer so grievous a punishment for one act of
sin and weakness, is to me so terrible a thought, that I would give
my life to unsay the words of my unfortunate ancestor, and remove the
blight which has so long cursed yours! Call it not virtue, I pray
you! It is but such charity as the meanest might desire to show
towards a fallen foe." "And I may not know the curse even now?" said
Primrose meditatively. "Nay, sweet mistress, do not seek to know
it," he answered earnestly. "If, by the mercy of God, your mother's
sacrifice for you may have availed to set you free therefrom, and if
I too may play the part in restoring your father's name to honour,
which she has graciously bidden me not despair of playing, but of
which I dare not at this present moment let myself speak, I conjure
you to let the secret dwell in her heart and mine only, and to rest
content in suffering us to bear its burden, knowing there is in this
world no burden so heavy, that for your sweet sake we would not
esteem it but as a feather's weight for lightness!"
And for the first time raising her hand to his lips, he left her and
repaired to his study, while she, unable to still the tumultuous
feelings of love and of pride in his goodness which filled her
breast, wandered to and fro by the riverside till the evening shadows
had almost deepened into night.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE PHYSICIAN'S DISCOVERY.
"Let a man contend to the uttermost
For his life's set prize, be it what it will."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
Primrose was not wrong in her conjecture that some great conflict of
soul had been secretly undergone by Percival Vere during the year
which had elapsed since their first meeting and the dawning of that
happy friendship which had made the year to herself so full of new
gladness and sunshine. That it could not have been a season of
uninterrupted gladness to him was plainly evident from the new lines
of care which the months had left on his countenance, and which, at
her first meeting again with him, she had at once noted with sorrow
and wonder.
The chaplain had indeed undergone long and wearisome struggles of
heart since those sunny weeks at Glyn Melen a year since, when he had
only too fully realised his love for his fair young companion,
together with the glad, dawning hope that one day it might not prove
in vain. It was not until they had parted, and he was once more face
to face with the serious work of life, that a painful doubt took
possession of him as to his right to enjoy the prospect of so
blissful a future as seemed possibly within his reach. He had
voluntarily entered upon a special career, which he dared not forego
for any alluring prospect of domestic ease and happiness. Come what
might of sorrow and self-denial, the work to which he had vowed
himself must be accomplished without faltering. The question was,
whether it could be better, or less well accomplished, side by side
with such a companion as her to whom he had given his heart? If less
well, she must be renounced and his work must be done, at whatever
sacrifice, alone and unaided. But no, if he had judged her rightly,
then surely she would but spur him on to greater endeavour, and the
more truly and worthily help him to realise that high ideal of life
ever kept before him, and, as he knew, none the less ever aimed at by
herself. Yet even so--that his work would indeed at her side be
better and more nobly done,--dare he bind her to himself at such a
price--to share sorrow-bringing labours, obloquy and ridicule
perchance from the world at large, and at home either the knowledge
with him of the dread curse, which might too sorely hurt her tender
soul, or the perpetual hiding of it on his part from her, which might
on the other hand too grievously try her wifely faith and trust in
him? Ought a man, with so many possibilities of future suffering for
the woman he loved, ask her to share his life and his fortunes?
Ought he not rather to leave her to the almost undoubted certainty of
some other happier marriage, and himself tread alone, as he had
already ever contemplated, save in some few wild moments, his path of
self-denial and pain? Often was this question considered in all its
aspects, and wrestled with during many a sleepless night by the
chaplain during those autumn weeks which followed his sojourn with
Lady Bryn Afon and Primrose at Glyn Melen, and as oft was it laid
aside in sore perplexity, to be fought out again in some calmer
moment. But a new and unexpected burden of thought was to be
grappled with before Percival's heart might rest; for while in the
midst of his first conflict, the startling revelation of the true
relation borne by Lady Bryn Afon to her fair young companion was
revealed to him by the former, bringing with it a fresh weight of
wearisome struggle. Then, his pride up in arms at the thought, that
by now seeking Primrose for the true and God-given helpmeet of his
life, he might appear to her in the abhorred light of a
fortune-seeker, he wished in fierce impatience that he had already
confessed his love while she was still, as he had believed, the
humble attendant of his patroness! Then, dismissing this thought as
one which did wrong to her pure and beautiful nature, a new torturing
thought presented itself. This knowledge of her birth must needs
involve him in new responsibilities of conscience, for in its light
the curse upon her doomed house stood forth between herself and him
like a grim, mocking shadow of darkness, waving him back from her
with outstretched arm, defying his advance in the path of earthly
bliss, and reminding him of fresh sufferings of soul to be faced and
battled with ere he could see the right. Had he but been ignorant of
its nature, he often cried passionately to himself in this new
bitterness of spirit, then he could have bravely ignored it, defied
its unknown power, and only the more eagerly claimed his right to
protect for ever her he loved from its horrid toils! But he, alone
of all men, save Rhiwallon the physician, cognisant of the curse in
all its deadly evil, and vowed from boyhood to its removal, did such
power ever lie in his hand, dared not hastily act against his own
light and knowledge. Already had the "sins of the fathers been
visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generation," and
better than that her tender heart should hereafter break for the evil
deeds or woful sufferings of her own children--better, far better
that he should never in this world behold her fair face more! Better
that he should wound her now by his seeming faithlessness, and, by
never renewing that friendship, which six months ago had surely given
secret promise of a yet sweeter fulfilment, allow her ever henceforth
to think of him as a man but like others, well content to amuse
himself for a few passing moments with so fair a flower, and ready
enough ere long to leave her to droop alone, while he sought out some
new blossom. But Percival, in the steadfastness of his heart, and
his innate love of absolute truth in all things, could ill brook the
intolerable pain of letting himself be so judged by her, and even yet
more weary was this second burden of agonised thought than his first
struggle. Moreover, he must bear its weight alone, for he dared not
trust in Lady Bryn Afon's repeated asseverations of belief in her
daughter's complete immunity from the inherited evil. Was she not as
a woman naturally guided by love rather than by reason, and as a
mother, ready to believe aught that was for a beloved daughter's
good? His bosom friend, Master Jeremy Taylor, who now, entered upon
the duties of his chaplaincy with Archbishop Laud, was near at hand,
and a constant visitor in Lord Bryn Afon's town-house, was ever as
faithful and sympathising a companion as Percival could desire, and
withal a man of wondrously deep learning and wisdom for one so young,
yet of the particular matter relating to the curse, of which Percival
had himself made minute study from his boyhood, he was not qualified
to judge impartially, having thereon only such general opinions as
all good men must have, but never having given to the subject that
detailed and scrutinising attention which must of necessity bias the
honest decision of Percival Vere, as to whether or no he might
unselfishly and without sin seek Shanno Bryn Afon for his wife. The
pain of these conscientious scruples was only intensified for a time
by his chance discovery one day from certain light remarks let fall
by the earl, that it had for some time past been a cherished wish of
his own to see his beloved chaplain and his wife's beautiful young
companion--whom he little imagined to be his own daughter--united in
marriage. The very ease with which he might win his coveted prize
made the possible duty of sacrificing it to a higher purpose only the
more unendurable to contemplate, but the chaplain was too true a man
not to face it boldly, wince as he might under the pain.
At length, like a sudden flash of light across the darkness of his
troubled thoughts, came the recollection of the marvellous medicinal
skill and wisdom of Rhiwallon, the survivor of the far-famed brothers
of Glyn Helen, and of that secret remedy for the ills caused by the
curse, which he had for years been labouring to perfect, and which,
in his treatment of the unhappy earl had already, as Percival knew,
often proved of wondrous efficacy in mitigating his sufferings.
Here was one of far superior age and wisdom to himself, skilled far
beyond his own youthful knowledge in all depths of medical lore, and
in particular of that one matter in which so much was involved, a man
possessing the accumulated wisdom of a long line of illustrious and
skilled ancestors, and devoting his life to the further development
of the marvellous cure, the secret of which had been bequeathed to
him in an imperfect state by his father, and by which he hoped one
day to wholly conquer and subdue the dread evil which had for
centuries reigned over the House of Bryn Afon, and to which his own
lost love had fallen a prey in her turn. Unable longer to endure his
struggle of mind alone and unaided, the young chaplain eagerly sought
out the physician one evening, finding him in his laboratory, deeply
engrossed in the secrets of his art, his black eyebrows fiercely knit
in thought, and his piercing eyes eagerly scrutinising a liquid
contained in a small phial, which he was holding up to the light, and
over which he was smiling to himself a grim smile of satisfaction and
pride.
"It is perfected at last, I verily believe, Percival!" he exclaimed,
as the chaplain entered. "And in the use I have hitherto made of the
wondrous herb, I have not been so very far wrong! At least, I may
say with assurance, it has not failed for good, and my doubts of its
efficacy have been over-conscientious! With this new preparation I
am, notwithstanding, more fully satisfied. Ah, Percival, who shall
say what measure of good you and I may in our time be permitted to
effect for the doomed house we serve? You, with your spiritual, and
I with my physical forces--we may indeed ere we die see the removal
of the curse! But you look weary unto death, my friend, and surely
need my prescriptions for yourself?" "You can give me no better
prescription than the certain knowledge of the efficacy of your great
discovery," said Percival. "Rhiwallon, had I a kingdom, I would give
it you for such good assurance! I love the daughter of this doomed
race, and I would verily give you ten thousand kingdoms, were they
mine to give, an you could swear to me that I might seek to wed her
without sin in the sight of God!"
"So," said the Black Horseman, his fierce black eyes glittering with
what looked very like a sudden rush of unshed tears, "you love fair
Shanno--the fair maid of Gwynnon? You loved her some months since,
if I mistake not? Rhiwallon's eyes are keen, and are wont to take
secret note of hidden things. Poor boy! And your love then has made
you suffer? Think you it is perchance not returned?" The chaplain's
face flushed, and his eager eyes fell with a sudden, proud humility
veiled beneath their long lashes.
"I have not yet sought to know whether it is returned or not," he
answered steadily. "And it were too great presumption to speak
openly of the glad hope my heart doth cherish. Let it suffice,
Rhiwallon, that I love her! But a few weeks since did I pray and
hope ere long to come to the honest conviction that I might
honourably and fearlessly, in the sight of God and man, seek to win
her for the helpmeet of my life; but now, with the knowledge of her
parentage, lately made known to me by her mother, has come a new
torment, which you alone can set at rest, if rest may come. If
not--well--I shall not be the first whose heart has been crushed
within him by the weight of the cruel curse!" And involuntarily his
glance travelled towards the picture on the wall opposite Rhiwallon's
chair, on which the Black Horseman's own eyes were fixed with an
expression of infinite pain--a portrait of the fair, golden-haired
Lady Gwendolen--Shanno's beautiful girl-aunt, and almost exact image.
"Nay, you will not be the first," said the physician dreamily, and he
sat for some minutes lost in thought, while Percival Vere waited with
a sinking heart for his next words. They came abruptly.
"What do you then seek to know of me, Percival?" he asked, suddenly
turning his eyes full upon the young man's face.
"I seek to know," said Percival steadily, and meeting boldly the
eagle glance of the physician, "whether, as an honest and true
physician, you can assure me that in her whom I love the curse has
truly, as her mother affirms, lost its power, and become, through the
means used to preserve her from its toils, wholly dead? On your
answer to that question depends my course of action----"
"And also your life's happiness--and hers?" said Rhiwallon sharply.
"Mine own, truly," answered the chaplain sadly. "Would to God her
own may not be as yet wholly in my keeping!"
"It is more in your keeping, my young friend, than you wot of, I
trow," said the Black Horseman; "but enough of that--it is the
maiden's own part to make such confession--not mine. And what," he
suddenly demanded fiercely, breaking off abruptly in his speech,
"what will you do, Percival, an I tell you that the ill lurks as
surely in fair Shanno's veins as in those of all her forefathers?"
The chaplain's face blanched to a deadly whiteness, and he clutched
the arm of his chair convulsively. "I shall renounce my cherished
dream," he answered steadily, looking the Black Horseman full in the
face, "and live and die in her service, but unwed!" "And break your
heart, forsooth?" said the physician, his keen, glittering eyes still
fixed on Percival, as though he would read into his inmost soul. "My
heart is in God's keeping," answered the young man bravely, "and must
be strong for His service whate'er may betide. I must live to fulfil
my appointed tasks for Him, and to bear the sorrows of her I vainly
love, if such blessing may be vouchsafed me. If the worst befall,
our love will not be in vain hereafter." "It shall not be in vain in
this present world!" cried Rhiwallon, his eyes flashing strange fire,
and his thin nervous fingers working restlessly. "Percival, I too
love your fair Primrose--not as you love her, nor as I loved
_her_"--and he waved his hand towards the sweet face of Lady
Gwendolen--"but as I should love my own dear daughter, had I such.
And loving her from her cradle for the likeness she bore to yon
ill-starred girl, I vowed to save her, an it were possible, from the
doom which might in her turn await her. You know already from her
unhappy mother's lips how I alone shared with her the secret of the
child's existence, and how it has been my lot and my privilege to
watch over her these many years past in her lowly home by the
riverside, where from time to time, in my appointed visits, I took
much secret as well as open note of her fair growth and health of
mind and body. You see this liquid I hold in my hand? Its secret
was bequeathed to me by my father, who, believing it to be in its
perfected state an infallible remedy for the evils suffered by the
House of Bryn Afon, charged me earnestly to spare no pains in its
further development, but to devote myself especially to the study of
the marvellous properties of the secret herb of which it is
compounded, and so to perfect and fulfil in beneficent action for
this unhappy family his own dawning knowledge. My spare time has
been devoted to this study, and hour after hour I have sat in my
laboratory, deeply engrossed in my experiments, which, many years
since, I had good reason to believe rewarded with success, although
it is but this very night that has witnessed my last crowning
endeavour! Well--your fair Primrose has long been under a course of
this my famous elixir, her guardian having from her infancy
administered it to her mixed with portions of her daily food, at my
orders, conjoined with those of her mother. And this powerful
antidote to the evil we sought to avert from her, combined with her
innocent and healthful life and perfect ignorance of the curse,
together with her careful up-bringing apart from her doomed family,
have, I doubt not for a moment, secured to her a perfect immunity
from the sufferings of her race; and I fully concur in the belief her
mother has already expressed to you, that she is wholly free from the
blight of her forefathers. You have, I know well, made much study of
this particular ill in all its bearings, and I commend your bold and
unselfish hesitation to take a step which might be fraught with ill
for yet more future generations; but I have made yet deeper study
than you, Percival, as befits my greater years, and I bid you lay
aside all doubt and fear, and seek in all honest confidence and truth
to fulfil your life and hers in the way appointed by Heaven for your
greater mutual happiness.
"I have already held conversation upon this matter with Lady Bryn
Afon--a liberty you will perchance think? but I love you both as my
children, and have long since noted your growing secret affection one
for the other--and I have assured her that in the marriage of Shanno
with such an one as yourself, who have surely been chosen by Heaven,
with special purpose, to be her life's protector and saviour from the
doom of her race, doth verily lie the fair young girl's best and
surest happiness."
"Think you indeed that I may honestly so regard my love for her,"
interrupted Percival eagerly, "as indeed the means, graciously
vouchsafed me in answer to my earnest prayers, by which the salvation
of herself and her house from the fate of many generations may be
accomplished? If I might verily believe such a high privilege to be
accorded me by a merciful God, it would indeed be a rich reward for
the petty denials of self and the ridicule and obloquy which in my
weak moments have seemed hard to endure in that special path I have
long felt myself called to tread!" "Such is my large hope for you,
Percival," answered the physician. "Heaven grant that you may win
your fair bride, and behold in your children's children the fruits of
your own labours and mine for the noble House of Bryn Afon! Nay,
prithee trouble not thyself to speak, nor e'en to think a thankful
thought towards me! Whate'er I may have accomplished for the
salvation of your love has been done for the sake of mine own!" And
once again the Black Horseman's keen flashing eyes darkened with a
mist of tears, as he gazed at the portrait on the wall, and his grey
head was bowed for a moment upon his hand. Percival sprang from his
seat, and boy-like, despite his reverend attire, flung his arms round
his old friend's neck, and with a son's love and reverence kissed him
on the forehead. "Heaven bless you for ever, Rhiwallon!" he murmured
passionately; then, with sudden longing to be alone with God and his
new-found happiness, he quitted the laboratory.
The physician sat long, deep in thought, his face leaning on one
hand, the other tightly closed around his precious phial, which he
clutched once or twice convulsively. "Too late, too late!" he
muttered in heart-broken accents. "But I have saved another in your
stead, my Gwendolen--my poor lost love--victim of my boyish
inexperience! A few years later, and perchance I had saved you!"
Once more he held the phial to the light, and following his first
look of pride and triumph, as he gazed upon it, came a sudden
expression of strange irresolution and doubt. But it passed quickly,
and he exclaimed fiercely; "Another fair young girl shall not be
sacrificed! And Percival Vere shall not bear a life-long woe such as
I have borne! May God forgive me if I have lied to him!"
CHAPTER XXV.
A NEW REVELATION.
"Who loves a mistress of such quality,
He soon hath found
Affection's ground
Beyond time, place, and all mortality.
To hearts that cannot vary
Absence is Presence, Time doth tarry."
--ANON.
It was some few days after the arrival of Lady Bryn Afon with her
daughter at Glyn Melen, that the chaplain was one morning despatched
on an errand which caused Shanno's heart to beat with strong
excitement, his mission being to invite Jack the boatman to pay a
long-promised visit to his foster-child, and to bring the old man
safely to the farm under his own escort, there to learn from Lady
Bryn Afon's lips the story of her relationship to his humble family,
which had for so many long years sorely puzzled him. The long
journey to the riverside cottage beneath the brow of the famed old
castle was pleasurable enough to the young chaplain, not only for the
beauty of the scenery through which he passed, but because it was his
first visit to the early home of her he loved, and no less dear to
him than to herself on that account. And with scarcely less
eagerness than Primrose herself did he look forward to the meeting
with her beloved foster-father, a man whose name he had heard often
enough during his visits to Caer Caradoc and the villages along the
Gwynnon Vale, as one worthy of all respect and esteem, but whom he
had never yet himself chanced to see.
With great impatience did Primrose await their return together,
delayed awhile by their passing a night on their way to the mountains
at the house of good Master Rhys Prichard of Castell Leon, with whom
honest Jack was pleased enough to renew those old disputations so
often held at his own cottage by the river between himself, Master
Rhys Prichard, and his cousin, Master Rhys of Cwmfelin, upon the
relative merits of the Welsh and English tongues. But at length the
miles of difficult mountain travelling were safely accomplished, and
on the third evening after the chaplain's departure he led the
boatman, trembling with joy and excitement, to the arms of his
foster-child, who awaited him alone below, while her mother in her
chamber above silently sought strength for the strange revelation she
was about to make. Presently the boatman was summoned to her
presence, and Primrose was left alone.
It was so long ere the interview between her mother and her guardian
drew to a close, that the young girl at length ventured to the door,
and knocking softly, begged for admission. Receiving no answer, but
hearing her mother's sobs within, she opened the door boldly, and
stood spellbound on the threshold at the sight of Lady Bryn Afon on
her knees upon the floor, her arms clasped about the old man's neck,
whose tears fell fast upon her bowed head. Neither stirred at her
entrance, until, at the half-terrified cry of "Mother!" which burst
from her lips, Lady Bryn Afon turned, and said in a voice choked with
sobs: "Shanno--my sweet Primrose! Come hither, my child, and say
that you can forgive an erring, sinful woman, even as her own beloved
father has from his heart assured her that he has done! Come back,
my darling, to the arms of this tender guardian of your youth and
helpless infancy, and learn to call him by the loving name of
grandfather! Let him, I pray you, hear you welcome him to this new
title, which he has so long deserved for the fatherly love and care
he has bestowed on you, and let the thought of your sweet dutifulness
these many long years past comfort him for the sins your unhappy
mother has committed against him! Father, she has been to you a
better daughter than I, and I know how truly you have loved her--yet,
I beseech you, suffer me to share but a little of the love you shower
upon her, and I will be content, and rest assured of your
forgiveness!"
"Mother," said Primrose, trembling, "what does it all mean? Are you
then my dear guardian's own daughter?--surely not that long-lost
daughter whom he believed dead so many long years since, and of whom
he has so often spoken to me? This is too wonderful!"
"She is verily that long-lost daughter, sweetheart," said the old
boatman, finding voice at last, and drawing Primrose close to him.
"She is given back to me from the dead, praised be the name of the
Lord; and you, whom I have nursed upon my knee, and worshipped in
your infant beauty and maiden loveliness, you are no little strange
nursling whatever, but indeed my own very flesh and blood! And my
daughter is the Lady of Bryn Afon! Truly the 'ways of the Lord are
wonderful, and his works past finding out!'"
"I can scarce yet believe it is not a dream," said Primrose; "but,
dear dad, it is too great a joy to know that I am indeed your own
grandchild, and that now there is a link between us which, come what
may, can never be broken!"
"Can you truly rejoice, my child," said the old man tremblingly;
"truly, in all the pride of your new-found honour, to know yourself
the grandchild of old Jack the boatman, verily a man of honest, ay,
and of ancient lineage, I trow, yet of humble birth and calling, and
boasting no honour save that of having ever been accounted the
faithful servant of your father's family?"
"I am truly glad, dear grandfather!" she answered bravely, "and proud
to know that I am of so much nearer kin than I could have dreamed
possible to one whose name is so well known and honoured in all the
country-side. But prithee tell me, sweet mother, how this can be
true, an it will not too greatly vex you to speak of it?"
"I have but been waiting to first assure myself of my father's
forgiveness," said Lady Bryn Afon, "e'er telling you this early part
of my history, which I will now in few words relate, having in deep
sorrow confessed my sin, and received his most loving and noble
pardon. You know, doubtless, my daughter, that many of my young,
girlish days were spent at Caer Caradoc, where an old friend of my
mother's was housekeeper to the present Sir Ivor Meredith's father,
and to whose charge my own dear father oft spared me for a time, that
I might enjoy change of air and scene, fearing, in his goodness of
heart, lest my life with him in our lonely cottage by the river were
at times wearisome for one so young and light-hearted as I. There I
met, far more frequently than I e'er confessed, the young heir of
Bryn Afon, for he was very friendly with the sons of the late Sir
Ivor, more especially with him who now bears the title, and he was
wont to spend many hours with them at the castle. And besides this
he spent, upon occasion, some days or weeks at Bryn Afon itself, and,
unknown to my father, we met often by the riverside in the haunts of
our childhood; and so he grew dearer to me, and I to him, than either
of us dreamed at the first. I was young and wilful, and ere I knew
what I was doing had promised to be his wife. His father was then
dead, and there were none to control his wishes, but I knew well that
my father would sternly forbid me to dream of one so far above me in
station; so in our youthful haste, and love that would brook no
denial, we escaped together from Caer Caradoc by means of the secret
passage to Bryn Afon Castle, during the absence of Sir Ivor's family,
and thence to London, where we were married. So I entered upon my
wedded life in disobedience to the best and kindest of fathers, and
upon a life of acts of secrecy and deception, which, begun to deceive
my father, have needs been ever since continued to deceive my husband
and save my child. So do our sins follow us! At the time of our
flight through the secret passage I had no thought of being looked
upon, when my disappearance became known, as a victim in my curiosity
to its dark dangers, and had the full intent ere long to confess to
my father what I had done, and comfort him to the best of my power by
assuring him what great love my husband and I bore to each other, and
what tenderness I received from him; but at the first I had not
courage for my confession, and when, later, my troubles came thick
upon me, and the knowledge of the curse blighted all my hopes of
happiness, I was thankful when by chance I learned that I had long
since been given up as dead without doubt by my supposed untimely
fall into the bottomless well, on the brink of which my bonnet had
unawares fallen, as a witness against me; and I then resolved never
to suffer my father to know of my existence, unless the time should
ever come, as now, when I could bring him comfort and joy by the
knowledge. Now, my sweet Primrose, you know why it was to these
faithful arms I committed you in your innocent babyhood, and you now
know the worst of your mother's sinful past. Stay here awhile, and
cheer the heart of my most dear and long-suffering father, while I
seek Percival Vere, who, as the first to know you to be the Earl of
Bryn Afon's daughter, must not be longer left in darkness as to our
whole story."
* * * * * * *
"Then, Percival," said Lady Bryn Afon, at the close of an interview
which had lasted more than an hour, "this further unfolding of my
tale has no power to change the strong current of your affections?
You, in whose veins runs the proud blood of noble families both of
Wales and England, feel now no secret shrinking from the thought of
taking to your heart a wife whose birth on her mother's side is
lowly, and on her father's, shadowed by a curse which is the bitter
fruit of past shame and disgrace? Think the matter over seriously,
Percival, ere I bid you tell my daughter all that is in your heart,
for, were I to think you could e'er repent, when too late, of your
marriage, and so bring upon her such sorrow as mine, my heart would
break."
"My love for her is such, dear madam," he answered, "that nought in
life, nor even death itself, can take aught from its power. She is
to all eternity my one and only love, and whether wedded to her or no
my heart is hers unalterably. Night after night, in the silent hours
of darkness, I have pondered over the subject of our union, knowing I
dare not tempt your sweet Primrose to share with me that holy estate,
with my full knowledge of the curse and all its consequences, unless
my conscience were fully satisfied in the sight of God that the
measures you have taken to avert those consequences from her had been
blessed by God with entire success. I have too deeply studied the
matter in all its bearings to dare snatch greedily for myself a
happiness which might bring misery to her and to future beings, and
had I not fully satisfied myself, by seeking the counsels of
Rhiwallon, so far more skilled than I in all wisdom and learning,
that your dealings and his with her from her babyhood could not fail
to avert the terrible results never yet averted from her ancestors, I
would have torn my heart asunder ere I would again have ventured into
her sweet presence, perchance to rouse again in her girlish heart
those feelings which during the last fair summer I presumed to think
my own ill-concealed affection had caused to stir in her heart
towards me!"
