"Aye, poor Catherine's been called, it may be."
"It's the last time, I'm thinkin', we'll ever see her."
"Do ye think she saw somethin', Pally, do ye?"
"There's no tellin'; but it's bad, very bad, though her nut is burnin'
brightly enough now."
"She seemed downcast the night, not like herself."
"It can be nothin' at home, for Vavasour, they say, is treatin' her
better nor ever, an' she's been that sweet-tempered the year long, which
is uncommon for her."
As she fled homeward through the dark, little did Catherine think of
what they might be saying at Pally's. When Vavasour heard feet running
swiftly along the street, he straightened up, his eyes in terror upon
the door.
"Catherine!" he cried, bewildered at her substantial appearance, "is it
ye who are really come?"
There was a momentary suggestion of a rush into each other's arms
checked, as it were, in mid-air by Vavasour's reseating himself
precipitately and Catherine drawing herself up.
"Yes," said Catherine, seeing him there and still in the flesh, "it
was--dull, very dull at Pally's; an' my feet was wet an' I feared takin'
a cold."
"Aye," replied Vavasour, looking with greed upon her rosy face and
snapping eyes, "aye, it's better for ye here, dearie."
There was an awkward silence. Catherine still breathed heavily from the
running, and Vavasour shuffled his feet. He opened his mouth, shut it,
and opened it again.
"Did ye have a fine time at Pally's?" he asked.
"Aye, it was gay and fine an'--na----" Catherine halted, remembering the
reason she had given for coming home, and tried to explain. "Yes, so it
was, an' so it wasn't," she ended.
Vavasour regarded her with attention, and there was another pause, in
which his eyes sought the clock. The sight of that fat-faced timepiece
gave him a shock.
"A quarter past eleven," he murmured; then aloud: "Catherine, do ye
recall Pastor Evans's sermon, the one he preached last New Year?"
Catherine also had taken a furtive glance at the clock, a glance which
Vavasour caught and wondered at.
"Well, Catherine, do----"
"Aye, I remember, about inheritin' the grace of life together."
"My dear, wasn't he sayin' that love is eternal an' that--a
man--an'--an' his wife was lovin' for--for----"
"Aye, lad, for everlastin' life," Catherine concluded.
There was another pause, a quick glancing at the clock, and a quick
swinging of two pairs of eyes towards each other, astonishment in each
pair.
"Half-after eleven," whispered Vavasour, seeming to crumple in the
middle. "An', dear," he continued aloud, "didn't he, didn't he say that
the Lord was mindful of our--of our--difficulties, and our temptations,
an' our--our----"
"Aye, an' our mistakes," ended Catherine.
"Do ye think, dearie," he went on, "that if a man were to--to--na--to be
unkind a--a very little to his wife--an' was sorry an' his wife--his
wife--died, that he'd be--be----?"
"Forgiven?" finished Catherine. "Aye, I'm thinkin' so. An', lad dear, do
ye think if anythin' was to happen to ye the night,--aye, _this_
night,--that ye'd take any grudge away with ye against me?"
Vavasour stiffened.
"Happen to _me_, Catherine?"
Then he collapsed, groaning.
"Oh, dearie, what is it, what is it, what ails ye?" cried Catherine,
coming to his side on the sofa.
"Nothin', nothin' at all," he gasped, slanting an eye at the clock. "Ow,
the devil, it's twenty minutes before twelve!"
"Oh, lad, what is it?"
"It's nothin', nothin' at all, it's--it's--ow!--it's just a little pain
across me."
Catherine stole a look at the timepiece,--a quarter before twelve, aye,
it was coming to him now, and her face whitened to the colour of the
ashes in the fireplace.
To Vavasour the whimpering of the wind in the chimney was like the bare
nerve of his pain. Even the flickering of the flame marked the flight of
time, which he could not stay by any wish or power in him. Only ten
minutes more, aye, everything marked it: the brawl of the stream
outside, the rushing of the wind, the scattering of the rain like a
legion of fleeing feet, then a sudden pause in the downpour when his
heart beat as if waiting on an unseen footstep; the very singing of the
lazy kettle was a drone in this wild race of stream and wind and rain,
emphasising the speed of all else. Vavasour cast a despairing glance at
the mantel, oh! the endless _tick-tick, tick-tick_, of that round clock
flanked by rows of idiotic, fat-faced, whiskered china cats, each with
an immovably sardonic grin, not a whisker stirring to this merciless
_tick-tick_. Aye, it was going to strike in a minute, and the clanging
of it would be like the clanging of the gates of hell behind him. He
did not notice Catherine, that she, too, unmindful of everything, was
gazing in horror at the mantel. Vavasour groaned; oh! if the clock
were only a toad or a serpent, he would put his feet on it, crush it,
and--oh!--Vavasour swore madly to himself, covering his eyes. Catherine
cried out, her face in her hands--the clock was striking.
