THE CYNOS
In the old grey mill in the gorge, which ran up the moor about half a
mile beyond Sara's cottage, there was a "sound of revelry by night,"
for the Garthowen "cynos" was in full swing. It bid fair to be the
merriest, heartiest cynos of the year, and Jacob the miller was in his
element.
As Morva came down the side of the moor after supper, the enlivening
sounds which greeted her ear hastened her steps and quickened the blood
in her veins.
Will's absence, though unconsciously, was a relief to her, and in the
morning when, on rising, she had opened the cottage door, disclosing to
view all the charms of the autumn day, its glow of crimson bramble, its
glory of furze and heather, against the blue of the sea, her spirits
had risen with a bound, and the sadness of the evening before had at
once taken flight. For in the elasticity of youth, the hand of sorrow
has but to be removed for a moment and the flowers of hope and
happiness rise with unimpaired freshness and vigour; not so when age
draws near, then the heavy hand may be lifted, and the crushed flowers
of happiness may slowly revive and open once more, but there is a
bruise on the stem and a stain on the petals which remain.
Ebben Owens and Ann had all day been busy with the preparations for the
cynos. Gethin's whistle came loud and clear from the brow of the hill.
It had been a happy day for every one, so Morva thought, knowing
nothing of the anxiety which her burst of sorrow on the previous
evening had awakened in her foster-mother's heart. Sara's love for her
adopted child, who had come to her when her mother's heart was crying
aloud in its bereavement, had in it not only tenderness deep as a
mother's, but also that keen intuition and sensitiveness to every
varying mood and feeling of the loved one, which is the bitter
prerogative of all true love. So, while Morva had gone singing to her
milking, Sara had walked in her herb garden, musing somewhat sadly.
There was neither sorrow nor anxiety in the girl's heart as she
hastened her steps down the side of the gorge. She saw the twinkling
light in the window of the old mill kitchen, she heard the trickling of
the stream, and the sound of laughter and merry voices which issued
from the wide open mill door.
When she arrived there was Gethin busy with the sacks of corn, there
was the hot kiln upon which the grain would be roasted, while ranged
round it stood the benches which Jacob had prepared for the company.
Already some of the young men and girls from the surrounding farms were
dropping in to share in the evening's amusement and work. Shan, the
miller's wife, was busy in the old kitchen with preparations for the
midnight meal. Ebben Owens had caused a small cask of beer to be
tapped, and Jacob was unremitting in his attentions to it during the
night.
"Garthowen's is worth calling a cynos," he said. "He doesn't forget
how the flour gets into one's throat and makes one thirsty. I'm no
Blue Ribbonite, no, not I, nor intend to be, and that's why I try
always to make the Garthowen cynos a jolly one."
"Yes, yes," said Shan, "you needn't trouble to tell me the reason; I
know it well now these many years."
When Morva entered she was warmly greeted by all. The farm lads
particularly were loud in their welcome.
"Come in, lass, where'st been lately? We haven't seen thee a long
time."
"Well, indeed, I've been on the moor every day with the calves or the
sheep; they are grazing there now."
Everyone said something except Gethin, who only glanced at her with a
smile and a sparkle of black eyes, for he had seen her many times
during the day, and he was already, according to the fashion of his
country, beginning to hide his love under an outward appearance of
stolid indifference; but this did not offend Morva, for it saved her
from the ordeal of curious eyes and broad comments, and Gethin felt
that the tender flower of love was well shielded from rude contact with
the outside world, by the secrecy behind which a Welshman hides his
love, for, in a hundred ways unnoticed and unseen by those around him,
there were opportunities of apprising the girl of his constant and
watchful interest. How sweet was the chance touch of her brown fingers
in the course of the mill work. If her eyes met his, which they did
not often, how easy it was to send a meaning glance from his own! how
delightful to sit beside her in the circle round the glowing kiln!
Robin Davies and Neddy "Pandy" were late, so to beguile the time Jacob
struck up a merry tune, the whole company joining in the chorus. Song
after song followed each other, interspersed with stories, some of old
times and traditions, others of modern adventures at market or fair,
until at midnight they all adjourned to the mill kitchen, where Shan
had prepared the usual meal of steaming coffee with bread and butter.
There was bread of all sorts, from the brown barley loaf to the creamy,
curled oatcake, flanked by piles of the delicious tea-cakes for which
Pont-y-fro was noted. The men washed down their cakes with foaming
"blues" from the beer barrel.
