THE MILL.
Round the old mill at Traeth Berwen the night wind sighed and moaned,
as it always did here at the opening of the narrow valley. Even in
the hot summer days, when the cattle sought the shade, and the
flowers drooped languidly, there was always a breeze blowing up or
down the cwm, and to-night it blew in gusts round every gable of the
old building, shaking the ricketty shutters, and brushing the
overhanging ivy against the window panes. Inside, however, there was
no sign of anything but comfort and cheerfulness. On the stone
hearth in the large kitchen a bright fire glowed, on which a huge log
had just been thrown, a crowd of crackling sparks and blue smoke flew
up the wide open chimney, and the ruddy glow brought into relief the
numerous pegs and stakes driven into its brown smoked walls, for the
suspension of future flitches and hams when Ivor Parry should have
become more settled into his domestic menage. At present it was
empty, and as Ivor and his friend Robert the miller sat well under
its shade, they could look straight up its wattled walls to the night
sky above, where a bright star shone down upon them. On a small
table beside them stood a quaint brown jug of ale, accompanied by two
"blues"; they smoked in silence, while Acsa clattered her pails and
wooden shoes in the background. She had lived there all her life, at
least from childhood, as maid-of-all-work to Robert and his family,
and had been taken over by Ivor Parry as part of the furniture.
Indeed, to have separated Acsa from the mill would have been a
difficult task. Robert had attempted it once, when some of her
wilful ways had tried the good-wife beyond endurance; but she had
howled and cried like a beaten dog, and had stayed starving and cold
about the precincts of the mill so pertinaciously, that she was at
last allowed to re-enter, to the delight of the children, and to the
secret satisfaction of the miller and his wife, who had missed her
faithful service. No one had ever tried to eject her again, so here
she was to-night, perfectly satisfied to click clack about in her
wooden shoes, in and out of the brown shadows, scraping the potatoes,
cleaning the shoes, scouring the brass pans and the pails, without a
thought of any reward, except the small pittance of wages which she
always received with humble gratitude and a bob curtesy on the 11th
of November, this being the day appointed all through Cardiganshire
for the ending and beginning of a year of domestic service.
Robert had come down for a smoke and a chat with his successor at the
mill, and they had apparently exhausted every topic of interest, for
they puffed long in silence. Suddenly a weird wailing sound came
down the chimney, and both men looked up at the shining star above
them, while Acsa exclaimed, "Ach y fi!"
"What is it?" said Ivor, listening with his pipe in his hand; and
again on the night wind came the long-drawn mournful tones of a
woman's voice, who sang some old-world melody with a wild refrain.
"Mark my word, 'tis that Gwen Owen again!" said Robert, "that mad
woman from Mwntseison; she has taken to coming here lately, and sits
on the edge of the cliffs, always at night, and always singing the
same tune. I am beginning to know it quite well; indeed, I think I
must have heard my mother sing it, and I believe she called it a
Witch Song."
"I seem to know it, too," said Ivor. "Let us go out and listen."
"Howyr bâch," said Acsa, "there's foolish you are to tempt the
Almighty like that! when He has given you a warm kitchen to sit in,
you go wilfully out to listen to a witch tune! Take care she doesn't
draw you away with it; she is Peggi Shân's grand-daughter, and you
know, Robert the Mill, that your own uncle Simon was drawn by her
singing out there on her father's smack, till he was lost in the fog
and drowned! Ach y fi! don't venture."
"Twt, twt," said Robert, "she's far enough from us here." And he
slipped back the wooden bolt and opened the door.
"Shut it after you, then!" screamed Acsa, "for I won't let the tune
in here; but, oh! there it is in the chimney again!" And she set
herself to her scrubbing to deaden the weird sounds.
Outside Robert and Ivor listened, while full and clear on the
night-wind came Gwen's voice, sometimes in a low, soft, wailing tone,
almost lost on the breeze; sometimes rising as if in tones of
entreaty; at other times in passionate words that almost ended in a
shriek.
"Caton pawb!" said Ivor, "she is madder than I thought she was!" And,
as a large white owl flitted silently by them, the two men started
nervously.
"It's enough to make one's blood run cold. There! do you hear the
crows? She has startled them from their nests on the cliffs."
