I
I need not describe my journey to North Wales. On reaching Bettws y
Coed I turned into the hotel there--'The Royal Oak'--famished; for,
as fast as trains could carry me, I had travelled right across
England, leaving rest and meals to chance. I found the hotel full of
English painters, whom the fine summer had attracted thither as
usual. The landlord got me a bed in the village. A six-o'clock _table
d'hôte_ was going on when I arrived, and I joined it. Save myself,
the guests were, I think, landscape painters to a man. They had been
sketching in the neighbourhood. I thought I had never met so genial
and good-natured a set of men, and I have since often wondered what
they thought of me, who met such courteous and friendly advances as
they made towards me in a temper that must have seemed to them morose
or churlish and stupid. Before the dinner was over another tourist
entered--a fresh-complexioned young Englishman in spectacles, who,
sitting next to me, did at length, by force of sheer good-humour,
contrive to get into a desultory kind of conversation with me, and,
as far as I remember, he talked well. He was not an artist, I found,
but an amateur geologist and antiquary. His hobby was not like that
fatal antiquarianism of my father's, which had worked so much
mischief, but the harmless quest of flint implements. His talk about
his collection of flints, however, sent my mind off to Flinty Point
and the never-to-be-forgotten flint-built walls of Raxton church.
After dinner, coffee, liquors, and tobacco being introduced into the
dining-room, I got up, intending to roam about outside the hotel till
bedtime; but the rain, I found, was falling in torrents. I was
compelled to return to my friend of the 'flints.' At that moment one
of the artists plunged into a comic song, and by the ecstatic look of
the company I knew that a purgatorial time was before me. I resigned
myself to my fate. Song followed song, until at last even my friend
of the flints struck up the ballad of _Little Billee_, whose
lugubrious refrain seemed to 'set the table in a roar'; but to me it
will always be associated with sickening heartache.
As soon as the rain ceased I left the hotel and went to the room in
the little town the landlord had engaged for me. There, with the roar
in my ears of the mountain streams (swollen by the rains), I went to
bed and, strange to say, slept.
Next morning I rose early, breakfasted at 'The Royal Oak' as soon as
I could get attended to, and proceeded in the direction in which,
according to what I had gathered from various sources, Mrs. Davies
had lived. This led me through a valley and by the side of a stream,
whose cascades I succeeded, after many efforts, in crossing. After a
while, however, I found that I had taken a wrong track, and was soon
walking in the contrary direction. I will not describe that long
dreary walk in a drenching rain, with nothing but the base of the
mountain visible, all else being lost in clouds and mist.
After blundering through marshy and boggy hillocks for miles, I found
myself at last in the locality indicated to me. Arriving at a
roadside public-house, I entered it, and on inquiry was vexed to find
that I had again been misdirected. I slept there, and in the morning
started again on my quest. I was now a long way off my destination,
but had at least the satisfaction of knowing that I was on the right
road at last. In the afternoon I reached another wayside inn, very
similar to that in which I had slept. I walked up at once to the
landlord (a fat little Englishman who looked like a Welshman, with
black eyes and a head of hair like a black door-mat), and asked him
if he had known Mrs. Davies. He said he had, but seemed anxious to
assure me that he was a Chester man and 'not a Taffy.' She had died,
he told me, not long since. But he had known more of her niece,
Winifred Wynne (or, as most people called her, Winifred Davies); for,
said he, 'she was a queer kind of outdoor creature that everybody
knew.--as fond of the rain and mist as sensible folk are fond of
sunshine.'
'Where did she live?' I inquired.
'You must have passed the very door,' said the man. And then he
indicated a pretty little cottage by the roadside which I had passed,
not far from the lake. Mrs. Davies (he told me) had lived there with
her niece till the aunt died.
'Then you knew Winifred Wynne?' I said. There was to me a romantic
kind of interest about a man who had seen Winifred in Wales.
'Knew her well,' said he. 'She was a Carnarvon gal--tremenjus fond o'
the sea--and a rare pretty gal she was.'
'Pretty gal she _is_, you might ha' said, Mr. Blyth,' a woman's voice
exclaimed from the settle beneath the window. 'She's about in these
parts at this very moment, though Jim Burton there says it's her
ghose. But do ghoses eat and drink? that's what _I_ want to know.
