PERCIVAL'S PRIVILEGE.
"Life is--to wake not sleep,
Rise and not rest, but press
From earth's level, where blindly creep
Things perfected, more or less,
To the heaven's height, far and steep."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
Time forbids us to dwell at any length upon the few short weeks spent
by Shanno at her new-found mother's side in London, or upon the
marked notice and favour shown her by the king and queen, whose great
kindness but strengthened the love and devotion she had ever secretly
cherished for them--for the king more especially, whose beautiful yet
sad countenance and melancholy eyes haunted her with a peculiar
fascination. And also she at that time met for the first time the
great Archbishop Laud, whose name was already but too sore a source
of strife, and with him his learned chaplain, young Master Jeremy
Taylor, on whom, for his wisdom and holiness of life, she looked with
awe and reverence, and, for his great friendship with Percival Vere,
with a certain tenderness of spirit which she could not disguise from
herself. Many a time she listened with a beating heart to his warm
praises of his friend, sometimes timidly venturing herself to draw
him into conversation upon her father's beloved chaplain, and ever
finding herself pleasingly rewarded for such boldness by the great
affection with which Master Taylor spoke of his friend, dwelling
enthusiastically upon the wonderful purity and spotlessness of his
life from boyhood, and upon those charms of manner which, combined
with a strong will and high moral purpose, as well as with learned
parts and wondrous eloquence of speech, had won for him the love and
esteem of all his fellows, among whom, said Master Taylor, he had
ever, as it were, diffused a purer atmosphere than that breathed by
ordinary men, and shown forth a noble ideal of living, which, if they
sometimes ridiculed, they could but secretly reverence. And to such
talk of him, whose image she ever cherished in her pure girlish
heart's inmost shrine, the Earl of Bryn Afon's unknown daughter
listened with glowing cheeks and brightly-shining eyes, and Master
Taylor, reading in those liquid depths the secret which they
unconsciously betrayed, and which he was perhaps the quicker to
apprehend because of his own newly-found joy in a good wife's love,
rejoiced in the goodness of his heart that so good a gift might
likewise be in store for Percival as the love of this wondrously fair
maiden, the Lady Bryn Afon's cherished companion, in whose
countenance goodness and purity of soul were evenly blended with
beauty of feature, and in whose mind, as he wrote to his friend
Master Vere, all fair graces were mingled, the striving of each for
the mastery adding piquancy to the one harmonious whole.
We can also make but passing mention of the one happy day Primrose
spent in her father's company on his return to town with the Black
Horseman,--happy indeed, yet her pride and joy in him were mingled
with bitter sadness in spite of the thankfulness and pleasure with
which she received his great kindnesses towards herself, and saw the
evident marks of tender love, existing despite all the strange
circumstances of their lives, between himself and her mother.
"Fain would I boast so fair a daughter!" he exclaimed, betwixt a
laugh and a sigh, as he bade her farewell on the morning of her
departure with Lady Bryn Afon into Wales, he himself being forced to
remain in attendance on the king, and being left in the safe charge
of his faithful physician, while the chaplain, now at Oxford for some
few days, also at his bidding took holiday for some weeks. And
Primrose, at his words, had much ado not to burst into tears, and
fall at his feet, confessing that she did indeed bear to him that
sweet and holy relation. "I pray you take care of my sweet wife," he
added gaily. "I am but loth to be again so quickly parted from her,
but she droops like some fragile flower during the hot season in
town, so that I am fain to banish her to breathe her own native air
awhile. And in such fair companionship I have no fear for her
happiness."
So they parted, and once more the long journey into Wales was
accomplished in safety, and on a bright June evening their attendants
conducted them and their dark-eyed maidens to the farm Glyn Melen,
and gave them over into the welcoming arms of the honest farmer and
his family, and to the warm greeting, so unexpected by Primrose as to
take away her breath and all the colour from her cheeks, of the
chaplain, Percival Vere.
