DOUBTS AND FEARS.
For some time after these events, a season of outward calm seemed to
reign over the Mishteer's household. Gwladys had taken her place in
the daily routine of life with courage and patience, and, leaning
upon Mari Vone's strength of character, kept up the role of happy
wife! She executed all her small duties with unswerving exactitude,
going out of her way to carry out the most trivial details; every
wifely duty was performed with apparently cheerful alacrity, and her
demeanour was perfect in its simulation of domestic happiness. She
almost deceived herself, but there were moments when the gnawing
giant of unrest within her threatened to overwhelm her new-born
strength and earnestness of purpose. She fought hard, and gained
comparative peace. At evening, when Mari left her, the long
tremulous pressure of her embrace alone expressed her gratitude; but
her friend knew well the sunken rocks that underlay the seemingly
smooth current of life under Hugh Morgan's roof.
Truth to tell, the even flow of her own life had been much disturbed
of late, and though she still attended to all her domestic duties
with the same stately calmness, it was not without a feeling of sore
trouble that she observed the change in Hugh's manner. Not only to
her, but to all around him, he appeared colder and more formal, much
absorbed in his own thoughts.
"Business, merch i!" he would explain sometimes, when, with a serious
wistfulness, Gwladys timidly rallied him.
Mari had again fallen into her old habit of leaving the house before
Hugh returned from the sail-shed in the evening, and as she always
went home before noon to prepare her uncle's cawl, many days went by
without her seeing Hugh.
"Thou must stand alone now, Gwladys fâch," she said one day, when her
friend demurred to her leaving her so early; "our house wants a
thorough clean-up. I must white-wash the stone at the garden gate,
and put some fresh red paint at the back of the big chimney, the
smoke has blackened it so."
"Yes, I suppose I must," said Gwladys, "and I shall have Hugh home
soon to cheer me up--I will be bright and nice, as thou art! I have
learnt a great deal in the last few weeks, and it has been all
through thee, Mari fâch! only, Mari," throwing away the stockings
which she was knitting, and clasping her knees, and looking up into
her face, if with less misery in her eyes, still with a look of
troubled thought, "only, I wish I was not walking along my path so
blindfolded. I dare not look to the right or left, but I keep
straight on, as thou hast advised me--to try and make Hugh happy! try
and make Hugh happy! Nothing else in my life, Mari; the last thing
at night and the first thing in the morning, it is my determination
and my wish and my prayer--and he is worthy of it all! I am
beginning to feel it, Mari--but will I ever be worthy of _him_?"
"Yes, yes," said her friend, "a brighter day will dawn for us all; we
must remind each other of that when the clouds are hanging low."
"Yes," answered Gwladys. "I am now going to prepare the tea.
Thinking is my enemy, which I must keep out of my life until I am an
old woman. Perhaps, then, when I am sitting here with my spectacles,
and knitting, I shall be able to think again."
"Fforwel, then," said Mari; "perhaps I will not come to-morrow till
afternoon." And she drew her shawl tightly around her and ran all
the way home, helped by the winter wind, which blew icily from the
sea.
Gwladys busied herself with her preparations for her husband's
evening meal, clattering the tea-things, humming at her work, and
making believe to be a busy housewife absorbed in her small duties;
and her attempts at cheerfulness were not without some measure of
success. But it was a fictitious and unreal calm, and one which she
was conscious might at any moment crumble into ruins. But for the
present her newly-formed resolutions kept her up; and as she tossed
the frizzling lightcakes on the griddle, she tried to hum an old
familiar tune, which had of late been a stranger to her lips.
It was at this moment that Hugh came in from the gusty twilight; he
heard the crooning song, and the sadness deepened in his face, and a
light shot into his eyes from some hidden spark of jealous suspicion.
"She's happy," he thought; "she has seen Ivor!" for during the
afternoon the latter had been absent from his work for an hour or so,
and Hugh had noted it and had wondered.
He closed the door when he entered, fighting rather testily with the
blustering sea-wind, which was accustomed to find easy access into
every part of the house. Doors were always left open at Mwntseison,
except in the stormiest weather or when a death had occurred, so
Gwladys looked up with astonishment.
"Gwen is coming down the road, and I thought thou wouldst be better
without her."
"Oh, yes--bolt it, bolt it!" she said, her colour coming and going.
