CHAPTER VII

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SHADOWS.

"Ah, must your clear eyes see ere long The mist and wreck on sea and land, And that old haunter of all song, The mirage hiding in the sand? And with the dead leaves in the frost Tell you of song and summer lost." --S. M. B. PIATT.

Hitherto the life of Little Miss Primrose had rolled on in unbroken sunshine. Tenderly guarded by her foster-father, and protected by the charm of her own pure loveliness and unconscious childish dignity, she had moved among the rough villagers unharmed by sight or sound of evil, which, however rife among the ruder sort, was fain to hide itself at the sound of her light girlish footfall, or driven in very shame to put on an outward garb of virtue before the pure and fearless gaze of the River Maiden's wondrous eyes. Looked upon by the superstitious country-folk as some mystic sprite from Fairy-land, or even, by some few of her yet more humble and devoted admirers, as some youthful saint from Paradise itself, ordained to walk the earth for a season, Primrose grew into maidenhood as innocent of the world's evil as if her unknown mother's own arms had shielded her from her cradle. A true child of nature, she revelled in the beauties of the far-famed Gwynnon Valley, finding endless joy and amusement in her play by the riverside, and rambles over hill and dale in the company of Jack or good Master Rhys, and in the dim wainscotted library of Cwmfelin Parsonage her intellectual faculties unfolded themselves under the old vicar's guidance like some fair flower opening its petals to the sun. Often Jack would go with her to the rectory, and enjoy a prolonged discussion upon divers matters, religious and political, with Master Rhys, while she buried herself among the treasures of those deep oaken book-shelves. Chief among her favourites was Sir Thomas Malory's _Morte d'Arthur_, over which she was never weary of poring. Great was the fascination of discovering that King Arthur's knights had once been used to ride up and down the fair Gwynnon Valley, and that Arthur had even held court in Caer Caradoc itself, the now half-ruined castle dwelling majestic upon its steep, solitary crag, within whose walls the boatman's own unfortunate daughter had gone forth to her mysterious doom in the silent depths of the earth. Sir Galahad, the pure and noble "lily knight," was her hero and favourite mental companion, and so often did she picture him, with holy, reverend face, riding in quest of the Holy Grail, bearing ever about with him the purity arid beauty of his stainless manhood, that he became almost a reality to her, a true "first love," brave and true and tender, strong as a lion, yet pure as a lily and gentle as a true servant of Jesus Christ--her ideal of what a man should be. But these girlish dreams she kept locked within her own breast, for even though her Sir Galahad was but a ghost of the long-gone past, there was to her mind a halo of sanctity about even the thought of love, a feeling, scarcely understood, that the future reality would be spoiled and tainted by any foolish trifling with the shadow. And as she grew older, the imaginary existence of this ideal hero was perhaps the best protection she could have against the advances of certain would-be country lovers, from whose worship all Jack's vigilance and her own shy dignity and reticence could scarce entirely protect her. Not least among her pleasures were the services held within the little church on the hillside above the old monastery, where good old Master Rhys daily said Matins and Even-song, in spite of the ridicule of Master Jones and his followers, and whither the sound of the bells, calling across the hills to prayer, would often attract her feet as she returned from some early morning or late afternoon ramble. Sometimes the white-haired old man and the golden-haired child were the only worshippers in the still summer silence, but Primrose learned to love more and more those few quiet moments, stolen from her books or her playtime, and especially she loved to gaze through the unpainted windows at their waving background of green branches, swaying gently to and fro in the breeze, and forming around the tiny church a soft, mysterious green curtain, full of gentle whisperings and soothing motion. One window only of rich painted glass could the little building boast, placed at the east end some few years before by the present Lord Bryn Afon to his father's memory; and when a tiny child, the rich colours streaming from this beautiful window upon the marble floor of the chancel had ever wondrously fascinated the eye of Little Miss Primrose, who more than once, having tarried behind Jack on leaving the church, had been discovered at full length upon the chancel stones, trying to gather up the glowing colours with her hand!