"I knew not that Master Vere was again to be our companion, dear
mother," said Primrose, when, Evensong having been said in the
impromptu chapel, she and Lady Bryn Afon retired to the latter's
chamber for a few moments' chat ere they parted for the night; the
young girl's heart secretly glowing with the consciousness of the
deep gladness shining in the chaplain's eyes, as he had clasped her
hand in bidding her good-night, and shyly conscious too that she had
by no means been able to hide the equal gladness in her own. "Your
father proposed but a few days since that he should join us here on
leaving Oxford," answered her mother, "knowing how well he loves
these beautiful mountains, and that overmuch study during the past
year has appeared somewhat to tell upon his health. He was a
pleasant companion, methinks, last summer. Thought you not so, sweet
daughter, with ever a ready wit and store of converse, both learned
and lively, wherewith to beguile some few of our quiet hours? I
would there were an organ in this humble dwelling, that you might
hear him discourse the wonderful music by which he has so won the
king's heart, that he already, ere his Ordination, graciously offered
him the post of Court Musician. But his heart was so set upon taking
Holy Orders, and especially upon waging war in this, his mother's
native soil, against the crying sin of intemperance, that he returned
his Majesty a courteous refusal of the honour." "He chose a holier
calling," said Primrose softly, "and I trow the king bears him no
ill-will for his refusal, for I heard him speak of him to my dear
father with much affection, calling him by that name 'Sir Galahad,'
which Lady Rosamond long ago told me he bore among his companions,
and which, methinks, he well deserves. Think you not, dear mother,
he might be counted worthy to go in quest of the Holy Grail?" Lady
Bryn Afon looked searchingly at her daughter, as she answered with a
smile; "Indeed the real Sir Galahad can scarce to my thinking have
worn a more holy countenance, or led a more blameless life than our
young chaplain, for whom I have a very high regard and esteem. Did
you ever note, Primrose, what beauty those long and dark eyelashes
add to his face--such lashes as babes and maidens often boast, but
which are a rare feature of masculine beauty? There is a pretty
story told of this peculiar feature of his countenance." "Prithee
tell it me, sweet mother," said Primrose, hiding her face in her long
golden tresses, which her mother's fingers had unbound and let fall
in glittering showers around the slender form nestling against her
knee. "Percival's mother, the beautiful Lady Enid Ap Gryffyth," said
Lady Bryn Afon, "was from her early childhood gifted with a
singularly pure and religious tone of mind, and in very early
girlhood resolved to devote herself wholly to good works, and never
to marry, lest, as the Apostle Paul saith, she should be counted as
one of those whose care is rather to please their husbands than their
Lord, which thought her holy mind and affections could not bear to
contemplate. But ere she had been long returned from the convent
where she had been educated, it so befell that she was bidden to
visit the mother of the sainted Master George Herbert, who had been
her own mother's dearest friend during the years of her sojourn at
Montgomery Castle, and who, though now a second time married and
dwelling in other parts, ever retained a warm affection for the
Countess Ap Gryffyth and her beautiful daughter, the latter having
been born in the same year as her son George, and having been his
infant playmate. This lady was, at the time of the Lady Enid's visit
to her, spending some few weeks in Oxford, where she had resided for
some years after leaving her Welsh castle, and previous to her second
marriage, and where she had many friends, among whom none were more
welcome nor more frequent guests in her house than our dear
chaplain's father, younger son of the renowned Vere, Earl of Oxford,
then a scholar of Christ Church, and reading for Holy Orders. He
was, although some few years older than her son George, who was then
a student of Trinity College, Cambridge, one of his most attached
friends, and withal a man of singular grace and virtue, not to speak
of much beauty of countenance, and it was not long ere a deep and
true affection sprang up in his heart for the fair and gracious Welsh
maiden; and she, against her most earnest convictions, likewise fell
deeply in love with him, and at last, unable to resist his pleadings
and her own warm affection, together with the great desire of her
parents and of her kind friend that she should accept him as her
husband, she consented to break her resolution and become his wife,
which happy event took place two years later, after he had taken
priest's orders, and settled in a curacy not far from that parish, in
the county of Wilts, of which he afterwards became rector. But for
this breaking of her resolution, fair Enid afterwards, in the midst
of the deepest and holiest conjugal bliss, suffered such agonies of
soul that she earnestly besought Heaven, praying her husband to do so
likewise on her behalf, to grant her some visible sign that her act
had been pardoned, or not accounted so displeasing to God as she had
feared, owing to the tender age at which she had made her resolution.