"I am afraid of her."
"Well, I think we shall all be afraid of her soon," he said; and
while his wife placed a chair for him under the chimney, and drew the
round table near the fire, and piled his plate with the crisp
lightcakes, he explained to her his arrangements for sending Gwen to
the asylum.
"Poor thing, poor thing! but it will be best indeed. I will be glad
when thou art with me always, Hugh. 'Tis nervous work to be alone
all day, while she haunts the village like a grey ghost."
"Hast had no company to-day, then?" said Hugh, with a searching
glance. "Hast not been out?"
"Yes, as far as mother's; but I did not meet Gwen."
Hugh was silent, and Gwladys' spirits flagged a little. She was
conscious of some brooding thought in his mind, and with her
continued feeling of guilt and self-upbraiding, she became nervously
silent too.
The next day, in the sail-shed, Hugh was gloomy and pre-occupied, and
Ivor Parry observed it with sorrow. He, too, was full of troubled
thoughts. To lose Gwladys was a bitter trial; but what a solace it
would have been could he have kept Hugh's friendship--this man whom
he had loved and almost worshipped. But now he realised the truth
that, in the nature of things, such a solace was impossible. They
must walk along the road of life apart, and it were well that the
severance should be soon and complete. Even to-morrow he hoped to
leave the sail-shed, with all its lingering associations of happiness
and sorrow; and, when five o'clock came, he remained alone, making
some final arrangements which would facilitate the winding up of the
Mishteer's affairs. He had not noticed that Hugh had not left with
his workmen as usual. In truth, the latter was now sitting before
his desk in the little office, whose badly-fitting door let in
between its gaping boards a full view of the shed.
The evening shades were fast darkening the old room, and Ivor Parry
had lighted a lamp, whose glimmering beams showed up the rafters, the
coils of rope, and the other impedimenta scattered about the floor.
Hugh, sitting at his desk in the darkness, could see the whole scene
through the chinks in the half-open door, and he gazed silently at
Ivor's manly form now stooping to re-arrange something on the floor,
now stretching to reach something from the rafters; and his heart
ached with a dull longing for the time that was past, for the
friendship which had filled his life more than he knew at the time,
and, if the truth must be told, for the old days before his passion
for Gwladys had enslaved him. Those days could never return. He had
bowed his neck to the yoke, and henceforth she must be his first care
and thought; and how easy and how sweet this would have been, if
only--and he brooded there in the darkness with mournful eyes and a
heavy heart.
Suddenly there was a step at the door of the sail-shed, a finger
raised the latch, the door was pushed open, and Gwladys entered.
Hugh trembled in every nerve, and watched eagerly what would happen.
For a moment, her only thought seemed to be to shut out the
boisterous sea-wind, which was swirling outside the door; then she
threw back the hood of her cloak, and looked in astonishment, while
Ivor Parry, no less taken by surprise, lifted himself up from a bale
of sail upon which he had been kneeling. Gwladys involuntarily
clutched her hand to her side, while Ivor stood straight before her,
with both arms hanging down beside him. Hugh's black eyes never
swerved in their keen glance; it never struck him that he was acting
dishonourably; his suspicious anxiety seemed to have smothered every
other feeling, as he sat there peering at the unconscious actors in
the scene before him. A crimson flush spread over Gwladys' face and
neck and forehead; but Ivor was pale as death. Neither spoke for
some time. Her breath came and went in little fluttering gasps.
Ivor was the first to regain his self-possession, and Hugh strained
every nerve to listen.
"Well, Mishtress, how art thou?"
"I only came," said Gwladys, ignoring his question, "to fetch Hugh's
coat, and to look for him. He has not come home."
"They have all left," said Ivor, glancing into the darkness of the
little office. "I have only stayed on a bit to make things more
plain for the Mishteer--I am going to-morrow."
"Yes," was all her answer, while her head drooped, and she nervously
and unconsciously slipped her ring up and down her finger. She
seemed suddenly anxious to get away, and, turning hurriedly to the
peg on which a coat of Hugh's was hanging, said, "I want it to darn."
