"We've come about the cuckoo-singin', Annie. At the Chapel last night
the congregation prayed for ye, an' a committee was appointed to wrestle
with ye."
Annie breathed quickly.
"Aye, Sister," continued Peter Williams, "ye've always been a godly
member of the flock; ye would not have David go to Heaven with your lie
on his soul?"
"Amen!" sang Lowry Prichard.
"An', Sister, there was light in that meetin'; the Spirit's among us
these days; yours are the only lyin' lips."
"Repent!" shouted John Roberts.
"Have ye done?" asked Annie.
"But, Sister----"
"I've a word to say. I've no mind to your salvation, no, nor to Heaven
if the Lord makes this singin' a lie. I'm a-thinkin' of David as I've
thought of him these fifty years, an' if a lie will make him happy when
he's dyin', then I'm willin' to lie, an' do it every minute of the day."
"Sinner!" muttered John Roberts.
"Aye, sinner, a willin' sinner," said Annie, her soft eyes blazing; "be
gone, an' ye need not return."
Annie bolted the door and sat down wearily on a chair. She felt quiet;
it mattered so little now what the neighbours thought of her if only
David might die happy, and David still believed he had heard the cuckoo.
She was tired, so tired that she did not care what the Chapel said of
her; and her heart was numb. She knew that David was going, but it did
not come home to her in the least except to make her hungry to bring him
happiness. He should have that if she could give it. At a faint call she
hastened to his room.
"Annie, there's some one outside, an'----"
"Aye, David Dalben, there is, an' Annie is a cuck--"
But the sentence was never finished, for Annie forced Lowry Prichard's
head back and slammed the casement to, latching it securely.
"What does she want?" asked David feebly.
"I cannot say, lad, but she's no right talkin' to ye through a window.
She's an idle, pryin' young woman. I'll see now that she's out of the
garden. Go to sleep, dearie, it's bad for ye havin' so much noise over
nothin'; aye, that's a good lad," and Annie smoothed his brow with one
hand the while she brushed aside her tears with the other.
If David should live a week longer, could she ever keep the truth from
him? For a day, yes, perhaps. But for an entire week, with all Nant y
Mor trying to force a way to the sick man? No. And how could she sing
morning and night with the neighbours spying into the garden and around
the house? She felt friendless; for strength only the courage of a
mother left alone in the world with a sick child to protect. She had no
idea of relinquishing her plan, although she was in despair, and if any
one had come to her with a friendly hand she would have wept. As it was,
she was ready to meet attack after attack.
Annie was not surprised, later in the day, to see young Pastor Morris
coming up the pathway. He came slowly. When he greeted Annie his eyes
sought the ground, his complexion was ruddier and more boyish than ever,
and his lips, usually firm in speech, seemed uncertain. But the large
hand with which he held Annie's was warm and kind. In the clean kitchen
he began to talk with Annie about David: how was David, what did the
physician say, wasn't Annie growing tired, what could he do? Suddenly
the young Pastor changed as if brought face to face with a disagreeable
duty.
"Annie, they say that you are imitating a cuckoo; is it so?"
"Aye, sir, for David's ears."
"But, Annie, that is acting a lie, is it not?"
"It may be," replied Annie wearily.
"Wouldn't it be better if I were to tell David, Annie?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" sobbed Annie. "Not that!"
"Annie, Annie, you mustn't cry so; there!" and the young man stretched
out his hand helplessly.
"Oh, sir, it's all the happiness David's got, an' he is goin'. O my lad,
my lad!"
"There, there, Annie!"
"We've been married fifty years this spring, an' every spring we've
listened for the cuckoo an' not one missed. An' this year he's dyin',
an' he's a-wantin' to hear it so, an' it's over early. O Davie, Davie!"
"There, Annie, there, _dear_," soothed the young man; "tell me about it.
We'll see, Annie."
"There's no more," said Annie, "only he kept askin' about things,
violets an' cowslips an' birch-trees an' poplars, an' I knew all the
time he was thinkin' of the cuckoo an' not askin' because he was goin'
an' mightn't hear it. An' one day he did. An' I said I thought he'd hear
one that very evenin', that everythin' was over early. Then he seemed
happier than I'd seen him, an' I went off up the hill an' practised it
till I could do it fair. O Davie, lad!"
"Now, Annie _dear_," comforted the young man, patting her helplessly on
the back. "Annie _dear_, don't cry, just tell me more."
"Then, sir, I sang the song in the corner of the garden, an' when I went
into the house there was such a look of joy on David's face that's not
been there for many a month, an' it was no matter Lowry Prichard found
me singin'. It's the last happiness I can give him, sir."
"I see," said the young man; "aye, Annie, I see. And you will be wishing
to do it again?"
"Aye, sir, Davie's expectin' to hear the cuckoo to-night. Each time
might be his last, an' I cannot disappoint him, poor lad."
"Well, Annie," said the minister, looking shyly out the window, "I'll be
around the garden at dusk watching, and there'll be no one to annoy you
while you are singing, so sing your best for Davie."
"Oh, sir, thank you," replied Annie, drying her tears and sighing with
relief; "it's a comfort. But ye're no harmin' your conscience for me,
sir, are ye?"
