SARA
For Gwenda and Will, from this time forward, all went "merry as a
marriage bell." Early in the spring their wedding took place in
London, and when one morning Morva brought from Pont-y-fro post office
a packet for Ebben Owens containing a wedge of wedding cake and cards,
he evinced some show of interest. On the box was written in Gwenda's
pretty firm writing,
"With love to Garthowen, from William and Gwenda Owen."
Ebben rubbed his knees with satisfaction.
"There now," he said, "in her own handwriting, too! Well, indeed! I
thought she was a nice young lady that day she came here, but, caton
pawb! I never thought she would marry our Will."
A second piece of cake was enclosed and addressed. "To my friends Sara
and Morva of the Moor," and Morva carried it home with mingled feelings
of pride and pleasure, but paramount was the joy of knowing that she
was completely released from the promise which had become so galling to
her.
"I knew," said Sara, "that that face would bring us a blessing," and
she looked with loving inquiry into Morva's face, which was full of
varying expressions.
At first, there was the pleasurable excitement of unfolding and tasting
the wedding cake, but it quickly gave way to a look of pensive sadness,
which somehow had fallen over the girl rather frequently of late; the
haunting thought of Gethin's absence, the cloud of suspicion which had
so long hung over him, (it was cleared away now, but it had left its
impress upon her life), her ignorance of his whereabouts, and above
all, a longing, hidden deep down in her heart, to meet him face to face
once more, to tell him that she was free, that no longer behind the
broom bushes need she turn away from him, or wrest her hands from his
warm clasp. All this weighed upon her mind, and cast a shadow over her
path, which she could not entirely banish.
Sara saw the reflection of the sorrowful thought in the girl's
tell-tale eyes, and her tender heart was troubled within her.
"A wedding cake is a beautiful thing," said Morva; "how do they make
it, I wonder? Ann said I must sleep with a bit of it under my pillow
to-night, and I would dream of my sweetheart, but that is nonsense."
"Yes, 'tis nonsense," said Sara, "but 'tis an old-time fable; thee
canst try it, child," she added, smiling, and trying to chase away the
girl's look of sadness.
"'Twould be folly indeed, for there is no sweetheart for me any more,
mother, now that Will is married. Oh! indeed, I hope that sweet young
lady will be happy, and Will too."
"He will be happy, child; but for thee I am grieving. Thou art hiding
something from me; surely Will's marriage brings thee no bitterness?"
"No, no," said the girl, "I am glad, mother, so thankful to be free; I
could sing with the birds for joy, and yet there is some shadow in my
heart. 'Tis for Garthowen, I think, 'n'wncwl Ebben is so sad--Gethin
has never come home, and that money, mother! who stole it and put it
back again? We used to be so happy, but now it seems like the
threatening of a stormy day."
"Sometimes those stormy days are the end of rough weather, lass.
Through wind and cloud and lightning, God clears up the sky. Thee must
not lose patience, 'merch i; by and by it will be bright weather again."
"Do you think, mother?"
"Yes, I think--I am sure."
"Well, indeed," said Morva, "you are always right; but oh! I am
forgetting my cheese, I set the rennet before I came out. I must run."
And away she went, and in a short time had reached the dairy, where the
curdled milk was ready for her. First she went to the spring in the
yard to cool her hands and arms, and then with shining wooden saucer,
she broke up the creamy curds, gradually compressing them into a solid
mass, while the delicious whey was poured into a quaint brown earthen
pitcher.
The clumsy door stood wide open, and the sunshine streamed in, and
glistened on the bright brass pan in which Morva was crumbling her
curds, her sleeves tucked up above her elbows, showing her dimpled
arms. With her spotless white apron, her neatly shod feet, and her
crown of golden hair, she looked like the presiding goddess of this
temple of cleanliness and purity.
Round the walls stood shelves of the blue slaty stone of the
neighbourhood, upon which were ranged the pans of golden cream, above
them hanging the various dairy utensils of wood, polished black with
long use and rubbing.
Morva's good spirits had returned, for she hummed as she rubbed her
curds:
"Troodi! Troodi! come down from the mountain,
Troodi! Troodi! up from the dale!
Moelen and Trodwen, and Beauty and Blodwen,
I'll meet you all with my milking pail."
Meanwhile at home in the thatched cottage on the moor Sara seemed to
have caught the mantle of sadness which had fallen from the girl's
shoulders. She went about her household duties singing softly it is
true, but there was a look of disquiet in her eyes not habitual to
them, an air of restlessness very unlike her usual placid demeanour.
For sixteen years her life and Morva's had been serene and uneventful,
the limited circle which bound the plane of their existence had been
complete and undisturbed by outward influences; but latterly unrest and
anxiety had entered into their quiet lives, there was a veiling of the
sun, there was a shadow on the path, a mysterious wind was ruffling the
surface of the sea of life. No trouble had touched Sara personally,
but what mattered that to one so sympathetic? She lived in the lives
of those she loved; and as she moved about in the subdued light of the
cottage, or in the broad sunshine of the garden, a thread of
disquietude ran through the pattern of her thoughts. The cause of
Morva's sadness she guessed at, but how to remove it, or how to bring
back the peace and happiness that seemed to have deserted the old
Garthowen homestead, she saw not yet.