"I believe you speak truly, Percival," said Lady Bryn Afon; "but,
believe me, you may rest assured on this point, and that I shall ever
bless you for the love _you_--(of all men living the one to whom I
can with fullest love and confidence entrust her)--have in God's good
providence seen fit to shower upon her. That she should one day make
so safe and blessed a marriage as hers with you must needs be, has
been for years past my one wish for her, and my sole hope of undoing
that curse which threatens my husband's unhappy family with entire
ruin. Yet last summer, when I noted the growing affection between
you, I scarce dared hope that, when you knew all, your love could be
strong enough to outlive your knowledge of the truth concerning her,
and my heart was torn asunder with conflicting emotions! Then, after
we had parted, and I had poured my anxieties, as I ever do, into the
sympathising ears of our good physician, and had heard from his own
lips that in his opinion my dream of her union with you might with
all safety and happiness for you both become a reality, with no fear
of ensuing woe--then my fears were laid to rest; and knowing how
deeply your mutual affection (perhaps unconsciously on her part) had
been stirred, I looked forward with joy and hope to your meeting
again with that happy result which, I trow, will scarce be
frustrated. Yet, could I think that you will too late repent the
confession of your love, I conjure you, Percival, to be silent, and
even now to fly from my darling's presence! Heaven forbid that this
hand of mine, which has already wrought such ill, should bring either
of you, my dearly-loved children, to the misery of an unhappy wedded
life!"
"Lay your fears to rest, dear lady," said Percival, "as I, in God's
great love and mercy, have with a pure conscience this some while
since laid mine. I am indeed doubly blessed in thinking, that not
only is the great happiness of which I scarce dare yet dream your
fair daughter can account me worthy, now perchance verily within my
reach, but that also in making her my wife, an she will bestow on me
so great and undeserved a favour, I shall be privileged to see the
fulfilment of my most earnest desire--the removal of the curse from
the House of Bryn Afon."
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE "LILY" AND THE "PRIMROSE."
"He shall only well known be
By the holy harmony
That his coming makes in thee."
--ANON.
It was in the dim twilight silence reigning about the mysterious dark
pools below the Craig Aran Peak, whither Percival Vere had followed
Primrose with eager feet to her well-known haunt, and on the brink of
the black lake round which he had first watched the slow-moving
footsteps of the immortal maiden, that on the evening of the day of
his conversation with Lady Bryn Afon he poured out his tale of love,
and heard from her sweet lips such shyly-answered confession, as made
the dying evening sunlight suddenly illume the landscape, to the eyes
of his dazzled vision, with all the golden glories of heaven. And
when, after much sweet converse in that vast solitude, and a solemn
mutual commending of themselves and their new-found joy into the
hands of God, they descended the steep hillside to Glyn Melen hand in
hand, their feet seemed to tread upon air for very lightness of
heart, and Primrose, creeping into her mother's arms in speechless
happiness, after they had together received her blessing, felt that
for her the world had verily been created anew, and that all dark
shadows had for ever rolled away from her long-dreaded future, in the
deep, abiding sense of joy and peace with which the knowledge of
Percival's love had filled her heart. Each day of the blissful weeks
that followed seemed only more happy than the last, as the souls of
the lovers grew more firmly knit together in a bond of love which,
like the rainbow to which Percival one day pointed on the
mountain-top, rested but one foot on earth, and hid the other in
heaven. Each day Shanno found in her Sir Galahad more of those
virtues and beautiful traits of character with which she had ever
clothed her ideal knight, and each day likewise he found her more
richly endowed with those tender graces and that innocence and purity
of heart which had so surely been revealed to him in that sweet,
haunting face of his midnight vision. Lady Bryn Afon, rejoicing
greatly in their happiness and in her own newly-found joy of
reconciliation with her father, who still remained with her, seemed
to grow younger and more beautiful day by day, and to renew her
failing health marvellously in the exhilarating air of the mountains,
and in the new sense of peace which filled her heart. And who so
radiant as old Jack the boatman, again restored to the love of one
whom he had so long mourned as dead, and looking forward when the
present short season of bliss should be ended, to having once more
the charge of his loved granddaughter during some portion of the
ensuing months? For Lady Bryn Afon must shortly rejoin her husband
in town, and the chaplain must resume his duties in the earl's
household, until, on the resignation of good old Master Rhys in the
following year, he should succeed, by Lord Bryn Afon's express
desire, to the living of Cwmfelin, the earl vowing that while in town
the guardianship of the faithful Rhiwallon was enough for him, and
that he had resolved henceforth, for the sake of his wife, to spend a
great part of his time in his old Welsh castle in spite of the
malediction upon its walls, during which seasons Percival should
continue to act as his chaplain in addition to his new duties. Such
plans for the future had the earl determined, bent upon the union of
his beloved chaplain with the Fair Maid of Gwynnon, and knowing well
Percival's secret desire to make the Gwynnon Vale some day the
starting-point of his own unwearied labours in the cause of
temperance and sobriety. And, all unaware the while of the strange
events which had lately come to pass within his own household, his
own ideas curiously furthered the development of those of his wife
and of the lovers themselves.
It was Lady Bryn Afon's desire, after much cogitation on the matter
and consultation with Rhiwallon previously held, that upon Percival's
appointment to Cwmfelin in the ensuing year, the earl should be
informed of his daughter's existence, and his consent obtained, as a
father, to her marriage with his chaplain, which he had so long
desired while ignorant of her birth, and to which his wife assured
the lovers he would raise no objection after the true state of the
case was made known to him. Her wish, further, was that the marriage
should then take place without delay, her express desire being that,
owing to the circumstances of the case, her daughter should be spared
the necessity or probability of spending any time beneath her
father's roof, which he would surely desire her to do, were any
interval permitted to elapse between the event of her being made
known to him as his daughter and her marriage.
"So soon as you are safely wedded and in a home of your own, sweet
one," she said to Primrose, "your relations with your father can
become both easy and pleasant. He purposes in the future to dwell
more than heretofore at Bryn Afon, and you will have frequent
opportunities of pleasing him with your society, and gratifying your
own filial affection, while at the same time such intercourse can be
fully controlled at the discretion of your beloved husband and our
faithful Rhiwallon. Your father will rejoice with all a fond
parent's love and pride in the possession of so fair a daughter and
in the knowledge of her happy settlement in life, and you will
likewise give to him a love and reverence which--alas, that a mother
should need utter such words to her child--you could scarce find so
easy were you dwelling beneath his own roof, ever in his company.
Seek not, sweet one, I pray you, to break this barrier, which a sad
fate has set up betwixt yourself and him. Such dealings with you
both seem hard and unnatural for a wife and mother to speak of thus
coldly, but are more necessary than you can deem possible. Bid her,
Percival, believe that her union with yourself will assuredly further
her father's true happiness far more than any immediate knowledge of
her relationship to himself could do, and she will rest content."
"Is it indeed so, Percival?" asked Primrose entreatingly. "May I
truly, as a daughter who would fain render all loving and dutiful
reverence to a father, thus contemplate my future happiness without
sin, and, unknown to him, and with my dear mother's consent only,
come to the very eve of my marriage, ere my existence may be revealed
to him? Sweet mother, you bid me appeal to him whom above all the
world I love and honour, and by his opinion I will be guided, nor
fear any thought of ill, an his true heart can safely bid me trust in
the hope you bid me cherish of my father's future consent to our
union; for fain would I have his blessing ere I enter upon that new
life, the thought of which at times o'erwhelms me in its promise of
bliss!" And hiding her face on her lover's shoulder, Primrose clung
to him, trembling.
"Believe me, sweetheart," he answered, "your mother's plan for us all
is well. The knowledge I share with her of that which blights your
father's life shows me clearly that were you now to share with him
that life in the close relationship of father and daughter, even for
the space of this one year only, which must needs elapse before our
marriage, you would but subject yourself to the dread influences
which your mother has given up her very life to avert from you, and
this without power to avert them from him who has long since been
their unhappy prey. Whereas by our marriage following immediately
upon your being presented to him as his daughter, and by our
beginning together that life in which I pray God I may have grace and
strength from Him to shield you from all ill, and from aught in your
intercourse with him which might prove harmful to you, your mother
and I both trust that no breath of evil influence shall e'er ensue
from those meetings with him from time to time, which it shall then
ever be our joy to promote between you. You, sweetheart, I trow,
will ever love me well enough to trust that I will never keep you
from your father's side when I know it safe and well for you to be
there? Already does the earl earnestly desire our union, in that
warm affection for us both of which I myself feel at all times too
unworthy; and I have but little doubt that were he at once to know
the truth concerning you, he would equally wish this longed-for
consummation of our love, to which he is pleased to accord so full a
sympathy. And the special joy which, in God's good providence, we
trust your father may live to see through this our marriage, is
this--that, subject to your consent, I have faithfully promised your
mother that in the glad event of our being blessed by God with a son,
he shall take the name of Bryn Afon, and so, should our lives and his
be spared, may hereafter, free from the curse of your forefathers,
carry on under fairer conditions the once-honoured name so nearly
brought to an untimely end, and build up the ancient house, now
crumbling to dust beneath Ap Gryffyth's curse, to take its former
place among the noble houses of our principality. So may I be
enabled, God willing, to wipe off, as in childhood I vowed I would
strain every nerve to do, that stain, which, through the malediction
of my own ancestor, has clung to so many long generations of yours!
Have I done right, sweet wife that is to be, to make such promise?"
"To me all that you do is right, my beloved," answered Primrose, her
eyes filling with tears of rare love and devotion, "and it is a right
noble promise you have made. Sweet mother, all shall be as you and
my affianced husband desire and know to be wise and good for me; and
since you do assure me I may look for my father's blessing on my
marriage morning, I am well content, and will ask no more, nor ever
seek to know the nature of this dread curse, which has caused you so
sorely to suffer, in order that it might be averted from me, save at
my husband's and your own bidding."
So, that sweet summer holiday ended, the lovers parted on the green
banks of the softly murmuring Gwynnon, beneath the boatman's bridge,
one sunny morning; and Lady Bryn Afon, commending her child for the
first time with her own lips into her father's care, took her
journey, in her chaplain's charge, to London, there to rejoin her
husband, at length able, in the depths of her heart, to rejoice that
her sufferings had surely not been in vain.
Percival Vere, on rejoining Lord Bryn Afon in town, made him as soon
as possible acquainted with his betrothal to the Fair Maid of
Gwynnon, and the two frequently conversed together on the subject of
her perfections, which topic offered a certain relief to her lover's
loneliness of spirit in his absence from her, and was also to the
earl, who had ever taken a lively interest in her fortunes, one of so
much interest, that he bade his chaplain to make no doubt of his
being himself present in person to witness the happy event whensoever
it might come to pass.
"'Twas a strangely opportune decision I made to appoint you as
successor to good old Master Rhys of Cwmfelin!" he remarked one day,
as they were conversing together after the evening meal; "for such
has long been my intention, so soon as our old friend should carry
out his contemplated resignation, apart from my desire to see you
happily wedded to her whom my mind had chosen as a fitting helpmeet
for your labours. 'Tis rarely we find our dreams verified, but when
I see you and your fair bride housed beneath the walls of yon ancient
monastery, I shall feel a sense of gratification in having realised
this one of my own! And as for you, can you but have free scope for
your own wild imaginings as to the total abolition of strong
beverages throughout the length and breadth of Wales, beginning, as
you so eagerly desire, with my own poor village and ill-starred
domains, you will, I doubt not, account yourself to be fulfilling a
far higher destiny than were I to seek for you favour in high places
and a pulpit here in our metropolis, whence you might enthral
thousands with your eloquence! Come now, I have but to whisper in
the king's ear, and your friend Jeremy in the ear of Archbishop Laud,
and you shall have such a sphere appointed you, as I verily confess,
would rather befit your learning and powers of oratory than yon tiny
village amid the wild Welsh hills!"
"I have no such ambition, my lord," answered the young chaplain
gravely. "My life is vowed to your service and to that country
which, though but in part my own, is wholly yours. I have no better
wish than to labour unknown among the wild Welsh hills, if in God's
mercy, by so doing, I may seek to diminish the woes appertaining to
your house. At Cwmfelin I can work not only to this immediate
effect, being still your chaplain, but for the good of that whole
neighbourhood wherein the rumour of the curse works mischievously,
and where, as you must needs confess, there is field enough for those
special preachings of mine, at which you are pleased to jest. An it
were better that I should confine myself wholly to the duties of my
chaplaincy, I am ready so to do, as you know, having so undertaken."
"Nay, that I will not," replied the earl; "for to hold a man of your
gifts and learning ever tied to mine own apron-string were to my
thinking an unpardonable selfishness. Yet such is the hold you have
upon my affections, that, as you see, I do not urge you to more
ambitious fields, but seek to hold you still by one end of the
string, in thus giving you the spiritual charge of my own estate, and
in placing you at my feet in the valley, so that, when, like all the
Bryn Afons, I come to die within mine own accursed walls, it shall be
your hands, and no stranger's, which shall minister to my dying
wants. And my dying bed, I warrant you, Percival, will be no
pleasant and peaceful scene, which you may bring your fair wife to
witness! As my forefathers have died, so too must I, and that I bid
you then not fail me is a sure proof of the trust I place in you, and
of my belief in your strangely conceived affection for me. I too
have a curious love for you, Percival, a love born out of pure
contradiction! 'Tis passing strange that I, of all men, should so
love you, with your everlasting hobby daily thrust down my unwilling
throat, and your pure pale face warranting you well enough to be the
'lily-knight' they call you, ever stealing with haunting eyes between
me and---- Ah well, when you are settled within the venerable walls
of your parsonage, you will have opportunities for preaching your
hobby, and can you but outlive good Master Jones of Puritanical
repute, I doubt not you will have the whole country-side speedily
imbued with your strange, new doctrine. 'Tis a pity Ap Gryffyth did
not likewise hold such! He might surely then, if it were but 'on
principle,' have spared me his imprecation! So the fair maid comes
to town in the winter with our Lady Rosamond? Beware, lest betwixt
that madcap's spoiling and the attentions of my infatuated wife, she
is not spoiled for service as a good country parson's wife! Well, I
give you both my blessing, such as it is worth--and there's my hand
on it!"
"It is worth more than you think, my lord," answered his chaplain
earnestly, and, grasping the carelessly-offered hand with a warmth
which touched the heart of the impulsive, light-hearted earl with a
keen sense of pleasure, he passed into his study.
CHAPTER XXVII.
BEFORE THE WEDDING.
"Let come what will, there is one thing worth,
To have had fair love in the life upon earth."
--SWINBURNE.
The winter months wore away quickly and happily for Primrose. Under
Lady Rosamond's roof the days could hardly be dull or uneventful,
even when they brought her into no communication with her mother or
affianced husband; for her warm-hearted friend, whom Lord Bryn Afon
might rightly call "madcap," was ever ready with the suggestion of
some new diversion wherewith to chase away the slightest shadow from
her young guest's brow, though indeed but little diversion was needed
outside the walls of her own nurseries, where Primrose would
willingly have spent whole days in playing with the little new-born
heir of Caer Caradoc, the baby Elidore, who, after their many years
of wedded life, had this winter come to the fond parents as a blessed
Christmas gift, almost overpowering in the new joy and delight it
brought them, and right royally welcomed to their hitherto childless
home. But amid the new joys and cares of motherhood Lady Rosamond
entered into the joy of her young friend's betrothal and future
prospects with an eagerness of sympathy and delight which greatly
cheered the girl's heart under circumstances which she might
otherwise have found to be somewhat trying. For the restraint she
was ever bound to maintain in those occasional meetings with the earl
which her mother judged it wise to permit, and which, in the Court
life into which she entered with Lady Rosamond, could not well be
avoided, was an effort to her greater than any one knew, so fondly
did her girlish heart yearn towards this gay and handsome father, and
long to know the sad secret which had already drawn deep furrows on
his brow, and which often clouded his merry blue eyes with its horrid
shadow--those blue eyes which in her childhood had so strangely
fascinated her, but in which she now often noticed a certain wild
glitter, which terrified her against her will. Her mother and
Percival visited her at frequent intervals, and these visits of the
chaplain were a source of great delight to Lady Rosamond, who was
wont to tease him and her young charge most unmercifully, assuring
Primrose that he had most certainly in time past pronounced her to be
a child of the Evil One, and that had she but heard the exorcisms
which passed his lips as he stood by the lake's edge on that eventful
Midsummer Eve, daring her to rise again from the dark waters to
torment him, she could never have summoned courage to consent to be
his bride! For which banter the grave Sir Ivor brought her to task
frequently and severely; but it fell lightly enough on the ears of
the lovers themselves, who on these happy occasions of meeting were
able to hear little beyond the sound of each other's voice.
Whatever curiosity Sir Ivor and Lady Rosamond might feel as to
Primrose herself, and her fitness by birth to mate with one of such
ancient lineage as their favourite Sir Galahad, they were obliged to
restrain until such time as Lady Bryn Afon thought fit to reveal to
them the secret of her fair young attendant's parentage; but such was
their regard for the beautiful girl, and their appreciation of her
innate nobleness, that they could but give to his choice their
fullest approval, and this, from well-known and valued friends of his
mother's family, Percival received with pleasure, though content, in
his inmost heart, to love and cherish his river-maiden, if need be,
against the opinion of the whole world. And of all the kindnesses
received by the lovers during those happy months of renewed
intercourse, none were so dearly treasured as the words of blessing
on their union spoken by the honoured lips of their loved king
himself, who in the midst of his own thickly-gathering sorrows yet
found space to enter with deep interest and kindliness into their
love-story, and made Shanno's heart to glow with a
never-to-be-forgotten devotion by the words of love and praise in
which he spoke to her of her pure and true knight, Sir Galahad, and
congratulated her on having won the love of so holy and devoted a
servant of God; while he also praised to Percival the marvellous
beauty and grace of his intended bride, showing so keen a discernment
of that beautiful soul within, which looked forth from her glorious
eyes, that the chaplain's heart swelled with pride and joy in such
kingly discernment. And among other kind expressions of interest and
affection, valued not much less than the former, were such as were
spoken by Master John Milton and Master Jeremy Taylor, both of whom
were frequent guests in Lady Rosamond's house, and who, in spite of
their widely-differing opinions on matters of Church and State, found
a common meeting-ground in their warm affection for Percival Vere, to
whose side both were attracted equally, and with regard to whose
special companionship each maintained with the other a generous
rivalry. To Master Taylor, however, the chaplain could not fail to
be personally drawn in an especial love and sympathy, their mutual
love and devotion to the cause of their church and their king
knitting their hearts together in a bond of union which every day
grew stronger as the strife of parties waxed bolder, and grew daily
more fiercely apparent. To Master Milton, on the other hand, his
senior by some few years, he was the rather drawn by the power of an
immense intellectual admiration, while the strong line already openly
taken by the magnificent young poet on the side of Republicanism and
religious independence raised between them a barrier of thought which
stood in the way of such an intimate communion of spirit as he
enjoyed with his friend Jeremy. Yet in spite of these strong
differences of opinion--so strong indeed that the discussion of
matters religious and political was tacitly avoided by the three
friends in their intercourse with each other--they shared alike one
common aim and lofty ideal, in their mutual strife after a life of
such purity and holiness as was attained by few men of their time,
and in which strife they found a union destined to outlive all
outward disturbance and disagreement. Master Milton's poetic pen was
at this time almost wholly laid by, while in his quiet school-house
in Aldersgate Street he plunged hotly into all the controversies of
the day; and to the entreaties of his two young friends, that he
would indite more glorious verse rather than waste his energies on
the pouring forth of pamphlets against bishops and others in high
estate, he made no answer, save by promising, with a quiet smile,
that for the sake of his friend Jeremy he would e'en for the present
spare the great Archbishop Laud the scathing censure of his political
pen.
And ere we pass from these scenes we must not omit to make mention of
Sir Tristram Ap Thomas, who, though in constant attendance upon
bevies of fair ladies, must needs for ever haunt the steps of Lady
Rosamond's beautiful companion like some dismal sprite, assuring her
that his affection for her was undying, and that he did but play with
other damsels awhile, to hide the breaking of his heart, which he
would smite valiantly with his hand as he sank on one knee before her
in tragic attitude of grief and misery, raising to her face eyes of
such woful despair that Primrose could have wept for his sorrows, had
she not been fain, but some moments later, to burst into laughter, as
she again beheld him disporting with a gay companion in some far
corner, with heart as sound as ever. Whereupon she one day asked her
lover saucily whether all men's hearts were fashioned after so
strange a manner, and whether he could likewise so easily forget his
sorrow did she bid him depart from her. On which he made answer,
that were it ever the will of God that she should bid him take up so
grievous a burden, she should then see the answer to her query, and
know the love eternal and unalterable of which some men's hearts were
capable. Which words were destined to bring to her own heart a
future comfort, the need of which she yet but little dreamed.
After remaining in town some two or three months, until the Christmas
season was well over and the New Year had gained a firm foothold for
its brighter days and dawning promises of spring-tide joys, Primrose
returned, by her mother's and her own wish, to spend the last few
weeks of her girlhood in her own sheltered home on the banks of the
Gwynnon, where for a short time she again gladdened the heart of her
old grandfather by her bright presence, and ministered with tender
hands and willing feet to the wants of the scattered villagers, who
from her childhood had loved her dearly, and had lately looked
forward with rejoicing to the happy time when she would come to dwell
among them as their new vicar's bride. Even Master Jones could not
find it in his heart to speak one word of harshness or utter one
gloomy foreboding to one so sweet and fair as the far-famed Maid of
Gwynnon, although behind her back he was heard to lament with
grievous nasal whine over the increase of Popery, which, on the
arrival of a new vicar, but lately fresh from an Oxford Fellowship
and known to be a zealous adherent of King Charles and his Popish
Queen, and moreover gifted by Satan with the gifts of powerful
eloquence and great charm of presence, could not fail to drown the
whole valley in perdition. Wherefore he and his most zealous
followers made long prayers night after night in the chapel,
commending their king and their church, whom they had forsworn, to
the Evil One, and invoking the blessing of Providence on their own
heresy and schism, which they hastened to sow yet more broadcast
through the valley, wearing ever sadder countenances, and rolling
more dismally the whites of their eyes than before. Seeing which,
the good old vicar, whose days of labour were well-nigh ended,
rejoiced more and more in the thought that ere long his troublous and
anxious charge would be resigned into the hands of one with strong
and willing hands and heart, better able than he to call back the
simple village folk from the errors but of late years grown rife
among them, and to fight for his church and country. And many a
time, when Primrose sat with him in his beloved library, thinking
with strange feelings how soon she would sit there, no longer to pore
over the fortunes of the ideal Sir Galahad, but sharing those of her
own true, living knight, they talked much together over the great
work which Percival would find to do in the valley; and good old
Master Rhys would sorely lament that his books had ever been to him a
snare, perchance keeping him far more often than he had dreamed from
the performance of other sacred duties. Whereupon Primrose cheered
him to the best of her power, and oft prayed at evensong, as she saw
his venerable hands uplifted to Heaven, that she and her husband
might be found worthy to walk in the footsteps of so good and holy a
servant of God. So passed the days away, and early in March came, to
her great delight, the Lord and Lady Bryn Afon to their castle on the
hill-top, there to remain until her presentation to her father, so
long dreaded and yet hoped-for, and the wedding itself--dream of
bliss as yet scarce fully realised in thought--should be over. And
with them came the chaplain and the Black Horseman, ever in faithful
attendance; and Percival, being inducted to his living, entered upon
his new work in all the joy and gladness of his marriage prospects,
drowning his impatience for his bride by incessant labour and study,
varied only by those preparations in the now-vacated vicarage which
were necessary ere they entered it together as their home. Those
well-loved volumes, cherished companions of Shanno's childhood and
youth, were, to her great joy, not far removed, Master Rhys choosing
still to reside in the parish, and taking for himself a snug,
ivy-covered cot but a stone's-throw from the parsonage door, where
she herself arranged for him his treasured books in the order he
loved, and which she knew so well. And so, the wedding being fixed
to take place in the merry month of May, Lady Bryn Afon, ere
presenting her daughter to her still unknown father, or permitting
her birth to be made known in the neighbourhood, took her once
more--during a brief visit of the earl to town--to the lonely
farmstead Glyn Melen, to spend some few last days with her alone in
the quiet solitudes below Craig Aran heights, and there to gain
strength herself for the impending revelation.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE GIPSY'S TALE.
"Every sense
Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense,
And each frail fibre of her brain
(As bow-strings when relaxed by rain
The erring arrow launch aside)
Sent forth her Thoughts all wild and wide."
--BYRON.
The twin streamlets of the fair river Gwynnon were rushing merrily
down the hillside out of their solitary birthplaces in the deep
mountain caverns, hurrying with eager jest to their glad marriage
union in the grassy slopes below, and Primrose, in the mysterious
stillness reigning ever around the Robbers' Cavern, stood watching
them with fascinated eye, seeing in the glad meeting of the rippling
waters and their onward joyful journey together, a picture, as
Percival Vere had seen two summers agone, of their own two lives, as
yet divided like the tiny streamlets, but so soon to be united for
all eternity in a glad bond of union, which, like the broad and
shining river below, should, in God's great mercy, overflow with love
to Him and His creatures, and fill the dark valleys of life with the
sunshine running over from their own cup of pure and holy wedded
bliss. Accompanied by the two farm maidens, Shanno had wandered
hither one bright afternoon over miles of hill and dale, which seemed
in the fresh mountain air to have no power of wearying her glad young
feet, and in the gathering spring twilight she paused for a last look
at the wild, weird spot ere rejoining her maidens and turning
homeward. As she watched the bubbling streamlets, lost in her own
happy thoughts, a moan suddenly struck on her ear, and with swift
recollection she pushed aside the brambles which concealed the
entrance to the Robbers' Cavern, and, penetrating within, found,
lying upon her wretched bed of straw, the withered form of the
ancient gipsy whom Percival had endeavoured to befriend two years
before, but who had eluded his grasp after their first strange
meeting. Now at last the lonely wanderings of the poor worn-out,
restless frame had ceased, and, withered almost to a skeleton, she
lay prostrate, the shadows of death fast gathering on her wasted
brow, and her skinny hands clutching convulsively at the ragged
coverings which were her only bed-clothes. Primrose shuddered at the
sight, but, fearing to terrify the superstitious mountain maidens,
forbore to call them to her side, as her first impulse prompted, and
crept fearfully to the old woman's bedside, longing impotently that
Percival had been at hand, to commend this poor benighted soul at its
last hour into the hands of One who might still have mercy.
On her approach the gipsy drew herself up suddenly, and fixing her
wild eyes piercingly upon the trembling girl, gasped out in the
harsh, discordant tones which her failing breath hardly softened;
"What do you want with me, pale Primrose? Will you have me curse you
ere I die--you, the daughter of the accursed house, which shall
surely perish on the day I let loose the river-spirit from his
prison? I shall die here like a dog, but my spirit shall haunt the
Bryn Afons till my day of judgment is come, and I am avenged! Then
beware of the gipsy's vengeance! I bade the lily-knight beware of
the pale Primrose, but he would not heed my warning, and thinks he
can undo the curse, poor fool, that his forefather laid upon you!
