"GARTHOWEN"
Along the slope of a bare brown hill, which turned one scarped
precipitous side to the sea, and the other, more smooth and undulating,
towards a fair scene of inland beauty, straggled the little hamlet of
Pont-y-fro. Jos Hughes's shop was the very last house in the village,
the road beyond it merging into the rushy moor, and dwindling into a
stony track, down which a streamlet trickled from the peat bog above.
The house had stood in the same place for two hundred years, and Jos
Hughes looked as if he too had lived there for the same length of time.
His quaintly cut blue cloth coat adorned with large brass buttons, his
knee breeches of corduroy, and grey blue stockings, looking well in
keeping with his dwelling, but very out of place behind a counter. His
brown wrinkled face and ruddy cheeks were like a shrivelled apple, his
shrewd inquisitive eyes peered out through a pair of large brass-rimmed
spectacles, and, to judge by his expression, the view they got of the
world in general was not satisfactory.
It was a day of brilliant sunshine and intense heat, but through the
open shop door the sea wind came in with refreshing coolness. Behind
the counter Jos Hughes measured and weighed lazily, throwing in with
his short weight a compliment, or a screw of peppermints, as the case
required.
"Who is this coming up in the dust?" he mumbled.
"'Tis Morva of the moor," said a woman standing in the doorway and
shading her eyes with her hand. "What does she want, I wonder?
There's a merry lass she is!"
"Oh! day or night, sun or snow don't matter to her," said Jos Hughes.
At this moment the subject of their remarks entered the shop, and,
sitting on a sack of maize, let her arms fall on her lap. She was
quickly followed by a large black sheep dog, who bounded in and,
placing his fore-paws on the counter, with tongue hanging out, looked
at Jos Hughes intently.
"Down, Tudor!" said the girl, and he sprang on a sack of peas beside
her.
The mountain wind blowing in through the open doorway touzled the
little curls that were so unruly in Morva's hair; it was neither gold
nor ebony, but, looking at its rich tints, one was irresistibly
reminded of the ripe corn in harvest fields, while the blue eyes were
like the corn flowers in their vivid colouring.
"How are they at Garthowen?" asked Fani "bakkare."
"Oh! they are all well there," answered the girl, panting and fanning
herself with her sun-bonnet, "except the white calf, and he is better."
"There's hot it is!" said Fani, taking up her basket of groceries.
"Oh! 'tis hot!" said the girl, "but there's a lovely wind from the sea."
"What are you wanting to-day, Morva?" said Jos.
"A ball of red worsted for Ann, and an ounce of 'bacco for 'n'wncwl
Ebben, and oh! a ha'porth of sweets for Tudor."
The dog wagged his tail approvingly as Jos reached down from the shelf
a bottle of pink lollipops, for, though a wild country dog, he had
depraved tastes in the matter of sweets.
"There's serious you all look! what's the matter with you?" said the
girl, looking smilingly round.
"Nothing is the matter as I know," said Fani, "only there's always
plenty of trouble flying about. We can't be all so free from care as
you, always laughing or singing or something."
"Indeed I wish we could," said Madlen, a pale girl who was bending over
a box of knitting pins, looking round curiously and rather sadly; "I
wish the whole world could be like you, Morva."
Morva snatched the girl's listless hand in her own warm firm grasp, and
pressed it sympathetically, for she knew Madlen's secret sorrow.
"Wait another year or two," said Fani, "we'll talk to you then! Wait
till your husband comes home drunk from 'The Black Horse!'"
"And wait till you put all your money into a shop and then find it
doesn't pay you," said Jos.
Madlen said nothing, but Morva knew that in her heart she was thinking,
"Wait until your lover proves false to you!" and she gave her hand
another squeeze.
"Well, indeed!" she said springing up, "what are you all talking about?
I won't put all my money in a shop, and I won't marry a drunkard!
