THE OLD BIBLE
On the following Sunday, Morva kept house alone at Garthowen, for
everyone else had gone to chapel, except Will, who had walked to
Castell On, which was three miles away up the valley of the On, he
having been of late a frequent attendant at Mr. Price's church. The
vicar was much beloved by all his parishioners, beloved and respected
by high and low, but still his congregation was sparse and uncertain,
so that every new member was quickly noticed and welcomed by him--more
especially any stray sheep from the dissenting fold possessed for him
all the interest of the sheep in the parable, for whose sake the ninety
and nine were left in the wilderness. Will had gone off with a large
prayer book under his arm, determined to take special note of the
Vicar's manner in reading the lessons, for on the following Sunday this
important duty would devolve upon him.
No one who has not spent a Sunday afternoon in a Methodist household
can really have sounded the depths of dullness; the interminable hours
between the early dinner and the welcome moment when the singing kettle
and the jingling of the tea-things break up the spell of dreariness,
the solemn silence pervading everything, broken only by the persistent
ticking of the old clock on the stairs, Morva had noted them all rather
wearily. Even the fowls in the farmyard seemed to walk about with a
more sober demeanour than usual, but more trying than anything else to
an active girl was the fact that _there was nothing to do_.
It was a hot blazing summer afternoon; she had paid frequent visits to
the sick calf, which was getting well and mischievous again, and
inclined to butt at Tudor, so even that small excitement was over, and
the girl came sauntering back under the shady elder tree which spread
its branches over the doorway of the back kitchen. She crossed to the
window, and leaning her arms on the deep sill looked out over the yard,
and the fields beyond, to the sea, whose every aspect she knew so well.
Not a boat or sail broke its silvery surface, even there the spell of
Sabbath stillness seemed to reign. She thought of the chapel with its
gallery thronged with smiling lads and lasses; she thought of Will
sitting bolt upright at church. Yes; decidedly the dullness was
depressing; but suddenly a brightening thought struck her. Why should
she not hunt up the old Bible which Ann said was too bad to leave
about? What could Gethin have written in it that was so wicked? She
remembered him only as her friend and companion, and her willing slave.
She was only a child when he left, but she had not forgotten the burst
of bitter wailing which she sent after him as he picked up his bundle
and tore himself away from her clinging arms, and how she had cried
herself to sleep that night by Sara's side, who had tried to pacify her
with promises of his speedy return. But he had never come, and his
absence seemed only to have left in his father's memory a sense of
injury, as though he himself had not been the cause of his boy's
banishment. Even Ann and Will, who had at first mourned for him, and
longed for his return, appeared to have forgotten him, or only to
regard his memory as a kind of sorrowful dream. Why, she knew not, but
the thought of him on this quiet Sunday afternoon filled her with
tender recollections. She opened every dusty book in the glass
bookcase, but in vain. Here was Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress"; and
here a worm-eaten, brown stained book of sermons; here were Williams of
"Pantycelyn's" Hymns and his "Theomemphis," with Bibles old and new,
but _not_ the one which she sought. Mounting a chair, and from thence
the table, she at last drew out from under a glass shade, covering a
group of stuffed birds, a dust-begrimed book, with a brass clasp and
nails at the corners. Dusting it carefully she laid it on the table
before her, and proceeded to decipher its faded inscriptions. Yes--no
doubt this was the book for which she had sought, and with a brown
finger following the words, she read aloud:
"ANN OWENS, HER BOOK,
GARTHOWEN."
Beneath this was written in a boyish hand the well-known doggerel lines:
"This book is hers, I do declare,
Then steal it not or else beware!
For on the dreadful Judgment Day
You may depend the Lord will say,
'Where is that book you stole away?'"
It was written in English, and Morva, though she could make herself
understood in that language, was not learned enough to read it easily.
