[5] Good God!
[6] Dear heart.
The work in the sail-shed went on as usual in the following week—the same hum of voices, the same chatter and laughter amongst the women. The only difference was that Ivor Parry looked ill and worn.
"He had been out fishing one night," so ran the story, "and returning in the early morning had slipped as he jumped from his boat, and falling on a slippery rock had had what 'n'wncwl Jos called 'a nasty old shake.' When asked about it, he had treated it with indifference, saying, 'I did slip and twisted my back a little; but, caton pawb! what is that?' And he had been as busy as ever at his work, scoffing at any suggestions of sympathy."
Gwladys, at the further end of the long shed, worked quietly at her canvas, with drooping eyelids and flushed cheeks. She knew she was an object of interest to those around her, and was thankful to remember that no one knew anything about her love for Ivor. She heard the comments upon his fall and his altered appearance with a strange callousness which frightened her. Her heart was like a stone within her; she never turned her eyes towards the other end of the shed where the harder and heavier part of the work was carried on by the men. Fortunately for her, it is not considered etiquette in Wales for a lover to pay marked attentions to his betrothed in public, so she was spared the pain of conversing with Hugh in Ivor's presence, except upon the ordinary topics connected with the work. But although Hugh adhered to the usual fashion of ignoring his sweetheart's presence before the curious eyes of the gossips, he yet held his head more proudly than ever. There was a light in his eyes and a smile on his lips which added a fresh charm to his handsome face; and as he gave directions to his work-people, there was a ring of happiness in his voice which plainly told its own tale. One thing troubled him—Ivor was suffering! Of that he was sure. And as it drew near closing time, he spoke to his friend words of serious advice and of kindly sympathy; for Hugh could be as tender as a woman in spite of his burly frame.
"Look here, 'mach-geni!"[1] he said, sitting on a bale in front of Ivor; "this will never do. Every hour thou art getting to look paler and thinner; thou must stop in bed to-morrow, and I'll send to Abersethin for Dr. Hughes. I'm afraid thou hast got more of a wrench than thou knowest of."
"Not a bit," laughed Ivor; but his laugh had not its usual light-heartedness. "I know exactly what the wrench was—it hurt a good deal; but dost think I'm going to stop in bed and send for a doctor? I never did such a thing in my life! Twt, twt, 'twill be all right if thou wilt let me alone, and not bother me about my looks."
Hugh had never known him so irritable before, and he looked at him critically as he left him.
"Well, if thou won't listen to advice, I can't help thee."
"What about that order for the Sea Nymph?" Ivor called after him.
Hugh shook his head. "I cannot take it," he said; "the time is too short. Send them to Rees of Carnarfon; it will be quite as convenient for the owners, and more so for me," and he returned slowly towards Ivor. "I am going to be married next week," he said; "come down this evening, lad, and I'll tell thee all about it. Thou must sprack up, and arrange some jollification for the people. We'll have two days' holidays, and I'll leave all the fun in thine hands, Ivor, only come to me for the money. I know I can trust thee to manage it all. Dost hear, man? Why, what's the matter with thee? Dr. Hughes shall see thee to-night, or my name's not Hugh Morgan."
"'Twas only a wrench," said Ivor; "it's all over, and I'll see to the bonfires and shooting."
"Right," said Hugh; but he shook his head as he went away.
Later on in the evening, as Madlen was preparing supper under the big open chimney in the kitchen, a step disturbed her.
"Who's that?" she said snappishly, for the uwd[2] was at the point of boiling. "Oh, Ivor Parry!"
"Yes," he answered, walking in unceremoniously. "I wanted to see the Mishteer."
"Wel wyr! didst expect to see him here? He is up with Gwladys Price, of course. Howyer bach![3] There's going to be changes! I tell thee, Ivor Parry, he's perfectly mad about the girl. Wel, dwla dwl yw dwl hên!"[4]
"Will he come to his supper?"
"Most likely not; not even potatoes and buttermilk will bring him home now."
But her prognostications were false to-night, for at that moment Hugh entered, bright and breezy.
"Hello, Ivor! just in time for supper, 'mach-geni; sit down. Art better?"
"Oh, all right," he said, sitting down to the table, on which Madlen placed the smoking "uwd" with a large jug of milk. In every other cottage in Mwntseison wooden bowls and wooden spoons would have been used, but the Mishteer's table was graced by blue-rimmed basins and silver spoons.
"I wanted to see thee, Ivor; we've not had a talk for some time."
"No, I have been too busy."
"And so have I, in my deed," said Hugh. "What between the torn sails of the Albatross—the new boat which is building for me—and a few new things I am getting for my house—well, the time has seemed to fly. What dost think of the new 'coffor' I have bought for Gwladys?" and he opened with pride the doors of a handsome oak wardrobe. "The best piece of work John 'Saer'[5] has ever done, I think." The shelves inside were well filled with stores of snowy napery, sheets, and table-cloths, etc., luxuries little known in Mwntseison. "And these drawers at the bottom to keep her clothes! Mari Vone has seen to it all for me."
"A splendid coffor, indeed," said Ivor; "and John Saer knew who he was working for, I think." But then he added a most irrelevant remark, "Poor Mari Vone!"
"What dost mean by that?" said Hugh, flushing a dark red.
"Oh, nothing," said Ivor. "I was only thinking how dull it must be for her to arrange the household for another girl."
"Dull!" said Hugh earnestly, and with a momentary sadness in his voice. "Thou art mistaken, Ivor. Mari Vone knows not what dullness means. She would laugh to hear thy words."
"When art going to be married?"
"Why, on Tuesday," said Hugh; "of course I expect thee to be my teilwr. Pretty Gwennie Hughes and Laissabeth Owen are to be bridesmaids."
"That is what I came down to speak about," said Ivor. "I thought very likely thou wouldst want me to be teilwr."
"Of course! who else?"
"Well, I'm afraid I cannot be that," said Ivor awkwardly, digging his hands in his pockets. "See this letter, and say if thou thinkest I ought to refuse so good an offer."
Hugh took the letter with a look of serious surprise, and read it without comment from beginning to end; then he folded it up deliberately, and returned it to Ivor, looking him full in the face, and before his honest eyes Ivor's quailed and were cast down.
"Thou wilt better thyself very much by accepting their offer; but I never thought thou wouldst leave me, Ivor. I would have given thee as much as that had I known thou wert looking for it. I have, perhaps, been slow in rewarding thy merit; but, Ivor, I looked upon thee as a brother, and I meant only to wait until my wedding was over to offer to take thee into partnership, but now—go! I have been mistaken in thee; I never thought money would come between us. Even now—stay, Ivor, and I will give thee what Rees Carnarfon offers thee."
Ivor shook his head. "I have determined to go," was all he answered.
Hugh was wounded to the quick. He had a deep love for his manager—a love that had grown up for years between them, in spite of the difference in their ages—and to find that parting had no bitterness for Ivor meant bitter sorrow for Hugh.
