"Druan a Gwen, too!" said the women. "I hope he will reach her."
"He will reach her safe enough," said Hugh; "now that he has turned the point the tide will be with him; but coming back will be the difficulty!"
And with straining eyes they watched for the reappearance of the tiny craft.
"Where was the woman, Mishteer?"
"At the further end of the shore, standing straight against the rock. You can see her from 'The Ship' door; the tide must already have been up to her knees, poor soul! What frenzy made her go to Traeth-y-daran of all places? for she knew there was no returning from there!"
The rift in the clouds had grown larger, there was a streak of blue sky and a stream of sunlight shining through upon the troubled sea, and suddenly round the point and in a patch of light the boat appeared, labouring and tossing like a cockle shell upon the stormy waters. The sight was greeted by a loud shout from the crowd, which the roaring wind seemed to drive back into their throats.
Hugh's relief was intense, as deep as had been his terror, lest he might never see his friend again.
"God bless him!" he murmured, straining his eyes eagerly, while the little boat rose and fell between the billows; "there is Gwen in a grey heap at his feet."
And shout after shout from the people welcomed each appearance of the frail boat as it rose from the trough of the sea.
Will and Ivor rowed bravely; but skill was of little avail in such a storm. They had reached Traeth-y-daran in a lull of the wind, and, sheltered a little by the encircling rocks, had not found much difficulty in reaching the woman, who stood apparently calmly waiting her doom like a martyr at the stake.
Gwladys saw the boat approaching, and quickly recognised Ivor as her rescuer; and her blood, which had seemed frozen in her veins, began once more to circulate; the heart which had beaten so faintly bounded up, and fluttered back to life; and the eyes, which had closed in a last prayer, became suffused with warm tears.
As for Ivor, when, reaching the strand, he became aware that it was Gwladys, and not Gwen, whom he had come to deliver, he almost dropped his oar in speechless horror.
"Gwladys' tender form to be beaten by the pelting rain and dashing spray! Gwladys to be there alone in peril! What did it mean?" And sodden and wet as he was, a burning tide of heat rushed through his frame, as a dim intuition of the cause flashed into his mind; but there was no time to ask, for he saw that upon recognising him the strained courage was giving way. A huge wave rolled in and washed over her, and in its backward flow bore the frail figure away with it.
Ivor sprang into the tide as she was carried past him, and, catching her in his arms, lifted her safely into the boat, where she fell in a crouching heap at his feet.
"Safe so far, thank God!" he said, and only waiting to lift aside the dark brown hair which covered her face, and to rest her head on a coil of ropes, he bent at once to his oar, and turning the prow of the boat round, he and Will strained every nerve to reach the point, where they knew their greatest danger lay, and where the tide and wind together played havoc with the seething waters.
The tide of life was already returning to Gwladys' chilled body, for she was young, and accustomed to Nature's various moods. Not a word passed between her and Ivor; his eyes were fixed upon the sea, whose dangers he was endeavouring to battle with—not for dear life for himself, but for her who was dearer than life itself. Once only he looked at her.
"Art recovering, Mishtress?"
"Yes," she answered faintly.
"Thank God!"
They relapsed into silence, for, even to hear her faint answer, he had been obliged to stoop close to her, so loud was the roar of the wind and sea. As they neared the point, even Will became conscious of his danger.
"We'll drown, I think!" he shouted.
"But don't stop rowing," cried Ivor.
Indeed, it seemed impossible that such a tiny craft should ever make its way in safety over that rough sea. The waves ran mountains high, and each one, as it rolled in upon them, threatened to engulf them.
Gwladys rose upon her knees sometimes, but sank down again in terror at the sight which met her gaze.
They had now reached the patch of sunlight on the water, and the tide and wind helped them onwards towards the beach.
Hugh watched them eagerly from the shore.
"Brave lad," he cried, "he will do it, I believe!"
At this moment somebody touched his arm, and, turning, he beheld—Gwen, her grey shawl over her head, and held over her mouth, her small eyes gleaming fiercely at him. She asked:
"What is this fuss about?"
Hugh gasped.
"Gwen!" he said. "Mawredd anwl![2] what is the meaning of this? Another of thy witch ways! Tell me, woman—art thou in that boat, or here? No more of thy mad tricks!"
"Mad tricks?" said Gwen fiercely. "What dost mean, Hugh Morgan?"
"Yes, mad tricks," said Hugh angrily. "Didn't I see thee half an hour ago on Traeth-y-daran, with the waves dashing round thee? and hasn't Ivor Parry ventured his life in that cockle shell to save thee?"
"Mad, indeed!" replied Gwen, bringing her white face close to his. "Who is maddest—thee or me, Hugh Morgan? Dost think Ivor Parry would risk his life to save me? It was not me who ran so wildly over the cliffs through the wind and rain to-day. I am not the only one, I am glad to say, whose heart is burning and aching. Look nearer home, man. If I am mad,Inever left the girl who loved me all her life to marry a croten[3] of a girl who did not love me, and who loved somebody else. 'Tis thou art mad, Hugh Morgan, and 'twas thy wife Gwladys who ran through the storm to Traeth-y-daran this morning," and she burst into one of the long shrieking fits of laughter which had latterly become the terror of Mwntseison.
Hugh looked at her in horrified amazement. His mind was a chaos of troubled thoughts, and, as a shout from the crowd caught his ear, he turned again to watch the boat, but it was gone.
There had been a slight lull in the storm, during which Will and Ivor had striven hard to reach the shore; but the wind rose again, and the sea, as if regretting its momentary gentleness, suddenly increased in violence. A monstrous wave, towering higher than any that had hitherto assailed them, came rolling with foaming crest towards the boat. Ivor and Gwladys realised at the same moment that to escape its powerful mass was impossible. With one impulse they stood up.
"'Tis death!" cried Gwladys.
"But together!" answered Ivor, as he clasped her in his arms; and together they were washed out of the boat, and carried away by the rushing wave.
Will struggled for a while to keep afloat but soon sank, never to appear again. The excitement on the beach was intense. They were now aware that it was not Gwen for whom Ivor had risked his life, for she was amongst them, and they looked round to see who was missing.
In the seething, foaming inrush of waters, the tossed and struggling figures clasped in each other's arms were sometimes visible, rolling over and over, but ever carried nearer to land.
"Where are they?" shouted Hugh Morgan. "Show me, for heaven's sake, for I am blind and mad, I think!"
"There, there, Mishteer," explained several voices at once; "out there where the floating buoy is fastened."
And Hugh, catching sight of the rolling figures for a moment, dashed headlong into the waves, in spite of the restraining hands of his workmen, who thought he was going to certain death.
"Mishteer, Mishteer! come back!" cried 'n'wncwl Jos; but Hugh did not hear. Already he was caught in the swirling waters, and the old man, forgetting everything but his frenzied fear for the Mishteer's life, dashed in after him, but only to be caught on the crest of a thundering wave, and to be rolled over and over like a cork on the foaming waters. The sea would have none of them that day, the strong tide and the fierce wind both setting landwards.
'N'wncwl Jos was quickly carried in far enough for Dye Pentraeth to grasp him and drag him into safety.
"Come up, thou old fool!" he said. "Dost think we can do without thee and thy wooden leg?"