And in answer to their mutual prayers, there was granted her a
vision, in which it was revealed to her that her first-born child
should bear a special sign of resemblance in his person to the human
form of our Blessed Lord, as a token of God's favour towards himself,
and a reward to her, his mother, for her life of purity and devotion,
from a child, to His service. And being granted in her dream a
vision of our Lord Himself, holding her child in His sacred embrace,
she noted in both their countenances the same deep earnest eyes,
fringed with long and heavy lashes; and afterwards, when her
firstborn son was placed in her own loving arms, and her first eager
glance scanned his tiny face, she recognised those same wondrously
long and sweeping lashes, shading the yet closed eyes of the
unconscious infant, and thanked God humbly for so graciously-bestowed
a sign of His favour. And as the babe grew into boyhood, this
feature of beautiful likeness to the Christ of her vision grew ever
more and more apparent, and she brought him up to regard it as a most
sacred mark of the Divine favour, which must ever bind him to loyal
and devoted service to God and His church, exhorting him also on her
death-bed, not many years since, that as he bore in his outward
features this wondrous resemblance to his Lord, so he must ever be
ready to bear likewise, if need be, the inward likeness of His
sufferings. So she died, as Lady Rosamond, from whom I had this
story, tells me, a most holy and peaceful death, being followed from
this world not many months later by her most truly loving and devoted
husband and chivalrous knight, Lancelot Vere, the two leaving behind
them but this one surviving son--out of three children born to
them--Percival, our dear young chaplain, who methinks has trod right
worthily in the steps of such holy and noble parents, and whose
inward life has ever been a true and lowly following of Him of whom
he received so wondrous a mark of love and favour." "It is a
beautiful story, mother," said Primrose softly, her eyes shining with
tears of love and pride. "I thank you for telling it to me. Think
you he will not mind my hearing it?" "Nay," said Lady Bryn Afon, "I
think not so, and were he so to do, I could bear his chiding!
Listen, my sweet daughter. For reasons I thought good, I told him
some weeks since of our relationship, so that in any converse you
may, during our stay here, hold with him, you may feel at ease and
rest, knowing that betwixt us there is no concealment, and that I
have, by suffering him thus to share our secret, shown both to
yourself and him the great love and trust I bear him and place in
him. Perchance, my sweet one, you perceive some hidden current in my
thoughts, and marvel that I do not speak more plainly; but wait a
little in patience, and enjoy your summer days together, and my
secret thoughts may in time be revealed." So, embracing her daughter
affectionately, they parted for the night, and Shanno sought her
couch, wondering much over her mother's words, and trembling with a
secret joy she dared not yet openly contemplate.
The days that followed were bright with a radiance, for which the
summer sunshine, glorious though it was, could claim but little
credit.
The readings and harp-playings by the brook-side, the rambles on the
mountain, the sweet twilight talks in the warm late evenings, in the
copse, or in some shady nook on the hillside, all bore some subtle
charm, felt none the less because of Lady Bryn Afon's presence, and
indeed felt by herself, in her love and sympathy, hardly less keenly
than by the two young lovers themselves. For lovers they could no
longer, in their secret hearts, deny themselves to be, and Primrose
could not fail to note, though no word of love had as yet been
interchanged between them, that the veil of reserve so often worn by
Percival, and falling like a sudden wall between them during the
previous summer, now never shadowed their pleasant intercourse, nor
suddenly broke off the sweet interchange of those confidences into
which they were wont to drift during any few happy moments in which
they found themselves alone. Yet she noted likewise that the
chaplain's face bore signs of struggle and conflict waged with his
own soul during the past year--conflict, the reason of which she
could not know, though she might dimly guess at its cause in her own
most secret ponderings; but surely leaving the mark of its severity
upon the pure and noble countenance, of which she daily made loving
study, and which, in its mingled power and sweetness, strength and
holiness, exerted a voiceless influence over her own soul, uplifting
it in greater love to that Holy Being whose human semblance it was
permitted in its measure to wear.