"Poor Gwen!" said Ivor. "I never thought she would come to this.
Let us go near her and hear what she says."
And up the side of the bank they went on the soft turf, until, on
reaching the top, they saw Gwen standing on the very edge of the
cliff, with arms outspread, and gesticulating wildly, singing, and
sometimes talking.
"Oh, winds and waves and flames,
I call you by your names,
North, South, East, West,
Hither come, do my behest,
And hasten now to help me!"
They were close to her, but hidden by one of the many boulders
scattered about the greensward.
"How she repeats that verse," said Ivor. "I am afraid of her,
Robert--not for myself, but for some of them at Mwntseison. She
means to do some mischief with her waves and her winds and her
flames. Listen! she is talking."
"Oh, yes, night-wind, I hear you, I know what you are saying--'Be
ready, Gwen--be ready, Gwen! and we will help you.' Hush!" and, with
her finger raised, she bent over the cliff until the strong men
shuddered with fear. "Hush! 'tis the sea; I hear you whispering 'Be
ready, Gwen--be ready, Gwen!' but you are worthless! bant a
chi[1]--bant a chi! I have a better friend than you, though he is
not here to-night," and turning round she caught sight of a shower of
sparks which rose from the mill chimney. "Yes, he is--yes, he is!"
she screamed, clapping her hands and dancing with delight; "there are
his signs!" and she burst into the wild refrain of her weird song
once more:--
"Come flames of yellow, red, and blue,
Help! for you are my servants true."
"Good-night," she said, waving her hands towards the old mill, "I
understand your message; I will be there, and you will be there."
And, turning, she fled back towards Mwntseison, as Shoni-go had said,
"like a partridge," with arms spread out, her grey shawl held like
wings, and her toes scarce touching the ground.
Ivor and Robert came slowly out of the shadow of the rock.
"Jâr-i!" said the latter, "I thought the witches were dead; but, God
save us, we have heard one sing to-night."
"Poor Gwen," said Ivor, remembering many a kindness which she had
shown him before she had married Siencyn Owen, "she's no witch, only
a poor misguided woman, whose life has turned sour, like milk in a
thunderstorm. Remember she was brought up by that uncanny old sinner
Peggi Shân, and now it pleases her to think she has the same 'hysbys'
nature."
"Perhaps she has," said Robert, "for such things are."
"Perhaps indeed," said Ivor. "Anyway, she can do mischief, and I
must keep an eye on Mistress Gwen."
And they returned to the mill, where Acsa let them in with a sense of
relief.
"Another glass of beer before you start?" said Ivor.
"Well, yes, indeed, and another whiff; that tune has given me a
shiver. Ach y fi!" said Robert, taking up his long clay pipe once
more. "I am glad to see thee so comfortable, Ivor. 'Tis a wife thou
wilt want most here now. Come up to Blaensethin, lad, and see my
three pretty daughters; perhaps one will suit thy fancy."
"Perhaps indeed," said Ivor. "I have heard they are so pretty 'tis
wiser to keep away; but I am safe, for a wife is a piece of furniture
that the old mill will have to do without as long as I live. I am
born to be an old bachelor."
"Twt, twt," said Robert, rising, "come up to see us on Monday, and we
will go to Elinor Pugh's bidding together, and let's see if we can't
knock the old bachelor out of thee."
"Well, I won't promise; but we shall see," said Ivor. "Nos da!"
"Nos da!" shouted Robert, taking the opposite direction to that along
which Gwen had flown homewards.
Ivor pondered long, lying awake in his bed and listening to the
sighing of the wind and the swish, swish of the waves on the beach
below the mill. No other sound broke the silence of the night except
the "to-whit, to-hoo" of the white owl who sat in the ivied tower of
the old church higher up the valley.
All next day he was too busy for much thought, for, with the early
dawn, the carts came down the hills from one of the farms on the
uplands. He heard the merry crack of the whip and the lively whistle
of the carters, while he donned his mealy garments, and, looking
through his ivy-curtained window, he saw the brilliant scarlet and
blue carts come lumbering down the hill, making a bright bit of
colouring in the leaden winter landscape.