Jack scarcely knew when it was that the first strange, unwonted shadow stole over his darling's hitherto unclouded happiness, and indeed Primrose herself could scarcely trace in her own heart its beginning, but as she grew out of her childhood, it sometimes seemed to his watchful eye as though some spirit of evil were wrestling with the bright young soul, clouding its joy and veiling its sunshine. Only for a short time and at intervals was he conscious of this change, but he knew too well every mood of his foster-child for it to pass unnoticed, and though she never spoke of it, and he scarcely dared ask her if any secret thought troubled her, he did not fail to note the paled cheek and the troubled look in the dark eyes, nor the sudden quieting of the girl's dancing footstep, and her long hiding of herself in some secret nook by the riverside, whence she would return, when the fit had passed, unable or unwilling to give further account of herself than that she had "been thinking." But Jack could never satisfy himself that "thinking" could be enough to blanch his darling's cheek and fringe with such black shadows her beautiful eyes; yet, while hoping that she might open her heart to him, he shrank from seeking the confidence she was evidently unwilling to give.

"Dad," she said suddenly one evening, as, strolling slowly towards Cwmfelin, they passed from the river-bank along the narrow road beneath the castle, leaving on their right, as they reached the hamlet, the dark, wooded lane which led to the front entrance to the castle, where the great iron gates opened into a yet deeper and darker avenue of grim old oaks and elms, between which the carriage-drive to the building itself wound in dim mysterious shadow--"Dad, the story they tell of the lady who walks in the avenue, crying and wringing her hands, is true, for I have seen her." "How so then, my pretty?" asked Jack incredulously. "Surely, I fear me then, you must needs have forgotten your mother's orders, not to speak of mine whatever!" "Nay, I did not forget them," answered Primrose frankly, her eyes filling with sudden tears; "I disobeyed them, dad. It was in the summer of last year, in September, when the earl was here. You know how I have ever longed and teased to be allowed just once to peep within yon great iron gates? Well, dear dad, I longed very much to do so one evening when I was on my way alone from the rectory towards home, and I had, oh, such a great wish to see the earl's beautiful face again, and I thought perchance he might be taking the air in the dark avenue, so I crept through the lane to the gates, and looked through them. It was the day after the earl had found me up the river, and had talked with us so long at the cottage. While I looked, feeling very much frightened at the strange black shadows the great trees made across the coach-drive, and wishing the road did not turn so much about, that I might have had just one peep at the castle itself, a tall lady, wrapped in a long black cloak, and wearing a veil over her face, so that I could not see her countenance, came walking slowly down the avenue, wringing her hands and sobbing as she came, moaning too once and again as if she were in great pain or wretchedness. And when she came close to the gates and saw me, for I was too fearsome to hide myself or move, she threw up her hands and shrieked, and turning round, fled back to the castle, as though I were the ghost and not she! For me, I ran home to you, dad, as though I verily had wings, but I dared not tell you lest you should chide me for my disobedience! But indeed, dear dad, I am sorry for my naughtiness. Think you she was really a ghost, as people say, or the poor lady of the castle, weeping over the curse?" "I doubt not it was the unfortunate Lady Bryn Afon herself you saw, sweetheart," answered the boatman musingly. "And was she then so veiled that you could see nought indeed of her features?" "Nought, dear dad," she answered; "if she were truly the Lady Bryn Afon, none who so saw her could ever know her again. Will you then truly forgive my disobedience? Yet," she added musingly, "I know not that I am so sorry as I fain would be, for in my heart there is still much gladness that I have seen the ghost of whom I have heard so many tales, and if she were verily the Lady Bryn Afon herself, I fear me I am gladder still! Dad, can such a half-penitence merit forgiveness?" Jack rubbed his forehead with his horny hand, and looked at his foster-child with a humorous twinkle in his eye. "Why verily, dear heart," he answered, "that were a question best asked and answered through yon hole in the wall at Cwmfelin Parsonage! I have truly made no study of such matters, and had best forgive thee straightway, and have done with it!" "That is good," said Primrose, with a little laugh, yet heaving a deep sigh as she presently asked, "I would fain see the castle, dad! Think you my mother will ever forbid my doing so? The earl is so kind, he would surely grant us such a favour as to let us one day visit it in his absence, when we could disturb no one? Think how interesting it would be to wander through the dim corridors and deserted chambers at our will! I would not fear the