GETHIN'S PRESENTS
The corn harvest had commenced, and Ebben Owens was up and out early in
the cornfields. Will, too, was there, but with scant interest in the
work. It had never been a labour of love with him, and now that fresh
hopes and prospects were dawning upon him, the farm duties seemed more
insignificant and tedious than ever. Had it been Gethin who stretched
himself and yawned as he attacked the first swathe of corn, Ebben Owens
would have called him a "lazy lout," but as it was Will, he only
jokingly rallied him upon his want of energy.
"Come, come," he said, "thee'st not got thy gown and bands on yet.
We'll have hard work to finish this field by sunset; another hand
wouldn't be amiss."
"Here it is, then," said a pleasant, jovial voice, as a sunburnt man
came through the gap, holding out his brown right hand to Ebben Owens.
The other he stretched towards Will, who had thrown his sickle away,
and was hastily approaching.
No human heart could have steeled itself against that frank countenance
and beaming smile, certainly no father's. There was no questioning
"Who art thou?" for in both father's and brother's hearts leaped up the
warm feeling of kinship.
"Gethin!" said Ebben Owens, clasping the hand held out to him so
genially. "'Machgen i, is it thee indeed? Well, well, I am glad to
see thee!"
And Will, too, greeted the long-lost one with warm welcome.
The reapers gathered round, and Gethin's reception was cordial enough
to satisfy even his anticipations; for he had thought of this
home-coming, had dreamt of the welcome, and had earnestly desired it,
with the intense longing for home which is almost the ruling passion of
a Welshman's heart.
"Here I am," he said, laughing, his eyes sparkling with
happiness--"here I am, ready for anything! 'The prodigal son' has
returned, father. Will you have him? Will you set him to work at once
with your hired servants? For I love hard work, and if I don't get it,
perhaps I'll fall into mischief again."
"No, no," said Ebben Owens, "no work for thee this morning, lad. Thee
must go home with Will, and lighten Ann's heart, for she has grieved
for thee many a time, and I will follow at noon. To-morrow thou shalt
work if thou wilt; there is plenty to do at Garthowen, as usual. Come,
boys, come, on with the work. Nothing must stop the harvest, not even
the homecoming of Gethin."
The men stooped to their work again, but there were muttered comments
on the master's want of feeling.
"Dei anwl! if it had been Will," said one man to his neighbour, "the
reaping would have been thrown to the winds, and we would have had a
grand supper on the fatted calf. But Gethin is different. There's a
fine fellow he is!"
"Yes," said another; "did you notice his broad chest and his bright
eyes? Will looks nothing by him."
And they looked after the two young men as they passed through the gap
together, Ebben Owens taking up Will's sickle and setting to work in
his place.
Meanwhile Gethin, with a sailor's light, swinging gait, hastened Will's
more measured steps towards the homestead.
"Well, Will lad, there's glad I am to see thee!"
"And I," said Will. "No one knows how much I grieved after thee at
first, but latterly I was beginning to get used to thy absence."
"Well, 'twas quite the contrary with me, now," said Gethin. "At first
I was full of the new scenes and people around me, and I didn't think
much about old Wales or any of you; but as the time went on my heart
seemed to ache more and more for the old home--more and more, more and
more!--till at last I made up my mind I would give up the sea and go
back to Garthowen and stay, if they wanted me there, and help the old
man on the farm. Dost think he will have me?"
"Yes, of course," said Will. "Thou hast come in the nick of time, and
'twill be easier for me to leave home, as I am going to do next month."
"Leave home?" said Gethin, in astonishment.
"Yes," and Will began to expatiate with pride on his new plans, and his
intention of entering Llaniago College at once.
"Diwss anwl!" said Gethin; "have I got to live continually with a
parson? I'm afraid I had better pack up my bundle at once; thee wilt
never have patience with me and my foolish ways."
Will looked sober. "Thy foolish ways! I hope thou hast left them
behind thee."
"Well, truth," said Gethin, "as we grow older our faults and follies
get buried deeper under the surface; but it takes very little to dig
them up with me. I am only a foolish boy in spite of my strong limbs
and tall stature. But so it will always be. You can't make a silk
purse out of a sow's ear, and Gethin Owens will be Gethin Owens always.