Sixpence, is it? I am going home over the bog and round the hill, but
I am going to sit on the bench outside a bit first. There's lots of
swallows' nests under your eaves, Jos Hughes; that brings good luck,
they say, so your shop ought to pay you well."
So saying she passed out, and sitting on the bench round the corner of
the house she kissed her hand toward the swallows, who flitted in and
out of their nests, twittering ecstatically.
"Hark to her," said Fani, "singing again, if you please--always
light-hearted! always happy! I don't think its quite right, Jos bâch,
do you? You are a deacon at Penmorien and you ought to know. If it
was a hymn now! but you hear it's all nonsense about the swallows. Ach
y fi! she is learning them from Sara ''spridion';[1] some song of the
'old fathers' in past times!"
"Yes," said Jos, sanctimoniously clasping his stubby fingers, "I'm
afraid the girl is a bit of a heathen. What wonder is it? Nursed by
Sara--always out with the cows or the sheep, and they say she thinks
nothing of sleeping under a hedge, or out on the slopes, if any animal
is sick and wants watching."
Fani went out with a toss of her head, as the sweet voice came in
through the little side window with the twittering of the swallows and
the cluck, cluck of a happy brood hen.
Outside, Morva had forgotten all about Jos Hughes and Fani "bakkare's"
sour looks, and was singing her heart out to the sunshine.
"Sing on, little swallows," she said, "and I'll sing too. Sara taught
me the 'bird song' long ago when I was a baby."
And in a clear, sweet voice she joined the birds, and woke the echoes
from the brown cliffs. The tune was quaint and rapid; both it and the
words had come down to her with the old folklore of generations passed
away.
"Over the sea from the end of the wide world
I've come without wetting my feet, my feet, my feet,
Back to the old home, straight to the nest-home,
Under the brown thatch, oh sweet! oh sweet! oh sweet!
"When over the waters I flew in the autumn,
Then there was plenty of seed, of seed, of seed.
Women have winnow'd it, threshers have garner'd it,
Barns must be filled up indeed, indeed, indeed!
"Are you glad we have come with a flitter and twitter
Once more on the housetop to meet, to meet, to meet?
Make haste little primroses, cowslips, and daisies, we're
Longing your faces to greet, to greet, to greet!"
--_Trans._
"Yes, that's what you are singing. Good-bye," and waving her hand
towards them again, she turned her face to the boggy moor, picking her
way over the stepping-stones which led up to the dryer sheep paths.
The golden marsh marigolds glittered around her, the beautiful bog bean
hung its pinky white fringe over the brown peat pools, the silky plumes
of the cotton grass nodded at her as she passed, and the wind whispered
in the rushes the secrets of the sea.
Morva listened with a smile, a brown finger up-raised. "Yes, yes, I
know what you are singing too down there in the rushes, sweet west
wind," she said. "Sara has told me, but I haven't time to sing the
'wind song' to-day," and reaching the sheep path which led round the
mountain, she sped against the wind, her hair streaming behind her, her
blue skirt fluttering in the breeze, the ball of scarlet worsted and
the shining 'bacco box held high in either hand to steady her flying
footsteps, Tudor barking with joy as he bounded after her and twitched
at her fluttering skirts.
It was tea-time when she reached Garthowen, and, winter or summer, that
was always the pleasantest hour at the farmstead, when the air was
filled with the aroma of the hot tea, and the laughter and talk of the
household. On the settle in the cosy chimney corner sat Ebben Owens
himself, the head of the family and the centre of interest to every
member of it. He possessed that doubtful advantage, the power of
attracting to himself the affection and friendship of everyone who came
in contact with him; his children idolised him, and Morva was no whit
behind them in her affection for him. In spite of his long grizzled
locks, and a slight stoop, he was still a hale and hearty yeoman under
his seventy years. His cheeks bore the ruddy hue of health, his eyes
were still bright and clear, the lines of his mouth expressed a gentle
and sensitive nature. It was by no means a strong face, but its very
weakness perhaps accounted for the protecting tenderness shown to him
by all his family. As he sat there in the shadow of the settle it was
easy to understand why his children were so devotedly attached to him,
and why he bore the reputation of being the kindest and most
good-natured man in Pont-y-fro and its neighbourhood. Ann, his only
daughter, was looking smilingly at him from the head of the table, her
smooth brown hair parted over her madonna-like brows, her brown eyes
full of laughter. Opposite to her, at the bottom of the table, sat
Gwilym Morris, preacher at the Calvinistic Methodist chapel, down in
the valley by the shore. He had lived at Garthowen for many years as
one of the family, being the son of an old friend of Ebben Owens.
