THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF.
The Rev. Meurig Wynne, "y Vicare du," or "the black Vicar," as he was
called by the country people, in allusion to his black hair and eyes,
and also to his black apparel, sat in his musty study, as he had done
every evening for the last twenty-five years, poring ever his old
books, and occasionally jotting down extracts therefrom. He was a
broad-shouldered man, tall and straight, about sixty-five years of age.
His clean-shaven face was white as marble, its cold and lifeless
appearance accentuated by his jet-black hair, strongly-marked eyebrows
of the same dark hue, and his unusually black eyes; his nose was
slightly aquiline, and his mouth well shaped, though wide; but the
firm-set lips and broad nostrils, gave the whole face an expression of
coldness and hardness. In fact he had a peculiarly dour and dark look,
and it was no wonder that when he walked through his parish the little
children left their games in the road, and hurried inside their garden
gates as he passed.
He was perfectly conscious of this, and it pained him, though no one
guessed it except his son, who felt a tender pity for the man who led
so isolated and solitary a life.
The cause of his cold reserve Cardo had never been able to discover;
but he somehow connected it with his mother's name, and therefore
shrank from inquiring into his father's past life, preferring to let
old memories sleep, rather than hear anything which might bring sorrow
and pain into his life.
The Vicar was evidently uneasy, as he looked up listening, with one
thin finger marking the place on the page he was reading. Cardo was
later than usual, and not until he had heard his son's familiar firm
step and whistle did he drop once more into the deep interest of his
book.
As Cardo approached the house he saw the light in his father's window,
and pictured to himself the cold, pale face bending over the musty
books. "Poor old dad!" he murmured. Some sons would have tapped
playfully at the window, but Cardo did not, he turned round the corner
of the house, passing by the front door, which was closed, and did not
look inviting, to the other side, where the clatter of wooden shoes and
a stream of light from the open doorway made some show of cheerfulness.
And there was Betto, his old nurse and his father's housekeeper, in
loud, angry tones, reproving the shepherd boy who stood leaning against
the door-post.
"Hello! what's the matter, Betto?" said Cardo in Welsh; "what mischief
has Robin been up to now?"
"Machgen bach i (my dear boy!), is that you?" said Betto; "there's glad
I am! You are late to-night, and I was beginning to puzzle."
"Has my father missed me?"
"Well, indeed, he hasn't said anything," said Betto, hunting for the
frying-pan, and beginning to prepare the ham and eggs for supper. "But
where's that Robin?" she added; "a clout or two with the frying-pan
would not hurt his addle pate."
"He has been wise, and made himself scarce; but what has he done,
Betto?"
"What has he done? the villain! Well, you know the sheep are grazing
in the churchyard this week, and that 'mwnki' is watching them there.
Well--he seated himself yesterday on a tombstone when we were in
church, and whit, whit, whitted 'Men of Harlech' on his flute! and the
Vicare praying so beautiful all the time, too! praying against the
wiles of the devil and of Essec Powell!"
"Essec Powell! What has he been doing?"
"Well, machgen i, you will not believe! the boldness of those
'Methots' is something beyond! And the impidence of Essec Powell!
What do you think, Caradoc? he is _praying_ for your father--out loud,
mind you!--in the prayer-meeting every Wednesday evening! But there!
the master is beforehand with him, for he is praying for Essec Powell
on Tuesdays!" and she tossed the frizzling ham and eggs on the dish.
"Come to supper, my boy," and Cardo followed her nothing loth into the
gloomy parlour, lighted by one home-made mould candle, for he was
hungry in spite of the ginger-bread.
"Ah, Caradoc! you have come," said the Vicar, as he entered the room
punctually at the stroke of ten, "what made you so late to-night?"
"Well," said Cardo, "when Deio, 'Red Dragon,' led Captain out of the
stable, I found the swelling on his leg had risen again, so I left him
with Roberts, the farrier. He will bring him home on Friday."
"You have ridden him too soon after his sprain, as I told you, but
young men always know better than their elders."
"Well, you were right anyway this time, father."
"Yes," said his father; "as the old proverb says, 'Yr hên a wyr yr
ifanc a debyg." [1]
"Shouldn't wonder if it rained to-morrow, the wind has veered to the
south; it will be bad for the 'Sassiwn,' won't it?" said Cardo, after a
pause.
"The what?" said the Vicar, looking full at his son.
"The 'Sassiwn,' sir, as they call it; the Methodist Association, you
know, to be held here next week."
"I don't want to hear anything about it; I take no interest in the
subject."
"Won't you go then, father? There will be thousands of people there."
