MARI "VONE."
"O Gwyn ei fyd! yr hwn nis gwyr
Am ferch fu'n flinder iddo;
Ond wn i ddim yn sicr chwaith,
Ai gwyn ei fyd ai peidio!"
--Ceiriog.
"Happy the man whose guarded heart
The chain of love refuses;
But yet in truth I am not sure,
Whether he gains or loses."
--Trans.
High up the village, and perched on a little knoll, overlooking what
was politely called "the road," stood a cottage, in nowise different
from the other houses, except that, perhaps, its walls were whiter
and its thatch was browner. Its two tiny windows were clear as
crystal, an arch over each being painted brick red; the top of the
door was ornamented in the same way; and inside, the earthen floor of
the passage, which was almost as hard and shining as marble, had its
edges marked in a bordering of the same dark red.
The door stood wide open; indeed, it was never closed from one year's
end to another, except at night and in stormy weather. Within the
penisha sat a girl busily knitting, though her thoughts were
evidently not on her work, for her eyes were fixed dreamily on the
sunset sky which lightened up the little window. But stay, was she a
girl? No! if age counts by the number of years that have passed
since birth, for Mari Vaughan (or Vone, as it is pronounced in Wales)
was thirty-five years of age, and had long taken her place amongst
the elder and soberer portion of the community; the younger and more
frivolous girls had dropped her out of their companionship, only
remembering her when at times she appeared amongst them, and then
with an uncomfortable feeling of being eclipsed by her beauty. She
was tall and graceful, her figure had lost nothing of the fulness and
charm of youth, her pale golden hair was as luxuriant as ever, and
her face was one to be always remembered. She was pale, but not with
the hue of sickness, for her health was perfect; her skin was not of
the milky white, which, in Gwladys' face, contrasted so beautifully
with the glowing cheeks, but more of an ivory whiteness; her eyes of
deep blue were shaded by the white lids, fringed with brown lashes;
her teeth were even and white, and rather large; a dimpled cleft in
her chin gave the pale face the amount of spirit and life which it
required; and when she spoke, there was a liquid softness in her
musical voice, which gave the most ordinary remarks a tone of
tenderness.
Fifteen years before, she had passed through a crisis in her life,
which had left indelible traces upon her character. At twenty she
had given her heart to Hugh Morgan--the handsomest and most promising
lad in the village--a promise which had been amply fulfilled by his
subsequent life. 'N'wncwl Jos, who stood in the place of parents to
the orphan girl, had given a willing consent. Hugh had already
bought his business and re-furnished his cottage home at his father's
death, and Mari loved him with a love deeper, even in its intensity,
than she herself was aware of; but with the thoughtlessness of youth,
petted and indulged by her uncle, and somewhat spoiled by the
attentions of her lover, she had foolishly listened to the
blandishments of a new suitor, who had appeared in the village, a
sailor, who bore the distinguishing charm of a foreign name, that of
"Alfred Smith." Still more interesting, he could not speak a word of
Welsh. He spoke his own language with a peculiar accent, which,
though in reality a vulgar Cockney, fascinated the simple Mari,
accustomed only to the broad, strong tones of her native tongue.
Alas, for the perversity of Fate! Hugh Morgan, who had noticed a
slight coldness in her manner of late, and, moreover, had heard
sundry gossiping rumours in the village, had brought matters to a
crisis by reproaching her with her fickleness, and proposing that her
marriage with him should take place at once.
"The house is ready, and I am ready, and longing for thy presence,
Mari. Art ready thyself?"
"No, I am not," was her answer, with a toss of her head; "and thou
mustn't hurry and order me as if I were a child!"
Hugh, who also had the hasty temper of his race, burst into a flame
of passion.
"It is that d----d Sais!"[1] he said, his eyes flashing and his
breath coming in short gasps. "Thou hadst better tell me the truth
at once----"
"What truth?" said Mari.
"That thou preferrest him to me; that while I was working for thee by
day, and dreaming of thee at night, a foolish word from the
Englishman's slippery tongue drew thee away from me! Such love is
not worth having!"
"If that's how it is, it is not worth giving," said Mari; "and so it
won't grieve thee to hear that I have none to give."
She spoke in a pert little voice, and with a toss of her head, very
unlike her usual manner.
Hugh was silent for a moment, while he tried to control his angry
feelings, and the blood surged through his veins and sang in his
ears. Had it come to this? His deep and unswerving love for Mari,
who had been the star of his life from boyhood upwards, to be crushed
ruthlessly! his tender feelings to be trampled upon at the word of a
Sais!
