GWEN'S REBELLION.
"Where is Gwen?" said Hugh Morgan, looking at an unoccupied stool at
one end of the sail-shed; "she has not been here for two days."
"No," said one of her friends, "she's at home, Mishteer. Her little
baby is ill, and she and Lallo are wild with fear of losing her."
"Ts, ts, that's a pity! Has she had a doctor?"
"Malen hysbys[1] has been there, and the child would have been well
by now, but that Siencyn would open the window before he sailed
yesterday; of course the little one caught cold, and now I'm
afraid----" and she shook her head mournfully.
"Well, well," said the Mishteer, "I must go and see about getting a
doctor for her." And he left the shed, and passed up the road
towards Gwen's cottage, upon reaching which, he found her deeply
intent upon a morsel of raw meat, which she was roasting on a fork
before the fire. Her little baby, meanwhile, white and moaning, lay
across Lallo's knees, who also seemed much interested in the bit of
meat.
"Well, Gwen, I am sorry to hear your little one is ill; but diranwl!
babies have nine lives and recover from all sorts of illnesses."
Gwen scarcely withdrew her eyes from her cooking to answer.
"Oh! of course, I know that, Mishteer, I know she will be well soon;
but if you had a child of your own, you would know 'tis a cruel thing
to see it suffering!"
"B'tshwr, indeed!" said Hugh. "I can quite understand that; but what
is it that you are cooking?"
"A mouse," said Gwen. "Malen hysbys says a roasted mouse will cure
my baby."
"Caton pawb!" said Hugh, "what nonsense, Gwen! I will send for Dr.
Hughes; he ought to have been here sooner. A roasted mouse, indeed.
Where did she hear that from? From Peggi Shân?"
"Peggi Shân knew more than Dr. Hughes a good deal," said Gwen; "and
if she was alive now my baby would not be suffering; but it will be
well by to-morrow."
"I hope so, indeed," said Hugh; "but if you do not let Dr. Hughes see
it, I think it will die, Gwen; that is the plain truth, and there is
no use hiding it. I will send for him at once. And throw away that
nasty thing you are roasting," he added as he left the house.
"Die!" said Gwen fiercely; "she shall not die! There's calmly he
says 'die!' I wish I had never let that wife of his touch my baby;
it hasn't been well since she nursed it here one day."
As she spoke, through the open doorway came the sounds of singing
from a knot of women and children passing by.
"Hard-hearted wretches!" she said, viciously pounding the mouse,
which had been cooked to a cinder. "They can laugh and sing while my
child is sick; they don't care. But their time will come!" she
added, as she mixed the dark powder with some brown sugar and butter,
and, with cooing, tender words, she coaxed the little moaning baby to
swallow the unsavory morsel. At the same time Dr. Hughes entered,
breezy and fresh from his drive over the hill.
"Hello!" he called, as his portly form filled up the whole doorway.
"What's wrong here? I met Hugh Morgan down the road, and he told me
I was wanted here. What is it, Gwen? Hello!" he said again, in
quite an altered tone, as he caught sight of the little panting baby,
its pretty lips discoloured with smears of butter and sugar and
something worse. "What's this?" and he looked in anger from one
woman to another. "How dare you! You have been trying some of your
filthy messes again, and with the usual result. You have killed your
baby. Had you sent for me in time, I might have saved him; it is now
too late."
At the words "too late" Gwen screamed, and snatched the little one
from its grandmother's lap. Disturbed by the scream it opened its
eyes for a moment, and then died with a little fluttering gasp.
"There, lay it down, poor little thing," said the doctor; "you can do
no more for it; but next time you see a baby dying, don't add to its
pain by stuffing filthy things into its mouth."
Gwen fixed her heavy-lidded eyes upon the doctor with an angry look,
saying:
"Go out of my house if you can do no good, and leave me to my sorrow.
You will repent of this."
"Of what, woman?"
She made no answer further than to point to the door, and Dr. Hughes
went out, shrugging his shoulders.
Through the open doorway the singing of the children came in on the
breeze.
"Fileiniaid," Gwen said, shaking her clenched fist at the doorway.