"I'm not saying, Annie; I'm over young to have a conscience in some
things. I'll be going in to speak a few words to David, shall I?"
"Aye, sir, ye're so kind."
And so it happened that at dusk, when David's eyes were growing wider
with expectation and his heart was beating for very joy of the coming
song, Annie, after she had patted him in motherly fashion, smoothed out
his coverlets, called him lad _dear_, and dearie, and Davie, and all the
sweet old names she knew so well how to call him--so it happened that
she stole out into the garden with a lighter heart to sing than she had
had in many a day. She knew the young minister was somewhere around to
protect her from interruption. Standing by the honeysuckle trellis,
swaying her old body to and fro, she sang. The song came again and
again, low, sweet, far away, till all the hill seemed chiming with the
quiet notes and echoes. And the young man listening outside to the old
woman singing inside the garden knew something more of the power of love
than he had known before; and he bowed his head, thinking of the merry
notes and of David in the twilit room dying. Annie sang the song over
and over again, then over and over again, till beyond the valley she saw
the evening star hanging in the sky. Once more she sang, and all the
spring was in her song. Then she turned to go into the house, her heart
beating with fear. As she came through the doorway she heard her name
called.
"Annie, sweetheart, did ye hear the cuckoos singin'?"
David was sitting up in bed, his hands stretched towards her.
"Aye, lad dear," replied Annie softly, taking David into her arms.
"An' there were so many, an' they sang over an' over again."
"Aye, David."
"But ye were not here, an' I'd like hearin' them better with ye here."
"Aye, dearie, I was busy."
"Oh, it was beautiful singin'--"
"Aye, lad, I know."
"An' over an' over again, like this----" But David's notes trailed away
as he started to sing.
"Aye, dearie, I see."
"An' the--valley--was--quiet--but--Annie----" The voice ceased, for a
second the pulse in his throat ticked sharply against her heart, then
his head settled drowsily upon her breast.
"Oh, lad, lad _dear_, Davie," called Annie, rocking him in her arms,
"lad, lad _dear_, will ye not speak to me?"
And the young minister stepping in over the threshold saw that the
Messenger had come.
_Mors Triumphans_
I
_Griffith Griffiths has a Happy Thought and takes a Trip_
Each new election for the Town Council found Griffith Griffiths still
unelected. The primary reason for his failure was a party matter:
Griffiths was a Conservative, whereas every other Welshman in the town
of Bryn Tirion was a Radical. Let him change his politics, said Bryn
Tirion. No, said Griffith Griffiths, never! And the town knew he meant
it. But, added Griffiths, I _will_ be a member. For thirty years this
battle was waged; children were born and their children; mothers grew
old and died; and Griffiths grew rich in slate and sheep. Now he was
sixty and still unsuccessful. If he wished he could buy up all
Merionethshire; true, but he could not buy up one independent honest
Welshman, whether that Welshman counted his sheep by tens or thousands.
Nor, to do Griffiths justice, did he think of buying votes, for he was
as honest as his fellow townsmen. Pulling his whiskers, he looked
vindictively at the mantelpiece before him, with its cordon of shining,
smiling china cats. Had he not done more for the village than any other
man? He had given Bryn Tirion two sons of whom to be proud, he had
provided the young minister with a wife in the person of a beloved
daughter, he had piously paid for tearing down a shabby old treasure of
a church built in the time of Edward I., he had presented the village
with a fountain and a new bread-oven, he had introduced improved methods
in cleaning and shearing sheep, and he employed daily over one hundred
men in his slate-quarry. Notwithstanding all these benefactions, he was
still obliged to consider schemes for winning a paltry election.
"That's a happy thought," he exclaimed, starting forward, "I'll do it.
Aye, it'll win this time. I'll go for it myself an' bring it home, I
will. There'll be no word spoke when they see that. It'll cost me a
hundred pounds an' the trip, but I'll do it."
Griffith's eyes twinkled as he winked at the mantelpiece cats. "There'll
be no doubt this time, my girls. No doubt, no doubt this time, an'
every old granny in the town a-thankin' me. Oho, ho, ho!"
Mrs. Griffiths peered in.
"Father!"
"Aye!"
"Father?"
"Well, _mother_?"
"Is it a joke?"
"No-o, a joke, yes, a--no-o, it is not."
"Father, what are ye thinkin'?"
"I--I, well, I've _been_ a-thinkin'!" replied Griffiths, with
conviction.
Mother's face expressed censure.
"I'm thinkin' _now_, mother, I'm thinkin' of goin' to Liverpool."
"Liverpool! an' what would ye be goin' there for?"
"I'm thinkin', mother, of goin' to-morrow."
"Thinkin' of goin' to-morrow?"
"Aye!"
"Are ye goin' about slate?"
"No, not just about slate," father hedged.
"Is it sheep?"
"No, not exactly sheep."
Mrs. Griffiths by this time regarded her husband with alarm.
"Ye've not been to Liverpool in twenty years; am I goin'?"
"Why, no, mother, I'll travel there one day and back the next. I'm--I'm
a-goin' just--I'm a-goin' for the trip."
"For the trip!" sniffed Mrs. Griffiths.
"What'll I bring ye, mother?"
"I'm no' wantin' anything," replied Mrs. Griffiths coolly.