He hurried down to open the big door, and to pull up the dam-board
from the leet, turning the water full on the cumbrous wooden wheel,
for he would not have it said that "the new miller was caught
napping," and before eight o'clock the mill was filled with the sound
of the grinding and crushing of the big millstones, the clap, clap of
the wheel, and the musical rushing of the Berwen as it poured and
trickled through the rude machinery.
The empty carts returned up the hill, to come again in the evening,
when the new corn and oats had been ground into the sweet brown flour
and delicious oatmeal, in readiness for the barley loaves and
oat-cakes of the farm.
One of the men servants and two jolly lasses stayed in the mill, and
shouted their jokes and chaff at each other through the noise.
Ivor, on his mettle, worked with a will, grinding the corn, and
endeavouring to show that the old Melin Berwen had still a thorough
and a jolly miller at the head of affairs. He joined in the merry
laughter and talk, which helped on the work of the day; but through
it all the memory of Gwen's wild song haunted him, and, mingled with
the whirring and rushing of the mill, he seemed to hear the tones of
the refrain:
"Come, flames of yellow, red, and blue,
Help; for you are my servants true!"
When at last the meal had been tied into the sacks and the brilliant
blue and red cortége returned up the hill with whistling and shouting
and laughter, Ivor climbed up the ricketty stairs, and changed his
mealy clothes for his usual half-sailor garb. As soon as his tea was
over he turned his face in the grey of the evening towards
Mwntseison. It was almost dark when he reached the village, and he
was puzzled where to begin his search for Gwen. "In her own home?
No! that would set her on her guard! Where he most dreaded to find
her--in Gwladys' home? No! there he must not enter!"
Mari Vone's white-walled cottage was the first to appear through the
twilight.
"Of course!" he said, "I want to know how 'n'wncwl Jos is."
He listened at the open door for a minute to the sound of voices
within. No! Gwladys' clear tones were not there; but 'n'wncwl Jos's
"Hegh! hegh! hegh!" was distinctly to be heard.
"Hello!" he said, in a cheery voice as he entered, "no need to ask
how the sick man is!"
Mari placed a chair for him by her uncle's side, who was bubbling
over with tales and laughter, his wooden leg once more in its proper
place, and the usual quid of tobacco in his cheek.
"Hooray, mach-geni! there's glad I am to see thee! Wel wyr! they
have been nearly killing me here with their pills and their draughts
and things; but old 'n'wncwl Jos has diddled them all this time!" And
with a poke in Ivor's ribs, he laughed and stumped with something
like his old jollity.
"Don't listen to him, Ivor bâch!" said Mari; "thee know'st him of
old. There never was a man more ready to take his physic, so anxious
he was to get well; not a pill nor a draught would he miss, and all
day he watched that clock to keep me up to time with his doses!"
"Listen not to her, lad," said 'n'wncwl Jos, rather shamefaced;
"she's a woman, and they always know how 'to change the feather to
the colour of the river.' And how dost get on at Melyn Berwen?"
"Oh, very well so far!"
"Don't thee take too much toll now," said the old man, with another
nudge. "Mari's got two Winchesters of barley for thee to grind next
week."
"Da iawn![2] and how does Mwntseison get on without me? How is Gwen?"
"Oh, indeed, better, I think," said Mari, throwing a fresh log on the
fire; "she does not wander about the village so much--goes over the
cliffs and speaks to no one. Hugh Morgan thinks it is a pity to put
her into an asylum just yet, while she is so quiet."
"Clap her in! clap her in!" said 'n'wncwl Jos; "she'll be safe there,
that's my advice."
"Well, indeed, it seems cruel to say so; but I think so, too," Ivor
answered; and he proceeded to tell them of her eccentric behaviour on
the cliffs the previous night, and the uncanny nature of her song.
Mari Vone laughed heartily; looking up from her knitting, she said:
"Why, Ivor bâch, hast forgotten thy childhood completely? Dost not
remember that old game? Why, we played it in a ring on the sands in
the summer evenings, singing those words all the time. Every child
in Mwntseison knows it!"
"Well, b'tshwr!" said Ivor; "what a ffwlcyn[3] I was! Well, indeed,
I thought it seemed familiar to me somehow; and Robert Owen, too,
said he thought he had heard it somewhere."
'N'wncwl Jos was extremely amused.
"Well, there's two fools you were! 'There's a pair of you,' as the
devil said to his wooden shoes."