"I hate them. Are they all to be happy while I am miserable?" and
hastily rising, she took her little dead baby in her arms, and
pressing it to her bosom, paced moaning up and down the room; while
Lallo, even in her fresh sorrows remembering the village proprieties,
closed the door and covered up the little window with a pocket
handkerchief, and, with no little difficulty, at last persuaded Gwen
to lay the child on the bed.
"Extraordinary woman that Gwen," said Dr. Hughes, as he called by the
sail-shed to report to Hugh Morgan. "Devilish temper. Second Peggi
Shân. You see if I'm not right. The little baby? Oh, dead as a
herring, its last moments disturbed by some filthy concoction stuffed
into its mouth."
"Yes, I know, indeed," said Hugh; "a roasted mouse. I saw her
cooking it." And Dr. Hughes drove away with an oath.
"Mari," said 'n'wncwl Jos one day as he stumped in from the sunshine;
"isn't there a hole in Lallo's penucha?"
"Yes," said Mari, looking at him with some surprise. "There is a
short board near the fireplace, where the damp earth comes quite near
to the top. It was going to be finished fifteen years ago when the
floor was boarded, but the hole is still there. Why, 'n'wncwl Jos?"
"Oh, nothing," said the old man. "Hast heard the little one is to be
buried on Monday? and to-morrow night there's to be a gwylnos.[2]
Wilt come, Mari?"
"No, indeed," she said. "I will come to the prayer meeting, because
then I can sit at the door or in the passage; but to be shut up all
night in a room with a dead body makes me faint, and besides, I don't
like a gwylnos."
"Wel, no," said her uncle; "I know both thou and Hugh Morgan are very
odd in some things, and that is one thing--not to like a gwylnos.
Wel, I'm going anyway," and he stumped vigorously, and put on a
defiant look. "What is the good of my never having married if I'm
going to be ruled by a woman after all? Caton pawb! Wouldst like us
to bury our dead as the Saeson[3] do? To shut the door upon them and
say, 'There! we've finished with you; you stop there by yourself in
the dark!' And then click with the key, and sit down in the warm
kitchen to a comfortable meal, and talk about who's to have his
clothes? No, no! Lallo and I are too old friends for me to desert
her now in her trouble; so to the gwylnos I'll go, merch i, whatever
thou say'st!"
"Well, b'dsiwr! if you like, 'n'wncwl Jos," said Mari; "and I only
meant that I didn't like the drinking and talking that goes on at a
gwylnos, for death is too solemn a thing for such nonsense."
"Oh, jâr-i! I agree with thee there. For a man to lie there, stiff
and cold, hearing and saying nothing, while his friends are smoking
and chatting near him, good liquor passing around him and he knowing
nothing about it--well, yes! 'tis a solemn thing! But that's no
reason why we shouldn't stay with the poor fellow as long as he is
above ground, if it was only to comfort his relatives!" And he began
to "furrage" in an old sea-chest, where he kept his own personal
treasures safely under lock and key, bringing out from its depths one
of the square, high-shouldered bottles of "Hollands" which he had
collected in a mysterious manner during his sea-faring days. Having
closed the chest with a bang, he hid the bottle under his rough pilot
coat, and made his way up to Lallo's cottage. His low tap at the
door was answered by Gwen herself.
"So sorry, calon fâch!" he said, "for thy trouble and for Lallo's.
This is for the gwylnos, merch i; give it to thy mother," and he held
out the square bottle.
Gwen made no answer, but turned away and called her mother, leaving
'n'wncwl Jos with outstretched arms at the doorway.
"Jâr-i! there's manners!" he muttered to himself.
But if Gwen was scant of gratitude, Lallo made up for it to
overflowing.
"'N'wncwl Jos bâch! There's kind you are to remember us in our
trouble. A hundred thanks! and I hope you will be at the gwylnos; I
will never forget your kindness!"
"Twt, twt! hisht about kindness," said the old man, backing from the
doorway, in fear lest he might be asked in "to see the body," a
compliment considered due to everyone who knocked at the door.
