"I can't believe the young master did it," continued Maggie, unsilenced;
"lovin' the house is most like lovin' the children. Dear beloved, can't
you see?"
Without even a shake of the head Gabriel stared before him.
"Dad, I have----" Maggie hesitated, "I've three pounds put by for an ill
day."
"Well?"
"Dad dear," Maggie whispered, desperate courage on her lips, desperate
fear in her eyes, "would ye--would ye buy me somethin'--somethin' at Mr.
Thatcher's shop--or--that is just for me or--or--I'll do it, father?"
"Maggie Williams," Gabriel shouted, "do ye know what ye are sayin', or
are ye the devil temptin' me?"
* * * * *
With the habit of a lifetime Maggie, in the end, tried to acquiesce and
think only of Gabriel's point of view. She chid herself for lack of
strength, for want of courage to act for her faith. She made, as the
days went by, an effort to seem the same to Gabriel, but all the while
it was as if something were eating out her life. As she went about the
little cottage her hands followed from one object to another, for
whereever her eyes fell they fell upon something dearly loved. It took
her an interminable time to pack anything to leave Isgubor Newydd; it
was handled and handled again, and then set aside because, after all,
she could not tell what should be done with it. As a result, for the
first time in many generations the cottage was in confusion.
Maggie began with the chest. The very odour from the oaken box made her
ache. When, first of all, out came the little garments of the children
who had scattered over the world, as a Welshman's children often must,
she wept. The wee, clumsy clogs with their stubbed toes, the patched
corduroy trousers, the round caps, seemed so dear, as if their little
master's frolics were a thing of yesterday.
But Maggie knew that time now to be a thing of the past,--a past of
which she could not keep even the hearth, the walls, the garden within
which these joys had been lived. Next, she took out a beaver hat that
had been her mother's; she smoothed it gently as if it were a tired
head, she put it against her cheek, she held it away from her, looking
at it tenderly, then with a moan she dropped it back into the chest.
That part of her life, too, seemed but yesterday, and yet it was so much
older than Gabriel and the children. As long as she lived, Maggie asked
herself, would these things always be young to her? As she stood there
thinking, it came to her that people at least did not realise that they
were growing old if they stayed in the same place, for the place was
always young, its rafters staunch, its walls fresh, the flowers renewed
their bloom and the grass its colour. With sudden resolve Maggie
decided that they must not leave Isgubor Newydd, for Gabriel did not
know what he was doing. There were the three pounds--perhaps that might
help them. She had no time to lose, she must hasten, and her thoughts
ran feverishly forward into the future.
Gabriel had noticed that Maggie was growing weaker; her hands shook, she
talked to herself, and often, when Gabriel came into the room, she
started. Gabriel did not wish to see these things; he was like a cruel
prophet exulting in sacrifice, even in the sacrifice of Maggie to the
uttermost. The stress of these days but added strength to his step and
power to his glance. In chapel he sang with a mighty voice, and loud and
frequent were his assents to the minister's prayers. From his deacon's
seat, where he received congratulation from those less blessed by
persecution than himself, he could see Maggie seated limply upon the
narrow pew bench, all her one-time erectness gone, her eyes wandering to
the windows high above the heads of the congregation, and to the
mountains, higher still, which looked down into this little chapel of
men. Gabriel was like some protomartyr of ancient Wales, like Amphibalus
or Albanus of Caerlon; in his zeal he was indifferent to personal
discomfort and sacrifice. He exulted in his strength with a savage joy,
and because he was resisting his natural inclination to be kind to
Maggie, he was roughly unkind,--unkind for the first time in their
lives. On his fingers he told over and over all the sacrifices martyrs
and prophets and teachers had made of their nearest and dearest. It was
a glorious bead-roll, one to make the eyes of a valiant man shine. He
could give nothing more precious than Maggie. He exhorted her to be
strong in spirit. She listened patiently to his words, her hands
unclasped in her lap, her head drooping, and a gentle "yes" breathed
from time to time. She was like a tired child, good still, but too weary
to know what it was all about. To Gabriel she seemed so ineffective that
he wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, for in his eyes
righteousness had gone completely out of her. She was a vessel empty of
strength, and every time he spoke to her, her head drooped a little more
and the poor hands lay more weakly in her lap. "Yes, father, I will
try," she would say in reply to his exhortation; and then the touch of
the place ached in her fingers and ran up into her heart, and her one
longing was to gather it all to her breast, if only she could, and run
away with it to the ends of the earth, where persecution could not take
it from her again. There was no piece of its wood or stone that was not
living to her, that had not entered into her sense of motherhood, of
possession, for which she did not feel, where a good woman weak or
strong feels everything that is inseparable from her.
