London
T. Fisher Unwin
Adelphi Terrace
1910
(All rights reserved.)
_CONTENTS_
_The Merry Merry Cuckoo_ 11
_Mors Triumphans_ 27
_Dreams in Jeopardy_ 45
_Tit for Tat_ 77
_An Oriel in Eden_ 97
_The Child_ 121
_An All-Hallows' Honeymoon_ 133
_The Heretic's Wife_ 151
_The Choice_ 175
_A Last Discipline_ 203
_Respice Finem_ 227
_ILLUSTRATIONS_
_She looked sharply at the approaching group_
(_page_ 18) Frontispiece
TO FACE PAGE
_Janny watched Ariel's thin fingers work skilfully_ 106
_Betto Griffiths laughed_ 112
_The Merry Merry Cuckoo_
"Lad _dear_, no more or ye'll be havin' an attack, an'----"
Annie's words sounded inconclusive, although she fortified them by an
animated gesture with her plump wrinkled hand. Her eyes glanced timidly
from the window to David's face.
"But, Annie, ye've not said a word of the cuckoo," replied David
plaintively.
"Aye, the cuckoo," said Annie, her heart sinking as she sent her voice
up. "The cuckoo--"
"Has it come? Did ye hear it?"
The old man clasped and unclasped his hands helplessly, childish
disappointment overspreading his face.
"David _dear_, if ye'd but listen to what I was a-goin' to say"--Annie
gulped--"I was a-goin' to say that I've not heard the cuckoo yet, but
that everythin' 's over early an' I'm expectin' to hear one any time
now. It's so warm there might be one singin' at dusk to-day--there
might be!"
"Might there be?" asked David, his eyes brightening, "might there be,
Annie?"
"Aye, there might be, lad," and she lifted his head on her arm gently
while she turned the pillow.
"It's over early," he objected, "an', Annie----"
"Davie _dear_, be still," she commanded, drawing his head close to her
bosom before she put him down on the pillow again. "Pastor Morris says
everythin' 's over early; even the foxglove is well up in the garden;
an' the heather by Blaen Cwm will be bloomin' a month early, an' the
hills will be pink, lad--soon. Now, dearie, I'll be back by and by with
the broth; ye must be still awhile."
Annie went out of the room stepping as softly as she could. For a moment
she stood on the doorsill, looking into the old garden, green at last
after the dreary winter and beautiful in the promise of coming summer
blossom. Foxglove and columbine, honeysuckle, lilies and roses would
bloom, but David would see them no more! For fifty springs they had gone
into the garden together, he to trim the hedge and bind up the
honeysuckle, she to dig about the rose-bushes and flowers. And every
spring there had been one evening when the cuckoo's song was heard for
the first time and when there came into David's eyes a look of boyish
joy. Ah, lad, lad, how she loved him! And he _should_ hear the cuckoo
again!
Resolutely Annie started up hill, climbing close by the high pasture
wall, and, panting made her way as best she could over boggy places.
After she had gone about a quarter of a mile she looked around her,
furtively. There lay Gwyndy Bach in the distance, Ty Ceryg and Cwm Cloch
far away, and the Chapel still farther. Only the mountains were near by,
and a few lazy sheep trailing over their wild, grey ledges. She did not
see even a sheep-dog. When she sat down by the stone-wall there was a
look of approval on her face, followed, as she opened her mouth, by a
look of appealing misery.
"Aye, it was somethin' like this: _coo-o_. Dear, let me see, every year
I've heard it, an' David he does it. _Coo-o-o!_ Tut, that sounds like a
hen." Annie peered about her. "_Cu, cu_," then she shook with silent
laughter. "I know! it goes over and over again, sing-song, sing-song,
like this: _cu-cu, cu-cu_. Aye, that's better." Practising the song
Annie rocked herself backwards and forwards. "It's growing better!" she
exclaimed, "but, lad, lad, I'm plannin' to deceive ye"; and the tears
rolled out of her old eyes. She brushed the tears away impatiently and
began the song again: "_Cucu-cu, cucu-cu, cucucucu, cu_; aye, that's
fair, aye, it's fine! He'll not know me from a real cuckoo. I'll have to
be tryin' it now, for ye've no long, dearie."
Annie went down into the valley, humming the bird-notes over to herself
lest she forget what she had learned. She lifted her short skirts and
waded through the marshy places; in her eagerness she was unmindful of
the pasture-bogs, her seventy years, her weary body; and her sparse grey
hair lay damp on her forehead. In her mother-heart was but one thought:
bringing his wish to Davie. Gasping she reached the southern corner of
the cottage garden, and there leaned on a trellis for support till she
could get her breath. Completely engrossed in what she was to do, she
did not think to look about her, she did not listen for possible
approaching footsteps, and even Davie had slipped in importance a wee
bit behind the cuckoo song. Finally she drew a long breath and began;
she paused a moment, then repeated the song, softly, slowly. Pleased
with her success, she sang the song again, very softly, very slowly,
till it sounded much as if it came from a distance somewhere by the
stream near the mill wheel.