Ivor joined in the laugh, and felt relieved by the discovery of his
mistake, more particularly when Gwen herself entered the house
suddenly and silently. She stood a moment, with her white face and
piercing eyes half hidden under the shade of her grey shawl. A
silence fell upon them as they encountered her cold stare, and Ivor
was the first to speak.
"Well, Gwen fâch!" he said kindly; "and how art thou and Lallo?"
"I am quite well, Ivor Parry, and my mother is quite well. How art
getting on at the mill?" And without waiting for an answer, she went
quietly away.
"We can't call that woman mad enough for an asylum, poor thing!" said
Mari.
"I say, clap her in!" said 'n'wncwl Jos; "she'll be safe there. Clap
her in!"
"Well, she seemed quiet enough to-night, and sensible. Perhaps I
have been too easily frightened," said Ivor. "Wilt promise me, Mari,
to send over to the mill if she shows any signs of mischief?"
"I promise."
"Then good-night," said Ivor; "I was a fool not to know the old game
song."
As he passed Gwen's cottage, Lallo stood at the door.
"Well, I am glad," she said, "that thou hast not quite left us, Ivor
Parry. Come in, come in, and have a chat, for I am all alone."
"Where is Gwen, then--and how is she?"
"Oh, she's better--very quiet indeed, and gone to bed."
"Da iawn!" said Ivor, "that is good news." And making the lateness
of the hour an excuse for not entering, he returned over the cliffs
to Traeth Berwen.
Acsa was still up when he entered the mill kitchen, stooping over the
fire and crooning an old Welsh hymn. With an oar-shaped porridge
spoon, she stirred the "bwdran" which babbled in the iron pot hanging
from a chain in the chimney. In her quaint Welsh costume, a red
cotton handkerchief tied under her chin, her hard-featured face
catching the light of the glowing fire, she looked like a witch who
stirs the broth in her cauldron.
"Caton pawb, woman," said Ivor, as he entered and bolted the door,
"why art not in bed? I wish I had one of those new machines for
taking pictures--I believe I would make my fortune by selling a few
of thee, sitting there over thy bwdran in the peat smoke."
Acsa laughed, and disclosed a toothless upper gum.
"Do then, indeed," she said--"'twould be the first time old Acsa had
been of use to anyone."
"Oh, halt there," said Ivor, sitting down to his supper. "I don't
know how I should get on here without thee. Give me a bowl of
bwdran."
"Well," she said good-naturedly, as she laid the steaming bowl before
him, "I am a good watch-dog; I can watch my master's property as well
as any policeman, and as for the foxes--they find me much too sharp
for them. Never a fowl can they get from Berwen Mill." And she
mumbled on while Ivor hurried through his supper, and, leaving her
still clattering amongst her pans and dishes, went to bed, and
quickly to sleep.
He had not slept more than an hour or so, when Acsa, as if to
maintain her character of "watch-dog," thumped at his bedroom door.
"Mishteer, there's a strange light in the sky--a fire in Mwntseison,
I think."
"A fire in Mwntseison!" And almost before she had spoken the words,
Ivor was up, and hurrying on his clothes. "A fire in Mwntseison!
Had he not dreaded it, pictured it?--was he not even dreaming of it
when Acsa gave the alarm?"
While he dressed he looked out at the sky, and over the brow of the
hill before him; the glow reddened and spread. He was quickly
crossing the yard and climbing up the rugged path to the cliffs; and
having reached the top, he ran with breathless speed towards the
village, every moment nearing the crimson glow, now mixed with
sparks, which illumined the sky before him.
A few hours earlier, just as Ivor was entering Mwntseison and
hesitating as to where he should begin his search for Gwen, Hugh
Morgan and his wife sat down to their comfortable tea together, while
Madlen hovered about, or drank her tea on a bench under the chimney,
helping herself from her own special tea-pot, which sat snugly in the
embers on the hearth.
"There's quiet the village is, now that Gwen Owen is better," she
said. "Indeed it is heaven upon earth not to hear her screaming and
laughing. Lallo will be glad she didn't send her to the 'sayloom."
