CHAPTER XVIII

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THE GIPSY'S HAUNT.

"Love is ... the passion of soul for soul, an exchange of ideals, a response of depth to depth of human life."--_Essay on_ BROWNING (_Quarterly Review_).

Percival Vere awoke next morning to a consciousness that some subtle change had come over his being, and after a day spent in some pleasant mountain rambling with Lady Bryn Afon and her fair attendant, during which sunny hours he made profounder study of the river-maiden than she had any idea of, he found himself utterly unable to settle his mind to any other kind of study, when, in the cool of the evening, he gathered his books around him and strove to turn his thoughts into severer channels. At length, in desperation over his own want of strength of mind, he gathered two or three of his unopened volumes under his arm and wandered out over the mountain-side, to inquire within himself as to the strange tumult of new feelings, which possessed him all the more overwhelmingly because he had as yet had none of those experiences of them so common to youth; and as he climbed the steep mountain-paths, he reasoned severely with himself on the weakness of permitting the witchery of a midnight vision so to throw its mocking glamour over his senses as to make him succumb thus easily to its mortal resemblance. It was quite true that no maiden yet had e'er had power to take his heart by storm; not that he had been at any time guilty of a lack of chivalrous feelings towards the fair sex, or of lack of due admiration for their peculiar virtues and graces, but that these very virtues, only imperfectly realised in any of the fair ones with whom he had as yet come in contact, had but served to heighten his idea of their possible perfection, and to raise his ideal woman to a pinnacle which, as Lady Rosamond loved to remind him, might perchance ever rear itself aloft in his imagination only, and be impossible for any poor mortal woman to attain. Moreover, so wholly had his heart and mind been given up since his early youth to his preparation for the duties of his sacred calling, and especially for those sterner duties which must lie in his path with regard to that vice which he had for some years past felt himself imperiously called upon to combat, that dreams of love and fair companionship had found but little harbour in his mind, stealing in upon his deeper thoughts but as transient visions, to be driven forth and bidden keep their place till a more convenient season. And such season, in the course of the peculiar work he had undertaken, the young student had boldly told himself might never occur. Now for the first time such dreams leapt forth in dazzling radiancy, and refused to be driven back. There was nothing for it but to look them fairly in the face, and, if sinful, reject them finally, once and for all. If not sinful--if indeed for him there might be the bliss of a pure earthly love, which should be the true sacrament of a deep spiritual union, and might be indulged in without casting any shadow on his union with his God--then--ah, how beautiful might life become--how infinitely sweet would be the work for Christ, shared between two beings, whose love for Him would be their own strongest bond of union, and whose souls would ever be as one in their service of Him in this world, and in their yet closer worship and service in the world to come! To have loved one who could not share in the deepest longings of his nature would have been an impossibility to the young chaplain, whose heart was so far uplifted above the things of mere mortal sense, that they alone could never enchant him. But in the pure, sweet face of her whose image had taken thus sudden possession of his heart he saw a true picture of the beautiful soul within, and read clearly those deep, inner sympathies which, more than her exceeding mortal loveliness, touched his own soul, and had already struck within it that strange new chord, which, whether it sounded for joy or sorrow, could never be silent again. Percival Vere wandered on, far over the mountain, in the still eventide, by hill and dale, nor stopped his march and his musing till, far up on the lonely mountain-side, he came upon one of nature's beautiful spots which he had often wished to see--the cavern whence sprang the far-famed river Gwynnon, bubbling up in this solitary hiding-place out of the secret places of the earth, and trickling forth, down its steep, rocky bed, in hurrying eagerness to reach the sunny valley, where it might spread itself at will over the flowery meadows, and become the broad and noble stream, for which, little trickling handful of water as it now was, it felt itself to be destined. A second streamlet, venturing forth more shyly from out a smaller cave hard by, joined it with slower and more timid footstep, rippling modestly over its smooth pebbles, till, caught by the noisier streamlet into its passionate embrace, the two sped gaily together down the mountain-side in one laughing little river. "Thus should our lives flow together," said the young chaplain, following with shining, eager eyes the course of the merry brooklet below his feet; "and thus, in the sunlight of God's continual presence, should our hearts expand with love to Him for His goodness, and our lives run over in deeds of thanksgiving and of charity, which should spring up as flowers beneath our feet along the valley of life!--Ah! who speaks? Methought no living thing but the singing birds shared with me this rugged, solitary spot." He turned hastily and saw, peering out from behind some rough thorn bushes, an old woman, whose tottering form, clothed in ragged garments, withered countenance, and leering eyes presented a somewhat startling spectacle, thus bursting suddenly upon him. With one hand the old hag grasped a stout knotted stick, with which she supported her trembling limbs, while with the other she pushed away the brambles, and suddenly grasped the chaplain's arm. "Who are you," she muttered, "that dares to track me to my hiding-place, which is known to no man but him to whom I choose to reveal it? You have come to spy out the source of the river, which is my secret, which I guard night and day, and choose not that every mortal eye should look upon. I know well how to terrify away those whom I will not to find the secret springs--but you--as my eye saw you from behind these thorns, my spirit quailed for sudden fear of you, for you are the 'lily-knight,' whose eyes are ever fixed on Heaven, where He dwells whom I dare not name! I know you and I fear you, but you shall fear me too. When I let loose the springs into the valley, then you shall tremble! Then woe, woe to the boatman and his bridge in which he vaunts himself, and woe to you, lily-knight, and to her you love! The boatman scoffs and heeds not my warnings, but the day will come." She stopped, breathless; then seizing Percival's hand, suddenly changed her