Having a small--very small--income of his own, he was able to devote
his services to the chapel in the valley, expecting and receiving
nothing in return but a pittance, for which no other minister would
have been willing to work. He was a dark, pale man, of earnest and
studious appearance, of quiet manners, and rather silent, but often
seeking the liquid brown eyes which lighted up Ann's gentle face.
"Tis the only time father is cross when he has lost his 'bacco box,"
said Ann, laughing; "but then he is as cross as two sticks."
"Lol! lol!" said the old man snappishly, "give me a cup of tea; but I
can't think where my 'bacco box is. I swear I left it here on the
table."
Gwilym Morris hunted about in the most unlikely places, as men
generally do--on the tea tray, between the leaves of some newspapers
which stood on the deep window-sill. He was about to open Ann's
work-bag in search of it, when Morva entered panting, and placed the
shining box and ball of red wool on the table.
"Good, my daughter," said Ebben Owens, pocketing his new-found
treasure, and regaining his good temper at once.
"I saw it was empty, so I took it with me to Jos Hughes's shop," she
said.
Soon afterwards, seated on her milking stool, she was singing to the
rhythm of the milk as it streamed into the frothing pail, for Daisy
refused to yield her milk without a musical accompaniment. Very soft
and low was the girl's singing, but clear and sweet as that of the
thrush on the thorn bush behind her.
"Give me my little milking pail,
For under the hawthorn in the vale
The cows are gathering one by one,
They know the time by the westering sun.
Troodi, Troodi! come down from the mountain,
Troodi, Troodi! come up from the dale;
Moelen, and Corwen, and Blodwen, and Trodwen!
I'll meet you all with my milking pail."
So sang the girl, and the lilting tune caught the ears of a youth who
was just entering the farmyard. He knew it at once. It was a snatch
of Morva's simple milking song. He stopped to pat Daisy's broad
forehead, and Morva looked up with a smile.
"Make haste," she said, "or tea will be finished. Where have you been
so late?"
"Thou'll be surprised when I tell thee," said the young man; but before
he had time for further conversation, Ann's voice called him from the
kitchen window, and he hurried away unceremoniously.
Morva continued her song, for Daisy wanted nothing new, but was
contented with the old stave which she had known from calfhood.
Will Owens, arriving in the farm kitchen, had evidently been eagerly
awaited. Both Ann and Gwilym Morris came forward to meet him, and
Ebben Owens rubbed his hands nervously over his corduroy knees.
"Well?" said all three together.
"Well!" echoed Will, flinging his hat across to the window-sill. "It's
all right. I met Price the vicar coming down the street, so I touched
my hat to him, and he saw at once that I wanted to speak to him, and
there's kind he was. 'How's your father?' he said, 'and Miss Ann, is
she well? I must come up and see them soon.'"
"Look you there now," said his father.
"'They will be very glad to see you sir,' I said, but I didn't know how
to tell him what I wanted.
"'I am very glad to hear how well you get on with your books,' he said;
'but 'tisn't every young man has Gwilym Morris to help him and to teach
him.' And then, you see, when he made a beginning, 'twas easier for me
to explain."
The preacher's pale face lighted up with a smile of pleasure, and Ann
flushed with gratified pride as Will continued.