"Then there's no more to be said, but pay what I owe thee," and he counted it out on the table.
Ivor gathered it stolidly into his palm, and took up his hat.
"Fforwel, Mishteer," he said, "we must part now; your life is full—you can do without me. There is Josh Howels, he is quite able to take my place; he knows all the ins and outs of the business," continued Ivor.
Hugh nodded. "Oh, yes, I can do without you," he said, in an offended tone.
"Fforwel, then," said Ivor, and he held out his hand, which Hugh, after a moment's hesitation, grasped warmly. "If you are ever in any trouble, send for me, Mishteer, and I will come."
Again they said "Fforwel," and parted—Hugh Morgan with a feeling of burning indignation and a smarting sense of disappointment; Ivor with a dull, heavy aching, which he was not to throw off for many a weary month.
"Let him think me ungrateful and grasping," he said; "it is better for him than to know the truth. Fforwel, Hugh Morgan, I shall never meet a man like you again!"
Indignation and sorrow were the feelings uppermost in Hugh's mind as he sat smoking on his lonely hearth that evening. Madlen had gone to bed, and he sat long into the night, gazing into the dying embers of the peat fire, "chewing the cud of sweet and bitter thought." The announcement of Ivor's intended departure was a crushing blow to him. He had loved the man with all the tenderness which in his lonely life had had no other outlet until Gwladys Price's beauty had enslaved him; and even this had not altered his feelings for his friend, but had rather drawn him nearer to him. Mari Vone and Ivor had been his ideals of all that was manly and womanly, and his affections had gone out to them unstintingly; and now he would have been ashamed that any one should see how deeply he felt the change in Ivor—in truth, his bright, black eyes were dimmed with unshed tears as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and, slipping the wooden bolt of the front door into its hasp, walked slowly up the stairs.
The next day Ivor was absent from the sail-shed. Such a thing had never happened before, excepting when he had been attending to business for the Mishteer; but now everybody knew this was not the cause, and gossip, with its busy tongue, suggested all sorts of reasons—all of them, fortunately, very wide of the mark. "He had injured his back too much to continue working," one said. "The increased wages offered by Rees Carnarfon had dazzled him." "He was tired of Mwntseison, and thought this would be a good opportunity for making a move," etc., etc.
"What can it mean?" said a girl to Gwladys, as she entered the sail-shed in the morning. "What can have come to Ivor? Have you any idea?"
Gwladys shook her head, and would not trust her voice to speak.
"I'll tell you what they say," said the girl, "that he is jealous of you."
They were already beginning to drop the familiar "thee" and "thou" in addressing Gwladys. She noticed the omission, and blushed a vivid red.
"There!" said her friend, holding up her hands in admiration, "there's the colour we've been used to see in your face; in my deed, you are not like yourself lately. Twt, twt, it is not such a wonderful thing to be married that you need grow thin and pale about it. 'That will be the end of us all,' as the old maid said when she watched the wedding. There! look at her now, Mishteer!" And Hugh, who was just entering, gazed with admiration at Gwladys' blushing face.
"Thou hast brought back her roses, indeed, Malen," he said, smiling. "What hast been saying to her?"
"We were talking about Ivor Parry, and I tell her it is jealousy of her that has made him leave."
"Was that possible?" thought Hugh, as he turned away. "Was it the jealousy of love that had caused Ivor's strange behaviour?" and somehow the thought brought comfort to him; the loss of his friend did not weigh quite so heavily upon him. "He would get over this foolish feeling; he would return to Mwntseison again, and to his work in the sail-shed, and the same happy relations would exist between them as had of old."
Gwladys had retired to her old corner. The sail had already been spread in a convenient position for working, her stool placed before it, and she knew well whose tender care had arranged her work for her. She looked over to where Hugh Morgan was standing, stalwart and strong, as if he were going to address his work-people, and a wan little smile flitted over her face, where the rich colour was already ebbing.
Hugh caught the smile, and his heart beat fast, for, though he hid his feelings from the eyes of the crowd, as was his bounden duty to do if he did not wish to brush the bloom off the peach, to rob his love of the romance of a real Welsh courtship, still his thoughts were ever hovering round Gwladys. Be it remembered that, though he was past the intoxication of "love's young dream," he had succumbed to the passion which had assailed him with all the strong fervour belonging to middle age. His heart had been so long steeled against the glamour of love that now at last, when it had made a breach in his walls, he had completely surrendered to its mad enthralment. His fervid words, the passionate ardour of his looks and his embraces, fell upon Gwladys' soul with scorching pain; she could not feel the same love for him, and, therefore, wearied of its intensity. She reproached herself incessantly with coldness and want of feeling, and endeavoured by occasional warmth of manner to make up for the ordinary want of interest.
"I will love him when we are married, and, God helping me, I will be a good wife to him." This was the continual burden of her thoughts; her life was one constant struggle to banish from her mind the memory of Ivor, and, though his image ran like an under-current through the stream of her existence, she yet managed to keep all conscious thoughts of him in abeyance. "What was to come of it all? What was going to happen to smooth out the tangled path into which her feet had so unintentionally strayed? God knows! I can only trust, and try to be a good wife."
While these thoughts passed through her mind, Hugh was speaking, and the work-people had dropped their tools, and were listening with attention.
"You know, my friends," he said, "that a great sorrow has fallen upon me in the loss of my right-hand man, Ivor Parry. His reasons for going are good ones. He has been offered a post of great responsibility, bringing with it an increased salary. It is every man's duty to make his way in the world if he can, and however much we may regret his loss here, I know that there is not one of you, man, woman, or child, who does not send with him to-day a greeting of love, and an earnest hope that his path may be blessed with every good which can fall to man in this world. Josh Howels will take his place as my manager, and I expect from you the same obedience and deference to him, and to my orders through him, as you have always shown to Ivor Parry."
Josh Howels rose to say a few words in answer. Gwladys leant back against the boarded wall of the shed, her head leaning on a rough shelf, her eyes fixed on the sky and sea, which were visible through the wide open doors. She saw the sea-gulls sailing in the air; she heard the hoarse cry of the puffins, which crowded the cliffs above Traeth-y-daran; and the picture of a moonlit beach, on which sat two figures close together, arose before her mental vision; but, with a spasm of pain, she literally shrank from the picture, and by a strong effort of will banished it from her mind.
In a few days the eventful week had dawned which she had dreaded, and yet longed for of late! Surely this dull aching would cease! surely this sharp agony of thwarted desires would be quenched when once she was Hugh Morgan's wife! Here lay her only hope—and to this hope she clung with the frantic energy of a drowning man. Her mother had finished all her simple preparations for the wedding, which was to bring such honour and lustre upon them; she had forced herself to forget that pale dawn when Gwladys had entered the house like a spirit or unrest. Sometimes when she heard of Ivor's intended departure from the village, or when she saw Gwladys' paling cheek, a throb of disquietude would pierce her heart; but Hugh Morgan's tenderness, his absolute devotion to her daughter re-assured her.
