"Aye, when I was a lad."
"Was it for long?"
"No, not long, two years sailin' with cargoes between our coast and
Ireland."
"Did ye learn much of the ways of sailorfolk?"
"Aye, much."
"Runnin' up an' down the ropes?"
"Aye, that, an' more too."
"Did ye learn tattooin', dear?"
"Aye, the marks ye've seen on my arms an old salt taught me to do. The
sailors were clever with the needle, sketchin' as well as sewin'."
"Do ye think ye could sketch a star now, Ariel, or have ye forgotten?"
Ariel laughed, partly with pleasure at this talk by the fire, partly
from joy in the companionship.
"Aye, I'm thinkin' I could, little lamb."
He drew his chair closer to hers and saw her face brighten; it rested
her to have him near her, and her thoughts sped back through all the
years of loneliness and hunger for the things she could not have; she
had a new consciousness of life and of being useful; it was not merely
Ariel, it was the house, too, and what she could do to make it--Well,
the word escaped her; anyway it was the house as well as Ariel, and it
was lovely to think of what she could do for it while he made poetry and
sold things in the shop.
"An', Ariel, could ye sketch me an anchor an' a bit of rope?"
"Aye, dearie, I could; ye know I could anyway, for I had drawin' at the
school in Carnarvon while I was an apprentice there."
"Drawin'?"
"Aye, it was mam's idea."
Janny's eyes grew large.
"Ariel, do ye--do ye--think ye could draw me a--a cat?"
Ariel took one look at Janny and burst into laughter; shop, poetry,
everything was forgotten in his amusement at her childlike eagerness.
Suddenly he stopped, for Janny's face was quivering. Aye, he had
forgotten, too, that this was no peasant-woman; his laughter seemed
brutal.
"Janny, little lamb," he said softly, drawing her head to him, "I could,
dear, I'll sketch all the cats ye want."
Janny sighed comfortably, her head still upon his shoulder, the
weariness easing away from her heart. She could do it now; it would
make the greatest difference; Betto Griffiths and others should see that
she was something more than a bit of porcelain in Ariel's home, that she
could do something more than merely oversee house-cleaning. Besides, it
really was something more,--it was having an idea of her own, and that
until Ariel rescued her she had never been allowed to have. She reached
up and patted his face; even her gestures were incomprehensibly
childlike. What she lacked in the passion of a woman she seemed to make
up in the perfect trust of a child. Ariel, selfish with the selfishness
of a man who has lived by himself and who had lived much in his own
mind, thought now with a pang how lonely Janny must have been ever since
she came to him; the appeal of her confidence touched the best that was
in him, the protection that was his to give her, and some potential
sense of fatherhood. Aye, he knew how tired she was after the life that
lay behind her, and he gathered her into his arms, holding her there
quietly while he talked.
"What shall it be, Janny? A star, an anchor, a bit of rope, an' a cat,
did ye say, dear?"
"Aye, a star, Ariel, please. I don't think I want the anchor. The bit of
rope would be nice, dear. An' I'd like the cat."
"An' what are ye goin' to do with these drawin's, Janny? Are ye goin' to
hang them on the wall?"
"No, I'm not goin' to do that."
"Well, it's just as well, dearie, for Betto Griffiths, an' Mrs. Gomer
Roberts the tinman, an' Mrs. Parry Winn the baker, would be hauntin' Ty
Mawr. But what _are_ ye goin' to do with them, dearie?"
"Ariel, I couldn't say _now_." Janny stirred uneasily. "I _might_ be
hangin' them in our bedroom, an'--an'--an' I might be puttin'--puttin'
them in the--Bible to press. They'd be useful."
"Aye, that's so. An' how large shall I draw them?"
Janny thought a minute.
"The cat, dear, I'd like about a foot long, that is from his tail to his
whiskers--No, I'm thinkin' that's too narrow for the cat; from the tail
to the whiskers I'd like him one foot an' a half, Ariel."
Janny's glance took a flight over Ariel's shoulder.
"An' the star?"
Janny thought again.
"Six inches from point to point, an' four stars--no--one star will do--I
can cut--och?--Ariel, _one_ star, please."
"An' the rope?"
"It's the twisted kind I want, an' it must go all around the--Oh, dear!
Ariel, about an inch wide, please."
"Good! one cat, one star, one inch rope. Anything more, little lamb?"
"No-o-o, could ye do it now?"
"Aye, dearie, fetch me the ruler, the paper, an' a pencil."
So Janny watched Ariel's thin fingers work skilfully, swiftly with the
pencil, the ruler measuring off star points and a cat's length as
carefully as if the paper were Welsh flannel worth one-and-six a yard.