When he spoke next his voice trembled, and he was pale and agitated.
"Think well, Mari; I am not one to turn from my word, or to change
the colour of my heart as I change my coat; so think well, lass,
before thou answerest my next question, 'Wilt have me or not?'"
"Oh, not, then!" said Mari.
She seemed to be possessed by a spirit of perversity, which ever
after she wondered at.
They had just reached her uncle's, and she prepared to leave her
lover, and enter the house.
"Stop one moment, Mari," he said, grasping her arm tightly; "remember
that although I love thee now with my whole heart, and will forgive
thee thy fickleness and forget thy folly, if thou wilt come to me,
and draw back thy words--yet----"
Mari was beginning a hasty answer, but he interrupted her with a
fierce--
"Hush! listen. I will sit down there on the limekiln until the moon
has set--she is not far from her setting; thou wilt see me by the
glow of the limekiln," and his voice changed to a low, pleading tone.
"I will be waiting for thee, Mari, and if thou comest, my arms will
be open to receive thee; but if not, I will _never_ ask thee again;
and, moreover, I will do all in my power to shut thine image out of
my heart."
"Nos da," was all her answer, as she entered the cottage.
The house was empty, for 'n'wncwl Jos was out on one of his fishing
expeditions, and running into the penucha, she bolted the door, and
threw herself on her bed in a perfect storm of tears.
"Oh Hugh, Hugh, beth na'i?"[2] She knew now how much she loved
him--how every feeling of her heart would be torn in losing him. She
knew that the flattery and admiration of Sais were as nothing to her
compared to Hugh Morgan's love, and yet--and yet--she could not stoop
to ask his pardon. She rose and looked through the little window;
she saw the glow from the limekiln, and also saw the dark figure
sitting there. The moon hung very low in the sky, and she watched it
tremblingly. The clock struck in the penisha; time was passing, and
soon it would be too late.
Another storm of tears--and she rose again to look at the dark figure
by the limekiln. The moon had already touched the horizon.
"Should she rush out now and ask his forgiveness?" She had a feeling
that the dim, grey quietness of the night was a forecast of what her
life would be without Hugh, while the light and warmth of the glowing
kiln portrayed his deep love for her. She had but to ask, and she
would be folded in its mantle of happiness. But the moon--she's
gone!--and Mari fell sobbing on the floor.
She was roused by the stumping of 'n'wncwl Jos's wooden leg, and rose
slowly and straightened herself, and, turning to the window, saw the
dark figure by the limekiln was gone; and she passed over the
threshold of the penucha with a strange perception that all the
delight, the passionate love, the intense enjoyment of life were left
behind her, and that the future contained for her only the dim and
grey quietness of evening. But this was fifteen years ago, and Hugh
had never asked her again. She had never spoken to Alfred Smith
afterwards. The very thought of him was hateful to her.
As the long years went by, she and Hugh were frequently thrown
together in that small community. They learnt to meet without
embarrassment, and to part without a pang; and gradually Hugh's
strong nature found its solace in his work, and in the
ever-increasing claims of his work-people upon his time and thoughts.
He alone knew how hard had been the struggle to regain calmness and
comparative content after the shattering of his hopes which Mari's
fickleness had brought upon him; but it came at last, and he thought
he had entirely got over his old love-affair.
True, no day seemed complete on which he had not seen Mari Vone. His
love for her had developed into a perfect friendship--so he thought.
He scarcely ever arranged a business transaction without asking her
advice, and although she was not employed in his sail-shed, every
incident connected with his work was laid before her, and her opinion
on every matter weighed much with him.
She had never married, neither had Hugh, and their intercourse had
outwardly lost every trace of the romance which once hung round it.
Thus it was with Hugh Morgan; but what had the years brought to Mari?
At first a deep and bitter regret, a wild unrest, which nothing but
pride enabled her to hide. She knew that the misunderstanding
between her and her lover was the subject of much gossiping interest
around her, and she determined that no one should guess her sorrow,
or see any sign of her pain. She schooled herself to meet Hugh with
calmness and outward indifference, though not a tone of his voice or
a change of looks or manner escaped her notice. Deep in her heart
she nourished her undying love for him, and when, as time went on,
she saw that a warm friendship had taken the place of love in his
heart, she endeavoured, with the unselfishness of a true woman, to
accommodate herself to his wishes and ideas.