curse--would you, dad?" "Truly I cannot tell thee, dear heart," answered Jack; "methinks I have as stout a heart as most men, yet beshrew me if I love not better to contemplate the outside of yon grim walls than to look within! Nay, sweet Primrose, your mother's words may not be gainsaid, and until she herself shall choose to withdraw them, you must indeed remain satisfied that she has surely some good reason for her command. I doubt likewise that the earl would for one moment lend an ear to any curious wish on the part of ourselves or others to see the castle, for none but such friends and domestics as the lords of Bryn Afon may choose to bring with them in their visits to the castle are at any time admitted within its walls. The last handmaid taken from this their native country is said to have been the daughter of that poor gipsy vagabond who still, as you know, roams our valley from time to time, and who, that is to say the daughter, because of certain skill she boasted in drugs and plants, was admitted in an evil hour to treat our present lord's honoured father in a severe attack of sickness." "And what became of her?" asked Primrose eagerly. "Instead of curing the earl's sickness," answered the boatman, "she fell herself a victim to the curse. Its woe and horror turned her poor weak brain, and she died within the walls, another sad victim to the curiosity of her sex. For the old gipsy, her mother, has indeed been known to confess that it was but her desire to learn the secret of the curse which led her to pretend a wisdom and knowledge of herbs and their properties which she was verily far from possessing, and by means of which she gained truly an entrance to the mysteries she coveted, but had to pay dearly for her knowledge. And since that time her mother, always of a wild and weak brain, has been possessed of a burning hatred and desire for revenge upon the House of Bryn Afon, and has done nought these many years past but wander over the countryside, inventing rude and scurrilous rhymes, and uttering evil prophesies which I trow are the promptings of the Wicked One." "Yet, if she has so suffered, I can but grieve for her," said Primrose thoughtfully. "I marvel, dad, that our earl's mother could so have trusted a stranger, however, with the care of her husband?" "The wench and her mother were fair-spoken, child," answered Jack; "even as he who, as our good vicar doth tell us, can appear betimes as an angel of light! And the poor lady of the castle, well-nigh distraught with her misery, was fain to grasp at any shadow of relief. Moreover, the tale goes that the gipsy wench gave out that she was a descendant of the far-famed doctors of Glyn Melen, and in possession of all their wondrous lore in medicine and disease, and, as you know, there is neither rich nor poor amongst us who doubts that some one or another of their descendants do verily to this day dwell in the mountain, and practise their arts of healing as of old. Wherefore it was not so passing strange that the lady of Bryn Afon should have given ready credence to the tale, having in her sorrow and misery but little heart to weigh the woman's merits over carefully. I doubt not that in mercy to the House of Bryn Afon, so evil-minded a woman was removed from this world ere a chance was permitted her of betraying the secret of the curse far and wide throughout the neighbourhood, which she would surely have been bold to do had she returned to her people, or seen again the face of the old witch, her mother." "Think you then that the curse will never be made known?" asked Primrose. "May none ever try to undo it? I would I were a man, that I might fight for its removal! Then at any cost I would strive to discover it, and do away with it for ever!" "But since thou art a gentle maiden, sweet one," said Jack, smiling fondly at her kindling face, "it is thy proper part to abide by thine unknown mother's commands, and to stifle thy natural curiosity in so far as never to seek knowledge of the matter against her will. Thou dost promise this?" he added earnestly. "Ay, dear dad," she answered; "I will willingly keep my mother's commands, and yours likewise, nor look down the dark avenue again, I promise you! But tell me one thing more. Can the curse fall on any who dwell without the castle walls--on me or you, or any of our villagers?" "Nay, my child, Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Jack, somewhat startled at the query. "Such a thing was never known, and I pray you think not of it. Why indeed can it be that thought, secretly preying on your little mind, which more than once of late has chased the colour from your cheek and the brightness from your eye, and caused you to shun your old dad, and think your troubled thoughts alone?" "I have thought of it," she answered, a deep blush suffusing her fair face, "for at times a strange shadow seems to pursue me, dad, driving me, as it were, to some unknown evil. What it would bid me do I know not, but of late it has once and again haunted and tormented me, for methinks there is no evil I could wish to do, dear dad; indeed there is not much I know of in this beautiful home where all is fair and lovely, save at the poor old castle!"