"She must love him," she thought; "no woman could help it! She will be a happy girl, and I shall be a happy mother-in-law!"
Indeed, in the whole village congratulations for Nani and Gwladys were rife, and "There's a fortunate girl!" was the refrain of every conversation upon the subject of the Mishteer's marriage. One alone was dissatisfied—Mari Vone! And as she sat in the gloaming on the eve of the wedding-day, her thoughts were evidently none of the happiest; her fair golden head drooped a little over her shining knitting needles, her graceful tall figure had a listless curve in it as she sat looking out of the open doorway; she heard a footstep on the road which she recognised at once. "He is going to Gwladys!" she thought, and she patiently clasped her hands upon her bosom, as if to quiet the throbbing heart within; but no! the steps drew near, and against the red sunset the figure of Hugh Morgan loomed clear and large. He nodded pleasantly over his pipe, and Mari pushed a rush stool nearer the door for him to sit upon.
"That will do!" he said; "the smoke will blow out to the road." And with a long-drawn "Ah!" of satisfaction, he stretched out his legs, and gave himself up to the enjoyment of his pipe for a time, during which Mari plied him with questions, most of which he answered with a nod or shake of the head.
"Hast Madlen finished her baking? and roasted her chickens? The lobster and crab I have boiled myself. Gwladys will be glad of a dainty supper, for she will be very tired. It is well for her that she is marrying a man who can afford to give her dainties, for her mother tells me she has a poor appetite lately, and turns away from the barley bread."
"God bless her! she shall have white bread, white as a dog's tooth! and anything else she may fancy," said Hugh, and he puffed away in silence a little longer.
"You are sure to be at the wedding, Mari?"
"Oh, yes, I am coming," she answered quietly.
"It gave me a terrible fright when somebody said you were not coming—you and Ivor away. I should have felt it a bad omen, Mari."
"Oh, twt, twt! nonsense about bad omens! If I had stopped away it would only have been because I am getting too old for weddings, and biddings, and fairs. I leave that to the young girls now."
Hugh laughed sarcastically.
"You know better than that, Mar. You know very well that whenever you appear the girls have all to hide their heads. They are none of them fit to hold a candle to you. What old age may make of you I don't know; but sure I am, no creature that treads God's earth graces it more than you do!"
"Oh! there's pretty words, whatever, Hugh," said Mari, dropping her knitting on her lap, and letting her hands fall with it, and gazing out rather sadly over Hugh's shoulder to the glowing sea and sky beyond.
"You are going to see Gwladys to-night, of course? She will be expecting you."
"Yes," said Hugh; "I am going now—but—but Mari, I felt I wanted to say something before I went. We have been friends for years—we shall be friends still—eh?" and he held out his broad brown hand.
Mari placed her own in it.
"Friends forever, Hugh, as long as life shall last!"
"And after," he said. "Well, fforwel, and God bless you!" and Hugh made his way under the wreaths and banners which already spanned the road, in readiness for next day's festivities, leaving Mari to her thoughts and to her knitting, upon which by and by a large tear fell.
"Hoi! hoi! stop a bit!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, whom Hugh met stumping down the road. "Don't go under the banners before the wedding. It brings bad luck, man."
"It's too late," answered Hugh jovially, "for I have been under two or three," and his beaming smile and sparkling eyes, as he turned up the path towards Gwladys' cottage, showed that whatever the future had in store for him, to-night he was well content.
[1] My boy!
[2] Porridge.
[3] Dear people! (an exclamation).
[4] "There is no fool like an old fool!"
[5] Carpenter.
The month of May, with all her charms on earth, sea, and sky, had slipped away, and June reigned in her place, pouring forth her stores of bud and blossom, laying her warm hand on the ripening fruit in the orchards, turning their cheeks to crimson and gold, lulling the waves to rest, and folding the young broods of birds, which swarmed in the cliffs, in her mantle of soft balmy air. The shepherd's song was heard from the hillside as he sat basking in the sunshine, the clap, clap of the mill came on the breeze, the clinking of the village anvil, the voices of little children, all blended together in delicious harmony. Every door and window in the village was open, and the air was filled with the "sh-sh" of the sea. The children sat playing on the warm, dry sand. 'N'wncwl Jos sat astride on the keel of his boat, which had been turned upside down for repairs. He had a pot of tar and some tow beside him, but the work did not proceed very rapidly, as The Ship Inn was so near, and the heat of the sun made an occasional "blue" a necessity. 'N'wncwl Jos's time was a commodity that hung heavily on his hands, and there was no hurry to get the boat done, so he exchanged his quid of tobacco from one cheek to another, and took his daily snooze in the June sunshine. Suddenly a gentle voice aroused him.
"'N'wncwl Jos!"
"Well, merch i?"[1] and he began busily to caulk a crack in his boat.
It was Gwladys who stood beside him, rather paler, perhaps, than when he saw her last, but with the same sweet curves over mouth and chin—with the same serious look in the brown eyes—which were shaded by the white sun-bonnet.
"Wilt come and help me with the brewing this afternoon?" she said, with a languid tone in her voice, which, perhaps, was due to the heat.
"B'd siwr! b'd siwr!"[2] replied the old man, waking up with evident interest.
"Hugh says thou hast the secret for making the beer clear."
"So I have, merch i—learnt it from my grandmother. How far hast thou got with thy brewing?"
"The brecci is working," she said, "but I'm afraid it won't be clear. I have never brewed before."
"I'll be up this afternoon," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "and we shall see whether thine ale will be clear or not. The Mishteer knew where to send thee for advice! Have you heard the news?"
"What news?"
"Why, that Ivor Parry is very ill; there he lies stranded at Carnarvon, poor fellow, in some strange lodging, laid up with fever. The Lapwing arrived at Abersethin last night from Carnarvon with slates, and brought the news. I thought he was sickening for something before he left; didst notice how white he looked?"
"Yes," said Gwladys, looking across the bay, where in the distance the line of the Carnarvonshire hills looked like a chain of blue clouds.
"The Mishteer will be shockin' sorry to hear it," said the old man, shaking his head. "I'm going to the sail-shed to tell him as soon as I have finished this job."
Gwladys turned silently away, her heart like a lump of lead, her eyes burning with tears which she must not shed. She must not even ask for more particulars—nay, she must not even wish for more; and as she walked back over the dusty road to her new home, she tightened her grasp upon her own feelings, and laid a strong curb upon her natural instincts.
She followed the progress of the brewing with punctilious care, patiently and gently directing Madlen, who endeavoured to frustrate all the plans of the new mistress with the annoying obstinacy of a jibbing horse. She peeped into the mash-tub, and exclaimed:
"Sure as I'm here, it'll never clear; it's as thick as the Gwendraeth after rain!"
