CONFIDENCES.
The summer and autumn months slipped by, bringing but little change
to Mwntseison. The hay harvest brought its usual sweet additions to
the charms of the season--the scent of the dry hay and meadow-sweet
on the air, the call of the corncrake in the grey evenings, the wisps
of hay left hanging on the hedges by the laden waggons. The men and
women had all become a shade browner from exposure to the sun, for
even the work of the sail-shed was suspended for the haymaking; and
there was not a man, woman, or child who did not find some excuse for
tossing the hay. The air seemed full of song, for people at
Mwntseison always felt the work went better while they sang in chorus
together. In the sail-shed there was a murmur of singing, commenced
by the women and taken up by the lads and men until alto, tenor, and
bass filled up the harmony. Best of all went the music when the
Mishteer's rich voice joined in in the bass. A favourite glee was
The Herring Boat, which went with so tuneful a swing that it seemed
to suit every kind of occupation and experience.
The children sang it sitting in little groups on the warm sand, the
sailors on the bay, and the haymakers in the field; but oftenest of
all, the walls of the old sail-shed echoed to its tones. It ran as
follows, though English words can but poorly express the vivid
brightness of the original:--
"Out there on the raging sea
The wind is high;
Nothing but foam and mist to see
Under the sky!
Father and mother, come down to the shore;
Friends and neighbours, stand at the door;
Pray--if you never have prayed before--
'Lord, hear our cry!'
Torn sails and broken mast--
Oh! let the boat come home at last!
Ja houp, hal! Ja houp, hal!
Hal! Hal! Hal! Hal!
"Out there on the stormy main
A calm has come!
The sunshine chases the wind and rain,
And gilds the foam.
Father and mother, come down to the shore;
Friends and neighbours, come out to the door;
And shout--if you never have shouted before--
A welcome home!
Torn sails and broken mast--
The boat is safe at home at last!
Ja houp, hal! Ja houp, hal!
Hal! Hal! Hal! Hal!"
The corn harvest was nearly over before the news reached the village
of Ivor Parry's convalescence.
The Lapwing had flitted across the bay to the northern port, and had
returned, bearing the news of his recovery and many warm greetings
from him to his friends at Mwntseison.
"Tell me exactly how he was, my lad. I hunger to hear something of
him," said Hugh Morgan to the youthful captain of the little ship,
and speaking English, for sailors possessed the distinguishing
accomplishment of being able to speak the English language, and are
proud of it. Hugh himself spoke it fluently and grammatically,
though with a broad Welsh accent.
"Wel, he wass looking pale and thin," replied Captain Jones, "and the
daughter of the house brought a chair for him to sit on outside the
door. Gwladys is her name, and she's a purty girl, too!
"'There,' he says, 'turn my chair where the wind will blow straight
from the sea.'
"'Tis blowing straight across the bay today,' sez I. ''Tis coming
later from Mwntseison than me, though I only left yesterday morning.'
"Wel, he didn't say nothin' to that, but he took a long breath, and
he sighed very heavy."
"'Oh, I'll soon be well now,' he sez, 'and begin my work again.' And
when I was parting, he sez: 'Remember me to the Mishteer,' sez he,
'and tell him that distance don't make no difference at all in my
friendship for him.'"
"And what message to the Mishtress?"
"'Oh, yes, of course,' he sez, 'my kind remembrances to her, too!'
and he didn't say no more."
"Well, that's enough," said Hugh, returning to his Welsh, "to know
that he is getting well, and that his heart is with us yet. We'll
have him back again yet, boys. We'll send him a 'round robin,' and
every one in Mwntseison shall sign it. Thee and I shall be the first
to sign it. Dost hear, Gwladys? But thee must sprack up, girl, or
Ivor will ask me what I've been doing to thee to make thee so pale
and thin!" And he, too, sighed heavily, as Ivor had.
The winter months sped on, and the spring once more awakened land and
sea. On one of her brightest and freshest mornings the doors of the
sail-shed stood wide open, as they had done a year ago, and Hugh
Morgan as usual worked busily amongst his men, arranging, watching,
directing with indefatigable spirit, though, truth to tell, things
had been going rather against him lately. He missed Ivor's watchful
interest in his business, and his absence, like an intangible cloud,
somewhat tarnished the brightness of his life.
At the first glance, Hugh's manly form and handsome face seems
unchanged, but a closer scrutiny reveals a haunting sadness behind
his genial smile.