There's the dear old place!" he cried suddenly; "there's the elder tree
over the kitchen door! Well, indeed! I have thought of it many times
in distant lands and stormy seas, and here it is now in reality! God
bless the old home!" and he took off his cap and waved it round his
head as he shouted, "Hoi! hoi!" to Ann, who, already apprised of his
coming, was running through the farmyard to meet him.
"Oh, Gethin anwl!" she sobbed, as she clasped her arms round his neck.
Gethin gently loosed her clinging fingers, and kissed the tears from
her eyes, and in her heart welled up again the tender love which had
been smothered and buried for so long.
Gwilym Morris came hurrying down from his "study," a tiny room
partitioned off from the hayloft. And if the fatted calf was not
killed for Gethin's return, a fine goose was, and no happier family sat
down to their midday meal that day in all Wales than the household of
Garthowen.
In the afternoon Gethin insisted upon taking his sickle to the
cornfield, and although the work was new to him his brawny arm soon
made an impression on the standing corn. The field was full of
laughter and talk, the sweet autumn air was laden with the scent of the
blackberries and honeysuckle in the hedges, and the work went on with a
will until, at four o'clock, the reapers took a rest, sitting on the
sunny hedge sides.
Through the gap Ann and Morva appeared, bringing the welcome basket of
tea. Gethin hurried towards them, relieving them of the heavy basket
which they were carrying between them.
"Thee'll have enough to do if thee'st going to help the women folk
here," said Will.
"He's been in foreign parts," said a reaper, "and learnt manners, ye
see."
"Yes," said another, "that polish will soon wear off."
"Well, caton pawb!" said Gethin, "manners or no manners, man, I never
could sit still and see a woman, foreign or Welsh, carry a heavy load
without helping her."
The two girls spread the refreshing viands on the grass, and with merry
repartee answered the jokes of the hungry reapers.
"'Twill be a jolly supper to-night, Miss Ann; we'll expect the 'fatted
calf,'" said one.
"Well, you'll get it," replied Ann; "'tis veal in the cawl, whatever."
"Hast seen Gethin before?" said Will to Morva, observing there was no
greeting between them.
"Well, yes," answered the girl, blushing a rosy red under her
sunbonnet; "wasn't it at our cottage he slept last night? and indeed
there's glad mother was to see him."
"And thee ought to be too," said one of the reapers, "for I'll never
forget how thee cried the day he ran away."
"Well, I'll never make her cry again," said Gethin. "Art going at
once, lass? Wilt not sit here and have tea with us?" and he drew his
coat, which he had taken off for his work, toward her, and spread it on
the hedge side.
Morva laughed shyly; she was not used to such attentions.
"No, indeed, I must go," she answered; "we are preparing supper."
As she followed Ann through the gap Gethin looked after her with a
smile in his eyes.
"There's bonnie flowers growing on the slopes of Garthowen, and no
mistake," he said.
Will examined the edge of his sickle and did not answer.
Later on, when the harvest supper was over, and the last brawny reaper
had filed out of the farmyard in the soft evening twilight, the
Garthowen household dropped in one by one to the best kitchen, where
their own meals were generally partaken of. Ebben Owens himself, as
often as not, took his with the servants, but Will, especially of late,
preferred to join Ann and Gwilym Morris in the best kitchen or hall.
Here they were seated to-night, a glowing fire of culm balls filling
the large grate, and throwing a light which was but little helped by
the home-made dip standing in a brass candlestick on the middle of the
table, round which they were all gathered while Gethin displayed his
presents.
"Here's a tie for you, father; green it is, with red spots; would you
like it?"
"Ts-ts!" said the old man, "it has just come in time, lad, for me to
wear on Sunday when I go to hear Will reading in church."
"That will be a proud day for you, father; I will go with you. And for
thee, Will, here's a knife. I remember how fond thee wast of the old
knife we bought in the fair together."
"Well, indeed!" said Will, clasping and unclasping the blades; "'tis a
splendid one, too, and here's a fine blade to mend pens with!"
"And for Ann," continued Gethen, "I have only a hymn-book."
"What couldst thou bring me better? And look at the cover! So good.
And the gold edges! And Welsh! I will be proud of it."
"Yes," said Gethin; "I bought it in Liverpool in a shop where they sell
Welsh books. And for you, sir," he said, turning to Gwilym Morris.
"'Sir,'" said the preacher, laughing; "Gethin bâch, this is the second
time you have called me 'sir.' Drop it, man, or I will be offended."
