A DANCE ON THE CLIFFS
On the following morning Gethin was up with the dawn, and so was every
one else at Garthowen, for the day seemed one of re-birth and renewal
of the promise of life to all. Leading his son from cowhouse to barn,
from barn to stable, Ebben Owens dilated with newly-awakened pleasure
upon the romance of Will's marriage, and on his coming visit with his
bride to his old home, Gethin listening with untiring patience, as he
followed his father from place to place. The new harrow and pigstye
were inspected, the two new cows and Malen's foal were interviewed, and
then came Gethin's hour of triumph, when with pardonable pride he
informed his father of his own savings, and of the legacy which had so
unexpectedly increased his store; also of his plans for the future
improvement of the farm. Ebben Owens sat down on the wheel-barrow on
purpose to rub his knees, and Gethin's eyes sparkled with pleasure, but
he looked round in vain for Morva. Some new-born shyness had
overwhelmed her to-day; she could not make up her mind to meet Gethin.
She had longed for the meeting so much, and now that it was within her
reach, she put the joy away from her, with the nervous indecision of a
child.
"Have the cows been milked?" asked Gethin, casting his eyes again over
the farmyard.
"Oh, yes," said Magw, "while you were in the barn, Morva helped me, and
ran home directly; she said her mother wanted her."
All the morning she was absent, and nobody noticed it except Gethin,
and Gwilym Morris, who, with his calm, observant eyes, had long
discovered the secret of their love for each other. An amused smile
hovered round his lips as, later in the forenoon, he entered the best
kitchen bringing Gethin with him from the breezy hillside. Morva was
tying Gwil's cap on when they entered, and could no longer avoid the
meeting; but if Gwilym had expected a rapturous greeting, he was
disappointed; for no shy schoolboy and girl ever met in a more
undemonstrative manner than did these two, who for so long had hungered
for each other's presence.
"Hello, Morva! How art, lass, this long time?" said Gethin, taking her
hand in his big brown palm in an awkward, shame-faced manner, and
dropping it at once as if it had scorched him.
"Well, indeed, Gethin. How art thou? There's glad we are to see thee.
Stand still, Gwil," and she stooped to unfasten the knot which she had
just tied.
Apparently there was nothing more to be said, and Gwilym saw with
amusement how all day long they avoided each other, or met with feigned
indifference.
"Ah, well," he thought, "'tis too much happiness for them to grasp at
once. How well I remember when Ann and I, though we sought for each
other continually, yet avoided each other like two shy fawns."
In the evening, when the sun had set and given place to a soft round
moon, he was not at all astonished to find that Gethin was missing: nor
was he surprised, as he stood at the farm door, to see him rounding the
Cribserth and disappear on the moonlit moor.
Reaching the broom bushes, Gethin waited in their shadows, recalling
every word and every look of Morva's on that well-remembered night,
when she had turned away from him so firmly, though so sorrowfully.
Waiting, he paced the greensward, sometimes stopping to toss a pebble
over the cliffs, and ever watching where on the grey moor a little
spark of light shone from Sara's window.
Was he mistaken? Would she come to-night? Surely yes, for the broom
bushes grew close to the path to Garthowen, and over that path she was
constantly passing and repassing, whether in daylight or starlight or
moonlight.
"'Tis very quiet here," he thought. "It makes me think of a night
watch at sea."
The sea heaved gently down below, the waves breaking softly and
regularly on the beach. He heard the rustling of the grasses as they
trembled in the night breeze, the hoot of the owl in the ivied chimneys
of Garthowen, the distant barking of a dog, the tinkle of a chain on
some fishing boat rocking on the undulating waves; but no other sound
broke the silence of the night.
"Jâr-i! there's slow she is, if she's coming at all," said Gethin.
"Will I go and see how Sara is after her journey? 'Tis what I ought to
do, and no mistake, after all her kindness."
And leaving the shadow of the bushes, he stepped out into the full
moonlight, only to meet Morva face to face.
"Well, indeed, Gethin!" she exclaimed, "I wasn't expecting to see you
here so far from Garthowen."
"No; nor I, lass," said Gethin, taking her hand, and continuing to hold
it. "I was so surprised to see thee out alone to-night; it gave me a
start. I was not expecting to see thee."
"No, of course," said Morva, "and I wouldn't be here, only I was afraid
I had not fastened the new calf up safely and--and--"
And they looked at each other and laughed.
"Well, now, 'tis no use telling stories about it," said Gethin; "I will
confess, Morva, I came here to look for thee; but I can't expect thee
to say the same--or didst expect to see me, too, lass? Say yes, now,
da chi!" [1]
Morva hung her head, but answered mischievously:
"Well, if I did, I won't tell tales about myself, whatever; but,
indeed, I mustn't stop long. Mother will be waiting for me."
"She will guess where thou art, and I cannot let thee go, lass. Dost
remember the last time we were here?"
"Yes--yes, I remember."
"Dost remember I told thee what I would say if I were Will? Wilt
listen to me now, lass, though I am only Gethin?"
Is it needful to tell that she did stay long--that Sara did guess where
she was; and that there, in the moonlight, with the sea breeze
whispering its own love messages in their ears, the words were spoken
for which each had been thirsting ever since they had met there last?
* * * * * *
In the early sunrise of the next morning Ebben Owens, too, was crossing
the moor. He wanted to tell Sara of the happiness which his son's
return had brought him, and to thank her for her share in bringing it
to pass. He wanted, too, to tell her of the sorrow and repentance
which filled his heart, and the deep gratitude he felt for all she had
done for him.