The peg was just above her reach, so she sprang a little from the
ground, and succeeded in dislodging the coat from its hook, but in
doing so caught the wrist-band of her jacket in its place, and hung,
with toes just reaching the ground, in a helpless and uncomfortable
position, trying with her left hand to loosen the wrist-band from the
hook--an object which the weight of her body frustrated. Ivor's
first impulse was to rush to her assistance, and every pulse in his
body throbbed with the desire once more to hold her in his grasp; but
his arms again dropped down, and he turned resolutely to a coil of
ropes, and, dragging it within reach of her feet, said:
"Stand on this, Mishtress."
His white set face and his trembling voice were the only signs of the
storm that raged within him; but they sufficed to make plain to
Gwladys, as well as to the silent watcher behind the half-closed
doors of the office, the strong curb which he was placing upon his
feelings.
Gwladys stepped off the coil of ropes, stood a moment, trembling and
blinded with her tears.
"That nasty hook has shaken thee," said Ivor; and she made no answer,
but, stooping to pick up the coat, gulped down a sob which Ivor and
Hugh distinctly heard.
"Fforwel, then!" she said, turning back for a moment as she reached
the door. "I wish thee well at the mill, Ivor Parry." And she
passed out into the night wind.
"Fforwel, Mishtress!" caught her ear as she went.
For a few minutes, Ivor stood with folded arms, looking after her
into the darkness, and then sitting down on the bale upon which he
had been at work, a great sob shook his frame, too, and it was with a
veritable groan of distress that he once more rose and applied
himself energetically to his work.
In the darkened office Hugh still sat on; but his head was bowed upon
his hands. A feeling of humility, never quite a stranger to his
noble heart, tinged the bitter thoughts which occupied the silent
half-hour which passed before Ivor Parry extinguished his lamp and
left the sail-shed, locking the door behind him. Then Hugh rose, and
letting himself out through a small door from his office, walked
homeward through the blustering gale which swept up the village road.
Gwladys looked up from her knitting as he entered the house with
relief, and, rising to meet her husband, placed a trembling hand on
his arm.
"Hugh, where have you been? you are so late! I would be frightened,
indeed, only I know you have much to do to settle things before you
give up."
"Yes, business, merch i; I am not often late for meals--too good an
appetite for that, Gwladys; and you cook them too nicely for that!
What have you for supper? Something good, I can tell by the smell."
And he rattled on to hide the embarrassment which he saw in Gwladys'
face.
"Yes, fried herrings and onions; you like them, don't you?" she said,
with a wistful anxiety to please, very touching to Hugh in his
present mood of self-reproach; "and a white loaf Madlen has made for
thee."
"Supper then, and business to the winds!" said Hugh cheerfully.
"Come and sit down, merch i, or the board will not be full."
"I went to look for thee," said Gwladys, sitting down opposite him at
the small table, "but there was no one in the sail-shed except Ivor
Parry."
"Perhaps indeed!" answered Hugh, with simulated indifference; "I
suppose he had some last arrangements to make; he is going to-morrow."
"Yes, he told me." And with the relief of having been perfectly
open, Gwladys ate her supper, and talked with more ease and
cheerfulness than she had shown at first.
Hugh hastened to change the subject, and with tender thoughtfulness
took more than his share of the conversation all the evening. If
there was one good trait stronger than another in his character, it
was justice. Before all things, Hugh Morgan had been a "just" man;
and there was growing in his heart, where at first anger and
suspicion had held their own, a strong feeling of admiration for
these two--his friend and his wife--who had met under his own eyes,
where nothing but their honourable natures restrained them, where
they thought no eye was upon them to mark a loving look, no ear to
hear a tender farewell, no tongue of scandal to blame them, and yet
had come forth immaculate, spotless, blameless, from the trial. He
doubted whether he himself would have passed scathless through the
temptation, and the nobility of his soul responded to the perfect
freedom from guile, which he had seen in the interview between Ivor
and Gwladys. It was not to be wondered at, therefore, if, in the
days following, his voice, his manner, his actions towards his young
wife bore the stamp of a more than usually gentle and chivalrous
homage. It fell on Gwladys' perturbed spirit like a tonic, bracing
her for still more strenuous efforts to keep in the difficult path on
which she had entered. And so outward calm and peace brooded over
the Mishteer's cottage, for within it were two beings, who, though
the glamour and beauty of life were denied them, yet walked
courageously on with open brow and steadfast feet, looking neither to
the right nor to the left, but simply to the endeavour to do their
part nobly in the battle of life.
