THE SEA MAIDEN
Sara was sitting at tea when the girl arrived. Through the open
doorway came the glow of the sunset, with the humming of bees and the
smell of the thyme and the bean flowers.
"Thou hast something to ask me, Morva. What is it?" she said, making
room for her at the little round table in the chimney corner.
"Oh, 'tis nothing, I suppose," said Morva, cutting herself a long slice
of the flat barley loaf; "only 'tis the same old questions that are
often troubling me. What is going to become of me? What is in the
future for me? I used to think when I grew to be a woman I would marry
Will, and settle down at Garthowen close to you here, mother fâch, and
take care of 'n'wncwl Ebben when Ann and Gwilym Morris were married;
but now, somehow, it all seems altered."
The old woman looked at her long and thoughtfully.
"Wait until later, child," she said. "Clear away the tea, tidy up the
hearth, and let me read my chapter while the daylight lasts," and
finishing her tea Morva did as she was bid.
Later on in the evening, sitting on the low rush stool opposite to
Sara, she continued her inquiries.
"Tell me, mother, about Will and Gethin when they were boys. Was
Gethin so very wicked?"
"Wicked? No," said Sara, "never wicked. Wild and mischievous and full
of pranks he was, but the truest, the kindest boy in the world was
Gethin Owens Garthowen."
"And Will?"
"Will was a good boy always, but I never loved him as I loved the
other. Gethin had a bad character because he stole the apples from the
orchard, and he took Phil Graig's boat one day without asking leave,
and there was huboob all over the village, and his father was mad with
anger, and threatened to give him a thrashing; but in the evening
Gethin brought the boat back quite safely. He had been as far as
Ynysoer, and he brought back a creel full of fish for Phil, to make up.
Phil made a good penny by the fish, and forgave the boy bâch; but his
father was thorny to Gethin for a long time. Then at last he did
something--I never knew what--that offended his father bitterly, and he
was sent away, and never came back again."
"Mother," said Morva solemnly, "I have found out what he did. He got
his mother's Bible and he wrote some dreadful things in it, and made a
fearful picture."
"Picture of what?" asked the old woman.
"A picture of flames and fire, and the devil toasting a man on it, and
a song about the devil. Here it is; I remember every word," and she
repeated it word for word, it having sunk deeply into her mind. "Then
at the bottom he had written, 'Hallelujah, Amen! Gethin Owens
Garthowen.'"
A smile overspread Sara's countenance as she observed Morva's
solemnity, a smile which somewhat lessened the girl's disquietude.
"Was it so very wicked, mother?"
"Wicked? No," said the old woman. "What wonder was it that the boy
drew a picture of the things that he heard every Sunday in
chapel--God's never-ending anger, and the devil's gathering in the
precious souls which He has created. That would be a failure, Morva,
and God can't fail in anything. No, no," she added shrewdly, nodding
her head, "He will punish us for our sins, but the devil is not going
to triumph over the Almighty in the end."
Morva pondered seriously as she fed the fire from a heap of dried furze
piled up in the corner behind the big chimney.
"I was very little when Gethin went away, but I remember it. Now tell
me about the night when first I came to you. I love that story as much
now as I did when I was a child."
"That night," said Sara, "oh! that night, my child. I see it as
plainly as I have seen the gold of the sunset to-night. It had been
blowing all day from the north-west till the bay was like a pot of
boiling milk. It was about sunset (although we couldn't see the sun),
there was a dark red glow over everything as if it were angry with us.
Up here on the moor the wind shrieked and roared and tore the poor
sheep from the fold, and the little sea-crows from their nests. I sat
here alone, for it was the year when my husband and baby had died, and,
oh, I was lonely, child! I moaned with the wind, and my tears fell
like the rain. I heaped the furze on the fire and kept a good blaze;
it was cold, for it was late in October. It grew darker and darker,
and I sat on through the night, and gradually my ears got used to the
raging of the storm, I suppose, for I fell asleep, sitting here under
the chimney, but suddenly I awoke. The wind was shrieking louder than
ever, and there in that dark corner by the spinning-wheel I saw a faint
shadow that changed into the form of a woman. She was pale, and had on
a long white gown, her hair, light like thine, hung down in threads as
if it were wet. She held out her hands to me, and I sat up and
listened. I saw her lips move, and, though I could not hear her voice,
I seemed to understand what she said, for thee know'st, Morva, I am
used to these visions."
"Yes," said the girl, nodding her head.