And the next night, after a day of unusual elation of feeling, Janny,
when sleep had come to Ariel, stole noiselessly from the marital side,
crept to the whitewashed wall of their bedroom pallid in moonshine, felt
for the white paper cat and star and length of rope hanging there
indiscernible, caught the edge of the paper with her fingers as she felt
about, unpinned the pieces, and tiptoed out of the room and down the
stairway. As she moved about the sitting-room in her night-gown, she
looked pathetically little, the flush in her cheeks marking her eager
helplessness. Much had slipped by her, and she had lost much in that
sorry life before Ariel took her and brought her to live among
strangers, whose motives and feelings she had no means of penetrating.
But the tenderness, the innocence, the expectancy of childhood had
remained with her, as if making amends for her loss or awaiting the
sunshine of maturing impulses. She set a candle beside the settle,
lifted the cover, took out two long rolls of paper, closed the settle,
and bore her parcels to the table. Then she untied them with trembling
fingers, rolling out several feet of green and crimson paper and a small
sheet of yellow. She placed weights on the corners of the lengths,
pausing to run her fingers into her hair as she gazed with rapt eyes
upon the coloured surfaces, commonplace enough to all appearances. She
took the cat, laid it carefully on the crimson, pinned it down and
pencilled around the edges. In the same fashion she drew the outlines
for four yellow stars and some lengths of yellow rope. Finally, with a
pair of shears she cut out all the outlined figures. She lifted the cat,
freed now from the matrix of surrounding paper and enlivened with the
lifelikeness of a new liberty, and held its foot and a half of length
against the candle-light. The light shone through the crimson paper but
dimly. Janny nodded, took a small cake of paraffin, melted it, and with
a bit of cloth sponged the cat as it lay upon the table. This she did
also to the four yellow stars, to the lengths of rope, and to a large
piece of green paper upon which the original cat pattern had been
appliquéd. Once more she lifted the crimson animal to the light,--the
candle-flame shone through clearly with a beautiful crimson flood of
softer light. After this Janny broke a half-dozen eggs, separating the
white from the yolk. Her fingers worked feverishly now, and her eyes
kept measuring distances; in her nervous haste there were moments when
she seemed hardly able to accomplish the next step forward in the task
she saw already complete in her mind's eye. She stopped to listen for
sounds and steps as she worked, and again and again she imagined that
Ariel was looking down from the head of the staircase. But she finished
the work uninterrupted, and with a sigh, half-sob of weariness,
half-contentment, and with many a glance of admiration as she went, she
tiptoed up the stairway. Ariel was sleeping, and as she crept into bed
she put out a hand to touch his thick black hair, and then, curling into
the cool white of her pillow, fell asleep as children sleep, one hand
resting lightly on his arm.
[Illustration: JANNY WATCHED ARIEL'S THIN FINGERS WORK SKILFULLY]
Ariel Jenkins awoke at the waking-time of all Glaslyn--the dawn; Janny
lay beside him, still sleeping, her face heavily shadowed in her
abundant hair. She seemed so wistfully childlike and her closed eyes so
unforgettably weary. Perhaps it was merely the shadows of the early dawn
and her hair, but the eyelids had a kind of veined transparency and her
skin a transparent pallor, and the mouth drooped. Ariel's selfishness
smote him consciously; he thought with a pang of Janny, and he made
resolutions. With this awakening he transferred a little of his poetry
from the bard to the man. Aye, he acknowledged to himself, this might
well be called the Education of Ariel Jenkins, bard and merchant. And
for the first time a thought that gripped his heart brought him no
desire to turn it into rhyme. He recalled compassionately all her
efforts to make improvements in the house, her evident inability to
understand and cope with the shrewd Welsh women of their village; and he
remembered with fear the prying curiosity and overt enmity these women
had shown toward Janny. Then he wondered in a desultory way what she was
planning to do with the stars and the cat and the bits of rope. And
after she awakened and they were talking at breakfast, he reflected how
easily his resolution won success, for Janny since he brought her to
Glaslyn had not been as buoyant, almost animated, as she was this
morning. Ariel thought, too, that he had not noticed before the way
Janny had of looking at him, as if she expected him to discover some
extraordinary joy; maybe she was merely looking to him for happiness,
but certainly there was an air of anticipation about her to-day.
Upon finishing breakfast Ariel passed with a sense of secure well-being
into his shop; so many problems were solving themselves, and on the
whole the man made him happier than the bard. Even the flag sidewalk
outside the shop seemed more than ordinarily lively and merry to-day. He
saw neighbours passing and heard them chatting, and once in a while
there was a loud shout of laughter. Across the street, looking towards
his shop he beheld a little knot of men,--Ivor Jones and Wil Penmorfa
and Parry Wynn,--men who did not usually have time for mirth so early in
the morning. They were talking and laughing, and Ariel saw one of them
point towards Ty Mawr. Just then Mrs. Gomer Roberts the tinman came in.
