I knew that the
superstitions of the Welsh hills awed her. I knew that it had been
her lot to imbibe, not only Celtic, but Romany superstitions. I knew
that the tribe of Gypsies with whom she had been thrown into contact,
the Lovells and the Boswells, though superior to the rest, of the
Romany race, are the most superstitious of all, and that Winifred had
become an object of strong affection to the most superstitious even
among that tribe, one Sinfi Lovell. I knew from something that had
once fallen from her as a child on the sands, when prattling about
Sinfi Lovell and Rhona Boswell, that especially powerful with her was
the idea (both Romany and Celtic) about the effect of a dead man's
curse. I knew that this idea had a dreadful fascination for her--the
fascination of repulsion. I knew also that reason may strive with
superstition as with the other instincts, but it will strive in vain.
I knew that it would have been worse than idle for me to say to
Winifred, 'There is no curse in the matter. The dreaming mystic who
begot and forgot me, what curse could he call down on a soul like my
Winifred's?' Her reason might partly accept my arguments; but
straightway they would be spurned by her instincts and her
traditional habits of thought.
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