"I pray Heaven no shadow of harm from its accursed walls may ever darken your pure spirit, dear heart!" said the boatman, somewhat sadly. "Nay, I beg you, suffer no such thought for one moment to enter your mind, my Primrose, for verily I do assure you it is impossible such evil should be permitted to befall the innocent dwellers of the neighbourhood, and no such harm has in the memory of man been known to fall upon any without the castle walls. That shadow which pursues you is but a wile of the Evil One to tempt you astray by means of that busy imagination wherewith Heaven has gifted you, and by which he would fain terrify you with evil forebodings, rather than suffer you to continue ever in the pleasant imaginations of your childhood. Methinks, sweet one, the good and bad angels must needs fight it out over each one of us, but that good guardian spirit of your cradle will surely be ever with you and defy the evil, and I would bid thee, child, to dwell no more in thought upon the castle and its ill-fortunes, but in your work and play to remember ever that you are in the hands of God, and that He gives His own angels charge over you." "Our late king has written learned words on good and bad spirits," said Primrose thoughtfully, "in that strange book called _Dæmonologie_, which our dear vicar has in his shelves. Methinks I have been a foolish girl to read too much therein without his advice, and have perchance so terrified myself! Lately I have read many pages of it, and have scarce been able to lay it down, but I had perhaps been wiser to wait until I were older, ere I read such curious lore. Indeed Master Rhys coming in one forenoon, and finding me deep in its pages, did somewhat chide me for opening it without his permission, and bade me remember that _all_ knowledge I might find in his books was not 'food for babes,' and that he must therefore assort it for me. Whereupon I murmured at being still called a 'babe,' but he did nought but smile at me, and say at his age he made but little account of my fifteen years!" "What else would you then, foolish child?" asked Jack fondly. "Rejoice in your youth while you may, sweet Primrose, and covet not in any wise the knowledge of riper years, until you have the stronger shoulders of age wherewith to bear its burden. Play with your flowers, and dream the sweet dreams of childhood yet awhile, I beseech you, and wish not the golden years of youth to pass too quickly, for with age cometh verily sorrow to most of us, and I would fain with my last breath shield my darling from it! Now to your books, dear heart, while I talk awhile with Master Rhys on the subject of your confirmation, for since you so much desire it, I trow he will counsel me to seek of your mother the knowledge of your rightful name, which she has till now hidden from us." "I wonder greatly if she will permit us to know it!" said Primrose eagerly. "I fain would do so, though it will be strange to know myself by any other name than Primrose. Yes, I would indeed seek the grace of confirmation, an it please you, dear dad, for Master Rhys has of late oft spoken to me on the matter, and I have many a time thought when that strange shadow has troubled me, that I must needs neglect none of those means of grace which may surely help me to overcome it. It is not often that I am aught but happy and light-hearted, dad, as you know, yet now I am growing older the thought sometimes comes to me that strange things may be in store for me, and perchance a life where all is not full of sunlight like our beautiful valley. Methinks I had a curious beginning, and when I think of it, and of my unknown parents, my heart grows full of strange forebodings for the future." "Thy future is in the hands of God, my child," said the voice of Master Rhys, who, walking with his hands clasped behind his back, and his white hair bared to the evening breeze, came suddenly upon them, as they turned a corner of his garden-path. "What anxious thoughts fill my child's heart to-day?" "I will, with your leave, dear master, go and have them all blown away in your library!" answered Primrose, lifting to his a face which had already regained its brightness. "You think but scorn of my fifteen years, but I do assure you it is an age at which one may indeed have serious thoughts betimes! Yet I do confess that for this day I have had more than enough, and will gladly forget them in the exploits of my favourite Knights of the Round Table." "Then away with you!" said the vicar with a smile; "and you, good Jack, shall meanwhile converse with me awhile in my study, since it is now some days since we have exchanged many words together."

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