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.