Gwladys was also present, and was busily engaged in directing some
portion of the work which she took under her own particular
surveillance, and part of which she was able to do in her own home,
much against her husband's wishes, for he would have liked to see her
spend her days, her time, and his money in pleasure only; but the
time hung heavily on her hands, and she felt herself perforce obliged
to seek for work outside her own home, and playfully insisted upon
taking upon her a portion of the work to which she had been
accustomed from childhood.
"Wilt come up to-night, Nell," she said, as she left the shed one
day, "and bring up those reef points and the new flag for me to hem?
There's a bag of sucan[1] and half a cheese you can have."
"Tank'ee, tank'ee, Mishtress fâch," said Nell, standing up to make a
series of bob curtseys; "there's good you are to me, and I will bring
you a bunch of 'moon rocket.' I gathered it when the moon was full
in a cleft of the rocks at Traeth-y-daran. 'Tis splendid for
bringing the colour back to your blood. Will you try it, mem?"
"Yes," said Gwladys, "I will try it to please thee, Nell. From
Traeth-y-daran, didst say? Bring it to me; but I am quite well," and
she left the shed, Hugh looking after her with a wistful sadness, for
it was now very evident that the girl, who a year ago might have
stood for a picture of "Hebe," had now lost much of the full ripe
form, as well as the glow of health, which had once made her so
peculiarly attractive. She was still very fair and lovely, perhaps
more so than before, but in a different way. Her dark brown eyes had
deep shadows beneath them, and her lips a curve of sadness. What was
the cause of this sudden failing of health? Hugh tried in vain to
discover, and he was fast resigning himself to the belief that her
delicacy was due to that much-dreaded disease, consumption, which was
very prevalent in that neighbourhood. Whether from the continual
intermarriage of the villagers on the coast, or from some other
cause, this cruel disease is very rife amongst the young people of
both sexes; and Hugh looked every day, with nervous fears, for signs
of the dreaded enemy.
Gwladys laughed at his fears, however, and continued to declare she
was quite well.
Mari Vone, who was her most intimate friend and companion, was as
much puzzled as Hugh at first. With the quick intuition of a loving
heart, she had soon discovered that Hugh and Gwladys' marriage had
not brought to either of them the complete happiness which she had
expected would follow their union. She spent some part of every day
in Gwladys' home, either helping in the household duties or sitting
with her at work, engaged in those long chats which seem to fill up
any blank there may be in the lives of women, as smoking does with
men. She never stayed later than four or five o'clock, and Hugh was
wont to reproach her playfully with always leaving before he came
home. Though Mari pleasantly laughed away his reproaches, it was
true that she could not look on unmoved while the man who yet reigned
supreme in her heart caressed and dallied with his young wife. It
was true that she was not yet strong enough to feel no bitterness of
spirit when she saw the tender affection which Hugh lavished upon
Gwladys, and which seemed to be received by her without the
reciprocal delight which Mari herself would have felt. Her pure and
unselfish love made her desire his happiness before any earthly good,
and it wounded her true heart to see that he missed something in his
wife, without plainly realising that he did so, or, at all events,
without confessing it even to himself.
It was during one of these long chats, when the two friends sat
knitting at the cottage door, that the suspicion first dawned upon
her which was afterwards to develop into such a miserable certainty.
They had sat silent for some time, both heads bent over their
clicking knitting needles, when Mari looked up and spoke.
"Wel, wyrl Lallo's new pig seems to be as noisy as the last year's.
You can always hear them abusing each other."
"Yes," said Gwladys, laughing; "I think, between the baby and the
pig, Siencyn will be glad to go to sea again."
"'Tis a crying baby, indeed," said Mari; "a frail little thing. I'm
afraid it will not live."
"Oh, I hope so! It would break poor Gwen's heart to lose it. I
can't think why--but she's always very spiteful to me."
"To thee!" said Mari. "Why? I wonder--but she dare not show her
spite to the Mishtress, surely! Poor Gwen! I pity her. Didst know
she was very fond of Ivor Parry once?"
A crimson blush overspread Gwladys' face as she bent more closely
over her knitting--a blush that faded as quickly as it had appeared,
leaving on her face a deathly pallor, though she answered in a calm
voice:
"I remember hearing something of it."
Mari saw the blush and the pallor, and quickly changed the
conversation, for if there was one trait in her character more
conspicuous than another, it was tenderness, and, with a spasm of
pain, she perceived she had touched upon a secret in Gwladys' life.
"It is drawing near tea-time; I must go. 'N'wncwl Jos is so
punctual! the tap of his wooden leg is almost as good as a clock."
"Here is Hugh," said Gwladys, and she ran to the gate to meet him.