One day, four days before they must leave Isgubor Newydd, Gabriel came
out of his fields, rich with the grass the benefit of which he was not
to reap, and saw something creeping slowly by the hedge along the road
to the village. He studied it. He rubbed his old eyes and looked again.
It was Maggie's cloak and cap, and she was well up the hill to the town.
But she went slowly, one hand leaning on the wall in front of the hedge,
the other grasping a stick. Suddenly Gabriel started. Ah, if she had
_that_ in mind! He hurried forward to overtake her. As he approached,
Maggie turned.
"Is that you, dad?" she said.
"Mam," was all he answered, his eyes looking her through.
"I--I was goin' to--to the town," she faltered.
"Why?"
"To--to buy somethin'," she replied unsteadily.
"At Mr. Thatcher's shop?" Gabriel demanded.
"A--a little, dad," she replied, stretching out one hand upon the wall
for more support.
"Give me your purse."
Maggie gave it to him and Gabriel opened it; there within lay the three
gold pieces. Gabriel took her by the arm, and, shaking her, turned her
towards home.
Another day went by, and Maggie continued to pick up things that should
be packed, only to put them down again. The Welsh have tender hearts for
trouble, and many a kind soul among her neighbours would have been glad
to assist her. Besides, there was the added incentive of persecution
which makes all the Welsh world kin and which made the village proud of
Isgubor Newydd. But the thought of neighbourly assistance was repulsive
to Maggie. She could not let others see those things now. Under
Gabriel's condemnation, too, she had lost her self-respect, and was
furtive and half ashamed of meeting her neighbours. When Gabriel was in
the house, she moved about from thing to thing, with a feint of
accomplishing something of the work of which so much was to be done. But
when he was out she hurried from object to object, talking incessantly
to herself and whatever she touched.
"There, little one," she said to a creamer she took from a shelf,
stuffing a piece of paper into it, "that will be grand to keep your
heart from crackin' while you're away from home." Then, looking
aimlessly about the room, she put the pitcher back again upon the shelf
and went over to the latticed light where stood a pot of tall fuchsias.
With her finger she counted the blossoms: "Twenty blossoms an' fifty
buds; that's less than this time last year. You must grow, little
hearts," she said. "Ow! he'll be comin' back an' not a thing done," she
continued, hastening to a pile of plates that had stood in the same
place for almost a week. "My! but the lads wore the bench slidin' in an'
out, an' here's a rough place; I'll call Eilio to make it smooth.
Eilio!" she called, then brushed her hand uncertainly over her forehead.
"He's not here," she said. "Ow! there's the candlesticks. I'd most
forgotten ye, ten--a dozen bright eyes; that's a many for old
Maggie,--I'm old now, yes, I am,--a dozen bright eyes for one old woman;
aye, an' for Gabriel, too, the lad'd not do without ye. In ye go!" And
she took them all and threw them clattering into an empty box. "Hwi,
hwi, now go to sleep while mam sings a lullabye--a sweet lullabye--a
little lullabye--shoo! Here, Gwennie bach, here, darlin'--it's--it's
just a bit of tea-cake mam made for ye--it's rich, most too rich for a
little one an', dear little heart, it's plums in it an'--an'----" And
with a moan Maggie slipped to the slate flaggings, the empty plate
breaking upon the stones.
So Gabriel found her lying huddled upon the hearth, her cap awry, her
eyes closed, her mouth open and her breath coming harshly. Out in the
barn he had heard the call for Eilio and stopped to wonder what it
meant. Then followed a great clatter, and shortly a crash as of breaking
china.
"Mam," he said, gathering her head awkwardly into his arms, "mam, are ye
hurt?"
There was no answer.
"Mam," he whispered, staring at her, "what is it?" Still the eyelids,
puffed and blue, lay unstirred. "Och!" he cried, "mam, mam, can't ye
speak?"
Tremblingly Gabriel picked her up and carried her over to the couch. He
fetched water and wrung out his handkerchief in it and bathed Maggie's
head. He dropped on his knees beside her and clumsily loosened her cap
and blouse. He thought he had killed Maggie, and he saw now that he had
done so without making even an effort to keep what might have saved her
life. The sense of righteousness had gone completely out of him, and his
satisfied and valiant soul was crumpled into a wretched little wad, the
very thought of which sickened him. Year after year she had taken the
brunt of all the trouble of their home, and there was no sorrow that had
not rested its head on her bosom, and, soothed by her hand, found its
peace there. Gabriel bathed her face with the cool water; still no sign
of consciousness stirred the bland look of the mouth. She had worn
herself out in his service, and now at the last he had been willing,
without an effort to see her point of view, to sacrifice her on the
altar of his self-righteousness. He was a man; steward or no steward, he
could have fought for her rights. Even if he had not won, if the
landlord had proved as obdurate as the steward was corrupt, why the
fight might have heartened Maggie for what must come. He not only had
not fought for her, but he had been cruel to her, leaving her wholly
alone at a time when she most needed support and sympathy.
