PEACE.
Weeks and months slipped by, and when two years had passed away, the
events connected with Hugh Morgan's death had been almost forgotten;
only in some hearts their memory lived on, fresh and green, undimmed
by the lapse of time.
At Melin Berwen, Ivor Parry's life appeared to glide on in peaceful
monotony. He was an industrious and honest miller, and business
flowed in apace, so that his days were fully occupied, and it was
only at night, when the mill wheel was silent, and he sat alone under
the big chimney, smoking or reading, that his musings led him into
sad memories of the past--of the close companionship and warm
friendship, which had been broken so suddenly for him and the
Mishteer.
In the queer old mill kitchen, the evenings were always cosy; and
Ivor Parry, like most of the peasantry, gathered much pleasure and
satisfaction from the hours spent on his lonely hearth. There was
always the country gossip gathered by Acsa from every stray caller at
the mill, and retailed at night for his benefit, while she clattered
about her work. Although they belonged to the same class, there was
a fine discrimination in her nature, generally possessed by the Welsh
peasant, which forbade her sitting down at the hearth with her
master, unless requested, and even ordered to do so; and then the
order would be obeyed in an awkward, shame-faced manner, and at the
first opportunity she would break away with some excuse of a
forgotten duty.
In the course of the evening, Ivor would open the old glass bookcase
which stood in the corner. It had been found there by Robert Owen
when he entered the mill thirty years before, and left by him as
impedimenta when Ivor took his place there. It was filled not only
with account books and musty papers, but also contained the old books
accumulated by two or three generations past: dog-eared, brown-leaved
books of travel, of history, of biography, all of old-world interest,
but which Ivor pored over with the thirst for knowledge which is so
strong an element in Welsh life; and if the knowledge he gained was
but crude and imperfect, still the pleasure he derived from his
hour's reading was great.
The only modern intelligence that reached the old mill came in the
weekly newspaper and the yearly almanac, the latter being studied in
Welsh cottages with great interest.
"Are you hearing what I am saying, master?" Acsa would ask sometimes,
when her rambling story had brought no response from Ivor; and he
would close his book with a bang, and return to his everyday
interests, and often to his sober musings and memories of the old
sail-shed, and of his careless, happy life before his ill-fated visit
to Aberython. He rejoiced to think that at last Hugh knew him as he
was! And then came the memory of that last scene, when Hugh had
placed Gwladys' hand in his, and the fierce strong desire of his life
rose unquenched within him, that "some day," when time had softened
her sorrow, she would remember her husband's dying wishes. He
scarcely ever went to Mwntseison--it recalled too vividly to his mind
the painful scenes of Hugh's death; and when he did go, it was no
further than to Mari Vone's cottage. To her he felt irresistibly
drawn, and though never a word passed between them on the subject of
his love for Gwladys, or of hers for Hugh, yet both felt that between
them existed the link of a mutual understanding.
When the winter was over, and the earth was beginning to swell and
burst with the throbbing of new life within her, even into the dusty
mill the spring breezes carried suggestions of green things, Ivor
began to walk in his sunny garden, which stretched along the side of
the hill even to the edge of the cliffs. Here Acsa, in short
petticoats and wooden shoes, was already beginning to dig the
leek-bed, and in the corner, under the furze hedge, a clump of sweet
violets sent up a fragrant greeting. Ivor paused and looked at them;
he remembered seeing a posy of them once in Gwladys' bodice. Why
should he not take her these? He had never seen her alone since
Hugh's death, had never happened to meet her on the cliff or in the
village, and even on Sundays he did not see her, for she and her
mother had taken to the new chapel which had lately been built on the
other side of the Gwendraeth.
He gathered the violets slowly, adding green leaves, and tying them
with a blade of long grass.
"Yes, spring is coming, and this is a sunny garden," observed Acsa.
"We shall have a fine bed of leeks here. Caton pawb! what are you
going to do with those?"
"I think, perhaps, Mari Vone would like them."
"Shouldn't wonder, indeed," said Acsa. "She's an odd woman; there's
pretty she is! They say God's blessing is upon her that she never
grows old; and she's thirty-seven in May--that I know, because Mary,
my sister's daughter, is the same age. She looks old enough to be
Mari Vone's mother; 'tis very strange."
Ivor pondered, as he went slowly over the cliffs, upon Mari Vone's
unfading beauty. Latterly she had seemed to him fairer than ever,
and even to grow younger as the days passed on. There was a light in
her eyes, a happy smile on her lips, and her coils of golden hair
looked more than ever like an angel's crown.
"She is beautiful, no doubt," he thought, "with a beauty that reminds
one more of heaven than earth. Mari's troubles have been changed to
golden blessings, I think."
She was busily laying the simple supper on the table when Ivor
entered, 'n'wncwl Jos telling her one of his marvellous tales,
punctuated with stumps of his wooden leg.