Robin Davies and Neddy "Pandy" arrived just in time for the coffee, and
when the meal was over they all returned to the kiln room, where the
air was filled with the aroma of the roasting corn.
It was only at such gatherings as these that Neddy ever experienced the
full enjoyments of life, for he was a homeless wanderer from place to
place.
Nature had been bountiful to him in the matter of bodily size and
strength, but she had not been correspondingly generous in her
allotment of mental capacities. No one knew anything of his parentage
or birthplace. Nobody cared sufficiently to inquire, and no one knew
of his weary hours of tramping over moor and mountain, led only by some
stray rumour of a fair or festive gathering, at which he might at least
for a few hours enjoy the pleasures of a "blue" of beer, a cheerful
greeting, and a seat in the chimney-corner, in return for a song, or a
turn at the "candle-dance," for which he was famous. He had called at
the old mill the week before, and Jacob had engaged his services for
the coming cynos. He had spent the day on board the _Speedwell_, where
Robin Davies was mate, and had had a good rest and a feast of music,
for Robin was a genius, and played his fiddle with wonderful taste and
skill, and Neddy, though wanting in many things, was behind no one in
his love for and appreciation of music. He was therefore unusually
bright and fresh when he arrived at the mill. He and Robin had walked
up all the way from Abersethin through the surf, carrying their shoes
under their arms.
"'Twill freshen thy feet, and make them hard for the candles," said
Robin.
Neddy's thin haggard face, surmounted by a thick crop of grizzled curly
hair, lighted up with pleasure as he felt the warm air of the roasting
room.
"Here, sit down by the kiln, man," said Gethin, "and rest a bit before
thou begin'st."
"Yes, and sing us 'Aderin pûr'," said Jacob, "'twill prepare the air
for the dancing."
And Neddy struck up at once. He never required pressing, for his songs
seemed always on his lips. He sang his ballads as he passed through
the country towns and villages, and the people came out and pressed
pennies into his hand, or invited him into their houses for a rest, a
hunch of bread and cheese, or a bowl of cawl; and he sang as he tramped
over the lonely hillsides, sometimes weary and faint enough, but still
singing; and when at night he retired to rest in some hay-loft or barn,
or perhaps alone under the starry night sky, he was wont to sing
himself to sleep, as he had done when a child in the old homestead of
which nobody knew.
When he began the words of the song so sweet to every Welshman's ear:
"Oh! lovely bird with azure wing
Wilt bear my message to her?"
every ear was intent upon the melody, and as the rich sonorous voice
carried it on through its first fervid strains of love, to the
imploring cadences of the ending, heads and hands beat time, eyes
glistened, humid with feeling, and when the song had come to an end,
there was a breathless silence and a sigh of satisfaction.
"There's lovely it is! Sing us again, Neddy bâch."
And Neddy sang again the song of the red-cheeked little prince, who
slept in his golden cradle, a red-cheeked apple in his hand. It was
but a simple nursery rhyme, but Neddy put his soul into it, for he was
but a child himself in spite of his tall stature and grizzled locks.
Morva was sitting on the steps which led up to the rickety, windy loft,
Gethin beside her on an upturned barrow.
"I might go on with my knitting," said the girl, "if somebody would
hold my skein for me to wind."
Gethin held it, of course; and while the ball increased in size there
was plenty of time and opportunity for talk, which was interrupted by
Robin's fiddle striking up a merry jig time. Wool and ball were laid
aside, while Ann placed six lighted candles on the floor--four in the
centre and one at each end, with space enough between them for the
figures of the dance.
Neddy listened a few moments, seemingly to get the rhythm well into his
mind; then starting up, and flinging his heavy shoes aside, he took his
place at the end of the space cleared for him, his ragged corduroy
trousers hanging in tatters round his bare ankles. With his thumbs in
the armholes of his waistcoat, he began the dance, singing all the time
an old refrain descriptive of its measure; keeping at a little distance
from the group of candles, but gradually approaching nearer and nearer,
and at length flinging his bare feet around the flaring lights. Round
them and over them, in between them and outside them, until it was a
mystery how the bare feet were not burnt and the ragged trousers did
not catch fire. Over and over again he stopped for breath, until the
loud stamping of feet and cries of applause, in which Tudor joined
vociferously, encouraged him to begin again. The music waxed faster
and faster, and Neddy danced with more marvellous rapidity, until he
seemed to lose himself in the intricate mazes of the dance. He was
pale, and beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, when at last,
with a trick of his bare foot, he extinguished every light, and
staggered to his seat in the corner by the kiln.