There was only the usual "Wel, merch i!" and "Wel, Hugh!" at meeting,
for the Welsh, although so emotional--perhaps because of this--are
very chary of any exhibition of tenderness in public.
"Ah! now I have caught thee, Mari, going to slip away as usual just
as I come in. Indeed, now, stay to tea. 'N'wncwl Jos has gone out
in the Speedwell, and she will not be back till nine o'clock; he told
me to tell thee. Come, sit thee down, and keep Gwladys and me
company."
"Oh, then I will, and I can fry those light-cakes for thee, Gwladys."
And before long they were seated round the oak table, in the shade of
the big chimney, for the evenings were still cold, although it was
May.
Gwladys hovered round her husband with all sorts of little nameless
attentions, endeavouring, as she always did, by faithfully performing
and even exceeding in every wifely duty to make up to him for the
love which was lacking in her.
"There's a bonnie pile of lightcakes," said Hugh, "as tall as Caer
Madoc church-steeple; but never mind, I'll soon knock the pinnacle
off it!" and he flipped two or three on to Gwladys' and Mari's plates.
"One at a time, Hugh bâch," said Gwladys. "Thee wouldst soon make me
ill if thou hadst thy way."
"I'm afraid I have had my way, lass. Dost see how pale she is, Mari?
What shall we do to her?"
"Well, I think, take her for a trip on the Aden Ydon. She sails for
Cork in June. That would bring her roses back."
"Perhaps indeed," said Hugh. "But how shall I manage it? I have had
complaints of the work in the sail-shed from many quarters lately,
and I must watch it closer. But one thing is certain, I must ask
Ivor Parry to come back, and that won't hurt my pride, for we've
always been like brothers, and I believe his friendship is mine
still."
"No doubt of that," said Mari, endeavouring to attract Hugh's notice
from his wife, who sat with bent head, changing from white to red,
and from red to white.
When Hugh had left the house, she raised her hands, which had been
clasped on her lap, and covered her drooping face with them, while
Mari, pretending not to notice her, bustled about clearing the
tea-table; but so long did she remain in this position that it was
useless longer to ignore it, so, drawing a stool to her side, she
gently tried to draw away the hands which Gwladys still kept over her
face, and was surprised to find them wet with tears.
"Gwladys, anwl! what is it?"
"Something I must not tell you!" said the young wife, with head still
bent, the tears coursing each other down her cheeks; "something I
must keep for ever here,"--and she smote her breast with her clenched
hand--"until I lie in my coffin. You heard Hugh say everything has
gone wrong with him lately? It is true, Mari fâch. Oh, everything
is wrong! The whole world is twisted and torn, and I long to escape
from it."
Mari sat beside her, holding one of her hands in stricken silence.
"Ts, ts!" was all she said, while Gwladys' tears flowed
unrestrainedly.
"Poor Hugh! poor Hugh!" she said between her sobs; and Mari cried
too, but softly.
"I have heard that once Hugh and thee were lovers, Mari?"
"Oh, in the old, old past, Gwladys. Now his heart is thine alone,
and my only prayer is that he should be happy with thee. Dost
believe me, merch i?"
"Yes, I believe all that is good of thee, Mari. Thou art an angel
somehow straying on earth. Wilt be my guardian angel, and love me
still, though I am so weak and sinful? Oh, why did not Hugh marry
thee, instead of me? I believe in his heart of hearts he loves thee
still, although he has been carried away by a sudden wind of passion.
Yes--yes; there has been some terrible mistake," and she started to
her feet almost wildly, "and it can never be set right--never, never,
never!" And with the last word she flung herself down on the settle,
crying bitterly.
Mari waited a moment in dazed silence.
"Art better, merch i?" she said at length, when the sobs began to
grow less violent; and stooping down, and whispering so softly that
not even the proverbial walls could hear, she said, "Now, no word of
explaining; none is wanted between thee and me; we have been soul to
soul together to-day. I know all thy secret, and I think thou
knowest mine!"
Gwladys' lips moved in assent, but she seemed too broken down for
more.
"Listen again," said Mari. "We are both women whose dream of
happiness has been shattered; but there is still one thing which we
can work for as long as life shall last--Hugh's happiness. Can we
work together, Gwladys fâch? can we still be friends with these
bitter secrets between us? It is for thee to settle."
Gwladys' only answer was to raise her arms and clasp them round
Mari's neck, drawing her close to her in a long embrace, during which
some silent tears were shed by both.
"Never leave me, Mari!"
"Never!"
[1] Crushed oats, with the husks on, used for making a kind of
strained porridge.