Getting no reply she tried in another direction:
"Ivor Parry and Mishteer always praised my ale; 'twas as clear as cryshal,[3] but cawl it'll be to-day!"
Gwladys smiled. "Thee's an evil prophetess, Madlen!"
They both looked up as a shadow fell through the open doorway. It was Gwen.
"I came to ask thee if I could help in the brewing. Thee'lt like be anxious about thy first brewing; how does it go?"
"Pretty well, I think," said Gwladys. "It will be casked to-night."
"Have you heard of Ivor's illness?" said Gwen, looking full into her face, which visibly blanched under her keen glance.
"'N'wncwl Jos has just been telling me," said her victim, trying in vain to speak in a natural tone. "What is it?"
"Fever, they say," said Gwen, "but a bad one. Siencyn saw him in his lodgings; 'tis a good thing he is well looked after. The daughter of the house seems very fond of him, and he of her, for he calls her continually, 'Gwladys! Gwladys!' if she only leaves him for a minute. Dir anwl![4] how pale thou art getting! Art not well?"
"Not very," said Gwladys. "The heat has been so great to-day, and the wind blows straight from the limekilns."
"Perhaps, indeed! but thou hast lost thy roses whatever!" and lifting the lid of the mash-tub, she peered into its contents. "There's a muddy cloud in it! That will spoil thy brewing."
"Perhaps, indeed!" said Gwladys, using the formula that does duty in Wales for every variety of expression.
"What will the Mishteer say?"
"Oh, well, he won't mind much if I do not grieve about it."
"No; I suppose thou canst do pretty well what thou lik'st with him now. So can I with Siencyn; but that won't last. 'There's never a pig' thee knowest, 'without a twist in his tail,' and 'never a man without a quirk in his temper!' Oh! yes, we shall see it some day; but as long as we have nothing tohidewe need fear nothing. But diwedd anwl![5] the time goes like the andras.[6] I must go. Pity for Ivor Parry—isn't it?"
When she was gone, Gwladys began to breathe again, and endeavoured to steel herself against the wounds which she would receive in her passage through life, and to endure, for this, she felt, would be her portion for the future.
"Gwladys!" called a manly voice, and Hugh entered from the sunshine, "where art, my little one? Come and comfort me, for I have had bad news, and thou wilt be sorry, too! Poor Ivor is ill; hast heard?"
"Yes," she said; "Gwen has just been telling me; but he has a good nurse, and we must not look on the dark side."
"No, true, merch i; but I'd give much to have him back here again—foolish boy! I believe he was jealous of my love for thee! Siencyn Owen says he was quite delirious; called constantly for the girl who nurses him, 'Gwladys, Gwladys!' sometimes in such pitiful tones that Siencyn felt like crying; and talking, talking without stopping about the sea and the moon and the stars! 'Gwladys,' he said, 'our star is sinking—sinking—sinking!' Oh, 'tis pity, indeed, we can't have him here to nurse him—thy gentle ways and thy tender care would bring him round, Gwladys; but what is the matter, lass?"
"Oh, a pain!" said the girl, laying her hand on her bosom. "A sharp pain, a real pain! I have had it before to-day; I think it must be the brecci, which I have tasted too often." And a pitiful little smile crossed her face.
Hugh was all anxiety and fright, and not without cause, for Gwladys had quietly slipped to the ground in a dead faint.
In a moment, Madlen the contumacious had forgotten her pique, and was rushing about in search of the inevitable "drop of brandy," while Hugh lifted his wife from the ground, and placed her on the settle, where she presently regained consciousness. His tender words of love were the first that reached her ears.
"Gwladys, fâch! my little girl! dear heart! open thine eyes. Art better, darling?"
"Yes, yes," said the girl, reaching both hands towards him, and bursting into tears. "Hugh, Hugh, you have married a foolish, weak girl; but have patience with me, and I will get wiser and better."
"Oh, ho! as for that," said Hugh, tenderly drawing her towards him, "I want no change in thee!"
After the never-failing restorative of a cup of tea, Gwladys revived, and Hugh was happy again; and when 'n'wncwl Jos arrived in the afternoon, Hugh left him with Gwladys to the mysteries of casking the beer, his wooden leg stumping up and down incessantly from the beer-cellar to the living-room. He placed some mysterious object on the table, wrapped up in paper, refusing to unfold it until the last moment.
"Now," he said, when the casks had been placed in position, and everything prepared for pouring in the brecci, "now, then, Mishtress, let's see if your brewing won't be the clearest in Mwntseison."
"Gwen said there was a cloud in it this morning!"
"Gwen!" he said, with a start. "She hasn't been looking at it, has she?"
Gwladys nodded.
"Ach y fi! there's a pity! She is too nearly related to Peggi Shân for her eyes or her fingers to do any good to thy brewing. I remember once, when my mother was brewing (and she was famed for her clear cwrw), but jâr-i! Peggi Shân came to the door; 'twas a very sunny day, and her shadow fell straight over the mash-tub, and, sure as I'm here, the beer was as thick as bwdran![7] Always after that we kept the door locked on brewing days."
"Perhaps, indeed!" said Gwladys! "I will do so next time, for there is something about Gwen I don't like."
"Well, we've got nothing to do but try our best now; but 'tis pity Gwen looked at it!" And he unfolded from the crumpled newspaper a large lump of coal, which, after well washing, he placed at the bottom of the cask, pouring the fermented brecci gently over it. "There it is! Now all I ask for my secret is—that when your cask is empty, you will take the coal out, and burn it in the middle of your strongest fire; it will bring good luck to your next brewing; you will be surprised to see what a mass of mud will be gathered round it, and your beer will be like the cryshal! and I'll come and taste the first glass."
"Yes, thou shalt indeed!"
"Well, good-bye, Mishtress; 'tis only Gwen I am afraid of now! Hast heard any more about Ivor Parry?"
"No," answered Gwladys, in a calm voice which astonished herself, "only that he is well nursed by the daughter of the house—Gwladys is her name!"
"Well, well, poor fellow! when you are ill it is well to have a woman about you," and he stumped away.
Quite in the gloaming, when the hearth had been swept up, Gwladys, dressed in her neatest frock of Welsh flannel, with her favourite pink muslin kerchief tied loosely round her neck, sat knitting near the little window, through which the setting sun sent a rosy parting glow.
Hugh had gone a few miles into the country on business, and Nell Jones and Sara Pentraeth, two near neighbours, had taken the opportunity of paying their first wedding call upon the bride. They were constant friends and companions, and although they quarrelled at almost every interview, never seemed happy apart. They had heard so much of the glories of Gwladys' new home that they had been dying to see it for the last fortnight, but had been unable hitherto to overcome their jealousy sufficiently to pay the requisite visit; this evening, however, they both made their appearance in the doorway.
"Dir anwl! is it you, Nell fâch? and you, Sara, venturing to leave your little baby? there's kind you are," and Gwladys dusted too already speckless chairs and placed them for her guests.
