CHAPTER VIII

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FORTUNE-TELLING.

"Destiny is but the breath of God." --JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

"... God hath not taken all that pains in forming and framing and furnishing and adorning this world, that they who were made by Him to live in it should despise it; it will be well enough if they do not love it so immoderately, to prefer it before Him who made it."--CLARENDON.

Having been advised without hesitation by Master Rhys to make inquiry through the Black Horseman as to the baptismal name of Little Miss Primrose, with a view to her much-desired confirmation at the next opportunity, the boatman awaited, with almost as much impatience as his foster-child herself, the arrival of the coal-black steed and his mysterious rider, whose usual half-yearly visit was now drawing near. In the meantime, to divert her thoughts from the matter, he gladly agreed to a proposal made one day by the kind-hearted old vicar, to take her with him some fine morning on horseback to Caer Caradoc, that grim old castle perched on a lonely precipitous crag some twelve miles distant, which had long ago been the abode of her favourite King Arthur and his knights, and where also, in its mysterious subterranean passage, the boatman's lost daughter had met her tragic fate. So one afternoon, when reading by herself in the library at Cwmfelin Parsonage, as was her frequent custom, she jumped for joy when Master Rhys entered the room, and holding aloft a letter in his hand, said gaily: "A summons to our little British Queen from my Lady Rosamond of Caer Caradoc, to spend the morrow in her company, an she will trust herself to the care of her white-haired friend, and a pillion on the back of his good old grey mare. What say you, child?" "Does she indeed bid you bring me with you?" exclaimed Primrose, her eyes sparkling. "Why indeed, dear master, there is nothing I would like so well! I have long wished I might see my dear King Arthur's castle, yet I could not see how it might ever be, since I dare not ask my father to take me to a place which is to his mind so full of sorrow. Methought the castle had been these many years left desolate?" "And so it has been," answered Master Rhys; "a caretaker only has dwelt there for several years past, Sir Ivor Meredith having resided some while abroad ere his marriage. Some lingering love for his old home has at length drawn him hither with his young wife, and I rejoice much thereat, for I like not to see these fine old castles, the glory of our country-side, left to the bats and owls. Lady Rosamond is the daughter of a dear friend of mine, who honoured me with much pleasant company and friendship at Oxford in our youthful days, but who, alas, has some while since passed away from this world. She is but young, thirty or thereabouts, whereas her husband, Sir Ivor, must by now number some forty years or more. Ere her marriage some three years since she was, as I well recollect, as wild and tricksy a maiden as might be found, yet withal of so good a heart and warm affection that one could but love her and pardon her faults. I have but now parted from your foster-father, who is willing and glad that you should accompany me, so now away with King Arthur, for it groweth dusk, and the road is lonely, and there are now no knights of the Round Table to afford succour to a fair-haired damsel in distress by the way! Which knight of them all would the Primrose choose for her liege servant?" "Sir Galahad," answered Primrose softly. "Methinks, Master Rhys, no mortal man could e'er have been so like our dear Lord Himself as he, and he alone was worthy to go in quest of the Holy Grail. The knight I would choose should be like him." "It is a worthy choice," said the old vicar, smiling, "yet I fear me the world doth boast but few Sir Galahads." "Are men for the most part wicked, then?" asked Primrose, lifting her large grey eyes to his face wonderingly. "That would be a hard saying," he answered; "yet out of the many there are but few I would see you choose for your knight, sweet Primrose. Dream of your Sir Galahad, an you will, my child, and let all living knights alone yet awhile. You do not crave to leave this lonely country-side, and see the gay world yet?" "No," she answered, shaking her head. "I love these wild hills and the lonely river and gloomy old castle more than I could ever love the court where the earl loves to spend his time. I wish for nothing, only sometimes for my mother, and for her I only wish with a certain dread, for who can tell whether she will love me, and what my life may then be?" And musing deeply upon her unknown and mysterious parents, Primrose walked slowly homewards along the silent roadway, heeding nothing around her, until, passing the dark lane which led to the castle entrance, she started violently at finding herself confronted by the old vagrant gipsy, who suddenly appeared from the hedgerow, and addressed her in shrill tones. Years had not improved the appearance of the old woman, whose withered face now looked like parchment, and whose ragged garments hung loosely about her tottering, shrivelled