'N'wncwl Jos shook himself like a wet dog, and would have rushed in again had he not seen Hugh at that moment flung like a broken spar on the beach. He rose in a minute, and as he rose he saw the forms of Ivor and Gwladys borne in on a crest of a wave, and left upon the sands almost at his feet. They were at a little distance from the small crowd, Gwen alone stooping with Hugh over the sodden figures.
"Who is mad now? Gwen or Hugh Morgan?" she asked, in biting, sneering tones. "Let them alone, Mishteer,"—and she laid her hand on his fingers, which were already endeavouring to loosen the strong grip of the half-drowned Ivor and Gwladys—"let them alone; 'tis as it should be!" she added.
"Away, you devil!" cried Hugh, battling with his bitter agony. And Gwen left him with one of her usual fits of laughter.
Hugh's fingers trembled visibly as he loosened the coils of Gwladys' brown hair, which had twisted round and round Ivor's face.
"The water is cold," he said apologetically, and his trembling voice and chattering teeth were accounted for; but when the long hair was disentangled, and the clutching fingers loosened from their frantic grasp, there were ejaculations of horror and astonishment from the sympathising onlookers.
"The Mishtress! howyr bâch! how did she get there? Druan fâch! there's white she is! And Ivor, too! Surely there will be no awakening for him. So still, so white! but with a smile on his face. Dost see it, Mari fâch?"
But Mari was busy with Gwladys. Tenderly the fragile form was carried up the road and into her own home, while Ivor was borne with no less loving care to his lodgings, where the proper means of restoration were, before long, successful in bringing him back to life, and the crowd waiting outside turned up the road towards the Mishteer's house.
"How did the Mishtress get there?" was now their eager question.
This seemed likely to remain an unsolved mystery, for as Mari Vone came gently down the stairs to answer their frequent inquiries, her reassuring accounts of Gwladys' awakening and recovery stopped short at this interesting point.
"Mari fâch," said Sara Pentraeth, in a voice made hoarse by the excitement of the morning, "tell us, Mari fâch, how did the Mishtress get there?" and in her eagerness she ran up two or three stairs, and reached with clawing fingers towards Mari's skirts.
"She is better," said Mari, coming down the stairs; "the Mishteer is with her, and begs you all to go home quietly. The Mishtress will be well in a day or two; but she is too frightened to answer any questions yet."
And, reluctantly, they were compelled to control their curiosity for the present, satisfying themselves by turning again towards Ivor's lodgings, where they lingered about all day until relieved by the information that his strong frame was battling bravely for life, and that probably after a night's sleep he would be himself again.
Gwladys had opened her eyes and returned to consciousness with a quiet calmness which was absent from Ivor's recovery. The return of life and warmth to the body which has so nearly severed its connection with the soul is often a painful experience, and especially in the case of partial drowning. He had returned to consciousness with much struggling and groaning, and when he realised that the old life of thwarted hopes and bruised feelings had once more to be encountered, the groans, which those around him attributed to bodily pain, were caused by the fresh awakening to mental anguish.
"Gwladys! where is she?" were his first words.
"Safe at home, and getting right rapidly."
He said no more, but quietly seconded the efforts of those around him to restore him.
Meanwhile, Hugh Morgan sat silent and thoughtful beside his young wife's bed, holding her hand in one of his, while with the other he occasionally smoothed away the brown locks, which, in drying, resumed their tendency to curl and wave about the snowy forehead, while Mari Vone came and went with gentle words and tender smiles.
"There's a good girl!" she said, as Gwladys returned an empty cup of some steaming concoction which she had swallowed in quiet obedience.
The brown eyes looked up gratefully, but there was no answering smile on the red lips. Only when Mari had retired for a moment, she raised Hugh's hand and pressed a silent kiss upon it, and as she let it drop again, a tear rolled down her cheek. It caught Hugh's glance at once, and, with almost womanly tenderness, he wiped it away. She opened her lips to speak, but Hugh placed his finger playfully upon them, saying:
"Not a word, merch i, until thou art well. To-day and to-night thou must be quiet, Dr. Hughes says, and to-morrow thou may'st talk to thine heart's content."
[1] If I die!—A common exclamation.
[2] Merciful God.
[3] Slip of a girl.
"Pen addysg pan oeddwm, i'r gwyrdd-ddail mi gerddwn,A'r man y dymunwn mi ganwn a'r gog;Yn awr dan ryw geubren 'rwy'n nuchu ac yn ochen,Fel clomen un adeu anwydog."
"Time was when calm in wisdom's ways, with heart at rest,I roamed the wood to hear the cuckoo sing;But now I seek the shade alone, unblest,And mourn—a shivering bird with broken wing."
"You must go to bed, Hugh," said Mari, when the moon began to look in through the little chamber window, where Gwladys lay quiet and thoughtful. "She has her mother with her, and I will come down in the early morning and make you a cup of tea; so get to bed—your eyes look weary, and your hand is shaking. A good night's rest will be best for you. I will take care of Gwladys, fâch."
"I know, I know," said Hugh; "you will be a better nurse than me, so good-night, lass. Can diolch!"
He made his way to the little back attic, where the tiny window looked out under the roof to the rugged cliffs and brown hills stretching round the edge of the bay.
Madlen, who slept in the corresponding room in the loft, wondered what kept the Mishteer up so late; for long after she had gone to bed, she had heard him pacing up and down. Mari had left Gwladys under her mother's care, with a mould candle for company, just to show any of the villagers who might look that way that the interest of the situation had not entirely departed. It was considered an imperative duty at Mwntseison to keep a candle alight in any room where there was sickness or death.
So Nani Price lighted her candle and placed it near the window, where its modest glimmer was frequently remarked upon during the night by the sympathetic villagers.
"There's a light still in the Mishtress's window," said Nell, pressing her nose against her two-paned window—"a good light, too—a shop candle, no doubt. But the Mishteer can afford it—or perhaps," she added, as she returned to bed, "perhaps it is only a dip put close to the blind!"
Sara Pentraeth was equally impressed as she looked up the road at the glimmering light.
"Wel wyr!" she said, "they have lighted a second candle—and shop candles, depend on it! Dear, dear! there's nice it is to be rich!"
In the little room under the thatch, where Hugh Morgan had retired for the night, there was no candle or lamp, but it was flooded by a stream of moonlight, which made a slanting path across the rough, uneven floor. Hugh crossed and re-crossed it as he walked with folded arms and bent head up and down—up and down until the moon was high in the sky. A rough wooden bedstead and bed occupied one dark end of the long, low room, which was otherwise destitute of furniture, excepting a worm-eaten bench which stood against the bare, white-washed wall. At the further end, in the dark shadow, stood two or three generations of spinning-wheels, in various stages of decay, accompanied by a few old cloaks and fishing-nets hanging over the rough rafters.
Here Hugh Morgan set himself to face his troubles and to fight with his angry feelings; and if, when the morning dawned, he had neither chased away the one nor conquered the other, he had at least gained courage to meet them with fortitude and patience. Suddenly he started, with his eyes fixed steadily on the further end of the room—for there, in the shadow, stood Mari Vone, her tall, graceful figure stooping forward a little, one white arm hanging by her side, the other raised and with finger pointing upwards, seemed to remind him that though he sought in vain for comfort on earth, from Heaven he might still gather help and strength! Her golden hair was unbound, and hung, as he remembered it of old, in flowing waves below her waist; and as he gazed earnestly into the darkness, her face, with every feature and lineament distinctly marked, appeared before him—the deep blue eyes, the white eyelids that too often drooped over them, the parted lips, the dimpled chin—all were distinctly visible. He did not stop to ask himself how she had come there, but with the instinctive relief which her presence always brought him, he stretched out his hands with an exclamation of greeting, and, stepping across the bar of moonlight into the dark shadow, stood face to face with—nothing!—nothing but the old spinning-wheels and nets, and cloaks of different hues which hung down beside them. He stood baffled and astounded.
