HUGH'S SUSPICIONS.
It was about this time that Gwen took to wearing her shawl over her
head, held tightly with one hand under her chin, and appearing in it
at all sorts of odd times and places. This, to an outsider, may not
seem an event worth chronicling; but to anyone conversant with the
inner life of a Welsh coast village, it is full of meaning. Where
intermarriage is so common as it is there, peculiarities of character
gather strength with every succeeding generation, and are affected by
the most trivial circumstances; and thus it comes to pass that
insanity is always lurking amongst the seeming calmness and rural
simplicity of the village life, ever ready to pounce upon the
harassed in mind and body. It is no uncommon thing to see in a small
village containing two or three hundred inhabitants, two or three
windows boarded and barred, behind which are kept the unhappy
sufferers from this terrible fate. The dread of the asylum hangs
like a cloud over the scene that appears such a picture of rustic
happiness. The signs of increasing insanity are little noticed by
the villagers, it being considered courteous to ignore them as long
as possible, so that the dreadful malady lurks about and shows itself
unexpectedly when it is too late to cure it. One sign which is
quickly noted, though never commented upon, is that of wearing the
shawl in the case of a woman over the head instead of the shoulders,
and the degree of insanity may be often gauged by the manner in which
the shawl is held.
In case of a quarrel between man and wife, or between two neighbours,
the woman whose temper has been most seriously ruffled appears next
day with her shawl over her head, and held tightly under her chin, as
a sign she is in no humour for frivolous conversation; and the sign
is so interpreted by her friends and neighbours. So that when Gwen
carried her red pitcher to the well in one hand, and with the other
clutched her grey shawl under her chin, every one knew the death of
her child was weighing sorely upon her, and they passed her with a
nod only, or a formal "Dachi!"[1]
A few days later, the nod was not returned, but Gwen looked straight
before her with a glitter in her eye and a set look on her lips which
her neighbours noted with a sigh.
"Poor thing! poor thing! she's very bad. Lallo fâch! you must get
Mari Vone in to chat a bit and hearten her up!"
Lallo shook her head mournfully.
"I don't like it at all, Madlen fâch. She will break her heart if
she does not cry or something; never a word day or night, but just
that silent, angry look. Indeed, what should I do if it were not for
the pig? But even with him she seems to be offended!"
When, later on, Gwen not only appeared invariably hooded by her grey
shawl, but held that shawl crossed over her mouth, she was observed
with more serious and sympathising looks. A woman who had quarrelled
with her husband would sometimes appear with a shawl held _under_ her
chin; but few except the insane held their shawl over the mouth,
exhibiting only the nose and eyes. And as Gwen hurried through the
village or roamed about the cliffs, she was followed by many a sigh
and shake of the head. The village children, against whom she
directed spiteful glances as she passed them on the shore or on the
cliffs, soon learned to fear and hate her, and when she appeared
amongst them they would fly in all directions like a flock of
sparrows.
"Wel, wyr!" said Sara Pentraeth, as she looked after the miserable
woman. "Peggi Shân has come back to Mwntseison, I think. Ach y fi!
she looks angry with the sun himself."
Her place in the sail-shed was often unoccupied, and the Mishteer
remarked upon it with reproof as well as pity in his tone, when one
day she appeared, late in the afternoon, and sullenly took her seat,
and, after a few minutes' desultory work, rose and began her way to
the open doorway.
"Stop, Gwen!" he said kindly. "What's the matter, merch i? Sorrow
and hiraeth[2] we can all understand after such a loss; but what is
the meaning of that anger and sullenness? Why, lodes,[3] art
offended with the Almighty?"
"I am offended with you, Hugh Morgan! you have no business to speak
to me as if I was a child, indeed, though you are the Mishteer."
"If you are a woman, Gwen, act like one, and remember that sorrow, if
properly borne, may turn to a blessing."