"'He is a man in a hundred,' said Mr. Price, 'and 'tis a pity that his
talents are wasted on a Methodist Chapel. I wish I could persuade him
to enter the Church.'
"'Well, you'll never do that,' I said. 'You might as well try to turn
the course of the On. He won't come himself, but he is sending a very
poor substitute to you, sir.'
"'And who is that? You?' said Mr. Price.
"'Well, sir, that is what I wanted to see you about. You know that
although we are Methodists bred and born, both my grandfather and my
great-grandfather had a son in the Church,' and with that he took hold
of my two hands.
"'And your father is going to follow their good example? I _am_ glad!'
and he shook my hands so warmly."
"There for you now!" said Ebben Owens.
"'I will do all I can for you,' Mr. Price said, 'and I'm sure your
uncle will help you.'
"'Oh!' said I, 'if my father will send me to the Church, sir, it will
be without pressing upon anyone else for money,' for I wasn't going to
let him think we couldn't afford it."
"Right, my boy," said Ebben Owens, standing up in his excitement; "and
what then?"
"Oh! then he asked me when did I think of entering college; and I said,
'Next term, sir, if I can pass.'
"'No fear of that,' he said again, 'with Gwilym Morris at your elbow.'
But I'm choking, Ann; give me a cup of tea, da chi.[2] I'll finish
afterwards."
"That's all, I should think," said the preacher; "you've got on pretty
far for a first interview."
"I got a little further, though," said Will. "What do you think,
father, he has asked me to do?"
"What?" said the old man breathlessly.
"He asked would I read the lessons in church next Sunday week.
''Twould be a good beginning,' he said; 'and tell your father and Miss
Ann they must come and hear you.'
"'Well,' I said, 'my father hasn't been inside a church for years, and
I don't know whether he will come.'"
"Well, of course," said the old man eagerly, "I will come to hear you,
my boy, and Ann--"
"Not I, indeed," said Ann, with a toss of her head, "there will be a
sermon in my own chapel."
"But it will be over before eleven, Ann, and I don't see why you
shouldn't go if you wish to," said Gwilym Morris.
"I don't wish to," she answered, turning to the tea-table, and pouring
out her brother's tea.
She was a typical Welsh woman, of highly-strung nervous temperament,
though placid in outward appearance and manners, unselfish even to
self-effacement where her kindred were concerned, but wary and
suspicious beyond the pale of relationship or love; a zealous
religionist, but narrow and bigoted in the extreme. In his heart of
hearts Ebben Owens also hated the Church. Dissent had been the
atmosphere in which his ancestors had lived and breathed, but in his
case pride had struggled with prejudice, and had conquered. For three
generations a son had gone forth from Garthowen to the enemy's Church,
and had won there distinction and riches. True, their career had
withdrawn them entirely from the old simple home circle, but this did
not deter Ebben Owens from desiring strongly to emulate his ancestors.
Why should not Will, the clever one of the family, his favourite
son--who had "topped" all the boys at the village school, and had taken
so many prizes in the grammar school at Caer-Madoc--why should not he
gain distinction and preferment in the Church, and shed fresh lustre on
the fading name of "Owens of Garthowen," for the name had lost its
ancient prestige in the countryside? In early time theirs had been a
family of importance, as witness the old deeds in the tin box on the
attic rafters, but for two hundred years they had been simple farmers.
They had never been a thrifty race, and the broad lands which tradition
said once belonged to them had been sold from time to time, until
nothing remained but the old farm with its hundred acres of mountain
land. Ebben Owens never troubled his head, however, about the past
glories of his race. He inherited the "happy-go-lucky,"
unbusiness-like temperament which had probably been the cause of his
ancestors' misfortunes, but Will's evident love of learning had aroused
in the old man a strong wish to remind the world that the "Owens of
Garthowen" still lived, and could push themselves to the front if they
wished.
