GWEN'S "BIDDING."
Gwen and Siencyn had been married in the morning with much fluttering
of ribbons and firing of guns. The Speedwell, at anchor in the bay,
gaily bedecked with pennons and flags, was to sail away for Ireland
with the evening tide, bearing the happy Siencyn and his bride on
their honeymoon voyage. Each having a frugal mind, meant to combine
business with pleasure, and, therefore, were to carry with them in
the hold a cargo of slates. But a more important function even than
the wedding was to take place in the afternoon, namely, "the
bidding." A week before, the invitations had been sent out--two men
of substantial standing in the village having, in the usual fashion,
volunteered to leave the "bidding" letters at every farm or cottage
in the parish. They were printed in the same formula, as they had
borne for generations, and were as follows:--
"DEAR FRIENDS,--As it is our intention to enter the matrimonial
state, we are encouraged by our friends to make a 'bidding,' which
will be held on Monday, the 28th inst., at our own house in
Mwntseison, in the parish of Abersethin. Your agreeable company on
the occasion is humbly solicited; and whatever donation you may be
pleased to confer on us then will be gratefully received, and repaid
whenever called for.
"We are, dear friends,
"Your obedient servants,
"SIENCYN OWEN,
"GWEN HUGHES.
"The young man, together with his mother and brother, desire that all
gifts due to them will be returned to him on that day, and will be
thankful for all additional favours.
"The young woman and her mother desire that all gifts due to them be
returned to her on that day, and will be thankful for all favours
granted.
"N.B.--All gifts due to the young man's late father, Robert Owen, are
humbly solicited to be repaid."
In earlier years this outspoken reminder was couched in still plainer
terms:--
"Come," it said, "with your goodwill on the plate; bring current
money--a shilling, or two, or three, or four, or five, with cheese
and butter. We invite the husband and wife, and children and men
servants, from the greatest to the least."
And it promised "drink cheap, stools to sit on, and fish, if we can
catch them; but if not, hold us excusable."
With this insinuating reminder before them, every householder began
to search the stores of his memory.
"Let me see," said one of the invited, "what did Lallo give our Nell?
A shilling, I think it was; and old Peggi Shân, her mother, gave a
sixpence, I know, for I remember Nell's burying it in the garden, for
she was afraid of a witch's money--that's eighteen pence for me."
"Jâr-i, what must I give?" said 'n'wncwl Jos, scratching his head.
"Old Peggi Shân came to thy mother's bidding, Mari, and gave
sixpence, for I kiwked[1] at it as it went into the basin, and I
fished it out pretty sharp. 'Ach y fi!' I said, 'no witch's money
for my sister!' and sure as I'm here, 'twas a _bad_ sixpence; so I
don't owe much to Gwen."
But when the bidding day arrived, 'n'wncwl Jos was one of the
noisiest and merriest there, welcoming the guests as if he were the
father of the bride. "Dewch 'mewn! dewch 'mewn!"[2] and he guided
each fresh arrival to the door of a disused cowhouse at the end of
the garden, where Gwen sat in state just inside the door, across
which a table had been placed; on this table stood a basin covered
with a plate ready to receive the gifts of her friends. As soon as a
piece of money was put upon it Gwen tilted the plate, and emptied its
contents into the basin, replacing it again empty and ready for the
next donation.
"Come along!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, piloting Gwladys Price to the door,
"here's the bride! Nothing less than a shilling now, Nani! for you
don't know how soon Gwen will have to return it."
Nani smiled. "Not too soon I hope; I don't want to lose my daughter
yet."
She dropped a shilling on the plate, and Gwladys followed with her
modest sixpence. Everybody said "Priodas dda i chi!"[3] as he or she
turned away to make room for another.
Gwen was very smiling and grateful as the sixpences and shillings and
even half-crowns came tumbling on to the plate, and the basin had
several times to be handed over to the bridesmaid, who quickly
slipped an empty one in its place.
"What a good bidding she's having," whispered the women to each
other, as they kept a keen eye on the numerous changes of basins.
"Why! I've seen a pink and a green and a blue on the board already!
Siencyn has done a good thing for himself, whatever!"
There was a little excitement in the company as Hugh Morgan came down
between the cabbage-beds, followed by Ivor Parry, and there was quite
a craning of necks to see how much the Mishteer put on the plate.