"Well, we have come to wish you 'Priodas dda,' Mishtress," said Sara, who was spokeswoman, Nell being too busily engaged with roving eyes in taking stock of the furniture; "and we would have come before, but as for me, indeed, to goodness, my heart sank down to my clocs, when I heard of all the grand things around you; but I am glad now I came, for I am not so frightened after all, and I don't see anything out of the way here!"
"I hope not indeed," said Gwladys, smiling.
"No, no! the Mishteer knew better than to make it too grand for you; it would be too great a change. But that is a beautiful chair you are sitting on—solid oak, I see!"
"Yes," said Gwladys, rising; "Hugh had it made for me."
"Caton pawb!"[8] said both women, raising their hands in astonishment, "a red velvet cushion! Wel! wel! the queen couldn't have anything better! But there, we all know how an old lover spoils his wife!"
Here Nell turned to the dresser.
"Wel, to be sure! the dresser looks nice; I have heard tell it is the best-dressed dresser in the parish; but so many things alike. For my part, I like different colours—green, blue, and pink, not all pink like these. And what are these?" and she gingerly raised the covers of two vegetable dishes, which stood one each side of the dresser shelf.
"They are for the potatoes and cabbages," said Gwladys meekly, feeling that she was indeed in danger of hurting the susceptibilities of her touchy neighbours by the exhibition of her treasures; "and those are the dishes—six plates and three dishes, and two little ones for gravy; they called it a dinner service at the shop at Caer Madoc."
"Perhaps indeed!" said Sara, whose mingled feelings of jealousy and astonishment could only be expressed by this never-failing phrase.
Meanwhile, Nell was walking round the room, examining with curious eyes and busy fingers every little adornment which the cosy cottage contained; but the coffor was the object of their deepest admiration.
"Look at the polish of it!" said Nell, who was not so clever as Sara at hiding her feelings.
Gwladys with pride opened every drawer.
"Full to the brim!" said Nell, with gasping envy. "I expect old 'Ebenezer' will be well filled on Sunday; everyone is looking out for your new jacket."
"They will be disappointed then," said Gwladys, laughing, "for Hugh comes with me to Brynseion from this time forward."
"Wel! wel! the Mishteer has given up his soul to you!" in a tone half spiteful, half abject, for "to give up his chapel" was synonymous with "giving up his soul," even though it was only to attend another of the same denomination more conveniently situated.
At this last proof of Hugh Morgan's complete subjection to his wife's charms the two women were quite overcome, and when they went away they made their adieux in more humble tones, and tacked a "mem" and a bob curtesy on to the end! But it was only until they were out of sight that this meek behaviour continued, for as they walked up the road they drew closer together, and with sundry nudges and winks discussed the situation.
"Did ever man see such a thing?" said Sara. "A red velvet-cushion! didst ever hear of such a thing? Nani's daughter to sit upon a red velvet cushion! No wonder her stool in the sail-shed is so often empty! Wel! wel! the ways of Providence are puzzling indeed. But of all things in the world, Nell, fâch—the dishes for the potatoes! Wouldn't basins do, I should like to know?"
"Oh! I don't expect they use them," said Nell. "What did she call them? Some English name."
"'A dinner service,' if you please," said Sara, in tones of disgust. "Ach y fi! what is the world coming to when Nani's daughter sits on a red velvet cushion, and has a 'dinner service' on her dresser? dost know what, Nell, fâch? I am sick of the world; it is so foolish. And didst see her ring? as thick as two, Nell, fâch! Wel, wel! the poor Mishteer has made a fool of himself at last! 'Dwla dwl yw dwl hên!'[9] But, Nell," with another nudge and a shrewd wink, "we've got to curtsey to her, my woman. But we've got to hide our feelings in this world, Nell, fâch. There's two pigs in the sty; and that pretty poppet won't do all the salting herself, I'll be bound. And there's the herrings to be salted in the autumn. I won't mind doing the work for her, but there's many a bit of pork can be spared from the salting, and I daresay she'll throw a dozen or two of herrings into my pay!"
"Oh, I can salt as well as thee," said Nell, "and I can set the garden for them——"
"Oh, yes, I daresay thee'lt pick something out of them!" said Sara. "So we must curtsey and say, 'mem' to Mishtress. Ach y fi! I am tired of this old world. There's Shemi coming home, I must go and put the cawl on; good-night."
As they turned into their cottages, Hugh came whistling down the road. He had settled his business in the farm on the moor, and was returning with hurrying steps to the home which held his young bride; for, no doubt, in a great measure the old proverb was right, and Hugh, the man of forty, was more absolutely enslaved by the new-born passion which had come into his life than a younger man would have been. The thought of Gwladys filled his heart to the exclusion for the time of every other consideration. She was the sweetest and fairest woman in the world—the peerless pearl of all the maidens!—and his whole life should be devoted to her happiness. He would guard her path from every danger; he would brush every thorn away, and spread it with flowers for her to walk upon; and as he saw the light which twinkled from his window, and pictured Gwladys' slim figure moving about the room, his heart leapt up with joy, and life seemed to stretch before him in one long boundless haze of happiness. He passed 'n'wncwl Jos standing at his cottage door with a nod only.
"Ha, ha!" said the old man, "'tis no use asking you to come in now—too much attraction at home, eh?"
"Well," said Hugh, stopping a moment, "'tis too late to-night, and I don't like to leave the little one alone, you see; but to-morrow night, she is going to see Nani, and I'll come up and sit with thee and Mari. How is she?"
"Quite well," said 'n'wncwl Jos. "She has been hay-making all day, and has not come home yet."
On the following Sunday the worshippers at Brynseion Chapel paid less attention than usual to their minister's fiery sermon. Gwladys Morgan's jacket had been the subject of their thoughts and conversation during the foregoing week, and now here it was in all its glory of lace and bead trimming, plainly exposed to every eye—nay, Sara Pentraeth and Nell Jones had been so fortunate as to secure seats in the very next pew behind the Mishteer and Mishtress, so that they were able correctly to appraise its value. Nell's eyes as usual roamed over every bead and frill, and a series of unconscious nudges in Sara's side expressed the feelings which the presence of the minister and congregation obliged her to conceal. Hugh had commissioned a friend, a sea-captain, to buy the jacket for him at a large seaport town up the bay. The price was to be no object, but fashion and good taste alone were to be considered, and consequently its arrival had created quite a little ferment in the village. Gwladys, when it was presented to her the day after her marriage, went into the expected raptures; but, truth to tell, its grandeur threw a shadow over her Sundays, and though Nani looked across the chapel at her with beaming admiration, she was glad to exchange it for her quiet Welsh flannel dress when the three services of the day were over, and Hugh and she could doff their broadcloth and silk, and lay them to rest in the coffer until the following Sunday. It was midsummer, and as they emerged from the crowded chapel on the day when the glories of the jacket first dazzled the eyes of Mwntseison, the sweet, pure air greeted them like a blessing. The road, shaded on both sides with old gnarled elder trees, was white with the fallen blossoms, the scent of which mingled with that of the wild honeysuckle climbing over the hedges.