She wanted some flannel for a blouse like the material she was wearing,
and Mrs. Roberts threw back her long cloak to display the neat striped
flannel. How was Mrs. Jenkins? Ariel thanked her: Janny was well.
"I'm comin' soon to have a good long visit with her," said Mrs.
Roberts.
"Aye, ye'll be welcome."
"Ye're makin' improvements, I see."
"Aye, a few," replied Ariel, using his yardstick deftly and wondering
what improvements Mrs. Gomer Roberts could have had any opportunity to
see.
"Glaslyn's no seen anything like it," continued Mrs. Roberts,
straightening her beaver hat over the crisp white of her cap.
"No, I'm thinkin' not," answered Ariel vaguely, rolling up the bundle of
flannel with precise neatness.
He was still wondering why women talked in riddles when in came Mrs.
Jeezer Morris the minister. She had torn her blue kirtle and wanted a
new breadth. Ariel took down the cloth. Then were showered upon him in a
compacter form, and one of greater authority, practically the same
remarks as those made by Mrs. Gomer Roberts: How was Mrs. Jenkins, she
was coming to visit her, there were improvements she saw, the like of
which Glaslyn had not seen before. Mrs. Morris the minister had scarcely
finished her purchase when in came Mrs. Parry Wynn the baker; they had
apparently met that morning and their greetings were purely
conventional,--a smile, a look of inquiry, a nod of negation. Mrs. Parry
Wynn wanted some new cotton cloth, but apparently she also wished to
make the same remarks as those made by Mrs. Gomer Roberts and Mrs.
Jeezer Morris.
Then Ariel Jenkins's thoughts began the converging process, began to
gather in towards some definite centre, to fix themselves upon some one
thing which all these estimable women must have in mind. And when Mrs.
Parry Wynn left the shop, Ariel went to the door. Betto Griffiths walked
by briskly, joining the women who had just made purchases and who were
gathered in a little group opposite Ty Mawr. They were looking eagerly
at the house and gesticulating. Betto Griffiths laughed harshly as she
pointed at Ty Mawr, and shrugged her shoulders in the direction of the
shop. Ariel's heart sank. What had Janny done to make the house such an
object of attraction? He stepped out to the little group of customers
and looked up.
Except for the quick flexing of the muscles in his forehead and the
dilation of his eyes Ariel betrayed no emotion. The oriel window jutting
over the street had been transformed; he saw no longer the clear glass
of the stairway-light common to Ty Mawr and the other houses of Glaslyn,
but a crimson cat, fore-feet in air, blazoned on a green background,
each quarter of the oriel brilliant with a yellow star and the whole
device bound together with a chaplet of rope.
[Illustration: BETTO GRIFFITHS LAUGHED.]
"It _does_ make a pretty light!" he exclaimed thoughtfully; "prettier,"
he added with pride, "than I had any idea it would."
The women stared at him.
"Aye, an' it's prettier within," he continued; "it sheds such a bright
colour on dark days."
"No, is it so!" ejaculated Mrs. Parry Wynn.
"Aye, it is so," replied Ariel. "Out of Glaslyn ye see many coloured
windows like this in private houses--smart houses of course."
"Just fancy!" responded Mrs. Jeezer Morris, "we've seen them in
churches, the Nonconformists as well as the Established, but we've never
heard of coloured windows before in a village house, especially not with
such a cat----"
"Aye, the cat!" interrupted Ariel, in a caressing voice, the far-away,
much-reverenced look of the poet in his eyes, "that cat is a copy from
a--medal taken from--the sar-coph-a-gus of Tiglath Pileser II. Aye," he
added dreamily, "the cat, the sacred symbol of Egypt, holy to the Muses,
beloved of----"
"Mr. Jenkins, ye don't say so!" they all exclaimed, looking with curious
glances at the oriel window.
"I will say," nodded Mrs. Gomer Roberts, "that it has an uncommonly
intelligent look."
"Aye, so it has," agreed Mrs. Parry Wynn, "intelligent
an'--an'--lively."
Betto Griffiths glanced about the little group shrewdly.
"An' the stars, Mr. Jenkins?" she said.
"Tut, the _star_! Betto Griffiths, ye don't say ye don't know the
meanin' of the five-pointed star, sacred to history, to sacred history,
guide in the----"
"Oh, aye!" interrupted Betto, "if _that's_ the star ye mean, I certainly
do."
The little gathering took a fresh look at the window; their eyes
lingered reverently now on the emblazoned group of cat and stars leashed
together with yellow rope.
"Aye, it's a wonderful idea!" asserted Mrs. Jeezer Morris, from her
superior position and knowledge.
"Aye, wonderful!" solemnly affirmed the rest.
"I'm thinkin'," said Betto Griffiths, an undisciplined look in her eyes,
"Mrs. Jenkins made it?"