However, there was no difficulty in reading the signature of "William
Owens" which followed. She turned over a leaf, and here indeed were
signs of Gethin, for all over the title page was scrawled with many
flourishes "Gethin Owens, Garthowen," "Gethin Owens," "G. O.,"
"Gethin," etc. It was wrong, no doubt, to deface the first page of the
Bible in this way, but Ann had said "too wicked to leave about!" so
Morva searched through the whole book, until on the fair leaf which
fronted "The Revelations" she found evident proof of Gethin's
depravity; and she quailed a little as she saw a vivid and realistic
pen and ink drawing of a fire of leaping flames, standing over which
was a monster in human shape, though boasting of a tail and cloven
hoofs. With fiendish glee the creature was toasting on a long fork
something which looked fearfully like a man, whose starting eyes and
writhing limbs showed plainly that he was not as happy as his
tormentor. It was very horrible, and Morva closed the book with a
snap, but could not resist the temptation of another peep, as there was
something written beneath in Welsh, which translated ran thus:
"Here's the ugly old Boy! I tell you beware!
If you fall in his clutches there's badly you'll fare!
Look here at his picture, his claws and his tail,
If you make his acquaintance you're sure to bewail!
Hallelujah! Amen!
--GETHIN OWENS."
At the last words Morva stood aghast; this then was Gethin's terrible
crime! "Oh! there's a boy he must have been!" said the girl, clasping
her fingers as she leant over the big Bible. "Oh! dear, dear! no
wonder 'n'wncwl Ebben was so angry! I don't forget how cross he was
one day when I let the Bible fall; didn't his face alter! 'Dost
remember, girl,' he said, 'it is the Word of God!' and there's
frightened I was! Poor Gethin! 'twas hard, though, to turn him away,
for all they are such wicked words. 'Hallelujah! Amen!' Well,
indeed! the very words that 'n'wncwl Ebben says so solemn after the
sermon in Penmorien!" and she shook her head sorrowfully, "and here
they are after this song about the devil. Will would never have done
that," and she pondered a little seriously; "but poor Gethin! After
all, he was only a boy, and boys do dreadful things--but Will never
did! Mother reads her Bible plenty too, but I don't think she would
have turned me out when I was a little girl if I had made this song.
I'll tell her to-night, and see what she says about Gethin, poor
fellow."
She closed and clasped the book, and mounting the table again, replaced
it in the hollow at the top of the bookcase, with the stuffed birds and
glass case over it.
When Ann and her father returned from chapel, there was a conscious
look on her face which they both remarked upon at once.
"What's the matter, Morva?" asked Ann.
"Is the calf worse?" asked the old man.
"No," answered the girl, her seriousness vanishing at once. "Nothing's
the matter; the calf is getting quite well."
As she spoke Will arrived from church, wearing a black coat and a white
cotton tie, his prayer-book under his arm.
Ebben Owens looked at him with an air of proud satisfaction.
"Here comes the parson," he said, and Will smiled graciously even at
Morva, whom he generally ignored in the presence of Ann and his father.
"Hast been stopping at home, Morva? I thought thee wast at chapel."
"I am going home now," said the girl, eyeing him rather critically. "I
will tell mother I have seen the 'Rev. Verily Verily.'"
Will flushed up, though he pretended to laugh; but Ebben Owens looked
annoyed.
"No more of that nonsense, Morva; thou art a bit too forward, girl;
remember Will is thy master's son, and leave off thy jokes."
"Oh! she meant no harm," said Will apologetically; "'twill be hard if
we can't have our jokes, parson or no parson."
"Well, indeed," said Morva, without a shade of annoyance in her voice,
"'twill be hard at first; but I suppose I will get used to it some day.
Will you want me again to-night, Ann?"
"No; but to-morrow early," said Ann.
And Morva went singing through the farmyard, and along the fields to
the Cribserth; but to-day it was a hymn tune of mournful minor melody
which woke the echoes from moor and cliff. Rounding the ridge, the
same fair view greeted her eyes, as had chased away Will's ill-temper
on the preceding evening, and she sat a moment under the shadow of a
broom bush to ponder, for Morva was a girl of many thoughts though her
mind was perfectly uneducated, her heart and soul were alive with
earnest questions. Her seventeen years had been spent in close
companionship with a woman of exceptional character, and although the
girl did not share in the abnormal sensitiveness of her foster-mother,
she had gained from her intimacy with her, an unusual receptivity to
all the delicate influences of Nature. Sara claimed to be clairvoyant,
though she had never heard the word. Morva was clear seeing only; her
pure and simple spirit was undimmed by any mists of worldly ideas; no
subterfuge or plausible excuse ever hid the truth from her, and yet in
spite of this crystal innocence, she kept her engagement to Will a
secret from all the world, excepting Sara.