They stopped a moment to lean over a bridge which crossed the little stream just where it took a headlong leap over the rocks down to the lower level, upon which it made its more sober way through the village into the sea. The spray from the waterfall wetted their faces as they looked through the honeysuckle and ivy into the depths below. The swallows darted backwards and forwards where the water filled the air with its rushing sound.
"'Tis a gay world, lass, eh?" said Hugh, looking with almost wistful tenderness into Gwladys' face.
"Yes, indeed," she answered; "'tis a pity we live in houses; we lose a lot of beauty so."
"Yes," said Hugh; "but to me, now, the real beauty and happiness of life are at home. Since I have thee always with me, my life seems to be almost too full of joy. Dost feel the same, f'anwylyd? Art as happy with me?"
For a moment there was a rushing sound in her ears which drowned the sound of the waterfall, and tears filled her eyes as she sought for a truthful answer.
"Oh, Hugh, bâch!" she said at last, "who could live with thee without loving thee? Indeed I am far happier than I deserve to be—my only trouble is lest I should not fill thy life completely; but if thou art telling the truth, and dost not find anything wanting in me, that is all I want."
"Nothing, merch i, nothing," said Hugh. And he spoke the truth, for he had not as yet fully realised that there was a something wanting in his cup of happiness; while in Gwladys' heart, every fresh proof of her husband's passionate love seemed to press deeper the barb of unrest and misery which was poisoning her life. His tender words, his caresses only deepened her sense of loss, while, added to her own sorrow, pity for Hugh Morgan began to awaken within her. She had not realised that the bitterness could not be hers alone, but that through her it would reach the man who loved her, and whom she admired and honoured so much.
"Could I only tell mother; but no!" She felt she must hide her misery from every human eye, and, above all, from Hugh, whose heart the knowledge would break. Yes, whatever it cost her, she must hide it from him; and she must make more strenuous efforts to appear and be glad in Hugh's love, and in all the comforts surrounding her.
All this passed through her mind while she watched the swallows darting through the spray and listened to the rush of the waterfall. She turned to her husband with as merry a smile as she could call to her lips.
"Come, 'mach-geni, we must not quite forget our home in watching the birds and the water; let us go home."
There was a ring of gaiety in the speech which Hugh felt and responded to at once, and leaning over the bridge he reached a wild rose which grew out of the mossy masonry.
"A posy for my darling," he said, offering it to her.
She took it, smiling, and fastened it on her breast in spite of the silk jacket; and Hugh Morgan turned homewards a happy man.
[1] My lass.
[2] Of course.
[3] Crystal.
[4] Dear! dear!
[5] Good gracious!
[6] Devil.
[7] A kind of porridge.
[8] An exclamation, as "good gracious!"
[9] "There is no fool like an old fool."
The summer and autumn months slipped by, bringing but little change to Mwntseison. The hay harvest brought its usual sweet additions to the charms of the season—the scent of the dry hay and meadow-sweet on the air, the call of the corncrake in the grey evenings, the wisps of hay left hanging on the hedges by the laden waggons. The men and women had all become a shade browner from exposure to the sun, for even the work of the sail-shed was suspended for the haymaking; and there was not a man, woman, or child who did not find some excuse for tossing the hay. The air seemed full of song, for people at Mwntseison always felt the work went better while they sang in chorus together. In the sail-shed there was a murmur of singing, commenced by the women and taken up by the lads and men until alto, tenor, and bass filled up the harmony. Best of all went the music when the Mishteer's rich voice joined in in the bass. A favourite glee was The Herring Boat, which went with so tuneful a swing that it seemed to suit every kind of occupation and experience.
The children sang it sitting in little groups on the warm sand, the sailors on the bay, and the haymakers in the field; but oftenest of all, the walls of the old sail-shed echoed to its tones. It ran as follows, though English words can but poorly express the vivid brightness of the original:—
"Out there on the raging seaThe wind is high;Nothing but foam and mist to seeUnder the sky!Father and mother, come down to the shore;Friends and neighbours, stand at the door;Pray—if you never have prayed before—'Lord, hear our cry!'Torn sails and broken mast—Oh! let the boat come home at last!Ja houp, hal! Ja houp, hal!Hal! Hal! Hal! Hal!
"Out there on the stormy mainA calm has come!The sunshine chases the wind and rain,And gilds the foam.Father and mother, come down to the shore;Friends and neighbours, come out to the door;And shout—if you never have shouted before—A welcome home!Torn sails and broken mast—The boat is safe at home at last!Ja houp, hal! Ja houp, hal!Hal! Hal! Hal! Hal!"
The corn harvest was nearly over before the news reached the village of Ivor Parry's convalescence.
The Lapwing had flitted across the bay to the northern port, and had returned, bearing the news of his recovery and many warm greetings from him to his friends at Mwntseison.
"Tell me exactly how he was, my lad. I hunger to hear something of him," said Hugh Morgan to the youthful captain of the little ship, and speaking English, for sailors possessed the distinguishing accomplishment of being able to speak the English language, and are proud of it. Hugh himself spoke it fluently and grammatically, though with a broad Welsh accent.
"Wel, he wass looking pale and thin," replied Captain Jones, "and the daughter of the house brought a chair for him to sit on outside the door. Gwladys is her name, and she's a purty girl, too!
"'There,' he says, 'turn my chair where the wind will blow straight from the sea.'
"'Tis blowing straight across the bay today,' sez I. ''Tis coming later from Mwntseison than me, though I only left yesterday morning.'
"Wel, he didn't say nothin' to that, but he took a long breath, and he sighed very heavy."
"'Oh, I'll soon be well now,' he sez, 'and begin my work again.' And when I was parting, he sez: 'Remember me to the Mishteer,' sez he, 'and tell him that distance don't make no difference at all in my friendship for him.'"
"And what message to the Mishtress?"
"'Oh, yes, of course,' he sez, 'my kind remembrances to her, too!' and he didn't say no more."
"Well, that's enough," said Hugh, returning to his Welsh, "to know that he is getting well, and that his heart is with us yet. We'll have him back again yet, boys. We'll send him a 'round robin,' and every one in Mwntseison shall sign it. Thee and I shall be the first to sign it. Dost hear, Gwladys? But thee must sprack up, girl, or Ivor will ask me what I've been doing to thee to make thee so pale and thin!" And he, too, sighed heavily, as Ivor had.
The winter months sped on, and the spring once more awakened land and sea. On one of her brightest and freshest mornings the doors of the sail-shed stood wide open, as they had done a year ago, and Hugh Morgan as usual worked busily amongst his men, arranging, watching, directing with indefatigable spirit, though, truth to tell, things had been going rather against him lately. He missed Ivor's watchful interest in his business, and his absence, like an intangible cloud, somewhat tarnished the brightness of his life.