"Hello, Ivor! come in; just in time for supper--cawl it is, too, my
boy."
"Oh, Ivor!" said Mari, coming to meet him, "there's sweet flowers. I
always say it is such a shame there is no name for them--such a sweet
smell!--but never mind, I love them well without a name."
"In English they call them violets," said Ivor.
"Vayolet, vayolet!--oh, it suits them well. I must share them with
Gwladys." And placing them in a little mug of water, she made room
for Ivor at the table.
"How's all going on at Mwntseison?" he said at last.
"Oh, just as usual," said Mari, with a smile. "Poor Lallo seems to
be coming back to her cheery ways a little, though she looks much
older; and Gwladys, too, is getting quite well and strong--she is
busy in the garden every day now, and often she comes down to me. We
like to sit together, Ivor, though we don't talk about the past--some
things, thou know'st, are too sacred for words. But we understand
each other, and love to sit silent, with our knitting and our
thoughts."
"Yes," was all his answer; but she knew he was grateful for her
reference to Gwladys.
"Wel wyr," said 'n'wncwl Jos, as she bolted the door after his
departure, "thee and Ivor are such friends, perhaps thee'lt make a
match of it after all."
Mari sat down to laugh. "Oh, 'n'wncwl Jos!" she said, "will you
never remember my age? I am ten years older than Ivor."
"So thou art, so thou art, merch i; but upon my dear little deed,
nobody would guess it."
As the spring advanced, and the days lengthened, Mari frequently
walked out over the cliffs to gather bracken for Peggi Pentraeth's
donkey, sometimes going as far as the brow of the hill, from which
she could look down at the old mill in the valley. At these times,
Ivor, seeing her from below, would run up the sheep path to meet her,
just for a word of news from Mwntseison--just in the hopes of hearing
something of Gwladys. And Mari, who knew well what drew him towards
her, and what lent wings to the vigorous steps with which he climbed
the hill, would always reward him with some scrap of information.
"Price Merthyr preached at Tan-y-groes Chapel last night, Ivor," she
said one evening, as they walked slowly over the cliff together.
"Gwladys and I went to hear him. Her mother questioned us close when
we came home about the sermon; indeed, we remembered pretty well,
both of us. There was the pwnc[1] after the sermon, and we stopped
for that" (Ivor listened eagerly), "but not for the singing class,
for, of course, Gwladys cannot join in that yet."
"B'd siwr!" said Ivor, with a shake of his head, for he knew, and
felt himself, that to join in the singing would look like disrespect
to the Mishteer's memory; "as far as that goes, 'twas a long time
before I could sing myself. The first tones of my voice brought the
memory of Hugh Morgan to my mind, and the singing seemed to die away."
"I cannot tell how it is," said Mari, "but I can sing. My heart
seems strangely happy. It seems such a thin veil between us and
Hugh, and life is so short! so very short at the utmost, it is not
worth while mourning for anyone. But I must go. See those fishing
boats going in? I must see if they have any fish for 'n'wncwl Jos's
supper. Fforwel, Ivor!" and she waved her hand at parting.
He looked after her as her tall, graceful figure was lost to view
behind the broom bushes.
"Jâr-i! she is a beautiful creature!" he thought. "How such a woman
came to be born at Mwntseison I can't think!" And he trudged down
the hill, whistling as he went, his thumbs in his armholes.
At the mill door stood a small boy who had come up over the sands
from Mwntseison, the tide being low at the time.
"What is it?" said Ivor.
"'Tis Eynon Bryneithin is wanting to know, can he send his corn to be
ground to-morrow? He was coming up to see you himself, but he got a
hurt on his foot coming over the rocks, and there he is now sitting
at 'The Ship,' and there he will be sitting till Catrine turns him
out to-night. She sent me up to tell you."
"I will come back with thee and speak to him," said Ivor, "for I
cannot grind his corn till Monday. There's Glasynys coming
to-morrow, and Peutre-du next day," and Ivor took his way once more
to the top of the cliff, accompanied by the boy.
The sun was setting in crimson and gold behind the sea; the silver
crescent moon rising above the upland fields; the sea-gulls were
flying homewards overhead; and the little sea-crows quarrelled and
cawed as they settled down to their nests on the sides of the cliff.
The sea shimmered and rippled in the gorgeous colours of the sunset,
and the soft evening air was laden with the scent of the furze, which
spread its golden mantle over every grassy knoll. Even the boy was
struck by the beauty of the scene.
"'Tis a nice night," he said.
"Brâf!" said Ivor, drawing in a long breath of the perfumed air.
"What is that?" said the boy, pointing to something on the side of
the path, a few yards in front of them.
"'Tis a woman," said Ivor, "resting; tired, I suppose, poor thing!"
But as he approached nearer his eyes took a troubled, anxious look.
"Can it be Mari Vone? 'tis like her red petticoat."
