CHAPTER V

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A MYSTERIOUS JOURNEY.

"I know not how others saw her, But to me she was wholly fair, And the light of the heaven she came from Still lingered and gleamed in her hair; For it was as wavy and golden, And as many changes took As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples On the yellow bed of a brook." --JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

It was during the summer of the year 1625 that a somewhat strange adventure befell Little Miss Primrose. She was now six years of age, and every day growing in beauty and intelligence, so that she reigned without dispute as queen of every heart in the village, and had moreover so wound herself into the affections of good old Master Rhys, vicar of Cwmfelin, under whose charge lay also the hamlet of Bryn Afon, that he had some months since offered to instruct her at his own charges in all such branches of education as might befit so fair a damsel for any station in life which should hereafter befall her; which generous offer Jack had been nothing loth to accept, since in those days Widow Griffiths' Dame School was the sole repository of learning which the near neighbourhood afforded, and to that he had been scarce willing to send his darling, while yet sorely perplexed in his mind as to the means of her education. For on this matter the child's mother had expressed as yet no wishes, and this silence thereon on her part had secretly pleased Jack, in spite of his difficulty, for it seemed to him but a further proof of the extreme confidence she placed in his wisdom and judgment. So day by day Jack led his little charge along the shady lanes which lay between the towering summit of Bryn Afon and the little church on the hillside, beyond which stood the ancient monastery of Cwmfelin, now crumbling into ruin, but serving in its best preserved part as vicarage for the use of Master Rhys, who had now walked its dim corridors, and sat hour after hour in its old wainscotted library, for the space of twenty years, demanding no companion save only his beloved books, which lined the oaken shelves, and which the tiny fingers of Miss Primrose were wont to stroke lovingly, as she sat upon his shoulder and counted their numbers, marvelling, in her infant mind, if she must needs read through all their countless pages ere she was a grown girl and had done with lessons for ever. And when her tasks were done she loved nothing better than to roam hand in hand with Master Rhys through the long stone passages and weird, unfrequented chambers, listening to his tales of the holy monks of olden time who had dwelt within those ancient walls; and longest of all her childish feet would tarry in the Priests' Chamber, that she might gaze through the hole in the thick stone wall, through which the penitents in their cell beyond had been wont to make their confessions, and through which she would wave tiny absolving hands upon good Master Rhys, could she prevail upon him for a brief moment to play a penitent's part. And from the patient old vicar she learned many pretty fairy tales and legends of the country-side, of which none so pleased her childish fancy as the tale of the Mystic Maiden of the Craig Aran Pool, and of her three sons, the wise and learned physicians of Glyn Melen, whose names were already familiar to her ears from the lips of her friend the Black Horseman, whose wondrous lore in plants and herbs and all healing arts, and whose goodness to the suffering poor, had made their names to be renowned in all that lonely mountain region which had given them birth, as well as through the length and breadth of the fair Gwynnon Valley, and of whom even now, after the space of three hundred years, there was known to be at least one brave and skilful descendant on whom the mystic gift rested in full measure, though none could say where he dwelt and practised his arts, saving only the mysterious Black Horseman, who had indeed confessed to Jack that the unknown mother of his foster-child had dealings with him. But the secret of his abode was one which Primrose, with all her wiles, could never extract from him when she grew old enough to tease him on the matter.

It was on a fair summer's evening that the adventure referred to at the beginning of the chapter befell Little Miss Primrose. The Black Horseman's visits to the cottage twice in each year were great events in her life, long looked for and remembered.

She well knew the clatter of the black horse's hoofs, however distant, and at its first echo would run and watch eagerly for the first glimpse of the fiery steed. She had established a firm friendship with the strange horseman, who never failed to lift her into the saddle before him, and ride with her some few times up and down the road, after first letting her thrust her little hand into the depths of his unfathomable pocket for her mother's letter, which she was proud of delivering into Jack's charge with her own hands. One evening, as she sat on the bridge, counting over her toll-pennies, and thinking what a wondrously rich man "Dad" must ere now have become with such a nightly store poured into his coffers, she suddenly heard the well-known clatter over the stony road, and rushed to the cottage door to tell Jack the black horse was coming. The tall horseman took off his plumed hat to her with great gallantry, as he always did, but instead of stooping at once to lift her into the saddle, he called the boatman, and leaning down, with his head against the black horse's neck, held a whispered conversation with him, while she danced around with impatience. Then Jack told her that the Black Horseman wished to take her for a long ride that evening, and that if she would like to go with him, she must first come and don her Sunday attire, that she might ride away like a grand little lady. Little Miss Primrose clapped her hands for joy, and was in the house, brushing out her tangled golden locks, before Jack could finish speaking. "Wait for me! wait for me!" she cried through the open doorway every time the proud horse pawed the ground in dire impatience, and when at last she was ready, and sat enthroned like a little queen in front of her dark-robed friend, Jack looked at her with eyes fairly bewildered by her beauty. And as she leaned her golden head confidingly against the Black Horseman's shoulder, he put spurs to his gallant steed and galloped off, and she turned and waved and kissed her little hand to Jack, who stood watching her till the flying sunny curls had quite disappeared from sight, before he turned back, with a sigh, to his cottage.

