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.