The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Noble Sacrifice, by Emily Grace Harding

"SHE STOOD SPELLBOUND ON THE THRESHOLD AT THE SIGHT OF LADY BRYN
UPON ON HER KNEES UPON THE FLOOR."—P. 254.

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.

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.

"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.

    "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.

"... 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!"

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—

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!'*

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.

"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."

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——"

"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!"

"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."*

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE WEDDING-DAY.

            "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!"

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.

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