"Could these old rags have shaped themselves in his imagination into Mari's beautiful form?"
He returned to his seat on the bench, and tried once more to recall the picture to his mental vision—but in vain. She was gone! And Hugh turned again to face his loneliness and sorrow. Curiously enough, as the night advanced, his thoughts were withdrawn in a great measure from Gwladys, and were occupied with Mari Vone. A sore feeling of resentment against her took the place of the placid, contented friendship which for so many years had reigned in his heart.
"It was her fault," he thought—"all this bitter trouble that had come upon him! Everybody in the village knew that she had jilted him shamefully! And what did that mad woman mean?—'The girl who has loved you all her life!' But whatever she meant, it was some fancy of her disordered brain!"
Mari Vone had injured him—had spoiled his life, and had laid him open to the temptation of a foolish headstrong passion—a passion that had already died out within him like the furze bush on yonder hillside that blazed up so merrily when the farmer's boys lighted it to-night at ten o'clock, and now see, scarcely a spark remained. So had his passion for Gwladys died out within the last few days, and Mari Vone had been the cause of all his mistakes and troubles! As for Gwladys, he bore her no resentment.
"Poor child, poor child!" he thought; "it has been no fault of hers! I alone am to blame! I was the Mishteer, and she dared not refuse me! But Ivor—how has he repaid me? But I will watch and see that at least he shall not lead Gwladys into mischief. Could they have met clandestinely? But no! the thought was unworthy of him or of her! But yet—he would watch! Yes—watch!" And for the first time in his life the giants of suspicion and jealousy clamoured loud at the door of his heart.
But he showed no outward sign of disturbance next morning when, rather late, he entered Gwladys' room. Mari Vone stood beside her, and, leaning over the still pale invalid, raised one finger to enforce silence; and the attitude instantly reminded Hugh of the figure he had seen by the old spinning wheels, and the feelings of resentment which it had roused again took possession of him.
"Hush!" said Mari, "she is sleeping!"
"That is all right," he answered, in a cold and formal voice. "I will see to my wife now, Mari; and we need trouble you no longer."
Mari was conscious in every fibre of her being of the change in his manner. She flushed visibly, but showed no intention of giving up her post beside Gwladys.
"I have promised Gwladys not to leave her to-day; so have patience with me, Hugh, and leave me here. Your breakfast is waiting."
It was in his heart to thank her for all her tenderness and affection for his unhappy wife; but he hesitated, struggling with his new-born anger, and, saying something about his breakfast, left the room awkwardly; and Mari was once more left to keep watch by the sleeping girl-wife. Downstairs in the living-room she had carefully arranged Hugh's breakfast, and after partaking of it silently, he once more entered his wife's room. She was now awake, and when he appeared stretched both hands to meet him.
"Hugh bâch!" she said, "come and sit by me. Wilt go out for a bit, Mari lass? or stay if thee lik'st, for I have no secrets from thee."
But Mari, having first stooped down to kiss her, slipped out of the room, and Hugh took the chair which she had vacated.
Gwladys' breath came in short gasps, her nervousness was painful to witness, and Hugh was smitten with a deep pity for the girl whose happiness he considered his mistaken passion had wrecked.
"I want to tell you——" she began, with dry lips and fluttering breath.
"Thou shalt tell me nothing, child! I know it all. Thou hast never loved me—thou hast never loved me since we were wedded! I have wronged thee, Gwladys; I might have known a young girl of thine age could not love a middle-aged man like me! But thou hast wronged me, too—thou shouldst have told me this that night when I went to thy mother to ask her for thee! But not a word from anyone! no one thought it worth while to stop me when they saw me rushing to destruction like a blind horse who gallops madly over the cliffs. 'Twas cruel! and I think I would have stretched out my hand to save the unhappy creature; but apparently Hugh Morgan has no friends—not even Mari Vone called me back! Well, Gwladys merch i, we have both made a mistake. Now our eyes are open, and we can only walk together to the end of our lives side by side, each one trying to lighten the sorrow of the other. God only knows how it is going to be, Gwladys fâch; but that is the path for us—it will be a dry and dusty one for us both. May it lead to the golden gates of the West at sunset!"
Gwladys, with her face hidden in the pillow, was sobbing bitterly. Hugh let her cry for a while, and then, drawing his hand tenderly over the brown curls, asked, in a voice of much emotion:
"One question only I will ask, and that is, Didst mean to do it? Was it with clear purpose that dreadful race over the cliffs—that leap on to the sands below? Oh, Gwladys, didst think of it and settle it all while I was sleeping here beside thee? Wert so unhappy with me? Didst hate me so much, merch i, that the cold creeping tide and the wind and rain were a haven of refuge?"
"No, no, no!" said Gwladys, rising on her elbow, and looking at him with streaming eyes, "that I can tell thee, at all events. I did not plan it beforehand; I was restless and wicked, and I knew nothing till I was out in the blinding rain; I felt nothing but wanting to get away anywhere out of myself. It seemed as if an evil spirit had got hold of me. Gwen had been here in the early morning when I first came downstairs; she had taunted me and sneered at me, and the cruel look in those eyes of hers seemed to wake some mad creature inside me; and I felt nothing but on—on—until I had jumped down to the sands. Indeed, indeed, Hugh, that is the truth!"
"Thank God for that," said Hugh. "Cheer up, merch i, we shall pass through life somehow; and some day, I am sure, God will lighten thy burden."
"Thy tenderness is wounding me sore, Hugh. I have been a wicked girl, but try me once more. Mari Vone has been with me since five o'clock, and she has been trying to show me how I can best find my way back to thine heart, and how I can repay thee for all thy goodness to me. Let me get up—I am longing to begin, and thou shalt see—oh! thou shalt see what a good and true wife I can be!"
"Right, merch i, thou art on the right path any way; and from henceforth try not to hate me, lass—try to love me, as if I were thy father or an elder brother. Canst give me so much, girl?"
"Oh, Hugh!" said Gwladys, springing on to the floor, and flinging her arms about his neck, "I have always loved you so—fondly, dearly!"
He gently loosened the hands which were clasped behind his neck, and still holding them in his own, stooped and kissed her forehead once—twice—three times—before he quietly left the room. He was on his way to the sail-shed when he was accosted by Sara Pentraeth, who came running madly down the hill to catch him, carrying her wooden shoes in her hand, closely followed by Nell.
"Oh, Mishteer! come back, come back! Come to poor Lallo—she is calling for you!"
"Come, Mishteer bâch!" said Nell.
"A dreadful thing has happened," said Sara. "Oh, Mishteer bâch! 'tis Gwen, the vilanes—she has done a fearful thing——"
But Hugh was already out of hearing. He had turned at once, and with rapid strides was shortening the distance between him and Lallo's cottage.
