CHAPTER XVII

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THE VISION EMBODIED.

"Could you but know what 'tis to bear, my friend, One image stamped within you, turning blank The else imperial brilliance of your mind,-- A weakness, but most precious,--like a flaw I' the diamond, which should shape forth some sweet face Yet to create, and meanwhile treasured there Lest nature lose her gracious thought for ever!" --ROBERT BROWNING.

It was in the dusk of evening when Lady Bryn Afon, accompanied by her serving-maids and Primrose, arrived at the solitary farmhouse beneath the lonely heights of Craig Aran. The ride over hill and dale from their halting-place of the previous day, some three or four miles from Glyn Helen, was wonderfully beautiful in the evening twilight, the mountain-tops bathed in the rosy light of the setting sun, and the lower hills waving in soft outline, one below another, in purple shadow or mysterious blue distance, with here and there a wooded valley, whose wealth of June leafage caught the sunset glory, and lay bathed in yellow glow. The last half mile to Glyn Melen Farm was a steep descent down a narrow, rugged lane, closely shut in on both sides by high hedges and steep, grassy banks. At the bottom of the lane a white gate opened into a peaceful orchard, through which a wide pathway led to the door of the quaint, low-roofed house, where the travellers were to spend the next few weeks. Here they were warmly welcomed by the farmer's wife, an elderly woman, whose snowy cap, tied beneath her chin, and surmounted by a tall black hat, surrounded a sweet and gentle, though homely face, which lighted up with genuine pleasure at the sight of her well-known guest and her fair young companion, and whose torrent of Welsh eloquence caused the olive-cheeked Italian serving-maids to open round eyes of wonder. Her husband and two comely daughters chimed in with a hearty greeting, and she then handed a note to Lady Bryn Afon, who, reading it, said in English to Primrose; "Our chaplain craves our pardon for neglecting to bid us welcome, but knowing it is ever our wish that he should fulfil every duty of his sacred calling, he has gone forth, at a sudden summons, to a sick bed, whence, since it is at some long distance, he must needs be late in returning. You must know, Primrose,"--for the young girl was looking at her with an inquiring as well as half-startled expression in her eyes,--"that during our stay here he is relieving an aged clergyman in charge of a scattered parish on the mountain-side; for though my husband and I would fain have seen him take holiday for a season, his active mind must needs thus find employment, and rather give rest to others than to itself. Methinks it is as well he should be absent to-night, for despite the brightness of your eyes, you must needs plead guilty of some fatigue, and I confess that my own limbs are weary after last night's adventure! We shall do better to seek an early couch, rather than to enter upon any such lengthy topics of converse as Master Vere would too surely beguile us into. What think you, dear one, of our lonely dwelling-place? Can you cheerfully pass some three or four weeks in this mountain fastness with such pleasures only as nature can afford us?" "Nature has ever been my best companion," said Primrose with a smile, "and oftentimes, save indeed my dear foster-father and my books, my only one for long months together; and here, in your sweet company, dear madam, and surrounded by such wonderfully beautiful scenes, I have no fear of being dull." "That is well," said Lady Bryn Afon, kissing her with loving gentleness, while a strangely wistful expression crossed her pale features. "I am glad you are so well content to be for a time once more my companion. I much desired to have you with me in this, to me, much-loved spot, and to make you love its strange and solitary beauties as I do." "And I am so glad you had need of me this summer," said Primrose, "for we cannot tell what next year may bring forth, since next April I shall reach my twenty-first birthday." "And then?" said Lady Bryn Afon inquiringly. "Then," said Primrose, "I may at any moment expect a summons from my mother, and may never again be at your command as now. For who can tell what strange changes our meeting may bring to my life?" "Dread them not, sweet one," said her friend affectionately. "Take what present joy God gives you, and wait in patience for what may hereafter befall. Be she whom she may, your mother can scarce fail to love so fair and sweet a daughter!" "I hope she may indeed love me!" said the girl wistfully. "Yet, after so strange a desertion of me in my babyhood, I cannot tell. But I will think no more of my own matters, nor let the thought of the future trouble me in this beautiful place!" And bidding Lady Bryn Afon an affectionate good-night, she went to her little white-washed chamber, and fell asleep, wondering on what errand of mercy the chaplain might be bent, and if he were indeed the very least like Sir Galahad of old! On going downstairs next morning, Primrose