And he defies me e'en now as I lie, and tortures me with his pure and
holy face, which is like the face of One I may ne'er look upon, whose
name I dare not utter. I am mad, girl, and your fathers drove me to
madness! They killed my child with the terror of their drunken
furies. It was your grandsire, girl, whose death-bed turned her
brain and killed her, and I have vowed vengeance. Will you marry the
lily-knight, and hand down the curse from generation to generation?
I tell you none shall escape it, for Ap Gryffyth, who was betrayed to
his death by your forefather, in a fit of drunken folly, bade, with
his dying breath, the curse to cleave unto him and his seed for ever;
and so these hundreds of long years it has been fulfilled. Ah, you
wince and shudder, girl! They thought to hide from you the shame of
the curse, and thought the old gipsy knew it not! But she had vowed
her vengeance, and did but bide her time. Drink--drink! One after
another the Bryn Afons have perished horribly through drink! Now
go--put on your white bridal robes, and bid the lily-knight take you
to his heart and defy the curse, if he dare! Yet my poor mad soul
feels a little pity for you in your youth and beauty, and would spare
you the worst. You shall not die a death of raving terrors, but the
river-spirit shall have you for his prey, and shall lull you to sleep
on his breast. In the dark river--in the dark river"--and her harsh
voice sank to such a feeble whisper that poor tortured Shanno could
but just catch the words--"the Primrose and Lily shall sleep!"
Then with one wild shriek she suddenly threw up her arms and fell
back dead. How long Shanno lay there stunned and motionless she
never knew, nor how, when after what seemed to her an eternity of
misery, walking with tottering feet between the two trembling and
wondering farm-maidens, she at last reached Glyn Helen. There,
staggering with unsteady feet to her mother's chamber, with dazed
eyes and face as white as death, she terrified Lady Bryn Afon,
already alarmed at her long absence, by her strange appearance, and
by the wild cry with which she flung herself at her feet. Slowly,
word by word, as the soft touch of her mother's fingers gradually
soothed her excited nerves, she gasped out her strange tale, then
wildly cried: "The truth, mother, the whole truth! I must know it!
It is too late now to hide it longer from me. Tell me, mother, if
you love me, whether the gipsy's tale is true! And then send men
quickly to take away the poor dead body, and give it decent burial,
and leave me to my misery. Tell me the tale of Ap Gryffyth's curse,
and spare me nothing!"
"I would have given my life itself to hide it from thee, sweet one!"
said her mother in a low heart-broken voice. "Already have I given
all my life's happiness so to do, and now--thus rudely has my secret
been revealed to thy tender heart! Little thought I yon dead woman
could have betrayed it! That she should know the truth of our sad
tale I never dreamed, e'en though her daughter was its victim!
Listen, my sweet Shanno; then put away from your mind the miserable
tale, and rest happy as before, for God forbid that any shadow of the
curse should e'er fall on this fair golden head! It is true that the
Earl of Bryn Afon, who so shamefully betrayed Ap Gryffyth to his
death, did so in a fit of intoxication from strong drink, by which
he, the first of his race so miserably addicted to this most unhappy
vice, was, alas, frequently overcome, although, when not under its
influence, the bravest of soldiers and kindest and most generous of
men, moreover greatly esteemed by his sovereign for his own devotion
to him and for his many noble and lovable qualities.
"But, surprised by some of Edward's officers, who knew his weakness,
and took advantage thereof to gain their own ends, he committed, one
unlucky day, while beside himself from the influence of wine, the
shameful deed of betrayal of his loved king and master; and
encountering Ap Gryffyth on the battlefield, as the enemy's soldiers
were in the act of dragging him away to Carnarvon, where he was
beheaded, and falling in deepest misery and dejection at his feet, to
sue his pardon for the sin committed in a moment of miserable folly
and weakness, he but drew upon his own head the awful curse of the
betrayed and wretched monarch, who with terrible imprecations doomed
him and his heirs for ever to the slavery of a drunkenness they
should be powerless to resist, and to a deathbed of horror, which,
the result of so terrible a life, no Bryn Afon has since escaped.
The wretched earl was dragged away, a white-haired, prematurely-aged
man, to fulfil the curse most terribly, by drinking down his misery
until an early and dreadful death overtook him; and though the
fearful words of Ap Gryffyth were only heard by his own son and by
his miserable betrayer, and so have ever since remained a dead secret
to the outside world, yet they have borne their terrible fruit only
too truly in each of the unhappy Bryn Afon's descendants, until in
you, fair Primrose, reared as I, long ere your birth, resolved to
rear you, they have at length in the providence of a merciful God
become dead and lifeless. How the gipsy gained her knowledge I know
not, nor need we to know. And now, sweet daughter, by your marriage
with one whose whole manhood is given to combating this especial
deadly evil, and whom it has never had power to hurt or lead astray,
you shall raise up the fallen fortunes of your race, and remove for
ever the stain which has darkened for so many generations your
ancient House. So look up, my darling, and put away from you all
remembrance of its sin-darkened history and past shame, and go forth
without fear or trembling into the new life which awaits you, and
into the loving arms of one whose deep devotion shall chase away
every care and every thought of past pain from this fair brow!"
But Primrose neither spoke nor moved, only clung convulsively, with
buried face, to her mother's knee, ever drawing deep and shuddering
breaths, but showing no other sign of life or hearing. At length she
raised herself wearily, and pushing back the tangled locks from her
weary eyes, said in a strange, unnatural voice, which went to her
mother's heart; "I thank you, sweet mother. Now I know all, and will
go to my chamber, for I am weary. Go to your rest, mother, and think
no more of me--only bid them take thought for yon poor dead body!"
And pressing her hands upon her ears, as though to shut out that
dying shriek, which had rent the still mountain air, and still rang
through her bewildered brain unceasingly, the girl drew herself from
her weeping mother's arms, and crept, with unsteady footstep, to her
room.
Lady Bryn Afon sat motionless where her daughter left her, her hands
pressed upon her brow, till with sudden recollection she roused
herself to make arrangements with the old farmer and his men with
respect to the interment of the gipsy's body; and having placed the
matter in their hands, to be referred ere nightfall to the vicar of
their scattered hamlet, and having charged them to go at once to the
cavern and bring away the lifeless remains into a place of safe
shelter, she repaired to her own apartment, where she sat in deep
thought until the household had retired for the night. Then creeping
to her child's door, she crouched down beside it, and listened during
more than one long weary hour for the sound she would fain have
heard--the sound of sobs and bitter weeping, which would have
relieved her darling's bursting heart. But in vain--Shanno's low
moan from time to time as she lay prostrate upon her bed, and her
inarticulate cry, "The curse is not dead, mother! it is not dead!
Oh, Percival, my love, my love!" was too faint to reach her listening
ear, and at last, believing her daughter slept, she too sought her
couch, and had fallen into uneasy slumbers ere Shanno's light
footfall passed down the narrow staircase, and the unhappy girl, worn
almost to frenzy by the force of her conflicting emotions, rushed out
into the dark night.
CHAPTER XXIX.
LADY SHANNO'S VOW.
"Love bids touch truth, endure truth, and embrace
Truth, though, embracing truth, love crush itself.
'Worship not me, but God!' the angels urge."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
Not knowing whither she went, only impelled by a restless craving to
rush from herself and her own thoughts, Shanno's steps unconsciously
directed themselves up the old familiar pathway towards Craig Aran
Peak, and presently, as the cold night air refreshed her burning
brain, her thoughts began to collect themselves into more definite
shape, and she tried to think collectedly of the tale she had heard,
and of its bearing upon her life, ever repeating half-aloud the words
which seemed to be branding themselves as with a hot iron into her
brain. "The curse is _not_ dead, mother--it is not!" Alas, now she
knew the meaning of that strange, black shadow, which, from her early
childhood, had, though but for brief and fleeting moments, come at
intervals between her and the sunlight of her happy life, terrifying
her by its nameless horror, seeming, as it were, to be the very
presence of some evil thing at her side, impelling her to some
horrible, unknown sin, filling her with a vague yet dreadful craving
for _something_--she knew not what! Strange, mysterious, almost ever
unspoken trouble of her childhood's and girlhood's days, too
intangible and nameless to be confessed or shared with any one since
that one occasion when she had spoken of it to her guardian, yet none
the less real and full of intense suffering--a dark, mysterious veil,
drawn for a few short hours at intervals in her life between her and
all that was good and beautiful--wrestled with in secret agonies of
prayer and tears, and passing again at last as suddenly as it had
come, to be no more remembered until it should fall once again! And
now for two happy, unutterably happy years it had been unknown.
Since her first meeting two summers ago, in this same mountain
loneliness, with him who was the very sunlight of her existence, no
shadow of the old trouble had e'er marred her bliss; it was as though
the pure and holy presence of Sir Galahad had once and for all
exorcised the evil spirit, and as though the subtle influences
breathed forth unconsciously from his beautiful life and character,
and filling her own life with untold joy and gladness, had for ever
banished the brief dreams of darkness which had tortured
her--banished them so completely that it had seemed of late as though
they had never been, so utterly had all recollection of them been
swallowed up by her love for him. But now--now the black shadow had
fallen again, and this time with horrible revealed meaning! It was
the awful curse of the drink-craving, which had destroyed generation
after generation of her forefathers, that she, a pure and innocent
maiden, full of holy thoughts and aspirations, had been doomed
unconsciously to bear, and now consciously to wrestle with as a
terrible foe, suddenly starting forth between her and all her hopes
of happiness. Dare she, knowing what she now knew, marry Percival
Vere, and let the curse be perpetuated through still further
generations? Could she ever bear to see him, whose one life-effort
was to be the stemming of this particular vice and sin, endure the
misery of seeing his own son or daughter a prey to its power--a
victim to the curse which none had ever yet had power to undo?
Yet Percival was about to marry her in full knowledge of the blight
upon her house and name, in fuller knowledge of the evil and all its
possible consequences than she could dream of, in knowledge gained
through deep study of this very thing! If he were willing to brave
all and make her his wife, why need she care? He was the stronger
and the better able to judge, and, besides, the wedding-day was fixed
and all was ready--his heart would break did she dare now, at the
eleventh hour, to break the marriage contract! And her mother, who
had given her own life-joy to shield her child from the curse, and
whose youth had been renewed and the colour brought back to her cheek
by the joy with which she looked forward to her union with one who
would surely help her to build up anew the fallen fortunes of her
house--how could she bring upon her this bitter disappointment? It
would surely kill her--she could not do it! Yet, and the pitiless
voice of conscience rang remorselessly in her shuddering ear:
"Neither Percival nor your mother, nor even the learned Rhiwallon, in
whom they place implicit confidence, know that you bear the weight of
the curse. They believe that in you it has at last mercifully died
out, that, owing to your special up-bringing and removal from its
influences from your babyhood, you have grown up free from the
smallest shadow or suspicion of the evil. Hence your mother's fond
hopes for the future, and the crowning joy of marriage, with which
your lover longs to cement in this present world your soul-union with
him, without fear of evil. They do not know you have long borne, in
your girlish ignorance, this secret shadow, which you now bear in
knowledge!" "And they shall never know it!" cried the agonised human
spirit in hasty answer. "What need ever to destroy their peace by
revealing it? I have known the shadow, it is true, but never have I
yielded to the evil. There is no danger after these years that I
should ever yield to it, and if I ne'er succumb, what fear need I
have for my children? I will ne'er confess to the dark shadow so
long borne alone. For these two years past it has been utterly
forgotten and blotted out in the joy of my love, and surely that joy
will blot it out for ever! I will forget the gipsy, and the horror
of her tale, and prepare for my bridal with a light heart as before."
Then once more rang the voice through the poor, confused, and
tortured brain; "I will visit the sins of the fathers upon the
children, unto the third and fourth generation!" And Primrose cried
in agony; "I dare not do it! Oh, Percival, my love, my love, I dare
not marry you! Oh, why have I ever lived to bring you such sorrow,
and to kill my mother with grief? Why does God permit such misery in
His beautiful world? My heart is breaking! Oh, God, my God, where
art Thou? All is darkness--I cannot see Thy face!" and rushing to
the edge of the dark pool, lying still and black in the awful
midnight silence, she fell on her knees upon its brink, and gazed
with strangely fixed, stony eyes into its depths. "Oh, love, my
love!" she murmured, pressing her hands upon her aching brow; "I
would give my all for thee, to save thee one moment's pain--and I
must wring thy heart with bitter misery--that heart which loves me so
truly! Nay, I cannot do it! I will risk all--my very life itself
for thy sake!" "Thy life, perchance," laughed a hideous, mocking
voice in her ear, "but not thy soul! Wilt risk _that_ for thy love?
Nay, thou darest not!" And it seemed as though a hundred scoffing
voices joined in the Evil One's taunting cry. "Yes, my soul--all
that is mine I will give for thee, beloved!" cried the heart-broken
girl aloud in desperation. "Apart from thee I have no soul--none. I
dare all for thee! Yes, here will I plunge and be at rest. There is
no place for me longer in this bright world, which to-morrow's sun
will gladden! I may not marry my love, and I cannot live without
him! Oh, God, forgive me this sin, for my heart is breaking! Here
only, in these quiet waters, can I find rest." Yet lower she knelt
over the black abyss, till her long golden tresses touched the water,
and floated out in a glittering stream upon its dark surface. Then
suddenly she shrank back in horror. "How dark and dreadful a grave!"
she muttered, "and I so young to die! But a few short hours ago
there was no happier girl in all the world than I. Oh, what has
happened? It is but some evil dream, from which I shall presently
awake, and all will be well." And as she recoiled a moment from the
black gulf, the fiend-like voices again whispered mockingly,
exultantly, in her ear, "She dare not--she dare not!" "Yes, I dare
all!" her agonised spirit cried in passionate answer; "I dare all but
to live without thee, Percival! Ah, it is all truth, dreadful truth,
and there is no escape--none. No happy marriage--no blessed, holy
home for me in the valley! Percival must dwell there alone, while I
sleep beneath these black waters! Yes, I will make the fatal plunge.
Farewell, my true love, and pray ever that God may forgive a poor
maiden whose brain is turned with misery!" And once more the girl
rushed wildly to the brink--then stood transfixed at the sudden wild
cry, "Shanno, Shanno!" which rent the still night air. From rock to
rock the cry re-echoed, in low, lingering tones of imploring agony,
till the very atmosphere seemed ringing with the musical accents of
the name--"Shanno, Shanno!" Primrose trembled from head to foot, and
pressing her cold hands upon her throbbing brow convulsively, drew
back, shuddering, from the water's edge. "It is Percival's voice!"
she murmured. "It is his spirit sent to call me back from my
self-chosen grave! Ah, God, Thou hast hid Thy face from me, but Thou
hast made me hear Thy voice, through Thy servant's cry in the
darkness to his beloved! I will live, not die for thee, Percival."
And as the last faint echo of the mysterious tones was borne away in
sad music on the faint night breeze, she flung herself upon the
ground, and burst into an agony of bitter weeping, so terrible that
the sobs seemed to rend the slight girlish form in twain. But that
outlet to their misery saved the poor bursting heart and brain, and
at length the storm of agony spent itself, and she rose, exhausted,
but in her right mind, and calm, with a strange new sense of peace
and rest.
The first faint flush of early dawn appeared in the eastern sky, and
Primrose sat still upon the cold ground, and watched it spread its
golden wings over the dark horizon, and unfold one by one its faint
rose leaves upon the mountain peaks, feeling too utterly worn out in
mind and body for thought or movement. At last she slowly crept once
more to the edge of the lake, and looked again into the black waters,
but this time with a strong and steadfast gaze. "Your voice has
saved me, sweetheart," she murmured softly. "Your holy soul could
not watch mine fling itself away for ever from you and from my God,
and keep silence! You loved the immortal maiden, Percival;--now it
must be an immortal love only that you shall ever bear me. For us no
mortal tie can ever be, and we must needs love as the angels in
heaven, 'who neither marry nor are given in marriage.' Here, where
you first loved me, sweetheart, and where I first saw your face, I
vow to you and to God that though you shall never call me by the
sweet name of wife, yet I will be true to you through life and
through eternity. And in that world, which I have so nigh forfeited
by the deed from which your voice has saved me, our love will but
shine the brighter for our present sacrifice. Oh, God, give me
strength to keep my vow, and not to suffer his pleadings to overcome
me, and forgive me for this my great sin and wickedness!" Long
Primrose knelt by the water's edge in silent, agonised prayer and
wrestling, and the sun was high in the heavens when at last she
turned her weary feet homewards, and crept, unobserved, into the
farm, and up the staircase to her chamber. And there, in that still
and darkened chamber, Lady Bryn Afon kept watch for many long days
and nights over her unconscious form, sometimes tossing restlessly to
and fro in the delirium of the fever brought on by her long exposure
to the cold night air and by her intense mental suffering, sometimes
lying so still and prostrate that her mother, with Percival and
Rhiwallon, who had been at once summoned from the castle--whither
indeed the physician had but just returned with the earl from
town--bent in agony over her pillow, fearing lest unawares the faint
breathing might wholly cease and the pure young spirit take its
flight from the tortured body.
During the first lonely night of watching, ere the messenger
despatched in hot haste to Bryn Afon could retrace with the faithful
lover and physician the weary miles of hill and dale which lay
between the Gwynnon Vale and Craig Aran, Lady Bryn Afon learned from
Shanno's wandering lips the story of her midnight agony by the dark
pool, and that vow, by which she had for ever crushed out all hope of
earthly joy from her own young life and Percival's--those two bright
young lives so soon to have been made one--and blighted all her
mother's long-cherished hopes. Poor Lady Bryn Afon! Her own heart
felt crushed within her, yet she could not part with all hope without
a struggle. She would wait patiently until her daughter's health of
body and mind returned, and then reason gently with her and soothe
away all remembrance of the strange black shadow of which she raved,
which was doubtless but a creature of her sick and deluded fancy.
Meanwhile she would tell Percival none of his darling's unhappy
ravings, merely explaining to him that her illness had been caused by
the cruelly-sudden knowledge of the curse, which had come upon her,
and by the horror of the circumstances under which it had been
revealed. And the Black Horseman, sorely troubled in spirit, yet
clinging with a fierce tenacity to his belief in his wondrous
antidote to the cruel curse, assured Percival that all would yet be
well, and bade him look to hear his marriage-bells ring cheerily ere
many weeks had passed; though oft, when alone in his own chamber, he
was wont to smite his breast, and cry in sudden bitterness of awful
misgiving; "May God forgive me if I lie!"
But the chaplain was young, and hope was brave within him, and
knowing well the sensitive and tender heart of her he loved, he was
fain to look upon his great happiness as but postponed, and not
destroyed by this untoward sickness; yet he was at times sorely
perplexed by her sad and constant cry that she had deceived him and
broken her mother's heart. "I did not know, Percival, I did not
know!" she would cry wildly, and her lover would clasp her hands
within his own, and murmur softly-whispered prayers in her ear till
his loved voice unconsciously soothed her into quietness.
The weary watching was ended at last, and there came a day when
Shanno's dark-fringed lids opened gently, and the deep blue-grey eyes
rested with a look of calm knowledge and conscious love upon the face
of her beloved. Percival bent his head upon his hand to hide the
tears of joy and gratitude which rushed to his eyes at this first
glance of loving recognition, and Primrose drew him gently down, and
clasped her wasted arms around his neck. "You here, Percival!" she
said in a glad whisper. "Now I can be strong. I have been very ill,
have I not, and very weak and sinful, my beloved? But you are strong
and brave, and now I am content. It is not very hard, is it, to
forgive those we love? And I know you love me dearly--you will try
to forgive me when I tell you all?" "Sweetheart," he answered, "I
know not what I have to forgive, but if there be aught, let no fear
of my displeasure vex your sweet spirit. Tell me nothing now, for
you are weak and faint, and I can be patient. By-and-by I will hear
gladly all you have to tell me, and my love shall soothe away all
your grief." "Yes, by-and-by," said Primrose faintly. "By the
shores of the black lake, Percival, where we first met, there you
must hear me, and be strong. Where is my mother?" "She rests awhile
in her chamber," said Percival, "while I play a nurse's part.
Sweetheart, I am glad to be here to catch first the conscious music
of this dear voice, and take the first conscious kiss from these
sweet lips. I pray you look not troubled at these weak tears; they
are shed but in joy and thankfulness. Now rest awhile this golden
head upon my breast in silence; so shall you presently greet your
mother the more bravely."
CHAPTER XXX.
RENUNCIATION.
"Only the best composed and worthiest heart
God sets to act the hardest, constantest part."
--SAMUEL.
A week later the dreaded confession of her vow had been made by
Shanno to her mother, and in spite of Lady Bryn Afon's heart-broken
tears and entreaties, and refusal to believe that the shadow of the
curse could possibly have fallen upon that pure young life, she held
fast to her resolution, never to marry him whom she loved with all
the intensity and devotion of her true woman's heart, never to hand
on the curse of Ap Gryffyth to future generations, but to be herself
its last innocent victim,--to offer up herself and her love as a
sacrifice to Him who alone knew all it cost her to make it, and to
trust to His love and to Percival's unalterable devotion, which she
never dreamed of doubting, to sustain her through the coming weary
years of life which might remain to her. How bitter it was to her,
apart from her own bitter suffering, to inflict such grievous pain on
the mother who had given up so much for her, it would be hard to
tell; and over Lady Bryn Afon's agony of sorrow and disappointment,
and misery at the sight of her darling's ill-concealed suffering, we
must draw a veil. It yet remained to break the still unsuspected
truth to her lover, and bracing every nerve for the painful task,
sorely mistrusting the while her own powers of endurance when put to
so fiery a test, she set out with him one bright evening for the
mystic pool, with feet that trembled beneath her from bodily weakness
as well as mental anguish. As yet Percival had waited patiently,
cherishing every mark of returning health which he could note day by
day in her appearance, wondering often at the signs of suffering and
weakness which, in Lady Bryn Afon, only seemed to increase daily as
her daughter regained strength, but ascribing them only to her long
anxious watching, and the added care she must needs feel on the
departure of her faithful physician, whom, for her husband's sake,
she dared no longer keep at Shanno's bedside, when once he could
honestly assure her that all fear for her life was past. Also
Percival could well ascribe such marks of suffering on the mother's
part to her natural grief at so cruel a revealing of her long-hidden
secret; and with the strong self-repression into which he had long
schooled himself, he waited, asking no question till Primrose herself
should be able to give him the explanation he so longed for, of the
strange effect the knowledge of the curse had produced upon her.
"I had a strange presentiment of evil concerning you, sweetheart," he
said, as they slowly climbed the steep green slopes towards Craig
Aran Peak, "on that evening when, as your mother has told me, you
wandered out to the Robbers' Cavern, and witnessed the gipsy's dying
struggles. And in the lonely darkness of the night it gathered new
force, and greatly tormented me, insomuch that when at last I fell
into uneasy slumbers, fearful dreams haunted me. I dreamed that you
were in great agony of spirit, and longing for my presence, while I
was powerless to come to you; and in my misery I called your name
loudly twice or thrice, and so awoke with the sound of my own voice
ringing in my ear, conscious that in that matter it had been no mere
dream, but that I had verily called your name aloud in the darkness.
My own words, 'Shanno, Shanno!' seemed to re-echo through my silent
chamber, and as they died away I lay down again peacefully, feeling
that the spell of my evil dream was broken, and resting in calm
assurance of your safety."
Primrose had listened with bated breath. "I knew it was truly your
voice I heard, my beloved," she said eagerly, "and no delusion of my
excited fancy! Twice I heard my name, spoken in your own loved
tones, but full of pain and sad entreaty, ring through the silent
mountains, as I knelt in my misery over the dark pool's brink, about
to plunge into its depths, there to end for ever my intolerable
agony; and as I listened, spellbound, the mountain-echoes all around
took up the cry, till the very air was filled with your voice,
Percival, your voice crying my name in soft sad music among the dark
lonely hill-tops! As clearly as I now hear you speak to me, your
cry, 'Shanno, Shanno!' was borne to me upon the midnight breeze, and
it saved me from the dark grave where my poor crazed brain thought to
find the only rest this miserable earth afforded! But for that cry
of yours, my beloved, through which God in His mercy spoke to me, I
should ere now have surely shut myself out from His presence and from
your pure love to all eternity!--unless, think you, Percival, my deed
might perchance have found pardon in the sight of Him who saw all my
utter misery, and knew it was fast turning my poor weak brain?"
"I do verily so believe, sweetheart," he answered earnestly, "and so
I pray you dwell no more on so terrible a moment of your life, and
think only of His mercy in calling you back from so untimely a grave,
and of His sympathy with our human love, in suffering me thus
mysteriously to be His instrument in saving you! Yet I cannot fully
understand such utter woe as the gipsy's tale brought upon you.
Could not the thought of my sheltering love, so soon to be wholly
bestowed on you, chase away the terrors which her horrible words,
and, I doubt not, equally horrible appearance, caused your tender
heart to suffer? Could you not rest assured that your mother's care
and love for you had doubtless undone the curse for ever, and that
our home would be the sweet foundation of a new life and happiness,
in which all the shame and suffering endured by your forefathers
should be utterly forgotten? Did you lose all faith, dear heart, in
your faithful physician, and the happy assurance he had given us of
the blessed life, humanly speaking, before us?"
"His human speech has erred, beloved," answered Primrose in a low
trembling voice, "and his human knowledge has failed, being, alas,
too weak for so great extremity! Till I knew the nature of the curse
I believed most truly that in our dear Rhiwallon's skilful hand lay a
power which had not in vain laid your own and my mother's fears to
rest, and that the vague disquieting shadows of my girlhood--long
since, until recalled in horrid vividness by the gipsy's words,
forgotten in the joy of my love for you--were indeed, as she assured
me, but the faint reflection of her own sad sufferings. And you--oh,
Percival!--you, as well as my poor mother, both knowing well the
nature of the curse, believed it too! I know you did in your most
secret heart feel all your fears dispelled wholly and for ever--those
fears which have traced these lines on your dear face, Percival, at
which I have of late oft secretly wondered, till now I see their just
cause!--or ne'er would you have spoken to me a year since those sweet
words which have given me such bliss unutterable that I have
forgotten aught else! But Percival, my beloved!--oh, God help me,
for I know not how to speak the words which must give him such bitter
pain!--you did not know, nor did my poor mother realise that in her
whom you loved the curse you believed dead still lived; that her
childish happiness and girlhood's joy had been from time to time
darkened by a strange and secret shadow, haunting her with nameless
terrors and vague, unknown temptation, until, two years since, in
your pure presence, it fled away, as she thought, for ever, and all
recollection of it was swallowed up in the sunlight of her great love
for you. Oh, Percival, had she but known for one moment only, as she
now knows, the true meaning of that mysterious shadow, she would have
fled for ever from your presence, ere she suffered you to pour upon
her the wealth of your love, which she must now bid you take back,
and waste no more on one who bears her blighted name! Oh, look not
so strangely, my beloved! Only tell me here, in this same spot where
we first looked upon each other's face, and exchanged our vows of
love, that you forgive me for the sorrow I cause you; for indeed,
indeed it was in ignorance I let you love me, and it has been in the
sweetness of our mutual love that I have so utterly forgotten the
shadow, as never once to have recalled it to mind till now, when its
bitter meaning has been thus rudely revealed to me! Would I had not
made so light of it to my mother, but my love had indeed so wholly
chased away its pain! Percival, you suffer, my beloved, and I must
with ruthless hand inflict the bitter pain! But see--I am strong--I
speak calmly! Perchance my heart is already broken, and I am dead to
its pain. Percival, Percival, speak to me!"