"Hooray, Neddy! as good as ever he was! Well done, bâchgen! fetch him
a 'blue.'"
And Neddy, triumphant and thoroughly enjoying the cheering and _éclat_
of his exploit, leant back panting to recover himself.
"The corn! The corn!" said Ann, turning to the roasting-pan over the
kiln. "We mustn't forget that with our dancing and our singing, and
thee mustn't have another 'blue' yet, Neddy."
"Oh, indeed 'tis wonderful!" said Morva.
"Yes, 'tis a pretty dance indeed," said Gethin, "and something like the
sailor's hornpipe we used to dance on board ship sometimes."
"Canst dance?" said the girl, with wide-open eyes of intense interest.
"Well, yes--I was considered to have a pretty good foot for a fling."
"Oh, dance!" said Morva, clasping her hands, "Ann, Ann, Gethin can
dance!"
"But not in these boots," he said.
"Oh, Gethin, try!" said his sister.
"Well, if I had my shoes. Run, Grif, to Garthowen and fetch them."
And in a short time the boy returned, bringing Gethin's best Sunday
shoes under his arm.
The floor was cleared again, and everybody watched eagerly while the
sailor took his stand, with arms folded across his chest and head well
thrown back.
"Now, Robin, a jig tune for me."
"Yes, yes, the sailor's hornpipe proper," said Robin; and he struck up
the time with spirit, and Gethin began the dance with equal vigour.
The company looked on with breathless admiration, Neddy with critical
nods of approval; but Morva's delight was indescribable. With
eagerness like a child's she followed every dash, every scrape, and
every fling of the dance, and when it was ended, and Gethin returned,
laughing and panting, to his seat on the barrow, alas! alas! he had
danced into her very heart.
"Oh! there's handsome he is!" said Magw, the dairymaid, with a sigh;
and Morva echoed the sentiment, though she did not give it utterance.
"Yes, 'twas very well," said Neddy; "but thee couldn't do it if thou
hadst the candles."
"That I couldn't, Neddy; nobody but thee could," and the old man was
quite satisfied.
In the early grey of the morning the stray visitors dropped off one by
one, and Neddy, having slept for an hour in his cosy corner, shook
himself awake and betook himself, crooning an old song, once more to
his solitary rambles over the hills. It was not until the sun had well
risen, and the whole remaining party had breakfasted together in the
mill kitchen, that the Garthowen household returned home, leading with
them the lumbering blue and scarlet carts, laden with the sacks of meal
sufficient for the coming year, Tudor following the procession with the
air of a dog who congratulates himself upon having brought affairs to a
satisfactory conclusion. Ebben Owens was already up to receive them,
the big oak coffers in the grain room were swept out, the dry meal
poured into them, and Twm the carter, with white cotton stockings kept
for the occasion drawn over his feet and legs, stood in the coffers
treading the meal into as hard a mass as possible. When they were full
to the brim the heavy lids were closed with a snap, and the Garthowen
cynos was over for the year. Afterwards the work of the farm went on
as usual, but there were many surreptitious naps taken during the day,
in hay loft or barn, or behind some sunny hedgerow or stack.
Gwilym Morris and Will did not return that day, as had been expected.
"Wilt stay a little later, Morva?" said Ann; "they may come by the
carrier at seven o'clock, and I will want to prepare supper for them."
Morva's heart sank, but she made no outward sign; she had been full of
restless excitement all day, and had looked forward to the quiet of the
cottage under the furze bank, and to Sara's soothing company.
All day she had been haunted by the memory of the sailor's hornpipe,
Gethin's flashing eyes, his handsome person, his supple limbs! She
tried to banish the vision and to turn her thoughts to Will, but found
it impossible! and she went about her work in a dream of happiness,
unwillingly recalling every word that Gethin had spoken, every hidden
compliment, and every look of tenderness. She avoided him when he
returned from the fields at midday, she trembled and blushed at the
sound of his name, and when he came home in the evening to his supper
she feigned some excuse and was absent from the evening meal; but when
at last Will's return was despaired of, and Morva took her way round
the Cribserth towards home, Gethin, no longer to be baulked, followed
her with rapid steps, and caught her up just as she turned the rugged
edge of the ridge.
"Morva!" he called, and she turned at once and stood facing him in the
light of the full moon.
She bent her head a little and let her arms fall at her sides, standing
like a culprit before his accuser. The attitude pained Gethin, whose
whole being was overflowing with tenderness.