"No, sir, I will not go; neither will you, I hope," answered the Vicar,
and pushing his plate away, he rose, and walked stiffly out at the door
and along the stone passage leading to his study.
His son listened to his retreating footsteps.
"As bigoted as ever, poor fellow!" he said; "but what a fool I was to
mention the subject." And he continued his supper in silence. When
Betto came in to clear away he had flung himself down on the hard
horse-hair sofa. The mould candle lighted up but a small space in the
large, cold room; there was no fire in the grate, no books or papers
lying about, to beguile the tedious hour before bedtime. Was it any
wonder that his thoughts should revert to the earlier hours of the
evening? that he should hear again in fancy the soft voice that said,
"I am Valmai Powell," and that he should picture to himself the
clustering curls that escaped from the red hood?
The old house, with its long passages and large rooms, was full of
those nameless sounds which fill the air in the quiet of night. He
heard his father's footsteps as he paced up and down in his study, he
heard the tick-tack of the old clock on the stairs, the bureau creaked,
the candle spluttered, but there was no human voice to break the
silence, With a yawn he rose, stretching his long legs, and, throwing
back his broad shoulders, made his way along the dark passage which led
into the kitchen, where the farm servants were seated at supper. Betto
moved the beehive chair into a cosy corner beside the fire for the
young master, the men-servants all tugged their forelocks, and the
women rose to make a smiling bob-curtsey.
"Have some cawl,[2] Ser!" said Betto, selecting a shining black bowl
and spoon.
"Not to-night, after all that fried ham; but another night I want
nothing better for supper."
"Well, there's nothing will beat cawl, that's certain," said Ebben, the
head servant, beginning with long-drawn noisy sups to empty his own
bowl.
"Finished the turnips to-day?" asked Cardo.
"Oh, yes," said Ebben, with a slight tone of reproof in his voice; "the
work goes on though you may not be at home, Ser. I consider there is
no piece of land on this earth, no, nor on any other earth, better
farmed than Brynderyn. Eh?" and he looked defiantly at Betto, between
whom and himself there was a continual war of words.
"Well, I suppose so, indeed," said Betto; "_you_ say so often enough,
whatever, and what you say must be right."
There was such an insidious mixture of flattery and sarcasm in her
words that, for a moment Ebben was at a loss what to answer, so Malen,
the milkmaid, took the opportunity of changing the subject.
"There's tons of bread will be baked on Monday," she said, "ready for
the Sassiwn. Jini 'bakkare' has two sacks of flour to bake, and
there's seven other women in Abersethin will bake the same quantity."
"At Morfa," said Shanw, "they have killed a cow and a sheep; and the
tongues, and fowls, and hams will fill every oven in the parish."
Betto sniffed and tossed her head scornfully. "They may well give them
bread and meat," she said, "for I don't see what else they have to give
them."
"What else, indeed," said Shanw, ready for the frequent fray. "They
won't have your hum-drum old church fregot[3], perhaps, but you come
and see, and hear Hughes Bangor, Price Merthyr, Jones Welshpool.
Nothing to give them, indeed! Why, Price Merthyr would send your old
red velvet cushion at church flying into smithireens in five minutes.
Haven't I heard him. He begins soft and low, like a cat purring on the
hearth, and then he gets louder and louder, till he ends like a roaring
lion. And our own preacher, Essec Powell, to begin and finish the
meeting. There's busy Valmai must be. Marged Hughes is there to help,
and she says--"
"Oh, be quiet," said Betto, "and go along with your Valmai, and your
Price Merthyr, and your hams, and lions, and things. Ach y fi! I
don't want to hear about such things in a clergyman's house."
"Valmai is a beauty, whatever," said Dye, the ploughboy. "I kiwked[4]
at her over the hedge this morning when she was going to Caer Madoc;
she's as pretty as an angel. Have you ever seen her, Ser?"
"Valmai," said Cardo, prevaricating, "surely that is a new name in this
neighbourhood?"
"Yes, she is Essec Powell's niece come home from over the sea. She is
an orphan, and they say the old man is keeping her reading and reading
to him all day till she is fair tired, poor thing."
"Well, it is getting late," said Cardo, "good-night." And his rising
was the signal for them all to disperse, the men servants going to
their beds over the hay loft or stable; while the women, leaving their
wooden shoes at the bottom, followed each other with soft tread up the
creaking back stairs.
In the study the Vicar poured over his books, as he translated from
English into Welsh the passages which interested him most. He was,
like many of the inhabitants of the South Wales coast, a descendant of
the Flemings, who had long ago settled there, and who have left such
strong and enduring marks of their presence.
Their language has long given place to a sort of doggerel English, but
they have never learned to speak the language of the country except in
some of the straggling border villages.