tone, and whispered: "A silver coin, good sir, and I will read the lines for you truly--or a bit of bright red gold, and maybe somewhat of the ill I see may not come to pass!" "Nay, my good woman," said the chaplain, "my fortune is in God's keeping, and it is He who 'holds the waters in the hollow of His hand, and metes them out whithersoever He will.' I fear not your warnings, nor would have you fear me, but rather make of me a friend who may lead you to seek a higher Master than him you now serve. I come not to pry into your secrets, having had no knowledge of your dwelling here in the mountain; yet, since you have revealed yourself, will you not suffer me to see further into your hiding-place, that I may tell whether a silver coin left in your keeping may procure you some greater comfort?" The old hag's eyes glistened, and still keeping a tight hold upon his arm, she dragged him after her into her thorny retreat, where, as the bushes closed behind them, an open space in the thicket lay before them, in the midst of which rose up a steep wall of rock, towering upwards to a great height, and breaking away, on the side which faced them, into a deep, yawning cavern, which evidently, as Percival saw by peering into its dark depths, led far away into the solid earth. "This is my castle," said the woman with a hoarse chuckle, "where I eat and sleep, and keep guard over the river-spirit, when I am weary and have grown rich by wandering through the valleys, telling pretty fortunes to youths and maidens. Give me the silver coin! My store is well-nigh spent, and I must soon go forth again to earn my bread. And I grow old and faint, and am often like to die by the way. I would fain die and be buried here by the river springs, for there is no curse here like yon castle in the valley. My daughter died in the castle--the curse drove her mad. Nay, I will hear naught of your God, He loves me not, and I have long forgotten Him! What, you will have no pretty fortune for the silver coin? I can see true love in your hand, but neither long life, nor wedding, nor fair children! There, leave me, and bring but the bit of red gold another day, and I will look for better things. But beware when the river breaks loose in the valley, and beware the pale Primrose, who dwells on its banks, an you will not carry an aching heart to your grave. Go!" And shaking him off suddenly, and brandishing her stick wildly in his face, she tottered to her heap of rags in a dark recess of the cavern, pressing the silver coin ravenously to her lips. Percival Vere advanced one moment to her side, and kneeling for a second upon the stony floor, murmured: "May God have mercy on your soul!" and left the cavern, sick at heart, but with a firm resolve to seek out this poor lost sheep upon the mountain, until, beneath the mask of the Evil One, he had found again the lost image of God in her soul. On his return to the farm he found it too late for any conversation with Lady Bryn Afon and Primrose, but giving some account of his adventure at the morning meal on the following day, he found Primrose deeply interested in his encounter with the old gipsy, to whose frequently recurring presence in the hamlet of Bryn Afon she had been from her early childhood so well accustomed. "I was even curious enough to suffer her to tell my fortune," she said, "but I repented me afterwards of so doing, fearing I had been sinful. In truth, it was scarce worth the silver she demanded, for though fair in part, it was clouded by evil forebodings so dark that she would not even confess them!" "Pay no heed to her witcheries, sweet one," said Lady Bryn Afon; "she ever bears ill-will to aught that is young and fair. I would that you had not suffered her to tell her idle tales in your hearing! Yet you have too good sense, I warrant, to let aught of her dark speech trouble you?" "Indeed, I have scarce given it a thought," said Primrose, "and have but pitied her the more for leading so miserable and unholy a life. Did you also submit your hand to her scrutiny, Master Vere?" "Nay," he answered somewhat gravely; "yet I could not choose but hear some of her sayings while she grasped my hand and gazed upon my unwilling palm ere I could withdraw it." "I hope she prophesied nought but good concerning you?" said Primrose somewhat shyly. "I will not reveal her forebodings," he answered with a laugh, yet with a flush suffusing his countenance for a moment. "They were worth nought, and such folly were best not repeated. But I will visit the poor soul again while we remain in this neighbourhood, and do what lies in my power for the comfort of her mind and body. Perhaps Lady Bryn Afon would allow me to escort herself and you thither one afternoon? A pillion on the back of one of our worthy host's stout farm-steeds would convey you both in comfort and safety, and I would fain have you see the beauty of the wild and lonesome spot, whence issue the springs of your fair river Gwynnon. And in my charge you will not fear the old gipsy's uncouth speeches, should she again emerge from her secret cavern?" "I would much like to see her too in her strange home," said Primrose, "for I am well used to her wild figure and rude rhymes, and have no fear of her. And I have long wished to see the beautiful caves where the Gwynnon rises. You will let us go, will you not, dear madam, some day when you are not too much fatigued?" "Willingly," she answered, "for while we remain in this beautiful spot we shall do well to see all we may of its neighbourhood. On the morrow, if Master Vere's duties permit, we will make our expedition, and carry with us such comforts as the poor soul may find acceptable." So, on the forenoon of the day following, the little cavalcade set forth, the two ladies mounted on the back of a stout cart-horse, while the chaplain walked at their side, beguiling the time with recounting many ancient legends of the country-side, and with much learned discourse on the subject of his crusade against the evils of intoxicating drinks, upon which subject he waxed eloquent under fire of Lady Bryn Afon's searching questions, proving himself to have inquired into the matter with no prejudiced mind, but with a calm judgment and a deep study both of books and of human nature which could not be gainsayed. And in favour of his views he quoted many excellent passages from the writings of his revered friend, Master George Herbert, with whom, as a boy, he had been wont to hold much converse on this particular matter, and whose example of sobriety and godliness had inspired him with a zeal and courage which he confessed humbly that he might otherwise have sorely lacked. And so, listening to his talk, and to the quaint yet charming verses of his sainted friend, over which his lips lingered in loving utterance, the rough travelling appeared to come to only too speedy an ending, and the wondrous caverns were reached ere either of the fair travellers had a thought of weariness.