Twelve!
The last clang of the bell vibrated a second and subsided; the wind
whimpered softly in the chimney, the tea-kettle sang on. Through a chink
in her fingers Catherine peered at Vavasour; through a similar chink
there was a bright agonised eye staring at her.
"Oh!" gulped Catherine.
"The devil!" exclaimed Vavasour.
"Lad!" called his wife, putting out a hand to touch him.
Then followed a scene of joy; they embraced, they kissed, they danced
about madly, and having done it once, they did it all over again and
still again.
"But, Katy, are ye here, really _here_?"
"Am _I_ here? Tut, lad, are _ye_ here?"
"Aye, that is, are we _both_ here?"
"Did ye think I wasn't goin' to be?" asked the wife, pausing.
"No-o, not that, only I thought, I thought ye was goin'--to--to faint. I
thought ye looked like it," replied Vavasour, with a curious expression
of suppressed, intelligent joy in his eyes.
"Oh!" exclaimed Catherine. Then, suddenly, the happiness in her face was
quenched. "But, lad, I'm a wicked woman, aye, Vavasour Jones, a bad
woman!"
As Vavasour had poured himself out man unto man to Eilir, so woman unto
man Catherine poured herself out to her husband.
"An', lad, I went to the church-porch hopin', almost prayin' ye'd be
called, that I'd see your spirit walkin'."
"Catherine, ye did that!"
"Aye, but oh! lad, I'd been so unhappy with quarrelling and hard words,
I could think of nothin' else but gettin' rid of them."
"Och, 't was bad, very bad!" replied Vavasour.
"An' then, lad, when I reached the church-corner an' saw your spirit was
really there, really called, an' I knew ye'd not live the year out, I
was frightened, but oh! lad, I was glad, too."
Vavasour looked grave.
"Katy, it was a terrible thing to do!"
"I know it now, but I didn't at that time, dearie," answered Catherine;
"I was hardhearted, an' I was weak with longin' to escape from it all.
An' then I ran home," she continued; "I was frightened, but oh! lad
dear, I was glad, too, an' now it hurts me so to think it. An' when ye
came in from the Lodge, ye spoke so pleasantly to me that I was
troubled. An' now the year through it's grown better an' better, an' I
could think of nothin' but lovin' ye an' wishin' ye to live an knowin' I
was the cause of your bein' called. Och, lad, _can_ ye forgive me?"
asked Catherine.
"Aye," replied Vavasour slowly, "I can--none of us is without sin--but,
Katy, it was wrong, aye, a terrible thing for a woman to do."
"An' then to-night, lad, I was expectin' ye to go, knowin' ye couldn't
live after twelve, an' ye sittin' there so innocent an' mournful; an'
when the time came I wanted to die myself. Oh!" moaned Catherine
afresh.
"No matter, dearie, now," comforted Vavasour, putting his arm about her,
"it _was_ wrong in ye, but we're still here an' it's been a sweet year,
aye, it's been better nor a honeymoon, an' all the years after we'll
make better nor this. There, Katy, let's have a bit of a wassail to
celebrate our All-Hallows' honeymoon, shall we?"
"Aye, lad, it would be fine," said Catherine, starting for the bowl,
"but Vavasour, can ye forgive me, think, lad, for hopin', aye, an'
almost prayin' to see your spirit, just wishin' that ye'd not live the
year out?"
"Katy, I can, an' I'm not layin' it up against ye, though it was a
wicked thing for ye to do--for any one to do. Now, dearie, fetch the
wassail."
Catherine started for the bowl once more, then turned, her black eyes
snapping upon him.
"Vavasour, how does it happen that the callin' is set aside an' that
ye're _really_ here? Such a thing's not been in Gwynen in the memory of
man"; and Catherine proceeded to give a list of the All-Hallows'-Eve
callings that had come inexorably true within the last hundred years.
"I'm not sayin' how it's happened, Catherine, but I'm thinkin' it's
modern times an' things these days are happenin' different,--aye, modern
times."