To Mwntseison also had returned a season of calm. Its inhabitants
had latterly been considerably uplifted, not to say inflated, by the
evident personal notice accorded to them by Providence! Gwen's
bidding, with the unheard-of generosity of the donors, had been like
a pleasant fillip to the lethargic tendency of the rural mind, had
stimulated and whetted their appetites for more sensations, so that
the Mishtress's narrow escape had been received with much
appreciation.
"Yes, yes," said 'n'wncwl Jos; "there's many things in Mwntseison
which you won't find in any other village along the bay. Look at
Aberython and Clidwen; and there's Treswnd and Abermere! Is there a
man like the Mishteer in one of those places?"
"No! Nor a woman like Mari Vone neither!" said a burly sailor.
"No, no!" said 'n'wncwl Jos again; "there's no doubt the Almighty
keeps His eye on us, 'cos look at Lallo's pig now!"
"Well, it seems to me," said Shoni, the blacksmith, who was always
inclined to be irreverent, "that He wasn't watching very closely when
Gwen did that nasty trick!"
"Wasn't He, then!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, stumping violently with his
wooden leg. "What was to prevent her killing her mother instead of
the pig? If poor Gwen felt she must kill something, what could be
better than the pig?"
"What, indeed?" said everybody; "for though he was hurried away
rather (not so long, too! for he was to be killed in a month), he is
as well salted and dried as any pig ever was, and lying safe in sides
and hams on the shelves in Rhys Thomas's shop."
"Ach y fi! I won't touch that bacon whatever," said Nell.
"And look at Ivor Parry, brought safe from the sea and the fever.
Oh, yes, caton pawb! it's as plain as the day. Mwntseison is well
looked after!"
And there were many of the young and frivolous who wished for a few
more sensations, since it was evident that they brought them no harm.
"When is Gwen going to the 'sayloom?" said Shoni-go.[1] "She was
screaming and laughing like a mad thing, as she is, last night, and
flying like a partridge over the cliffs, her arms spread out, and her
toes just touching the ground. Diwedd anwl! my heart nearly leapt
out of my body when I heard her!"
"Yes," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "the Mishteer will see to it soon."
But a greater excitement than Gwen's madness was hanging over the
village, for in a day or two the astounding news was spread abroad
that 'n'wncwl Jos was ill. 'N'wncwl Jos! who had never been known to
suffer an ache or a pain, except, indeed, the rheumatic twinges which
he declared he still felt in the leg which was buried in Glasgow!
'N'wncwl Jos, who, though not wanting in sympathy, still tinged his
expressions thereof with a slight tone of blame, as though sickness
was invariably "somebody's" fault. And the strongest man in
Mwntseison felt his tenure of life uncertain.
"Caton pawb! what's the matter with him?"
"Flammashwn! Never been well since he jumped into the sea after the
Mishteer, when he kept his wet clothes on all day, though he won't
confess it," said Dye Pentraeth; and the whole village was in a state
of ferment, and Mari Vone was besieged by condoling friends.
The invalid at first fought valiantly with his sickness, declaring he
would be all right in a day or two. The doctor shook his head, and
hour by hour 'n'wncwl Jos grew worse, but still continued to crack
his jokes when a moment's cessation from pain enabled him to do so.
"Oh, go 'long with you, Nell Jones," he said, when that worthy woman
came in with what she considered an appropriate expression of
countenance. "Go 'long with you, Nell, and don't pull a long face
here; I've bin a deal worse than this! Why! at Glasgow, when I lost
my leg, I came to myself when they were carrying me from the docks to
the hospital. I didn't know where I was in that straight, narrow
thing--'a stretcher' they call it in English--and raised my head to
see, and there I was being carried by four men, and a long tail of
boys, and men, and women running after me. 'Jâr-i,' sez I to myself,
'I never thought I should see my own funeral!' Well, in three weeks,
I was out of the hospital, and--and--let me see--where's my wooden
leg? I want to go down to the shore; there's a boat coming in----"
and he rambled away in delirium, and in spite of his plucky spirit,
his sickness conquered him, and for many days he lay at the point of
death.