"Mrs. Jenkins! Oh, no!" exclaimed Ariel, thrusting his hands into his
trousers pockets, "I did it."
"Ye did!" they all exclaimed, admiringly.
"Mr. Jenkins," continued Mrs. Parry Wynn, whose husband, the baker, had
been standing across the street not more than a half-hour ago laughing
over the crimson cat _rampant_, blazoned on the green field, "Mr.
Jenkins, if Mr. Wynn thinks he could afford something like it, would ye
be willin'----"
"Aye, gladly," returned Ariel, "but it's expensive, Mrs. Wynn."
"Oh!" chorused the women, in deferential voices.
"But I'm thinkin'," continued Ariel, "through my connection as a
merchant I might be able to obtain the material at less expense an'----"
"If ye could!" clamoured the little group.
"Mr. Jenkins, if Mr. Roberts----" broke in Mrs. Roberts.
"Mr. Jenkins, if Mr. Morris----" interrupted Mrs. Morris.
"Won't ye come in?" asked Ariel, placidly interrupting them all. "I'm
certain ye will like the light even better from the inside where it
falls in such pleasin' colours on the landin'. When I was workin' on it
last night by moonlight the colours were like fairyland."
"Aye, it's only a poet could have conceived this," said Mrs. Morris,
with assurance, "only a poet!"
"Only a poet!" echoed the rest.
"But won't ye come in? Mrs. Jenkins will be glad to see ye."
"Aye, thank ye, 'twould be a pleasure!" And flock-like they followed
Ariel into the house.
Mrs. Jenkins's eyes were red, and there was the furtive aspect of a
trapped animal about her; but when she saw their eager faces and heard
their enthusiastic and admiring exclamations as they crowded into the
stairway landing, there was a look of surprise first, and then of
delight upon her face.
"Mr. Jenkins tells me ye didn't make it yourself," said Betto Griffiths,
suspicion still on her sharp features.
"Well, it came," replied Janny, glancing appealingly at Ariel, "it--came
from Liverpool."
"Janny _dear_," corrected Ariel, with a look straight into her eyes, "ye
mean the _material_ did."
"Aye, Ariel," answered Janny, with a mixture of childlike obedience and
confusion, "aye, just the material."
Ariel talked a great deal; the window was admired, commented upon, there
were demands for future assistance, envious exclamations of delight to
Mrs. Jenkins, who was given no chance to say a word, and the little
group departed.
"Well, Janny!" exclaimed Ariel.
"Ariel _dear_, I--I saw them--them laughin' an'--then--ye," the
flood-gates burst and Janny threw herself sobbing into Ariel's arms.
"There, there, _dear_, little lamb!" he comforted, his own eyes wet with
tears.
"I thought--thought it would--be so--pretty--an' people's
been--expectin' me--to--to make changes--an'--an'--Betto Griffiths said
improvements, an' Ariel--I--I----" Janny's voice caught and she sobbed
afresh.
"Tut, tut, little lamb, dearie, don't. Janny, Janny, don't cry."
"Ariel, I saw--the--men--laughin' an'--an' slappin' their
knees--an'--an' pointin' at the window--an' even--little Silvan runnin'
by--laughed, an' then when Betto Griffiths----" Janny faltered, gulping.
"Pooh, little lamb, Betto Griffiths!" exclaimed Ariel derisively, "Betto
Griffiths is an ignorant woman. An', dearie, didn't ye hear them all
askin' me to help them to get windows like this?"
"But, Ariel, didn't ye laugh at all?"
"I laugh, Janny! Why, dear," answered Ariel slowly, "I
think--the--window--is beautiful!"
"Oh, Ariel!" said Janny happily.
"Aye, I do; only if ye should have another idea, just tell me about it,
dearie, beforehand, for it might--perhaps it wouldn't," he added gently,
"make it awkward."
"But, Ariel, I saw----"
"Well, dear, that's enough--ye don't understand these people quite yet.
The window is beautiful; aye," he continued, "I like it, so we'll be
sendin' it to Liverpool to get a real stained-glass window something the
same--aye, dearie, I can well afford it."
_The Child_
The irons of the fireplace glowed in the light of the steady peat-fire.
The odour from the peat was delicious with the aroma of age-old forests.
With this was mingled the odour of the supper Jane Morris was clearing
away. As she moved nimbly about the table, Jane's shadow advanced and
withdrew across the blackened rafters of the roof.
"Whoo-o!" said Tom, comfortably, at the sound of the wind booming down
the rocky mountain-side. "'Tis a bad night for strangers to be abroad,
bad to be wandering along Bryn Bannog."
"Aye, 'tis dark," answered Owen, removing his pipe, and rubbing the head
of a pet lamb that lay beside him. "One minute it cries like a child,
and another it wails like a demon. But 'tis snug within, lad, an' we'll
never know want."
