THE WORLD ONCE MORE.
"Thy friend put in thy bosom: wear his eyes
Still in thy heart, that he may see what's there.
If cause require, thou art his sacrifice."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
"It were all one
That I should love a bright partic'lar star,
And think to wed it; he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere."
--SHAKESPEARE.
The few months immediately following Primrose's visit to Glyn Melen
verified Lady Bryn Afon's prediction that a new loneliness would make
itself felt in her hitherto happy existence with her faithful
guardian. Glad though she was to return to the shelter of those
loving arms, as well as to her old haunts by the riverside and her
beloved books in the vicar's library, yet there was ever present with
her a sense of loss, and of something in her life which waited for
fulfilment--an uncertain feeling, half pain, half pleasure, that a
cup of bliss had been just tasted, and then snatched again from her
lips, and might, or might not, await her again somewhere in the dim
future. Yet she found a sort of trembling comfort that in her
loneliness of spirit she was not alone--that many miles away that
same loneliness was surely felt by another, in whose thoughts dwelt
the same vague delicious hopes which filled her own. This she
frequently told herself, blushing deeply in secret over her own
boldness, she had perhaps no right to think or build upon, yet a
secret knowledge of its truth ever lay like a hidden well of gladness
deep in her heart, and refused to be gainsaid by any reasonings.
More than ever were the pages of the _Morte d'Arthur_ conned over in
the stillness of the dim wainscotted library, and as she sat in some
shady nook on the banks of the Gwynnon, and pictured to herself, as
had long been her wont, the holy Sir Galahad riding forth along the
vale in quest of the Holy Grail, it was ever the face and form of the
young chaplain that were worn by the "lily-knight" of old, and ever
the pure and steadfast gaze of his deep and dark-fringed eyes which,
as the imaginary figure passed, seemed to bring her a message of
undying faithfulness to love and honour. "He would surely have been
counted worthy to go in quest of the Holy Grail," she murmured to
herself, as she recalled with mingled pain and joy the pure young
face, uplifted to heaven in the tiny whitewashed church in the
mountains. And softly she said over to herself the words from her
favourite book, with which he had one day concluded a sermon, and
which she had long ago read over and over, till she knew them well by
heart: "Do after the good and leave the evil, and it shall bring you
to good fame and renown. All is written for our doctrine, and for to
beware that we fall not to vice or sin, but to exercise and follow
virtue, by the which we may come and attain to good fame and renown
in this life, and after this short and transitory life to come unto
everlasting bliss in Heaven, the which He grant us that reigneth in
Heaven, the Blessed Trinity. Amen." Primrose recalled to mind how,
after the service, she had told the chaplain how well she knew and
loved those words, and how he had made answer, that "to do good and
leave the evil" had ever been the motto his father had bidden him to
make his own, and that because he had the words framed and hanging on
his wall at Christ's College, and because of his known love and study
of the pure and ideal character of Sir Galahad, he had himself been
so most unworthily nicknamed by his companions, and in consequence
had ever humbly striven to deserve in some poor sort so good a name,
though it were given him but in idle jest. And he had told her
further how much he had wondered at hearing this name fall unawares
from her lips on the day of their first meeting by the Craig Aran
Pool, upon which she had explained to him that from her childhood she
had accounted Sir Galahad to be her own ideal knight, and that Lady
Rosamond having told her of his bearing the name in jest, and she
herself feeling sure that she whom she then beheld was Master Vere
and no other, had let fall the name in her sudden surprise and
bewilderment--adding somewhat saucily, that she as yet had seen no
reason to doubt its fitness, after which speech she remembered even
now the earnest gaze of his eyes which had met hers as though they
would read her inmost soul, and the half-sigh with which he had then
turned hastily from her and changed the subject. "I may not dare
presume to think he loves me," was often her last thought at night,
in the silence of her own chamber, "but I know that I may feel I am
accounted worthy to be named among his friends, and that, for one of
unknown parentage like me, must be all I dare to covet or suffer to
enter my dreams. And to possess the friendship of one who leads so
pure and holy a life is methinks far more to be desired than the love
of any other man, wherefore I will daily pray for the continuance of
so great a blessing, nor dare to ask for that of which I must ever
feel myself far too unworthy. And since it is not enough for us to
'leave the evil,' but we are also commanded to 'do the good,' I will
ask our vicar to set me tasks to do for him among the poor and
suffering, which will surely help me better to fulfil that good
saying, than to be ever wandering and dreaming by the riverside, as I
have hitherto done. For though it is fair and sweet to lie in the
shady copse, and listen to the singing of the birds and the rippling
of the water, and dream pleasant things all the livelong day, yet who
can tell in this world of sin and sorrow whether any of those dreams
may ever come to pass, or whether I may not myself be bidden to take
up my cross, and share the lot of those who are called upon to drink