found that she must take her morning meal alone, Lady Bryn Afon being still too much fatigued to rise for some hours. The chaplain, moreover, having not yet returned, the morning prayer could not be said, and the young girl, free as soon as her meal was over to roam whither she would, betook herself to an exploration of the premises without further delay. Beyond the farmyard and the greensward, where cows, pigs, and geese wandered in full liberty, lay a second well-wooded orchard, similar to the one on the front side of the house, and passing through it, Primrose found herself in a shady copse, through which bubbled a merry little brooklet, in which she gleefully bathed her face and hands; then, finding no one in sight, took off shoes and stockings, and waded down the cool stream, till it emerged from its shady hiding-place into the open grassy plain beneath the hill, and, joined by other tiny streamlets, became a wide and noisy river, forming a barrier between the farm-lands and the mountain-slopes beyond, too deep for her to wade across. But donning her shoes once more, she soon discovered a rude extempore bridge, consisting of well-worn boulders, which lay at wide intervals across the stream, yet were wide enough to allow her to jump merrily from one to another, sometimes nearly losing her footing on their slippery surface, but finally landing her safely on the other side, at the foot of the steep green slope, up which lay the narrow track to the Craig Aran Pool. She pursued the path for some distance, not knowing whither it led, and was delighted when, on reaching the summit of the slope, she saw stretched out before her the undulating table-land, where lay the mysterious lake at the foot of the towering ridge overhead. "Lady Bryn Afon will have no need of me before noon," she said to herself. "I will wander on and visit by daylight yon uncanny spot, and see if I can discern the maiden's footprints along the Pool's brink. What did the chaplain, I wonder, think of the vision, and will he also come and seek for them anon! But methinks she trod too softly to leave much trace behind her. Ah, if I had known he would be there, I could not have dared, and I trow he would have had no vision! And now he is at the farm, and I must presently face him! I doubt that I will ne'er play for the Lady Rosamond again without a better understanding of her wiles! How fiercely the sun begins to beat upon the hillside! I fear me I shall be chidden for venturing thus far in the heat of the day, but I will rest awhile by the Pool, under the rock where we sat on Midsummer Eve; I shall then return in time enough for our midday meal. How still the black lake appears! as black now in the full blaze of the noonday sun as in the dim light of the midnight moon. Nay, I see no footprints; the fairy footfall was e'en light enough, in spite of my Lady Rosamond!" And a merry laugh rang out in the mountain stillness, startling a young pedestrian, who, having clambered down a rugged watercourse from the summit of the mountain, was advancing, unperceived by Primrose, to the brink of the lake, while her eyes were still bent on the ground in search of the footprints, her form concealed from him by a jutting rock. He came yet a few steps forward, then stood, transfixed at the sight, on the Pool's edge, of a maiden scarcely less beautiful than the vision of Midsummer Eve, and clad, like that fairy form, in pure white robes, adorned only with her own wealth of golden hair. As he gazed upon her, the old moonlight spell seemed again to take possession of him, and he stood for some moments like one enchanted, while she still looked upon the ground. Yet surely that girlish laugh had been of a truly mortal ring! He would presently accost her, and so break the spell, and return home a wiser man. He moved a step nearer, and then, the sound arousing her attention, she turned in sudden surprise and looked at him. "Sir Galahad!" burst involuntarily from her lips, and for a few seconds they both stood and gazed upon one another, spellbound! Yes, that pale, pure face, and those deep far-searching eyes, which, bent so intently upon her, seemed to read her very soul, could belong to none other than to the "lily knight," of whom she had heard so much, and whom, must the truth be told, she had so often wished to see. She was not disappointed in the sudden vision. It was truly the countenance of one worthy to bear the name of her ideal hero--a refined, spiritual countenance, which, though bearing plainly upon it the marks of a daily conflict with earth's evil, yet shone with a beauty not of earth but of heaven, while in the depths of those far-seeing eyes, shaded with their long and heavy lashes and glowing with the fire of intense energy, there mingled likewise the deep abiding peace of a soul at rest with God, and the wistful longing a holy soul must ever feel to win a sinful world to its own loved Master. Such thoughts flashed like lightning through the young girl's mind ere, with a sudden blush, she withdrew her eyes from the chaplain's face, and strove to