The bachelor brothers regarded each other and their sister with
contentment. Outside the wind shouted and cried by turns, and then died
away clamorously in the deep valley.
"Snug within, lad," reaffirmed Owen, drawing his harp to him.
Tom lifted his finger.
"Hush! Some one comes."
All listened while the wind beat upon the house and sobbed piteously in
the chimney. Jane hastened to the door.
"God's blessin'--rest--on this house!" gasped a man, stumbling in.
"Take the stranger's cloak off," commanded Owen, before the visitor was
in, "an' here's my clogs dry an' warm."
"Tut, tut," objected Jane, "'tis food he needs, whatever. I'll fetch him
bread an' fill the big pint. Now, friend, this chair by the table."
The Stranger sat down; his deep-set eyes looked out wistfully on the
awakened bustle, and on the warmth and the cheer of the cottage room.
But they heard him whisper drearily, "My little child, my little child!"
Tom tried to lift the silence that was settling over them all with a
question here and a question there. The Stranger ate absent-mindedly and
ravenously, drinking his ale in greedy draughts. Owen knocked the ashes
from his pipe and stared into the fire.
"'Tis late," he said.
The Stranger lifted his eyes, looked at the two brothers, and long at
Jane.
"I shall not rest----" he began.
"Well, Stranger, that you will not with a burden on your mind. That's
so, lad?" Tom asked, turning to Owen.
"I shall not rest till I have told my dream," he resumed. "All day and
every day my little one lies on her back--the crooked back that is
killin' her."
"Dear _anwyl_!" exclaimed Owen to Jane and Tom, "'tis very like his
little one."
"Aye, lad," answered Jane, while the wind drew gently over the
house-roof.
"The dream came many times an' I did not heed it."
"He who follows dreams follows fools," interrupted Tom.
"I am a poor man, with naught richer than dreams to follow, an' no
mother for my child. If the dream prove true, gold would make my little
one well. But the days are goin' fast an' she is weaker every day."
"Och!" sighed Jane.
"Tut, a dream come true!" scoffed Tom, laughing. "But what _was_ your
dream?" he asked, leaning forward.
"It was of a pitcherful of gold hid beneath a ruin of rocks piled one
upon another, an' it was near a great fortress built in a fashion
unknown to me. The fortress was on the crown of a rugged hill, an' it
seemed away from the sea. So I have travelled eastward."
"Pen y Gaer!" exclaimed Owen and Tom and Jane, looking at one another.
"An' in this dream I saw many strange things, garments unlike aught men
wear now."
"Aye," agreed Jane, "but it was all a dream."
"Nay, nay," replied the Stranger, "can you not tell me of it?"
"That we can," said Owen.
"Tut," interrupted Tom, "there is a round tower, aye, two round towers,
the one by Pen y Gaer, south-west over Bryn Bannog, down the bridle-path
by Llyn Cwm-y-stradlyn."
"Aye, but, lad," objected Owen, "the other----"
"The other's further away, more like a sheep-pen once than a tower for
any fortress."
Owen's face was perplexed, but Tom's calm, and his eyes keen with light.
"Rest here, Stranger," he said. "On the morrow you shall start out for
your treasure, up over Bryn Bannog."
"Nay, Tom," interrupted Owen, but Tom silenced him.
The next morning Tom stood outside the hedge that enclosed their
grey-stone mountain cottage, pointing with his finger.
"Well, more to the west, so."
"Aye," replied the Stranger, scanning Bryn Bannog, its steep meadows,
its rocks tufted with golden gorse, its craggy spine from which the mist
was lifting; "yes, the path is plain."
The Stranger set his eyes southward up the mountain. After a while he
turned to look back at the cottage cradled in the fields below; beyond
the valley, Moelwyn, massive and green; eastward, Cynicht, sharp and
grey; and still farther east, a vast wilderness of crag tumbled hither
and thither down to the very edge of the glimmering sea. "Hope goes with
me, little one," he said, and turned to climb higher. At the summit he
looked westward; there lay a lake blue as a meadow-flower, and half-way
down, by the little brook Tom had described, there was a large circle of
loose stones.
The Stranger hurried forward. He glanced at the sun, and began by the
edge of the circle near the brook, turning up the soggy earth in large
clods. He dug feverishly, working hour after hour. He lay down and
pulled the earth away in rolls, the wet drenching him, still hoping
against hope. He took the clods of earth and dashed them against the
rocks where they broke noiselessly. He looked about as if praying that
some power might come to him from the blue distance or the sky above or
the golden sun; then he sank on the stones and wept. The little green
snake that crept by in the grass, the snail that trailed over the sod,
heard him weep, and the cry that came from him, "My little one, my
little one, was it for this?"