"I want neither blessing nor cursing," said Gwen, "but only to be let
alone. Go home, Hugh Morgan, and attend to your own affairs; you
will find plenty to do with them," and she flung her shawl over her
head and left the shed. Taking no notice of the scared looks of her
fellow-workers, she walked homewards, straight and unbending, and
passed her much-enduring mother in the cwrt without a word. Lallo
looked after her sorrowfully, and went to the pig-stye door, over
which she leant in a musing attitude for some time.
When the soft grey November days had commenced, "Tewi du bach," or
the "little black weather," as it is called at Mwntseison, the sea
looked still and dreamy under its sheeny leaden surface, and the land
seemed to lie in a cold swoon, for the summer and autumn were dead,
and the sharp winter weather had not arrived; it was coming steadily
and rapidly behind that grey haze which looked so calm and innocent
on the north horizon of the bay. The boats were overhauled, and the
nets were gathered in from the stretchers. As the evening shadows
fell, over the steely glitter of the sea there came a rippling
roughness, and an oily movement on the tide, which told its tale to
the watchful fishermen. The doors of the sail-shed were closed, and
down the grey beach the boats were pushed into the plashing waves;
lights glimmered on the bay, and every man in Mwntseison was full of
interest in the hauls of silver herrings which the boats brought to
land.
"Come home and sup with me, Ivor," said Hugh, after one of their
fishing excursions; "thou art tired out."
"Man alive!" answered Ivor, "am I fit to enter any clean house
covered with tar and herring-scales like this? No, no, another time!"
"To-night it must be, or thou wilt offend me," said Hugh. "Go home
and wash off thy herring-scales, lad, for I know Gwladys has a
wheaten loaf and a fine lobster for supper; and I'll take no more of
thy 'no, no's.'"
"Well, I'll follow thee," said Ivor, seeing a grave look in Hugh's
face.
"I'll go and tell Gwladys thou art coming," said Hugh; and as he went
up the uneven road, carrying a string of herrings, he fell into a
deep study--one of those reveries which had become rather frequent
with him of late.
"What can be the matter with Ivor?" he thought. "What ails the man
that he never darkens my door? I thought when once he came back we
should be always together; but no--it is always 'not to-night, Hugh,'
or 'another time, Mishteer.' I cannot make him out. And Gwladys,
too! what ails her? When I say 'I will ask Ivor to come in
to-night,' she never seems glad, but turns away without a word. Have
they had any quarrel, I wonder? but no!" and again a shadow fell over
his face, and an uneasiness crept into his mind, which had hitherto
been a stranger there; but he chased it away as he entered the house
and handed the herring to Gwladys to be fried for supper.
Ivor had tried so hard to put off his friend's frequent offers of
hospitality. To-night he had no choice but to accept. When, cleaned
and brushed, he entered the cottage, he would have given worlds to be
able to rush away and hide his eyes from the sight which he knew
awaited him there. Yes, there she was, busying herself with the
arrangements of the simple supper, and, in the fitful light of the
blazing log fire, looking more beautiful than ever, though paler and
more pensive.
"Wel, Mishtress, I hope you are well," said Ivor, hurrying over the
awkwardness of meeting, while Hugh made him welcome with hearty
greeting.
Gwladys' answer was low and rather unsteady. She set herself to her
duties of hostess, and endeavoured to enter naturally into the
conversation, but with very indifferent success, for which Hugh
suddenly called her to account.
"Wel, wyr! Gwladys, Ivor will think he has come at an inconvenient
time if thou art so thoughtful and silent. Come, lass, sprack up a
bit, and give my friend a welcome, if thou hast none for me."
Never before had she heard the slightest tone of blame in her
husband's words, and to-night the overstrained courage gave way for a
moment, and her eyes filled with tears, while she offered her poor
little excuses; but she quickly conquered her weakness.
"Indeed, Hugh, I am ashamed of myself; but Ivor knows I have not been
well lately, and he will forgive me, and thou must, too."
"Why, of course, of course, merch i; I only want to see the smiles
and roses come back to thy pretty face," and Hugh, as if trying to
make amends for his slight tone of reproach, passed his arm round her
waist, and drew her playfully towards Ivor. "Here she is, Ivor.