frame some suitable remark with due self-possession. "I fear me I startled you, madam," he said, raising his hat courteously, "but until I emerged this moment from the shelter of yon rock, I thought myself alone in this vast solitude, and but that I presently heard you laugh as surely none but mortals can, I had as like as not greeted you with exorcisms upon my lips, taking you verily for a repetition of my strange vision at this place two nights agone!" Primrose's laugh rippled forth again irrepressibly. "I thank you, sir," she said, making him a graceful reverence, such as his reverend bearing and habiliments seemed to warrant; "'tis true you startled me for a moment, for I too thought no living being nearer than yon shepherd on the distant hill-top. But had you terrified me with your exorcisms, I had indeed rushed in affright from you! Do I then bear aught of resemblance to the maiden whom you saw on Midsummer Eve, and did she in truth appear to you as the legend says?" "You are indeed her very counterpart," answered the chaplain, "with but such difference in your appearance as is caused by the present shining of the sun in place of the more ghostly glamour of the pale moon, who then rode in the heavens, triumphant doubtless in her own powers of deception. Yes, I saw the mystic maiden, doubtless, as clearly as I now see you, fair mistress, and did I then dream, as I have since assured myself was the case, why then I surely dream again, and now behold but the same vision in mortal guise." "I cannot now explain to you the riddle," said Primrose, with a little shake of the head; "you must needs discover it, if riddle there be, for yourself. Yet I will e'en assure you for your present comfort, that I, whom you now behold, am nought but mortal maiden! Others, however, were witnesses of the fairy vision besides yourself, among them one whom, methinks, you count as a friend, the Lady Rosamond of Caer Caradoc?" "I know it," he answered gravely. "Well, since I find you not to be the fairy for whom I mistook you, must I needs leave you to the blazing heat of this noonday sun, or may I have permission to escort you somewhither--be it only to caves in the rocks, where pixies dwell?" "You mistrust me even now," said Primrose. "I fear me your nightly vision hath wrought overmuch upon your mind. I was myself but now searching after the damsel's footprints, but she has left not one behind her. Could I but show you the print of a mortal shoe, perchance it would set your mind at rest, and you would feel less disturbed? I am going below to Glyn Melen Farm, where I wait upon my Lady Bryn Afon. An your way should lie in that direction, I will gladly accept of your company, good sir, for the great silence that ever reigns upon this mountain doth seem to press like a weight upon the brow! Is it not a marvellous stillness, and does not the distant tinkle of the sheep-bells steal sweetly from the heights above? Have you come from the summit of the mountain? I would fain climb there one day, for the view must be passing wonderful!" "It is so indeed," said Master Vere enthusiastically; "and though the climb is steep, yet its trouble is well repaid. Yet I would beg of you not to venture the climb in solitude, for it is giddy work, whether you ascend by yon precipitous greensward, or by one of these dry watercourses, where a loose rock giving way or a false step might hurl you back headlong." "Nay, I will not be over venturesome," answered Primrose, "for I am in Lady Bryn Afon's charge, and must needs do her bidding, but she will not refuse to let me adventure myself in company with her serving-maids or the farm damsels." "I am also going to the farm," said the chaplain, "being likewise in attendance of a different sort upon her ladyship, whom I treated but discourteously yestere'en, in leaving her to arrive without a welcome. But I was summoned unawares to the bedside of a dying man, and am but now returning from the lonely hamlet where his body lies, on the farther side of the mountain." "And you have not slept all the night?" said Primrose gently, for she noted that he walked wearily. "I will rest anon," he said. "Nay, I am not much to be pitied, for surely since I could give up my rest two nights agone for the sight of an idle vision, I might well do so again, to give peace to an immortal soul. I am glad, fair mistress, to learn that we are both to be for a time inmates of the same household, since I would fain benefit myself for a season in the presence of those virtues which rumour has for some time past whispered in my ear as being the rich dower of the fair maid of Gwynnon." "You compliment me too well, good sir," said Primrose, blushing rosy red. "Rumour hath been over bold, I do assure you, and methinks the gain will be on my side rather, for I will confess that I have more than once wished to meet with one of whom both the Lady Bryn Afon and Lady Rosamond have spoken with so great affection. Besides, you must know that not long since our valley was ringing with your fame as a preacher and testifier against the sad drinking