At the first glance, Hugh's manly form and handsome face seems unchanged, but a closer scrutiny reveals a haunting sadness behind his genial smile.
Gwladys was also present, and was busily engaged in directing some portion of the work which she took under her own particular surveillance, and part of which she was able to do in her own home, much against her husband's wishes, for he would have liked to see her spend her days, her time, and his money in pleasure only; but the time hung heavily on her hands, and she felt herself perforce obliged to seek for work outside her own home, and playfully insisted upon taking upon her a portion of the work to which she had been accustomed from childhood.
"Wilt come up to-night, Nell," she said, as she left the shed one day, "and bring up those reef points and the new flag for me to hem? There's a bag of sucan[1] and half a cheese you can have."
"Tank'ee, tank'ee, Mishtress fâch," said Nell, standing up to make a series of bob curtseys; "there's good you are to me, and I will bring you a bunch of 'moon rocket.' I gathered it when the moon was full in a cleft of the rocks at Traeth-y-daran. 'Tis splendid for bringing the colour back to your blood. Will you try it, mem?"
"Yes," said Gwladys, "I will try it to please thee, Nell. From Traeth-y-daran, didst say? Bring it to me; but I am quite well," and she left the shed, Hugh looking after her with a wistful sadness, for it was now very evident that the girl, who a year ago might have stood for a picture of "Hebe," had now lost much of the full ripe form, as well as the glow of health, which had once made her so peculiarly attractive. She was still very fair and lovely, perhaps more so than before, but in a different way. Her dark brown eyes had deep shadows beneath them, and her lips a curve of sadness. What was the cause of this sudden failing of health? Hugh tried in vain to discover, and he was fast resigning himself to the belief that her delicacy was due to that much-dreaded disease, consumption, which was very prevalent in that neighbourhood. Whether from the continual intermarriage of the villagers on the coast, or from some other cause, this cruel disease is very rife amongst the young people of both sexes; and Hugh looked every day, with nervous fears, for signs of the dreaded enemy.
Gwladys laughed at his fears, however, and continued to declare she was quite well.
Mari Vone, who was her most intimate friend and companion, was as much puzzled as Hugh at first. With the quick intuition of a loving heart, she had soon discovered that Hugh and Gwladys' marriage had not brought to either of them the complete happiness which she had expected would follow their union. She spent some part of every day in Gwladys' home, either helping in the household duties or sitting with her at work, engaged in those long chats which seem to fill up any blank there may be in the lives of women, as smoking does with men. She never stayed later than four or five o'clock, and Hugh was wont to reproach her playfully with always leaving before he came home. Though Mari pleasantly laughed away his reproaches, it was true that she could not look on unmoved while the man who yet reigned supreme in her heart caressed and dallied with his young wife. It was true that she was not yet strong enough to feel no bitterness of spirit when she saw the tender affection which Hugh lavished upon Gwladys, and which seemed to be received by her without the reciprocal delight which Mari herself would have felt. Her pure and unselfish love made her desire his happiness before any earthly good, and it wounded her true heart to see that he missed something in his wife, without plainly realising that he did so, or, at all events, without confessing it even to himself.
It was during one of these long chats, when the two friends sat knitting at the cottage door, that the suspicion first dawned upon her which was afterwards to develop into such a miserable certainty. They had sat silent for some time, both heads bent over their clicking knitting needles, when Mari looked up and spoke.
"Wel, wyrl Lallo's new pig seems to be as noisy as the last year's. You can always hear them abusing each other."
"Yes," said Gwladys, laughing; "I think, between the baby and the pig, Siencyn will be glad to go to sea again."
"'Tis a crying baby, indeed," said Mari; "a frail little thing. I'm afraid it will not live."
"Oh, I hope so! It would break poor Gwen's heart to lose it. I can't think why—but she's always very spiteful to me."
"To thee!" said Mari. "Why? I wonder—but she dare not show her spite to the Mishtress, surely! Poor Gwen! I pity her. Didst know she was very fond of Ivor Parry once?"
A crimson blush overspread Gwladys' face as she bent more closely over her knitting—a blush that faded as quickly as it had appeared, leaving on her face a deathly pallor, though she answered in a calm voice:
"I remember hearing something of it."
Mari saw the blush and the pallor, and quickly changed the conversation, for if there was one trait in her character more conspicuous than another, it was tenderness, and, with a spasm of pain, she perceived she had touched upon a secret in Gwladys' life.
"It is drawing near tea-time; I must go. 'N'wncwl Jos is so punctual! the tap of his wooden leg is almost as good as a clock."
"Here is Hugh," said Gwladys, and she ran to the gate to meet him.
There was only the usual "Wel, merch i!" and "Wel, Hugh!" at meeting, for the Welsh, although so emotional—perhaps because of this—are very chary of any exhibition of tenderness in public.
"Ah! now I have caught thee, Mari, going to slip away as usual just as I come in. Indeed, now, stay to tea. 'N'wncwl Jos has gone out in the Speedwell, and she will not be back till nine o'clock; he told me to tell thee. Come, sit thee down, and keep Gwladys and me company."
"Oh, then I will, and I can fry those light-cakes for thee, Gwladys." And before long they were seated round the oak table, in the shade of the big chimney, for the evenings were still cold, although it was May.
Gwladys hovered round her husband with all sorts of little nameless attentions, endeavouring, as she always did, by faithfully performing and even exceeding in every wifely duty to make up to him for the love which was lacking in her.
"There's a bonnie pile of lightcakes," said Hugh, "as tall as Caer Madoc church-steeple; but never mind, I'll soon knock the pinnacle off it!" and he flipped two or three on to Gwladys' and Mari's plates.
"One at a time, Hugh bâch," said Gwladys. "Thee wouldst soon make me ill if thou hadst thy way."
"I'm afraid I have had my way, lass. Dost see how pale she is, Mari? What shall we do to her?"
"Well, I think, take her for a trip on the Aden Ydon. She sails for Cork in June. That would bring her roses back."
"Perhaps indeed," said Hugh. "But how shall I manage it? I have had complaints of the work in the sail-shed from many quarters lately, and I must watch it closer. But one thing is certain, I must ask Ivor Parry to come back, and that won't hurt my pride, for we've always been like brothers, and I believe his friendship is mine still."
"No doubt of that," said Mari, endeavouring to attract Hugh's notice from his wife, who sat with bent head, changing from white to red, and from red to white.
When Hugh had left the house, she raised her hands, which had been clasped on her lap, and covered her drooping face with them, while Mari, pretending not to notice her, bustled about clearing the tea-table; but so long did she remain in this position that it was useless longer to ignore it, so, drawing a stool to her side, she gently tried to draw away the hands which Gwladys still kept over her face, and was surprised to find them wet with tears.
"Gwladys, anwl! what is it?"