Then came the time when the warmth and tenderness of the Welsh hearts
were shown--not a man, woman, or child who did not feel a personal
sorrow. They took it in turns to watch through the long nights at
the sick man's bed, with eager interest anticipating every want, and
endeavouring to make Mari Vone's burden lighter. From every farm in
the neighbourhood came presents of milk and eggs. The sailors
brought high-shouldered bottles of Hollands and Schnapps; the
fishermen dared the storms to procure fish; and even the children
brought eggs or apples for Mari. Gwladys was a frequent visitor; and
Hugh often sat beside the sick man, whose illness he felt was due to
his faithful, though rash, devotion to himself. His presence seemed
to have a soothing effect upon 'n'wncwl Jos; the excited, delirious
talk would quiet down to a low rambling, even to a pleasant recalling
of youthful days of merriment, and Mari Vone learned once more to
welcome the sound of Hugh's footsteps as he approached the cottage
door.
One afternoon, while Hugh sat beside him, the old man fell into a
calm, refreshing sleep, a sleep that had been anxiously watched for
by Dr. Hughes, but which seemed dangerously long delayed. Hugh knew
the importance of this sleep, and, nodding to Mari, said quietly, "Go
and rest thyself, I will watch till he wakes;" and she had gone
thankfully, and resting on her own bed, the tension of the long
anxiety was relaxed, and the drooping eyelids were fast closed in as
heavy and refreshing a sleep as 'n'wncwl Jos's.
Through the broad, gaping hinges of the tar-painted bedroom door,
standing half open, Hugh, as he sat there motionless, holding the
sick man's hand, could see into the cosy penisha, and out through the
open doorway into the road. It was one of those calm, sunny days
which sometimes visit us in November. The sound of the sea filled
the air, the click of Shoni-go's anvil, and the voices of the
children at play on the beach, came on the breeze. Hugh sat on
quietly dreaming, letting his thoughts roam uncurbed over the events
of his past life. He remembered how, in the days gone by, he had
crossed the threshold of this cottage with the ecstatic buoyancy of a
lover, not unmixed with the reverence of a worshipper who enters the
shrine which contains his idol. Certainly he had loved Mari Vone
with a depth and intensity which he thought neither time nor eternity
had power to annihilate. "Neither has it," he thought, "it is only
altered. I am a married man now, and Gwladys has my love, my
respect, my tender pity; but there is a bond which links me to Mari
Vone, so pure, so strong, so enduring, that I fear not to lay it
before God, and to ask His blessing upon it."
At this moment a shadow darkened the outer doorway, and a light
footstep (everyone walked gingerly there now) came into the kitchen.
Hugh raised his eyes, and a pleased, indulgent look came over his
face as he saw through the crack that it was Gwladys. "The little
one, bless her!" he thought, but he made no movement; and Gwladys,
noticing the restful quiet in the house, the cessation of the
rambling voice in the sick-room, guessed at once that the hoped-for
sleep had come, and prepared to leave on tip-toe. She stood a moment
at the table, laying down a bowl of curds and milk which she had
brought for Mari, and at that instant another figure darkened the
doorway, and raising her finger to her lips to enforce silence, she
saw Ivor Parry enter silently. Hugh saw it all, too, and found it
difficult to keep his hand quietly on 'n'wncwl Jos's. For a moment,
as before, the two who confronted each other in the kitchen stood
embarrassed and silent; but Gwladys first regained her composure, and
in a whisper, which Hugh's quick ear caught distinctly, said:
"'N'wncwl Jos is asleep, I think."
"I am glad," said Ivor; "that is good news. I could not let another
day pass without coming to ask for him. I am going back at once."
"You had better stay," said Gwladys, "till Mari comes out. I am
going."
Ivor nodded silently, and Gwladys passed out into the sunshine. Left
alone, he drew his hand over his face as if awaking from a dream, and
Hugh watched him gravely. Suddenly a light gleamed in his eyes, a
flush overspread his face, and looking round like a thief who espies
a treasure, he stretched out his hand to the table, and clutched a
bunch of sea-pinks which had fallen from the folds of Gwladys'
neckerchief. Hugh had noticed them there when she entered. For a
moment Ivor looked at them, then pressed them to his lips before
thrusting them inside the breast of his coat. He stood a few moments
in silent thought, and then left the house.
In the inner room, Hugh still watched with troubled eyes; but the
hand which held the sick man's remained firm and unmoved, and
'n'wncwl Jos slept on.
[1] Blacksmith.