The boy ran on.
"Yis, 'tis Mari Vone, asleep, I think."
And Ivor hastened up to see a sight which in all the coming years he
never forgot.
Yes; 'twas Mari Vone who lay there, half reclining against the grassy
hedge, her cheek resting upon her hand, her pillow a clump of
harebells and wild thyme. Evidently she had thrown herself down to
rest, and rest was depicted upon every feature of her face, and every
curve of her figure; the white eyelids were closed, the waxen cheek
was scarcely paler than usual, and on the lips was a smile of
ineffable sweetness.
"There's nice she looks!" said the boy, in an awed whisper, "like an
angel!"
"Yes," said Ivor, chafing her hands, "like an angel as she is. Go,
run to the village and bring somebody here, and a sail to carry her."
For there was no doubt about it, Mari Vone was dead. The heart had
ceased to beat, and though she was still warm, and the fingers which
Ivor rubbed and pressed were pliant as his own, he never doubted the
fact; he knew that that gentle spirit had quitted the beautiful
tenement in which it had lived for thirty-seven years; he knew that
he should never more see it look out of those deep blue eyes, never
hear it speak with that tongue now silent, and a flood of sorrow
filled his heart. He sat beside her while the sun sank below the
horizon; the grassy pillow upon which she lay shone with the
burnished gold of its last rays, which threw also with its last kiss
a rosy flush over Mari's face. Ivor gazed at her with something of
the awe which the boy had felt.
"Was it possible that this was death?"
The sea sighed and whispered on the shore below, the evening breeze
lifted the little stray curls of her golden hair. A thrush in a
thorn-bush near sang its last song to the sinking sun; the flowers
seemed to send up a stronger perfume as they bent and trembled in the
sea-breeze; the clouds of gold and copper speckled the pale blue sky;
everything in earth, sea, and sky seemed to speak of beauty and love,
and in the next silent half-hour Ivor realised more vividly the
nearness of things unseen than in his work-a-day life he had ever
done before.
When help came at last, he felt almost a pang of regret at being
robbed of that lovely form, in whose presence he had experienced such
a vision of peace and beauty. With hushed voices and silent tread
the villagers approached, and with awe struck faces gazed at the
silent form on the green sward.
"There's beautiful--she's smiling!" said one.
"She has reason to smile, I expect," said Joshua Howels, preparing to
tenderly lift her, and place her in the improvised stretcher brought
from the sail-shed. "'Tis the same sail that carried Hugh Morgan,"
he said; and solemnly and slowly they carried their light burden to
her home.
"There's pity! poor 'n'wncwl Jos and Gwladys Morgan are gone to Caer
Madoc!" whispered one.
"Wel, indeed, there's sad news for them, whatever!"
"I hope she will alter before the funeral," said a sturdy sailor, who
had helped to carry her in. "We won't like to bury her looking like
that!" And the villagers crowded round to look at the familiar face,
whose strange unearthly beauty struck even the children as something
unusual.
Lallo and Nani Price attended to the arrangements of the death
chamber, allowing themselves to be persuaded by Ivor to leave on the
body of his friend the clothes in which she died, instead of arraying
her in the grandeur of a Sunday gown and the best clothes which she
possessed. They were rather scandalised, and gave way only upon
Ivor's pointing out to them how speckless and fresh they looked--how
snowy the kerchief crossed on her bosom!--how beautiful the crown of
golden hair!--how pretty the dainty, shiny shoes! "You could never
make her look better!"
"That's true, indeed, whatever," said Nani Price; "and, after all,
Mari Vone was different to anybody else."
"Caton pawb! yes," said Lallo; "never a speck nor a smot upon her!
But _I_ would be sorry to be buried in anything but the clothes I go
to meeting in, or a decent shroud."
"Well," said Nani, closing the door softly, as they all left the room
together, "Mwntseison will be no better than any other village, now
that Mari Vone and Hugh Morgan have left it! Ivor Parry, wilt go and
meet 'n'wncwl Jos and Gwladys and break the news to them?"
"No," he said. "Go you, Nani fâch; it will come better from a tender
woman than a hard man like me. I will go to Dr. Hughes. There must
be a 'quest, I suppose."
In less than a week Mari Vone was laid to rest in the little
wind-swept churchyard on the hill; and none of the villagers seemed
surprised when Gwladys expressed a wish that her grave should be dug
close beside the Mishteer's. Their hearts had been too deeply moved
for gossip, and they seemed to have been impressed with the reality
of something beyond and behind the fleeting scenes of life.
Later on, a simple white cross stood between their graves with the
words:
"In memory of Hugh Morgan (The Mishteer), who died November 18th,
18--, aged 45. And of his friend, Mari Vaughan, who died May 1st,
18--, aged 37.
"They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death
they were not divided."
[1] A kind of catechism in which the preacher questions the people,
who all answer in monotone.