Their appreciation of the beautiful spot was as hearty and enthusiastic as he could have desired, but Primrose, on peeping boldly into the gipsy's cave, found it empty, and they were fain to leave their gifts behind them, trusting to her speedy return from some one of her wild expeditions to enjoy them.

The ride home was very beautiful in the soft evening twilight, and by Primrose and Percival the "yellow valley" (Glyn Melen) in its wealth of gorse-bushes in fullest bloom had never been seen through more golden spectacles. They were too happy for many words, but their eyes met ever and again in a mutual sympathy and understanding which was perhaps yet more eloquent, and which was not unnoticed by Lady Bryn Afon, who, as she watched them, sighed once or twice to herself, with an expression of mingled pleasure and perplexity.

The days that followed were golden days, whose light lingered on through the dreary months of separation which ensued for the two young people, who each in their secret heart felt every day more and more drawn to the other, ever finding new topics of mutual interest and new tastes in common, and ever feeling their souls to be more firmly knit together by those higher aspirations and longings after the "things unseen and eternal," which alone can form the basis of a true, unending love. Yet no word of love ever passed between them, for Percival, knowing the strange circumstances of Primrose's life, and that the still-continued waiting-time for her unknown mother was one of which he dared not take advantage, kept a tight rein upon himself, and would often spend hours in solitude upon the mountains rather than intrude, save at Lady Bryn Afon's bidding, into the presence of her whom, he could not but confess to himself, he dearly loved. There were, however, many pleasant hours which he spent in their company, whether reading aloud to them, as they sat at work in the copse or orchard, or listening in the dusky twilight to the sweet strains which Primrose drew from her beloved harp by the side of the stream, or guiding the sure-footed old horse to the tiny church in the nearest village on Sundays, and at other times to some beautiful spot in the mountains, which he had discovered in his own rambles, and would fain have them enjoy with him. And now and then there came brief moments to each of unacknowledged bliss, when, left alone with books or music, for some short space of time their tongues seemed to loosen mutually, and their hearts to draw nearer in sweet converse and unspoken sympathy, But at such times Primrose often wondered why the chaplain would as it were suddenly withdraw into himself, shutting himself up within a wall of impenetrable reserve, which she dared not break, and more than once abruptly leaving her, on the plea of forgotten duties, causing her to think sorrowfully for the rest of the day that she must needs have in some way vexed him, until at their meeting on the morrow he would again silently reassure her heart by a glance which betokened an unbroken friendship, or an involuntary pressure of her hand which made her heart throb with a strangely sweet pleasure.

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