limbs. But Primrose was too well accustomed to the apparition to feel any actual fear, for once at least in every year she was wont to reappear and wander about the valley, singing her rude rhymes, yet never harming any one, nor noticing the golden-haired girl, save to eye her with wild glances as she passed, which Primrose from her babyhood had returned quite fearlessly. The suddenness of her present appearance, however, was somewhat startling, especially as the old crone, holding up a skinny forefinger, placed herself in the middle of the young girl's path, and pointing to the castle, said in a shrill whisper: "It is there again!" "What is there?" asked Primrose, a little awestruck, but speaking fearlessly. "The ghost," answered the old hag hoarsely; "the ghost that walks and wrings its hands, up and down, up and down. Yester eve, in the dark, the earl came, and he brought the ghost with him--in the dark, child, but I saw him!" And she laughed a shrill, horrible laugh. "He ever comes and goes in the dark, but the gipsy sees him! Go not near the castle, child; there's a curse on it--a curse, do you hear?" And she brought her withered face so close to Primrose that the girl recoiled. "What is the curse?" she asked boldly. "Why should there be a curse? Why is none brave enough to destroy it? I would. I would live in the castle and defy it, if it were mine. It is but some foolish tale." "You defy it--a girl like you!" laughed the old hag derisively. "Away with you, I say! Why should the curse fall on your golden head? Away--away from the gates of woe!" And she threw up her arms and uttered a wild shriek. "Do you know aught about the curse?" asked Miss Primrose, curiosity overpowering her fear. "Why do you forever talk so much about it? I believe it is all nonsense." "A chit like you knows naught," answered the gipsy scornfully. "I tell you, girl," and her wild eyes glared, "I tell you it slew my daughter." "Ah, I forgot," said Primrose remorsefully; then touched with a deep sympathy, she laid a fearless hand on the old woman's arm, and said gently; "How was that? Tell me, an it will give you comfort." "Not now, not now," muttered the woman; "I may perchance recall it to mind another day; but my head is old, and my memory fails me.--Let me tell thy fortune, pretty child," she added, suddenly changing her tone. "For a little bit of silver I can tell thee a pretty fortune." "I have no faith in fortune-telling," answered Primrose; "but if a little bit of silver is what you want, here it is, and you may tell me what you please in return!" And she held out a rosy palm, half in fear, half in amusement. "I shall believe never a word," she said, with a laugh; "but I have often heard of fortune-telling, and I would like just to hear what you can say." "You are proud of your birth, that is plain," said the gipsy, peering closely in the twilight into the little hand she held. "I see a long ancestry, and you have great, yes, very great pride of birth----" "Indeed I have not!" exclaimed Primrose, laughing, "for I know nothing of it. Why, dear gipsy, I do not even know what parents I have to be proud of, much less what ancestry!" "Hush!" said the gipsy, "you talk too fast. An you care not to listen, I will cease." "Nay, prithee go on, dear gipsy!" said Primrose contritely, "and I will hold my tongue. Ah! but you are surely flattering me more than such a tiny bit of silver were worth!" for with glib tongue the old woman ran on in a stream of poetical language, ascribing to her young listener such virtues and perfections of mind and person as brought blushes to her cheeks. "You will deeply love and be loved," she continued, "yet I see no marriage. Fate will make or mar your union. You are gentle, yet you have a strong will, and you will make of your love what you will. He to whom it is given will be worthy, brave as the lion, yet gentle as the lamb and pure as the lily." "That should, methinks, be seen on his hand, not on mine," murmured Primrose with a laugh, yet blushing deeper in the darkness, as she thought of Sir Galahad, and wondered if there were indeed any like him among living men. "I will tell no more!" said the old woman suddenly, letting the girl's hand fall, and uttering a sort of moan. "Go home, child, and may the sun shine upon your golden head while it will!" "Why will you tell no more?" asked Primrose. "Would you fain turn my silly head with your praises, and hide from me my faults and my sorrows?" "I will tell no more," repeated the gipsy steadily; "sickness and death must come to us all, soon or late, late or soon, who can tell?" "You cannot tell," said Primrose. "Nay, it were better that I should let you say no more, for God alone can tell when we shall die or suffer sickness. I would not seek to learn it from you, for methinks it would be a sin." "Suffer no one to tell your fortune, girl, but me," said the old woman, as she hobbled away, rocking herself and moaning as if in pain. "It were a pity to bring tears to such pretty eyes. Yet methought there was but little pity left in this hard heart! Promise, girl!" and she turned again, and eyed Primrose fiercely. "None shall ever tell it again," answered