FORTUNE-TELLING.
"Destiny is but the breath of God."
--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
"... 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!"
[Illustration: "SHE HELD OUT A ROSY PALM, HALF IN FEAR, HALF IN
AMUSEMENT."]