MORVA OF THE MOOR
When Will had reached the door of the farm kitchen in a fume of hot
temper, the cool sea breeze coming up the valley had bathed his flushed
face with so soothing an influence that he had turned towards it and
wandered away to the cliffs which made the seaward boundary of the
farm. A craggy hill on the opposite side of the valley cast its
lengthening shadow on his path until he reached the Cribserth, a ridge
of rocks which ran down the mountain side on the Garthowen land. It
rose abruptly from the mountain pasturage, as though some monster of
the early world were struggling to rise once more from its burial of
ages, succeeding only in erecting its rugged spine and crest through
the green sward. This ridge marked a curious division of the country,
for on one side of it lay all the signs of cultivation of which this
wind-swept parish could boast. Here were villages, fertile fields, and
wooded valleys; but beyond the rugged escarpment all was different.
For miles the seaward side of the hills was wild and bare, except for
the soft velvet turf, interspersed with gorse and heather, which
stretched up the steep slopes, covering and softening every rough
outline. Even Will, as he rounded the ridge, recovered his equanimity,
and his face lighted up with pleasure at the sight which met his view.
Down below glistened a sea of burnished gold, with tints and shades of
purple grey; above stretched a sky of still more glowing colours; and
landward, rising to the blue of the zenith, the rugged moorland was
covered with a mantle of heath and gorse, which shone in the evening
sun in a rich mingling of gold and purple.
"What a glorious evening!" were Will's first thoughts. The birds sang
around him, the sea lisped its soft whispers on the sea below, the song
of a fisherman out on the bay came up on the breeze, the rabbits
scudded across his path, and the seagulls floated slowly above him.
All the sullenness went out of his face, giving way to a look of
pleased surprise, as out of the carpet of gorgeous colouring spread
before him rose suddenly the vision of a girl. It was Morva who came
towards him, her hair glistening in the sunshine, her blue eyes dancing
with the light of health and happiness. Behind a rising knoll stood
her foster-mother's cottage, almost hidden by the surrounding gorse and
heather, for, according to the old Welsh custom, it had been built in a
hollow scooped out behind a natural elevation, which protected it from
the strong sea wind; in fact, there was little of it visible except its
red chimney-pot, from which generally curled the blue smoke of the
furze and dried ferns burning on the bare earthen floor below.
Turning round the pathway to the front of the house, one came upon its
whitewashed walls, the low worm-eaten door deep set in its crooked
lintels, and its two tiny windows, looking out on the sunny garden,
every inch of which was neatly and carefully cultivated by Morva's own
hands; for she would not allow her "little mother" to tire herself with
hard work in house or garden. To her foster-child it was a labour of
love. In the early morning hours before milking time at the farm, or
in the grey of the twilight, Morva was free to work in her own garden,
while Sara only tended her herb bed. There at the further end was the
potato bed in purple flower, here were rows of broad beans, in which
the bees were humming, attracted by their sweet aroma that filled the
evening air; there was the leek bed waving its grey green blades, and
here, in the sunniest corner of all, was Sara's herb bed, which she
tended with special care, whose products were gathered at stated times
of the moon's age, not without serious thought and many consultations
of an old herbal, brown with age, which always rested with her Bible
and Williams "Pantycelyn's" hymns above the lintel of the door. For
nearly seventeen years this had been Morva's home, ever since the
memorable night of wind and storm which had wrecked the good ship
_Penelope_ on her voyage home from Australia. She had reached Milford
safely a week before, after a prosperous voyage, and having landed some
of her passengers, was making her further way towards Liverpool, her
final destination. It was late autumn, and suddenly a storm arose
which drove her out of her course, until on the Cardiganshire coast she
had become a total wreck. In the darkness and storm, where the foaming
waves leapt up to the black sky, the wild wind had battered her, and
the cruel waves had torn her asunder, and engulphed her in their
relentless depths; and when all was over, a few bubbles on the face of
the water, a few planks tossed about by the waves, were all the signs
left of the _Penelope_. The cottagers on the rugged coast never forgot
that stormy night, when the roofs were uplifted from the houses, when
gates were wrenched from their hinges, when the shrieking wind had torn
the frightened sheep from their fold, and carried them over hedges and
hillocks. There had never been such a storm in the memory of the
oldest inhabitant, and when in the foam and the spray, Stiven "Storrom"
had raked out from the debris washed on to the shore a hencoop, on
which was bound a tiny baby, sodden and cold, but still alive, every
one of the small crowd gathered on the beach below Garthowen slopes,
considered he had added a fresh claim to his name--a name which he had
gained by his frequent raids upon the fierce storms, and the harvest
which he had gathered from their fury. That baby had found open arms
and tender hearts ready to succour it, and when Sara "'spridion" had
stretched imploring hands towards it, reminding the onlookers of her
recent bereavement, it was handed over to her fostering care. "Give it
to me," she said, "my heart is empty; it will not fill up the void, but
it will help me to bear it. There are other reasons," she added, "good
reasons." She had carried it home triumphantly, and little Morva had
never after missed a mother's love and tenderness. The seventeen years
that followed had glided happily over her head; in fact she was so
perfect an embodiment of health and happiness, that she sometimes
excited the envy of the somewhat sombre dwellers on those lonely
hillsides; and when in the golden sunset, she suddenly rose from the
gorse bloom to greet Will's sight, she had never appeared brighter or
more brimful of joy.