On the following day, which was Sunday, after every service in the
two chapels was added the notice, given out by one of the deacons in
the "set fawr" or big seat under the pulpit:
"There will be a prayer-meeting at the house of Lallo Hughes this
evening at eight o'clock, to be followed by a gwylnos for any friends
who are wishful to attend."
In the gloaming, when the many services of the day were over, the
congregations trooped down towards Lallo's cottage. Of course, there
was no room inside, but they overflowed into the cwrt and into the
roadway, where they stood in the gathering twilight, only hearing a
faint murmur of the prayers which were offered up inside the house;
but still they waited patiently, listening to the rising and falling
of the prayers, which mingled with the soft sighing of the sea, and
speaking to each other in whispers.
Lallo, who managed to get a furtive peep through the corner of the
covered-up window, was much comforted by the presence of such a crowd
of sympathisers, and called to mind with satisfaction that at the
last gwylnos in the village, there had not been so large a gathering.
Mari Vone sat on the low hedge of the cwrt, looking over the sea,
where she was joined by Hugh Morgan and his wife.
"Canst hear, Mari?" he asked.
"No, nothing! But I've been listening to the sea, and I quite forgot
the prayer-meeting, whatever."
Hugh opened his eyes, with a smiling pretence of reproof.
"Where is 'n'wncwl Jos?" he whispered; and Mari pointed to the
doorway. Hugh looked grave. "Is he going to stay to the gwylnos?"
"Yes," said Mari, with an uneasy look on her face.
"Wouldst like me to stay, lass?"
"Oh! no, Hugh bâch! and you hating a gwylnos as much as I do!"
"Twt, twt!" said Hugh, and he elbowed his way into the crowded
passage.
The meeting was fortunately drawing to a close when Hugh entered, for
the air in the small, close room was intolerably stifling. In the
penucha he discovered the old man sitting close to the coffin, which
stood across the fireplace. He had found the square hole in the
boards, and had been able to get safely through the meeting without
disturbing the gathering by the sound of his wooden leg, for in the
soft earth he had been able to stump unheard.
"Well, Mishteer!" he said, when the dispersing of the crowd and the
comparative emptying of the cottage enabled him to draw near his
friend, "there's beautiful prayers we had! There's no doubt Sam Saer
beats anyone in Mwntseison on his knees. Are you going to stop to
the gwylnos?"
"Well, what d'ye think?" said Hugh. "'Tis shocking close here, and
the room is too full. I think Lallo will be glad to get rid of a few
of us. I'll stop if thou lik'st; but I was thinking perhaps thee and
Mari would come in and have supper with us to-night. There's one of
the ducks since dinner got to be eaten, and we've tapped the fresh
cask, and it's as clear as cryshal--thanks to thy secret, 'n'wncwl
Jos!"
"Well, indeed, I think I will come," said the old man, "for I've sat
by that coffin till I'm stiff. Good-bye, Lallo fâch!" he said,
turning into the penisha. "I see you have so many friends here, I
will only be in the way. Good-bye, Gwen fâch! I will be at the
funeral to-morrow." And he searched his memory for one of the stock
phrases which he tried to carry with him on such occasions. "Cheer
up, merch i, and remember what the Bible says, 'Would God I had died
for thee, my son!'"
When the Mishteer had piloted him safely into the soft evening air,
he was rewarded by a look of gratitude from Mari's blue eyes.
"'N'wncwl Jos and you are coming to supper with us, Mari; he has
agreed to come, so now don't you hold back."
"Oh, well, that's a good thing," said Mari, "for I have already
promised Gwladys to come."
Lallo and her friends were already forming a semicircle around the
bright fire, Gwen sitting straight and silent in the corner. Hour
after hour of the long night they sat there talking, at first quietly
and solemnly, but as the night wore on, and the contents of 'n'wncwl
Jos's bottle was handed round, tongues were loosed and conversation
flowed more freely.