As the meaning of her words gradually forced itself into his
unwilling brain, the young chaplain's face had grown whiter and
whiter, and seemed turning into very stone before her eyes, in the
misery which, with iron hand, he was controlling until he had heard
all. "Sweetheart," he answered, with the sudden, desperate eagerness
of a drowning man catching at a straw, "this cannot be! The shock of
your new knowledge, and the illness it has brought upon you, has
over-wrought your nerves, and caused you to attach to those passing
clouds of temptation or depression, of which you speak, and which
haunt us all betimes, a meaning with which there is no need, no
reason to clothe them! I pray you, an you love me, suffer my
devotion to chase them for ever from this fair mind, which, God
forbid, should dwell to its hurt upon this past sad history! Shanno,
Shanno, I will not believe that your sweet life must be darkened by
this evil from which you have been so tenderly shielded! It is not
without much thought upon the matter that I have asked for your love,
and looked forward to a life with you, in which the curse shall be
undone for ever! Can you not trust that in the deep study I have
ever given to this matter, and in the far stronger confidence we all
place in the yet more learned studies of our beloved physician, I
could not have blinded my eyes to aught of ill that might in the
future befall you and yours? I am satisfied, my darling, that all
shall be well, and would bid you in this matter rest on Rhiwallon's
judgment, if love itself bid you fear to rest on mine own, and to
wait patiently, as I will likewise wait, till this passing shadow of
doubt shall have rolled away."
"It can never roll away, Percival!" she answered in a low but firm
voice. "You have verily believed all to be safe and well, because
you believed the curse in me to be wholly dead. It is not dead, and
I would to God I had sooner known its nature, that I might have
spared you this pain! Rhiwallon's marvellous cure may be for the
healing of others, but over the woe of our miserable house it has
proved itself powerless! The shadows of my youth were no deception,
Percival, but in my ignorance I knew not their cause, nor to what
dark temptation the evil spirit prompted me. Now I know it by its
own terrible name, and I will ne'er suffer others after me to bear
the woe my father has borne, and which, though it has been mercifully
spared to me, may descend with deadly hand upon my children. 'The
sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children even unto the
third and fourth generation!' So it has been in our unhappy house,
Percival, and so, I fear me, it must ever be. It is true that in me
the sin has borne no fruit, and does but lie a hidden root of evil in
my soul, alas, long forgotten in this dream of bliss, and ne'er till
now understood! Yet here in me it lies, a fatal inheritance, and
with me it shall perish. I will never marry you, Percival! I can
better bear to see you suffer now with a bitter pain that comes
straight from the hand of God, than hereafter with the pain and shame
which your own wife or child might bring upon you. And for me--oh,
my God, let me not think upon my own suffering! let this poor heart
fail, and yield even now in its bitter misery! Percival, Percival,
say you can forgive me, or my heart must break!" And the unnatural
calmness giving way at last, she flung herself into his arms, and
wept bitterly.
"You bid me take back my love, sweetheart," he said. "I can no more
so do than cause yon sun to cease shining at your bidding! An no
earthly marriage may be ours, yet no power can sever the sweet union
of our souls, which, perchance, being more wholly given to God's
service here on earth, shall so be only the more closely joined
together in Him to all eternity. There is in heaven no 'marrying nor
giving in marriage,' yet I trow, the promise that we shall be 'as the
angels' hath in it the hid secret of a deeper love and bliss than our
earth-bound hearts can yet imagine. Can we, dear heart, but wear our
cross bravely here, our future crown will be but the brighter, and
our love shine with greater radiance. Yet--oh, my sweet wife--whom
now in a few short days I hoped to call mine own--my spirit fails me
in this dark hour of suffering! How can we bear our severed lives
through the weary years that lie before us? Is there yet for us no
hope, nowhere for us in this bright world one gleam of light in our
darkness? Nay, Primrose, I cannot take your bitter words for truth.
In three days will be our looked-for wedding-day! I cannot let you
go! I will defy these horrid shades of evil, and you shall be mine
here as well as in eternity! No ill shall have power to touch the
loved wife who is to be the light of my home, the God-given treasure
to lead me ever nearer Him!"
"Then let me lead you now, dear heart!" cried Primrose, through her
bitter tears. "It is even now this higher path of duty that we are
called to tread--a painful, stony path, which leads away from all the
fair hopes so soon to have been realised--from that dear home for
which we have together looked and longed, and which is so nearly
ours--and yet a path we must tread, Percival, even if with bleeding
feet and breaking hearts! It is a bitter struggle to keep my vow,
Percival, and sorely am I tempted to believe this new grief of ours
to be but an idle dream, from which I shall presently awake to find
all sunlight as before; but in the very depths of my heart I know my
vow to be right in the sight of God. Tempt me no more, beloved!
Here, where the vision of the fair immortal maiden first touched the
secret springs of your heart, must you vow, as she of old, to forsake
all mortal longing, and retain only in your heart that love which is
eternal, in whose unalterable light we may yet walk this weary earth
with footsteps lightened by a tender, loving friendship, which none
may sever, and which shall bind us even in this present world in an
unseen bond, which is but the shadow of that which shall be
hereafter."
But the chaplain, gazing down upon the sweet, upturned face, glowing
with a beauty which surely was of heaven itself, turned away his eyes
in unspeakable agony. His heart was not yet ready for the sacrifice,
and his whole nature rose in rebellion against the taking up of this
cross, from which his secret reason and conscience told him there was
no escape. Alone he must wrestle, as she had done in her own first
agony, ere he could say he was willing to bid farewell to the earthly
treasure his hand had so nearly grasped, and to which his heart clung
with only the greater tenacity because of its own wearisome
struggles--struggles never confessed to her he loved, but which had
already torn his heart for many a day in the past months with their
perplexing conflict; the intense love, which bade him at any price
seek to make his new-found treasure his own, warring secretly with
the oft-recurring dread lest this earthly love should tempt him to
forsake that special work he had vowed to God as a free-will
offering--that work so sorely needed among His outcast and suffering
ones, yet so little recognised by the world, or even by his brother
clergy, and which might bring upon him sore obloquy and grievous
trial, hard to bear for himself, and which his soul had shrunk from
asking a loved one to share with him. And then that yet sorer
struggle waged between his own heart and that cruel burden of the
curse, which had for a time stood before him as insuperable a barrier
between himself and happiness as it now stood before her he loved!
But for Rhiwallon and his firm assurance, even Lady Bryn Afon's
pleadings and tears would not have moved him to confess his love,
but, while loving Primrose with a deep, unalterable devotion, he
would have kept his secret for ever buried in his own breast,
pursuing alone till death his solitary course and combat with evil.
Now that in his perfect confidence in the physician's judgment he had
long since forgotten these past grievous struggles of the soul, and
that the ever-deepening knowledge of Shanno's perfect sympathy and
deep affection, which, through good report and ill, would keep her
ever at his side, had long made him feel with heartfelt thankfulness
that his decision had been well, the sudden blow fell with
unutterable agony, and crippled every thought but the one which
echoed with passionate cry through every fibre of his being--"I
cannot give her up! I cannot drink this bitter cup--take up this
heavy cross--it is impossible!"
"Primrose," he said, after a long silence, during which she had
waited in agony for his next words, "Primrose, I cannot answer you
now. I must be alone with God, and pray Him to vouchsafe me that
calmness of spirit in which alone I can judge rightly. My brain
whirls, and my heart is sick with pain. Shanno, Shanno," and his
face grew yet whiter in sudden agony, "you have not ceased to love
me? I can bear all but that!"
"Methinks I have but loved you more since I have vowed ne'er to be
your wife," said Primrose sadly. Then, flinging herself into his
arms, she sobbed convulsively. "Oh, Percival, do not doubt me! To
all eternity you are my one and only love! You weep, Percival? Oh,
my God, this is verily the bitterness of death!" And in the presence
of such utter woe the bright mid-day sun veiled his face beneath a
fleecy cloudlet, and the very birds hushed their song, and built in
silence their nests amid the thorn bushes. And presently, in the
mysterious stillness of the lonely mountains, it seemed to the
chaplain that a voice spoke sweetly in his ear, and said in wondrous
loving accents; "As thou hast been granted to bear in thy mortal
frame a mark of My human likeness, so shalt thou be likewise
accounted worthy to bear in thy soul the mark of My sufferings. Take
up thy cross and follow Me." And the chaplain fell on his knees by
the dim, dark lake, and bowed his head in mute submission, rising
presently, weary as a child from his bitter conflict, yet conscious
within himself of the dawning of a strange new strength.
He turned away in silence, took Shanno's hand, and mechanically they
descended together the steep hillside towards the farm. On the
threshold he stopped, and looked long and earnestly into her face.
"Sweetheart," he said, "my heart is rent in twain with sorrow, and in
the selfishness of my own grief I have forgotten yours, and suffered
my own weak tears to open afresh those wounds with which your tender
heart yet bleeds. But have a little patience with me, sweet one, and
you shall presently see me strong and brave to aid these weary feet
of yours along the stony path which we must tread in mutual sacrifice
of our earthly love, yet which perchance the light of a holy
friendship may gladden beyond our struggling hearts' present power to
conceive. Fain would I overcome by all the arguments love can offer
the decision you have made, yet my secret conscience, warring against
my rebellious heart, sternly bids me take up the cross you have
already laid upon your own tender shoulders, and bear it ever bravely
at your side. For love of me, dear heart, I see these golden locks,
alas, already sprinkled with grey! For love of you I will henceforth
strive to bury in my own breast the woe you bid me bear, and help you
with all the strength God gives me to walk worthily in that solitary
path He has called you to tread for His sake."
"Then you do indeed truly forgive me, and believe in your heart I
have done well?" cried Primrose. "Oh, Percival, my love, my love, in
my heart of hearts I know my vow is right in the sight of God, and
can I but know also that it is right in your dear eyes, I can bear
the rest!"
For a moment the chaplain covered his face with his hands and
trembled with the bitter force of his soul's conflict; then, raising
his pure, upturned face to heaven, a light, surely not of earth,
irradiated his beautiful countenance as he murmured in the words of
that holy saint whose sayings he ever treasured in his heart,
"Christ's whole life was a cross and martyrdom, and dost thou seek
rest and joy for thyself?" Then, turning to her he loved, with that
light still glowing in his deep, dark-fringed eyes, he said,
"Sweetheart, to 'do after the good and leave the evil' shall ever be
our motto, and since for us the sweet joys of earth, so good in
themselves, and so blessed of God, are yet for us two mysteriously
pronounced by Him as evil, we will together forsake them lovingly for
His sake, and with steadfast hearts walk hand in hand bravely through
this present life in the hallowed paths of friendship, and in His
great mercy wait for the full fruition of our love in the world to
come."
CHAPTER XXXI.
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
"And while we suffer, let us set our souls
To suffer perfectly; since this alone,
The suffering, which is this world's special grace,
May here be perfected and left behind."
--MRS. HAMILTON KING.
Far up amid the lonely heights of Craig Aran, on the Sunday evening
which followed the events recorded in the last chapter, wandered the
footsteps of Master Jeremy Taylor. Once again a guest at the house
of his old friend the Earl of Carbery, he had been taking Sunday duty
for an aged friend of the earl's at Wernolen, a wild distant spot in
the mountains, and purposed wending his way ere nightfall to the farm
Glyn Melen, not many miles distant, with the double object of seeking
a night's shelter in that spot of well-known loveliness, and of
trusting still to find there his beloved friend Percival in company
with Lady Bryn Afon and her daughter, and to hear that the wedding
ceremony, in which he had long since promised to take his part, might
now be not very far distant. News of its postponement on account of
the sudden illness of Primrose had been some while since sent to him,
as well as to Lady Rosamond and such other old friends as had been
bidden to the ceremony; but no further details had as yet reached his
ear, and he much longed to hear that all was well, and his friend's
happiness assured. The day at first appointed for the wedding was
but four days hence. He would without further delay seek out his
friends in their mountain retreat, trusting to see the bloom of
health once more restored to the sweet face of the Fair Maid of
Gwynnon, and to learn that the glad day of her union with Percival
might still be near at hand. It was not yet long after six in the
evening, and the sight of a little ivy-covered church tower nestling
beneath the brow of a not far-distant crag attracted Jeremy's feet
thither; and reflecting that he would yet reach Glyn Helen before
nightfall, he resolved to say his evening prayer ere passing onwards,
and profit in so far as he might by the probably rude eloquence of
the unlettered Welsh curate likely to occupy the pulpit in so
benighted a region. The little building was well filled, and it was
only in a far corner at its furthest end that Master Taylor could
find a vacant seat. But whose voice was it from which the barbarous
Welsh words rolled out so musically, and whose tones made him start
from his dark corner and eagerly scan the features of him from whom
they proceeded? Was it Percival Vere or his ghost, who with face of
deadly pallor and brown locks thickly strewn with grey, yet spoke
with Percival's own voice of ringing music, and raised to heaven
those deep, far-searching eyes which could belong to none other than
Sir Galahad? Master Taylor's thoughts wandered beyond his control
during the conclusion of the prayers, for his heart ached miserably
for his friend, whom he saw so terribly changed in countenance, whose
very voice rang with a burning intensity of pain, and who, when he
mounted the pulpit and faced the congregation, looked but like some
pale spectre of his former self, gazing forth upon his flock with
eyes worn and weary with sleeplessness, and dimmed with the troubled,
yearning expression gained through days of agonised searching into
the mysteries of the divine will. Jeremy shrank into his corner,
knowing that his friend was addressing a congregation to whom his
sorrows were unknown, and to whom he was a stranger, and unwilling
himself to be recognised, lest his presence should give pain. He
listened almost breathlessly for the text, and when in clear,
unfaltering tones the young preacher read out the words, "Son of man,
behold I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke,"
he bent his head upon his breast and wept. "Yet neither shalt thou
mourn nor weep," continued the stern, unnaturally-controlled tones of
the chaplain, "neither shall thy tears run down."
"Shanno is dead," murmured Jeremy to himself, and the tears wrung
from his own tender heart coursed unseen down his cheeks, as with
bent head he listened, straining every nerve to lose no word of his
friend's utterance, and thinking of his own loved wife and babe at
home. But though soon, borne along on the torrent of the preacher's
eloquence, the people's hearts failed them for sorrow at his
heartrending description of the prophet's woe, and sobs burst from
them on every hand, yet Percival himself spake on, dry-eyed, with
unfaltering lips, nor ever failed for word to make his lesson of
sublimest resignation strike home to the very inmost heart of his
hearers. Yet though to them he failed not to convey the message he
desired, or to impart his teaching with fullest seeming confidence,
his friend, reading below the surface of his mind and learning the
undercurrents beneath that glow of burning eloquence, perceived the
inward torture which had driven the young preacher in very
self-defence to give forth so bravely to others that hard lesson
beneath which his own soul yet shrank in bitter recoil. To his own
rebellious soul had Percival been preaching in those plain, stern
accents of glowing force, in which only his bosom friend had detected
the lack of his own heart's loving submission, the secret failing of
that spirit of sweetness and loving-kindness which had ever been one
of the most beautiful features of his character, and which now,
eclipsed by the weight of his suffering, gave the unnaturally hard
ring to his voice and the icy composure to his demeanour. But to the
simple mountain-folk, to whom he was an utter stranger, his voice had
been like that of a herald from heaven, and his face as the face of
an angel, and to their ears never had their own tongue resounded more
musically and sweetly within those ancient walls. Subdued and
softened, they passed out of the church, and took their way down the
hillside, talking gently together of the wonderful words of the
unknown preacher, and making vague conjectures as to the sorrows
which had so plainly marked his beautiful countenance.
Meanwhile the young chaplain, exhausted in mind and body, lay
prostrate at the foot of the altar, his face buried in his hands, and
dry, tearless sobs from time to time shaking his otherwise motionless
frame. His friend waited long for him in the porch, till finding
that even the clerk had left the church, and that still Percival
tarried, he turned back into the now fast-darkening building, and
sought for him amid the shadows, till there on the altar-step he
found him, wrestling with his misery, as he thought, alone with God.
He stooped over him, gently touching him on the shoulder, and
Percival rose, startled, to his feet, and turned haggard eyes upon
the friend he had so little expected just then to see.
"You, Jeremy!" he said in a low voice. "How come you here? Have
you--were you here during the service!" "God has sent me to you,"
answered Master Taylor simply. "Yes, I have heard you preach,
Percival, and I know that you have been shooting no bow at a venture,
but speaking to your own troubled soul. Come with me and tell me of
your trouble, the traces of which upon your countenance have sorely
vexed my heart, while from yon dark corner I have, all unknown to
yourself, watched and listened and wondered for this last hour or
more."
"I marvel that I did not see you," said Percival, still looking at
his friend as though he felt himself in a dream; "but truly I saw
nought that was around me. How come you here, Jeremy?"
"It seemed long since I had heard aught of yourself and of her whom I
scarce dare name," answered Master Taylor gently; "and my
ministrations having been needed this morning and also in the
forenoon at your church in the hollow, where an aged friend of my
Lord Carbery's hath fallen ill, I was but now purposing to postpone
my return to Gelli Aur until the morrow, in order that I might
journey this evening towards Glyn Melen, in the hope of yet finding
you within its walls. I but turned aside for an hour, to acquaint
myself with yet another of these remote mountain churches, where I
little thought to hear such a masterly discourse as yours, friend
Percival. But of yourself."
"I have been a wanderer these four days in the mountains," said
Percival wearily, "and had little wish to preach to these poor simple
folk lessons of patience which the least among them could have taught
myself far better. But I chanced like you to note this ivy-covered
tower in my ramblings, and, being seen this morning amid the
congregation by the vicar, was entreated to take for him this evening
service, that he might in his turn relieve a sick brother. Perchance
it has been well, since open speech is wont at times to relieve a
bursting heart. Is it sore hypocrisy, think you, friend Jeremy, to
preach from the pulpit those virtues against which your inmost soul
is meanwhile in fearful rebellion? I trow I am both hypocrite and
blasphemer, for my own soul is dark within me; and while I know that
God is just, I cannot feel that He is good! How many days of
writhing torture, think you, the prophet endured ere he could bless
Him for His dealings? Must not his human will, like some poor bird
dashing with impotent rage against the bars of its cage, have for
many a long hour beaten its wings against that divine will which is
full of hidden mystery, into whose unseen depths I have been gazing
throughout these weary days and nights, till my brain whirls and mine
eyes are weary unto death--yet the light I see not!"
"Shanno is dead?" said Master Taylor gently.
"Dead! nay!" exclaimed the chaplain eagerly, as though the very word
"death" suddenly awoke in him a keen consciousness of the contrast
which after all lay betwixt that total removal of the "light of the
eyes" of the stricken prophet and that tender dealing of Providence
with himself which still left his life gladdened with the hope of a
continual holy friendship, and the blessed near presence of her he
loved. "Dead? No, Jeremy; but," and the sudden light which had
illumined his face died out again, "doomed--doomed to bear the curse
of her miserable forefathers--to expiate in her tender soul and body
the sins of theirs--the sins with which _my_ forefather for ever
cursed hers, and which I would fain bear ten thousand-fold to save
her one pang! Surely it is for me to suffer--not for her the
innocent victim; yet her own load none can bear but herself, though
the share which falls to each of us is a bitter one! Yet that I may
be strong to bury mine own within my bosom, and bear what I may of
hers upon my own shoulders, must I needs watch and fast alone here in
the desert, and I pray you leave me, dear Jeremy! Go below to the
farm, and seek, an you will, to cheer her by your presence, for I see
her no more till we meet on our wedding morning, four days hence, in
the hillside church at Cwmfelin, there to plight an eternal troth of
the soul, and to partake together of that most Holy Sacrament, which
shall surely strengthen us in the putting away of our earthly dreams."
"Nay, I will not leave you, Percival!" cried his friend. "You are
worn and faint, and you shall tarry no longer thus alone in your
watch and fast. I will fast and pray with you! You shall not banish
from your side the friend who loves you more than a brother, and I
will share your lonely vigil--at a distance an you will--but leave
you I will not!" And with boylike impulsiveness he flung his arms
round Percival's neck and kissed him.
The young chaplain clung to him silently for a moment; then the
unnatural tension of his nerves gave way and he burst into tears.
"Percival," said his friend, as he gently led him to a seat on the
mossy turf, "in my own still new-found marriage-joy my heart shrinks
from the thought of your bitter pain, and words of comfort from my
lips, which have not tasted your sorrow, seem to me most cruelly
presumptuous. Yet hear the words of one whose name you greatly love
and honour----"
"Jeremy," interrupted Percival, "the bitterness lies in the very
_goodness_ of the gift that is withdrawn! It is, I doubt not, hard
to give up a cherished sin, but how much harder--ten thousand-fold
harder--is it to give up that which is in itself right, and good, and
desirable! In that lies the very essence of the bitterness! What
could I have offered to God more pure and holy than that life we were
about to offer Him together in our mutual love and service? In
sacrificing to Him a sinful affection I could have seen His justice
but now----"
"Those words I was about to speak, dear friend, are still my best
answer," replied Jeremy, "and what more to say I know not! God's
saint, St. Thomas à Kempis, saith: 'This is a _favour to Thy friend_,
that for love of Thee he may suffer and be afflicted in the world,
how often soever and by whom soever Thou permittest such trials to
befall him!' Perchance He may suffer these words to comfort thy sore
spirit, Percival, since assuredly thou hast verily long since been
accounted His 'friend!'"
A shiver ran through the young chaplain's frame, but he made no
answer. The shades of night gathered about the desolate churchyard,
and the grave-stones began to gleam faintly white in the ghostly
light of the late-rising moon, which, appearing slowly above the
distant crags, warned the friends at last of the lateness of the
hour; and they rose from the turf where they had long been sitting,
first in silence, then in deep converse. A new light of hope and
strength dawned on Percival's worn countenance. "You have come to me
verily as 'an angel strengthening me,' Jeremy," he said with a sad
smile. "Now you have learned all I have to tell, and I do indeed bid
you leave me. Fear not for me--I am yet strong to bear what remains.
Go to Glyn Melen, and spend these three days with my Primrose and her
mother, ere they take their journey to Bryn Afon. Stay--I would fain
spend one last hour with her I love, by the Robbers' Cavern, and
watch with her the outflowing of the river-springs once again--fair
picture of our twin lives! Bid her, an she will, to turn aside on
her journey, and under your escort meet me there on the eve of our
wedding-day, three evenings hence, some while ere sunset, that on
that eve of our day of looked-for bliss, now snatched from our grasp,
we may tarry awhile together in that sweet spot, ere we pursue our
journey to the valley. My Lady Bryn Afon will travel safely with her
attendants, and you with us, dear friend, shall overtake them long
ere they reach home. I will be there, hard by the spot where the
springs burst forth from their caverns, by four of the clock, and
will, with your permission, look to meet her there in your safe
charge. Till then adieu, and prithee look not so sadly at leaving
me! Methinks I feel God nearer than some hours since, and to Him I
would fain yet say much in secret. Like some bird of passage
pursuing its lonely flight across the midnight sky towards an unknown
shore, so must I too face the black night alone, content not yet to
see my goal, yet with faith to believe in the far-off shining of some
distant horizon, where my feet may at length find firm footing." So
with a last embrace the friends parted; and while Master Taylor
pursued his way with aching heart in the dim moonlight towards Glyn
Melen, Percival Vere wandered, he scarce knew whither, into the
solitary places of the mountain heights, where the night winds alone
might breathe to one another in softest whisper the secret communings
of his soul with God.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE RIVER-SPRINGS.
"Friends, fare we forth together, as the birds
Cross the wide ocean in the deep of night,
Unresting, till their wistful eyes at dawn
See the soft margin of the long'd-for land."
--JOHN JERVIS BERESFORD.
It was a fair afternoon, three days after the encounter of the two
friends in the lonely mountain church, when the lovers met in the
rocky fastness hard by the far-famed Robbers' Cavern, and once more
sat together, as in happier days they had been wont to sit for hours,
forgetful of the flight of time, while they watched with entranced
eyes the outflow of the twin streamlets from their secret
hiding-places, and saw them, joining hand in hand, dance merrily down
the steep hillside, in musical union and ever-gathering force, till
in the sunny vale below their mutual waters spread themselves softly
over the wide expanse of the broad river-bed and flowed onward with
majestic roll and shining countenance till lost to view in the wooded
meads. Never had they been weary of that fair picture of their
wedded lives; and now, though mists of tears blinded their sight, and
hope and gladness were dead, yet the picture still seemed fair, and
long they gazed in silence, unbroken save by the bubbling of the
hurrying streamlets, rushing with eager feet to their glad union.
Not yet was Percival's victory wholly won, and while he strove to
sustain the fainting heart of Primrose, whose courage failed her at
the traces of bitter struggle seen in his countenance, his own inward
warfare raged sorely within his breast; and as Master Taylor, who had
been wandering at a distance while they conversed together, once more
drew near to warn them of the long journey before them, and laid a
loving hand upon his friend's shoulder, the young chaplain exclaimed
despairingly; "This, the fairest of God's good gifts, He gave into my
hand, Jeremy, and now can I give it back to Him ungrudgingly at this
His sudden call? Do I not well to be angry?" and he hid his face in
his hands.
"Perchance the words of a greater saint than you or I dare ever hope
to be may give you a truer answer than I am fit to give," answered
Master Taylor sadly. "God has no right to take back His gift, think
you! Yet hear again the words of His holy saint: 'When I give it, it
is still mine; when I withdraw it, I take not anything that is thine;
for every good and every perfect gift is mine.' Is not this true,
friend Percival?"