Doesn't look as if we could be very angry with her, eh?"
Gwladys drooped her head shyly, though she tried to join in Hugh's
merry laugh, while Ivor felt the blood rush to his head, and every
pulse in his body beating painfully.
When they were at last seated at supper, Gwladys talked and laughed
with unnatural excitement, her eyes gleaming, and her cheeks burning
with even more than the old richness of colour. Suddenly a little
sound or movement drew their eyes to the doorway, and there in the
gloom stood a grey figure, silent, and with glittering eyes fixed
upon the trio at the table.
"Ach y fi! Gwen, is it thee, then? Indeed, this is the second
fright thou hast given me to-day. Wilt sit down to supper?" said
Gwladys.
But Gwen only shook her head, and, pointing to Hugh, went into peals
of laughter--laughter which they continued to hear as she left the
house, and took her way homewards.
Hugh shuddered.
"I believe she's crazy," he said. "That laugh did not sound like
that of a sane woman; and, since she has taken to wear that grey
shawl over her head, she looks the image of her old grandmother. I
believe it's the very shawl old Peggi Shân used to wear. No wonder
the children call after her, 'Avaunt, witch!' I feel inclined to say
the same myself."
"Wel, indeed, she frightens me often," said Gwladys. "In the garden
or here by the fire, or leaning over the brewing tub, I look up, and
there she stands, saying nothing, but just staring, staring at me;
and her eyes seem to pierce me through and through."
"She has been distraught ever since her child died, I think," said
Ivor; "but we must see to her. She must not trouble the Mishtress in
this way."
With the pardonable pride of a middle-aged husband, Hugh again drew
Gwladys forward, saying:
"No, no, she sha'n't be troubled by anything! The best little woman
that ever trod the sands of Mwntseison, in spite of her silent ways
sometimes. Eh, Ivor?"
The latter felt he was expected to make some reply, while Gwladys
stood flushed and perturbed before him. His lips were dry and
parched, and his generally pleasant voice sounded harsh and hoarse as
he answered:
"Wel, everybody knows that you picked the flower of Mwntseison; and
everybody knows too, that only you, Mishteer, are worthy of her."
"Oh, halt there, lad, halt there! I think sometimes I have stolen
her from a better man," and, as he loosened his arm from her waist,
and seated himself at the supper table, a serious look came over his
face, and a shadow seemed to have fallen upon his spirits. He had
scarcely meant anything by his words; but even while he spoke there
came to his mind a dim foreboding, and to his heart a sharp
suspicion, of he knew not what, for he had not failed to notice the
change in Ivor's manner--the difficulty with which he had brought out
his words,--and, turning to look at Gwladys, he felt that those
downcast eyes and that troubled face were not the signs of a young
wife's pride in her husband's tender touch and admiring praises. But
he smothered the feeling, and applied himself to his supper, and the
meal was gone through with some outward show of hilarity. Having
finished, Hugh pushed the brown jug of ale towards his friend. "Wilt
drink, lad?" he said. "Wilt drink to my health and Gwladys'?"
"I will keep to the meth,"[4] answered Ivor; "'tis the best I ever
drank; it still tastes of the wild thyme and the sweet brier.
Mishtress! here's to your good health and the Mishteer's, and long
life and happiness to you both!"
There was a strange light in his eyes, as he stood with his head
thrown back, the glass of meth in his hand, and as he drank down its
contents, a deadly paleness spread over his face. Sitting down again
he drew a long breath, and his hand trembled visibly as he replaced
the glass on the table.
"Canst thank him, Gwladys?" asked Hugh, looking keenly at his wife,
who shook her head with a smile on her lips which looked unnatural
and strained.
"Well, I will, then! Ivor, they are fair _words_, none could be
better, and I thank thee for _them_."
"Words!" said Ivor, starting to his feet, and stretching out his hand
across the table, "Hugh Morgan! there are no words which could ever
make plain my friendship for thee. Health and happiness to thee and
thy sweet wife! God knows I would gladly shed my blood to bring it
to thee!"