customs of our people, and my dear foster-father wished many a time that he might have had speech with you upon a subject which is very dear to his own heart." "Is it so indeed?" said the young chaplain eagerly. "I am right glad at all times to welcome sympathy, I must confess, for you must know that my labours meet with no favour in most quarters, and are accounted the delusions of a wild fanatic and wicked despiser of God's good gifts! Yet I cannot keep silence while my heart burns within me at the evil I see around, and I must needs testify, even should my outspokenness bring me to the star chamber and the pillory, or worse." "Will you dare, when you are in attendance on the Lord Bryn Afon at Court, to speak these new doctrines openly?" asked Primrose; "for all tell me that they are new opinions, and that no other man has yet dared to lift up his voice openly against the evils of strong drink as you have done." "I thrust them not down unwilling throats," answered Master Vere, with a smile, "for in all things the law of charity appears to me to be a rightful rule for us to follow, yet there are many occasions on which I must speak or be consumed with the fire within me; and that I have already given offence to some in high places I doubt not, for all, alas! are not men of high and holy living like our king." "Do you not love our king?" said Primrose enthusiastically. "I had the honour of being presented in Court some few years since by the kindness of Lady Bryn Afon, and methinks the sweet gravity of his noble countenance and the rare beauty of his smile have ever since made of me a stauncher royalist maiden than before! For you must know that in our tiny hamlet by the riverside we have great dissensions upon political matters, the most part of us being, like my own dear foster-father and our good vicar, zealous cavaliers, while some few, led away by the teachings of one who of late years has worked much mischief in Cardiff and its neighbourhood, are fast sowing the seeds of schism and discord in our midst, having even set up for themselves a chapel in which to pray and preach against our church and our king, openly confessing that they would love nothing better than to burn our Prayer Books; and I trow they would willingly enough burn us likewise, an they could! Ah, but our king will never suffer you to be put in the pillory, Master Vere, for aught you may teach, for even we, in our ignorance of the world and in the seclusion of our lonely valley, have heard that he holds you in great esteem, and rejoices that his friend the Lord Bryn Afon should have secured for his chaplain one whose influence cannot fail to be for good!" "I do verily love my king dearly!" said the young chaplain, his pale face glowing under the earnest gaze of his fair companion's sparkling eyes, "and I cannot but rejoice in the kind favour he has been pleased to show me; yet with all my love for him, I cannot but see the weak and unstable side of his nature, and feel that in time of peril I might have too true cause to echo the words of the Psalmist--'Put not your trust in princes.'" "Now I like you not!" cried Primrose, "for thus taking away your sovereign's character! Methinks you can but love him with half a heart, an you will not trust him!" "Nay, I feel nought but love and loyalty to him," answered the chaplain, "and will die willingly for him, an the day come when I must needs choose betwixt him and his enemies. Yet I cannot but grieve over those faults which, as a king, do plainly show themselves in him, and which, I fear me, may, in spite of his soul's true goodness, bring him one day to much evil. Think not too hardly of me, I pray you, fair mistress, for thus openly speaking my mind! I do assure you I would not so speak of my loved king to any one in whom I did not place the fullest confidence--such as, pardon me, your face bids me, at this our first meeting, place in you." "You do me too much honour, good sir," answered Primrose, drooping her head to hide the swift blush of shy pleasure which dyed her cheeks at such words from her ideal knight. "And I will not again doubt your true love for his Majesty. Mine were but idle words, and you must pardon their folly, for I trow we women are wont to worship our heroes in more unjudging a fashion than you men, who have a sterner and wiser judgment, and a more just weighing of merits and follies. We will think no ill of them, nor see their faults, until they deceive us, which may perchance be sad unwisdom, yet, methinks, is woman's nature." "I would fain not suffer any words of mine to destroy by one jot your faith and loyalty," said Master Vere earnestly. "Since we men must needs do battle against the ugly things of life, and drag them forth to light that we may the sooner o'ermaster them, it is surely well that there are ever hands ready to bury them out of sight, and shroud them gently with tender touch and guileless thought. Suffer me to guide you across these rude stepping-stones, for the river is swollen and rough to-day, and their surface offers but treacherous hold to the foot."