As Will drank his tea and cleared plate after plate of bread and
butter, his father looked at him with a tender, admiring gaze. Will
had always been his favourite. Gethin, the eldest son, had never taken
hold of his affections; he had been the mother's favourite, and after
her death had drifted further and further out of his father's good
graces. The boy's nature was a complete contrast to that of his own
and second son, for Gethin was bold and daring, while they were wary
and secret; he was restless and mischievous, while his brother was
quiet and sedate; he was constantly getting into scrapes, while Will
always managed to steer clear of censure. Gethin hated his books too,
and, worse than all, he paid but scant regard to the services in the
chapel, which held such an important place in the estimation of the
rest of the household. More than once Ebben Owens, walking with proper
decorum to chapel on Sunday morning, accompanied by Will and Ann, had
been scandalised at meeting Gethin returning from a surreptitious
scramble on the hillside, with a row of blue eggs strung on a stalk of
grass. A hasty rush into the house to dress, a pell-mell run down the
mountain side, a flurried arrival in the chapel, where Will and his
father had already hung up their hats on the rail at the back of their
seat, did not tend to mitigate the old man's annoyance at his son's
erratic ways.
Gethin was the cause of continual disturbances in the household,
culminating at last in a severer thrashing than usual, and a dismissal
from the home of his childhood--a dismissal spoken in anger, which
would have been repented of ere night had not the boy, exasperated at
his utter inability to rule his wild and roving habits, taken his
father at his word and disappeared from the old homestead.
"Let him go," Ebben Owens had said to the tearful pleading Ann. "Let
him go, child; it will do him good if he can't behave himself at home.
Let him go, like many another rascal, and find out whether cold and
hunger and starvation will suit him. Let him feel a pinch or two, and
he'll soon come home again, and then perhaps he'll have come to his
senses and give us less trouble here."
Ann had cried her eyes red for days, and Will had silently grieved over
the loss of his brother, but he had been prudent, and had said nothing
to increase his father's anger, so the days slipped by and Gethin never
returned.
His father, relenting somewhat (for he seldom remained long in the same
frame of mind), made inquiries of the sea-faring men who visited the
neighbouring coast villages, and learning from them that Gethin had
been taken as cabin boy by an old friend of his, whom he knew to be of
a kindly disposition, felt quite satisfied concerning his son's safety,
and congratulated himself upon the result of his own firmness.
"There's the very thing for him," he thought; "'twill make a man of
him, and 'tis time he should be brought to his senses! and he won't be
so ready with his 'Amens!' again. Ach y fi!"
From time to time as the years sped on, news of Gethin came in a
roundabout way to the farm, and at last a letter from some foreign
port, from which it was evident that the youth, now growing up to
manhood, still retained his bright sunny nature and laughter-loving
ways, together with the warmth of heart which had always distinguished
the troublesome Gethin. There was no allusion to the past, no begging
for forgiveness, no hint of a wish to return home. His father seldom
looked at the lad's letters, but flung them to Will to be read, the
quarrel between him and his son, instead of dwindling into
forgetfulness, seeming to grow and widen in his mind with each
succeeding year, as trifling disagreements frequently do in weak but
obstinate natures.
"Gethin will be an honour to us yet," Ann would say sometimes.
"Honour indeed!" the old man would answer, with a red spot on each
cheek, which always denoted his rising anger. "What honour? A common
sailor lounging about from one foreign port to another! 'Tis stopping
at home he ought to be, and helping his old father with the farming.
If Will is going to be a clergyman I will want somebody to help me with
the work."
"Well, I'm sure he would come, father, and glad too, if he knew that
you were wanting him."
"Oh, I don't want him. Let him come when he likes; that's fair enough."
But Gethin still roamed, and latterly nothing had been heard of him, no
letters and no news. 'Tis true, a dim and hazy report had reached
Garthowen from some sailor in the village "that Gethin Owens was
getting on 'splendid,' that he was steady and saving." Ann had flushed
with pleasure, but the old man had laughed scornfully, saying, "Well,
I'll believe that when I see it--Gethin steady and saving!" And even
Will had joined in the laugh, but Gwilym Morris looked vexed and
serious.