The afternoon swung its shadows eastward, and the roof of the cottage
lay in a pointed figure on the grass beyond the hedge. Two men bearing
something toiled up the path to the hedge gate. As the sun set behind
Bryn Bannog the pointed roof-shadow drew in, and the shadow from the
hedge lay on the grass in a dark ribbon, growing narrower and fainter.
From the distant summit a single figure dropped slowly downhill, the
autumn dusk closing around it. In the windows candle-light flickered; a
woman came to the west door and looked uphill. She seemed troubled and
she had been crying.
"Brothers, he is comin'," called Jane, "he is close by the house. Och,
be kind to him for the child's sake! It is not too late even now."
"Well, Stranger," said Tom, appearing at the door, "did you find aught?"
"Nay," replied the Stranger, in a level voice. "Is there another ruin
where the dream might lie?"
"Dreams!" exclaimed Tom cheerily, "dreams, dreams! 'Tis no place for
dreams. You will find nothin' but sheep bones buried on Bryn Bannog. Do
you know of any other place, Owen?"
Owen took his pipe from his mouth, looked hard at his brother, hard at
the Stranger, started to speak, changed his mind, and put the pipe in
his mouth again.
"Will you come in an' rest?" asked Tom. "'Tis growin' dark."
"My way is long, westward over the hills, an' the child is waitin'."
"Here," said Tom, holding out a coin, "here is a crown for the little
Flower."
"Nay," replied the Stranger gently, "it would avail nothin'. She hath
need of many crowns. Good-night."
As the Stranger took the path downhill, the brothers turned indoors.
Jane confronted them, her eyes indignant, her lips tense.
"You--you will go after him. Och, that I should live to see this day!
The Lord will find you out."
Tom laughed.
"Set the candle on the table," he said; "'tis an odd box. Is the door
fast, Owen?"
"Aye, fast."
"To think it's lain in our pastures these hundreds of years."
Tom undid the hasps. He lifted out one chalice of silver after another,
and several silver plates, all marked with early dates. Tom looked
disappointed; Owen's face had grown pallid. Jane was speaking to them
both:--
"'Tis the lost church silver, the altar-service, aye, the holy
altar-service; now what will you do?" she cried.
* * * * *
At the breakfast table the porridge was eaten in silence. Jane's eyes
were red. Tom looked uneasy, and Owen stared into his dish. In vain
Gwennie thrust her little white nose against Owen's leg. "Baa-a!" Still
no attention.
"I'm glad the wind is quiet," said Jane.
There was no response.
"Did you sleep, Tom?" she asked.
"Sleep! With that shriekin' of the wind!"
"Nay," said Owen softly, "the cryin' of a little child, indeed."
"There _was_ no gold, I say," Tom asserted.
"True," Owen complied.
"Well, 'twas altar silver, whatever."
"Aye," assented Jane, "an' it must go back to the church."
"Yes, an' we're no richer," ended Tom. "We've nothin' to spare to a
stranger an' his child."
Owen turned the leaves of the big Bible on the table. Tom was staring
defiantly from Jane to Owen.
"'It were better a millstone'--" Owen began to read to himself.
"The devil!" shouted Tom, rushing from the table and slamming the door
behind him.
Owen went out after him. Their work for that day lay in the sheep-pens
by the brook, washing and shearing the sheep. Before him Tom was walking
very fast and talking in a loud, angry voice. But Owen was thinking of
the sound of the wind as it cried and whimpered and pleaded all night
long. And the flowers he saw in the grass at his feet made him think of
big eyes; and the sheen on the grass, of a child's hair; and the slender
birch-wands, of a child's little body. What would it have been like to
have had such a little one a part of him? And supposing it had lain
crumpled together like yonder fern--Owen's heart gave a great leap.
Tom was still talking when he reached the sheepfold. The anger had left
his face, and in its stead there was uneasy inquiry. Owen, without
looking at his brother, took his seat on the shearing-stool and the
shepherd carried a sheep to him. Owen turned it deftly. Clip, clip,
clip, the fleece began to roll back from the shears and the skin to
show pink through the stubble of remaining fleece. Clip! a deft turn to
right, then to left, and the fleece slipped to the ground and lay there,
white, and with arms outstretched.
"Och!" exclaimed Owen, staring at it, "I'm goin' westward to the child,
tell Jane."
"I'm goin', too," called Tom, walking after him rapidly, grumbling and
talking, "an' I'll not tell Jane. There's no need to go so fast,
whatever."
Jane came to the door of the cottage and looked down to the roadway.
Gwennie was beside her and caught sight of Owen. "Baa-a!" the lamb
bleated, scampering downhill.
"Gwennie, Gwennie!" called Jane.
But the stiff little legs were taking the hillside in leaps and bounds.
"Gwennie, _bach_, Gwen_nie_, Gwennie bach!"