"Good, then!" said Hugh, taking his hand; "there's no more to be
said. Art going? Well, it is late, I suppose. Nos da!"
"Yes, and a storm is rising. Nos da, Mishtress," said Ivor as he
left the house.
It was true the storm was rising fast, dark clouds scudded over the
moon, the wind moaned and wailed round the cliffs, the sea seemed to
swell and lash itself into threatening fury, and Ivor felt the tumult
of the elements accorded well with his feelings.
"Dear God!" he exclaimed, as he made his way through the buffeting
wind, "I can never go through that again--never! never! not even to
please thee, Hugh Morgan."
Meanwhile, in the cottage, Gwladys was clearing away the remains of
the supper, and endeavouring by busy employment to cover the
distressing awkwardness which her husband's manner had awoke in her.
As she passed him sitting thoughtful under the chimney, he rose, and
drawing her towards him, held her face between his two hands, and,
gazing steadily at her:
"Dost hide any secret from me behind those brown eyes?" he asked, in
a serious, tender tone; and before his honest black eyes her own
quailed, and a deep crimson flooded her face.
Hugh slowly drew away his hands with a heavy sigh, without waiting
for an answer.
All next day the storm gradually increased, with a sullen persistency
which seemed to threaten a more furious outburst for its tardy
consummation. The wind soughed up the valley in fitful gusts; the
sea seemed swelling with repressed anger. There was a heavy
stillness in the air, in strange contrast with the flying clouds
which passed at a high altitude from the north-west. Every cottage
door was closed, the boats were safely moored, and the geese on the
upland farms flew with loud cackling in flocks from one stubble field
to another.
At the door of the sail-shed Hugh Morgan stood, lost in thought; the
stormy atmosphere around him accorded well with the deep unrest which
had taken possession of him. The dark suspicion which had darted
into his mind on the previous evening had, with the suddenness of a
flash of lightning, disclosed to him a truth, which, if it had ever
before dawned upon his mind, had lain dormant, soothed to sleep by
Gwladys' gentle ways and his own mad infatuation.
He and Ivor had met at intervals as usual in the course of the day's
work, and each had felt that an undefined shadow had fallen between
them; and of the two, Ivor had suffered most. He was conscious that
in Hugh's mind had awoke a suspicion that he could never allay
without a lie, for deep in his own heart he knew that his love for
Gwladys was unquenchable and eternal. It was so with him, and
nothing could alter the unhappy truth; he knew it, and he knew now
that his friend knew it; but there was another thing that Hugh did
not know, and Ivor writhed under the impossibility of making clear to
him the depth and reality of his own unswerving devotion to his
friend. As he had tramped home the night before, he had evolved out
of the turmoil of his thoughts one idea, which he clung to with some
gleam of comfort; he must leave Mwntseison; he must part from Hugh
Morgan; he must escape from the sight of Gwladys. He would close
with the offer made him by Robert Rees, the miller. At Traeth-Berwen
the old mill was to be let, as Robert had become wealthy and portly
and lazy, and had offered to sell his business on very generous terms
to Ivor Parry. Yes! he would take the old mill, and pass the rest of
his days in the dreamy little valley. True, it was only a mile away,
and he would still see Gwladys and Hugh on Sunday at Brynseion
Chapel; and, moreover, perhaps she would come to the mill sometimes
with the corn to be ground; but that would be better than seeing her
every day. A sudden sharp stab is better than a continual probing!
and he had seized a moment of respite from work to rush down to "The
Ship," to catch Robert, and to settle the bargain with a slap of the
hand and a blue of ale, and for the rest of the day he had felt
somewhat less perturbed.
To Hugh, on the contrary, life seemed to hold out no loophole of
escape from the miserable dread which had dawned upon him. At first
he had been filled with a dull aching anger that another man should
dare to love his wife; and that man his friend, whom he had
trusted--whom he had loved as a brother; and that he, Hugh Morgan,
who had always been considered, and who thought himself, too calm and
deliberate to be deceived, should thus have made a mistake in the
most important step in his life! There was no anger against Gwladys.