"You seem greatly devoted to my father," said Primrose, one day when
they had been speaking much together of him, and of that sad weakness
which it was Percival's life-aim to combat wherever he found it.
"And since he has the misfortune to be addicted to so sad a failing,
it seems to me wonderful that in the goodness of God you of all men
should have been chosen by him to be his friend and chaplain." "I
love your father for his own sake," said Percival, "having learned to
do so in my boyhood's days, when, during sundry visits to Sir Ivor's
town residence in my vacations, I have frequently met him. But I
have moreover a special reason for devotion to the House of Bryn
Afon, which, methinks, you know not, and of which I will tell you, an
you permit me. You know I am, on my mother's side, the last direct
descendant of the luckless Ap Gryffyth, the last King of Wales, whose
name was betrayed by a Bryn Afon to Edward I., and whose head, as the
chronicler hath it, was hung up, after his body had been slain in
battle, upon the gates of the city of Carnarvon." "I knew you were
the last Ap Gryffyth," exclaimed Primrose, "but I never knew indeed
that it had been a Bryn Afon who betrayed the unfortunate king! Was
it so indeed? Methought my father's family had ever been renowned as
bearing special loyalty to their sovereign?" "So it was," he
answered. "Lord Bryn Afon was his sovereign's dearest friend, but in
a moment of weakness--the cause of which I must not reveal, since I
should thereby betray the family secret, which you are not yet to
learn--he betrayed him into the hands of the English; for which act
he afterwards suffered the most grievous remorse, and not only so,
but, I grieve to say, that when he crawled in despair and
wretchedness to Ap Gryffyth's feet, to sue his pardon, as the
unfortunate king was being seized upon the battlefield, Ap Gryffyth
spurned him with his foot, and in the bitterness of having proved his
bosom friend faithless, invoked upon his head a curse so awful, that
all who heard it trembled, and the miserable earl fell senseless on
the ground. That curse, uttered by my ancestor, sweet Mistress
Primrose, is the one which, in deadly fulfilment of his words, has
been visited upon the Bryn Afons from generation to generation from
that time until now, no heir to the doomed house having ever escaped
the terrible effects of those awful imprecations. Do you wonder
then, that I, knowing as I do the curse to be no imaginary woe, but a
fearful reality, have resolved to devote my life to its removal, or,
at the least, its mitigation, by every means in my power?" "It is a
noble resolve!" said Primrose, her eyes kindling with enthusiasm,
"and surely it is a sacrifice few could demand of you, since the
fault lay on the side of my poor father's unhappy family, and that
his miserable ancestor drew upon himself, by his own disgraceful deed
of betrayal, the awful punishment!"
"That is true," said Percival, "yet it had been nobler in Ap Gryffyth
to forgive him, after the example of his Master, who, hanging on the
bitter cross, cursed not, but prayed for the forgiveness of His
murderers! And for a family, once noble and honoured above almost
any other in Wales, to suffer so grievous a punishment for one act of
sin and weakness, is to me so terrible a thought, that I would give
my life to unsay the words of my unfortunate ancestor, and remove the
blight which has so long cursed yours! Call it not virtue, I pray
you! It is but such charity as the meanest might desire to show
towards a fallen foe." "And I may not know the curse even now?" said
Primrose meditatively. "Nay, sweet mistress, do not seek to know
it," he answered earnestly. "If, by the mercy of God, your mother's
sacrifice for you may have availed to set you free therefrom, and if
I too may play the part in restoring your father's name to honour,
which she has graciously bidden me not despair of playing, but of
which I dare not at this present moment let myself speak, I conjure
you to let the secret dwell in her heart and mine only, and to rest
content in suffering us to bear its burden, knowing there is in this
world no burden so heavy, that for your sweet sake we would not
esteem it but as a feather's weight for lightness!"
And for the first time raising her hand to his lips, he left her and
repaired to his study, while she, unable to still the tumultuous
feelings of love and of pride in his goodness which filled her
breast, wandered to and fro by the riverside till the evening shadows
had almost deepened into night.