Stories were told of "corpse candles" which wound their flickering
way from cottage to churchyard; of phantom funerals, in which the
narrator had been so closely pressed by the unseen crowd as nearly to
lose his breath, and become himself one of the mysterious company of
"cwn bendith y mamman"--the weird invisible pack of hounds, whose
yelping chorus rushes by on the wings of the wind; and many other
tales, but always ending with the words, "but that was in the olden
time, you know! Now, of course, we're wiser!" Their vaunted wisdom,
however, did not prevent their cowering more closely over the blazing
logs when the wind moaned in the chimney as it swept up the valley in
the small hours of the morning, when one day was dead and the other
was scarcely living. In the early morning, when the grey dawn came
in as well as it could through the little covered window, everyone
was glad to welcome it, and to blow out the candles which stood at
the head of the coffin, to hang the kettle on the hook over the fire,
and to help Lallo with her preparations for breakfast, returning
without regret to the material pleasures of tea and buttered toast
from their incursions into the realm of darkness and mystery.
On the third day after its death, the little one was laid to rest,
followed by all the inhabitants of Mwntseison--for a funeral, no
matter of how young a child, is an important function in Wales, and
few within an area of two miles will fail to attend it, for there is
a chance of hearing a sermon, and the certainty of an old Welsh hymn
or two; and if there be anything on earth calculated to move the
feelings, and awaken sleeping memories, it is a Welsh funeral hymn.
Its rising and falling strains, always in a minor key, are harrowing
to the feelings of the bereaved; but by those not too closely
interested, their emotional character is thoroughly enjoyed.
Lallo's small cottage was crowded, the throng overflowing into the
garden and the road; and when the little coffin was carried out, and
the large concourse of people, outside and in, joined in the funeral
hymn, its wailing, dirge-like notes, rising and falling on the air,
touched poor Lallo's heart beyond endurance, and she moaned and wept
loudly, her sobs being accompanied by many a sympathising tear from
the crowd; but Gwen walked beside her, silent and tearless, with a
hard, angry gleam in her eyes.
"Poor thing! poor thing!" whispered the women; "she can't cry;
there's a pity! She looks like Peggi Shân to-day!"
When, returned from the funeral, they reached their own door, one or
two neighbours proposed to stay with her a few hours, but she coldly
answered, "No, I don't want you," and, closing the door with a bang,
bolted it noisily.
Left to herself, she looked vaguely round the cottage, and, turning
to her mother, who had seated herself sobbing in the chimney corner,
said, in a cold, hard voice:
"What are thou crying about, woman? It wasn't thy child upon whose
coffin the clods fell so heavily; they were not thine, those little
hands that lay so stiff and white, that used to close so tight round
my finger. What hast thou to cry about?"
"Oh, Gwen," said poor Lallo, "thou art a strange woman. Wasn't he
mine, too? The very apple of my eye, calon fâch! There's sad news
for poor Siencyn when he comes home next week! But God knew best
what was good for him, and that is why He has taken him from us. The
Bible says, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.'"
"Oh, silence with your texts! God, indeed! What sort of a God must
He be who gave me a little baby to fill my empty heart, and then tore
him cruelly away? Be quiet about your God, mother. If granny had
been alive I would not have wanted help from God or man."
"Oh, Gwen, Gwen, hisht!" said the poor, bewildered woman; "I know it
is hard to understand, but thou must bend before God, and say, 'He
knows best.'"
"I won't," said Gwen, kicking at the embers which had gone out on the
cold hearth. "He can do no further harm to me. My little one--born
in lawful wedlock, too! not like thee, mother, nor granny, nor yet
her mother!"
"No, indeed, it is true!" said Lallo, rocking herself backwards and
forwards; "bad luck has followed us for generations. But thy father
was a respectable man, Gwen; he is deacon in his chapel at
Abersethin, and his wife and family are the best dressed in Salem
Chapel. Oh, yes, thou hast no need to be ashamed of thy father,
though he did play me a scurvy trick in marrying Fani Hughes; but he
couldn't help it, poor fellow! They say Fani's brother threatened to
shoot him if he hadn't married her!"
"Perhaps your God took my child, then, to punish me for your sins,"
said Gwen, with a sneer.
"Sins!" said Lallo, opening her eyes. "'Twas a misfortune that might
have happened to thee or anyone. Sins, indeed! That's the first
time I have ever had that word thrown in my teeth!" and, much hurt,
she began to rekindle the fire.