Besides, if anybody's like to know the difference between Winnie
Wynne and Winnie Wynne's ghose, I should say it's most likely me.'
I turned round. A Gypsy girl, dressed in fine Gypsy costume, very
dark but very handsome, was sitting on a settle drinking from a pot
of ale, and nursing an instrument of the violin kind, which she was
fondling as though it were a baby. She was quite young, not above
eighteen years of age, slender, graceful--remarkably so, even for a
Gypsy girl. Her hair, which was not so much coal-black as blue-black,
was plaited in the old-fashioned Gypsy way, in little plaits that
looked almost as close as plaited straw, and as it was of an
unusually soft and fine texture for a Gypsy, the plaits gave it a
lustre quite unlike that which unguents can give. As she sat there,
one leg thrown over the over, displaying a foot which, even in the
heavy nailed boots, would have put to shame the finest foot of the
finest English lady I have ever seen, I could discern that she was
powerful and tall; her bosom, gently rising and falling beneath the
layers of scarlet and yellow and blue handkerchiefs, which filled up
the space the loose-fitting gown of bright merino left open, was of a
breadth fully worthy of her height. A silk handkerchief of deep
blood-red colour was bound round her head, not in the modern Gypsy
fashion, but more like an Oriental turban. From each ear was
suspended a massive ring of red gold. Round her beautiful, towering,
tanned neck was a thrice-twisted necklace of half-sovereigns and
amber and red coral. She looked me full in the face. Then came a
something in the girl's eyes the like of which I had seen in no
other Gypsy's eyes, though I had known well the Gypsies who used
to camp near Rington Manor, not far from Raxton, for my kinsman
Percy Aylwin, the poet, had lately fallen in love with Winnie's early
friend, Rhona Boswell. It was not exactly an 'uncanny' expression,
yet it suggested a world quite other than this. It was an expression
such as one might expect to see in a 'budding spae-wife,' or in a
Roman Sibyl. And whose expression was it that it now reminded me of?
But the remarkable thing was that this expression was intermittent;
it came and went like the shadows the fleeting clouds cast along the
sunlit grass. Then it was followed by a look of steady self-reliance
and daring. This last variation of expression was what now suddenly
came into her eyes as she said, scrutinising me from head to foot:
'Reia, you make a good git-up for a Romany-chal. Can you rokkra
Romanes? No, I see you can't. I should ha' took you for the right
sort. I should ha' begun the Romany rokkerpen with you, only you
ain't got the Romany glime in your eyes. It's a pity he ain't got the
Romany glime, ain't it, Jim?'
She turned to a young Gypsy fellow who was sitting at the other end
of the settle, drinking also from a pot of ale, and smoking a cutty
pipe.
'Don't ax me about no mumply Gorgio's eyes,' muttered the man,
striking the leather legging of his right leg with a silver-headed
whip he carried. 'You're allus a-takin' intrust in the Gorgios, and
yet you're allus a-makin' believe as you hate 'em.'
'You say Winifred Wynne is back again?' I cried in an eager voice.
'That's jist what I _did_ say, and I ain't deaf, my rei. How she
managed to get back here puzzles me, poor thing, for she's jist for
all the world like Rhona's daddy's daddy, Opi Bozzell, what buried
his wits in his dead wife's coffin. She's even skeared at _me_.'
'Why, you don't mean to say Winnie's back!' cried the landlord. 'To
think that I shouldn't have heard about Winnie Wynne bein' back. When
did you see her, Sinfi?'
'I see her fust ever so many nights ago. I was comin' down this road,
when what do I see but a gal a-kicking at the door of Mrs. Davies's
emp'y house, and a-sobbin' she was jist fit to break her heart, and I
sez to myself, as I looked at her--"Now, if it was possible for that
'ere gal to be Winifred Wynne, she'd be Winifred Wynne, but as it
ain't possible for her to be Winifred Wynne, it _ain't_ Winifred
Wynne, and any mumply Gorgie [Footnote] as _ain't_ Winifred Wynne may
kick and sob for a blue moon for all me."'
[Footnote: Gorgio, a man who is not a Gypsy. Gorgie, a woman who is
not a Gypsy.]
'But it was Winnie Wynne, I s'pose?' said the landlord, in a state
now of great curiosity.
