I decided to return to the house, but found that I had lost my way in
the obscurity and pelting rain. For hours I wandered about, without
the slightest clue as to where I was. I was literally soaked to the
skin. Several times I fell into holes in a morass, and was up to my
hips in moss and mud and water. Then I began to call out for
assistance till I was hoarse. I might as well have called out on an
uninhabited island.
The night wore on, and the darkness grew so intense that I could
scarcely see my hand when I held it up. Every star in the heavens was
hid away as by a thick-pall. The darkness was positively benumbing to
the faculties, and added, if possible, to the misery I was in on
account of Winifred. Suddenly my progress was arrested. I had fallen
violently against something. A human body, a woman! I thrust out my
hand and seized a woman's damp arm.
'Winifred,' I cried, 'it's Henry.'
'I thought as much.' said the voice of the Gypsy girl I had met at
the wayside inn, and she seized me by the throat with a fearful grip.
'You've been to the cottage and skeared her away, and now she's seed
you there she'll never come back; she'll wander about the hills till
she drops down dead, or falls over the brinks.'
'O God!' I cried, as I struggled away from her. 'Winifred! Winifred!
There was silence between us then.
'You seem mighty fond on her, young man,' said the Gypsy at length,
in a softened voice, 'and you don't strike out at me for grabbin'
your throat.'
'Winifred! Winifred!' I said, as I thought of her on the hills on a
night like this.
'You seem mighty fond on her, young man,' repeated the girl's voice
in the darkness.
But I could afford no words for her, so cruelly was misery lacerating
me.
'Reia,' said the Gypsy, 'did I hurt your throat just now? I hope I
didn't; but you see she was the only one of 'em ever I liked, Gorgio
or Gorgie, 'cept Mrs. Davies, lad or wench. I know'd her as a child,
and arterwards, when a fine English lady, as poor as a church-mouse,
tried to spile her, a-makin' _her_ a fine lady too, I thought she'd
forget all about me. But not she. I never once called at Mrs.
Davies's house with my crwth, as she taught me to play on, but out
Winnie would come with her bright eyes an' say, "Oh, I'm so glad!"
She meant she was glad to see me, bless the kind heart on her. An'
when I used to see her on the hills, she'd come runnin' up to me, and
she'd put her little hand in mine, she would, an' chatter away, she
would, as we went up an' up. An' one day, when she heard me callin'
one o' the Romany chies sister, she says, "Is that your sister?" an'
when I says, "No; but the Romany chies call each other sister," then
says she, pretending not to know all about our Romany ways, "Sinfi,
I'm very fond on you, may _I_ call you sister?" An' she had sich
ways; an' she's the only Gorgio or Gorgie, 'cept Mrs. Davies, as I
ever liked, lad or wench.'
The Gypsy's simple words came like a new message of comfort and hope,
but I could not speak.
'Young man,' she continued, 'are you there?' and she put out her hand
to feel for me.
I took hold of the hand. No words passed; none were needed. Never had
I known friendship before. After a short time I said,
'What shall we do, Sinfi?'
'I shall wait a bit, till the stars are out,' said she. 'I know
they're a-comin' out by the feel o' the wind. Then I shall walk up a
path as Winnie knows. The sun'll be up ready for me by the time I get
to the part I wants to go to. You know, young man, I _must_ find her.
She'll never come back to the cottage no more, now she's been skeared
away from it.'
'But I must accompany you,' I said.
'No, no, you mustn't do that,' said the Gypsy; 'she might take fright
and fall and be killed. Besides,' said she, 'Winifred Wynne's under
a cuss; it's bad luck to follow up anybody under a cuss.'
'But you are following her,' I said.
'Ah, but that's different. "Gorgio cuss never touched Romany," as my
mammy, as had the seein' eye, used to say.'
'But,' I exclaimed vehemently, 'I _want_ to be cursed with her. I
have followed her to be cursed with her. I mean to go with you.'
'Young man,' said she, 'are there many o' your sort among the
Gorgios?'
'I don't know and I don't care,' said I.
''Cause,' said she, 'that sayin' o' yourn is a fine sight liker a
Romany chi's nor a Romany chal's. It's the chies as sticks to the
dials, cuss or no cuss. I wish the chals 'ud stick as close to the
chies.'
After much persuasion, however, I induced the Gypsy to let me
accompany her, promising to abide implicitly by her instructions.
Even while we were talking the rain had ceased, and patches of stars
were shining brilliantly. These patches got rapidly larger. Sinfi
Lovell proposed that we should go to the cottage, dry our clothes,
and furnish ourselves with a day's provisions, which she said a
certain cupboard in the cottage would supply, and also with her
crwth, which she appeared to consider essential to the success of the
enterprise.
'She's fond o' the crwth,' she said. 'She allus wanted Mrs. Davies to
larn her to play it, but her aunt never would, 'cause when it's
played by a maid on the hills to the Welsh dukkerin' gillie,
[Footnote 1] the spirits o' Snowdon and the livin' mullos
[Footnote 2] o' them as she's fond on will sometimes come and show
themselves, and she said Winnie wasn't at all the sort o' gal to feel
comfable with spirits moving round her. She larnt me it, though. It's
only when the crwth is played by a maid on the hills that the spirits
can follow it.'
[Footnote 1: _Dukkerin gillie_, incantation song.]
[Footnote 2: _Livin' mullos_, wraiths.]
We did as Shift suggested, and afterwards began our search. She
proposed that we should go at once to Knockers' Llyn, where she had
seen Winifred the day before sitting and talking to herself. We
proceeded towards the spot.