She was just beginning once more when steps rustled behind her and a
voice said tauntingly: "Pooh! 'tis a pretty cuckoo ye make, Annie, an' a
pretty song!"
"Lowry Prichard!"
"It's over early for the cuckoo, is it not?"
"Aye."
"An' what are ye singin' in your garden for, an' David dyin'?"
Annie's mild eyes gathered fire, but she said nothing.
"Are ye deceivin' David, an' he on the edge of the grave, Annie? 'Tis a
godly song to sing, an' a tale for Chapel, eh, Annie?"
"Ye--may--go--out--of--this--garden, an' that this minute," said Annie,
advancing.
Lowry backed towards the wicket.
"Ye look fair crazy, Annie, crazy with wrath, aye, and your hair is all
rumpled an' your smock is wet. Bein' a cuckoo is----"
But Lowry never finished her taunt, for Annie pushed her through the
wicket gate.
The old wife went towards the cottage door slowly. David must have heard
Lowry's words, and she could never make him happy again.
"Annie! Annie!" Her face brightened, then fell.
"Aye, David, I'm comin'."
"Annie, did ye hear a cuckoo singin'?" David's eyes glowed rapturously
in the twilight.
"Aye, I thought so, dearie."
"It sang three times; first, it sounded like somethin' else, it was so
breathless; then it sang quiet and sweet like a cuckoo; an' the third
time it seemed comin' from the old mill wheel. I was listenin' for it
again when I heard Lowry Prichard's shrill voice an' I could hear no
more."
"But, lad _dear_, ye've heard it, an' I'm that glad!" Annie beamed upon
him. "Three times; aye, that's fine an' a real cuckoo; now ye're happy,
dearie, an' ye'll sleep well upon it."
"Will it be singin' again?" asked David, with a sigh.
"Aye, in the early mornin' an' at dusk. Now ye must drink your broth an'
go to sleep."
David drank it obediently.
"It's been a fine day, lad dear, is it not so?"
"Aye, a fine day. I did not think I'd ever hear it sing again"; and
David's head slipped contentedly on to the pillow. "Aye," he murmured,
"a happy day!"
At dawn Annie stole out to sing her cuckoo song. It was done quickly,
and she was back among her pots and kettles before David could know that
she had been away. She rattled the saucepans around, then she stopped
to listen. Yes, there he was calling.
"Aye, David, I'm comin'; I did not hear for the noise, dearie."
"Annie, it's been singin' again!" There was an expression of eager
happiness on David's wan face. "I'm a-wantin' to hear it sing over an'
over again, over an' over again. But, Annie, ye make such a clatter
there's no hearin' more than a song or two, an' yesterday 'twas Lowry."
"Aye, dearie, 'tis a pity I was makin' such a noise gettin' breakfast
for ye."
"I was awake, Annie, when the stars were hangin' in the trees, an' I saw
them go out one by one while I was a-waitin' for it to sing. I heard
little creepin' things makin' way through the trees an' the grass, an' I
saw the poplar by the window turn from silver to brown an' back to grey;
an' I heard the other birds makin' their early mornin' stirrin',
flittin' an' chirpin'; an' a little breeze came an' bustled through the
trees with them, but no cuckoo; an' then just as it was singin' ye began
stormin' with pots an' kettles."
"I'm that sorry, Davie lad, but ye have heard it twice, dearie, an'
it'll be singin' this evenin' at dusk, perhaps, over an' over again. Ye
are feelin' fine this mornin', Davie?"
"Aye, better nor yesterday mornin'; I'll be gettin' well, Annie, is it
not so?"
"Indeed, lad _dear_, ye'll be about among the heather 'fore long."
Annie turned suddenly and went back into the kitchen; there in a corner
she dried her eyes with her apron, drew a long breath, and went on with
her household duties. She was disposing of the work rapidly when she
heard the click of the wicket gate. Coming up the path were John
Roberts, Peter Williams, and Lowry Prichard. Annie put down the pot she
was scouring, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to the kitchen
door, which, stepping outside, she closed carefully behind her. She
looked sharply at the approaching group, and her kindly wrinkled face
hardened. Peter Williams spoke first:--
"A fine mornin' to ye, Annie Dalben."
"Thank ye, Peter Williams, for the wish."
"How is your man?" asked John Roberts.
"He is the same," replied Annie, in a level tone of voice.