"Good!" sighed Catherine contentedly, "it's lucky 'tis modern times."
_The Heretic's Wife_
"Mother, Mr. Thatcher oversteps himself; any such suggestions should be
comin' from the landlord." Gabriel puffed out his whiskered cheeks and
grew red under his eyes.
"There, father dear, there," Maggie hastened to soothe him.
"Tut, mam, a man knows what he's talkin' about by the time he's seventy,
doesn't he? A man has a right to his own thoughts; now, hasn't he? I
tell ye, it was insultin', most insultin'!"
"Aye, it's so," admitted Maggie ruefully, "but, father----"
"He's always interferin' with your private affairs, he is," Gabriel
interrupted, heedless of Maggie's attempts to change the conversation.
"At best he's nothin' but an absentee's gentleman, now, isn't he?"
"No, I think; I'm thinkin', dad, he is himself a gentleman," Maggie
contradicted gently.
"Pooh! no gentleman at all! He's the lad's tool, given the education of
a gentleman, taught to carry himself like a gentleman, an' livin' in
the landlord's house in his absence; but for all that he's not a
gentleman, naught but an upper servant, an' Sir Evan treats him so. I'm
thinkin' a very self-respectin' man wouldn't be takin' such a position
nowadays, now, would he?"
At the sound of a horse's hoofs upon the road Gabriel turned to the
window with eager curiosity, his head travelling the width of the
latticed light.
"There's the young master ridin' by now!" he exclaimed.
As she contemplated the back of Gabriel's head, his pink ears protruding
independently from the sides of his bald, shiny pate as if they, too,
had opinions of their own, Maggie's eyes gathered anxiety. Gabriel
turned to the hearth again.
"Well, mam?"
"Father, these are dangerous new ideas ye're gettin'," she answered.
"Tut, if Mr. Thatcher, steward or no steward, felt like a gentleman,
then in my eyes he'd be a gentleman, indeed. But no gentleman would ever
act as Mr. Thatcher does, now, isn't it?"
"Lad, lad!" Maggie remonstrated.
This advanced thinking would do for the young ones; she would have had
to confess to a liking for it in her children's letters. It was right
for a new world perhaps; but she thought with alarm of Gabriel daring
to assert such views here on the very flaggings, under the very thatch
of Isgubor Newydd. She looked anxiously towards the hearth, as if she
feared such social doctrine might quench its brightly glowing pot of
coals, or destroy its shining fire-stools, candlesticks, pewter
platters, and big copper cheese-dishes, or break its fragile, iridescent
creamers and sugar basins and jugs,--there, much of it, four hundred
years ago at a certain wedding-breakfast, just as it had been at her own
some forty years ago. It would not have surprised her now to have it all
come clattering down about her head and break in precious fragments on
the stone hearth.
"Mam," said Gabriel, looking shrewdly at her troubled face, "do ye
recall the repairs we asked for and never got?"
"Aye, dad dear."
"Well, mam, David Jones had his an' he asked after us. David Jones
trades at Mr. Thatcher's shop, mam, an' we don't an' we're not a-goin'
to," Gabriel ended pugnaciously.
"Och, father!"
"Aye, it's so, isn't it? It's insultin', isn't it, suggestin' a man
change his way of prayin' to suit his landlord's steward an'--an'--"
Gabriel added hesitatingly, "his landlord, I suppose, too; an' the
steward obligin' him to trade at his shop to get any paint or a roof
tatchèd."
The firelight shone upon Gabriel's fringe of whiskers and glowed through
his pink ears and twinkled upon his bald head. He looked up indignantly
to the rafters above him; they were well hung with hams and bacons upon
which the dry salt glistened like frost. His expression mellowed. He
glanced at the bright hearth with its bright trimmings; he looked from
the purring kettle and purring kitten before Maggie's feet to Maggie
herself, daintily upright on the dark settle, her cap and apron
immaculately white. She was as comely and fragile as the antique china
she cherished. Then Gabriel spoke contentedly, like a man who has
counted his riches and found them after all more than sufficient.
"Well, mam, we've prospered even here, haven't we? It's leading a
righteous life does it; aye, an' there's the young man has made us all
feel like livin' better, hasn't he?"
"Aye, dear beloved," Maggie nodded, glad of the turn the conversation
was taking, "even in his picture he looks like one lifted up, like the
apostle Paul."
"They say, mam, that for fifteen years he prayed the same prayer to get
knowledge an' do good."