"Poor child! poor child!" he was thinking, as he stood there at the
door, with his hands clasped behind him; "it was not her fault; I see
it all now. She never loved me--she loved Ivor; and I, fool that I
was, thought my own love was enough, and would arouse the same
feelings in her; but--thou hast been a fool, Hugh Morgan, and thou
must open thine eyes now to thy folly, and make the best of a bad
bargain. Well, this will help me to make up my mind on one point. I
will leave the sail-shed, I will give up my business; I have enough
and to spare, and poor Gwladys shall not be left so much alone." And
he looked down the village road with gloomy forebodings in his dark
eyes.
At this moment a large bunch of greenery came round the corner of the
shed, and stooping under it, and looking through the golden and green
leaves came Mari Vone, her shapely arms, crossed over her bosom, held
the restraining cords which bound her bundle of bracken on her
shoulders. Her brick-red petticoat made a spot of brightness in the
gloomy landscape, and as she approached Hugh, her blue eyes looking
out between the overshadowing ferns like harebells in the grass, even
his sad face lightened as he met the sunny smile in the eyes, and
marked the perfect lips and the dimpled cleft in the chin.
"Caton pawb! Mari, where'st been through the storm?" he asked,
leaving the shed door, and accompanying her up the village road.
"Wel wyr! Now, thou'st never guess, Hugh. 'N'wncwl Jos had to go to
Caer Madoc to-day to receive his pension, storm or no storm, so he
borrowed Peggi Pentraeth's donkey-cart, and he does whip the poor
donkey so. I hid the whip in the big furze bush by our house; but,
oh, dir anwl! I couldn't hide his wooden leg, so I'm afraid he will
use that instead. No, no! I will not loosen my bundle, so let it
be. 'Tis a bed for the poor donkey to-night; I gathered it above
Traeth-y-daran, for I knew the poor creature would be tired. Here's
Peggi's donkey shed; wilt wait while I spread his bed for him?"
"Nay, I will come and help thee, lass." And in the little shed they
spread the sweet fresh litter in readiness for the weary beast.
"Always comforting some poor, weary creature, thou art, Mari; 'twill
be me next, lass. Hast any salve for a miserable man?"
"Hugh," said Mari, instinctively pressing her hand to her side, "what
is it? Gwladys--is she ill?"
"No--what am I saying? Yes, she is sick--I am sick! Come home,
lass, and let me tell thee."
And when they had strewn the litter of crisp bracken they went out
together, and reaching her cottage door, Mari went in, Hugh following
in silence. She pushed the rush chair towards him without speaking;
and, leaning his elbow on the table, with his hands shading his eyes,
he unburdened his mind to the ear which had never failed to listen
with interest to every word that came from his lips. It was not a
long story. A very few words served to reveal the dismal tale--alas,
too common--of disappointed hopes and dire misgivings; of ruined
happiness in two hearts caused by one foolish step.
"Yes," said Hugh, bringing his fist down heavily on the table, "I
have been a fool, Mari--a blinded, headstrong fool! Had I been a
boy, or even a young man like--like Ivor, there might have been some
excuse for me; but a man of my age, one who had lived so long in
quiet and wise solitude, and especially a man who had Mari Vone for
his friend! Why didst not say to me," and he grasped her wrist
fiercely, "'Stop, stop, Hugh, for she loves another'? _That_ would
have been real friendship, such as I thought thou hadst for me; but
it seems I was wrong there too. I was mistaken in everything."
"I didn't know it, Hugh; indeed, I didn't know it!"
"Didst not?"
"No, indeed!" and the tears welled up into her eyes; but she
resolutely kept them in check while she answered, "Hugh bâch, I am
grieving for thee; but there are two things thou canst be certain of
in all this sea of trouble--my true and firm friendship, and that
sweet Gwladys is as pure as an angel."