As he approached it, he saw a crowd of villagers gathered round the pig-stye, gazing with exclamations of horror at something which lay inside the enclosure. Lallo, weeping bitterly, made one of the crowd. Gwen was nowhere to be seen, being in reality hidden behind the pig-stye, listening with a pleased smile to the various comments of her neighbours.
Lallo's sympathising friends plied her alternately with condolences and questions. A stream of blood ran from under the pig-stye door, and trickled down the rocky road—inside, lying prone on its side, was the pig, with a horrible gash in its throat from which the life-blood was still trickling.
"What is the meaning of this?" said Hugh, looking down at the slaughtered animal.
"'Tis Gwen!—Gwen did it, Mishteer, and then walked quietly into the house, and put the razor on the table! Didn't she, Lallo?"
"She did, she did!" said Lallo, beginning to cry afresh.
"Never mind, Lallo fâch!" said Sara; "you know you had settled to kill him next month."
"Oh, but that's a very different thing. To die at the appointed time, and to be properly salted and dried, every pig expects—but to be hurried unprepared like this is terrible."
"But you can salt him and dry him," said Nell, offering her mite of comfort.
"Can I, do you think?—oh! but I shall never have the heart to do it."
"Well, be thankful," said an old crone who had the reputation of being the wisest woman in the village, "be thankful it is the pig and not yourself who is lying there."
"Yes—you couldn't be salted and dried," said 'n'wncwl Jos.
"Well, that's true enough," answered Lallo, addressing Hugh Morgan. "Mishteer bâch, I am in terror of my life—what will you advise me to do? If she could kill that poor pig who never did her any harm, she may do the same to me. I have borne and borne, but I can bear no more. What shall I do, Mishteer bâch?"
"Well," said Hugh, "you must either have a strong man to live with you, who can keep a constant watch upon her, or you must send her to the asylum—that is my advice. Send her to the asylum."
"My Gwen to the 'sayloom!" cried Lallo, in angry tones. "No, no, we have not fallen so low as that! My aunt was not wise the last years of her life, but she died peacefully in her own bed, and my cousin was a mad 'iolin,'[1] but his mother kept him respectably shut up in the penucha for many years, and he died singing 'O, frynian Caersalem!' like a saint. No, no, my Gwen shall not go to the 'sayloom!"
"What did you ask my advice for, woman, if you will not take it?"
"Well, Mishteer, I did not expectthatadvice; but I thought you would be able to tell me what I am to do." And she burst out into fresh sobs, mingled with indignant exclamations. "Ach y fi, no! 'Sayloom, indeed! Howyr bâch, no!"
"Well," said Hugh, turning to leave the crowd, "I have no more time to waste. Get Tim 'Twm' to cut up your pig properly and salt it, and get Gwen to help you—it will keep her from mischief—and by that time you will have calmed down, and will be ready for my advice, I expect. That woman is a danger to us all," he said to 'n'wncwl Jos, who stumped down the hill beside him, "and I must get her put in an asylum before another month is out."
"Must you, indeed!" said Gwen, suddenly facing them. She had glided from behind the pig-stye, where she had listened to the whole conversation, and followed close behind them down the road, and now, suddenly passing them, turned round facing them, and walking backwards, she fixed her glittering eyes upon Hugh. "Wilt take me to the 'sayloom, Hugh Morgan?—perhaps indeed! But we shall see—we shall see!" And laughing wildly, she turned suddenly up a path which led to the open cliffs.
"Tan y marw! 'tis Peggi Shân herself!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, who had not his usual cheerful jollity. In truth, the old man, in the excitement caused by the events of the preceding day, and in the absence of Mari's thoughtful care, had entirely forgotten to change his dripping garments until late in the evening. He was accustomed to think nothing of such a wetting, and had a score of times braved its dangers; but to-day he shivered, and indignantly confessed to himself that he believed he had been such a fool as to catch a cold like a babby!
"Art afraid of her?" said Hugh, noticing his unusual quiet manner. "I must see about her, poor thing, for certain—as soon as I have shifted my business on to Josh Howels. I see no safety for her or for us except the asylum."
"Yes, clap her in," said the old man. "I don't like the look of her eyes."
Ivor Parry, though looking pale and shaken, had astonished everybody by appearing in the sail-shed as usual in the morning, and when Hugh entered was standing not far from the open doorway. An exchange of greetings was unavoidable between them.
"A brâf day," said Ivor, looking up from a sail which he was examining, "a brâf day, Mishteer, and the end of the storm, I think. I hope the Mishtress has not suffered from her wetting."
"Not much," said Hugh, fixing grave eyes upon his whilom friend.
Poor Ivor endeavoured to stand his scrutiny, but, it must be confessed, with no great success.
"Not much," continued Hugh, "and I have to thank you for risking your life to save hers. Dear God! had I known it was my wife you were going to save, you would not so easily have overcome me and pushed me out of your boat."
"B'dsiwr, b'dsiwr! I did not know myself it was the Mishtress. I thought it was Gwen, or I would not have thrust you back. You must forgive me that, Hugh."
He was keenly conscious that, in addressing him, Hugh had dropped the familiar "thee" and "thou," and he fell at once into the more formal manner himself.
"We would both have done the same for any woman."
"I am glad to see you have not suffered, and I thank you again," said Hugh, with a slight show of warmth. He could not look into those honest blue eyes and not trust them, but he could not remember all he had learnt of late, and quite believe.
The death of Lallo's pig was the subject of conversation in the sail-shed that morning, and Hugh was thankful that its racy horrors had the effect of turning the gossip of the villagers from his wife's narrow escape.
"Oh, she is quite well, and none the worse for her dip," he answered jovially to every one who made inquiries.
"There's glad I am, indeed, indeed—she might be drowned. But, Mishteer, what shall we do about Gwen, weaving in and out amongst us? Ach y fi! there's dangerous."
"Yes, I am afraid she must go to the asylum as soon as I have settled my affairs a little," said Hugh, not sorry to add to the gruesomeness of the incident, and to turn their thoughts away from his wife.
"But how did the Mishtress get to Traeth-y-daran?" said the wise woman of the village—"that's what I want to know."
"Oh, she's but young, you know," said Hugh, smiling indulgently, "and thoughtless like all young things, and fancied she would like to see the storm from Traeth-y-daran. She might have fared badly if Ivor Parry had not risked his life so nobly. I have given her a good scolding." And he laughed cheerfully.
"Did Ivor know it was the Mishtress?" said the inquisitive wise woman.
"No, no, we both thought it was Gwen."
And so the incident was allowed to sink to rest, to make room for the more exciting adventures of Lallo's pig.
[1] Fool.
For some time after these events, a season of outward calm seemed to reign over the Mishteer's household. Gwladys had taken her place in the daily routine of life with courage and patience, and, leaning upon Mari Vone's strength of character, kept up the role of happy wife! She executed all her small duties with unswerving exactitude, going out of her way to carry out the most trivial details; every wifely duty was performed with apparently cheerful alacrity, and her demeanour was perfect in its simulation of domestic happiness. She almost deceived herself, but there were moments when the gnawing giant of unrest within her threatened to overwhelm her new-born strength and earnestness of purpose. She fought hard, and gained comparative peace. At evening, when Mari left her, the long tremulous pressure of her embrace alone expressed her gratitude; but her friend knew well the sunken rocks that underlay the seemingly smooth current of life under Hugh Morgan's roof.