"Well, indeed," said Will, casting a furtive glance behind him, to make
sure that no one from Garthowen was following in his footsteps, "Morva,
lass, where hast come from? I will begin to think thou art one of the
spirits thy mother says she sees. I thought thee wast busy in the
dairy at home!"
Morva laughed merrily.
"I had some milk to bring home, and Ann sent me early to help mother a
bit. I was going now to gather dry furze and bracken to boil the
porridge. Will you come and have supper with us, Will?"
"I have just had my tea," he said, "and a supper of bitter herbs into
the bargain, for my father angered me by something he said. He is
changeable as the wind, and I was roaming over here to seek for
calmness from the sea wind, and perhaps a talk with Sara."
"Yes, come! She is in the herb garden gathering her bear's claws and
rue; 'tis the proper time for them. But first we must cut the bracken."
Will took her sickle and soon cut a pile of the dry brittle fuel,
binding it with a rope which she carried; and turning towards the
cottage, they dragged it behind them.
"You go and seek mother," said Morva, "while I go and boil the
porridge."
And in the garden Will found Sara stooping over her herb bed, and
deeply intent upon her task.
The sun was setting now, and threw its ruddy beams upon the sunny
corner, and upon the aged face and figure of the old woman.
"Well, 'machgen i," she said, straightening herself. "What is it?"
"Oh, nothing," said Will; "only, roaming about the moor, I came in to
see you, and Morva has asked me to have supper with you--you are
gathering your herbs?"
"Yes, 'tis time to dry them and hang them up under the rafters; if they
will save one human being from pain 'twill be a good thing. Last night
Mari Lewis came to ask me for something for her boy; I gave it to her,
but she never came to tell me whether it had done him any good," and
she smiled as she led the way back to the cottage carrying her bunches
of herbs.
"Was it Dan?" asked Will.
"Yes."
"Then he is well, for I saw him ploughing this evening."
"That's better than thanks," said the old woman, entering the dark
cottage, where Morva was stirring a crock which hung on a chain from
the open chimney, the furze and bracken flaming and crackling beneath
it and lighting up her beautiful face. Once in the cottage, Sara sat
down on the old oak settle and waited for her supper, her herbs lying
in a green heap on the floor beside her. The square of scarlet
flannel, which she always wore pinned on her shoulders, made a bit of
bright colour in the gloom, her wrinkled hands were clasped on her lap,
and a far-away look came into her wonderful dark eyes.
Morva looked up from her work.
"Are you seeing anything, mother?"
"No, no, child, nothing. Make haste with the supper," said Sara.
And when Morva had divided the porridge in the three shining black
bowls, they drew round the bare oak table, on which the red of the
setting sun made a flickering pattern of the mallow bush growing on the
garden hedge. They talked about the farm work, the fishing, the lime
burning, the fate of the _Lapwing_, which had sailed in the autumn and
had never returned, until, when supper was over, Will rose to go with a
stretch and a yawn.
"Ann wants me to give the white calf his medicine to-night, mother,"
said Morva.
"Wilt come with me now?" said Will, "for I am going."
"Yes, go," said the old woman, "go together."