Gwen made no answer, but angrily pulled away the pocket-handkerchief
which covered the little window. She spoke little during the day,
and the following morning was at work in the sail-shed, pale and
sulky, refusing every offer of help, and receiving the condolences of
her neighbours with a silent contempt.
A few days afterwards the Mishteer wrote to Ivor Parry a letter in
his round, firm hand, one that Ivor treasured for years, taking it
out of his breast-pocket, sometimes, when the curling smoke from his
evening pipe carried up in its wreaths thoughts and memories of the
sweet and bitter past.
"Come back, mach-geni," it said. "I cannot do without thee. The
work calls for thee, my heart calls for thee, and the work-people all
desire thy presence. Thou shouldst never have gone! there was no
need. No new tie could ever loosen the cords of friendship that
exist between thee and me. Nothing has gone well with me since thou
art gone. I have had complaints of the work from several quarters.
Sweet Gwladys is not well; and, truth to tell, I myself am wanting
something, and it must be thee, lad, so come back to Mwntseison, and
all will be well." In a postscript he added: "Of course thy pay
shall be the same as that thou art receiving now. Indeed, I have
raised the wages of all my best workmen."
And Ivor had answered:
"I will come, for I have quite failed to make my home at Carnarvon;
and besides, if I can truly be of help to thee, nothing will keep me
away. The Aden Ydon goes across next Monday, and I on board; but
remember I will take no more pay than I have always had of thee. It
was good pay, and I never wanted more; so fforwel till we meet."
Hugh was in good spirits next day, and came homewards at noon waving
a letter round his head.
"Good news, Gwladys fâch! Ivor will be here next Monday, or Tuesday,
or Wednesday at latest. Everything will be alright now. I feel like
a new man," and so absorbed was he with the prospect of his friend's
arrival, that he ate his dinner without noticing Gwladys'
embarrassment.
"Next week! so soon should she be called upon to bear so much I so
much bitterness, and alas! so much joy! But the joy must be
smothered--be crushed out, and perhaps it would die some day."
She ate no dinner, and was thankful that Hugh did not notice the
fact. From that moment a restless feeling took possession of her,
and as the time for the arrival of the Aden Ydon drew nearer, she was
consumed with a feverish dread of meeting Ivor.
Mari Vone often dropped in on one pretext or another, and though the
subject uppermost in both their minds was never mentioned between
them, she always left Gwladys more calm and courageous than when she
entered.
On Monday the weather was dark and lowering, what wind there was
blowing from the land, the waves scarcely breaking as they rippled on
the shore.
"The Aden Ydon won't sail to-day," said Hugh, as he looked out under
the thatched eaves of his window in the early morning. "But
to-morrow, perhaps, the weather will have changed."
And so it was. On Tuesday the wind blew fresh and full from the
north-west, and, standing at the door of the sail-shed, telescope in
hand, Hugh watched for the first glimpse of the Aden Ydon's white
sails.
"Yes, there she is!" he said, turning round to address his people.
"Here, now, one of you boys, run up and tell the Mishtress that Ivor
Parry will be with us before to-night."
Gwladys tried hard to keep her thoughts from roaming out to that blue
bay, which seemed to be more _en evidence_ than usual to-day.
Through every window and open door she saw it spreading fair and
broad before her. The swish, swish of the waves filled her ears, the
air was laden with its briny odour, and nearer and nearer from the
dim blue hills, eighty miles away, came the white-winged ship that
bore such a freight of sorrow for her.
"Oh, God forgive me!" she cried, whenever her thoughts went over
those blue waters; and when, in the glow of the sunset, she saw the
little ship sail in to land, and disappear round the cliff that
towered high between Mwntseison and Abersethin, she fell on her knees
under the wide chimney, and with hands crossed on her bosom, remained
a few moments in silent prayer. She rose calmer, and endeavoured
once more to busy herself in her household duties.
At last, when the evening shadows were closing in, and the glow in
the west had faded away, she heard voices and footsteps coming down
the opposite hillside, and across the wooden footbridge, and she knew
that Hugh was returning from Abersethin, and was bringing Ivor with
him.