Jane started downhill after the lamb. "If they're goin'," she said to
herself, with a shrewd look of understanding, "indeed, I'm goin' too."
"Baa-a!" bleated Gwennie, with little frisks and skips to right and
left.
_An All-Hallows' Honeymoon_
Intermittently the wind whined and raced, howling like a wolf, through
the Gwynen Valley; and intermittently, too, the rain doused the bridge
on whose slate coping Vavasour Jones leaned. It was a night when spirits
of air and earth, the racing wind, the thundering water, the slashing
rain, were the very soul of this chaos of noise. Still, cosy lights
shone on either side of the bridge, the lights of Ty Ucha and Ty Usaf,
where a good mug of beer could be had for a mere song to a man of
Vavasour's means. And the lights from all the cottages, too, for it was
All-Hallows' Eve, twinkled with festive brilliance upon the drenched
flags of the street. Indeed, there was not one of these houses in all
Gwynen whose walls and flaggings were not familiar to him, where
Vavasour Jones and his wife Catherine had not been on an occasion, a
knitting-night, a Christmas, a bidding, a funeral, an All-Hallows' Eve.
But to-night his eyes gazed blankly upon these preliminary signs of a
merry evening within doors, and he seemed unconscious of the rain
pouring upon him and the wind slapping the bridge. He moved when he saw
a figure approaching.
"Hist! Eilir!"
"Aye, man, who is it?"
"It's me, it's Vavasour Jones."
"Dear me, lad, what do ye here in the dark and rain?"
Vavasour said nothing; Eilir peered more closely at him. "Are ye sick,
lad?"
"Och, I'm not sick!" Vavasour's voice rang drearily, as if that were the
least of ills that could befall him.
"Well, what ails ye?"
"It's All-Hallows' Eve an'----"
"Aren't ye goin' to Pally Hughes's?"
"Ow!" he moaned, "the devil! goin' to Pally Hughes's while it's drawin'
nearer an' nearer an'--Ow!"
"Tut, man," said Eilir sharply, "ye're ill; speak up, tell me what ails
ye."
"Ow-w!" groaned Vavasour.
Eilir drew away; here was a case where All-Hallows' had played havoc
early in the evening. What should he do? Get him home? Notify Catherine?
Have the minister? He was inclining to the last resource when Vavasour
groaned again and spoke:--
"Eilir, I wisht I were dead, man."
"Dear me, lad, what is it?"
"It's the night when Catherine must go."
"When Catherine must go? What do ye mean?"
"She'll be dead the night at twelve."
"Dead at twelve?" asked Eilir, bewildered. "Does she know it?"
"No, but I do, an' to think I've been unkind to her! I've tried this
year to make up for it, but it's no use, man; one year'll never make up
for ten of harsh words an' unkind deeds. Ow!" groaned Vavasour,
collapsing on to the slate coping once more.
"Well, ye've not been good to her," replied Eilir, mystified, "that's
certain, man, but I've heard ye've been totally different the past year.
Griffiths was sayin' he never heard any more sharp words comin' from
your windows, an' they used to rain like hail on the streets some days."
"Aye, but a year'll not do any good, an' she'll be dyin' at twelve
to-night, Ow!"
"Well," said Eilir, catching at the only thing he could think of to say,
"there's plenty in the Scriptures about a man an' his wife."
"Aye, but it'll not do, not do, not do," sobbed Vavasour Jones.
"Have ye been drinkin', lad?"
"Drinkin'!" exclaimed Jones.
"Well, no harm, but lad, about the Scriptures; there's plenty in the
Scriptures concernin' a man an' his wife, an' ye've broken much of it
about lovin' a wife, an' yet I cannot understand why Catherine's goin'
an' where."
"She's not goin' anywhere, Eilir; she'll be dyin' at twelve."
Whereupon Vavasour Jones rose up suddenly from the coping, took a step
forward, seized Eilir by the coat-lapel, and, with eyes flickering like
coals in the dark, told his story. All the little Gwynen world knew that
he and his wife had not lived happily or well together; there had been
no children coming and no love lost, and, as the days went on,
bickering, scolding, harsh words, and even ugly actions. Aye, and it had
come to such a pass that a year ago this night, on All-Hallows' Eve, he
had gone down to the church-porch shortly before midnight to see whether
the spirit of Catherine would be called, and whether she would live the
twelve months out. And as he was leaning against the church-wall hoping,
aye, man, and praying that he might see her there, he saw something
coming around the corner with white over its head; it drew nearer and
nearer, and when it came in full view of the church-porch it paused, it
whirled around, and sped away with the wind flapping about its feet and
the rain beating down on its head. But Vavasour had time to see that it
was the spirit of Catherine, and he was glad because his prayer had been
answered, and because, with Catherine dying the next All-Hallows', they
would have to live together only the year out. So he went homeward
joyfully, thinking it was the last year, and considering as it was the
last year he might just as well be as kind and pleasant as possible.