But as the two young people went out under the low doorway she looked
after them pensively, and remained long looking up at the evening sky,
which the open door revealed. At last she tied up her herbs and began
washing her bowls, and while engaged at her work she sang. Her voice
had the pathetic tremble of old age, but was still true and musical,
for she had once been a singer among singers, and the song that she
sang--who shall describe it? from what old stores of memory did it come
to light? from what old wells of ancient folklore and tradition did it
spring? But Sara was full of songs and hymns--of the simplest and
oldest--of the rocky path--of the golden summit--of the angelic
host--of the cloud of witnesses--but of the more modern hymns of church
festivals or chapel revivals, of creeds and shibboleths, she knew
nothing!
Outside on the heath and gorse Will and Morva made their way along the
narrow sheep paths, until, reaching the green sward where two could
walk abreast, he drew nearer, and passing his arm round her shoulders,
turned her gently towards the side of the cliff, where jutting crags
and stunted thorns made "sheltered nooks for lovers' seats."
"Come, sit down here, Morva," he said; "all day I have wanted to talk
to thee. Dost know what kept me so long at Castell On to-day? Dost
know what grand thing is opening out before me? Dost know, lass, the
time is coming when I will be able to put rings on thy fingers, and
silken scarves on thy shoulders, and pretty shoes on thy little feet?"
Morva's lips parted, disclosing two rows of pearly teeth, as she stared
in astonishment at her companion.
"Oh, Will, lad, what is the matter with thee? Hast lost thy senses?
We mustn't be long or Ann will be waiting."
"Oh, Ann!" said Will pettishly, "let her wait; listen thou. I am going
to finish with them all before long; I am not going to plod on here on
the farm any longer; I am going to college, lass; I am going to pass my
examination and be a clergyman, like Mr. Price, or like that young
curate who was stopping with him a month ago. Didst see him, Morva?
Such a gentleman! dressed so grand, and went from town in the Nantmyny
carriage."
Morva was still speechless.
"Oh, anwl! what art talking about, Will?" she said at last.
"Truth, Morva; I will be like that young man before long, and when I
have a home ready I will send for thee; thou shalt come secretly to
meet me in some large town where no one will know us. I will have a
silken gown ready for thee, and we will be married, and thou shalt be a
real lady."
Morva's only answer was a peal of laughter, which reached over moor and
crag and down to the sandy beach below.
"Oh, Will, Will!" she gasped, with her hand on her side, "now indeed
thy senses are roaming. Morva Lloyd in velvet shoes and silken gowns,
and Will Owens with flapping coat tails like Mr. Price, and one of
those ugly shining hats that the gentlemen wear! Oh, Will, Will!
there's funny indeed!" and she laughed again until she woke the echoes
from the cliffs.
"Hush-sh-sh!" said Will, a good deal nettled, "or laugh at thyself if
thou wilt, but not at me, for I tell thee that's how thou'lt see me
very soon."
"Well, indeed, then," said the girl, "when thou tak'st that path thou
must say 'good-bye' to Morva Lloyd, for such things will never suit
her."
"I tell thee, girl," said Will, taking both her hands in his, "thou
must come with me. I will follow that path--I feel I must, and I feel
it will lead to riches and honour, but I feel, too, that I can never
live without thee; thou must come with me, Morva. What is in the
future for me must be for thee too! dost hear?"
"Yes, I hear," said the girl, with a gasp.
"Dost remember thy promise, Morva? When we were children together, and
sat here watching the stars, didn't I hold thy little finger and point
it up to the North Star and make thee promise to marry me? And if thou
art going to change thy mind, 'twill break my heart," and his mouth
took a sad, pathetic curve.
"But I am not going to change. I remember the star which I pointed to
when I promised to marry thee. 'Twill be up there by and by when the
light is gone, for it is always there, though the others move about."
"Yes, 'tis the North Star, and the English have a saying, 'As true as
the North Star'--that's what thou must be to me, Morva."
"Yes, indeed. The English are very wise people. But after all, Will,
I must laugh when I think of a clergyman marrying a shepherdess. Oh!
Will, Will!" added the girl more seriously and in a deprecating tone,
"thou art talking nonsense. Think it over for a day or two, and then
we'll talk about it. I cannot stay longer--Ann will be angry."