"Morva, lass! what is the matter? Where art going? Art running away
from _me_?"
The girl raised her eyes to his, and in a low but firm voice answered,
"Yes."
"Why? Why?" he asked, and taking her hands hastily he drew her away
from the path, and down to the shadow of a broom bush on the cliff side.
She remembered it was the very bush behind which she had met Will two
evenings before. For a moment they were silent, both feeling too
agitated to speak. Beyond the shadow of the bushes the world lay
silent in the mellow moonlight, a soft breathing stole up to them from
the heaving sea below, a whispering breeze played on their faces, and
through it all the insidious glamour of the dance, which had enchanted
the simple rustic girl, wove like a silver thread.
"Morva," he said at last, pressing the hand which he held in his, "thou
knowest well what I want to say. If I had learning like Will's now, I
would not be hunting for words like this, but indeed, lass, I am fair
doited with love of thee. Answer me, dost love me too? I think,
Morva," and he drew her closer, "I think thou dost not hate me?"
"Oh, no," she whispered, "but--but--" and she slowly endeavoured to
withdraw from his detaining grasp, "but, Gethin, I am promised to Will."
"What? What didst say, girl?" said Gethin, in an agitated voice.
"Thou hast promised to marry Will?"
There was a long pause of silence, during which the lapping of the
waves on the beach, the rustle of the leaves in the bushes, together
with their own fluttering breaths, were distinctly audible.
"Didst say that, Morva?"
"Yes, indeed, 'tis true," said the girl, in a low voice.
"But--but does Will love thee?"
"Yes, he loves me," answered Morva sadly, but steadily, "and I love
him, and I must listen to no other man, for I have promised him."
"Promised him! when?" said Gethin, trying to steady his voice.
"Oh, many times, many times; two nights ago, here, under this very
broom bush, I promised to be true and unchangeable."
"Is this true indeed, then? Hast promised thyself away from me?" said
Gethin, looking round as if dazed and stunned.
"Yes," she answered again, in a low voice. "Will asked me if I loved
him, and I said 'Yes, I love thee with all my heart, and I love
everyone at Garthowen the same, and would willingly give my life for
them.'"
"And what did he say to that?" asked Gethin in a scornful tone.
"He said, 'twas right I should feel like that, for they had all been
kind to me, ever since the sea cast me up here, a little helpless baby;
and he said 'twould ill repay their kindness to break his heart."
Gethin snatched at her hand hungrily.
"Will I tell thee, lass, what I would have answered if I had been Will?
I would have said, 'Love me, Morva, _more_ than all the others at
Garthowen; love me more than all the world beside; love me as I love
thee, girl! Nothing less will satisfy me; no riches, no worldly goods,
no joy, no happiness will be of any account to me if I have not all thy
love.'"
"Stop, Gethin, stop," said Morva, turning away.
But Gethin continued, still detaining her hands in his, "That is what I
would have said, Morva, if I were Will. Canst say nothing to me, lass?"
Morva had turned her face to the broom bush, and was sobbing with her
apron to her eyes.
"Why didst thou promise him?" Gethin said again, in a fierce tone.
"I promised him when I was a little girl, and ever since, whenever he
has asked me, I have said, 'Oh, Will, there is no need to say more, for
I have promised,'" and she turned slowly to move away; but Gethin drew
her back.
"Thou shalt not go," he said; "I cannot live without thee; all through
the long years I too have loved thee, Morva, ever since that day when I
tore myself from thy clinging arms and heard thee crying after me; but
because I was away, and could not tell thee of my love, I have lost
thee."
"I have promised," was all her answer.
"Well, then, I suppose there is nothing else to be said, and I must
live without thee; but 'twill be hard, very hard, lass. I thought--I
thought--but there; what's the use of thinking? I suppose I must say
'Good-bye.' Wilt give me one kiss before we part? No? Well, indeed,
an unwilling kiss from Morva would kill me, so fforwel, lass! At least
shake hands."
Morva turned towards him, placing her hand in his, and by the bright
moonlight he saw her face was very pale.
"Fforwel!" he said once more, and dropping her hand, he left her
suddenly, standing alone under the night sky. She looked after him
until he had passed round the Cribserth, and then turned homewards with
a heavier heart than she had ever borne before.
"'As the sparks fly upward!'" she whispered, as she reached the cottage
door, "Yes, mother was right, 'as the sparks fly upward!'"