"Something I must not tell you!" said the young wife, with head still bent, the tears coursing each other down her cheeks; "something I must keep for ever here,"—and she smote her breast with her clenched hand—"until I lie in my coffin. You heard Hugh say everything has gone wrong with him lately? It is true, Mari fâch. Oh, everything is wrong! The whole world is twisted and torn, and I long to escape from it."
Mari sat beside her, holding one of her hands in stricken silence. "Ts, ts!" was all she said, while Gwladys' tears flowed unrestrainedly.
"Poor Hugh! poor Hugh!" she said between her sobs; and Mari cried too, but softly.
"I have heard that once Hugh and thee were lovers, Mari?"
"Oh, in the old, old past, Gwladys. Now his heart is thine alone, and my only prayer is that he should be happy with thee. Dost believe me, merch i?"
"Yes, I believe all that is good of thee, Mari. Thou art an angel somehow straying on earth. Wilt be my guardian angel, and love me still, though I am so weak and sinful? Oh, why did not Hugh marry thee, instead of me? I believe in his heart of hearts he loves thee still, although he has been carried away by a sudden wind of passion. Yes—yes; there has been some terrible mistake," and she started to her feet almost wildly, "and it can never be set right—never, never, never!" And with the last word she flung herself down on the settle, crying bitterly.
Mari waited a moment in dazed silence.
"Art better, merch i?" she said at length, when the sobs began to grow less violent; and stooping down, and whispering so softly that not even the proverbial walls could hear, she said, "Now, no word of explaining; none is wanted between thee and me; we have been soul to soul together to-day. I know all thy secret, and I think thou knowest mine!"
Gwladys' lips moved in assent, but she seemed too broken down for more.
"Listen again," said Mari. "We are both women whose dream of happiness has been shattered; but there is still one thing which we can work for as long as life shall last—Hugh's happiness. Can we work together, Gwladys fâch? can we still be friends with these bitter secrets between us? It is for thee to settle."
Gwladys' only answer was to raise her arms and clasp them round Mari's neck, drawing her close to her in a long embrace, during which some silent tears were shed by both.
"Never leave me, Mari!"
"Never!"
[1] Crushed oats, with the husks on, used for making a kind of strained porridge.
"Where is Gwen?" said Hugh Morgan, looking at an unoccupied stool at one end of the sail-shed; "she has not been here for two days."
"No," said one of her friends, "she's at home, Mishteer. Her little baby is ill, and she and Lallo are wild with fear of losing her."
"Ts, ts, that's a pity! Has she had a doctor?"
"Malen hysbys[1] has been there, and the child would have been well by now, but that Siencyn would open the window before he sailed yesterday; of course the little one caught cold, and now I'm afraid——" and she shook her head mournfully.
"Well, well," said the Mishteer, "I must go and see about getting a doctor for her." And he left the shed, and passed up the road towards Gwen's cottage, upon reaching which, he found her deeply intent upon a morsel of raw meat, which she was roasting on a fork before the fire. Her little baby, meanwhile, white and moaning, lay across Lallo's knees, who also seemed much interested in the bit of meat.
"Well, Gwen, I am sorry to hear your little one is ill; but diranwl! babies have nine lives and recover from all sorts of illnesses."
Gwen scarcely withdrew her eyes from her cooking to answer.
"Oh! of course, I know that, Mishteer, I know she will be well soon; but if you had a child of your own, you would know 'tis a cruel thing to see it suffering!"
"B'tshwr, indeed!" said Hugh. "I can quite understand that; but what is it that you are cooking?"
"A mouse," said Gwen. "Malen hysbys says a roasted mouse will cure my baby."
"Caton pawb!" said Hugh, "what nonsense, Gwen! I will send for Dr. Hughes; he ought to have been here sooner. A roasted mouse, indeed. Where did she hear that from? From Peggi Shân?"
"Peggi Shân knew more than Dr. Hughes a good deal," said Gwen; "and if she was alive now my baby would not be suffering; but it will be well by to-morrow."
"I hope so, indeed," said Hugh; "but if you do not let Dr. Hughes see it, I think it will die, Gwen; that is the plain truth, and there is no use hiding it. I will send for him at once. And throw away that nasty thing you are roasting," he added as he left the house.
"Die!" said Gwen fiercely; "she shall not die! There's calmly he says 'die!' I wish I had never let that wife of his touch my baby; it hasn't been well since she nursed it here one day."
As she spoke, through the open doorway came the sounds of singing from a knot of women and children passing by.
"Hard-hearted wretches!" she said, viciously pounding the mouse, which had been cooked to a cinder. "They can laugh and sing while my child is sick; they don't care. But their time will come!" she added, as she mixed the dark powder with some brown sugar and butter, and, with cooing, tender words, she coaxed the little moaning baby to swallow the unsavory morsel. At the same time Dr. Hughes entered, breezy and fresh from his drive over the hill.
"Hello!" he called, as his portly form filled up the whole doorway. "What's wrong here? I met Hugh Morgan down the road, and he told me I was wanted here. What is it, Gwen? Hello!" he said again, in quite an altered tone, as he caught sight of the little panting baby, its pretty lips discoloured with smears of butter and sugar and something worse. "What's this?" and he looked in anger from one woman to another. "How dare you! You have been trying some of your filthy messes again, and with the usual result. You have killed your baby. Had you sent for me in time, I might have saved him; it is now too late."
At the words "too late" Gwen screamed, and snatched the little one from its grandmother's lap. Disturbed by the scream it opened its eyes for a moment, and then died with a little fluttering gasp.
"There, lay it down, poor little thing," said the doctor; "you can do no more for it; but next time you see a baby dying, don't add to its pain by stuffing filthy things into its mouth."
Gwen fixed her heavy-lidded eyes upon the doctor with an angry look, saying:
"Go out of my house if you can do no good, and leave me to my sorrow. You will repent of this."
"Of what, woman?"
She made no answer further than to point to the door, and Dr. Hughes went out, shrugging his shoulders.
Through the open doorway the singing of the children came in on the breeze.
"Fileiniaid," Gwen said, shaking her clenched fist at the doorway. "I hate them. Are they all to be happy while I am miserable?" and hastily rising, she took her little dead baby in her arms, and pressing it to her bosom, paced moaning up and down the room; while Lallo, even in her fresh sorrows remembering the village proprieties, closed the door and covered up the little window with a pocket handkerchief, and, with no little difficulty, at last persuaded Gwen to lay the child on the bed.
"Extraordinary woman that Gwen," said Dr. Hughes, as he called by the sail-shed to report to Hugh Morgan. "Devilish temper. Second Peggi Shân. You see if I'm not right. The little baby? Oh, dead as a herring, its last moments disturbed by some filthy concoction stuffed into its mouth."
"Yes, I know, indeed," said Hugh; "a roasted mouse. I saw her cooking it." And Dr. Hughes drove away with an oath.
"Mari," said 'n'wncwl Jos one day as he stumped in from the sunshine; "isn't there a hole in Lallo's penucha?"