Suddenly she started, and standing still crossed her hands on her bosom
with a look of pleased expectancy; her lips moved as if in prayer, she
passed out into the garden, and gathering a bunch of rue, tied it
together and hung it to the frame of the doorway so that no one could
enter the house without noticing it. Then returning to the quiet
chimney corner, she sat down in the round-backed oak chair, and
clasping her hands on her lap, waited, while over her came the curious
trance-like sleep to which she had been subject at intervals all her
life. She was accustomed to these trances, and even welcomed their
coming for the sake of the clear insight and even the clairvoyance
which followed them. They were seasons of refreshing to this strange
woman's soul--seasons during which the connecting thread between spirit
and body was strained to the utmost, when a rude awakening might easily
sever that attenuated thread, when Morva knew that tender handling and
shielding care were required of her. In the evening when she returned
from the farm she came singing into the little court, where the gilly
flowers and daffodils were once more swaying in the wind, and the much
treasured ribes was hanging out its scented pink tassels. She stopped
to gather a spray, and then turning to the door, was confronted by the
bunch of rue, at sight of which she instantly ceased her singing and a
look of seriousness almost of solemnity came over her face, for the
herb had long been a pre-concerted signal between Sara and herself.
She gently pulled the string which lifted the latch, and entered the
cottage, treading softly as one does where death has already entered.
The stillness was profound, for it was a calm day and the sea was
silent, the fire only crackling on the hearth. The old cat slept on
the spinning bench, and Sara lay there unconscious and dead to all
outward surroundings. Morva approached her softly, and pressed a kiss
on the marble forehead; she felt her hands, they were supple though
cold; the eyes were closed and the breathing was scarcely perceptible,
but Morva had no fear for Sara's safety. She gently raised her feet
upon the rush stool, and rested her head more comfortably; then bolting
the door and making up the fire, she took her supper and prepared for a
long night's vigil.
And now came one of those seasons of contemplation and of wondering awe
which Sara's trances brought into Morva's simple life, which made her
somewhat different from the other girls of the neighbourhood, yet in no
way detracted from the brightness and cheerfulness of her character.
Magw, the house servant, was often out under the stars, but she paid
more attention to the stubble in the farmyard than to the glittering
spangled sky above her. Dyc "pigstye" often passed over the cliffs and
up the moor, but his own whistle, the bleat of the sheep, the lowing of
the herds, were more to him than the whispers of the sea or the singing
of the larks. Ebben Owens was out from morning to night, in the
brilliant sunshine, and under the mellow moon, but they taught no tale
to him, and brought no messages to his soul, save of crops, of work, of
harvests. But to Morva, every tint of broom or heather, every shade of
sea or sky, every flower that unfolded in the sunshine spoke and
stirred within her sentiments of love and wonder which she had no words
to express, but which left their impress upon her spirit.
Sitting by the fire on her low stool, she kept a careful watch over the
still figure on the other side of the hearth. The night wind sighed in
the chimney, the owls hooted, and the sea whispered its mysterious
secrets on the shore below. The candle burnt low in its socket, and
Morva replaced it with another, for she would not be left in the dark
with this silent unconscious being, much as she loved her.
Sometimes she ventured upon a gentle appeal, "Mother fâch!" but no
answer came from the closed lips, and again she waited while the night
hours passed on.
"Where is her spirit wandering, I wonder?" thought the girl, setting
her untaught and inexperienced mind to work upon the fathomless
mystery. "Perhaps in the land which we roam in our dreams. 'Tis pity
she cannot remember; 'tis pity she cannot tell me about it, for, oh, I
would like to know."
But to-night, at all events, it seemed there was to be no elucidation
of this enigma of life. The night hours dragged on slowly, and still
Sara slept on, until in the pale dawn Morva gently opened the door and
looked out towards the east, where a rosy light was beginning to flush
the clear blue of a cloudless sky. Already the sun was rising over the
grey slopes, the cottage walls caught the rosy tints, and the ribes
tree, which alone was tall enough to catch his beams over the high turf
wall of the court, glowed under his morning kiss. Morva looked round
the fair scene with eyes and heart that took in all its beauty. A cool
sea breeze, brine-laden, swept over the moor, refreshing and
invigorating her, and she turned again to the cottage with renewed
longing for Sara's awakening.
When she entered, she found that the rays of the rising sun shone full
upon the quiet face, on the placid brow, and the closed eyes, imparting
to them a look of unearthly spirituality. Moved by the sight, and by
the events of the night, the girl knelt down, and, leaning her face on
her foster-mother's lap, said her prayers, with the same simple faith
as she had in the days of childhood. The sunlight pouring in through
the little window bathed her in a stream of rosy light, and rested on
her bent head like a blessing. As she rose from her knees a quiver
passed over Sara's eyelids, a smile came on her lips, and opening her
eyes she looked long at Morva before she spoke, as though recalling her
surroundings.