And slipping out of his grasp, she ran with light footsteps over the
soft turf, Will looking after her bewildered and troubled, until she
disappeared round the edge of the ridge; then he rose slowly, picked up
his book, and followed her with slow steps and an anxious look on his
handsome face. He was tall and well grown, like every member of the
Garthowen family; his reddish-brown hair so thick above his forehead
that his small cap of country frieze was scarcely required as a
covering for his head; and not even the coarse material of his homespun
suit, or his thick country-made shoes, could hide a certain air of
jaunty distinction, which was a subject of derision amongst the young
lads of his acquaintance, but of which he himself was secretly proud.
From boyhood he had despised the commonplace ways of his rustic home,
and had always aimed at becoming what he called "a gentleman." No
wonder, then, that with his foot, as he thought, on the first rung of
the ladder, he was pensive and serious as he followed Morva homewards.
Ebben Owens, when he had risen from the tea table, had followed his son
into the farmyard, but finding no trace of him there, his face had
taken a troubled and anxious expression, for Will was the idol of his
soul, the apple of his eye, and a ruffle upon that young man's brow
meant a furrow on the old man's heart. He reproached himself for
having allowed "the boy" to proceed too far with his plans for entering
college before he had suggested that there might be a difficulty in
finding the required funds. After a long reverie, he muttered as he
went to the cowsheds:
"Well, well, I must manage it somehow. I must ask Davy my brother, to
lend me the money until I have sold those yearlings."
Not having the moral courage to open his mind to his son, he allowed
the subject to drift on in the dilatory fashion characteristic of his
nation; and as time went on, he began to allude to the coming glories
of Llaniago in a manner which soothed Will's irritation, and made him
think that the old man, on reconsideration, was as usual becoming
reconciled to his son's plans. As a matter of fact, Ebben Owens was
endeavouring to adjust his ideas to those of his son, solving the
difficulties which perplexed him by mentally referring to "Davy my
brother," or "those yearlings."
Will also took refuge, as a final resource, in the thought of his rich
uncle, the Rev. Dr. Owen, of Llanisderi, who, through marriage with a
wealthy widow, had in a wonderfully short time gained for himself
preferment, riches, and popularity.
"I will stoop to ask Uncle Davy to help me," he thought, "rather than
put it off;" but he kept his thoughts to himself, hoping still that his
father would relent, for he considered the want of funds was probably a
mere excuse for keeping him longer at home.
It had been very easy, one day a month earlier, when, sitting in the
barn together, they had talked the matter over, for Ebben Owens to make
any number of plans and promises, for he had just sold two large ricks
of hay, and had placed the price thereof in the bank. He was,
therefore, in a calm and contented frame of mind, and in the humour to
be reckless in the matter of promises. The whole country side knew how
good-natured he was, how ready to help a friend, very often to his own
detriment and that of his family; he was consequently very popular at
fair and market. Everybody brought his troubles to him, especially
money troubles; and although Ebben Owens might at first refuse
assistance, he would generally end by opening his heart and his
pockets, and lending the sum required, sometimes on good security,
sometimes on bad, sometimes on none at all but his creditors' word of
honour, whose value, alas! was apt to rise or fall with the tide of
circumstances. He had many times given his own word of honour to his
anxious daughter, that he would never again lend his money or "go
security" for his neighbours without consulting his family; but over
the first blue of beer, at the first fair or market, he had been unable
to withstand the pleadings of some impecunious friend. Only a week
after he and Will had talked over their plans in the barn, Jos Hughes,
who was his fellow-deacon at Penmorien Chapel, had met him in the
market at Castell On, and had persuaded him to lend him the exact
amount which his ricks had brought him, with many promises of speedy
repayment.
"Tis those hard-hearted Saeson,[1] Mr. Owens bâch! They will never
listen to reason, you know," he had argued, "and they are pressing upon
me shocking for payment for the goods I had from them last year; and me
such a good customer, too! I must pay them this week, Mr. Owens bâch,
and you are always so kind, and there is no one else in the parish got
so much money as Garthowen. I will give you good security, and will
pay you week after next, as sure as the sun is shining!"
It was a plausible tale, and Ebben Owens, as usual, was weak and
yielding. He liked to be considered the "rich man" of the parish, and
to be called "Mr. Owens," so Jos went home with the money in his
pocket, giving in return only his "I. O. U.," and a promise that the
transaction should be carefully kept from Ann's ears, for Ebben Owens
was more afraid of his daughter's gentle reproofs than he had ever been
of his wife's sharp tongue.
[1] English.