It was nearly midnight next day when the black horse returned, and its rider handed down tenderly from the saddle into the boatman's arms the sleeping form of his darling. "She is weary, poor little maiden," he said; "but the long riding has nowise harmed her, and she has gladdened her mother's heart. It may be long ere she shall again see her. Farewell!" And with no more parley he galloped away into the darkness, the ringing sound of his horse's hoofs lingering long in the stillness of the silent summer night. It was late next morning when the child awoke, and when she began eagerly to recount her adventures they had already become an indistinct dream to her infant mind. She chattered much about the long ride, but had evidently fallen asleep before reaching her destination, for she remembered nothing about her arrival, or reception by the "beautiful lady," who had dressed her next morning, and had taken care of her all day, telling her stories and playing with her and petting her, and at last cried very bitterly when the Black Horseman came to say he must take her home. "So," concluded Primrose, "I said I would come and see her another day. And I told her all about you, dad, and the bridge, and still she cried. And I told her, because she was so pretty, she might walk on the bridge and pay no pennies. Then she laughed, and the Black Horseman came and lifted me on the horse, and soon it got very dark, and I went to sleep. Why did she cry, dad?" "It may be that she would fain have some little girl like you, Primrose, to live with her always," said Jack, "and cried for loneliness at parting with you. Would you like to go and live with the pretty lady, my darling?" "No," answered the child, shaking her head; "I will stay with you, dad, because I love you, and the bridge, and Master Rhys, and the funny old hole in the wall, where the wicked people had to look through and say they were sorry. I told the pretty lady all about that, and about all the books that Master Rhys keeps on his shelves, and she said I must be good and learn all the lessons he bids me, so that I may grow up wise like him." And having exhausted her powers of recollection, Little Miss Primrose ran off, with her favourite doll in her arms, to her seat on the bridge, where she recounted her adventures over again to this deaf and dumb sympathiser, whose waxen ear was the receptacle of many an infantine confidence--generally in the form of a whispered wish that dad's tyranny in the matter of the castle might be only for once relaxed, that she might climb the tempting green slopes and peep through the deep mullioned windows, or through the bars of the gate on the other side of the hill, into the dark avenue which led to the front entrance, which desire had taken strong hold of her mind of late, but which, if ever expressed, Jack was wont to repress so sternly that it was seldom she ventured to utter it aloud. The pretty lady too, she remembered, had told her the castle was not a good place, and she must never go near it, which hard-heartedness on the part of a stranger the child mused over with a certain rebellion of spirit, until gradually her adventure with the Black Horseman and the unknown lady's image faded away into dim shadows in her memory, and in the charms of the old monastery vicarage she forgot again for awhile her fascination for the ruined castle.