"Poor little mam!" he whispered, helpless with the thought that he might
be helpless to do anything for her any more.
With a sigh Maggie opened her eyes and smiled at him.
"Lad, are ye here?"
"Aye, mam."
"Did it break?"
"No, dearie," he replied, looking from the strewn floor with such
reassurance for her that the deacons, if they could have seen his face,
would have been confounded.
"An' the creamer I stuffed so full of paper? I thought I heard it
crack."
"No, mam, not a crack."
"What'm I lyin' here for, lad? Dreamin'?"
"Aye, restin' ye a little."
"Aren't we goin' somewhere? I'm a bit tired, dad; I'd rather stay here,"
she concluded, looking up at him trustfully.
"We're goin' nowhere whatever, mam; an' ye shall stay here," Gabriel
answered.
"Is that the children playin'?"
"Aye, dearie, playin' in the garden."
"Dear, dear!" Maggie exclaimed, "I hear their little clogs clattering
like ponies. I'll just peek at the lambs."
She lifted herself up and dropped back.
"I'm tired!" she exclaimed apologetically.
"Aye, dearie," Gabriel said; then asked, "Will ye be still here a half
hour while I write a bit of a letter an' take it out?"
"Yes," she said, "very still, lad; I'll just sleep awhile"; and smiling
at him, she closed her eyes.
* * * * *
"Poor old man!" Sir Evan muttered, his austere young face angry and
pained. He turned to the letter again.
"Sir," it read, "Mr. Thatcher said we must leave Isgubor Newydd in two
weeks. It broke Maggie's heart. A few minutes ago I found her lying on
the floor touched. It will kill her if we must go. Sir, if your honoured
lady mother were living, would you have the heart to send her away from
her home? Sir, for God's sake let me hear from you. Your humble servant,
GABRIEL WILLIAMS."
The stewards of the estate had been brought up upon it for generations
in an unbroken line of eldest sons from one family of the tenantry. So
rigid had the family's adherence to this custom been, that sometimes
their world had had a good steward, sometimes a bad, just as all the
Empire had had sometimes an excellent monarch, sometimes a wicked or
incompetent ruler. It was a condition of affairs Sir Evan had taken for
granted, without question of the right and wrong to himself or to
others. He had wasted neither liking nor affection upon Thatcher, but it
had not occurred to him that he could employ some one in whom he had
confidence. Now Evan saw the possibilities of the past few years, the
injustices and neglect and trouble which the steward might have
inflicted in the landlord's name. How could he know that repairs, for
which he paid, had been carried out? How could he know that all the
houses had been kept in good condition? How could he tell whether the
tenants were receiving an equal amount of attention, that the fields
were being improved and the stock increased? He was convinced that there
had been injustice of some kind to Gabriel and Maggie; he knew the old
man well enough to know that he would have trouble with any steward not
so uncompromisingly honest as himself. Evan realised now, with the
letter before him, what sort of a master he had been to these people who
called him "Master," and in every one of whose homes there hung a
picture of himself. He did not know now, he had never known, whether
they had been dealt with justly or unjustly.
As he rode on towards Isgubor Newydd his mind was full of anxieties. For
the first time in the few years of his majority possessions had become a
burden. The real obligation to administer, he saw, could not be given to
a deputy as he had been giving it to Thatcher. And all the while he had
known the steward was not the man morally or otherwise that he should
be. Evan saw a new meaning in the fields and hills of his estate and a
new accountability for himself--one in which he would himself be
directly responsible. Already, however, it might be too late to undo
some of the harm he had wrought. He asked immediately for Maggie when
Gabriel opened the door.
"She's the same, sir," replied Gabriel, admitting him.
"O Gabriel, I'm so sorry," Evan said.
"Aye, sir," Gabriel replied, with some stiffness, "it's natural your
wantin' church tenants."
"But did you think I would let Thatcher send you away from the home you
have had so long?" asked Evan, sick with the thought that this after all
was what his tenants thought he would do.
"Indeed, sir, we didn't know."
"Ah well, it's my fault," Evan answered humbly. "For what reasons were
you asked to leave?"
"Och, sir, you would not like the truth."
"Aye, Gabriel, but tell it since I ask for it."
"Well, sir, first because we wouldn't be churched."