Truth to tell, the even flow of her own life had been much disturbed of late, and though she still attended to all her domestic duties with the same stately calmness, it was not without a feeling of sore trouble that she observed the change in Hugh's manner. Not only to her, but to all around him, he appeared colder and more formal, much absorbed in his own thoughts.
"Business, merch i!" he would explain sometimes, when, with a serious wistfulness, Gwladys timidly rallied him.
Mari had again fallen into her old habit of leaving the house before Hugh returned from the sail-shed in the evening, and as she always went home before noon to prepare her uncle's cawl, many days went by without her seeing Hugh.
"Thou must stand alone now, Gwladys fâch," she said one day, when her friend demurred to her leaving her so early; "our house wants a thorough clean-up. I must white-wash the stone at the garden gate, and put some fresh red paint at the back of the big chimney, the smoke has blackened it so."
"Yes, I suppose I must," said Gwladys, "and I shall have Hugh home soon to cheer me up—I will be bright and nice, as thou art! I have learnt a great deal in the last few weeks, and it has been all through thee, Mari fâch! only, Mari," throwing away the stockings which she was knitting, and clasping her knees, and looking up into her face, if with less misery in her eyes, still with a look of troubled thought, "only, I wish I was not walking along my path so blindfolded. I dare not look to the right or left, but I keep straight on, as thou hast advised me—to try and make Hugh happy! try and make Hugh happy! Nothing else in my life, Mari; the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning, it is my determination and my wish and my prayer—and he is worthy of it all! I am beginning to feel it, Mari—but will I ever be worthy ofhim?"
"Yes, yes," said her friend, "a brighter day will dawn for us all; we must remind each other of that when the clouds are hanging low."
"Yes," answered Gwladys. "I am now going to prepare the tea. Thinking is my enemy, which I must keep out of my life until I am an old woman. Perhaps, then, when I am sitting here with my spectacles, and knitting, I shall be able to think again."
"Fforwel, then," said Mari; "perhaps I will not come to-morrow till afternoon." And she drew her shawl tightly around her and ran all the way home, helped by the winter wind, which blew icily from the sea.
Gwladys busied herself with her preparations for her husband's evening meal, clattering the tea-things, humming at her work, and making believe to be a busy housewife absorbed in her small duties; and her attempts at cheerfulness were not without some measure of success. But it was a fictitious and unreal calm, and one which she was conscious might at any moment crumble into ruins. But for the present her newly-formed resolutions kept her up; and as she tossed the frizzling lightcakes on the griddle, she tried to hum an old familiar tune, which had of late been a stranger to her lips.
It was at this moment that Hugh came in from the gusty twilight; he heard the crooning song, and the sadness deepened in his face, and a light shot into his eyes from some hidden spark of jealous suspicion.
"She's happy," he thought; "she has seen Ivor!" for during the afternoon the latter had been absent from his work for an hour or so, and Hugh had noted it and had wondered.
He closed the door when he entered, fighting rather testily with the blustering sea-wind, which was accustomed to find easy access into every part of the house. Doors were always left open at Mwntseison, except in the stormiest weather or when a death had occurred, so Gwladys looked up with astonishment.
"Gwen is coming down the road, and I thought thou wouldst be better without her."
"Oh, yes—bolt it, bolt it!" she said, her colour coming and going. "I am afraid of her."
"Well, I think we shall all be afraid of her soon," he said; and while his wife placed a chair for him under the chimney, and drew the round table near the fire, and piled his plate with the crisp lightcakes, he explained to her his arrangements for sending Gwen to the asylum.
"Poor thing, poor thing! but it will be best indeed. I will be glad when thou art with me always, Hugh. 'Tis nervous work to be alone all day, while she haunts the village like a grey ghost."
"Hast had no company to-day, then?" said Hugh, with a searching glance. "Hast not been out?"
"Yes, as far as mother's; but I did not meet Gwen."
Hugh was silent, and Gwladys' spirits flagged a little. She was conscious of some brooding thought in his mind, and with her continued feeling of guilt and self-upbraiding, she became nervously silent too.
The next day, in the sail-shed, Hugh was gloomy and pre-occupied, and Ivor Parry observed it with sorrow. He, too, was full of troubled thoughts. To lose Gwladys was a bitter trial; but what a solace it would have been could he have kept Hugh's friendship—this man whom he had loved and almost worshipped. But now he realised the truth that, in the nature of things, such a solace was impossible. They must walk along the road of life apart, and it were well that the severance should be soon and complete. Even to-morrow he hoped to leave the sail-shed, with all its lingering associations of happiness and sorrow; and, when five o'clock came, he remained alone, making some final arrangements which would facilitate the winding up of the Mishteer's affairs. He had not noticed that Hugh had not left with his workmen as usual. In truth, the latter was now sitting before his desk in the little office, whose badly-fitting door let in between its gaping boards a full view of the shed.
The evening shades were fast darkening the old room, and Ivor Parry had lighted a lamp, whose glimmering beams showed up the rafters, the coils of rope, and the other impedimenta scattered about the floor. Hugh, sitting at his desk in the darkness, could see the whole scene through the chinks in the half-open door, and he gazed silently at Ivor's manly form now stooping to re-arrange something on the floor, now stretching to reach something from the rafters; and his heart ached with a dull longing for the time that was past, for the friendship which had filled his life more than he knew at the time, and, if the truth must be told, for the old days before his passion for Gwladys had enslaved him. Those days could never return. He had bowed his neck to the yoke, and henceforth she must be his first care and thought; and how easy and how sweet this would have been, if only—and he brooded there in the darkness with mournful eyes and a heavy heart.
Suddenly there was a step at the door of the sail-shed, a finger raised the latch, the door was pushed open, and Gwladys entered. Hugh trembled in every nerve, and watched eagerly what would happen.
For a moment, her only thought seemed to be to shut out the boisterous sea-wind, which was swirling outside the door; then she threw back the hood of her cloak, and looked in astonishment, while Ivor Parry, no less taken by surprise, lifted himself up from a bale of sail upon which he had been kneeling. Gwladys involuntarily clutched her hand to her side, while Ivor stood straight before her, with both arms hanging down beside him. Hugh's black eyes never swerved in their keen glance; it never struck him that he was acting dishonourably; his suspicious anxiety seemed to have smothered every other feeling, as he sat there peering at the unconscious actors in the scene before him. A crimson flush spread over Gwladys' face and neck and forehead; but Ivor was pale as death. Neither spoke for some time. Her breath came and went in little fluttering gasps. Ivor was the first to regain his self-possession, and Hugh strained every nerve to listen.
"Well, Mishtress, how art thou?"
"I only came," said Gwladys, ignoring his question, "to fetch Hugh's coat, and to look for him. He has not come home."
"They have all left," said Ivor, glancing into the darkness of the little office. "I have only stayed on a bit to make things more plain for the Mishteer—I am going to-morrow."
"Yes," was all her answer, while her head drooped, and she nervously and unconsciously slipped her ring up and down her finger. She seemed suddenly anxious to get away, and, turning hurriedly to the peg on which a coat of Hugh's was hanging, said, "I want it to darn."