To this Hugh made no answer, but continued for some time brooding
darkly, while Mari sought in vain for any words that might comfort
him. At last he spoke.
"I am getting tired of my life, Mari--tired of myself. Everything
seems wrong with me, and I feel like the outside world around me
these days, full of suppressed storm and unrest. It is not only
Gwladys' want of love for me, not only that; but I myself am wrong.
I am dissatisfied with myself. Come, guardian angel, and tell me
what to do!"
"What is it, Hugh bâch?" said Mari, standing tall and fair beside
him, and looking down with eyes of love and pity upon the
storm-tossed man, who sat with his elbow leaning on the table, and
his hands shading his troubled eyes.
"No! 'tis not Gwladys only who does not love, but I myself have
changed. I, who thought my love for her was unchangeable and true,
have awoke to find it was only a tempestuous passion which laid hold
of me and carried me away, until I was cast shipwrecked and torn and
broken against the rocks. Wilt despise me, Mari, when I tell thee
that Hugh Morgan, who thought he loved his young wife, has ceased to
do so? At the first dawn of suspicion, his love died out. Pity,
deep pity, and the tender love of a father for his child, or an elder
brother for his sister--that I still feel; but the passionate ardour
with which I began my married life is gone--died suddenly,
Mari--never to live again. Thou art silent, lass, because thou art
sorry to hurt thine old friend by telling him how thou despisest him."
Mari laid her hand gently on his bowed head. Her heart was strangely
moved within her; she would have been more than human had she felt no
joy at hearing that the love which she had craved for all her
life--if not hers--was, at all events, not another's! But the
strongest feelings that prompted her words were sympathy for him and
for Gwladys, and an earnest longing to comfort them.
"Thou art altogether wrong, Hugh; I do not despise thee, but pity
thee, and sympathise--oh! with my whole heart. Thou hast not ceased
to care for thy wife; it is only the passion, the earthly part of thy
love, that has died out. The best part, the enduring, wise love
remains, and will remain for ever, to guard sweet Gwladys--to comfort
her and to guide her; for after all, Hugh, she is but a child, and
thou must be very gentle and patient with her. I am as fond of her
as if she were my own sister."
"Keep close to her, Mari fâch!" said Hugh, rising, "for she will need
all thy tenderness--and I, too, Mari," and he held out his brown
hand. "Don't turn me out of thine heart."
She took his hand in both her own, and pressed it in a warm clasp.
"Never, Hugh! while life shall last!"
"Right, merch i!" was all Hugh's answer, as he stooped his head under
the low doorway. He turned back for a moment, while she still stood
pensive at the table. "The old spar is drifting amongst the waves at
present, Mari; thou must help to guide it into calm waters."
She looked up from the finger with which she had been absently
writing on the table.
"I will, Hugh! Galon wrth galon!"[5]
When Hugh returned to the sail-shed it was to hear the astonishing
news that Ivor Parry was about to break off his connection with the
sail-making, and to enter upon the less arduous duties of a miller's
life.
"Well, indeed," said Hugh, with forced cheerfulness, "this will be a
day to be remembered by the gossips, for I, too, have a piece of news
to give you." And raising his voice a little, so that everyone in
the shed could hear him, he continued, "I meant to have called a
meeting this evening to let you know that I am thinking to give up my
business; but as Ivor Parry has already fired the pistol, I need not
be afraid to let off the gun! Joshua Howels and I have had many
talks on the subject, and I have now made up my mind to give up the
sail-shed to him. I have made enough money to keep my wife and
myself in comfort as long as we two live, and therefore I will not
stand in the way of another man's doing the same thing. Now, I want
you not to make any remarks about this to me to-night. You know I am
one of those foolish creatures who cannot spend the greater part of
every day under the same roof with other people without letting them
into his heart, and I don't want you to think little of me at the
last. So, anwl frindiau,[6] let us go on quietly, until some evening
I slip out silently after work, and Joshua Howels comes in next
morning instead of me. We need not say good-bye, as I am not going
away from Mwntseison, and I have no doubt that, whenever I have an
hour to spare, my feet will turn naturally towards the old sail-shed,
so that we shall meet often; only, I will not be the Mishteer any
longer."