the bitter cup of suffering with their Lord?" So, as the pleasant
summer months went by, and the cold winds of autumn blew shrill
through the valley, the light step of the Fair Maid of Gwynnon, who
ever bore her hero's image in her heart and his example before her
eyes, went hither and thither on errands of mercy, and her sweet face
and voice of music brought sunshine and joy to many a sick bed and
weary heart in the lonely hamlets around. And to old Jack the
boatman she ever seemed to grow more fair and winsome, and as he
thought upon the coming day of separation his heart sank more and
more within him, and vague feelings of unrest and sad anticipation
disturbed his mind. It was a gay summer in the valley, for the
weather being unusually warm and bright, many guests tarried in the
castles in the neighbourhood, and constant pleasure-parties went up
and down the river, and Jack plied a thriving trade with his boats
and his ancient coracle, and greatly did his heart rejoice to see the
admiration with which all beheld his foster-child, and likewise the
ease and modest grace with which she bore herself among them. And
more than all others came the boat of Sir Tristram Ap Rhys, a gay
young knight from the old grey-turreted mansion which crowned the
wooded heights of Craig Arthur, who, chancing to spend the summer,
contrary to his usual custom, in his Welsh castle, heard much of the
wonderful beauty of the river-maiden, and must needs pass continually
up and down the river, to gain one glimpse of her golden hair and
radiant eyes, making some pretext, too, as he grew bolder, to draw up
his boat under the bridge, and call at the boatman's cottage for a
drink of water, or to borrow a fishing-rod, or make some other sorry
device, until at length Primrose grew weary of his gallant speeches
and the bold glance of his merry blue eyes, which no coldness on her
part could check; and would run, at the first distant glimpse of his
boat, into safe hiding in the lanes or copses, feeling a sort of
foolish anger, poor child, in her heart, that any one should dare
look with love into the eyes that were ever filled with Sir Galahad's
image, or press with soft gallantry the hand round which his fingers
had more than once closed with a tightness for which he was wont
afterwards too late to bring himself to task. And when Sir Tristram,
catching her one day unawares beneath the willows, drew up swiftly to
land, and beneath their shade, in sudden transport and triumph, vowed
such love and constancy as he avowed had never before been felt by
mortal man for maiden, she wept tears of sorrow at the thought that
her beauty should be such a snare to mankind, that even against her
will she should cause them such pain and sorrow of heart as she now
saw depicted in Sir Tristram's boyish countenance, when he tore his
long curls for misery at her cruel rejection of his love, and avowed
she had broken his heart. But she did not know, in her girlish
innocence, that he had already torn out many a curl for many a
maiden, and must needs to the end of time break his heart afresh for
every fair face that refused to smile upon him. So with tears she
sorrowfully bade him depart--tears shed half in anger at his
presumption, half in sorrow for his grief, and Sir Tristram rowed
away down the stream with heart-rending sighs, and many languishing
glances back at the spot where she stood, and soon growing weary of
fishing in the fair Gwynnon, returned to town, to drown his sorrows
amid the gaieties of the Court.
Every night Primrose gazed at the windows of Bryn Afon Castle ere she
retired to rest, to see if any lights were burning to bear witness of
the earl's presence, and of perchance the presence likewise of a
certain one among his attendants, whose name grew in absence ever
dearer to her heart; but the old battlements frowned darkly night
after night from the steep hill-top, and no sign of life was heard by
day in the long avenue which led to the castle on the farther side of
the hill, and up which she had gazed with curious, wistful eyes,
through the bars of the great iron gates, on that eventful evening
long ago in the days of her childhood, when she had beheld,
awestruck, the ghost of the weeping lady. Since that day she had
never again ventured near the forbidden ground, but once and again
during this summer she had entreated Jack to listen at the gate for
any sound of life from within--but in vain.
So that season passed ere aught was again heard of the owners of the
castle, and as the summer days drew to a close Jack the boatman's
heart began to grow sore within him, for beyond this last year of
happiness lay sorrow and parting--sorrow inevitable for himself, and
who could tell whether much or little of joy for his foster-child?
More and more was he fain to seek comfort in his anxiety within the
walls of the little church on the hillside, where Primrose too loved
as of old to steal in at the hour of Evensong, and say her prayers
amid the soft chanting of the wind in the tree-tops, and watch the
waving of the branches to and fro athwart the unpainted windows,
veiling their bareness with a soft-glowing tracery. And to and fro
over hill and dale went the young girl and her faithful guardian day
after day on those errands of mercy, the fulfilling of which gave to
her a curiously happy sense of nearness to that one who was ever in
her thoughts; and treading thus in the lowly footprints of the
servant, her own feet unconsciously trod with ever-deepening love and
faithfulness in those of his Master, who daily drew her nearer to
Himself by means of this beautiful human love for His friend, and
taught her out of the abundance of her love for him to look upon her
poorer brothers and sisters with a new depth of affection,--the
overflow of her own happy heart.