"I think, indeed, you are too hard upon that poor fellow,", he said;
"he may return to you some day like the prodigal son. Don't forget
that, Ebben Owens--"
"Oh, I don't forget that," said the old man; "and when he comes home in
the same temper as the son we read of, then we'll kill for him the
fatted calf."
"Well, I'd like to know what did he do whatever?" said a girlish voice
from behind the settle, where Morva Lloyd (who was shepherdess,
cowherd, milkmaid, all in one), was drying her hands on a jack-towel;
"what did Gethin do so very bad?"
"Look in his mother's Bible," said the old man, "and you'll see his
last sin."
"I've put it away," said Ann. "Twas too wicked to leave about; but he
was very young, father, and Gwilym says--"
"Oh! Gwilym," said her father, "has an excuse for everyone's faults
except his own; for thine especially."
There was a general laugh, during which Morva made up her mind to hunt
up the old Bible.
"I hope," said Ann, addressing Will, when he had come to an end of his
tea, "you told Price the vicar that Gwilym did not spend evening after
evening here helping you on with your studies, _knowing_ that you were
going to be a clergyman?"
"No, I didn't tell him that, but I can tell him some other time,"
answered Will, who would have promised anything in his desire to
propitiate Ann and his father, and to gain their consent to his
entering Llaniago College at the beginning of the next term.
"I'll tell him if he comes here," said Ann. "I wouldn't have him think
that Gwilym Morris, the Methodist minister, spent his time in teaching
a parson."
"Well," said the preacher, who was standing at the old glass bookcase
looking for a book, "you certainly did spring the news very suddenly
upon me, Will; you kept your secret very close; but still, Ann, it
makes no difference. I would have done anything for your brother, and
I'm glad, whatever his course may be, that I have been able to impart
to him a little knowledge."
"Look you here now," said the old man, shuffling uneasily, for there
was a secret consciousness between him and his son that they had
wilfully kept Gwilym Morris in the dark as long as possible, fearing
lest his dissenting principles might prevent the accomplishment of
their wishes, "look you here now, Will, October is very near, and it
means money, my boy, and that's not gathered so easy as blackberries
about here; you must wait until Christmas, and you shall go to Llaniago
in the New Year, but I can't afford it now."
Will's handsome face flushed to the roots of his hair, his blue eyes
sparkled with anger, and the clear-cut mouth took a petulant curve as
he answered, rising hastily from the tea-table:
"Why didn't you tell me that sooner, instead of letting me go and speak
to Mr. Price? You have made a fool of me!" And he went out, banging
the door after him.
There was a moment's silence.
"Will's temper is not improving," said Ann at last.
"Poor boy," said the indulgent father, "'tis disappointed he is; but it
won't be long to wait till January."
"But, father," said Ann, "there is the 80 pounds you got for the two
ricks? You put that into the bank safe, didn't you?"
"Yes, yes, yes, quite safe, 'merch i. Don't you bother your head about
things that don't concern you," and he too went out, leaving Ann
drumming with her fingers on the tea-tray.
Her father's manner awoke some uneasiness in her mind, for long
experience had taught her that money had a way of slipping through his
hands ere ever it reached the wants of the household.
"I went with him to the bank," said Gwilym Morris reassuringly, "and
saw him put it in," and Ann was satisfied.
Under her skilful management, in spite of their dwindled means,
Garthowen was always a home of plenty. The produce of the farm was
exchanged at the village shops for the simple necessaries of domestic
life. The sheep on their own pasture lands yielded wool in abundance
for their home-spun clothing, the flitches of bacon that garnished the
rafters provided ample flavouring for the cawl, and for the rest Will
and Gwilym's fishing and shooting brought in sufficient variety for the
simple tastes of the family. Indeed, there was only one thing that was
not abundant at Garthowen, and that was--ready money!
[1] Spirit Sara.
[2] Do.