'It was Winnie Wynne,' replied the Gypsy, handing her companion her
empty beer-pot, and pointing to the landlord as a sign that the man
was to pass it on to him to be refilled. 'Up I goes to her, and I
says, "Why, sister, who's bin a-meddlin' with you? I'll tear the
windpipe out o' anybody wot's been a-meddlin' with you."'
When the girl used the word 'sister' a light broke in upon me.
'Are you Sinfi Lovell?' I cried.
'That jist my name, my rei; but as I said afore, I ain't deaf. Jist
let Jim pass my beer across and don't interrup' me, please.'
'Don't rile her, sir,' whispered the landlord to me; 'she's got the
real witch's eye, and can do you a mischief in a twink, if she likes.
She's a good sort, though, for all that.'
'What are you two a-whisperin' about me?' said the girl in a menacing
tone that seemed to alarm the landlord.
'I was only tellin' the gentleman not to rile you, because you was a
fightin' woman,' said the man.
The Gypsy looked appeased and even gratified at the landlord's
explanation.
'But what did Winnie Wynne do then, Sinfi?' asked the landlord.
'She turns round sharp,' said the Gypsy; 'she looks at me as skeared
as the eyes of a hotchiwitchi [Footnote] as knows he's a-bein'
uncurled for the knife. "_Father!_" she cries, and away she bolts
like a greyhound; and I know'd at oust as she wur under a cuss. Now,
you see, Mr. Blyth, that upset me, _that_ did, for Winnie Wynne was
the only one on 'em, Gorgio or Gorgie, ever I liked. No offence, Mr.
Blyth, it isn't your fault you was born one; but,' continued the
girl, holding up the foaming tankard and admiring the froth as it
dropped from the rim upon her slender brown hand on its way to the
floor, 'Winnie Wynne was the only one on 'em, Gorgio or Gorgie, ever
I liked, and that upset me, _that_ did, to see that 'ere beautiful
cretur a-grinnin' and jabberin' under a cuss. The Romanies is gittin'
too fond by half o' the Gorgios, and will soon be jist like mumply
Gorgios themselves, speckable and silly; but Gorgio or Gorgie, she
was the only one on 'em ever I liked, was Winnie Wynne; and when she
turned round on me like _that_, with them kind eyes o' hern (such
kind eyes _I_ never seed afore) lookin' like _that_ at me (and I
know'd she was under a cuss)--I tell you,' she said, still addressing
the beer, 'that it's made me fret ever since--that's what it's done!'
[Footnote: Hedgehog.]
About the truth of this last statement there could be no doubt, for
her face was twitching violently in her efforts to keep down her
emotion.
'And did you follow her?' said the landlord.
'Not I; what was the good?'
'But what did you do, Sinfi?'
'What did I do? Well, don't you mind me comin' here one night and
buyin' a couple of blankets off you, and some bread and meat and
things?'
'In course I do, Sinfi, and you said you wanted them for the vans.'
The Gypsy smiled and said, 'I knowed she was bound to come back, so
I pulls up the window and in I gets, and then opens the door and off
I comes to you, as bein' the nearest neighbour, for the blankets and
things, and I puts 'em in the house, and I leaves the door uncatched,
and I hides myself behind the house, and, sure enough, back she
comes, poor thing! I hears her kick, kick, kickin' at the door, and
then I hears her go in when she finds it give way. So I waits a good
while, till I thinks she's eat some o' the vittles and gone to sleep
maybe, and then round the house I creeps, and in the door I peeps,
and soon I hears her breathin' soft, and then I shuts the door and
goes away to the place.' [Footnote]
[Footnote: Camping-place.]
'But why didn't you tell _us_ all this, Sinfi?' asked the landlord.
'My wife would ha' went and seen arter her, and we wouldn't ha'
touched a farthin' for they blankets and things, not we, Sinfi, not
we.'
'Ah, you _would_, though,' said the girl, ''cause I'd ha' _made_ you
take it. Winnie Wynne was the only one on 'em, Gorgio or Gorgie, ever
I liked, and nobody's got no right to see arter her only me, and
that's why I'm about here _now_, if you _must_ know; but nobody's
got no right to see arter her only me, and nobody sha'n't nuther.
They might go and skear her to run up the hills, and she might dash
herself all to flactions in no time.'