She was already in her garden attending to her bees.
"Sara, woman," said the old man, standing straight before her with
outstretched hands.
"Dear, dear, Ebben Owens, so early coming to see me! Sit thee down,
then, here in the sun," and she placed her hand in his, endeavouring to
draw him down beside her; but he resisted her gentle pressure and,
still standing, bent his head like a guilty child.
"No, no," he said, with a tremble in his voice. "Tell me first, can'st
forgive me my shameful sin? Everybody is forgiving me too easy, much
too easy, I know. 'Tis only one will be always remembering, and that
is me."
"I am not surprised at that, and I am glad to hear those words from
thee," said Sara, "but my forgiveness, Ebben bâch, is as full and free
as I believe thy repentance is deep."
And gradually the old man ceased to resist her gentle persuasions, and,
sitting down beside her, the bees humming round them, and the sun
rising higher and higher in the sky, they conversed together in that
perfect communion of soul which sometimes gilds the friendship of old
age. Together they had experienced the joys of youth, in middle age
both had tasted the bitterness of sorrow, and now in old age the calm
and peace of evening was beginning to shine upon one as it had long
shone upon the other.
"I have never thanked thee," he said at last, "for all thy
loving-kindness to me; never in words, Sara, but I have felt it; and I
thank God that thou art living here so near me, where I can come
sometimes for refreshment of spirit, as my journey draws towards the
end, for I am a weak man, as thou knowest, and often stumble in my
path. Ever since that first mistake of my life I have suffered the
punishment of it, Sara, and thou hast reaped the golden blessing."
"Yes," said Sara, looking dreamily over the garden hedge, "I have had
more than compensation, my cup is full and running over. No one can
understand how bright life is to me," and over her face there spread a
light and rapture which Ebben Owens gazed at with a kind of wondering
reverence.
"There's no doubt thou hast something within thee that few others
have," he said, with a shake of his head.
Here Morva arrived from the milking, and finding them still sitting in
the sunshine in earnest conversation, held her finger up reprovingly,
and begged them to come in to breakfast.
"Oh, stop, 'n'wncwl Ebben, and have breakfast with us. Uwd it is, and
fresh milk from Garthowen."
"No, no, child," said the old man, rising. "Ann will be waiting for
me; I must go at once."
"Well indeed, she was laying the breakfast. She doesn't want me
to-day, she says, so I am stopping at home with mother to weed the
garden."
And as Ebben Owens trudged homewards, her happy voice followed him,
breaking clear on the morning air as she sang in the joy other heart:
"Troodie! Troodie! come down from the mountain;
Troodie! Troodie! come up from the dale;
Moelen and Corwen, and Blodwen and Trodwen,
I'll meet you all with my milking-pail!"
The echo of it brought a pleased smile to the old man's lips, as he
neared his home and left the clear singing behind him.
The day had broadened to noontide, and had passed into late afternoon,
when Gethin Owens once more crept round the Cribserth. He crept,
because he heard the sound of Morva's voice, and he would come upon her
unawares--would see the sudden start, the shy surprise, the pink blush
rising to the temples; so he stole from the pathway and crept along
behind the broom bushes, watching through their interlacing branches
while Morva approached from the cottage, singing in sheer lightness of
heart, Tudor following with watchful eyes and waving tail, and a sober
demeanour, which was soon to be laid aside for one of boisterous
gambolling, for on the green sward Morva stopped, and with a bow to
Tudor picked up her blue skirt in the thumb and finger of each hand,
showing her little feet, which glanced in and out beneath her brick-red
petticoat. She was within two yards of Gethin, where he stood still as
a statue, scarcely breathing lest he should disturb the happy pair, his
eyes and his mouth alone showing the merriment and fun which were
brimming over in his heart.
"Now, 'machgen i," said Morva, "what dost think of me?" and she
curtseyed again to Tudor, who did the same. "Dost like me? dost think
I am grand to-day? See the new bows on my shoes, see the new caddis on
my petticoat, and above all, Tudor, see my beautiful necklace! Come,
lad, let's have a dance, for Gethin's come home," and she began to
imitate as well as she could the dance which Gethin had executed, with
such fatal consequences to her heart, at the Garthowen cynos. Up and
down, round and across, with uplifted gown, Tudor following with
exuberant leaps and barks of delight, and catching at her flying skirts
at every opportunity. As she danced she sang with unerring ear and
precision, the tune that Reuben Davies had played in the dusty mill,
setting to it the words of one refrain, "Gethin's come home, bâchgen!
Gethin's come home!"
Little did she know that Gethin's delighted ears missed not a note nor
a word of her singing, or silence and dire confusion would have fallen
upon that light-hearted couple who pranked so merrily upon the green.
But human nature has its limits, even of happy endurance; the
temptation to join that dance was irresistible, and Gethin, suddenly
succumbing to it, sprang out upon them. There was a little scream, a
bark, and a flutter, and Morva, clasped in Gethin's arms, was wildly
whirled in an impromptu dance, round and round the green sward, up and
down, and round again, until, breathless and panting, they stopped from
sheer exhaustion; and when Gethin at last led his laughing partner to
rest under the golden broom bushes, he cared not a whit that she chided
him with a reproving finger, for her voice was full of merriment and
joy.
The sun was drawing near his setting, and still they sat and talked and
laughed together, Tudor stretched at their feet, and looking from one
to the other with an air of entire approval.
[1] Do.