The peg was just above her reach, so she sprang a little from the ground, and succeeded in dislodging the coat from its hook, but in doing so caught the wrist-band of her jacket in its place, and hung, with toes just reaching the ground, in a helpless and uncomfortable position, trying with her left hand to loosen the wrist-band from the hook—an object which the weight of her body frustrated. Ivor's first impulse was to rush to her assistance, and every pulse in his body throbbed with the desire once more to hold her in his grasp; but his arms again dropped down, and he turned resolutely to a coil of ropes, and, dragging it within reach of her feet, said:
"Stand on this, Mishtress."
His white set face and his trembling voice were the only signs of the storm that raged within him; but they sufficed to make plain to Gwladys, as well as to the silent watcher behind the half-closed doors of the office, the strong curb which he was placing upon his feelings.
Gwladys stepped off the coil of ropes, stood a moment, trembling and blinded with her tears.
"That nasty hook has shaken thee," said Ivor; and she made no answer, but, stooping to pick up the coat, gulped down a sob which Ivor and Hugh distinctly heard.
"Fforwel, then!" she said, turning back for a moment as she reached the door. "I wish thee well at the mill, Ivor Parry." And she passed out into the night wind.
"Fforwel, Mishtress!" caught her ear as she went.
For a few minutes, Ivor stood with folded arms, looking after her into the darkness, and then sitting down on the bale upon which he had been at work, a great sob shook his frame, too, and it was with a veritable groan of distress that he once more rose and applied himself energetically to his work.
In the darkened office Hugh still sat on; but his head was bowed upon his hands. A feeling of humility, never quite a stranger to his noble heart, tinged the bitter thoughts which occupied the silent half-hour which passed before Ivor Parry extinguished his lamp and left the sail-shed, locking the door behind him. Then Hugh rose, and letting himself out through a small door from his office, walked homeward through the blustering gale which swept up the village road.
Gwladys looked up from her knitting as he entered the house with relief, and, rising to meet her husband, placed a trembling hand on his arm.
"Hugh, where have you been? you are so late! I would be frightened, indeed, only I know you have much to do to settle things before you give up."
"Yes, business, merch i; I am not often late for meals—too good an appetite for that, Gwladys; and you cook them too nicely for that! What have you for supper? Something good, I can tell by the smell." And he rattled on to hide the embarrassment which he saw in Gwladys' face.
"Yes, fried herrings and onions; you like them, don't you?" she said, with a wistful anxiety to please, very touching to Hugh in his present mood of self-reproach; "and a white loaf Madlen has made for thee."
"Supper then, and business to the winds!" said Hugh cheerfully. "Come and sit down, merch i, or the board will not be full."
"I went to look for thee," said Gwladys, sitting down opposite him at the small table, "but there was no one in the sail-shed except Ivor Parry."
"Perhaps indeed!" answered Hugh, with simulated indifference; "I suppose he had some last arrangements to make; he is going to-morrow."
"Yes, he told me." And with the relief of having been perfectly open, Gwladys ate her supper, and talked with more ease and cheerfulness than she had shown at first.
Hugh hastened to change the subject, and with tender thoughtfulness took more than his share of the conversation all the evening. If there was one good trait stronger than another in his character, it was justice. Before all things, Hugh Morgan had been a "just" man; and there was growing in his heart, where at first anger and suspicion had held their own, a strong feeling of admiration for these two—his friend and his wife—who had met under his own eyes, where nothing but their honourable natures restrained them, where they thought no eye was upon them to mark a loving look, no ear to hear a tender farewell, no tongue of scandal to blame them, and yet had come forth immaculate, spotless, blameless, from the trial. He doubted whether he himself would have passed scathless through the temptation, and the nobility of his soul responded to the perfect freedom from guile, which he had seen in the interview between Ivor and Gwladys. It was not to be wondered at, therefore, if, in the days following, his voice, his manner, his actions towards his young wife bore the stamp of a more than usually gentle and chivalrous homage. It fell on Gwladys' perturbed spirit like a tonic, bracing her for still more strenuous efforts to keep in the difficult path on which she had entered. And so outward calm and peace brooded over the Mishteer's cottage, for within it were two beings, who, though the glamour and beauty of life were denied them, yet walked courageously on with open brow and steadfast feet, looking neither to the right nor to the left, but simply to the endeavour to do their part nobly in the battle of life.
To Mwntseison also had returned a season of calm. Its inhabitants had latterly been considerably uplifted, not to say inflated, by the evident personal notice accorded to them by Providence! Gwen's bidding, with the unheard-of generosity of the donors, had been like a pleasant fillip to the lethargic tendency of the rural mind, had stimulated and whetted their appetites for more sensations, so that the Mishtress's narrow escape had been received with much appreciation.
"Yes, yes," said 'n'wncwl Jos; "there's many things in Mwntseison which you won't find in any other village along the bay. Look at Aberython and Clidwen; and there's Treswnd and Abermere! Is there a man like the Mishteer in one of those places?"
"No! Nor a woman like Mari Vone neither!" said a burly sailor.
"No, no!" said 'n'wncwl Jos again; "there's no doubt the Almighty keeps His eye on us, 'cos look at Lallo's pig now!"
"Well, it seems to me," said Shoni, the blacksmith, who was always inclined to be irreverent, "that He wasn't watching very closely when Gwen did that nasty trick!"
"Wasn't He, then!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, stumping violently with his wooden leg. "What was to prevent her killing her mother instead of the pig? If poor Gwen felt she must kill something, what could be better than the pig?"
"What, indeed?" said everybody; "for though he was hurried away rather (not so long, too! for he was to be killed in a month), he is as well salted and dried as any pig ever was, and lying safe in sides and hams on the shelves in Rhys Thomas's shop."
"Ach y fi! I won't touch that bacon whatever," said Nell.
"And look at Ivor Parry, brought safe from the sea and the fever. Oh, yes, caton pawb! it's as plain as the day. Mwntseison is well looked after!"
And there were many of the young and frivolous who wished for a few more sensations, since it was evident that they brought them no harm.
"When is Gwen going to the 'sayloom?" said Shoni-go.[1] "She was screaming and laughing like a mad thing, as she is, last night, and flying like a partridge over the cliffs, her arms spread out, and her toes just touching the ground. Diwedd anwl! my heart nearly leapt out of my body when I heard her!"
"Yes," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "the Mishteer will see to it soon."
But a greater excitement than Gwen's madness was hanging over the village, for in a day or two the astounding news was spread abroad that 'n'wncwl Jos was ill. 'N'wncwl Jos! who had never been known to suffer an ache or a pain, except, indeed, the rheumatic twinges which he declared he still felt in the leg which was buried in Glasgow! 'N'wncwl Jos, who, though not wanting in sympathy, still tinged his expressions thereof with a slight tone of blame, as though sickness was invariably "somebody's" fault. And the strongest man in Mwntseison felt his tenure of life uncertain.
"Caton pawb! what's the matter with him?"
"Flammashwn! Never been well since he jumped into the sea after the Mishteer, when he kept his wet clothes on all day, though he won't confess it," said Dye Pentraeth; and the whole village was in a state of ferment, and Mari Vone was besieged by condoling friends.
The invalid at first fought valiantly with his sickness, declaring he would be all right in a day or two. The doctor shook his head, and hour by hour 'n'wncwl Jos grew worse, but still continued to crack his jokes when a moment's cessation from pain enabled him to do so.