"Well, I rose and answered her, and drew my old cloak from the peg
there. 'I am coming,' I said, and she glided before me out through the
door and down the path over the moor. I saw her, a faint, white
figure, gliding before me till I reached the Cribserth, and there she
disappeared, but I knew what she wished me to do; and I followed the
path down to the shore, and there was tumult and storm indeed, the air
full of spray, and even in the black night the foaming waves showing
white against the darkness. Out at sea there was a ship in distress,
there was a light on the mast, and we knew by its motion that the poor
ship was sorely tossed and driven. Many people had gathered on the
shore in the darkness. No one had thought of calling me, for here we
are out of the world, Morva; but the spirits come more easily to the
lonely moor than to the busy town. Ebben Owens was there, and little
Ann, and all the servants and the people from the farms beyond the
moor, but no one could help the poor ship in her distress. At last the
light went out, and we knew the waves had swallowed her up, and all
night on the incoming tide came spars and logs and shattered timber,
and many of the drowned sailors. Stiven 'Storrom' was there as usual,
and in the early dawn, when there was just a streak of light in the
angry sky, he shouted out that he had found something, and we all ran
towards him, and there, tied safely to a hencoop, lay a tiny baby, wet
and sodden, but still alive. It was thee, child, so wasn't I right to
call thee Morforwyn?[1] though indeed we soon shortened it to Morva.
When I saw thee I knew at once 'twas thy mother who had come to me
here, and had led me down to the shore, and I begged them to give me
the baby. 'There is a reason,' I said, but I did not tell them what it
was. What was the good, Morva? They would not understand. They would
only jeer at me as they do, and call me Sara ''spridion.'[2] Well, let
them, I am richer than they, oh! ten thousand times, and I would not
change my life here on the lonely moor, and the visions I have here,
for any riches they could offer me."
"No, indeed, and it is a happy home for me, too, though I don't see
your visions; but then you tell me about them, and it teaches me a
great deal. Mother, I think my life is more full of happy thoughts
than most of the girls about here because of your teaching. No, I
don't want to leave here, except, of course, I must live at Garthowen
when Will wants me."
The old woman made no answer, but continued to gaze at the crackling
furze.
"You wish that too, mother?" asked the girl.
"I did, 'merch i, but now I don't know indeed, Morva. Thou must not
marry without love."
"Without love, mother! I have told you many times I love Will with all
my heart."
Sara shook her head with a smile of incredulity.
"It is a dream, child, and thou wilt wake some day. Please God it may
not be too late."
A pained look overspread the girl's face, a turmoil of busy thought was
in her brain, but there was no uncertainty in the voice with which she
answered:
"Mother, I love Will. I have told him so. I have promised to be his
wife, and I would rather die than break my word."
"Well, well," said Sara, "there is no need to trouble, child, only try
to do right, and all that will be settled for thee; but I think I see
sorrow for thee, and it comes from Will."
"Well," said Morva bravely, as she flung another bunch of furze on the
fire, "I suppose I must bear my share of that like other people. 'As
the sparks fly upward,' mother, the Bible says, and see, there's a fine
lot of them," and she raked the small fire with the lightsome laugh of
youth.
"Ah!" said the old woman, "thou canst laugh at sorrows now, Morva; but
when they come they will prick thee like that furze."
"And I will stamp them out as I do these furze, mother," and again she
laughed merrily, but ceased suddenly, and, with her finger held up,
listened intently.
"What is that sound?" she asked. "It is some one brushing through the
heather and furze. Who can it be? Is it Will?"
Both women were fluttered and frightened, for such a thing as a
footstep approaching their door at so late an hour was seldom heard,
for at Garthowen they all retired early, and the cottagers in the
village below avoided Sara as something uncanny, and looked askance
even at Morva, who seemed not to have much in common with the other
girls of the countryside.
"'Tis a man's step," she whispered, "and he is coming into the cwrt,"
and, while she was still speaking, there came a firm, though not loud,
knock at the door.
Morva shrank a little under the big chimney, where she stood in the
glow of the flaming furze; but Sara rose without hesitation, and going
to the door, opened it wide.
"Who is here so late at night?" she asked.
"Shall I come in, Sara, and I will explain?" said a pleasant, though
unknown voice. "'Twas to Garthowen I was going, but when I reached
there every light was put out, so I wouldn't wake the old man from his
first sleep, and I have come on here to see can you let me sleep here
to-night? Dost know me, Sara?"
"Gethin Owens!" exclaimed the old woman, with delighted surprise. "My
dear boy, come in!"
There was no light in the cottage except that of the fitful furze fire,
so that when Gethin entered he exclaimed at the darkness,
"Sara fâch, let's have a light, for I am longing to see thee!"