It was not until the end of the month of October that a letter, half
expected by both her guardian and herself, came from Lady Bryn Afon,
begging her once more to give her the pleasure of her company for two
or three months, which she purposed to spend abroad, in order once
more to escape the severity of the English winter; and gladly though
she would have spent this last Christmas-tide with Jack, neither he
nor Master Rhys thought it wise that she should refuse such another
kindly-offered opportunity of benefiting herself by foreign travel.
"We know not what your mother may expect of you, sweetheart," said
Jack; "but whether much or little, I would not that she should be
disappointed in her child, whatever; and for that the world is large
and the men and manners thereof are various, it is well that your
eyes should see and your ears hear as much of its wonders as is
permitted to them ere you pass away for aye from the safe shelter of
your childhood." So with mingled joy and sorrow, Primrose once more
departed in the Black Horseman's charge one fine November morning, to
join Lady Bryn Afon in town, ere they repaired together to Paris,
whence by easy stages, suited to Lady Bryn Afon's delicate health,
they proceeded to Nice, and thence to Florence, where they purposed
to remain some weeks, returning home early in the spring, by sea,
after visiting Rome and Naples. Of all Primrose saw in these
wonderful cities it would take too long to tell, but her keen delight
in music and pictures and scenery, and in all the varied new
interests which surrounded her, gave continual pleasure to Lady Bryn
Afon, as well as to her old foster-father, at such intervals as her
long and brightly-descriptive letters reached him. And good old
Master Rhys was scarcely less interested than his friend Jack, when a
letter came, telling of their unexpected meeting once more with
Master John Milton, who was at that time passing some weeks in
Florence, and who had become a frequent visitor at Lady Bryn Afon's
house, greatly delighting both herself and Primrose by his learned
and profitable conversation, telling them much of his own literary
work, and of his most kind and courteous reception in the learned
academies of Florence and other parts, and above all charming them by
his account of his late visit in person to the renowned Galileo at
his little villa at Arcetri, where he dwelt, a prisoner indeed, yet
still in his old age and blindness pursuing those studies for which
he suffered punishment. And over his cruel lot, said Primrose,
Master Milton waxed eloquent in indignation, till she herself longed
also for but one glimpse of this marvellous scientific discoverer,
and had been fain to assure Master Milton, that would he but procure
for her one moment's interview with so great a man she would pardon
him all his heresy against the church and king, and ever after read
his learned poems with an unprejudiced mind. Whereupon Master
Milton, afterwards pouring forth at times torrents of fiery eloquence
against bishops and other such terrible evils, was wont to suddenly
check himself with a smile, saying that it were too grievous a
forfeit for his bold utterance of his opinions, that his poems must
on that account perchance ever go unread by so fair a Welsh maiden.
Yet the purchase of her goodwill by introducing her to the renowned
prisoner appearing for the present time impossible, he felt himself
more free of utterance! And so Master Milton went on to Rome, and
Primrose did not see Galileo, though many other wonderful and
beautiful things she saw which time and space forbid me to relate.
And after some little time she also with Lady Bryn Afon journeyed on
to Rome and thence to Naples, returning home early in the month of
April by sea, greatly to her delight and enjoyment. So the warm
spring days brought her once more to the sunny Gwynnon Valley, and to
her simple home and tender guardian's homely care, and she set
herself to a full and lingering enjoyment of the few weeks yet
remaining ere her twenty-first birthday came round. Of the old
castle on the hill Jack had no news to tell. Lord Bryn Afon and his
chaplain had neither been seen nor heard of in the valley during the
long winter months, and although Primrose knew already well enough
that they had spent the winter in town, Lord Bryn Afon having been in
attendance upon the king, yet she felt a certain unreasonable
disappointment at their having paid no short visit to the ruined
castle, having suffered her imagination to place them there at
intervals during the winter months, and to view them both, more
especially the chaplain, holding pleasant intercourse with Jack by
the riverside--in which intercourse who could tell but that her name
might have found by chance some humble place?
So the sweet spring days ran on, when the smiling valley grew full of
new life and beauty day by day, but when Primrose sadly felt that for
her each new bud was surely opening for the last time, and every bird
singing a song which told of coming pain and parting--of old life
ended and new life begun--of love which they were sure of finding in
their leafy homes, but which for her was shrouded in dim uncertainty
and doubt and longing. For ere many more days should pass, that
dreaded birthday must come round, and her unknown mother would claim
her--and who could tell if she would really love her with half the
love of the tender guardian from whom she must part, and who could
tell, moreover, whither that mother might take her--how far from Sir
Galahad, and with what doubt and dread of their never meeting more?