"Oh, go 'long with you, Nell Jones," he said, when that worthy woman came in with what she considered an appropriate expression of countenance. "Go 'long with you, Nell, and don't pull a long face here; I've bin a deal worse than this! Why! at Glasgow, when I lost my leg, I came to myself when they were carrying me from the docks to the hospital. I didn't know where I was in that straight, narrow thing—'a stretcher' they call it in English—and raised my head to see, and there I was being carried by four men, and a long tail of boys, and men, and women running after me. 'Jâr-i,' sez I to myself, 'I never thought I should see my own funeral!' Well, in three weeks, I was out of the hospital, and—and—let me see—where's my wooden leg? I want to go down to the shore; there's a boat coming in——" and he rambled away in delirium, and in spite of his plucky spirit, his sickness conquered him, and for many days he lay at the point of death.
Then came the time when the warmth and tenderness of the Welsh hearts were shown—not a man, woman, or child who did not feel a personal sorrow. They took it in turns to watch through the long nights at the sick man's bed, with eager interest anticipating every want, and endeavouring to make Mari Vone's burden lighter. From every farm in the neighbourhood came presents of milk and eggs. The sailors brought high-shouldered bottles of Hollands and Schnapps; the fishermen dared the storms to procure fish; and even the children brought eggs or apples for Mari. Gwladys was a frequent visitor; and Hugh often sat beside the sick man, whose illness he felt was due to his faithful, though rash, devotion to himself. His presence seemed to have a soothing effect upon 'n'wncwl Jos; the excited, delirious talk would quiet down to a low rambling, even to a pleasant recalling of youthful days of merriment, and Mari Vone learned once more to welcome the sound of Hugh's footsteps as he approached the cottage door.
One afternoon, while Hugh sat beside him, the old man fell into a calm, refreshing sleep, a sleep that had been anxiously watched for by Dr. Hughes, but which seemed dangerously long delayed. Hugh knew the importance of this sleep, and, nodding to Mari, said quietly, "Go and rest thyself, I will watch till he wakes;" and she had gone thankfully, and resting on her own bed, the tension of the long anxiety was relaxed, and the drooping eyelids were fast closed in as heavy and refreshing a sleep as 'n'wncwl Jos's.
Through the broad, gaping hinges of the tar-painted bedroom door, standing half open, Hugh, as he sat there motionless, holding the sick man's hand, could see into the cosy penisha, and out through the open doorway into the road. It was one of those calm, sunny days which sometimes visit us in November. The sound of the sea filled the air, the click of Shoni-go's anvil, and the voices of the children at play on the beach, came on the breeze. Hugh sat on quietly dreaming, letting his thoughts roam uncurbed over the events of his past life. He remembered how, in the days gone by, he had crossed the threshold of this cottage with the ecstatic buoyancy of a lover, not unmixed with the reverence of a worshipper who enters the shrine which contains his idol. Certainly he had loved Mari Vone with a depth and intensity which he thought neither time nor eternity had power to annihilate. "Neither has it," he thought, "it is only altered. I am a married man now, and Gwladys has my love, my respect, my tender pity; but there is a bond which links me to Mari Vone, so pure, so strong, so enduring, that I fear not to lay it before God, and to ask His blessing upon it."
At this moment a shadow darkened the outer doorway, and a light footstep (everyone walked gingerly there now) came into the kitchen. Hugh raised his eyes, and a pleased, indulgent look came over his face as he saw through the crack that it was Gwladys. "The little one, bless her!" he thought, but he made no movement; and Gwladys, noticing the restful quiet in the house, the cessation of the rambling voice in the sick-room, guessed at once that the hoped-for sleep had come, and prepared to leave on tip-toe. She stood a moment at the table, laying down a bowl of curds and milk which she had brought for Mari, and at that instant another figure darkened the doorway, and raising her finger to her lips to enforce silence, she saw Ivor Parry enter silently. Hugh saw it all, too, and found it difficult to keep his hand quietly on 'n'wncwl Jos's. For a moment, as before, the two who confronted each other in the kitchen stood embarrassed and silent; but Gwladys first regained her composure, and in a whisper, which Hugh's quick ear caught distinctly, said:
"'N'wncwl Jos is asleep, I think."
"I am glad," said Ivor; "that is good news. I could not let another day pass without coming to ask for him. I am going back at once."
"You had better stay," said Gwladys, "till Mari comes out. I am going."
Ivor nodded silently, and Gwladys passed out into the sunshine. Left alone, he drew his hand over his face as if awaking from a dream, and Hugh watched him gravely. Suddenly a light gleamed in his eyes, a flush overspread his face, and looking round like a thief who espies a treasure, he stretched out his hand to the table, and clutched a bunch of sea-pinks which had fallen from the folds of Gwladys' neckerchief. Hugh had noticed them there when she entered. For a moment Ivor looked at them, then pressed them to his lips before thrusting them inside the breast of his coat. He stood a few moments in silent thought, and then left the house.
In the inner room, Hugh still watched with troubled eyes; but the hand which held the sick man's remained firm and unmoved, and 'n'wncwl Jos slept on.
[1] Blacksmith.
Round the old mill at Traeth Berwen the night wind sighed and moaned, as it always did here at the opening of the narrow valley. Even in the hot summer days, when the cattle sought the shade, and the flowers drooped languidly, there was always a breeze blowing up or down the cwm, and to-night it blew in gusts round every gable of the old building, shaking the ricketty shutters, and brushing the overhanging ivy against the window panes. Inside, however, there was no sign of anything but comfort and cheerfulness. On the stone hearth in the large kitchen a bright fire glowed, on which a huge log had just been thrown, a crowd of crackling sparks and blue smoke flew up the wide open chimney, and the ruddy glow brought into relief the numerous pegs and stakes driven into its brown smoked walls, for the suspension of future flitches and hams when Ivor Parry should have become more settled into his domestic menage. At present it was empty, and as Ivor and his friend Robert the miller sat well under its shade, they could look straight up its wattled walls to the night sky above, where a bright star shone down upon them. On a small table beside them stood a quaint brown jug of ale, accompanied by two "blues"; they smoked in silence, while Acsa clattered her pails and wooden shoes in the background. She had lived there all her life, at least from childhood, as maid-of-all-work to Robert and his family, and had been taken over by Ivor Parry as part of the furniture. Indeed, to have separated Acsa from the mill would have been a difficult task. Robert had attempted it once, when some of her wilful ways had tried the good-wife beyond endurance; but she had howled and cried like a beaten dog, and had stayed starving and cold about the precincts of the mill so pertinaciously, that she was at last allowed to re-enter, to the delight of the children, and to the secret satisfaction of the miller and his wife, who had missed her faithful service. No one had ever tried to eject her again, so here she was to-night, perfectly satisfied to click clack about in her wooden shoes, in and out of the brown shadows, scraping the potatoes, cleaning the shoes, scouring the brass pans and the pails, without a thought of any reward, except the small pittance of wages which she always received with humble gratitude and a bob curtesy on the 11th of November, this being the day appointed all through Cardiganshire for the ending and beginning of a year of domestic service.
Robert had come down for a smoke and a chat with his successor at the mill, and they had apparently exhausted every topic of interest, for they puffed long in silence. Suddenly a weird wailing sound came down the chimney, and both men looked up at the shining star above them, while Acsa exclaimed, "Ach y fi!"