"Yes, poor thing," said Hugh; "I am very thankful I have been saved
that horrid job. 'Twould have gone hard with me to take one of our
village lasses to that big grey building at Caer Madoc. It always
gives me a shudder when I pass it, though I never had a relation
there; hadst thou, Gwladys?"
"No, indeed, as far as I know, whatever; but I can't bear to see it,
too, so many of our friends are there, poor things. Poor Laissabeth
Davies, whose two sons were drowned together."
"And Sianco, the lobster man," said Hugh.
"Yes, and Nell who used to paddle with me; poor Nell."
"Ach y fi! yes," said Madlen from her chimney corner; "and there's
two or three more from Mwntseison would be locked up there if their
friends were not so quiet about them."
"Perhaps they would be better off in the 'sayloom," said Gwladys.
"Indeed, I thought so to-day when I passed poor Reuben Pentraeth's
window at the back of his mother's house all boarded up. It must be
so dark inside, with only those chinks to let in the light. I often
hear him singing when I pass."
"Yes, he doesn't lose his fine voice," said Hugh, rising; "it makes
my heart ache to hear him. But I must go, merch i; I daresay I will
be late coming home to-night, for I have my last accounts to make up.
Everything will be finished to-night, and to-morrow Josh Howels and I
will sign our names to the contract; and then good-bye to the old
sail-shed for ever. Don't sit up for me, merch i. Leave the door on
the latch."
"Oh, anwl! I'm afraid of Gwen, Hugh."
"No, go to bed, Mishtress," said Madlen. "I will be up with the
brewing till four o'clock, and I will let the Mishteer in."
And with a pleasant nod Hugh Morgan left the house. It requires
nothing less than a death, or a parting for years, to make a Welsh
husband kiss his wife before stranger eyes.
Gwladys, when she had finished her own part of the brewing, went to
bed and to sleep, while Hugh sat over his accounts in the sail-shed
until his candle burnt low and the last column was added up. Then,
with a satisfied "There!" he pushed the book away from him, and
leaning back in his chair, fell into a heavy sleep, quite unconscious
that a grey, ghost-like figure hovered round and round the old
sail-shed, sometimes pressing her ear to the keyhole, sometimes
peering in through the tiny window of the office; making no sound on
the soft turf that crept up close to the boarded walls of the shed,
for she carried her wooden shoes in her hand while she watched the
busy man bending over his accounts, and at last, in healthy fatigue,
throwing himself back for a refreshing sleep. Yes! so heavily Hugh
Morgan slept, that he did not hear the creeping footsteps outside,
nor yet the crackling of burning wood around him, nor smelt the
sickening fumes from burning sails and ropes, which served to deaden
his oppressed senses.
When Ivor Parry, "with his breath in his throat," reached the burning
building, he found the whole population of Mwntseison gathered round
it, everyone eager to help, but all paralysed by the horror of the
scene. Where was the Mishteer? he who would have been foremost in
helping and directing the surging crowd; his absence took the nerve
and pluck out of everybody, and the fear that he might be in the shed
intensified the excitement.
Gwladys, overcome by terror, lay swooning in her mother's arms. She
opened her eyes when Ivor's voice reached her ears.
"Save him, Ivor, thy friend! save him if thou lov'st me!"
Her mother, who overheard her words, looked round in affright, lest
any other ear should have caught the frenzied accents.
Ivor was gone in a moment. Leaving the crowd, he passed round to the
back of the shed where the little office was situated, and which the
flames had not yet reached. One woman was already there. It was
Mari Vone, who, in frantic excitement, dragged at the boards which
formed the walls of the building. Her whole being seemed centred in
the effort to break a way into the office. Ivor wasted no time in
words, but joined her at once in her mad tearing at the boards, and
with his additional strength, one at length gave way, and in a few
seconds a hole large enough to pass through rewarded their efforts.
A column of smoke rushed with such fury through the opening that, for
a moment, both were thrown back. But, not to be beaten, Ivor pressed
in through the blinding smoke, followed closely by Mari. They heard
the shouts and cheers of a small portion of the crowd, who had now
assembled on that side of the building and watched their efforts; but
there was no time for thought, for fear, or for conjecture; only one
mad impulse, to search on the ground while their breath lasted. Not
at the desk! not at the cupboard! Even at that moment of strained
suspense the memory of a tune passed through Ivor's brain.