For now the two young travellers had arrived at the foot of the last green slope, and between them and the farm copse brawled the noisy river, higher now, and more turbulent in its course, than when Primrose had crossed with light foot some few hours earlier. Master Vere sprang lightly upon the first slippery stone, and Primrose taking his offered hand, they jumped from boulder to boulder with much merriment, ever and again but narrowly escaping a headlong tumble into the foaming stream; and being after all but youthful, if withal a reverend and learned chaplain, what wonder if Percival hesitated one brief moment on the farther shore ere he released those clinging slender fingers! They walked silently through the copse to the farmhouse, each conscious of a strange new thrill unfelt before in either heart, and Primrose repaired to Lady Bryn Afon's chamber with a sense as of some sudden new life within her, which gave greater lightness to her step, and more glowing brightness to her radiant eyes. The two ladies took their midday meal together; and afterwards, Lady Bryn Afon being still fatigued with her journey, she lay on her sofa idly, while Primrose amused her by recounting her morning's adventure; and in the cool of the evening they sat together in the shady copse awhile, at the edge of the streamlet, and the young girl brought out her beloved harp, and discoursed sweet music to the gentle accompaniment of the rippling brook.

[Illustration: "PRIMROSE TAKING HIS OFFERED HAND, THEY JUMPED FROM BOULDER TO BOULDER WITH MUCH MERRIMENT."]

The evening breeze wafted the sounds gently through the open casement of the room where the chaplain sat deep in study, and ever and anon he was fain to close his book and sit like one entranced, while for a moment he allowed his morning's fair vision to haunt his thoughts unchecked. He was tempted to stroll forth likewise into the cool copse, and beg to be a closer listener to the pleasant strains, but the fear of intruding an unwelcome presence held him back, and he and Primrose met no more that day, save when the household met for evening prayer in the tiny white-washed chamber which he had fitted up as an impromptu chapel in which to hold the daily services of the church. As none of the farmer's family could speak one word of English, these were said in the Welsh tongue; but Master Vere was as well versed in this language as were Lady Bryn Afon and Primrose, and all three were able, to join heartily in the hymns, in which the farm damsels uplifted voices of more power than sweetness, making the rafters ring with strains which, if somewhat uncouth to English ears, yet possessed of their own a sort of wild, barbaric beauty, and a weird, melancholy music, which haunted the ear. Meanwhile, the two dusky maidens of the south were fain to sit and tell their beads in the solitude of their own chamber, marvelling somewhat at the barbarous people's hearty worship in which they might not join, and half-tempted to steal in and listen, if they might not understand! But the fear of the displeasure of the good old priest at home in their own sunny valley held their footsteps, and made them tell their beads the faster. Primrose, for the first time seeing the young chaplain wear the pure white robe of his sacred office, could not but think that so clad he looked even yet more worthy to bear the name of her ideal knight, Sir Galahad. If ever outward garment did truly represent the inward purity of the soul, then surely it was so in the case of this youthful minister of God, whose deep yet clear-shining eyes were as windows through which a holy soul looked forth, and which, as Primrose gazed into their far-seeing depths, seemed truly--as spoke those words of Holy Writ, which came into her mind--to be "looking not at the things that are seen, but at the things that are unseen." Yes, her ideal Sir Galahad had been no empty shadow of an impossible stainless life, but a real, living knight, who now walked once more on earth, as it were, in the person of this holy man, so worthy to bear his name. "I am glad there is one like him among living men," she said softly to herself in the silence of her own chamber. "I have not dreamed foolishly of a knight who should be crowned with virtues impossible to mortal man, and live but in my fond fancy, but of one who truly walks this present world in the steps of my hero of old, whose name he bears right worthily, though it be but in jest among his fellows."

And in the dreams of the chaplain himself there were strangely-mingled visions of Lady Bryn Afon's fair-haired attendant and the golden-haired maiden of the mystic Pool, who ever, in his dream, walked round and round the dark lake, now together in loving concert, with arms entwined after the fashion of mortal damsels, now blending mysteriously into one radiant being, around whom played the sweet strains of invisible harp-strings, but who, on his approach, fell headlong into the black water, with resounding splash, and was lost to view, while ever from the watery depths sounded those same mysterious harp-strings, now wailing as in bitter woe over the drowned maiden.

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