"What is it?" said Ivor, listening with his pipe in his hand; and again on the night wind came the long-drawn mournful tones of a woman's voice, who sang some old-world melody with a wild refrain.
"Mark my word, 'tis that Gwen Owen again!" said Robert, "that mad woman from Mwntseison; she has taken to coming here lately, and sits on the edge of the cliffs, always at night, and always singing the same tune. I am beginning to know it quite well; indeed, I think I must have heard my mother sing it, and I believe she called it a Witch Song."
"I seem to know it, too," said Ivor. "Let us go out and listen."
"Howyr bâch," said Acsa, "there's foolish you are to tempt the Almighty like that! when He has given you a warm kitchen to sit in, you go wilfully out to listen to a witch tune! Take care she doesn't draw you away with it; she is Peggi Shân's grand-daughter, and you know, Robert the Mill, that your own uncle Simon was drawn by her singing out there on her father's smack, till he was lost in the fog and drowned! Ach y fi! don't venture."
"Twt, twt," said Robert, "she's far enough from us here." And he slipped back the wooden bolt and opened the door.
"Shut it after you, then!" screamed Acsa, "for I won't let the tune in here; but, oh! there it is in the chimney again!" And she set herself to her scrubbing to deaden the weird sounds.
Outside Robert and Ivor listened, while full and clear on the night-wind came Gwen's voice, sometimes in a low, soft, wailing tone, almost lost on the breeze; sometimes rising as if in tones of entreaty; at other times in passionate words that almost ended in a shriek.
"Caton pawb!" said Ivor, "she is madder than I thought she was!" And, as a large white owl flitted silently by them, the two men started nervously.
"It's enough to make one's blood run cold. There! do you hear the crows? She has startled them from their nests on the cliffs."
"Poor Gwen!" said Ivor. "I never thought she would come to this. Let us go near her and hear what she says."
And up the side of the bank they went on the soft turf, until, on reaching the top, they saw Gwen standing on the very edge of the cliff, with arms outspread, and gesticulating wildly, singing, and sometimes talking.
"Oh, winds and waves and flames,I call you by your names,North, South, East, West,Hither come, do my behest,And hasten now to help me!"
They were close to her, but hidden by one of the many boulders scattered about the greensward.
"How she repeats that verse," said Ivor. "I am afraid of her, Robert—not for myself, but for some of them at Mwntseison. She means to do some mischief with her waves and her winds and her flames. Listen! she is talking."
"Oh, yes, night-wind, I hear you, I know what you are saying—'Be ready, Gwen—be ready, Gwen! and we will help you.' Hush!" and, with her finger raised, she bent over the cliff until the strong men shuddered with fear. "Hush! 'tis the sea; I hear you whispering 'Be ready, Gwen—be ready, Gwen!' but you are worthless! bant a chi[1]—bant a chi! I have a better friend than you, though he is not here to-night," and turning round she caught sight of a shower of sparks which rose from the mill chimney. "Yes, he is—yes, he is!" she screamed, clapping her hands and dancing with delight; "there are his signs!" and she burst into the wild refrain of her weird song once more:—
"Come flames of yellow, red, and blue,Help! for you are my servants true."
"Good-night," she said, waving her hands towards the old mill, "I understand your message; I will be there, and you will be there." And, turning, she fled back towards Mwntseison, as Shoni-go had said, "like a partridge," with arms spread out, her grey shawl held like wings, and her toes scarce touching the ground.
Ivor and Robert came slowly out of the shadow of the rock.
"Jâr-i!" said the latter, "I thought the witches were dead; but, God save us, we have heard one sing to-night."
"Poor Gwen," said Ivor, remembering many a kindness which she had shown him before she had married Siencyn Owen, "she's no witch, only a poor misguided woman, whose life has turned sour, like milk in a thunderstorm. Remember she was brought up by that uncanny old sinner Peggi Shân, and now it pleases her to think she has the same 'hysbys' nature."
"Perhaps she has," said Robert, "for such things are."
"Perhaps indeed," said Ivor. "Anyway, she can do mischief, and I must keep an eye on Mistress Gwen."
And they returned to the mill, where Acsa let them in with a sense of relief.
"Another glass of beer before you start?" said Ivor.
"Well, yes, indeed, and another whiff; that tune has given me a shiver. Ach y fi!" said Robert, taking up his long clay pipe once more. "I am glad to see thee so comfortable, Ivor. 'Tis a wife thou wilt want most here now. Come up to Blaensethin, lad, and see my three pretty daughters; perhaps one will suit thy fancy."
"Perhaps indeed," said Ivor. "I have heard they are so pretty 'tis wiser to keep away; but I am safe, for a wife is a piece of furniture that the old mill will have to do without as long as I live. I am born to be an old bachelor."
"Twt, twt," said Robert, rising, "come up to see us on Monday, and we will go to Elinor Pugh's bidding together, and let's see if we can't knock the old bachelor out of thee."
"Well, I won't promise; but we shall see," said Ivor. "Nos da!"
"Nos da!" shouted Robert, taking the opposite direction to that along which Gwen had flown homewards.
Ivor pondered long, lying awake in his bed and listening to the sighing of the wind and the swish, swish of the waves on the beach below the mill. No other sound broke the silence of the night except the "to-whit, to-hoo" of the white owl who sat in the ivied tower of the old church higher up the valley.
All next day he was too busy for much thought, for, with the early dawn, the carts came down the hills from one of the farms on the uplands. He heard the merry crack of the whip and the lively whistle of the carters, while he donned his mealy garments, and, looking through his ivy-curtained window, he saw the brilliant scarlet and blue carts come lumbering down the hill, making a bright bit of colouring in the leaden winter landscape.
He hurried down to open the big door, and to pull up the dam-board from the leet, turning the water full on the cumbrous wooden wheel, for he would not have it said that "the new miller was caught napping," and before eight o'clock the mill was filled with the sound of the grinding and crushing of the big millstones, the clap, clap of the wheel, and the musical rushing of the Berwen as it poured and trickled through the rude machinery.
The empty carts returned up the hill, to come again in the evening, when the new corn and oats had been ground into the sweet brown flour and delicious oatmeal, in readiness for the barley loaves and oat-cakes of the farm.
One of the men servants and two jolly lasses stayed in the mill, and shouted their jokes and chaff at each other through the noise.
Ivor, on his mettle, worked with a will, grinding the corn, and endeavouring to show that the old Melin Berwen had still a thorough and a jolly miller at the head of affairs. He joined in the merry laughter and talk, which helped on the work of the day; but through it all the memory of Gwen's wild song haunted him, and, mingled with the whirring and rushing of the mill, he seemed to hear the tones of the refrain:
"Come, flames of yellow, red, and blue,Help; for you are my servants true!"
When at last the meal had been tied into the sacks and the brilliant blue and red cortége returned up the hill with whistling and shouting and laughter, Ivor climbed up the ricketty stairs, and changed his mealy clothes for his usual half-sailor garb. As soon as his tea was over he turned his face in the grey of the evening towards Mwntseison. It was almost dark when he reached the village, and he was puzzled where to begin his search for Gwen. "In her own home? No! that would set her on her guard! Where he most dreaded to find her—in Gwladys' home? No! there he must not enter!"
Mari Vone's white-walled cottage was the first to appear through the twilight.