"Come, flames of yellow, red, and blue,
Help! for you are my servants true!"
Stumbling at the door, he stooped, Mari with him, and felt the
Mishteer's body lying prone across the threshold. A heavy beam lay
over his chest; his feet and legs were already licked by the curling
flames; while his head and shoulders lay within the little office.
Ivor saw or felt the situation at once, and Mari, whose busy fingers
groped with his in the smoke, understood it, too. With almost
superhuman strength, he lifted the heavy beam, while Mari dragged
Hugh gently, but firmly, away from its crushing weight.
The density of the smoke was not quite so great on the floor as it
was higher up, and to this fact Hugh Morgan hitherto owed his life.
He was quickly carried to the breach in the wall, which willing hands
had enlarged during the few seconds occupied in his deliverance, and,
when Ivor and Mari emerged with their silent burden, a shout of joy
rose from the people--a shout which quickly subsided into an
awestruck silence when the straightened form lay motionless on the
grass before them. Not a moment too soon had they made their escape,
for the office was now in a blaze of swirling flames.
Quickly the news of Hugh's safety was conveyed to Gwladys.
"He's alive, Mishtress! Ivor and Mari have brought him out!"
But she did not hear them. At the words, "He's alive," the reaction
from the terrible fear that had paralysed her was so great that she
fainted, and in this condition was carried home.
A stretcher had been quickly improvised from an old sail, and Hugh,
gently laid upon it, was also carried home by loving hands, and laid
tenderly upon his own bed, Mari Vone refusing to allow anyone but
Ivor and herself to lift him from the sail to the bed. He moaned
once or twice during the removal, and afterwards lay still and
motionless, with closed eyes.
Dr. Hughes, who, together with all the inhabitants of Abersethin, had
seen the fire at Mwntseison, was quickly on the spot, and attending
to Hugh Morgan, while Gwladys, white and rigid, tottered in like a
ghost and flung herself down at the bedside in an abandonment of
grief. The sound of her sobs reached Hugh's ears, and, opening his
eyes, he tried to speak, but failed in the attempt.
"Not yet," said Dr. Hughes; "lie quite still until you are stronger.
Now take this--and you, Gwladys, be quite silent if you wish to save
your husband's life."
Gwladys smothered her sobs, and, sitting still and shivering beside
her husband, said, in piteous accents:
"Don't send me from him! let me stay and do something."
"You can do nothing but be calm and quiet."
"I will," she said; and she kept her word.
In the early dawn of the next morning, pale and worn with the night's
watching, she looked out through the low thatched window on the
leaden waters of the bay, stretched out before her in the cold grey
stillness of the late autumn morning. There was a pale yellow light
in the eastern sky, but down on the waters of the bay the dark
curtains of night had scarce yet been drawn. She shuddered as she
looked at the broad expanse of even silence, unruffled by a wave,
untouched by the morning's sun. "What would the day bring forth?"
and she turned again to watch the quiet form upon the bed.
He had been restless with pain in the early part of the night, but
for the last hour he had lain silent and still, the dark eyelashes
resting upon his pale cheek, the masses of black hair lying damp and
matted on the sunburnt forehead, his breathing scarcely audible.
"Was it sleep? was it unconsciousness? was it death already creeping
over him?" The anguish of the thought was too great for her
over-strained nerves, and she shrank on her knees by the bedside,
and, burying her face in the bedclothes, sobbed convulsively:
"Oh, not that! not that! Oh, God, not that!"
She would have given worlds for time to repair the wrong she thought
she had done--to bring peace and happiness to the heart to which she
had caused so much sorrow. "Was it too late? Would God listen to
her prayer, and spare him yet a while? Oh, God! give me one more
chance," was her continual cry.
But the wheels of life rolled on, unchecked by their course, the
still form moved not, scarcely breathed, and the morning hours passed
wearily on. Her mother brought her a cup of tea; Mari Vone came
gently into the room, gazed a moment at the sleeper, and passed out
again, leaving Gwladys to her watch alone. It was her place, and,
without comment, everyone acceded to her earnest request, "Let me be
with him! let me watch him!" only they hovered near within call,
while Gwladys still watched on.
[1] Away with you!
[2] Very good.
[3] Fool; a dolt.