Primrose, shutting up her little hand tight. "It was but for fun I let you do it, dear gipsy, and I believe not a word, I warrant you! Yet I am not sure but I shall indeed be scolded by my foster-father. Methinks I am ever doing for fun what I must afterwards repent of! Content you then, good gipsy, for indeed there is none of whom I would seek to know this future of mine on which you look so darkly mysterious! Methinks God would have us take each day as He sends it, and by ever using it well, so be ready against the future when it comes." "God," muttered the old woman under her breath, "I have long since forgotten that word. Speak it not, girl! That name has nought to do with me!" and with a wild shriek, she shook off the detaining hand of Primrose, and plunged into the bushes at the side of the road, whence came, in quavering accents to the young girl's ear, as she turned slowly homeward, the old refrain which the gipsy had ever been so fond of singing: "And in the dark water together, The primrose and lily shall sleep." "I marvel if by the Primrose she means me!" said the girl to herself. But she forgot the rude rhyme quickly in the sad thoughts of pity and sympathy for the wretched old woman, which her last despairing words had evoked in her breast, and some few moments later was pouring out her tale to the old boatman, and busily planning some missionary scheme for the rescue of the poor benighted wanderer. "I would our vicar might be able to seek her out, and turn her poor crazy mind to some new and better thought, whatever!" said Jack. "But he is an old man, and scarce fit to track so slippery a fish. Moreover, I misdoubt me at times that he hath ever dwelt over much among the dead in his library, to the forgetfulness of the living, which it were treason to say of so good and holy a man, save only between such true friends as you and me, Primrose! Yet every man must follow his own bent, and I say not that he has not done much good by his learning. I have but thought at times, that had he been less studious and hermit-like, Master Jones might perchance have found in him a more active enemy, and so we might have been spared some few of the long Puritan faces in our midst! They mean well, I doubt not, but I trust them not, and methinks they would verily as fain burn many of us as our prayer-books!" "That is ever your grievance against Master Jones!" laughed Primrose. "He is truly bitter against the book, yet I think he would come short of burning you and me! I am glad my mother did not give me to the care of a Puritan, dad, for I like them not myself. Surely this bright world that God has made cannot be such a sorry place as they would have us believe? It was but yesterday, dad, that I met good Master Jones by the riverside. The birds were singing and the sun shone, and I could but sing too for joy because the world seemed so beautiful, but he looked upon me with a sour countenance, and said:--(Why do they all speak thus through the nose?)--'Prithee, maiden, stay thy singing, and give thy mind to graver matters. Thou dost nought but sing like the chattering birds the whole of the live-long day! Beware lest evil fall upon thee and quickly change thy tune, for methinks thy voice is but a snare of the Evil One!'" Jack laughed. "And what answer made you, Primrose?" he asked. "'An I were to come and sing for you in your quire at the chapel, good Master Jones,' I said, 'you would never say my voice was the gift of the Evil One. Did you not say but last Sunday to Mistress Evans, that could you but turn the boatman's daughter from her heresy, her singing would draw all the country-side to your chapel? Surely that was a vain speech, and likely to turn the head of such a silly maiden as I. Nevertheless I will rather sing here to the birds, who love their church and their king better than you do!' With that he grew red, and said angrily: 'It is but little longer you will have a church or a king to boast of, foolish girl. Yon building on the hillside, with all its idolatrous ornaments and vain pomps, will lie low in the dust ere many more years have rolled over your golden head!' 'Methinks, good Master Jones,' I said, 'that if God had so loved to see things, He would surely have made a whitewashed world like the inside of your chapel, instead of all these beautiful colours of earth and sky which we see around us!' and at that he grew redder than before, and turned on his heel and left me to my folly. Think you I shall one day find it to be but a sorry world, dad? Is it only because I am as yet so young, that I find it so beautiful and full of joy?" "God's shadows fall but where He lets them, sweetheart," answered the boatman reverently, "and should they chance to fall sometime on you, remember there could be no shadows but for the sun; and look therefore the rather to his bright shining, knowing the darkness must surely pass. Yet I pray no shadow may fall across your path for many a long year, my darling! Now let us to bed, and may the sun shine fair on Caer Caradoc on the morrow!"

[Illustration: "SHE HELD OUT A ROSY PALM, HALF IN FEAR, HALF IN AMUSEMENT."]

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