The young man lifted his head and grasped his friend's hand
convulsively. "My mind verily knows it to be true, dear friend," he
answered wistfully. "Pray for me that my heart, which is weak and
bleeding sorely, may confess it likewise!"
"'If I send thee affliction, or any cross whatsoever, repine not,'"
continued the sweet, solemn voice of Jeremy, "'nor let thy heart fail
thee; I can quickly succour thee, and turn all thy heaviness into
joy.' Fair Mistress Shanno, prithee think not these shining
streamlets--yon sparkling river--to be no longer a true symbol of
your life and this my friend's, inasmuch as your outward union hath
needs had so painful and grievous an interruption. For Love is a
river which flows into the sea of eternity, and hereafter your
present pain and sacrifice will seem as nought in the light of that
love which knows no earthly limit! Come, dear friends, the shadows
lengthen, and we have many weary miles to traverse ere we reach the
castle in yon valley; and you, sweet Primrose, have much to undergo,
ere you seek repose this night, in the coming interview with your
noble father."
"But he knows all ere now, Percival," said the young girl, answering
an appealing look from her lover. "My dear mother did but yester-eve
send a messenger with a long letter, in which she told him all. It
was to her a sorely painful task, much trying her strength, yet she
would not have him greet us all unaware of our mutual sorrow; and
now, some hours ere this, he has known that a daughter he has ne'er
dreamed of possessing comes quickly to hide her grief-stricken heart
upon his breast, and to forget her own sorrows in striving to lighten
his! That is henceforth my life's mission, Percival--to bind up the
bleeding hearts of my parents--and you--you will help me?"
"My life is vowed to the service of your house, sweetheart," he
answered; "and though I had trusted it would have been a service of
joy, you shall ne'er find my feet falter along the stony paths of
pain which, in our mutual service, we must now tread wearisomely.
Perchance, as we dwell side by side, you in your lordly castle and I
in my humble vicarage at your feet, we may yet find joys undreamed
of, and sweeter comfort in our mutual striving after the undoing of
the curse than our fainting hearts yet deem possible. One only
favour I must first crave at your father's hand--and that, his
permission to leave my newly-appointed cure for a short season once
more in the hands of good Master Rhys, while I go forth alone awhile
to perfect the mastery over this rebellious will, which yet dares
challenge the will of its Maker."
"You will not leave me, Percival!" cried Primrose in agony, clinging
to him in sudden alarm and desperation. "Ah no, you do not mean it,
my beloved! With you at my side, ever but a stone's-throw from my
door, I can indeed be brave, and live my life with courage; but
Percival, an you leave me alone in my misery, I shall die!"
"Hush, dear heart!" he answered tenderly, "you mistake my meaning.
It is but for a little while I must needs go from your side. Think
you that to-morrow, on our wedding-day that was to be, I can go to my
lonely home and straightway enter upon the daily life therein which
you were to have shared? Nay, Primrose, ere that can be, I must
needs flee awhile from your beloved presence, and conquer this
cowardly heart with none but God to witness its struggles. On yon
mountain heights it has these seven days past been warring within me,
but the fight unto death has not yet been accomplished! Sweetheart,
a few short months you will be brave, and suffer me to leave you in
the tender hands of those who love you! Believe me--Jeremy, tell
her--that it is needful for me to go awhile into the wilderness, for
my own soul's good and the good of those souls to whom I am pledged
to minister! I cannot truly help you, sweet one, much less the flock
committed to my sacred charge, while my own hard lesson is still
unlearned! I dare not commit sacrilege! A few short months,
Primrose, and a brave and true friend shall return to your side,
content, in God's mercy, with those blessings still left to him, and
able to rejoice in that love which, being as the love of the angels
in heaven, must surely infinitely transcend the love of earth!"
"He speaks well, dear mistress," said Master Taylor gently. "Bid
him, in God's name, go forth and conquer, and rest assured of a
reunion ere long in which the light of a holy and God-given love
shall surely cheer your onward paths through this present world, and
shine eternally in the world to come."
Shanno's slender fingers tightened their clasp of her lover's arm
convulsively for a moment as she murmured, "A few months apart from
you, Percival! One month only in thought is an eternity!"
Then she raised her white face and spoke bravely; "I have caused you
pain enough, dear heart; and were your love not even now the sweetest
thing to me on earth, I could weep bitter tears that you should e'er
have seen my face! If I have been the unlucky cause of such
suffering to you, my beloved, shall I not gladly endure long months,
nay even years, of pain for your sake? As you watch and pray in your
lonesome wanderings my spirit shall ever be at your side. It is
verily broken within me, Percival, yet methinks it can still be brave
for your sake. And you must go----"
"On the morrow, when we have plighted our marriage vows," he answered
solemnly. "Sweetheart, I thank you for your courage, which, God
helping me, shall not be tried over long. Short, though bitter,
shall be our parting, an I may, in His great mercy, win my soul in
patience."
Then Master Taylor, laying a hand on the head of each of his beloved
friends, and uttering a solemn benediction, pointed presently to the
shining stream beneath their feet, and in his beautiful musical
utterance said in low-spoken tones; "Let our love be firm, constant,
and inseparable, not coming and returning like the tide, but
descending like a never-failing river, ever running into the ocean of
divine excellency, passing on in the channels of duty and a constant
obedience, and never ceasing to be what it is till it comes to be
what it desires to be; still being a river till it be turned into sea
and vastness, even the immensity of a blessed eternity."*
* Jeremy Taylor.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE WEDDING-DAY.
"My rose, I gather for the breast of God."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
"I go to prove my soul
I see my prey as birds their trackless way:
I shall arrive! What time, what circuit first
I ask not; but unless God send his hail,
Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow,
In some time, His good time, I shall arrive;
He guides me and the bird. In His good time!"
--ROBERT BROWNING.
While Shanno was led by her mother to that first interview with the
earl as her acknowledged father, to which she had so long looked
forward in the bright days first following her knowledge of her own
new position, but during the last sad weeks had dreaded with pain and
shrinking not less than her former joy, Percival Vere, ere proceeding
to the house of Master Rhys, where he had promised to spend the
night, and to unfold to himself and to Jack the boatman the
melancholy tale of his own and Shanno's unlooked-for sufferings,
found his way to the laboratory, dreading, yet craving to see the
physician, whose sympathies would, he well knew, have been strongly
excited by the events of the last few weeks.
No answer being vouchsafed to his knock, he gently opened the door
and entered the apartment, whence he had not long since gone forth
strong in his new-found confidence of joy and hope. Before the
portrait of the lovely, ill-starred Lady Gwendolen, Rhiwallon lay,
prostrate and motionless, one hand still holding the stem of the
phial in which he had triumphantly shown to Percival his precious
elixir at their last interview in the laboratory, while around him
lay the fragments of the phial itself, broken to shivers, its
contents in a pool upon the floor.
The chaplain gently knelt down beside him and spoke his name, and as
he did so he saw, crushed within the thin fingers of his other hand,
the letter he had but just received from Lady Bryn Afon, acquainting
him with those circumstances which had followed his own return from
Glyn Melen to the castle, of her sad discovery and irrevocable vow.
The earl, too greatly overwhelmed on the previous evening by the
perusal of his own letter and its wholly-unexpected contents, had
forgotten to deliver the missive enclosed under the same cover to the
physician, and having all through the day refused admission even to
his faithful attendant, it had lain unnoticed till an hour before the
expected arrival of his wife and child, when he had suddenly and
without a word placed it in Rhiwallon's hand, bidding him read it
alone. The shock of finding that his discovery had after all been
unavailing, that not only must the fair young girl, exact counterpart
of that beautiful victim of the curse whose memory he yet faithfully
worshipped, suffer the same unalterable doom as that of her
ancestors, but that by his own advice and unhesitating assurance the
young chaplain, whom he dearly loved, had gladly taken to his lips
the cup of joy which had been since in a moment dashed from them ere
fully tasted, had been too great a blow to the failing strength of
the once stalwart Black Horseman, and he lay so long in a deathlike
swoon that Percival became alarmed. However, the remedies applied by
the young man at length took effect, and Rhiwallon rose slowly to his
feet, and tottered to his chair. "My years have been spent in vain,
Percival," he groaned, "and given to a phantom which has but mocked
me, and made me the wretched instrument of destroying your fairest
hopes! I have lived but to deceive you, Percival,--you whom I had
learned to love as a dear son, and whose happiness I believed in my
deluded folly I had secured! Who was I that I should undo the curse
of generations! Yet fain would I have freed yon fair child, image of
yourself, my beautiful Gwendolen, my lost love, whom my wisdom came
too late to free! Methought, as I toiled, you oft smiled upon my
labours, and blessed that discovery for whose tardiness I cursed
myself in vain! Methought, had I saved yon sweet Primrose, your
heart would have thanked me and your spirit rejoiced in glad freedom!
But alas, what have availed these long years of study, and sleepless
nights of vain research and mad experiment! Nought, Percival,
nought--and yet methought the victory won! Save in some few moments
of dim misgiving from which I have fled as from some evil shadow, I
have never doubted my final triumph, nor repented me of the blind
confidence in which I bade you go forth merrily to your bridal. Yet
there have been those rare moments of strange misgiving which do
verily now haunt me with miserable reproach! Speak aloud your own
reproaches, Percival! Upbraid me for thus falsely alluring you into
paths of pleasantness, which are now so cruelly strewn with thorns,
and spare me not!"
"Nay, dear friend," said the chaplain gently; "I have no need to
reproach you. You have done me no ill-will, but rather striven for
my good, and that of her who is dearer to me than life! The hand of
God has gone forth against us both, and strewn our path with what do
verily appear to our eyes as sharpest thorns; but e'en so shall we
not bravely and gladly tread under foot those bitter pricks which
crowned our Master's bleeding brow, and murmur not. I am but a
sharer in your own past woe, Rhiwallon, a drinker of that cup whose
bitter dregs you have long since drained, and I thank you from my
heart for every moment you have nobly spent in seeking to avert it
from my lips, and those of her you have loved from childhood.
Prithee count not one of those precious moments as lost, for
assuredly every moment spent in striving to save one pang to a
fellow-creature shall not be spent in vain!"
"Yet the curse remains!" said Rhiwallon, knitting his fierce brows in
perplexed pain and baffled endeavour. "And you, too, brave youth,
will waste a life-time over its removal! Ah, perchance, as Sir
Galahad of old alone was accounted worthy to bear the Holy Grail, so
shall you, God's pure priest and holy knight, alone be vouchsafed the
blessing of wiping out the deadly stain so long polluting these
crumbling walls! Perchance your God-given eloquence of speech and
purity of life shall reap the reward for which the physician, skilled
in mere earthly lore, has toiled in vain, and with your blessing
invoked upon his head shall my poor master, now weeping in the arms
of the last heir to his accursed house, pass hence, at the time
appointed, to his final home, in such holy peace and quietness as my
poor skill can ne'er hope to bring him. Let your voice ring loud and
ceaselessly through this shining, careless valley, Percival, ay, and
throughout the length and breadth of Wales and England, an you will,
against this fearful evil of drink, which lays waste and brings to
ruin the fairest heritage, and wipes out noble families from the face
of the earth! Nor let your brave soul's endeavour cease till your
own voice is indeed silent in the tomb, but its echo resounding for
ever in the ears of the generations to come!"
"So help me God," said the chaplain earnestly. "Ay, the day will
come, Rhiwallon, when the nation's voice will be bravely uplifted
against this mighty evil, and England's arm not fear to strike the
blow where yours and mine may long aim fruitlessly! If I may but sow
here and there some scattered seed which shall hereafter choke with
its mighty growth the cruel tares of intemperance and misery which
bind our homes fast round with their unholy tendrils, and crush out
from the hearts of our people their holiest hopes and
affections--yea, their very life itself--I shall feel I have not
lived in vain! Nor may you indeed so speak of yourself, Rhiwallon,
for your wondrous discovery has verily wrought its meed of good, as
the earl has often told me; and who shall say that but for your skill
she whom I love might not ere now have shared the fate of yon fair
lady of your own hapless love? The Lady Shanno, though she may never
be wife of mine, has verily escaped already the worst ills of the
unhappy curse, and but for its woful secret shadow would be wholly
free. You have saved her, dear Rhiwallon; and although we may never
wed, think you it is nothing to me that her fair life shall be surely
untainted for the most part by her cruel heritage, and her last hours
in the mercy of God hours of quietness and peace?"
"My drug has verily not been without its efficacy," said the
physician, his face brightening a little; "but your prayers shall
work doubtless greater miracles, Percival. I have laboured in the
bitterness of an unchastened spirit, but you with heart and soul in
God's keeping shall surely reach a further goal!"
"The bitterness of death is not yet past, Rhiwallon," answered the
young man sadly; "and on the morrow I go hence, not yet seeing my
goal nor any light to guide my wandering feet, save such distant
gleams of dawn as fail yet to cheer me!--Hush, who knocks?"
It was Lady Shanno herself who entered, looking like some fragile
flower in her white robes, her face etherealised by suffering to a
shadow of her former girlish beauty, and her long golden hair
floating over her slender form showing many a streak of white amid
its glistening waves. She came to the Black Horseman's arms and
embraced him silently; then taking Percival's hand, led them both to
the earl's apartment. It was midnight ere the chaplain left the
castle after the long interview over which we must draw a veil, and
as Primrose stood with him one last moment upon the threshold and
they gazed silently upon the dark valley at their feet, the castle
clock solemnly tolled forth its twelve slow strokes upon the still
night air. "Our wedding-day, sweetheart!" murmured Percival, and the
girl's sweet upturned face looked into his sad eyes with love
unspeakable as she clung yet closer to him.
"Methinks I hear the angels even now ringing our marriage-bells,
Percival!" she said in a low voice, as of one fearing to disturb some
holy sound. "Think you not that you too can catch their far-off
chiming, borne down to us on the midnight breeze?" But Percival
shivered as though an icy blast had cut through his heart, and
tearing himself away from her clinging arms with a deep-drawn breath
of pain, plunged into the deep shade of the mysterious avenue.
* * * * * * *
The early morning sunlight was bathing hill and valley in its tender
glow, and shooting bright gleams into the little church on the quiet
hillside, when, on the morrow, those who were most to have rejoiced
in the marriage of the Fair Maid of Gwynnon met, rather as mourners
over the funeral of her bright hopes, before the altar, to join
together in prayer and Holy Sacrament ere they left the lovers to
take alone within those sacred walls their last farewell to earthly
joys. None in the village knew that this bright May morning had been
the day appointed for the union of her they so dearly loved with
their newly-appointed vicar, already scarce less beloved by many, and
none knew of the quiet gathering on the hillside, else might it have
been hardly so peaceful and uninterrupted. Only old Jack the
boatman, Rhiwallon, the faithful physician, and Master Jeremy Taylor
knelt beside the weeping parents of the lovers, and the service
ended, they with good old Master Rhys stole gently homewards, and
Percival and Primrose were left alone in the silent church. Long
they knelt together before the altar in mutual agony of prayer and
renunciation, and while the sunshine streamed in upon their bowed
heads, and the birds sang in the green branches ever waving to and
fro athwart the unpainted windows, they solemnly offered "themselves,
their souls and bodies a living sacrifice" to Him who demanded from
them this test of devotion to His service, and with pure hearts vowed
to each other unalterable love and fidelity in this world, looking
for an unending union in the world to come. And though no
wedding-bells rang out through the smiling vale of Gwynnon to
proclaim aloud this true marriage of holy souls, the angels heard
them ring through the arches of heaven, and with gentle hands dried
the tears from the lovers' faces, and bade the joy-bells ring sweet
echoes in their hearts. And so the Maid of Gwynnon went forth to her
new home in the doomed castle, and her true knight departed into the
mountain solitudes to prove his own soul amid the awful silence of
the everlasting hills, until, the victory won, he might return
manfully to the solitary threshold of that home where now the walls
should ne'er re-echo with the sweet names of wife and husband, but
where evermore fair Shanno's spirit should hover lovingly.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
A DEATH-BED.
"Their strength is in their co-working ... their inseparable
dependence on each other's being, and their essential and perfect
depending on their Creator's."--RUSKIN.
"Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,
When our deep plots do pall: and that should teach us
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will."
--SHAKESPEARE,
Twilight was fast gathering in the valley, and blotting out from view
the ruined towers of Bryn Afon, as one early evening in March in the
year 1643 a group of men stood talking earnestly together at the
threshold of Jack the boatman's cottage by the riverside. A bleak
wind blew along the valley, and every now and then flakes of snow
stole silently down like white spirits through the gloom and softly
touched the faces of the speakers, who were, however, too deeply
engrossed in their conversation to pay heed to wind or weather. "It
is indeed true that the king has fled from London," said Evans the
miller, sinking his voice to a mysterious whisper. "The news was
brought to me this forenoon by one of the waiting-men of the Lady of
Caer Caradoc, who has been sent by her lord to the safe shelter of
their ancient castle the while he follows the fortunes of our unhappy
king. She tarries this night at Bryn Afon with her infant son and
one or two of her suite, and from the mouth of this her serving-man,
who is well known to me, I have heard strange tales of the troublous
times at Court, of which we scarce hear our fair share in these
remote parts. I have ever said it was an ill day for our king when
he signed the death-warrant of my Lord Strafford. Mind you the day
when the news of his execution reached us? I warrant me the king
hath borne but an uneasy conscience since that fatal day."
"I call to mind the day well enough," said old Jack the boatman
sadly, "for it was the very day when I had hoped to hear the
marriage-bells of my sweet foster-daughter and our beloved vicar ring
through the valley, and my heart was heavy with their sorrows and
aching sorely for their woe when the news of our king's dealing with
his friend added yet another pang to its misery. Methinks, good
friends, it will soon be time for each man to forget his own sorrows
in those of his country, for, if I mistake not, we are on the eve of
grievous war and bloodshed, and who can tell where it shall end?"
"It shall end but in the blood of the arch-traitor himself!" spoke
suddenly the nasal, whining voice of Master Jones the preacher. "So
the king has fled! And none too soon. Yet ere his turn comes yet
another of his minions shall suffer a righteous vengeance. I warrant
you it shall not be long ere the archbishop's head shall roll from
the scaffold! You love passing well his some-time chaplain, Master
Taylor, your vicar's bosom-friend, who wisely hides his head with his
wife and babes in his fair Rectory at Uppingham, while his aged
master's head lies on a prison pillow! Yet even he had best beware!
Will you hear what the friend of his boyhood, Master John Milton,
hath to say of Popery and Prelacy? I promise you he can write other
than fine poems when it pleases him, and the Lord hath verily laid
His hand upon his mouth for a season that it may turn from vain and
unprofitable rhymings to utter brave words against your accursed
bishops and their false king. Here, in my hand, is a masterpiece of
learning, good sirs, writ by the hand of your poet, truly a godly
inspiration, breathing forth the divine wrath right nobly against him
whom you yet vainly call the 'Lord's anointed.' Thinketh he verily
to escape the vengeance of a people righteously indignant? How long,
O Lord, how long?" And the dismal groans of the preacher and his
followers rent the twilight air, and they smote their breasts and
rolled the whites of their eyes towards heaven.
"The river is cold, Master Jones," said Jack, his voice trembling
with anger, "but nought shall prevent me, though we be both aged men
and grey-haired, from giving thee, an thou dost not hold thy peace,
such a ducking therein as thou shalt remember to thy cost! If thou
hast the famed Master Milton to back thee in thy heresy and sedition,
thou art at least here in this valley among loyal friends of the
king, who, if they do perchance bemoan among themselves his human
failings, as friends may, yet are ready to die in his cause. Away
with thee and thy pestilent pamphlets, and the pillory be thy portion
an thou canst not set bounds to thy miscreant tongue!"
At such valorous words, accompanied by sundry threatening movements
among the crowd, the preacher glided away softly in the darkness,
murmuring as he went: "How long, O Lord, how long!" in dismal, nasal
whine, till he was out of hearing.
"I trust our venerable archbishop may be suffered to die in peace,
even though it may be in the Tower!" exclaimed Master Pryce the
postman. "Verily, we Welshmen will not in silence see brought to the
scaffold one who has been bishop of our own St. David's, and well
known and beloved by many an honest friend of our own! I am right
glad our good Master Taylor doth for the present hold his cure in
safety, for much hath he won our hearts by the eloquence and
marvellous beauty of his discourses, which we have from time to time
been privileged to hear. Yet I fear me he is e'en too staunch a
friend of our king, and his brave speech too outspoken, for him to
remain ever unharmed."
"He shall ever find a snug shelter here in our little valley," said
the boatman, "an he should be o'ertaken by an ill-fortune. Not one
among us whatever but would stretch out a loving hand to our dear
vicar's bosom friend, an he should stand in need of our help! I
warrant you Master Jeremy Taylor's name shall live through many a
generation, and his pen as well as his golden speech yet make for him
a fame which shall cause our children's children to rejoice that
their fathers had met with him face to face, and listened to his
brave words in the pulpit of yon church on the hillside!"
"Think you the Lord Bryn Afon will also join the king?" asked Master
Evans. "He has made longer sojourn among us than ever heretofore in
our memory, and it is said that his love for his daughter is one of
rare devotion whatever. His heart will be sore at parting from so
sweet a treasure. Moreover, his lady's health is but sadly, she
having never recovered, say they, the disappointment of her hopes for
the Lady Shanno's marriage. Is it so, think you, friend Jack?"
"I fear me," he answered, "that her life-long sorrows have so preyed
upon her mind that her strength did verily fail her beneath so
grievous a downfall of her hopes, and she doth indeed but linger now
from day to day, held to earth by her great love for her husband and
child, and by their prayers for her, but with so little life and
strength left in her feeble frame that a breath might bear her soul
heavenward."
"She doth cherish for you a wondrous fond affection," said Master
Evans, somewhat jealously. "'Tis none of us she would bid to her
presence, and admit within yon mysterious gates, which even the fair
hand of our river-maiden may not throw open as we had hoped."
"You forget, good friend," said Jack quietly, "that she who has
entrusted me for so many years with the care of her child could
scarce find it in her heart to deny me from time to time the joy of
my darling's presence. Perchance my grievous sorrow at the loss of
her from my own humble hearth can scarce be fully understood save by
the child's own parents, who in their exceeding love can have feeling
hearts for mine. Moreover, as you know, she is of mine own kin."
"Good Jack, I meant no harm whatever," said Master Evans hastily,
grieved to have thoughtlessly wounded his old friend's heart. "Yet
we who dwell beneath the shadow of the castle would fain know
somewhat of its mysteries, though I fear me that may not be this side
the grave, since e'en your foster-child's true relationship, and that
of her august mother to yourself, you will not divulge."
"My lips are free to speak on that point, an I choose," answered the
boatman quietly; "but as I am ever repeating to my Lady Bryn Afon, I
do not choose. Let it suffice for my friends to know that I have the
honour to be indeed related by a true tie of blood to her ladyship,
which is all I desire to affirm; for my kinswoman, having made a
secret marriage with the earl, it becomes not me to betray her
confidence, nor risk aught that by my foolish tongue might work her
ill."
"The earl hath not yet reached by some few years his fiftieth
birthday," said one of the bystanders musingly--"a day which for many
a generation none of his noble forefathers have lived to see. Much I
wonder whether ere that time of life arrive he too must needs pass
away? I would fain know that for many years yet to come he might
enjoy the sweet presence of our river-maiden, who, they say, doth
even now weave her gentle spells about the accursed place till one
may verily breathe therein a purer atmosphere."
"I go presently," said the boatman, "to inquire for our gracious
lady's health, and aught I may chance to learn besides of our king
and his sorrows I will faithfully report on the morrow. My heart is
heavy within me, for methinks the savage words of Master Jones are
but the echo of ten thousand voices which cry for war and bloodshed!"
A gentle touch on his arm interrupted the old man in one of those
bursts of patriotic eloquence by which he was wont at times to sway
the hearts of the village folk, and in virtue of which power of
speech he had ever been regarded among them as somewhat of a prophet.
Turning, he found at his elbow the person whom, next to his own
daughter and grandchild, he loved best on earth, the young vicar,
Master Vere. "Jack," said the young clergyman in a low voice, "I
bring you bad tidings. The Lady Bryn Afon is sinking rapidly from
the breaking of a blood-vessel on the lungs. Rhiwallon is at her
side, and all that man may do is being done for her restoration, but
in her weak condition of health the worst is feared, and I have but
now hastened from her chamber, to seek you at Shanno's bidding.
Courage, dear Jack," he whispered, tenderly leading the old man away;
"she did but this moment ask for her father, and pray that her
strength might hold out to bid him farewell, and receive a renewed
assurance of his love and full forgiveness. Hers has been a troubled
and stormy life, Jack, and even her sweet daughter can, in the midst
of her tears, lift up her heart to God, and say it shall be well,
should it please Him shortly to take her from this world of woe. Yet
her grief is very sore, and for her sake I pray you be calm and
brave!"
"I was at her side this morning," said Jack tremblingly, "and we held
much sweet converse together, knowing the time of our separation to
be nigh at hand. Yet I thought it not so near as this! Alas, my
poor daughter, thy many sorrows have broken thy heart! Nay, Master
Vere, I will not weep. For the sake of my child, whose heart bleeds
sorely for her mother's suffering, of which she accounts herself in
part the cause, I will e'en hold my peace, and--look you--I shall not
long be left to mourn in secret over her whom others have long
thought dead! My years must needs be few, for I am old and
grey-headed, and she does but go before and await me a short while in
Paradise."
"The earl is at her side," said Percival, "tending her with all
loving care, and in the great mercy of God she will pass hence,
having in her mind a fair recollection of these present months of
peace to soothe her past pain. Primrose assures me daily of the
quiet time of peace and love which God hath vouchsafed to herself and
her parents during the past months, and it would seem that her gentle
influence hath verily chased away already much evil. Yet my heart
fails me at the thought of the heavy charge so soon to fall upon her,
for though but once since she took up her sojourn within the castle
has she witnessed the dread power of the curse upon her unfortunate
father, yet that once sufficed to rend her tender heart in twain, and
she told me, trembling, of the unhappy scene. I thank God that, in
my solitude of prayer and labour during these weary months past, He
has given me the victory, and that I dare bravely take up my abode
and my work at my darling's feet, and take upon myself the sharing of
her burdens and bearing of her griefs, which I pray He may ever
enable me to do manfully."
"And there is no hope that time may soften her resolution?" said Jack
sadly. "Ah, how fain would I see her safe sheltered in your loving
arms! Why should the innocent suffer with the guilty, and your young
hearts break for the sins of your forefathers?"