"A gold sovereign, as sure as I'm here!" said a woman to her
neighbours; "and Ivor Parry two crown pieces! Wel wyr! there's rich
she'll be!"
"Oh! Mishteer bâch!" said Gwen, "a piece of gold! Wel wyr! did man
ever hear of such a thing! A hundred thanks!" and she rose to make a
bob curtsey. "Well, indeed, indeed, you are too kind, and you must
let Siencyn always carry your culm and coal in the Speedwell for
nothing! Oh, yes, indeed you must! And I thank thee, too, Ivor
Parry, and hope to return thy gift soon at thine own bidding!"
"Well, Priodas dda," said both men, shaking hands and turning towards
the house, where the fun and merriment began to wax loud and furious
under the influence of the "cwrw da,"[4] which Siencyn dispensed with
liberal hand.
In the penisha a crowd of women sat round a long table drinking tea
and eating "light cakes," a delicious kind of batter cake, considered
indispensable at a Welsh festive gathering; while in the penucha
every guest of the opposite sex was expected to taste the ale which
had been brewed for the occasion, and to eat one of the
diamond-shaped "bidding cakes." Here there was much boisterous
laughter and loud talking, which was somewhat hushed as the Mishteer
entered.
"A 'blue' for the Mishteer!" shouted somebody to Siencyn, who
presided at the tap. And Hugh drained his cup, and placed his cake
in his pocket. Having wished Siencyn "Priodas dda," and made a few
joking remarks to the men, who had soon recovered from their
momentary silence, he made his way into the penisha, where Gwladys
Price and her mother were coming to an end of their tea and light
cakes, Dye Pentraeth having deserted them for the more potent charms
of the beer barrel.
"Come," said Hugh, "this is more in my line; a cup of tea, Esther!"
and he took a vacant seat next to Gwladys, who blushed at the honour,
and handed him a plate of light cakes.
"How fortunate for me to find this seat vacant, Gwladys, unless,
indeed, thou wert keeping it for someone else."
"No, no, indeed," stammered the girl, for her tender conscience told
her she had not been without hope that Ivor might come in and fill
it; but he had been pounced upon by a fat farm wife, who kept him in
attendance upon her and her daughter--the little tricks of society
not being confined to one class.
Hugh made most of his time. His sparkling black eyes and ready wit,
together with a certain earnestness of manner and a superior
education to that of his neighbours, gave an indefinable charm to his
conversation, which the simple women around him were not slow to
feel, though they could not have explained it in words.
Gwladys, amused and flattered, was soon chatting and laughing
unrestrainedly, her face glowing with the fun and excitement of the
occasion. Deep below the surface was the unconfessed longing for
Ivor's presence, and when at last he entered the room, and took his
seat on the opposite side of the table, she found it difficult to
keep up her interest in her companion's conversation.
Hugh Morgan's experiences of life being limited to one small village,
in the shelter of a lonely bay, he had no great range of subjects
upon which to dilate; but his natural good taste and intelligence
made him aware that the daily occupation of the sail-shed had better
be kept in the background, and he confined himself to the fairs and
eisteddfods of the neighbourhood, and amused Gwladys by a description
of a competition in which he had been adjudicator, where the three
competitors had quarrelled so violently on the platform, that they
had to be turned out of the meeting.
"Oh, anwl! I wish I had been there," she said.
"I was there," said Ivor. "I am sorry, Mishteer, to call you away,
but Captain Roberts wants to see you about those sails which were
torn so much in the last gale. Will I take him a message for you?"
"No, no," said Hugh, rising at once; "business must be attended to.
Come and take care of Gwladys while I am gone." And Ivor, nothing
loth, took his place beside her.
"What a good bidding Gwen has had," she said, examining her plate
shyly.
It was the general opinion, but Ivor did not agree with it. He
shrugged his shoulders, and said:
"A bad bidding I call it. I have not seen thee to speak a word to
to-day."
The pattern on Gwladys' plate seemed to interest her still more.
"The Mishteer has been making me laugh about the Abersethin
Eisteddfod," she said.
"Yes--I was glad to see him so lively; it is seldom he speaks to a
woman; and a good thing they say, for they all fall in love with him."
"Wel, indeed, there is something very nice about him," said Gwladys.
"I can't think how Mari Vone refused him. She did once, they say."