"Aye, an' it came, an' now from being nought but a collier, he's
influencin' thousands and thousands."
"Good reason; there's power there we know nothin' about," Gabriel said
meditatively, "an', mam," he continued, "he appears like a gentleman;
you might think he'd been born an' bred a gentleman."
"Yes, dad, an' they say he's questionin' himself seriously," replied
Maggie, leading away from the possibility of a renewed debate; "that
he's puzzlin' an gettin' learnin' an' goin' to college. It's been a
sweet season, father; the long winter's not been dull at all, what with
meetin's every night till ten and eleven."
"Aye, it's been a blessed time, mam, an' growin' better every day. With
the singin' above the housetops an' the heavenly lights, it looks like a
new revelation."
"But I'm wishin' the Revival was quieter in some ways," Maggie objected;
"there's people that's fairly crazed by it; yes, an' when they're
gettin' the hwyl so many at once it's--it's----"
"Tut, mam," said Gabriel fiercely, "it's hot, aye; but it's a grand an'
blessed stir. An' the strength it brings to men!"
As Gabriel raised his hand to enforce his belief, there was a rap on the
cottage door. Maggie got up nimbly, smoothed down her apron, and
hastened to the low entry.
"Aye, Mr. Thatcher, come in."
"Ah!" said Mr. Thatcher, coming in, "cosy little room, brasses
attractive, pretty willow-wood there. Ah, good-afternoon, Gabriel, about
to have your tea, don't let me disturb you." And Mr. Thatcher seated
himself comfortably by the kitchen fire.
"We can wait for our tea, Mr. Thatcher," said Gabriel, continuing to
stand.
"Ah, very well, I won't keep you long! I just came in to speak to you
about that little matter I mentioned the other day. Sir Evan is much in
earnest; he feels that church tenants would be a decided advantage
to--to the harmony of the estate."
Maggie's glance fluttered anxiously to Gabriel.
"Mr. Thatcher, a man can't change his beliefs to suit his landlord's,
meanin' no disrespect to Sir Evan," came the reply, in a voice as
uncompromising as Gabriel's attitude.
"Ah-h, well," drawled Mr. Thatcher, tapping his long nose; "there's
Price an' Howell an' Jenkins, they're church people _now_," he
concluded.
"May every one pity them!" exclaimed Gabriel.
"Dad, dad!" called Maggie rebukingly.
"Ah!" said Mr. Thatcher. "Well, Gabriel, I came here to speak of other
matters, too. You never come to my shop?"
"No, Mr. Thatcher, I don't."
Maggie was wringing her hands under her apron.
"You farmers don't know when you're well off; it would be profitable for
you to trade there."
Maggie stared in dismay at the red mounting under Gabriel's eyes and
flushing the edges of his bald head.
"Is that a bribe ye're offerin' me, Mr. Thatcher?" Gabriel asked.
"Ah! no impertinence, if you please," replied the steward. "As I was
saying, Sir Evan is very devout now and much in earnest about having his
people churched, so it will be necessary, unless you have a change of
opinion, for you to leave Isgubor Newydd in two weeks."
Mr. Thatcher rapped his gaiter and looked before him into the fire.
"Father," said Maggie, poking him, her wrinkled cheeks white, her lips
trembling; "father, did he say _leave_ Isgubor Newydd?"
"You heard Mr. Thatcher, mam," answered Gabriel stonily.
"Of course, Gabriel," continued the steward, "there is the shop, as a
favour to you, if----"
"Sir!" roared Gabriel, his hands working, his eyes blazing.
"Dad, dad dear!" cried Maggie, clinging to his arm; "father, remember."
Mr. Thatcher had risen and was stepping towards the door.
"Good-afternoon," he said, "in two weeks, if you please."
They watched the figure of the steward disappear through the doorway,
then Gabriel took his seat by the fire.
"Leave Isgubor Newydd?" Maggie whispered.
"Well, mam, I'd rather go than stay," said Gabriel sharply.
"Dad!"
"Aye, it'll be sacrificin' somethin' for the faith."
"Och, you don't understand," Maggie cried; "I was born here, mother was
born here--for hundreds of years we've lived in Isgubor Newydd!"
"Mam, it'll be doin' somethin' for the faith," Gabriel replied
obstinately, in his voice the trumpet-sound of battle; "an' I say I'd
rather go than stay, whatever."
"Och, father, father dear, how can ye? An' we were married here an' the
little ones were born here, an' when they come home where'll they come
to now?"