"They shall not break, dear Jack," answered Percival bravely, though
his voice shook. "They have borne their worst, and their mutual
suffering has but knit them more firmly together, and made of them
one strong soul--strong to bear the woes of earth, and wait for the
joys of eternity. Nay, Jack, we have together counted the cost of
our sacrifice, and would not draw back. But let it not grieve you
over much, for there is a love passing that of earth, and that love
is ours. I doubt not that we must needs oft wrestle and pray, and
oft shrink beneath the burden of our cross, but in lightening the
burdens of others, we shall surely in part forget our own, and
through the sweet influences of a pure and holy friendship we yet
hope and pray that we may together help our brethren in this world of
sin and sorrow as cheerfully and bravely as we had planned to do
throughout the years of a blessed marriage union. Our hearts are in
God's keeping, Jack, and while He needs them for His service, He will
not suffer them to break with earthly sorrow."
The old man wiped away a tear or two in the darkness, but made no
reply, and taking Percival's arm, they entered together the dark
avenue and walked through the gloomy halls of the ancient castle,
where presently, along one of the dim corridors, Shanno overtook
them, her beautiful presence seeming suddenly to illumine the
desolation with a soft warmth and radiancy. She led them both
silently to her mother's chamber, where the earl knelt at the
bedside, his face bowed upon the pillows, and the Black Horseman,
tender and faithful physician as of old, administered such relief to
the sufferer as lay in his power. But Lady Bryn Afon was already
beyond the reach of human aid, and from her dark, hollow eyes the
spirit looked forth with the far-off gaze which had already
penetrated beyond the shadows of the grave, and looked upon the
"things unseen." But at the sight of her loved ones the light of
earthly love and tenderness once more shone out in her wasted
countenance, and she clasped each in turn to her breast, murmuring
fond words of parting.
"Father," she murmured, "I sinned against you in my youth, and have
deserved the sorrows which have fallen upon me in just punishment for
my wilfulness. Yet I would have you all know that I have had a truly
tender and loving husband in him whose name I have been proud to wear
through all our mutual sufferings. Against him too have I sinned in
concealing from him these many years our sweet daughter, but in his
joy of new possession he has long since forgiven the past, and he
knows that in the sight of God I verily thought it good to keep her
from him. Yet has the good I hoped for been frustrated, and in
punishment for my deception I must die with my hopes unfulfilled!
Nay, weep not so bitterly, my sweet Shanno, nor cry to me for pardon!
I have nought to forgive! I am at last content, for God has revealed
to me on my bed of sickness the folly of my imaginations, and taught
me that while His innocent children may not in this world escape the
burden of their parents' sin, yet that there is laid up for them in
heaven a brighter crown of glory, which you, my Primrose, and you, my
brave Percival, shall surely wear by-and-by in that land to which I
do but go before you. Oh, my husband!"--and with sudden energy she
raised herself and flung her wasted arms round the neck of the
weeping earl,--"my last wish and prayer on earth is, that through the
gentle influences of this loved daughter, in whose charge I leave
you, and of him who so truly loves her, you may come at your last
hour to a peaceful death-bed like mine--that so, these two, though
not in the way I have dreamed in my folly, may truly wipe out the
memory of the curse from their father's home, and when their lives
are ended, leave these old walls to crumble away into honoured ruin,
re-echoing only with holy sounds and memories, before which the
shadows of the past shall flee away."
She lay back on her pillows, spent and exhausted, the feeble breath
ever growing more laboured; then gently drew her daughter's golden
head upon her breast, and murmured, "Let your father ever be your
first care, sweet one! I leave him to you--a sacred charge; and
you--oh, Morveth, you will strive for my sake not to crush this our
tender blossom by yielding to your weakness? My heart fails me at
leaving her thus to bear alone in her youth and beauty the burden of
her doomed race!"
"Not alone," said Percival Vere, gently taking her wasted fingers in
his own. "While I live, though she may never be my wife, she will
ever be my most sacred charge. She is dearer to me than life, and I
will teach her to look to me for protection from every ill. And our
faithful Rhiwallon and your own beloved father will ever be at our
side, with their brave counsels, pillars of strength in the wisdom of
their riper years."
The troubled look passed from Lady Bryn Afon's eyes, and they rested
with the confidence of deep affection upon the pure, earnest face of
the young chaplain, then turned with loving gaze upon the aged
weather-beaten countenance of the boatman, and the deeply-lined
features of the prematurely-aged physician. Then she said gently: "I
would be alone awhile with my husband. Father, go with our children
and pray for me awhile, ere you shall partake with me anon of the
most Holy Sacrament, which I would fain receive at the hands of my
faithful friend Master Rhys, an he will so favour me with his
ministrations. Seek him, prithee, good Rhiwallon, and bid him not
tarry, for the lights of earth grow dim, and I must soon be gone.
Percival, take our Shanno, and dry her tears, but stay not long from
my side, for the end cometh speedily."
Two hours later the solemn service was over, the last farewells had
been said, and Lady Bryn Afon's spirit had passed from a world which
to her had been verily a "vale of tears,"--and for her the curse was
for ever at an end.
* * * * * * *
But not yet, alas, had the fatal inheritance of his house relaxed its
hold upon the unhappy earl, who, when the first sad week of
bereavement was over, and the frail mortal body, over which he had
for days wept in secret agony, had been committed to the grave, was
suddenly attacked with relentless force by the old spirit of evil,
and Primrose, for the second time since she had been under his roof,
witnessed in shame and sorrow the dread effects of that awful curse
which her unhappy father was doomed to bear. Then with new joy and
thankfulness did she realise and fully experience the strength and
power of the true heart which shared her every burden, feeling that
without the holy friendship and unselfish devotion of Percival life
could not have been borne amid these scenes of suffering, and
realising too, more deeply each day, in the sight of her father's
misery, the wisdom of her own decision and sacrifice, which though
daily renewed with bitter tears and struggles, yet grew ofttimes
light with the radiance of that yet higher love, in the strength of
which she and her lover trod bravely their path of mutual suffering.
And in these dark seasons, which, as the months rolled on, she now,
unshielded by a mother's love, witnessed only too frequently, none
had power to soothe the earl like his young chaplain, in whose pure
presence evil things trembled and hid themselves, and whose strong
will seemed to give new life and strength to the weak and irresolute
victim of Ap Gryffyth's malediction.
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE BOATMAN'S REFUSAL.
"So, for us no world? Let throngs press thee to me!
Up and down amid men, heart by heart fare we!
Welcome squalid vesture, harsh voice, hateful face!
God is soul, souls I and thou: with souls should souls have
place."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
Old Jack the boatman bore his grief at his daughter's death in
resolute silence, although his rapidly whitening hair and the new
furrows of pain on his weather-beaten face showed plainly the inward
suffering he endured. As before her death he had steadily refused to
allow himself to be publicly made known as her father, so now he
obstinately adhered to his resolution in spite of the earl's efforts
to move him.
"Nay, my lord," he said, "the village wept with me over her supposed
death when I was a young man and alone in my misery, and I was glad
of their comfort; but now that I am old and near to my own grave I
have no craving for their sympathy, and as I told her many a time ere
she passed hence, I can better bear alone at my years either joy or
sorrow than brook their strife of tongues, and perchance the words of
blame they might cast upon her. My heart is grown too aged to bear
the ceaseless chatter, from which it were vain to try and escape,
were it known that my daughter had wedded an Earl of Bryn Afon; and
moreover I will ne'er suffer your noble name to be miscalled, as it
would surely be, were it known that you had chosen for your bride one
of your own villagers. I can keep my secret, my lord, and though I
thank you for the honour you would fain do me in making known my
relation to your noble house, I do still refuse it with as steadfast
a will as when first my daughter made herself known to me. Let me
but look from time to time upon my grand-daughter's sweet face, and
come and go in your castle as her humble foster-father and your
devoted servant, and I will die more content with my secret within
mine own breast than blazoned forth among all the curious folk of the
country-side. Verily, my lord, they would in a few short hours wear
out my poor heart with their gossiping tongues whatever!"
"So be it, Jack," answered the earl; "but as my true father-in-law,
it seemed to me the only reparation I could make for the past, to
acknowledge you as such. Think how in past days, with her, whom you
believed long since dead, dwelling, unknown to you, here at my side
within these walls, I could come and go with you on yon river, and
talk lightly of my marriage and my wife! Yet, Jack, my love for her
was my excuse, for fain would I have confessed our marriage many a
time, and did but keep silence because of her pleadings, which I was
verily wont at times to look upon as strange and unnatural, but which
now, in the light of that mother's love, burning secretly like a
fierce fire in her poor breast, do fully explain themselves to my
mind. You were her child's best guardian, and since that fair little
being, to whom my heart was ever strangely drawn, must needs be
hidden from my knowledge, if not wholly from my sight, she was unable
to reveal herself to you without betraying to me her cherished
secret. And so--well, Jack--my sin in luring her from your side to a
secret marriage has been bitterly punished by its own fruits! And to
my dying day the pale sweet face of our child, innocent victim of the
sins of her forefathers, must haunt me, as I first looked upon it,
now nearly a year ago, with all a father's pride in its wondrous
beauty, and beheld in it those terrible marks of suffering which the
sacrifice of her love had wrought! Never shall I forget that day of
our first meeting as father and daughter, nor the anguish with which
I received those first sweet caresses from her whom the curse of my
house had bereaved of her heart's love, and from whom it demanded so
bitter a sacrifice! Jack, I would give my life to restore the light
to her eyes, and the radiancy of youthful health and spirits to her
countenance! Yet I am chained beneath the curse--powerless to free
myself from its weight--doomed through its toils to die at last a
horrible death, and in my miserable lifetime to wound again and again
the tender spirit of my only child by the helplessness of my
struggles."
"Nay, my lord, say not so!" exclaimed the boatman earnestly.
"Remember the last prayer of your dying wife for you, and trust that,
although your name must needs perish with your fair daughter, you may
at least, in God's mercy, leave it to her unstained with the horrors
of past years, to wear it after you, till she shall be called hence,
in a dignity and unblemished honour unknown to your forefathers for
many long generations."
"I would to God it might be so!" said the earl, his restless blue
eyes dimmed with sudden tears. "Perchance," and he smiled sadly, "my
young chaplain, your vicar, may yet make a convert of me. I hear his
tongue is never silent on the subject of this evil, which has been
the ruin of my house, and of how many more God knows! Yet I fear me
he is before his time, and, like many another prophet, may fall a
victim to his own intrepidity; for nowhere else do I hear his
doctrines get publicly unfolded, and be they true they are likely to
fall on unwilling ears, and reap but a tardy harvest, which he is not
like to gather. I hear he hath already a band of trusty followers in
the village, who form a league or what not, pledged to do deadly
battle against the drinking customs of the country. Ah me, I trow he
speaks more truly of the evil than the world will yet choose to
believe, and hath a knowledge and insight into the matter which I
warrant me no bishop on the bench can boast! Were I a trustworthy
member of his solemn covenant, I could verily back up his preaching
with experiences of which I have alas but too many at command; but I
fear me my membership is yet far distant, for his old ancestor Ap
Gryffyth cursed too well! Poor youth! He would fain undo the bitter
consequences of those hideous words, but after all the old Bryn Afon,
poor fool, brought them on himself, and well deserved them for his
treachery! Jack, when I am presently summoned to the king, you will
watch over our sweet Primrose tenderly? The Lady Rosamond has
promised me to stay awhile with her here during my absence, her lord
being also chosen to follow our king's fallen fortunes. I have
bidden my chaplain remain here in his cure, rather than accompany me
in my wanderings, seeing that my faithful Rhiwallon will e'en give me
all the care I can desire, and that I would fain leave to my child
the comfort of his continual presence, and to the valley the benefit
of his preachings. He and my child have indeed forsworn all earthly
love, but their hearts are knit in a bond which would make separation
but a living death! And since I can trust Percival Vere as I would a
saint in heaven, I can depart, leaving my darling safely to enjoy the
shelter of his friendship and counsel. Fain would I bid her
accompany me, as she hath oft entreated me, fearing lest her mother's
spirit should chide her for suffering me out of her sight; but these
are troublous times, and I dare not risk her safety. Every fighting
man is being summoned to the banner of the king or parliament, and I
carry with me, when I depart hence in some three days' time, many
stout youths, who will, I trow, show Charles of what bravery our
little Wales is capable. Poor youths, the Royal Commission of Array
spares none whom Providence hath gifted with a sturdy arm and a brave
heart, and I doubt not, good Jack, an you were now a fiery youth as
of yore, you would be the first to follow me to the field! Ah, well,
fain would I die on the battlefield, and so outwit the curse! Who
knows?"
* * * * * * *
Not many days after this conversation between the earl and his
faithful servant, the Royal Standard was uplifted at Nottingham, and
ere many months had passed the Battle of Edgehill had begun the war,
and Primrose and Lady Rosamond, dwelling together, in the absence of
father and husband, in the lonely fastness of Bryn Afon, were daily
watching with keen anxiety for the news which reached but tardily the
solitary Welsh hamlet, wherein, nevertheless, a fierce strife
reigned, and ever increased in bitterness, between the loyal
followers of the king and the zealous partisans, led by Master Jones,
of the opposing party. A mimic warfare raged likewise perpetually
between Cavaliers and Roundheads of tender years, who, arrayed in
lines on either side of the river, aimed harmless missiles across the
foaming stream, and oft made the old boatman tremble for the fate of
his bridge, which was stormed and taken by each party in turn till
the rush of young feet made its light weight to quiver, and its
timbers to creak ominously, and threaten to plunge the youthful
armies into the swiftly-flowing current below.
And while the war waged ever more fiercely, and England was convulsed
with a struggle hitherto unknown, the young chaplain fought a gallant
fight in his troubled parish, and was the innocent cause of almost as
much discussion in the neighbourhood as was the king himself; for
Master Jones, finding that he could make no headway against the
powerful eloquence of the new vicar, nor stem the tide of popular
opinion in his favour, stirred up continual strife against him among
his own few devoted adherents, and threatened to burn, plunder, and
destroy on the first opportunity the church on the hillside, where a
new offence in the shape of a beautiful stained window, given by the
earl to his wife's memory, together with some other fresh adornments
added to the hitherto plain little building, served as fuel to the
fire of Puritanical opposition. Not least among these standing
offences was the beautiful organ presented by Lady Shanno, and played
Sunday after Sunday by her own hand, despite the din which often
throughout a great part of the service was wont to be made outside
the walls by certain youths, who with pipe and tabor strove, with the
authority of Master Jones, to drown the Popish sounds within.
Moreover, it was not in the hamlet alone that the worthy preacher's
ears were set a-tingling with jealousy, but that go where he might
over hill and dale, whether to sell his wares on a week-day or to
discourse on the Sabbath upon his favourite text--"Put not your trust
in princes"--he ever found that the fame of Lord Bryn Afon's chaplain
had already eclipsed his own; for Master Vere, in the enthusiasm of
his crusade against the frightful intemperance reigning in the
country villages, lost no opportunity of preaching and lecturing
against this crying evil, whether in the open air at fairs, or in the
pulpits of such among his brother clergy who would countenance his
new doctrines. And in the town of Caer Cynau he gained no small
notoriety by a certain course of lectures there delivered upon the
"Testimony of the renowned Master Shakespeare upon the evils of
strong drink," wherein his masterly learning and acquaintance with
the works of the great poet and also his marvellous eloquence drew
men and women from far and wide to hear him, and by means of which
not a few of his brother clergy were brought to look more closely
into a matter as yet but little considered by them. And although
there were perhaps but few among them who did not regard him as a mad
enthusiast, yet so powerful were his words, and so irresistible the
sweetness of his voice and the purity of his countenance, that all
were fain to love him heartily, and to think upon his discourses when
his presence was withdrawn from them as upon the words of some
prophet of God. And the chaplain, knowing that "one man must sow and
another reap," was content to deliver his message, leaving others to
see its results; but that results would surely follow he doubted not
for a moment, nor that one day, it might be in the far distant
future, his message would ring throughout England and find an echo in
thousands of noble hearts, filled, like his own, with the spirit of
self-sacrifice and love for their weak brethren--a love which should
make some strong ones ready to renounce for themselves even the good
creatures of God, might they by so doing remove a stumbling-block
from some erring brother's path.
Meanwhile, whether his message were received in love or in derision,
he continued to utter it faithfully, ever cheered by the growing
support of a chosen few among his parishioners, his "League of the
Holy Cross," who were ready to labour with him to the death, and
above all, by the loving friendship and faithful love of the fair
young mistress of the doomed castle, who, in her anxious solitude,
cheered only by the companionship of Lady Rosamond and her little son
Elidore, and by the devotion of her aged foster-father, followed his
every footstep with her prayers, and entered into his labours with a
zeal and devotion which ever inspired him to fresh effort. And ever
and anon some shepherd on the solitary hillside would tell how he had
seen the faithful lovers wandering over hill and dale together on
their mutual errands of mercy, and the tale of many a hidden deed of
charity would be whispered from one lonely cot to another, wherein
the footsteps of the beautiful Lady Shanno, whose golden locks were
so strangely strewn with silver, and those of her holy knight, Sir
Galahad, were blessed as the footsteps of angels, and their faces
welcomed as those of bright visitants from another world. And there
were some who said, that as these holy friends crossed the lonely
hilltops together, the shadow of the cross might at times be seen
falling athwart their path as they walked, and more than one honest
countryman would vouch for the truth of this tale, and testify that
his own eyes had witnessed the strange sight.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE CURSE UNDONE.
"So, let him wait God's instant, men call years;
Meantime hold hard by truth and his great soul,
Do out the duty! Through such souls alone
God, stooping, shows sufficient of His light
For us i' the dark to rise by. And I rise."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
"The castle gate stands open now,
And the wanderer is welcome to the hall."
--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
So a year passed away, and the sturdy stronghold of Caer Caradoc
still remained closed while Lady Rosamond stayed at Bryn Afon,
faithful to her self-imposed charge of her fair young friend, whom
she cheered with an unfailing flow of spirits and a wild enthusiasm
in the king's cause, which latter feeling Primrose indeed shared to
the full. And already the infant heir of Caradoc would gallantly
wield his sword in his king's defence, and slay many an imaginary
Cromwell in the dark corners of the corridors, in which he roamed at
will through the long hours of those anxious days. And when Sir Ivor
wrote word to his wife how in London even the ladies were taking
spade in hand to help in digging the entrenchments around the city,
the boy's brave mother and Primrose could scarcely be restrained from
setting off then and there to work with them, regretting nothing so
greatly as, that in the remote solitude of Wales no opportunity was
like to occur for women to show their heroism. But Lady Shanno was
called upon to show her own after another fashion sooner than she
anticipated, for at Newbery, in September of the year 1643, the
gallant Black Horseman fell at his master's side, shot through the
heart, and scarce had Primrose hushed her first outburst of grief at
the loss of so beloved and faithful a friend than her tears were
caused to flow with yet greater bitterness by the departure of her
lover, who, at her own urgent entreaty, as well as from his own sense
of duty and responsibility, left his cure once more for a season in
the hands of the aged Master Rhys, and following the call of his
chaplaincy, joined the earl on the battlefield, in fulfilment of Lady
Bryn Afon's sacred trust, which, on the death of the brave Rhiwallon,
now devolved upon himself alone.
Many a night of sleepless watch and prayer did the Lady Shanno keep
during the long dreary months of that sad winter, and none but God
knew the struggle it cost her to bear unmurmuringly that bitter
separation from him whose presence was her very life, and whose
absence might now, in one short moment, amid the rage of battle, be
turned into the absence of death. One moment and Rhiwallon's fierce
black eyes had been closed in their last sleep, and their penetrating
vision had pierced into the mystic land beyond the grave. His
gallant, stalwart form in one moment had been stretched motionless
upon the blood-stained earth. What chance bullet might not suddenly
strike Percival's breast, and lay him too, stiff and cold, upon the
ground? It was strange, the girl often mused in her tortured
anxiety, how little, with all her love for her father and Rhiwallon,
she had reckoned upon any one of those stray bullets hurting them;
yet now her imagination saw at every moment of the day each bullet
fired from every gun of the enemy to be whizzing through the air with
deadly aim at that one breast, which was Percival's, and every sword
bared but to strike at his brave heart! Yet Rhiwallon had already
fallen, and the chaplain laboured on unhurt at his ministrations to
the sick and dying, and in his brave support of the earl against that
deadly weakness ever ready to ensnare him in its toils; while
Primrose prayed day by day within her castle walls for strength to
make her sacrifice of her friend more willingly, to offer him, if
need be, even to death upon the battlefield for her father's
sake--yet every day feeling his image to grow in absence ever dearer
to her heart.
Long letters Percival sent on every opportunity to cheer her, and in
the following spring he gladdened her greatly by the news that his
friend Jeremy Taylor was constantly at his side, much comforting both
himself and the earl with his company, he having been appointed
chaplain to the royal forces, and finding in active service some
small solace in his recent sad bereavement--the death of his fair
wife, which great sorrow now bound him in yet closer union to the
friend of his boyhood than heretofore. And Primrose, on hearing of
his sad grief and loss, feeling a deep pity for his three motherless
boys, sent for them into Wales, greatly to the little Elidore's
delight, and lovingly cherished them within her own walls during
several months, both herself and Lady Rosamond finding in their care
for the children some forgetfulness of their worst anxieties, and
rejoicing to hear the ancient corridors ring with the sound of their
young voices. So with some few weeks spent at intervals at Caer
Caradoc, that long lonely year wore away, and in the autumn the earl,
not destined to follow to the end the fortunes of his unhappy
sovereign, was brought back to his ancient stronghold by his faithful
chaplain, grievously wounded in battle, weak and weary unto death,
yet rejoicing that at last a Bryn Afon should be counted worthy to
die an honourable death. With him came also Sir Ivor Meredith and
Sir Tristram Ap Thomas, and Lady Rosamond and her son departed with
her husband to their own home, there to spend his leave of absence in
mutual rejoicing over their happy reunion, while Sir Tristram, after
once again pleading his unalterable devotion to the fair Lady Shanno,
and finding her heart to be only more wholly than ever given to his
rival, whom nevertheless she would never marry, came to the
conclusion that his case was hopeless, and departed sulkily to the
wooded heights of Craig Arthur, whither, it may be as well at once to
relate, seeing that we shall have but little further dealing with
him, he brought, after some few months, a fair English bride, with
whom he lived happily many years.
Meanwhile the earl lingered during the space of a year in much
suffering of body, but in a peace of mind which was but at rare
intervals broken by the memory of the curse upon his house or by its
actual influences, from which it seemed that the presence of his
loved daughter had a special power to protect him, aided by the holy
influences of him whose love for herself and her fallen house grew
deeper day by day, and whose one earnest prayer and desire was, that
her father might pass away from this world in a peace unknown to his
forefathers, free at last from the blight of that horrible curse
which his own luckless ancestor had pronounced. Many hours the
chaplain spent in reading and prayer with the wounded earl, whose
careless, pleasure-loving nature, deepened and softened by the
hardships of the battlefield and by his present bed of sickness,
drank in new strength and vigour from its constant contrast with one
whose daily life was a renewed sacrifice of all life's dearest hopes.
And when the old evil gained the mastery, and, like Saul, he was for
a time as one possessed with a demon, it was the chaplain with his
organ, or Primrose with her harp, who, like David, soothed him and
brought him back to reason by their wonderful gift of music; and as
the old halls rang with the sweet sound of those harpstrings, his
troubled soul grew still, and Percival listened like one entranced to
the heavenly strains, and saw visions of the harpers ever "harping
with their harps" around the throne of God, and of that white-robed
throng who have "come out of great tribulation," in whose pure midst
he and Primrose might perchance in the mercy of God one day forget
their present sorrows in a mutual service of love and worship which
should know no ending.
As the days went by, and it was gradually made known in the village
that the earl lay in his dying illness, a great hush of mysterious
awe and dread expectancy fell upon the village, and even Master Jones
forbore to stir up strife, while all listened breathlessly for the
sounds of woe and horror which by day and night had ever been heard
from within the walls of the ill-fated castle, as each of its lords
had in bygone days lain a-dying. Never once for many a long
generation had the mysterious and horrid sounds failed at such times
to strike terror into the hearts of the villagers, and even Jack the
boatman, who had never throughout his life countenanced idle tales
and gossip, willingly, about the family he served, had ever been fain
to confess that this tale was a true one, which could not be
gainsayed, and moreover, that the apparition of the lady, who walked
the long avenue, weeping and wringing her hands, had been no phantom
of a disordered imagination, but a fearsome reality. But now peace
reigned about the grim grey walls, and men might walk by the
riverside, under the shadow of the ancient battlements, which frowned
from the hilltop, with no fear lest sudden shrieks rending the still
night air should strike terror to their hearts; and sheep and cattle
grazed confidently upon the steep, grassy hillsides, which sloped
sharply upwards from the river to the castle walls, and showed no
fear.
Some said that the old gipsy had laid the castle under a spell during
the days of King Arthur, she having in those days had ill dealings
with Merlin the necromancer, whose name yet clings to certain
localities in the vale of Gwynnon and neighbourhood of Caer Caradoc,
she herself having been possessed of a charmed life, granted her by
the Evil One for the express purpose of seeing her wicked spell
fulfilled, and in the strength of which she had survived through many
long generations, until the chaplain, Percival Vere, whom all
regarded as holy beyond all ordinary men, had been specially sent by
providence to bring her wickedness to an end and break the spell.
Others lamented sorely the death of the learned Rhiwallon on the
battlefield, believing that in his hands lay the secret of the
removal of the curse, he, as descendant of one of the renowned
physicians of Glyn Melen, having succeeded to all the wisdom and
secret knowledge vouchsafed to them by their mystic mother, the
Maiden of the Pool. Had a few more years of life been granted him,
said some, the curse would verily have been removed during the earl's
lifetime, and another proof been given of the supernatural lore of
the Brethren, which some were bold enough to deny in these modern
times. But the physician had been taken away at the very critical
moment--just when his master verged upon the age of fifty years--and
anxiety and excitement waxed stronger and stronger in the village as
that birthday, which none of his forefathers had for generations
lived to see, drew actually near. There was much recalling to mind
among the village folk of the wild rhymes of the ancient gipsy, in
which she had foretold that the day would come when the curse should
be removed from the castle, but that with its removal the last heir
should perish and the walls crumble to dust, which prophecy, said
they, but betrayed the extreme malignancy of her spirit, since that
were verily no true removal at all. And since the Fair Maid of
Gwynnon, renouncing all earthly bliss, had vowed to be herself its
last heir, the simple folk, who worshipped her very shadow as it fell
across their path, prayed daily that the dark sayings of the wild
woman might have no power to hurt her, but that she might long be
spared to dwell among them, to free her noble father's memory from
all past shame by the influence of her own sweet and pure life.