Here his voice was drowned by an uproar of voices, and cries of
"Mishteer! Mishteer!" filled the air.
"There has never been another Mishteer in Mwntseison," cried somebody
in the crowd, "and there can never be another!"
The warm Welsh hearts of his work-people were touched to the quick by
his evident emotion at parting with them. When they saw him reach
down his straw hat, and turn towards the little office opening out of
the shed, and they realised the meaning of the speech, a hush fell
upon them more eloquent than words.
The Mishteer was unstrung. He was sorrowing at parting with them.
There was a moisture in his eyes, the tears were not far off--and all
for them; and as they dropped their voices, and passed silently out
through the big doors, Hugh Morgan had never been so completely
master of their hearts.
Of course, next day Mwntseison was moved from hearth to roof--from
the Methodist chapel on the cliffs to the little church on the top of
the hill. Over the whole neighbourhood the news was spread abroad,
and amongst others, Nell Jones and Sara Pentraeth had met early to
exchange ideas. Their washing had been hurried over in a very
perfunctory manner, in the desire to reach the "hanging-out" stage of
the proceedings; and as good luck would have it, just as Nell began
to spread out her heavy Welsh flannels, Sara came out too with her
basket, and they were soon engaged in deep conversation over the low
hedge of blackened broom bushes which divided their sandy gardens.
"Nell fâch, didst ever hear of such a thing? There's news! there's
an odd thing! that the Mishteer should change his mind like that--and
all of a sudden, too! And, Nell anwl, to be handed over to Josh
Howels like a bowl of cawl! Ach y fi!"
"Will he pay us as well? that's the thing!" said Nell; "for I've
heard tell he's a man who wants the penny and the pen'orth!"
"Perhaps indeed! shouldn't wonder; he is nearly related to his
father, and we all know what he was! But there's one good thing, we
sha'n't have to call Gwladys 'Mishtress' any more--Mishtress indeed!
with her airs and her pride. Ach y fi! shoes, if you please, instead
of clocs!" and, with another expressive "ach y fi," she flung a
garment over the hedge so roughly as to tear it, thus adding to her
own irritation. "Madam's pride will come down now, Nell fâch; for
two women, whose grandfathers and great-grandfathers have lived at
Mwntseison, to have to say Mishtress to Nani Price's daughter is very
hard; for who was Nani Price's father, I should like to know?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Nell. "What does that matter? and, indeed,
I can't say I have seen any pride in the Mishtress."
"Oh, dir anwl!" said Sara spitefully, "who could show pride to a
poor, humble creature like thee. I have seen how thou hast flattered
and fawned upon her; but I don't think thy porridge will be any the
thicker for it. As for me, I never cringe to anyone. I can hold up
my head with anyone in the village. My father was never suspected of
sheep-stealing, and my uncle's wife's brother never had occasion to
keep accounts to satisfy his master. No! nor my mother never
promised to make a quilt for four shillings, and then charge six
shillings for it!"
This last thrust, alluding to something that was within Nell's
memories, was unbearable.
"Dost dare to say that my father stole sheep?" she said, with arms
akimbo, and looking with flashing eyes across the broom hedge. "Dost
dare to say my uncle's wife's brother stole his master's money? I'll
have the law upon thee as sure as----"
"The law!" said Sara. "I defy the law, and thee into the bargain! I
never _said_ thy father stole a sheep. I only said _my_ father never
did. No! and I'll tell thee another thing--_my_ daughter never
tripped on her way to the marriage market!"
At this last shaft, poor Nell was completely crushed, and finished
spreading out her flannels in silence, while Sara retired up the
garden with flying colours.
[1] Good-day!
[2] Longing.
[3] Girl.
[4] A drink made of fermented honey.
[5] "Heart to heart!"--A Druidical motto.
[6] Dear friends.