"Mother," said the girl, kissing her cheek, which was beginning to show
again the hue of health. "Mother fâch, you've come back to me again."
"Yes," said Sara, "I am come back again, child," and she attempted to
rise, but Morva pushed her gently back.
"Breakfast first, mother fâch."
And quickly and deftly she set the little brown teapot on the embers,
and spread her mother's breakfast before her.
"Now, mother, a new-laid egg and some brown bread and butter."
And Sara smilingly complied with the girl's wishes, and partook of the
simple fare.
"Mother, try and remember where you have been. Oh, I want to know so
much."
"I cannot, 'merch i, already it is slipping away from me as usual; but
never mind, it will all come back by and by, and I hope I will be a
wiser and a better woman after my long sleep. It is always so, I
think, Morva."
"Yes," said the girl, "you are always wiser, and better, and kinder
after your long sleeps, if that is possible, mother fâch."
Sara's ordinary cheerful and placid manner had already returned to her,
and in an hour or two she was quite herself again, and moving about her
cottage as if nothing had happened; and when Morva left her for the
morning milking she felt no uneasiness about her.
"She's in the angels' keeping, I know, and God is over all," she
murmured, as she ran over the cliffs to Garthowen.
She said nothing at the farm of the events of the past night, knowing
how reticent Sara was upon the subject herself. Moreover, it was one
of too sacred a character in the eyes of these two lonely women to be
discussed with the outside and unbelieving world.
In the evening, when Morva returned from the farm, a little earlier
than usual, she was full of tender inquiries.
"Are you well, mother fâch? I have been uneasy about you."
"Quite well, child, and very happy. 'Twill all be right soon, Morva.
Canst take my word for it? For I cannot explain how I know, but I tell
thee thy trouble will soon be over. How are they at Garthowen
to-night?"
"Oh, well," said the girl; "only 'n'wncwl Ebben is always very sad.
Not even Will's marriage will make him happy. 'Tis breaking his heart
he is for the old close companionship. Will ought to come and see him
oftener. Poor 'n'wncwl Ebben! 'Tis sad to lose his two sons."
"Gethin will come home," said Sara; "and Ebben Owens will be happy
again."
Morva made no answer, but watched the sparks from the crackling furze,
as they flew up the chimney, and thought of the night when she had
stamped them out with her wooden shoe, and had dared the uncertainties
of the future. She was wiser now, and knew that life had its shadows
as well as its glowing sunshine. She had experienced the former, but
the sunshine was returning to her heart to-night in a full tide of joy,
for she had implicit confidence in her foster-mother's keen intuitions.
"Mother, what did you see, what did you hear, in that long trance? I
would like to know so much. Your body was here, but where was your
spirit?"
"I cannot tell, 'merch i. To me it was a dreamless sleep, but now that
I am awake I seem to know a great many things which were dark to me
before. You know it is always so with me when I have had my long
sleeps. They seem to brighten me up, and it appears quite natural to
me when the things that have been dark become plain."
She felt no surprise as the scenes and events of the recent past were
unfolded to her. She understood now why Gethin had gone away so
suddenly and mysteriously. Morva's love for him she saw with clear
insight, and, above all, the cause of Ebben Owens's increasing gloom.
How simple all was now, and how happy was she in the prospect of
helping them all.
"Mother," asked Morva again one evening, as they walked in the garden
together, "there is one question I would like to ask you again, but
somehow I am afraid. Who stole the money at Garthowen?"
"Don't ask me that question, 'merch i. Time will unfold it all. 'Tis
very plain who took it, and I wonder we didn't see it before; but leave
it now, child. I don't know how, but soon it will be cleared up, and
the sun will shine again. Ask me no more questions, Morva, and every
day will bring its own revealment."
"I will ask nothing more, mother. Let us go in and boil the bwdran for
supper."
At the early milking next morning Ebben Owens himself came into the
farmyard. He stooped a good deal, and, when Morva rallied him on his
sober looks, sighed heavily, as he stood watching the frothing milk in
her pail.
"See what a pailful of milk Daisy has, 'n'wncwl Ebben! Yesterday
Roberts the drover from Castell On passed through the yard when I was
milking, and oh, there's praising her he was! 'Would Ebben Owens sell
her, d'ye think?' he asked, and he patted her side; but Daisy didn't
like it, and she nearly kicked my pail over. 'Sell her!' I said.
'What for would 'n'wncwl Ebben sell the best cow in his herd? No, no,'
said I. 'Show us one as good as her, and 'tis buying he'll be, and not
selling.'"
"Lol! lol!" said the old man; "thee mustn't be too sure, girl. I am
getting old and not fit to manage the farm. I wouldn't care much if I
sold everything and went to live in a cottage."
"'Twt, twt," said Morva, "you will never leave old Garthowen, and
'twill be long before Roberts the drover takes Daisy away. Go and see
mother, 'n'wncwl Ebben; she is full of good news for you. She says
there is brightness coming for you, and indeed, indeed _she knows_."
"Yes, she knows a good deal, but she doesn't know everything, Morva.
No, no," he said, turning away, "she doesn't know everything."