Slowly the dark days of winter passed by, and when the early
spring-time of a new year dawned the earl might often be seen,
treading with slow and feeble footstep, as he leaned upon his
daughter's arm, the narrow footpath across the fields to the little
church on the hillside, from whose steeple the bells called merrily
to Evensong, and within whose walls, as the light from the beautiful
stained window he had erected in the chancel to the memory of the
wife who had suffered so many things for his sake, fell in
many-coloured shadows on the pavement at his feet, his spirit once
more held communion with hers, and the past sorrows of their troubled
life together rolled away from his burdened memory as the peace of
that holy sanctuary filled his soul. And it was not till the chilly
winds of autumn began to blow through the valley that the halting
footsteps ceased to pass to and fro, and that those among the village
folk who had loved to linger on a warm summer's evening on the
hillside, to catch the earl's kindly smile as he passed, began to
venture for the first time in the memory of the oldest among them
within the great iron gates, which had so long shut off the dark
avenue from the outer world, to the very door of the castle, to bring
some humble offering to him whom their loyal hearts had ever been
ready to love an he would have let them, and to crave from their
golden-haired idol, Lady Shanno, one word of assurance with her own
lips that her father yet lived and was in peace. The year had been
an exciting one to the staunch little band of Cavaliers in the remote
Welsh valley, and whether for the fugitive king himself or for their
own beloved earl, his faithful friend and servant, they were ready to
dare all things, and many of them in their enthusiasm to commit any
wild extravagance of loyalty. The execution of Archbishop Laud in
the early spring had aroused their most stormy feelings, and mightily
increased the violence of their animosity towards the Roundhead party
in the village and neighbourhood, of whom Master Jones was a more
valiant leader than ever. Not a man among them but felt that bloody
deed to be a personal insult to himself, for had not the good
archbishop been formerly bishop of their own St. David's, and ever
the friend and benefactor of that holy and learned friend of their
vicar's, Master Jeremy Taylor, to whom they were well-nigh as loyal
in devotion as to Percival Vere himself? Hardly could Percival
restrain his flock within peaceable limits, and protect the person,
goods, and chattels, and whitewashed conventicle of his brother
preacher from the indignation of the gallant Cavaliers! And side by
side with their political excitement ran that on behalf of the earl,
the anxiety with which they anticipated his now possible realisation
of his fiftieth birthday growing keener day by day, until when at
length, early in the month of October, that long-prayed-for yet
much-dreaded day arrived and found him still living, their enthusiasm
carried them in one body, men, women, and children, to the hillside,
where such a ringing of Percival's new peal of bells sounded out for
hours over hill and dale as brought men running eagerly from the
neighbouring hamlets to ask if the traitor Cromwell's head were
indeed off at last! And at her father's bedside Shanno wept in
mingled joy and pain at the merry pealing of the bells, and the earl
himself lay quietly listening with a smile of mingled amusement and
gratitude to the noisy demonstration of his devoted villagers. "And
my people indeed cross my accursed threshold day after day to ask for
me?" he said wistfully. "Then if so, the curse is verily passing
away from my house, and I may indeed hope to die of these wounds,
honourably, for my king. Death is not far from me, but each day I
dread lest my sin may yet find me out, and bring me to the horrible
end of my forefathers! I would fain be remembered in the prayers of
the poor, whom I have to my shame so neglected in the past, and go
hence with the thought that they no longer shun my walls as the
enclosure of dark and dreadful horrors!"
"They come daily to ask for your health," said Percival, "and to
offer you the love they have long stored up for you in their faithful
hearts. And all their dread of crossing your threshold is indeed
past--driven from their minds by the knowledge that one so fair and
sweet as your loved Shanno has herself now long dwelt within these
grim old walls, and that from her pure presence every accursed thing
must needs have fled away. She has undone the curse of your house,
my lord, and if I have been privileged to help her with the efforts
to which my love for yourself and her has prompted me I am thankful
to God for it, as I am also thankful from my inmost heart to your
brave physician, our dear Rhiwallon--God rest his soul!--whose life
was so nobly given to the same end! Ap Gryffyth's words shall have
no further power to harm you, my dear lord and father! Let their
sting be for ever forgotten, and the thought that you are about to
die for your loved sovereign of the wounds which you have so bravely
suffered on his behalf banish for aye from your mind all recollection
of the sin of your erring forefather."
"Think you my love may atone for his treachery?" said the earl
eagerly. "Fain would I think so! I have been wild in my youth, and
cowardly in doing no more valiant battle against the curse laid upon
me, but I have ever loved my king and been true to his cause. Fain
would I have fought a longer fight for him, but it has been otherwise
willed, and in the comfort of his gracious message sent me yestere'en
in good Master Taylor's letter, I can die content. His 'faithful
friend' he calls me; ay, so I have ever been! Not even you,
Percival, nor my dear and honoured physician who has tended me in my
wildest frenzies, and gone before me to reap the reward of his
faithful service, have e'er heard me breathe a word against my
sovereign!"
"Nay," said Shanno proudly, "it shall ever be said of the last of the
Bryn Afons, that he was a valiant soldier and gallant defender of his
king and country, and that, shaking off at last the cruel fetters
which had bound so many generations, he died bravely of honourable
wounds, a willing victim to his love for his friend."
"'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life
for his friends,'" said the chaplain gently. "Rejoice, my lord, that
in this you have been counted worthy to follow in the steps of One
who spake such noble words, and shrank not from putting them into yet
nobler action." A beautiful light shone in the earl's blue eyes, in
which the old restlessness had during these months of illness been
slowly giving place to a look of quiet peace, and he looked from his
young chaplain's earnest face--already glowing with that vision of
God which is promised to the "pure in heart"--to the sweet
countenance of his daughter, with ineffable love and tenderness.
"In that none can be closer followers of Him than you, my children,"
he said with a sad smile; "for you, rather than bring ill upon
unknown generations, have given up all that this life holds most
dear, and for Him have in truth 'laid down your lives!' The thought
that I must die and leave no heir to my ancient name has been to me a
grievous sorrow, and such is the vanity of earthly ambition that I
have but on this my dying bed been able to acquiesce cheerfully in
your self-sacrifice. But now let a father's blessing bid you each
God-speed on your long path of duty, and ever cheer you with the
knowledge that he too with enlarged vision can now look with you
beyond this fleeting world and its passing joys, and realise the
immortal bliss which awaits his suffering children in the world to
come." ... And when, not many days later, they closed his eyes and
knelt beside his worn-out frame in silent prayer and tears, the
lovers felt that by his words another link had been forged in that
golden chain which bound them; and their grief at his loss, like that
of his ever-faithful villagers, was soothed to thankful quietness by
the thought that at last a Bryn Afon had passed to his last home in
peace.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
FETTERS OF GOLD.
"No indeed, for God above
Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love;
I claim you still for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few;
Much is to learn, much to forget,
Ere the time be come for taking you."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
But at rare intervals was that dark torturing shadow, so dreaded by
Lady Shanno, wont to fall across her path; but in the bodily weakness
caused by her sorrow and her long months of watching it sprang up
once more during the lonely weeks which followed her father's death,
and in its terror the poor girl fled from her castle walls and took
shelter as in her childhood beneath the lowly roof of her
foster-father, where his loving care speedily soothed her tortured
nerves to rest. Then at last she prevailed on him to give up his
humble home and return with her for ever to the castle, that she
might cheer his old age and he protect her from her girlish terrors
within those ancient halls, whose resounding echoes and empty
vastness now seemed more dreary than she could bear. And though even
now it cost the old man a pang to leave his riverside cot, where he
had dwelt so many long years, yet there was a certain proud
satisfaction mixed with the love which drew him to his
foster-daughter's side, in that he, the humble boatman, should be
called to end his days within those brave old walls, with a secret
right so to do which was little guessed by any of his village
friends. Still, although his daughter and her noble husband were
dead, the old man clung fixedly to his resolve to maintain silence as
to his real relationship to his foster-child, and seemed to take a
greater pride in his own secret knowledge of the fact than he would
have felt in having his true position as the Lady Shanno's
grandfather proclaimed throughout the neighbourhood. Perhaps his
aged nerves were actually too weak to bear the fresh excitement
caused by such a revelation, but be that as it might, his will was
firm on the matter, and Primrose, so finding it, forbore to press him
further.
To herself, following closely upon the vanquished foe, her mysterious
shadowy tormentor, there came a fresh anxiety and misery, which long
refused to be banished. So safe, so happy had she felt in her love
for Percival and in the assurance of his own, that till now the
thought had never occurred to her that perhaps in his secret heart he
might rather be loosed from the spiritual fetters which bound them
one to the other, that, sweet though those fetters were to herself,
and the only joy left her on earth, they might perchance be to the
injury of his future happiness. Might he not one day, like Sir
Tristram, find her image in his heart replaced by some yet fairer
vision, or one at least more attainable? Was it fair and right that
she should seek to bind him ever to herself by this bond of spiritual
love, which he might one day surely wish to exchange to his own good
and happiness for a blessed earthly union? Her whole heart shrank
from the bare contemplation of such a possibility, and as night after
night she pondered the matter in the silent darkness, and strove with
agonised prayers and tears to gain courage to speak to him on the
morrow the words which would involve such bitter self-sacrifice, her
spirit rebelled against the thought of further suffering, and she
cried aloud in the stillness of her chamber, "Oh, God, I cannot! His
love is all I have on earth, and without it I must die! He loves me
and lives too in my love. I cannot speak to him words which may
suggest a thought he has not yet dreamed, yet which, when once
suggested, may slowly but surely work in his mind until he sees their
wisdom! Nay, I cannot tell him I am willing to let him go, and see
another snatch one day the bliss I have forsworn! Yet to me our
mutual sacrifice is easier than to him, since I know it to be the
will of God that I should never wed, and I dare not fight against His
will; but to him it is surely a hard task, which only my selfishness
imposes, since it is but his love to me which bids him take up this
cross of loneliness. For him no divine fiat has gone forth, as for
me, to forswear all earthly bliss, and it is but my selfish, cowardly
heart which shrinks from bidding him seek the joys of home which
others crave, and which would surely cheer him on his path of duty!
yet he is mine--mine these five years past and more--and I cannot let
him go!" So in the secret pain of a conflict hitherto undreamed, and
all unsuspected by him she loved, Lady Shanno grew white and wan
within the walls of her castle; and while she wept and prayed in the
bitterness of her spirit, the chaplain, marvelling why her light
footstep had ceased to come and go in the village, and why, in her
grief at her father's death, she must needs refuse admittance to him,
her truest friend and comforter, went daily to pray for her in his
church on the hillside, kneeling long before the altar in silent
supplication for her welfare, and for a continual blessing upon those
years of separation, yet closest union, which might perchance roll
over their heads in this fair valley ere they might exchange the
sorrows of earth for the joys of eternity.
At length, one winter's afternoon, going to pray as usual at the
twilight hour in this quiet, undisturbed spot, with a heart heavy
with grief at his long banishment from her side, he found her there
before him, kneeling on the cold pavement of the sanctuary, with
bowed head and drooping form; and as, at the sound of his footstep,
she turned and looked at him with eyes which shrank beneath his
earnest gaze, he started at the sorrow he saw revealed in their
troubled depths, and at the pallor of the sweet face, wan with woe,
which she quickly hid in her trembling hands. "Primrose," he said
gently, "you are in trouble of heart, and you hide it from me, who of
all men have the right to share your sorrows! Is this your trust and
confidence in me? Sweetheart"--and he touched softly the golden
head, which bowed yet lower at his words--"it is not sorrow only for
your beloved father's loss that has wrought such dark lines beneath
these dear eyes and on these wasted cheeks, and that has caused you
these many weary weeks to shut your doors upon me. Some other sorrow
weighs down your tender spirit, and you seek to bear it alone,
instead of suffering me to share it, as is my right!"
Primrose rose to her feet, and laying her hand on his arm, smiled
bravely in his face, as she said; "Come without, Percival, and we
will talk a few moments together, for I have more to say than may
well be spoken within these walls. Fain would I have hidden myself
from your sight yet awhile longer, till I could have worn away with
smiles these traces of my foolish tears! But come, I am strong, and
lest I become once more weak and cowardly of spirit, I will say my
say. It is but a selfish grief, dear Percival, of which you see
these marks upon my face--a selfish shrinking from a duty borne in
but of late upon me, that has made me bury myself these past weeks
within the walls of my castle and refuse admittance to you, whom I
craved to see. But now I will shrink no longer from what I have felt
I ought to say. Percival, it is my wish to release you from these
special ties of love and friendship we have vowed together before yon
altar--that you may be free to wed some day a maiden worthier than I
to share in your labours and enjoy your love, free to tread a
brighter path through this world than that to which your love for me
must bind you, and to know those beautiful joys of home, which would
surely lighten your cares and give you a happiness of which you as
yet refuse to dream, and which I, in the selfishness of my love for
you, have suffered you thus wholly to renounce for my sake. But your
life shall not be ever sacrificed for mine, Percival! Nay, speak not
hastily! Think on what I have said, and you will see, as I have come
to do, how blindly selfish I have been, and how far better it will be
for you to break these fetters, which have indeed hitherto been
golden bands, but which you may perchance in the future feel to be
links of iron!"
Percival stood with folded arms, listening patiently while she spoke,
the first flush of startled surprise changing to an intense pallor,
as he bit his lips to keep back the eager words which would have
rushed forth ere she had spoken more than two or three words. Then
he waited resolutely for the end, a proud smile crossing his face as
he said at last, forcing himself to speak calmly: "You are thinking
of Tristram Ap Thomas then, Shanno, and you dream that Percival Vere
has a heart fashioned like his! Know you that the Veres, when they
love once, love for ever--and that yon very Planet of Love now
shining in the dark blue vault of heaven would change her course in
God's boundless space ere one of them could root out from his heart a
love like mine! Let Tristram rejoice in his bride, and others who
have vowed for you a love like his find consolation where they
will--what is that to me? Till I saw your fair face and form by the
dark pool's brink, no maiden had e'er had power to touch my heart,
which was in keeping for you alone; nor, must I daily die a thousand
deaths for your sweet sake, will ever maiden touch it more!"
Primrose struggled vainly for words, which refused to come to her
trembling lips; then, meeting the proudly flashing eyes of her lover
as he gazed down upon her with a love re-awakened in all its
intensity, she hid her face, and trembled from head to foot. For one
moment Percival clasped her in his arms and passionately kissed the
lips which strove in vain to plead their cause anew, then letting her
go, he took her hands in his and said gently: "Who has bid you think
so ill of me, sweetheart, as that I could ever crave any joy in life
greater than that of your loving friendship and that measure of your
sweet companionship which shall be allotted me in our path through
this weary world?"
"No one," she answered softly; "it was within my own heart the
thought sprang forth, and not yet have you laid it to rest. Your
words are passing sweet to me, my beloved, but bethink you,--you are
yet young, and a long life may be before you. To me, my share of
suffering is light compared with yours, for I accept my lot direct
from the hand of God, from whose decree there is no appeal; but
you--no stern sense of duty, such as upholds and strengthens me, is
yours, to brace you to self-sacrifice. It is your love for me only
that makes it binding on you, and therefore----"
"Therefore the burden is sweeter than you deem possible," he
answered, his face kindling with a sudden glow; "and therefore, an
you will not suffer me to share and strive to lighten yours as
hitherto, I must needs bear it alone and unaided, till like two
solitary stars we each burn out drearily in our several courses,
instead of sending forth the dual light of our mutual love--bright
beams thrown into the darkness of other lives--as we have vowed to
do. Think you not my unalterable love for you may not likewise be
'God's decree,' sweetheart? Besides, bethink you, I have too a
burden laid on me by a forefather's sin. If your inheritance of
suffering has come through the words of hate and passion spoken by
the dying Ap Gryffyth, on me the penalty of those words may as justly
be laid, as on you the penalty of Bryn Afon's treachery. Shall I see
you suffer for the sins of others, and shrink from a like burden
myself? Prithee, sweet Shanno, suffer no shadow evermore to come
betwixt me and thee! I know that out of the nobleness of your heart
you have spoken, but believe me, dear heart, you can inflict on me no
more bitter pain than the knowledge of your continued distrust of my
love's endurance!"
"It is not mistrust of your love, Percival," she answered, "nor doubt
of your faithfulness, that has made me speak. It was the sense of my
duty towards you, which, having all this while slumbered, awoke
suddenly within my breast and bade me no longer seek my own life's
joy at the expense of yours. At least, beloved, an you will not now
consent to break the chain that binds us, you will promise me
this--that should any other love e'er steal unawares into your heart,
and this present sweet link betwixt us gall you with its bonds, you
will frankly open your heart to me as I now have to you, and suffer
me to give to another that blessing with which I would fain have seen
my own life crowned!"
Percival looked into the dark eyes which strove to meet his
fearlessly, yet revealed to his searching gaze but too clearly the
bitter sacrifice of self such words demanded, and his own filled with
tears. "An it will content you, sweetheart," he answered, "I will
make that promise, knowing full well the while that it is one ever
impossible of fulfilment. Oh, Primrose, rest content, I pray you, or
my heart will break to think this thought can longer dwell in your
mind! Believe me, the links that bind us will ever be to me of
brightest gold--of gold purified seven times in the fire of our
mutual suffering, and which death itself cannot sever! Yes, let me
hold you yet once more close to this heart, which beats for you
alone, and in these arms, which shall ever be your faithful shelter,
ere we kneel again awhile before yon altar, and pray for strength to
bear with patience the outward severance of our inwardly united
lives."
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
MASTER TAYLOR AT CRAIG ARTHUR.
"The most powerful of the human passions is love in its mystical,
ideal, spiritual fervour."--_Essay on_ BROWNING.
"It is foolish to be afraid of making our ties too spiritual, as if
so we could lose any genuine love."--EMERSON.
So, being rid of the burden of so many weary weeks, Lady Shanno
returned bravely to her solitary castle, and her knight to his
humbler dwelling in the valley, looking for no higher joy than to
know that some radiance might in God's mercy shine forth from their
pure and holy lives athwart the darkness of the strife and
bitterness, which, reigning throughout England, overflowed in no
small share into the far-distant Welsh valleys. Scarce could any
district in the principality follow the fortunes of the fallen king
with more loyal enthusiasm and devotion than the fair vale of
Gwynnon, roused by the gallant deeds of Sir Ivor Meredith and many
another brave owner of those sturdy strongholds which crowned the
rocky hill-tops, and above all by the devotion of the people to the
memory of the brave but unfortunate Lord Bryn Afon, who had given his
life for his sovereign, and expiated by a noble death his early deeds
of sin and folly--the fatal inheritance of his forefathers. And in
the year after his death the zeal of the simple folk was freshly
kindled by the news that at the battle of Cardigan their favourite
preacher and their beloved vicar's bosom friend, Master Jeremy
Taylor, had been taken prisoner, whereupon much excitement ensued,
and great sympathy was enlisted on his behalf, and finally, he being
allowed his freedom, though deprived both of his chaplaincy to the
royal forces and of his living in Rutlandshire, was induced by his
noble friend the Earl of Carbery, who dwelt at the brave mansion of
Gelli Aur, beyond the river, to seek retirement for a season in the
valley he loved so well, and with the earl's help and patronage to
earn a livelihood by opening a school at Craig Arthur, which noble
mansion was generously thrown open to his use by Sir Tristram, during
his own absence on the field of battle, his wife being safe the while
within the walls of her English home. So on these fair wooded
heights above the river good Master Taylor entered upon a new
vocation, and it was not long ere many well-born youths of the
neighbourhood flocked to his school-house, one among them being Sir
Ivor's son, little Elidore of Caer Caradoc, Lady Shanno's gallant
champion. And so glad were all those who knew the gifts of learning
and piety possessed by this good and holy friend of Master Vere's to
place their children under the care and influence of so rarely gifted
a master, that the great man did not want for pupils during the years
of his humble retirement, while the poor folk in the country villages
received with pride the kindly word and smile he was wont to give
them as he passed on his frequent walks between Craig Arthur and
Cwmfelin Parsonage. For no door was so gladly opened to him as that
of his old friend Percival Vere, whom his loving friendship and
society greatly cheered in the labours and anxieties of his now
somewhat turbulent parish, and with whom he was wont to take "sweet
counsel" daily when his work was done, becoming himself too a member
of that "League of the Holy Cross," which met week by week for prayer
in the church on the hillside, and under Percival's direction
laboured bravely, in spite of ridicule and obloquy, in the cause of
temperance and sobriety throughout the neighbourhood.
A coffee-house, built by Lady Shanno close upon the riverside, became
a frequent resort of many who had hitherto spent night after night at
the village tavern or the inn at the cross-roads, and within its
pleasant walls the sweet sounds of her wondrous harp strings, or of
her own beautiful voice, might be often heard, ringing out into the
still evening air, while lectures on the nature and evils of strong
drink were made as interesting to the listeners as the learning and
eloquence of Jeremy or Percival could make them, and were week by
week thronged with eager men and women. At such gatherings the
introduction of politics was rigorously excluded, such topics
receiving during every other night in the week a share of attention,
both at home and in the open street, which was not conducive to the
peace of the parish. For in proportion to the zeal of the king's
humble followers in the wild Welsh hamlets was the hatred and
fanaticism of those who sided with his enemies or vaunted an
independence their little country was powerless to maintain, so that
party strife reigned supreme over hill and dale, and often in the
hollows of the dark woods and lonely copses by the riverside there
lurked wild spirits thirsting for vengeance on their foes, and in
knowledge of whom Primrose often trembled for the safety of her
faithful knight, who, intent upon his mission, passed continually on
errands of love and mercy by night as well as by day along the
unfrequented byways and over the wild hills, and was in frequent
peril of rude attack and insult, if not of bodily injury from those
who both in religious and civil matters opposed his teachings.
But there were still few in the hamlet itself who would not have
cheerfully laid down their lives for their vicar, such love and
devotion had he awakened in their rough yet warm and tender hearts;
and had any lawless spirit of the country-side ventured an actual
attack upon him, but sorry treatment would he have received at their
hands. Indeed scarcely less was their love for him than for the Lady
Shanno herself, the radiance of whose youthful beauty her many
sorrows had but changed into a more chastened and ethereal charm,
touching her face and form with lightly-reverent fingers, as though
loth to mar a thing so fair. From far and wide the poor thronged to
her castle gates, with their tales of woe or pleadings for help and
guidance, no longer remembering with any dread that curse which had
till but lately held back their trembling feet as with some strong
spell from venturing within a stone's-throw of those grim grey walls,
but conscious only that within those frowning battlements and
mouldering stones dwelt one whose praises were sung throughout the
quiet vale, whose very shadow was blessed by old and young, and the
sound of her footsteps welcomed like the tread of an angel, and for
the sake of whose loving smile and tender word of sympathy the most
superstitious believer in the old tales of horror would bravely cross
the once-dreaded threshold, and even pass fearlessly along the dim
resounding corridors to reach the sanctum from which the meanest
among them would not be turned away without a hearing.
It was also Shanno's great delight to throw open her doors to the
lads of Master Taylor's school, especially to his own three
motherless boys and their inseparable friend little Elidore of Caer
Caradoc, and on many a holiday afternoon the old halls would ring
with the merry boyish voices till twilight would draw them by common
consent to Lady Shanno's boudoir, where clustering round the glowing
fire they would coax the old boatman, seated in his old oak chair in
the ingle-nook, to tell them tales of his own boyish days, specially
delighting to hear him recount the history of the building of his
beloved bridge, on which he could expatiate for hours together,
telling of hairbreadth escapes from drowning in connection therewith
and of adventures at flood-time such as are ever dear to the boyish
soul. And often while his flock were safe in the charge of their
heroine, to whom they vied with each other in devotion, Master
Taylor, with books under each arm, would gladly slip away to Cwmfelin
Parsonage, to enjoy a few quiet hours with his friend Percival Vere
in the old wainscotted library, where already the vicar could boast
of shelves of books hardly less noteworthy than those of his aged
friend and predecessor good Master Rhys. There the two young
clergymen were wont to spend many a delightful hour in literary
conversation and pursuits, Master Taylor bringing with him precious
manuscripts of his own, and reading aloud to his friend passages from
the works on which he was diligently engaged in his leisure moments
between school-hours, and on which he delighted to receive Percival's
ever-ready sympathy, and such advice as his humility could be
prevailed upon to give to one whom he regarded as of infinitely
greater learning than himself. Especially did the friends take
counsel together upon the production of Master Taylor's _Golden
Grove_, written, among other books, during this time of exile, and
with much interest Percival awaited its completion, feeling with
Jeremy himself that the day was not far off when the use of the Book
of Common Prayer would be surely prohibited for a season, and that in
such a deprivation this work of his friend's would be of greatest
value and comfort. Indeed the young vicar was beginning to feel that
ere long he too might share Master Taylor's fate in losing his cure
and being forced to hide his head till the storms of increasing
religious agitation had blown over, and he often contemplated with
pain and dread the day when his beloved little church on the hillside
should in its turn be desecrated by the sacrilegious hand of
Cromwell. Such a grievous calamity seemed indeed only too perilously
near, when Caer Cynau itself was invaded by the Republican army in
the year 1648, and the country-side rang for months with the wild
excitement of the sieges of Pembroke and Tenby castles. Indeed it
was but just across the river, beyond the wooded hills which ran
along its farther shore, that, on the lonely heights of Glascoed,
Oliver himself encamped for a time, during which season party feeling
rose to boiling-point at Cwmfelin, and enough arrows were aimed
across the Gwynnon at those distant heights from the cross-bows of
Master Taylor's pupils on the battlements of Craig Arthur, to have
slain a score of Cromwells, had the "field of tents" been within the
range of these gallant young Cavaliers. Then, during the sieges of
those brave old strongholds of Pembroke and Tenby the fair vale of
Gwynnon sent the flower of her youth to their defence, and for three
months they held out bravely under their valiant defenders, among
whom Sir Ivor of Caer Caradoc and the gay Sir Tristram of Craig
Arthur were not the least noteworthy. But the Roundhead forces were
too strong, and the surrender of Tenby in June was followed by that
of Pembroke in July, and the brave youths and gallant knights
returned sad at heart to the valley.
Meanwhile the little church at Cwmfelin still stood bravely, and the
peace of the village remained uninterrupted throughout this stormy
season except by its own internal warfare and strife of tongues,
which day by day waxed more bitter and clamorous.