"Yes, so I have heard. Not often do parted lovers become such good
friends as they are."
While he had been speaking, he had poured out a glass of the foaming
cwrw which Siencyn had just brought in, and he held it towards the
girl, who shook her head, saying, "I prefer tea."
"But thou'lt drink from my hand," he said, in a low tone; and
Gwladys, knowing that a refusal to the request, "Drink from my hand,"
would be reckoned an insult, smilingly took the glass and put her
lips to it.
"No more? I will drink the rest to thy health then, lass, and may
thy life be full of love and happiness! Wilt wish something for me?"
"Yes, I wish thee the same!" and Ivor seemed satisfied.
Gwladys was in a dream of bliss, and it was only when Hugh Morgan
returned, and Ivor rose to make room for him, that she began as usual
to fear that she had made her preference for the latter too apparent.
She called herself to task for her too evident happiness in his
presence, and her dissatisfaction at his absence.
"What do I expect?" she said. "Ivor is kind and pleasant, but he
does not love me; _that_ I know full well!"
Later in the afternoon, when the guests were beginning to disperse,
and the sound of the waves came fuller and plainer through the open
windows, everyone knew it was nearly full tide, and time for Siencyn
and Gwen to take their departure. The money collected at the bidding
was counted, and the bride was loudly congratulated upon the large
amount.
"Thirty pounds--enough to set the young couple up in comfort!"
It was entrusted to Lallo's keeping, and later in the evening she
handed it over with much pride to Hugh Morgan, who stood in the place
of "banker" to the whole village.
A large party of the young people attended the happy couple to the
shore, singing as they went an old part song of farewell greeting.
There was no way of reaching the boat that was to carry them to the
Speedwell which danced and dipped in the bay, so Siencyn
unceremoniously took off his shoes and stockings, and, hoisting his
bride on his shoulders, waded through the surf, amongst the shouts
and laughter and boisterous "hwré's" of the company. They waited on
the shore until the Speedwell was fairly under weigh, and with
fluttering pennons and flags had disappeared round the horn of the
bay.
All the evening, and late into the moonlight, the lads and lasses of
the village kept up the festive character of the day, sitting about
in knots on the rocks and cliffs, and of course singing to their
hearts' content. Lallo alone seemed rather depressed as she led her
pig home from a neighbour's stye, to which it had been banished for
the day; he was now evidently in a hurry to get back to his own home,
tugging violently at the string tied to his leg, which Lallo held.
When he was safely housed, she stood somewhat tearfully thinking.
Her life was a constant warfare with her pig, and either her voice or
his, or both together, were generally to be heard. He had in every
way disappointed her. She had meant him to be a fat and short pig;
but instead of that he had grown long, and when he stood on his hind
feet to argue with her, he was taller than the gate! She had had a
board added to the top, but the pig had grown still longer, and was
still able to put his head over the gate and vociferate his
remonstrances.
"There, thou villain!" said Lallo, pouring a steaming bucketful of
food into his trough; "hold thy tongue if thou canst."
"Oo'ee--oo'ee--oo'ee!" shrieked the pig, and Lallo imitating his
tones derisively, the noise was deafening. At last, retiring from
the frequent fray, she threw herself down on the settle in the
penisha, from which all the guests had departed, and where nothing
but the remains of the feast were left.
"Yes," she mused, "it is just as well that Gwen is married; there
will now be a man to manage him; he wants a firmer hand than
mine--the villain! Ivor never managed him properly. Now I will take
the money to the Mishteer."
She had no sooner appeared at her front door than the pig assailed
her with a fresh burst of "Oo'ee--oo'ees!" and Lallo shook her fist
at him.
"Devil!" she said; "but never mind, my boy, wait till the fifth of
September."
A few days afterwards, when the evening shadows were falling, Gwladys
took her way to the beach, again to fill her creel for Nance Owen.
The sun was sinking behind the sea in a glory of purple and gold,
making a crimson pathway, which broadened out at her feet. She stood
and gazed over the rippling surface, wondering whether Ivor was out
fishing this evening. Once or twice a little boat crossed the
shining pathway like a grey moth, and she called to mind the happy
hour she had spent with him on the moon-lit bay. Would it ever
happen again? Why did it seem so distant and so impossible? Is this
his boat coming swiftly towards her? She heard the grating of the
prow on the sand, she saw a stalwart form, who leapt to the shore,
and walked hurriedly towards her. For a moment her heart beat
faster, but only for a moment, for she saw the broad shoulders and
firm step belonged to Hugh Morgan.