So the years rolled on, Jack working at his shoemaking, and Little Miss Primrose at her books all the winter months, and in the summer spending much time in fishing upon the shady river banks, or rowing, sometimes in Jack's big boat, filled with a gay pleasure-party from some one or other of the castles which crowned the summits under which the river flowed merrily, sometimes by themselves in the coracle, a real old British coracle, of which Jack was the envied possessor, and in which Little Miss Primrose learned at a very early age to balance herself cleverly, and to glide fearlessly, like some golden-haired British queen, up and down the broad, swiftly flowing stream. The English visitors who frequented the vale of Gwynnon in the summer months loved a row in the coracle, for but few of their own rivers could boast such an antiquity, and the big boat too had plenty of work during this season, when the wood-clad heights of Craig Arthur and the desolate crags of Caer Caradoc resounded with merriment, the ruined turrets of Bryn Afon alone reigning in silent solitude above the clustered cottages below. The presence of Little Miss Primrose was almost always solicited as a special favour by these river revellers, and had it not been for a certain deep, sweet seriousness, and a beautiful childlike unconsciousness of admiration in her nature, she must needs have been spoilt by the open caresses and compliments lavished upon her. But, as Jack said, "the little maid was verily made of stuff that would not spoil," and she grew up as sweet a flower as ever bloomed by a riverside, and as pure and fresh in all her thoughts and ways as her own sweet spring namesakes in the shady wood hollows. And as an opening flower too, her young mind unfolded itself to drink in those treasures of wisdom which lay hid in the deep oaken shelves of Master Rhys' wainscotted library, and which, first filtered for her through his own master-mind, he loved to pour into her eager childish ears in forms best suited to her capacity. Many were the happy hours she spent with him, drinking in all that she could grasp of so great a wealth of learning, and turning with reverent fingers the pages of many a tempting volume, for the understanding of whose contents he told her she must needs wait till more than twice seven years had rolled over her head. Within the old monastery walls she likewise heard many an interesting converse between her own beloved old master and a certain cousin of his, of some fame in the valley, one Master Rhys Prichard, vicar of Castell Leon, a man of much learning, and well known for his devotion to his own Welsh tongue, the use of which at this time was in many counties fast dying out, many persons regarding it as a badge of servitude to the English conqueror, and as a barbarous tongue, which were best forgotten, since it tended towards the continued isolation of the Welsh people, and hindered that complete union with their English brethren, which, in their devotion to the Stuarts, their hearts as a nation had for some time earnestly craved. Yet in many villages the love of the old tongue still lived in full force, and among its most staunch defenders was Master Rhys Prichard, who conversed much upon the subject during his visits to his reverend cousin of Cwmfelin, and delighted in the skill and fluency with which Little Miss Primrose could repeat to him those famed Welsh poems, in which, for the sake of his poorer and more unlettered countrymen, he had embodied in popular form the Gospel story, that until such time as a Welsh Bible should be given them, they should not be without some book of holy comfort in their own tongue and within their own homes. Often in passing the boatman's cottage the two clergymen would linger for an hour before the open casement, discoursing upon this and other matters with Jack, whose shrewd wit and well-informed mind made him no mean controversialist, and who, while second to none in his devotion to the English king, yet retained so strong a love for his own country and its ancient tongue and customs, that he was a zealous supporter of Master Prichard, and a warm admirer of his poems; and when at last the Welsh-speaking party were rewarded by the issue in the year 1630 of the order for the use of the Welsh Bible in all the churches, he took to himself much credit for his share in bringing about this much-desired consummation of the efforts of his party, and pointed out with great pride on the following Sunday, to Little Miss Primrose, the two Bibles and Prayer Books, now chained together in friendly relation upon the desks of the little hillside church. As for the child herself, her silvery tongue could prattle as well in the one tongue as in the other, though in the spirit of loyalty, which was very strong within her, she expressed at an early age a decided preference for the "king's language." And in this she was by no means discouraged by her old friend and preceptor, Master Rhys, who, having had an English mother and an English curé during the early years of his ministry, felt a very English heart within him, in consequence of which the strife between himself and his reverend cousin of Castell Leon was at times of a somewhat animated nature, and Little Miss Primrose would often sit by and marvel at the torrent of learned words which each would pour forth in defence of his particular view of the matter.

Meanwhile, while affairs religious and political stirred the depths of the quiet valley and kept it from stagnation, the old castle on the hill grew more and more desolate. The earl remained away, and little was ever heard of him. Since the day of his long converse with Jack in the woods he had never again visited Bryn Afon, and the winds howled round the old hill-top on winter nights, and the rain beat against the grey walls which crowned the crest of the hill, and ever and again the old gipsy wandered through the valley, each year a little more grey-headed and wild-eyed, chanting her rude rhymes, and arousing the boatman's wrath afresh by her ill-omened forebodings as well as by her presumption in outliving the allotted age of man. Twice that same red star shone out again from one of the mullioned windows facing the river, but only for a few nights in succession, at intervals of three or four years, and whether lighted by ghostly or human hand Jack knew not, nor deigned to ask his brethren. Little Miss Primrose had hailed with joy the reappearance of her star, but Jack now felt no wish ever to see it again, for the last time it had shone out in the darkness he had happened to meet the old gipsy, lurking near the entrance to the castle on the farther side of the hill, and she had told him that every night since the red light had been burning there had been shriekings and wailings in the castle, like those of a murdered man, and the white shadow of a woman, walking to and fro in the avenue, moaning, and wringing her hands. Jack had shaken the woman from him, but her words had nevertheless haunted him, and he had been unable to sleep that night for thinking of the young earl and the mysterious fortunes of the Bryn Afons. And when, a few nights afterwards, the light had ceased to burn, he felt a great relief, and prayed that he might never see it more.

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