It is the custom of the country to keep a love affair a secret as long
as possible; if it is discovered and talked about by outside gossips,
half its delight and charm is gone; indeed it is considered indelicate
to show any signs of love-making in public. It is true that this
secrecy often leads to serious mischief, but, on the other hand, there
is much to be said for the sensitive modesty of the Welsh maiden, when
compared with an English girl's too evident appreciation of her lover's
attentions in public. So hitherto Morva had followed Will's lead, and
shown no signs of more than the love and affection which was naturally
to be expected from her close intercourse with the Garthowen family
from babyhood. Did she feel anything more? She thought she did. From
childhood she had been promised to Will; the idea of marrying him when
they were both grown to manhood and maidenhood had been familiar to her
ever since she could remember. It caused no excitement in her mind, no
tumult in her heart. It was in the nature of things--it was Will's
wish--it was her fate! She did not rebel against it, but it woke no
thrill of delight within her. She had promised, and the idea of
breaking that promise was one that never entered her mind; but this
evening, as she sat under the broom bush, a curious feeling of unrest
came over her. How was it all to end? Would it not be wiser of Will
to turn his face to the world lying beyond the Cribserth ridge, where
the towns--the smooth roads--the college--and the many people lay, and
leave her to her lonely moor--to the sheep, and the gorse, and the
heather? She looked around her, where the evening sun was flooding
land and sea with golden glory.
"I would not break my heart," she thought; "here is plenty to make me
happy; there's the sea and the sands and the rocks! and at night, oh,
anwl! nobody knows how beautiful it is to float about in Stiven
'Storrom's' boat, in and out of the rocks, and the stars shining so
bright in the sky, and the moon sometimes as light as day. Oh, no; I
wouldn't be unhappy," and stretching her arms out wide, she turned her
face up to the glowing sky. "I love it all," she said, "and I do not
want a lover."
Catching sight of the blue smoke curling up from the heather mound
behind which Sara's cottage was buried, she rose, and dropping her
sober thoughts, ran homewards, singing and filling the sweet west wind
which blew round her with melody. But ere she reached the cottage
door, there came a whistle on the breeze, and, turning round, she saw
Will standing at the corner of the Cribserth, just where the rocky
rampart edged the hillside. She turned at once and slowly retraced her
footsteps, Will coming to meet her with more speedy progress. He had
changed his clothes, and in his work-a-day fustian looked far better
than he had in the black cloth suit which he had worn to church.
"Well, indeed, Morva lass, thou runn'st like the wind; I could never
catch thee. Come and sit down behind these bushes, for I want to talk
to thee. Wert offended at what my father said just now?"
"Offended! no," said the girl. "Garthowen has a right to say what he
likes to me, and besides, he was right, Will. I must learn to treat
thee with more respect."
"Respect!" said Will, laying hold of her hands, "'tis more love I want,
lass, and not respect; sometimes I fear thou dost not love me."
"But I do," said the girl calmly; "I do love thee, Will. 'Tis truth
that I would lay down my life for thee and all at Garthowen. Haven't
you been all in all to me--father, sister, brother? and especially you
and I, Will, have been together all our lives. Ann has not been quite
so much a sister to me since we've grown up, but then I am only the
milkmaid, and Gwilym Morris has come between."
"Yes, true," said Will; "but between me and thee, Morva, nothing has
ever come. Promise me once more, that when I have a home for thee thou
wilt marry me and come and live with me. My love for thee is the only
shadow on my future, because I fear sometimes that something will part
us, and yet, lass, it is the brightest spot, too--dost believe me?"
"Yes," said Morva, with eyes cast down upon the wild thyme which her
fingers were idly plucking, "I believe thee, Will. What need is there
to say more? I have promised thee to be thy wife, and dost think I
would break my word? Never! unless, Will, thou wishest it thyself.
Understand, that when once I am sure that thou hast changed thy mind
then I will never marry thee."
"That time will never come," said Will; and they sat and talked till
the evening shadows lengthened and till the sun sank low in the west;
then they parted, and Morva once more turned her footsteps homewards.
She walked more soberly than before, and there was no song upon her
lips.