Now the sound ceased, and she knew they were coming up the road. Her
heart beat so violently that she felt suffocated, and went to the
doorway, partly to meet her fate and partly for a breath of air.
"What should she say?--how would he look? What would Hugh think if
she should faint or falter? God help me!" she said as the footsteps
came nearer, and in the twilight the two dark figures entered the
cwrt.
"Here he is, Gwladys," said Hugh boisterously, "just come in to see
thee on his way to his lodgings."
Gwladys blindly held out her hand, and Ivor took it in his.
"Well, Mishtress, and how are you?" he asked, in as cool a manner as
he could command. A slight tremor in his voice was the only sign of
feeling--there was not even the friendly "thee" and "thou." There
was no tender, meaning glance--no pressure of the hand. She had not
expected it--nay, would have resented it--but still the tone of
indifference was painful to her, although she was perfectly aware it
was assumed, and she answered in the same commonplace tones:
"I am well, thank you."
And Hugh filled up the silence that followed with his loud and hearty
greetings.
"You will stay and have supper with us?" said Gwladys.
"Oh, no!" interrupted Hugh; "I am going to sup with him to-night. I
will ask Mari to come and stay with thee."
"No," said Gwladys, "I would rather not. I have enough to do to fill
up my time to-night."
"Wel, nos da, Mishtress," said Ivor; and he and Hugh left,
disappearing together through the gloaming.
Gwladys looked after them with a set white face, and then turned
wearily up the stairs. Calling to Madlen, she said, in a calm voice:
"When the Mishteer comes in, tell him I was tired and went to bed."
On reaching her bedroom, she bolted the door, and, falling on the
bed, gave way to a storm of tears.
"Oh, Hugh, Hugh!--my kind husband--oh! good friend and true!--why has
God brought such sorrow upon thee? But, no! he shall not
suffer--only me! only me!"
And then another flood of tears. She rose and went to the window,
gazing silently at the leaden waters of the bay, silvered here and
there by the moon, which was rising behind the village; then in a
whisper she said:
"Ivor, Ivor! didst feel it as I did? Yes. I know by the tremble of
his voice--'How are you, Mishtress?'--'I am well, thank you.' That
is all--and that is all that must be between us. Ivor is strong and
good--I must be the same!" And for the rest of the evening she lay
still and thoughtful.
And thus began Gwladys' martyrdom--and no less that of Ivor's. To
meet in the ordinary course of daily life, though not oftener than
could possibly be avoided, was a trial under which, at first, both
suffered acutely; and Gwladys drooped and wilted visibly in the
stress of the storm through which she was passing. She turned her
face daily towards the path of duty, endeavouring to take up every
thread of interest which her life presented to her, and to brighten
her husband's path, even though her own had been stripped of all
beauty and joy; and gradually she earned the reward of comparative
calm and peace--a peace which added a new charm to her beauty--so
much so, that the villagers often remarked--"Wel wyr! the Mishtress
grows prettier every day."
Hugh rejoiced much in the cheerfulness which she seemed to have
somewhat regained.
"'Tis thy coming back, mach-geni," he would say to Ivor sometimes.
"I put every good down to that as I put every evil to thy going away."
And Ivor would push his hat further back on his head, and attack his
work with more vigour, saying:
"I am glad, Mishteer, if it is so."
In the sail-shed, the work-people rejoiced to have him once more
amongst them--the same as ever in his frank and genial manner, though
much changed in outward appearance; for it was remarked by all how
much his illness had aged him.
"Why, thee look'st ten years older, man!" they said, with the usual
outspokenness of the peasantry.
And Ivor would only smile and say--"No doubt, no doubt!" while he
applied himself with extra care and interest in the Mishteer's
concerns. Morning, noon, and night he was busy, apparently feeling
that he could not do enough for his friend.
And once more in the sail-shed could be heard the swinging chorus of--
"Torn sails and broken mast--
But the boat is safe at home at last!"
[1] Supernaturally wise.
[2] Watch-night.
[3] English.