It was a fine time for the boys at Craig Arthur, who, lying in deadly
ambush through many a long summer's afternoon upon the wooded slopes
beneath their ancient school-house, made at twilight many an exciting
escape from their bushy hiding-places by means of boats moored below,
in which they would row with all the hushed secrecy of dread reality
to the boatman's bridge, Master Taylor himself being at the helm, and
conclude their exploit by scaling the steep greensward of Bryn Afon
and startling its young mistress by showers of blows upon the ancient
oaken doors of her fastness. Or, as a reward for exceptionally good
conduct and studious behaviour, a privileged few might sometimes be
seen wending their way with slow, laborious step and bowed and aching
back along the rude subterranean passage which, on its way from the
distant Caer Caradoc to Bryn Afon, passed by Craig Arthur and was an
altogether too tempting mode of access to Lady Shanno's domains to be
wholly forbidden. And there was not a boy in the school but vowed
that he would at any time make the journey through the secret passage
alone at midnight, just for the sake of seeing the Lady Shanno's
beautiful face and golden hair, since to each of them she was not
only the impersonation of all graces and virtues, but also surrounded
in their imagination with a halo of romance such as made of her the
fairy princess of an enchanted castle, or the very Queen Guinevere of
olden times, re-incarnated in the pure and holy form of a saint! But
of all her champions none equalled in chivalrous devotion little
Elidore of Caer Caradoc, who spent much time at the castle, his
mother being so frequent a visitor, and again taking up her abode
with Primrose during her husband's absence at the siege of Pembroke;
and of his own particular favour with his heroine he made no small
capital among his envious schoolmates. A beautiful boy was young
Elidore, bidding fair to be a worthy successor to his father's
ancient name and estate, and in his black velvet suit and deep
point-lace collar, over which his thick auburn curls clustered, and
with his handsome features and bright brown eyes, a picturesque
occupant of the ancient halls he dearly loved to frequent. Born many
years after their marriage, he was the idol of his parents' hearts,
and Primrose loved the boy with scarcely less devotion. "When I am
grown up I shall marry you, Primrose," he remarked one day, as he lay
at full length upon the hearthrug playing with her favourite spaniel.
"I think it is very unkind of all these brave knights in the valley
not to have married you long ago!"
"Perhaps she would have none of them, my son," said Lady Rosamond,
glancing at Master Vere, who had been engrossed in deep conversation
with Lady Shanno, but started with a look of mingled amusement and
pain at the boy's speech, and clasped his hand tenderly round the
slender fingers which sought his. "Perchance they are all at this
very moment dying for love of her and she will but say them nay! Be
not over bold, my son, for it may be Primrose doth not choose to
marry." "She will marry me," said the boy confidently. "And I shall
give her dresses of gold and silver, as many dresses as the great
Queen Elizabeth, and she shall go out hunting with me in the forest
with a falcon on her wrist! How all the boys will envy Sir Elidore
of Caer Caradoc! Unless," and he suddenly glanced suspiciously at
the chaplain, and his voice took a tone of anxiety--"unless Master
Vere marries her first! If you very much want to marry her, Master
Vere," he added magnanimously, though with a sigh, "you may have her,
for it will be rather long before I am a man, and perhaps she may get
tired of waiting. Master Taylor says one must never keep a lady
waiting!" A shout of laughter at this climax covered the blushing
discomfiture of Primrose, who said gently; "You shall ever be my own
gallant champion, Elidore; but do you see these grey hairs on my
head? By the time you have your falcon ready for my wrist I shall be
too old to go a-hunting, and my hairs will all be white. Then you
will perchance not love me quite as now?"
"I shall love you when you are as white as the boatman," answered the
child promptly; "and I know you are not yet old at all, although you
have so many silvery hairs. Master Vere has many of them too, and he
is not old either, for Master Taylor has told me that he is himself
just one year older than you, Master Vere, and he is but thirty-five!
Indeed, mother, he will not chide me for telling, for it was but
yesterday that he wrote for me in my copy-book, 'Age is honourable.'
So if I tell an age I must be 'honourable' too!"
"I am verily none so sure of that," answered Lady Rosamond with a
laugh. "But I would have my son honourable in all things, sweet
Elidore, and that I trow good Master Taylor will not fail to make
thee. Now prithee hold thy prattling tongue, and list to what
tidings this letter brings us of thy brave father, and meanwhile
Master Vere may have time to consider his acceptance of thy noble
relinquishment of the Lady Shanno's hand!"
* * * * * * *
So, with her home enlivened by the innocent wiles of children, and
cheered by the daily visits of the poor and suffering to whom she
loved to minister, the Lady Shanno saw at last her ancestral halls
free from the stain and reproach of the past; and knowing the name of
her father's ancient house to be blessed in all the country-side, she
bore the self-imposed burden of her life with brave cheerfulness,
ever sustained and comforted by the unselfish devotion of her ideal
knight, whose name "Sir Galahad" had never been more truly deserved
than during these years of their mutual self-sacrifice.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE WARNING FULFILLED.
"For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minutes at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!"
--ROBERT BROWNING.
"Where there exists the most ardent and true Love, it is often better
to be united in Death than separated in Life."--VALERIUS MAXIMUS.
The 30th of January of the year 1649 dawned dark and lowering in the
vale of Gwynnon, and while those dark scenes which dyed Cromwell's
hand in blood were being enacted in far-distant London, and the
hearts of the murdered king's faithful followers in the hamlet of
Bryn Afon were aching bitterly over the tragedy to be that day
consummated, the wind raged and howled through the valley, and tore
up the trees along the river-bank in its mad fury, while the rain
fell in torrents of angry weeping, the very elements themselves
lifting up as it were a wild cry of protestation against the deed of
wickedness which was being perpetrated.
Within the walls of the castle the grey-headed old boatman spent the
long dreary hours of that dreadful day in sore lamentation and
weeping for the sovereign he had loved with unflagging loyalty
through all the dark struggles of the past, and whose cause he had to
the last firmly believed must surely triumph in the end; and by his
side, soothing him as well as her own aching heart knew how, sat his
granddaughter, longing throughout each weary hour for the safe return
of Percival Vere, who had gone forth in the early forenoon on an
errand of mercy, at some miles distant beyond the river, and whose
homeward journey she feared might be fraught with danger, not so much
from the stormy weather as from the lawless crowd, who, collected
together by Master Jones from miles around, and incited by himself
and his few followers in the village of Cwmfelin, had marched to and
fro throughout the day, singing wild songs of vengeance upon the
followers of the murdered king, and uttering openly their dark and as
yet unfulfilled threats against Master Vere and his Papistical church
on the hillside. Scarcely had their hands been restrained from
violence, when just after midday, at the hour of the unhappy king's
execution, the little building had been filled from end to end with
his gallant subjects in the loyal little Welsh village, and its walls
had resounded with their unrestrained weeping, as they joined with
their beloved vicar and good Master Taylor in prayer and supplication
for their murdered monarch. But some remnant of gentleness yet
dwelling in Master Jones's lawless heart restrained him from striking
a blow against the sacred building whilst the fair river-maiden knelt
in prayer within its walls, and though he was capable of inciting any
violence towards the person of the pure-hearted young priest whom he
hated, he shrank from lifting a finger against him while she who
loved him was by his side. So, his turbulent followers being
restrained with difficulty from committing their evil deeds until a
more convenient season, the little band of Cavaliers were permitted
peacefully to join in the prayers offered to God by their vicar for
their beloved sovereign and his cruelly bereaved family, and to
hearken in quietness of spirit to the beautiful words afterwards
spoken to them by Master Taylor from the pulpit, in which he exhorted
them not to return "railing for railing," but to "suffer and be
still," and prayed them to return quietly to their own homes,
remembering the words of Holy Writ: "Vengeance is mine; I will repay,
saith the Lord."
Long were the brave and eloquent words spoken by Master Jeremy Taylor
at that memorable hour treasured in the hearts of the simple village
folk, and long they remembered with tears and sorely aching hearts
the holy upturned faces of Primrose and the lily-knight, as they
knelt in prayer side by side when the benediction had been
pronounced, the light of another world--not long hence to illumine
for ever their beautiful features--already shedding its gleams of
coming glory upon their pure countenances. Slowly and with reverent
step the gallant band had proceeded homewards, and Percival, leaving
Primrose in safety within her own walls, had gone forth on his
distant errand to a dying person, accompanied some part of the way,
greatly to her relief and joy, by his friend Jeremy, who on this day
clung to him with a feeling he could not analyse of being strangely
loth to let him out of his sight. But Primrose knew that Master
Taylor's own duties must call him homeward to Craig Arthur ere late
in the day, and as twilight fell, and she began to anticipate her
lover's lonely return through the darkness, her anxiety could with
difficulty be controlled, and she sat at the casement, watching the
raging of the storm with a beating heart, side by side with the old
boatman, who, trembling with apprehension for the fate of his bridge,
had for hours sat patiently at the little window immediately above
it, fearing every moment to see it carried down the stream. At
length, in the thickly gathering gloom, both bridge and river became
invisible to his failing sight, and Primrose had scarcely persuaded
him to exchange his seat for one closer to the crackling logs on the
wide hearth, when, looking out herself from a window on the farther
side of the room, she saw sudden flames leap up on the hillside, and
at the same time wild shouts rent the air, and above the storm voices
could be heard below, shrieking; "The church! the church! Where is
Master Vere? The church is burning!"
Primrose clasped her hands for a moment in wild despair. Already had
her own warders and serving-men been some hours since despatched to
the defence of the sacred building, together with a brave band of the
stoutest and sturdiest villagers, and no other help was at hand.
From the distant din of voices which reached her ear as she flung
open the window and leaned out breathless with terror into the
darkness, it was evident that the whole village had flocked to the
scene of the riot, and the horrid glare of the leaping flames proved
only too surely that the enemy had been too strong for the brave Bryn
Afon guard. She turned from the window and glanced at her
grandfather, and seeing by his peaceful countenance that his deaf
ears had failed to catch the cry from below, or even her own startled
exclamations of dismay, her resolution was quickly taken. No one but
herself should break the news of this awful sacrilege to her lover,
whose heart would well-nigh break at the hearing of such a deed. He
had assured her he should return to the castle before nightfall, that
she might know of his safety ere he took his way to the parsonage.
She herself would slip out quietly under cover of the storm, and
await him by the boatman's bridge, and break gently to him this act
of wickedness ere other ruder tongues could reveal it. His way lay
along the valley and through the dark woodlands the other side of the
river. There was but little chance of his seeing the dreadful flames
until he had crossed the bridge, since the greater height of the
steep on which Bryn Afon stood would hide the farther hillside from
his view.
"Grandfather," she whispered in the old man's ear, "the rain has
cleared a little, and ere it grows later I will steal down to the
riverside and see that your bridge is safe for any night passers-by
who chance to cross it. Percival must needs pass that way, and I
fear somewhat for him, lest the storm should have worked damage, and
rendered the footing dangerous. Ere long I will return. Do not fear
for me, for the crowds have passed along to the other side of the
village, and I shall meet no foe in the darkness. See, if you have
need of aught, you have but to sound this gong which I leave at your
side, and the maidens will wait on you. But prithee tell them not I
have quitted the house, else they will fall into foolish terrors.
Anon Percival and I will once more be at your side."
And kissing him tenderly, she left him, half slumbering in his quiet
corner, and slipped quietly out of the castle, while the flames ever
leaped higher on the hill, and the distant roar of voices grew every
moment wilder. To venture to the scene of the tumult was impossible.
All the men it was safe to spare from the castle were already there,
doing, she well knew, their very utmost to quell the fury of the
flames and drive back the foe. But the enemy was in possession, and
with a bitter pang she was forced to realise that the little church,
in which she and Percival had vowed their vows of love and so often
prayed together, and without whose walls her beloved parents lay
sleeping, was doomed to swift destruction.
Her feet sped with a swiftness borne of love towards the bridge,
which swung to and fro across the raging, foaming waters, as though
each moment it must be dashed by the furious wind into a thousand
pieces. Hardly could she keep her footing along the narrow roadway,
but the bridge was reached at last, and she bravely walked half-way
across it, trembling and giddy in the darkness; then--oh, horror!--in
the dim, fast-decreasing light, she suddenly beheld at her very feet
a black chasm, where, in the fury of the storm, several boards had
been dashed from the footway at the very centre of the bridge,
leaving a gap far too wide for her to pass, and for Percival barely
possible by a skilful leap. A cold shiver passed through her frame
as she saw the deadly danger he must run were he to cross alone later
in the evening, in yet deeper darkness. She gazed around--no human
being stirred in the dim distance. She called, but no voice
answered. All were watching, far away on the hillside, with
fascinated eyes those lurid flames, which now, in face of this new
danger to her beloved, Primrose forgot utterly. She crept back to
the bank, and searched eagerly up and down in the darkness for a boat
or raft--anything by means of which she could row herself across the
torrent and bring back Percival in safety. But there was no raft,
however rude, in sight. The boat-house was locked, and the boatman,
Jack's successor, was far away on the hillside, as Primrose knew, one
of the chosen band for the defence of the ill-fated church. She must
stay on the bridge and watch for Percival--it was all she could
do--and in her anxiety for him the stormy wind and driving rain were
trifles she hardly noticed as she eagerly strained her eyes across
the swaying bridge into the blackness beyond, to catch the first
glimpse of his figure. And as the long moments dragged themselves
away, and she remained a lonely sentinel in the ever-gathering gloom
of night, a vision came to her like those of her childish dreams--a
vision of King Arthur's knights of old, pacing to and fro on their
brave palfreys along the winding road by the riverside, and this time
they rode stately and slow, and at their head, on snow-white steed,
rode, with pure and reverent countenance and eyes which seemed to
gaze far away into distant worlds, Sir Galahad, the "Lily Knight,"
bearing aloft the Holy Grail. And as she gazed in rapture upon him
who wore the very image of her own true love, his face and form faded
gradually into an ethereal shape of silvery whiteness, on whose head
there gleamed a faintly shining crown of gold, and by his side she
seemed to see her own shadow standing; and as a crown like his was
likewise placed upon her head, a voice like sweetest music whispered
through the rippling of the waters; "These are they which have come
out of great tribulation." And then she saw and heard no more, only
around her a yet deeper gloom and a yet fiercer raging of wind and
water, so that she was fain to cling for very life to the frail
handrail of the quivering bridge, lest she should be swept into the
roaring current below.
At last, after what had seemed to be many weary hours, she felt the
bridge tremble beneath the weight of a new footstep, and cried in
mingled joy and terror: "Percival, Percival, come no farther at your
peril!" as the darkly-clad figure of the chaplain, scarcely
discernible in the blackness of the night, stopped short on the very
verge of the yawning chasm. "Primrose!" he exclaimed in a voice of
deep gladness, yet mingled with surprise and
anxiety,--"sweetheart--what brings you hither in such wild weather?
Ah, you have braved alone these fearful elements, to tell me of yon
flames on the hillside? Yes, I have seen their glare upon the
blackness of the sky, and too well I know their meaning. Dear
one----" "Come not a step farther, if you love me, Percival!" she
cried in terror, as he moved nearer in the darkness. "Betwixt you
and me there yawns a black depth, where the boards have been torn
from the footpath in the storm! Ah, you have already seen the flames
and guessed their import? Yes, dear heart, I came to break the news
gently to you, as I hoped, trusting yon castle-heights had hid them
from your sight as you passed along the wooded valley; and finding
the bridge had thus given way, I waited for you, dreading lest alone
in such thick darkness you should come to harm. Think you you can
leap the chasm, Percival? Oh, I fear terribly, lest as you leap,
your weight should bring the whole bridge down and hurl you into the
water!"
[Illustration: "THE BLINDING SPRAY DASHED UP AND COVERED THEM."]
Percival tried the distance between them with his stick, and for a
moment paused irresolute. "The words of the gipsy are verily being
fulfilled," he said musingly. "The river-spirit is indeed let loose
in the valley, and is running riot! It is but now an old shepherd
told me there had been no such storms or floods in the valley within
the memory of man! Well, I will not be rash. 'Twere vain to try to
swim across such a foaming torrent! I must e'en risk the leap. But,
Shanno--sweetheart--you must first leave the bridge, and let me know
you safe on yonder bank, for my weight alone will sorely try the
strength of these rotting timbers!" "I sought for a boat, Percival,"
said the girl, trembling from head to foot, "but none are left out in
such weather, and Morgan, who keeps the keys of the boat-house, is
away amid yon riotous crowd, where he and our brave men have striven
in vain to save our church! Methought I could have crossed the river
had there been some craft at hand, and we could have so returned
together." "I am glad you found no craft, sweetheart!" he answered
earnestly, "for you must verily have been dashed to pieces ere you
reached the other side! Nay, the leap is my only chance. Have no
fear for me.--Shanno, you must obey me! Till you call to me that you
are safe on yon bank I will never risk it!" Primrose shuddered,
hesitating with a wild fear of putting any yet greater distance
between herself and him she loved; then, her trustful spirit of
obedience gaining the mastery, she boldly crept to land, and called
to him to follow. He leaped, and such a wild crash followed, that
Shanno rushed madly forward, and had but just thrown her arms around
him before the footway along which she had passed was torn asunder
and tossed into a thousand fragments; and clasped in each other's
arms they two stood alone above the raging torrent on the few planks
which yet remained firm upon their strong posts in the very midst of
the stream. On either side of them a black gulf yawned deep and
dreadful, and the blinding spray dashed up and covered them as the
river boiled and seethed beneath their feet in its mad fury. "Dear
love, you have waited long hours for me," said Percival, "and you are
cold and wet. How can I save you? You should have let me die here
alone! Did I not bid you stay on the bank in safety?" "I was cold
and wet," said Primrose dreamily, "but my heart was warm.
Sweetheart, life without you would be death! A grave beside you here
in this dark river is sweeter far than life. In the dark river--you
remember what the gipsy sang?--'In the dark river the Primrose and
Lily shall sleep!' Farewell, my lily-knight! We have loved
faithfully on earth through much suffering, and God will never part
us in heaven!" And in the blackness of the storm the chaplain
commended his own soul and hers into the hands of Him who "holds the
waters in the hollow of His hand, and metes them whithersoever He
will;" and as the lips of the lovers met in one long last kiss, a
crash, heard above the roaring of the wind by the terrified servants
within the castle walls above, rent the air with horrible sound, and
in a few moments nought remained of Jack the boatman's bridge but a
few broken spars, which the angry torrent flung upon the banks as it
whirled the fragments hither and thither in its rage. And the
Primrose and the Lily, whom no mad, revengeful river-spirit had power
to sever, rising unharmed to the surface, floated gently down the
stream, tightly clasped in each other's arms, towards a quiet pool
beneath an overhanging willow, whose bare, leafless branches bowed
down, weeping, over their beautiful lifeless bodies, and where the
angry current swept by, leaving them unharmed, to sleep their last
long sleep together, the fair Lady Shanno's golden hair floating out
around them both on the silent surface of the still pool like a halo
of glory.
CHAPTER XL.
REUNION.
"The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard,
The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky,
Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard;
Enough that He heard it once: we shall hear it by-and-by."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
"So ends my story. If ye think it sad,
It is because ye look with weeping eyes,
Because for gloom ye cannot see the skies
Where Love is Lord, and life forever glad."
--JOHN JERVIS BERESFORD.
So at break of day a wandering peasant found the lovers sleeping, and
he stood awhile and marvelled at the beauty of the holy upturned
faces, ere he passed along the river-bank towards the hamlet to tell
what he had seen. And ere the sun was high came Master Jeremy
Taylor, wandering with slow and reverent step along the riverside,
conning the manuscript pages of his _Holy Living and Dying_ as he
walked, and ever and anon lifting his eyes to gaze upon the
devastation wrought upon the fair river's banks by the wild storm,
now succeeded by a still, sad morning. Scarcely had he closed his
eyes throughout that fearful night for thinking of his bosom-friend,
whom he had perforce left to pursue alone his homeward battle with
the storm, and to find on his arrival his beloved church a heap of
blackened ruins; and very early he had left his uneasy couch and
taken the road to Cwmfelin, that he might be the first, after the
Lady Shanno, to offer consolation to his friend. But finding it yet
very early, on his arrival at the vicarage, and unwilling to disturb
Percival at his morning meal, he had strolled on to the riverside, to
note what havoc might have been wrought during the night; and so,
after some half-hour's ramble and mingled study of his manuscript and
of nature, he too came to the silent pool under the willow-tree, and
gazed, awe-struck and dumb with horrified amazement, upon the
sleeping pair. Around their motionless forms the waters rippled
gently in mournful whisper, and the early morning breezes sobbed
through the willow-boughs, which bent, weeping, over them; and
through the bare branches a few pale sunbeams, struggling from out
the watery sky, glinted down upon the pale, upturned faces, bathing
them in an ethereal glow. And in the silence of that early winter
morning a bitter cry burst forth from Master Taylor's loving heart,
as he knelt upon the cold ground, and, stooping over the river brink,
passionately kissed the pale icy forehead of his friend. And still
kneeling over those sleeping figures, his whole frame shaken with
sobs, he was found some while later by the eager crowd who at the
peasant's tidings came hastening to the riverside, and forgetting the
strife and bitterness of the night past, stepped forward one by one,
with hushed and reverent tread, to gaze with weeping eyes upon the
faces of those whom they had so dearly loved; and on the still air
there rose a wail of bitter weeping and lamentation for Master Vere
and his fair dead love--a wail so heart-rending that certain ones
among his enemies who had mingled with the crowd, unseen, were fain
to slink away like evil things of darkness from the scene of woe.
And soon to their cries of sorrow succeeded such wild threats and
terrible execrations against their enemies for the horrid deed of the
past night, that good Master Taylor rose, pale and haggard, from his
knees, and rebuked them in his dead friend's name for their thoughts
of vengeance, exhorting them for the sake of those dear, sleeping
forms they were gazing upon with so great love and sorrow to pray
like their Lord upon the bitter cross; "Father, forgive them, for
they know not what they do!"--and to disperse in peace and quietness
to their own homes. And with many other holy words he strove amid
his own tears there upon the river bank to soothe their grief and
calm their angry passions, till at length they stole sadly homewards
one by one, leaving him, their vicar's ever-faithful friend, once
more alone with the holy dead, to await the arrival of the castle
guardsmen, who should bear homewards the lifeless forms of the
lovers. And presently, to join him in his watch, came with tottering
step the aged Master Rhys, bowed down with sorrow, and refusing to be
convinced that the lovers truly slept in death; and together they
kept vigil beneath the willow-tree. But among the mourners who came
and went upon the river bank the weather-beaten face and bent form of
Jack the boatman were missing, for he too was quietly sleeping his
last sleep within the castle walls, in the fireside corner where his
grand-daughter had left him, his deaf ears having heard nothing of
the strife upon the hillside, nor his calm sleep been disturbed by
the mighty crash of his beloved bridge as it had fallen headlong into
the roaring river--for the loud report had stolen in upon his
slumbers but as some far-distant echo, which to his dreaming soul had
sounded as a call from his daughter in Paradise, and to which the
maid-servants, rushing wildly into the room as they heard the
terrifying sounds from below, had heard him answer in clear, glad
tones, "Yes, my daughter, I follow quickly!" And one of them,
stealing gently to his side, marvelling at his words, saw him give
but one deep sigh ere his spirit passed from the land of dreams into
Paradise, there to join those twin souls who at that same moment had
quitted their cold prison in the waters.
The bodies of the lovers were laid in one grave in the peaceful
hillside churchyard, where nought but a blackened ruin remained of
the sacred building they had loved, and close beside them, and at the
foot of the grass-grown graves of his daughter and her noble husband,
faithful Jack the boatman was by his own wish laid. And the
venerable hands of their friend, good Master Rhys, who lived to a
great old age among his books in his quiet home in the valley,
brought flowers day by day to the grassy mounds he loved, and Master
Jeremy Taylor rarely failed at eventide to steal away from his
school-house at Craig Arthur and spend an hour in prayer and
meditation in that quiet spot where lay the earthly remains of his
dearest friend. And often the childish feet of the little Elidore of
Caer Caradoc were wont to follow upon his master's track, unseen,
till a sudden outburst of childlike grief, interrupting the holy
man's musings, revealed the presence of the Lady Shanno's infant
champion, who loved to help his master in tending her grave and that
of her lover, and in planting them with choicest flowers from the
treasure-houses of Craig Arthur, and who through all his boyish days
clung to the memory of his "faire ladye" with all the chivalry of a
true knight of olden time.
By the order of Master Rhys and Master Jeremy Taylor a cross of white
marble was placed at the head of the lovers' grave, inscribed with
the text, "They, being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long
time," and beneath it the Psalmist's words; "Gather my saints
together unto Me, those that have made a covenant with Me with
sacrifice."
And strangers passing by in after years would pause by the well-kept
graves, and reading some beautiful meaning in the words upon the
marble, would ask to whose memory they had been written, and would
hear from the faithful villagers the story of the curse of Bryn Afon
and of the beautiful lives of the lovers who had restored the
crumbling walls to honour and renown, and caused the ancient name of
that house to be once more loved and revered throughout the valley.
And their tears would fall as they told of the faithful, yet in this
world ever hopeless, love of their vicar for the Lady Shanno, who had
been worshipped by rich and poor for her exceeding loveliness, and
who, for the curse inherited from her forefathers, had forsworn for
the sake of Christ all earthly love and marriage. And with hushed
voices they would yet further tell of that wild night in January,
when all the village wept for the murder of the king, and when to
crown their woe their church was burnt to the ground by their
enemies, and in wrath the river-spirit arose, and swept away the
boatman's bridge, and drowned the luckless lovers in its fury. And
the travellers, passing on, would gaze up from the river banks upon
the fast-crumbling battlements, frowning above them from the steep
greensward's summit, and think with mingled awe and pleasure upon the
tragic scenes enacted within those old walls; then, walking yet
farther down the stream, would, an it chanced to be in the
spring-time, marvel at the wondrous wealth of the yellow primroses
which clothed the mossy banks, and would be told by the children how,
ever since the night when the Lily and the Primrose had slept their
last sleep in the river, the primroses had sprung up each spring
season, along the banks by which their bodies had floated, in
ever-increasing profusion; and how, in the hollow by the still pool
in which their fair forms had been discovered, some lingering yellow
blossoms ever tarried year by year until the lilies of the valley
sprang up behind their shining leaves, that they might greet them
with a lover's kiss of welcome, ere they passed away beneath the
brightness of the summer sun.
THE WALTER SCOTT PRESS, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.
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