'Don't take on so, Sinfi,' said the landlord. 'When they are in that
way they allus turns agin them as they was fond on.'
'Then you noticed as she was fond o' me, Mr. Blyth,' said the girl
with great earnestness.
'Of course she was fond on you, Sinfi; everybody knows that.'
'Yes,' said the girl, now much affected, '_every_ body knowed it,
_every_ body knowed as she was fond o' me. And to see her look at me
like _that_--it was a cruel sight, Mr. Blyth, I can tell you. Such a
look you never see'd in all your life, Mr. Blyth.'
'Then I take it she's in the house now?' said the landlord.
'She goes prowlin' about all day among the hills, as if she was
a-lookin' for somebody; and she talks to somebody as she calls the
Tywysog o'r Niwl, an' I know that's Welsh for the "Prince o' the
Mist"; but back she comes at night. She talks to herself a good deal;
and she sings to herself the Welsh gillies what Mrs. Davies larnt her
in a v'ice as seems as if she wur a-singin' in her sleep, but it's
very sweet to hear it. Yesterday I crep' near her when she was
a-sittin' down lookin' at herself in that 'ere llyn where the water's
so clear, "Knockers' Llyn," as they calls it, where her and me and
Rhona Boswell used to go. And I heard her say she was "cussed by
Henry's feyther." And then I heard her talk to somebody agin, as she
called the Prince of the Mist; but it's herself as she's a-talkin'
to all the while.'
'Cursed by Henry's father! What curse could any superstitious mystic
call down upon the head of Winifred? The heaven that would answer a
call of that kind would be a heaven for zanies and tomfools!' I
shouted, in a paroxysm of rage against the entire besotted human
race. '_That_ for the curse!' I cried, snapping my fingers. '_I_ am
Henry, and I am come to share the curse, if there is one.'
'Young man,' interposed the landlord, 'such blas-pheémous langige as
that must not be spoke here; I ain't a-goin' to have _my_ good beer
turned to vinegar by blasphemin' them as owns the thunder, I can tell
you.'
But the effect of my words upon the Gypsy was that of a spark in a
powder-mine.
'Henry?' she said, 'Henry? are _you_ the fine rei as she used to talk
about? Are you the fine cripple as she was so fond on? Yes, Beng te
tassa mandi if you ain't Henry his very self.'
'Don't,' remonstrated the landlord, 'don't meddle with the gentleman,
Sinfi. He ain't a cripple, as you can see.'
'Well, cripple or no cripple, he's _Henry_. I half thought it as soon
as he began askin' about her. Now, my fine Gorgio, what do you and
your fine feyther mean by cussin' Winnie Wynne? You've jist about
broke her heart among ye. If you want to cuss you'd better cuss me;'
and she sprang up in an attitude that showed me at once that she was
a skilled boxer.
The male Gypsy rose and buttoned his coat over his waistcoat. I
thought he was going to attack me. Instead of this, he said to the
landlord:
'_She's_ in for a set-to agin. She's sure to quarrel with me if I
interferes, so I'll just go on to the place and not spile sport.
Don't let her kill the chap, though, Mr. Blyth, if you can anyways
help it. Anyhows, _I_ ain't a-goin' to be called in for witness.'
With that he left the house.
The Gypsy girl looked at me from head to foot, and exclaimed,
'Lucky for you, my fine fellow, that I'm a duke's chavi, an' mustn't
fight, else I'd pretty soon ask you outside and settle this off in no
time. But you'd better keep clear of Mrs. Davies's cottage, I can
tell you. Every stick in that house is mine.'
And, forgetting in her rage to pay her score, she picked up her
strange-looking musical instrument, put it into a bag, and stalked
out.
'She's got a queer temper of her own,' said the landlord; 'but she
ain't a bad sort for all that. She's clever, too: she's the only
woman in Wales, they say, as can play on the crwth now since Mrs.
Davies is dead, what larnt her to do it.'
'The crwth?'
'The old ancient Welsh fiddle what can draw the Sperrits o' Snowdon
when it's played by a vargin. I dessay you've often heard the sayin'
"The sperrits follow the crwth." She makes a sight o' money by
playin' on that fiddle in the houses o' the gentlefolk, and she's as
proud as the very deuce. Ain't a bad sort, though, for all that.'