The fifteen years that had passed since she and Hugh had watched the
moon sink beneath the horizon with such tumultuous feelings, had
scarcely altered her or aged her in the least. Time seemed to have
stood still with her, or to hesitate to lay his destroying finger
upon her charms of person, although on her spirit his hand was ever
setting new and tender graces, and as she sat at her knitting, with
her eyes fixed on the sunset, her ear was strained to catch the
faintest sound of an approaching footstep. And here it comes. And
in the darkening twilight Hugh Morgan stoops his head as he enters
the low doorway. Mari did not rise; these visits were of too
frequent occurrence for ceremony, and she merely looked up from her
shining needles as the stalwart form stood before her, asking,
"Where's 'n'wncwl Jos?"
"He's not come in; wilt look for him? Most like he is smoking on the
lower limekiln."
"Well, I will wait."
"B'tshwr,"[3] said Mari, rising and pushing the rush chair towards
him; "supper will be ready directly," she said. "We have fresh
buttermilk from Glanynys."
"And potatoes?"
"Of course."
"Well, I will stop and have some, for that is a dish Madlen always
spoils."
"'Tis pity, indeed; I must show her how to do them."
"Can diolch,"[4] he said.
"What dost want 'n'wncwl Jos for--anything particular?"
"Yes," said Hugh, "I want his advice--and yours, Mari, on a subject
very important to me. But here is 'n'wncwl Jos!"
As the old man stumped in, he greeted Hugh with the usual friendly
"Hello! Mishteer," before he seated himself on the settle, Mari at
once placing beside him a bucket of sea-sand, into which he squirted
his tobacco juice with unerring aim, for he had learned under Mari's
regime to dread a spot upon the speckless floor. Hugh had taken out
his pipe, and the two men were soon sending wreaths of smoke up the
big, open chimney, as they sat round the bright fire of culm[5] balls.
Gwen's approaching marriage was the subject of conversation.
"Well, indeed, I think he's a lucky chap," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "for
she's a tidy girl, and saving, and steady."
"Yes, very good girl," said Hugh.
"Ivor Parry will have to find new lodgings now," said Mari.
"Yes, Mary the Mill is glad to have him. Are you going to the
wedding, Mari?"
"Yes, I have promised. You are not, I suppose?"
"Well, no--but I am going to the bidding."
"Yes, there's what I heard."
"I was thinking that would be enough," he said. "What do you think?"
"Quite enough," said Mari. "Being the Mishteer, they would scarcely
expect you to both; and if you went to this one, you would offend
others by refusing----"
"Exactly what I was thinking," said Hugh.
"We had better have supper now," said Mari, "the potatoes are done."
And taking the huge crock which hung by a chain from the wide
chimney, she placed it on the floor, and with the large wooden spoon
or "lletwad" mashed the snowy potatoes into a steaming paste, adding
a little salt and cream. From this crock she partly filled the
black, shining bowls which were ranged on the table, placing a wooden
spoon for herself and her uncle. A large jug of buttermilk stood in
the centre of the table.
For the Mishteer, Mari placed a quaint, slender silver spoon; but he
indignantly pushed it away, and she laughingly substituted for it a
wooden one like her own.
"Mari, fâch," he said, "what dost think I am made of that I should
eat out of a silver spoon while thou art satisfied with a wooden one?
Not I, indeed! Well, I don't think anyone ever did cook potatoes
like thee. More? Caton pawb! no, I have made two suppers in one."
After supper she closed the door, and throwing a log over the culm
fire made it blaze up brightly.
A spirit of rest and content came over Hugh, which he invariably felt
in her presence. Her needles clicked, and her golden head was bent
over her work; the shining points of her little shoes peeped out
under her red petticoat; and as she chatted cheerfully, her white
teeth glistening and her dimpled chin adding its charm to her fair
pale face, even 'n'wncwl Jos noticed how fair she was to look upon.
Hugh was accustomed to sudden awakenings to her charms, but had
schooled and hardened himself against their influence. Besides,
to-night he was pre-occupied--his thoughts were full of something
else. The clock in the corner struck nine, drawing near bedtime in
that simple village.
"Howyr bâch!" said Hugh, with a start; "it will be time to go before
I have said what I wanted to."
"What is it?" inquired Mari.
"Well, thou know'st," he answered, "I always like 'n'wncwl Jos's
advice; and--and I am thinking of getting married."