"Gwladys!" he called, "is it thee? Luck follows me to-day. This
morning brought me good news, and this evening brings me something
better. Wilt come in my boat for a row? It is real summer on the
water this evening."
"I would like it; but, indeed, Mishteer, I can't, for Nance Owen will
want her laver weed, and my creel is full."
"Nance can wait," said Hugh, "and I will loosen thy creel." And he
began to loosen the strap which crossed her bosom. She did not think
of resisting; "it was the Mishteer!" And she quietly helped to slip
her head out of the strap. It was not without some measure of
gratified vanity that she felt herself singled out from all the other
girls in the village by his kindness; and therefore it was with a
little flutter of pride that she allowed herself to be lifted into
the boat, though the glamour which had brooded over sea and sky
during her row with Ivor was absent. It was evident to her that the
Mishteer was pleased with her work, and perhaps with her industry;
but that he loved her had never dawned upon her mind. She took her
oar naturally--every man, woman, and child at Mwntseison being
perfectly at home on the water--and they rowed straight out towards
the sunset, until the shore and village looked like a pretty vignette.
"There's nice, it is!" exclaimed Gwladys, "out here on the bay! 'Tis
pity, indeed, that we can't come oftener!"
"And why not?" said Hugh, resting his oars on the rowlocks, and
motioning to her to do the same.
"Wel indeed, Mishteer," she answered, laughing, "what would become of
the work then? Who would make the sails?"
"Somebody else might," said Hugh; and he was silent for some time.
"If I had my way," he said at last, "thou shouldst have a boat of
thine own. Wouldst like that, lass?"
"Oh, anwl! What would I do with a boat--alone on the water? 'Twould
soon become wearisome."
"But thou shouldst not be alone; I would row thee, Gwladys."
"Mishteer!" was all her answer.
"Yes, Gwladys. Hast not seen that I love thee? dost not know that
all I have I would gladly give for thy love?"
His voice trembled, his eyes flashed, and the hand which held the oar
in its nervous grasp shook like a leaf.
Gwladys was too astonished to think. She stooped over the soft,
undulating water, pretending to look into its depths; and when at
last his passionate words revealed plainly his meaning, she could
only bend her head and ask timidly:
"Me?"
"Yes, thee," said Hugh. "Canst not understand that my happiness is
in thine hands?"
Gwladys clasped her hands. "Oh, Mishteer!" she said, "I don't
understand your words, or what you want of me."
"I want thee, Gwladys, to come and be the brightness of my home, the
idol of my love--to be my wife, lass!"
Gwladys covered her face with her hands to hide her mingled feelings
of astonishment and fright.
"It was the Mishteer!--he who had been mainstay and protector to her
mother and herself ever since her father's death--to whom their
cottage belonged--to whom they owed a year's rent--who had, in fact,
loaded them with kindnesses and brightened their lives. And it was
he who now desired to confer upon her this great honour. To be the
Mishteer's wife!--she, a girl of eighteen, to be raised over all the
other girls of the village; to own his house, his riches, and (above
all) his heart! It was too wonderful for her to realize! But
why--oh! why did not Ivor love her like this?"
All this flashed through her mind while she covered her face. Hugh
came nearer, and, gently trying to draw away her hands, spoke again
(and his voice was trembling and husky):
"Thou canst not love me! Tell me, Gwladys--hast any other lover?"
"No, no!" said the girl--"indeed, no! Nobody loves me! But,
Mishteer--you are mistaken; you cannot care for-me--a poor girl, a
fisherman's daughter, the humblest and poorest of your work-people!"
"I love thee," he said, taking both her hands in his; "and I am
content that it should be all on my side at first--only at first,
Gwladys--for my deep love for thee must in time awaken the same in
thine heart for me. I know thou canst not love me now--I am so much
older than thee. I cannot expect thee yet to care for a great rough
fellow like me--but marry me, and I will change thy coldness to love!
Believe me! Wilt try me, lass?"
Gwladys was trembling all over as she answered, "I cannot, Mishteer;
oh! indeed I cannot!"
"Why not?"
"Because I am frightened and surprised."
"Dost dislike me then?"