"Well! I won't say it again. Dei anwl! I will have to be on my best
behaviour here, with a parson and a preacher in the house! Well! it's
a pocket-book for you, I thought very like, being a preacher, you would
like to put down a word sometimes."
"Quite right, indeed," said Gwilym Morris; "and look at my old one,
barely hanging together it is!"
At the bottom of the bag from which Gethin drew his treasures, lay the
little painted box containing Morva's necklace.
"Where's Morva?" he asked. "I've got something for her, too."
"Oh, well," said Will, "thou art a generous man and a rich, I should
think! Perhaps thou hast one for Dyc 'pigstye' and Sara ''spridion'
too."
"Dyc 'pigstye'; no! But Sara, indeed I'm sorry I didn't remember her,
whatever."
"I hear Morva's voice in the yard. Will I call her in?" said Ann, and
she tapped at the little side window.
"No, no," said Gethin, "I will take it to her," and he went out,
carrying the gaudy box in his hand.
"Morva!" he called, and under the elder tree, where she was counting
the chickens at roost on its branches, the girl stood facing him, the
rising moon shining full upon her. "Morva, lass," he said, drawing
near; "'tis the present I told thee of. Wilt have it?" and there was a
diffident tremor in his voice, which was not its usual tone; for
to-night he was as shy as a schoolboy as he opened the box and drew out
the shining necklace. The iridescent colours gleamed in the moonlight
and Morva exclaimed in admiration:
"Oh, anwl! is that for me?"
"Yes, for thee, lass; for who else?" said Gethin. "Let me fasten it on
for thee. 'Tis a tiresome clasp," and as she bent her shapely neck and
his fingers touched it for a moment, she gently drew further away.
"Dost like them?" said Gethin, looking from the shining shells to the
glowing face above them.
"Oh, they are beautiful!" she answered, feeling them with her fingers.
"I will go in and show them to Ann. I haven't said 'thank you,' but I
do thank thee indeed, Gethin;" and he followed her into the "hall,"
where the glowing light from the fire and the candle fell on the
changing glitter of the shells.
"Oh, there's beautiful!" said Ann. "Come near, Morva, and let me look
at them. Well, indeed, they are fit for a lady."
"Thee must have paid a lot for that," said Ebben Owens, rather
reproachfully.
"Not much indeed, father, but I wasn't going to forget my little
playfellow, whatever."
"No, no, my boy, that was quite right," said the old man; and Will too
tried to smile and admire, but there was a flush of vexation on his
face which did not escape Morva's notice.
"I must go now," she said, a little shadow falling over her.
"Let me loosen the clasp for thee," said Gethin; but Morva, remembering
the touch of the brown fingers, quickly reached the door.
"No--no, I must show them to mother."
"Hast thanked Gethin, lass?" said the old man.
"Not much, indeed," she answered, turning back at the door, "but I
thank thee, Gethin, for remembering me," and, half-playfully and
half-seriously, she made him a little bob curtsey.
Arrived in the cottage she drew eagerly into the gleam of the candle.
"Mother, mother, look! see what Gethin has brought me. Oh! look at
them, mother; row under row of glittering shells from some far-off
beach. Look at them, mother; green--blue--purple with a silver sheen
over them, too. I never thought there were such shells in the world."
"They are beautiful, indeed," said Sara, "but just like a sailor. If
he had given thee something useful it would have been better. They
will not suit a shepherdess. Thee will have to take them off in a day
or two and lay them away in their box. 'Tis a pity, too, child."
"Any way, mother, I will wear them sometimes; they are only shells
after all. 'Tis hard I can't wear them because they are so lovely."
And the next day she wore them again, and, longing to see for herself
how she looked, made her way up to the moor in the early morning
sunshine to where a clear pool in the brown peat bog reflected the sky
and the gold of the furze bushes. Here she stood on the edge and gazed
at her own reflection in the clear water.
"Oh, 'tis pretty!" she said leaning over the pool, and as she gazed her
own beautiful face with its halo of golden hair impressed itself on her
mind as it had never done before. "And there's pretty I am, too," she
whispered, and gazing at her own image she blushed, entranced with the
vision. "Good-bye, Morva," she whispered again, "good-bye. I wonder
does Gethin see me pretty? But I must not think that; what would be
the use? Will does, and that must be enough for me;" and with a sigh
she turned down the moor again.