When he reached home he found Catherine up waiting for him. And she
spoke so pleasantly to him and he to her, and the days went on as
happily as the courting days before they were married. Each day was
sweeter than the one before, and they knew for the first time what it
meant to be man and wife in love and kindness. But all the while he saw
that white figure by the churchyard, and Catherine's face in its white
hood, and he knew the days were lessening and that she must go. Here it
was All-Hallows' Eve again, and but four hours to midnight, and the best
year of his life was almost past. Aye, and it was all the result of his
evil heart and evil wish and evil prayer.
"Think, man," groaned Vavasour, "prayin' for her callin', aye, goin'
there hopin' ye'd see her spirit, an' countin' on her death!"
"Oh, man, it's bad," replied Eilir mournfully, "aye, an' I've no word to
say to ye for comfort. I recollect well the story my granny used to tell
about Christmas Powell; it was somethin' the same. An' there was Betty
Williams was called ten years ago, an' didn't live the year out; an'
there was Silvan Evans, the sexton, an' Geffery his friend, was called
two years ago, and Silvan had just time to dig Geffrey's grave an' then
his own, too, by its side, an' they was buried the same day an' hour."
"Ow!" wailed Vavasour.
"Aye, man, it's bad; it'll have to be endured, an' to think ye brought
it on yourself. Where's Catherine?"
"She's to Pally Hughes's for the All-Hallows' party."
"Och, she'll be taken there!"
"Aye, an' oh! Eilir, she was loth to go to Pally's, but I could not tell
her the truth."
"That's so, lad; are ye not goin'?"
"I cannot go; I'm fair crazy an' I'll just be creepin' home, waitin' for
them to bring her back. Ow!"
"I'm sorry, man," called Eilir, looking after him with an expression of
sympathy: "I can be of no use to ye now."
Across the bridge the windows of Pally Hughes's grey-stone cottage
shone with candles, and as the doors swung to and fro admitting guests,
the lights from within flickered on the brass doorsill and the hum of
merry words reached the street. Mrs. Morgan the baker, dressed in her
new scarlet whittle and a freshly starched cap, was there; Mr. Howell
the milliner, in his highlows and wonderful plum-coloured coat; Mrs.
Jenkins the tinman, with bright new ribbons to her cap and a new beaver
hat which she removed carefully upon entering; and Mr. Wynn "the shop,"
whose clothes were always the envy of Gwynen village; and many others,
big-eyed girls and straight young men, who crossed the bright doorsill.
Finally, Catherine Jones tapped on the door. Within, she looked vacantly
at the candles on the mantelpiece and on the table, all set in festoons
of evergreens and flanked by a display of painted china eggs and
animals; and at the lights shining steadily, while on the hearth a fire
crackled. Catherine, so heavy was her heart, could scarcely manage a
decent friendly greeting to old Pally Hughes, her hostess. She looked
uncheered at the big centre table, whereon stood a huge blue
wassail-bowl, about it little piles of raisins, buns, spices, biscuits,
sugar, a large jug of ale and a small bottle tightly corked. She
watched the merriment with indifference; bobbing for apples and
sixpences seemed such stupid games. There was no one in whom she could
confide now, and anyway it was too late; there was nothing to be done,
and while they were talking lightly and singing, too, for the harp was
being played, the hours were slipping away, and her one thought, her
only thought, was to get home to Vavasour. "Oh," reflected Catherine,
"I'm a wicked, wicked woman to be bringin' him to his death!"
The candles were blown out and the company gathered in a circle about
the fire to tell stories, while a kettle of ale simmered on the crane
and the apples hung roasting. Pally began the list of tales. There was
the story of the corpse-candle Lewis's wife saw, and how Lewis himself
died the next week; there were the goblins that of All-Hallows' Eve led
Davies such a dance, and the folks had to go out after him with a
lantern to fetch him in, and found him lying in fear by the sheep-wall;
and there were the plates and mugs Annie turned upside down and an
unseen visitor turned them right side up before her very eyes.
Then they began to throw nuts in the fire, each with a wish: if the nut
burned brightly the wish would-come true. Old Pally threw on a nut, it
flickered and then blazed up; Maggie tossed one into the fire, it
smouldered and gave no light. Gradually the turn came nearer Catherine;
there was but one wish in her heart and she trembled to take the chance.
"Now, Catherine!"
"Aye, Catherine, what'll she be wishin' for, a new lover?" they laughed.
With shaking hand she tossed hers into the fire; the nut sputtered and
blackened, and with a shriek Catherine bounded from the circle, threw
open the door and sped into the dark. In consternation the company
scrambled to their feet, gazing at the open door through which volleyed
the wind and rain.