"Oh, no! indeed, indeed we all love you; I love you Mishteer, but
not--not as a girl ought to love her--lover."
"Say husband, Gwladys."
"Well, her husband."
"But I am satisfied to wait for that love. Wilt have me, girl?"
"Oh! Mishteer, we have drifted far out to sea; let us turn back; let
me go home to mother--give me time."
"Of course!" said Hugh, beginning to use his oar again; "let us go
back. I will not take thine answer here alone on the sea--I ought
not to have asked thee; but to-morrow, Gwladys, to-morrow evening at
this time, I will come to thee for my answer."
"Yes," whispered the girl, as she bent with a will to her oar.
The tide had turned, and the long billowy swells carried them swiftly
back towards the land; a belated seagull floated by them, a sound of
singing came fitfully on the breeze from the shore.
"They are practising the anthem at Brynseion Chapel," said the girl,
anxious to change the conversation; "they will wonder where I am."
"And I," said Hugh, "have been absent twice lately. I will go there
at once, and make it all right for thee; thou wouldst like to go home
to thy mother?"
"Yes," was all she said.
When they reached the shore Hugh once more took her in his arms to
lift her from the boat, and placing her gently on the sands, he
grasped her hand, and for a moment retained it in his own.
"At least wilt not deceive me, lass?"
"Deceive you, Mishteer! Oh! no, indeed; you are the Mishteer, and I
am only Gwladys Price, but I never could break my word."
"Must I wait longer for the kiss that I am longing for?" he said.
She bent her head and made no answer; but she did not run away, and
Hugh, gently drawing her towards him, imprinted a passionate kiss on
her full red lips.
"Shall I come with thee, or wilt go alone?"
"I would rather go alone," said Gwladys, and she left him pulling his
boat up the little strand.
Her mind was full of confused emotions--astonishment, pride,
admiration for the man whom she considered so much above her, wonder
why the events of the night left, her so dissatisfied; and above all,
her heart was sore with longing for Ivor's love! She dropped her
creel of laver-weed at Nance Owen's door, and as she reached the
village road, with every step her heart asked the weary question,
"Why--why is it not Ivor?"
Darkness had fallen, and the moon, hidden by a bank of clouds, shed
no light on the scene; but every step of the road was familiar to
Gwladys. She moved aside to make room for a rumbling car which came
noisily down the hill, its occupants talking loudly, and--surely one
of the voices was Ivor's! There were three sitting close together on
the board which did duty for a seat, the driver and Ivor, and between
them a girl, around whom the latter's arm was thrown, and who seemed
content with his protection. She knew Ivor had been absent from the
village since the previous day, for he had accompanied the delayed
sails in the waggon to their destination on Aberython quay; and from
there he was now returning rather hurriedly, for the purpose of
consulting the Mishteer on some matter of business which had cropped
up at the little town. He was bringing with him a cousin, who was to
stay some weeks at his lodgings for change of air; she was a delicate
girl, far gone in consumption, and his kindly thought had suggested a
short sojourn at Mwntseison. The drive had shaken her much, and he
had held her up with his strong arm, until he had lifted her safely
out of the car, and placed her under his landlady's care.
After a hasty visit to Hugh Morgan he returned the same night to
Aberython.
A spasm of jealousy was added to the dull aching already filling
Gwladys' heart, and as she plodded on up the hill, she called herself
to task, and blamed herself for her misery.
"Oh! if mother knew," she said, "that her little daughter had been so
bold and so foolish as to give her heart to a man who had never asked
for it, what would she say? What did she say about Gwen? 'When a
girl shows her love too plainly, a wise man draws back!' Have I
shown my love to Ivor? and is he drawing back because of that? I
will be more careful--and I don't love him! to-night I feel I hate
him! And who was that bold girl, I wonder, who sat with him? not
Madlen, nor Shân, nor Ana! But why do I care?"
"Oh, mother, I am tired!" she added, as she entered the house, and
threw herself wearily on the settle.
Her mother looked at her with surprise, for the words, "I am tired,
mother!" had been left behind with her childish frocks and bare feet.
"Come to supper, merch i. Where hast been?"
"On the shore and the water," said Gwladys, in a listless tone.
"Mother, I have something wonderful to tell thee!"
[1] Peeped.
[2] "Come in! come in."
[3] "A happy bridal to you!"
[4] Good beer.