Morva threw a fresh furze branch on the fire. The motion attracted
Gethin's attention, and as the quick flame leaped up, the girl stood
revealed. While Sara fumbled about for the candle the flame burnt out,
and for a moment there was gloom again.
"Hast one of thy spirits here, or was it an angel I saw standing there
by the fire?" said the newcomer; but when Sara had succeeded in
lighting the candle, he saw it was no spirit, but a creature of flesh
and blood who stood before him.
"No, no, 'tis only Morva," said Sara, dusting a chair and pushing it
towards him. "Sit thee down, my boy, and let me have a good look at
thee. Well! well! is it Gethin, indeed? this great big man, so tall
and broad."
But Gethin's eyes were fixed upon the girl, who still stood astonished
and bewildered under the chimney.
"Morva!" he said, "is this little Morva, who cried so bad after me when
I went away, and whom I have longed to see so often? Come, shake
hands, lass; dost remember thy old playmate?" and he advanced towards
her with both hands outstretched.
Morva placed her own in his.
"Yes, indeed," she answered, "now in the light I can see 'tis thee,
Gethin--just the same and unaltered only--only--"
"Only grown bigger and rougher and uglier, but never mind; 'tis the
same old Gethin who carried thee about the slopes on his shoulders,
but, dei anwl! I didn't expect to see thee so altered and so--so
pretty."
Morva blushed but ignored the compliment.
"Well, indeed, there's glad they'll be to see thee at Garthowen."
"Dost think?"
"Yes, indeed; but won't I put him some supper, mother?"
"Yes, 'merch i, put on the milk porridge."
And Morva, glad to hide her embarrassment, set about preparing the
evening meal, for Gethin's eyes told the admiration which he dared not
speak. His gaze followed her about as she mixed the milk and the
oatmeal in the quaint old iron crochon.
"'Twill soon be ready; thee must be hungry, lad," said Sara, laying the
bowls and spoons in readiness on the table.
"Yes, I am hungry, indeed, for I have walked all the way from
Caer-Madoc. 'Tis Sunday, thee seest, so there were no carts coming
along the road. Halt, halt, lass!" he said, "let me lift that heavy
crochon for thee."
"Canst sleep on the settle, Gethin?" asked the old woman, "for I have
no bed for thee. I will spread quilts and pillows on it."
Gethen laughed boisterously.
"Quilts and pillows, indeed, for a man who has slept on the hard deck,
on the bare ground, on a coil of ropes; and once on a floating spar,
when I thought sleep was death, and welcomed it too."
"Hast seen many hardships then, dear lad?" said Sara. "Perhaps when we
were sleeping sound in out beds, thou hast oftentimes been battling
with death and shipwreck."
"Not often, but more than once, indeed," said Gethin.
"Thou must tell us after supper some of thy wonderful escapes."
"Yes, I'll tell you plenty of yarns," said Gethin, his eyes still
following Morva's movements.
A curious silence had fallen upon the girl, generally so ready to talk
in utter absence of self-consciousness. She served the porridge into
the black bowls, and shyly pushed Gethin's towards him, cutting him a
slice of the barley bread and butter.
"I have left my canvas bag at Caer-Madoc," said Gethin, when he had
somewhat appeased his appetite. "'Twill come up to Garthowen
to-morrow. I have a present in it for thee, Morva."
"For me?" said the girl, and a flood of crimson rushed into her face.
"I didn't think thee wouldst be remembering me."
"There thou wast wrong, then," said Gethin, cutting himself another
slice.
"Well, indeed, I have never had a present before!"
"I have one for Ann, and Will, and my father, God bless him! And how
is good old Will?"
"He is quite well," said Morva.
"As industrious and good as ever? Dei anwl! there's a difference there
was between me and him! You wouldn't think we were children of the
same mother. Well, you can't alter your nature, and I'm afraid 'tis a
bad lot Gethin Owens will be to the end!" And he laughed aloud, his
black eyes sparkling, and the rings in his ears shining out in the
gloom of the cottage.
Morva looked at the stalwart form, the swarthy skin, the strong, even
teeth, that gleamed so white under the black moustache, the jet-black
hair, the broad shoulders, and thought how proud Ann would be of such a
brother.
They sat long into the night, Sara gathering from the young man the
history of all his varied experiences since he had left his father's
home; Morva listening intently as she cleared away the supper, Gethin's
eyes following her light figure with fascinated gaze.
At last the door was bolted, the fire swept up, and Sara and Morva,
retiring to the penucha, left Gethin to his musings, which, however,
quickly resolved themselves into a heavy, dreamless sleep, that lasted
until the larks were singing above the moor on the following morning.
[1] Sea-maiden.
[2] Spirit Sara.