Mari's heart stood still; and at that moment, while her needles
continued to click, and she showed no sign of the agony within her
even then, the hope that had been nourished for fifteen years died;
not the love, for that was all enduring and undying. And while she
passed through a spasm of pain, she yet raised her white lids calmly,
and looking full into Hugh Morgan's face, said:
"It will be better for thee than living alone."
"Diws anwl!" said 'n'wncwl Jos; "there's news I'll have to give in
the sail-shed to-morrow. Nobody'll listen to the war in China."
"Stop, stop," said Hugh; "you must tell no one: Perhaps the girl
won't have me, man. Wait until I give you leave." And turning his
black eyes upon those into which he had once looked with passionate
love, he said, "I'm afraid, Mari, thou wilt not approve of my choice."
"Who is she?" asked Mari.
"Gwladys Price."
There was a dead silence for a moment. Mari put down her knitting;
'n'wncwl Jos changed his quid from one cheek to the other.
"Jâr-i!" he said; "she's a nice girl."
"What dost say, Mari?" said Hugh; "too young, dost think?"
"Well," she answered calmly, "she's the best girl in the village; and
if she does not think herself too young, it won't matter what others
think."
"There's just what I was thinking," said Hugh. "Mari, thou art
always a sensible woman. She has no other lover, and er--and er--in
fact, I love her. I have been a lonely man for years--since the old
days, Mari. Nay, don't blush; I'm not blaming thee, lass. And
perhaps if it had been otherwise, we wouldn't now be such perfect
friends."
"Perhaps, indeed," said Mari, beginning to recover her equanimity.
She saw in her mind's eye another long stretch of arid desert before
her; but her courage rose, and her love was not quenched. She would
still be his friend, and that could bring nothing but blessing upon
him. Though unchanged and undiminished in its depth and fervour, her
love had become more and more free from the selfishness and taint of
earthly passion.
"Well, in my little deed!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, "if any girl in
Mwntseison could tempt me to do such a foolish thing as to get
married, 'twould be Gwladys Price."
"Caton pawb!" said Hugh, with a merry ring in his voice, which was
not lost upon Mari's quick ear; "don't you go and be my rival now,
'n'wncwl Jos, or I will have no chance, indeed!"
"No doubt, no doubt!" answered the old man, with, a perfect storm of
laughter and stumps of his wooden leg.
Mari went on knitting quietly. "Thou hast my best wishes, Hugh," she
said at last, looking up into his face; "thou know'st that."
"Yes," said Hugh laconically. He took her hand in his, and for a
moment he longed to ask her if his marriage would cost her one pang
of pain; but with the memory of the long years of calm friendship
lying between them and that evening when the moon set too soon for
both, how could he ask such a question? So he was silent, and the
opportunity went by for ever. "Nos da!"[6] was all he said, "and
hundred thanks for your good wishes. Nos da, 'n'wncwl Jos; none of
this in the sail-shed, mind, until I give you leave."
"No, no!" said the old man; "but diws anwl, don't be long." And he
stumped his wooden leg four or five times on the ground.
Outside in the moonlight Hugh Morgan walked a few paces, with his
head rather drooping on his chest, thinking, not of his new love, but
of his old. How fair she was still! how sweet and tender! how true
and tried a friend! God grant that through life her friendship might
continue his!
At the turn of the path he came in sight of Gwladys' cottage. A
light was in the window, and a figure passed and re-passed before it.
The night breeze blew straight from him to the cottage, and on its
wings Hugh sent a fervent "God bless her!" while a light awoke in his
eyes and a flush rose into his face, which, he was glad to remember,
no one could see.
"Only eighteen!" he said, "and I--forty! old enough to be her father!
Will she have me? If she will, she shall never repent it; my love
shall hedge her in, and shield her from every earthly ill." And as
he entered his house he felt as he had not done for years--how lonely
it was, and he pictured Gwladys' presence lighting up the quiet
hearth.
When he smoked his last pipe tender the big chimney his thoughts
returned to Mari.
"How completely she had forgotten the old days! and what a good thing
it was! 'It will be better for thee than living alone!' Kind
friend, she always knew what was wisest and best!"
[1] Englishman.
[2] What shall I do?
[3] Certainly.
[4] A hundred thanks.
[5] A small kind of anthracite rubble mixed with clay and water,
which, made into oval balls, burn slowly, but with a fierce bright
glow.
[6] Good-night.