Pembrokeshire, in particular, retains a complete separateness, so to
speak, from the rest of the country, and is often called "Little
England beyond Wales." Thus it was that the English language seemed
always more natural to Meurig Wynne than the Welsh. His sermons were
always thought out in that language, and then translated into the
vernacular, and this, perhaps, accounted in some degree for their
stiffness and want of living interest. His descent from the Flemings
had the disadvantage of drawing a line of distinction between him and
his parishioners, and thus added to his unpopularity. In spite of
this, Cardo was an immense favourite, his frank and genial
manner--inherited from his mother, who was thoroughly Welsh--making its
way easily to the warm Welsh hearts. There was a deep well of
tenderness, almost of pity, within him for his cold stern father, a
longing to break through his reserve, a hankering after the loving ways
of home life, which he missed though he had never known them. The cold
Fleming had very little part in Cardo's nature, and, with his
enthusiastic Welsh sympathies, he was wont to regret and disclaim his
connection with these ancient ancestors. His father's pedigree,
however, made it very plain that the Gwynnes of Brynderyn were
descended from Gwayn, a Flemish wool merchant who had settled there in
the reign of Henry I.--these settlers being protected and encouraged by
the English king, who found their peaceable, industrious habits a great
contrast to the turbulence and restlessness of the Welsh under their
foreign yoke. Time has done but little to soften the difference
between the Welsh and Flemish characters; they have never really
amalgamated, and to this day the descendants of the Flemings remain a
separate people in language, disposition, and appearance. In
Pembrokeshire, Gower, and Radnorshire, we find them still flourishing,
and for some distance along the coast northwards from Pembrokeshire
there are still families, and even whole hamlets, descended from them,
exhibiting traits of character and peculiarities of manner easily
discernible to an observant eye.
Before the Vicar retired to rest he took down from a shelf an old
Bible, from which he read a chapter, and, closing the book, knelt down
to pray. As he rose from his knees, the last words on his lips were,
"Caradoc, my beloved son!"
For the next few days the turnips and mangolds seemed even more
interesting than usual to Cardo Wynne. He was up with the lark, and
striding from furrow to furrow in company with Dye and Ebben, returning
to a hurried breakfast, and out again on the breezy hillside before the
blue smoke had begun to curl up from the thatched chimneys which marked
the cluster of cottages called "Abersethin."
Down there, under the cliffs, the little village slumbered, the rising
sun just beginning to touch its whitewashed walls with gold, while up
above, on the high lands, the "Vicare du's" fields were already bathed
in the morning sunlight.
As he crossed from ridge to ridge and from furrow to furrow Cardo's
thoughts continually flew across the valley to the rugged hill on the
other side, and to the old grey house on the cliff--the home of Essec
Powell, the preacher. In vain he sought for any sign of the girl whose
acquaintance he had made so unexpectedly, and he was almost tempted to
believe that she was no other than a creature of his own imagination,
born of the witching moonlight hour, and absorbed again into the
passing shadows of night. But could he have seen through the walls of
that old grey house, even now at that early hour, he would have
understood what kept the preacher's niece so busily engaged that
neither on the shore nor on the banks of the Berwen was there a sign of
her.
In the cool dairy at Dinas, and in and out of the rambling old kitchen,
she was busy with her preparations for the guests who would fill the
house during the Sassiwn. She bustled about, with Marged Hughes in
attendance, looking very different, but every bit as charming, in her
neat farm dress as she had on her visit to Caer Madoc. The sleeves of
her pink cotton jacket, pushed up above the elbows, showed her white,
dimpled arms; while her blue skirt or petticoat was short enough to
reveal the neatly-shod feet, with their bows of black ribbon on the
instep.
Every house in the neighbourhood was busy with preparations of some
sort. At the farmhouses the women had been engaged for days with their
cooking. Huge joints of beef and ham, boiled or baked, stood ready in
the cool pantries; and in the smallest cottages, where there was more
than one bed, it had been prepared for some guest. "John, my cousin,
is coming from 'the Works,'" [5] or "Mary, my sister, will be home with
her baby."
Everywhere hearts and hands were full of warm hospitality. Clergymen
of the Church of England, though generally looking askance at the
chapels and their swarming congregations, now, carried away by the
enthusiasm of the people, consented to attend the meetings, secretly
looking forward, with the Welsh love of oratory, to the eloquent
sermons generally to be heard on such occasions.
Cardo, ruthlessly striding through the dew-bespangled gossamer of the
turnip field, heard with pleasure from Dye that the adjoining field,
which sloped down to the valley, had been fixed upon for the holding of
the Sassiwn. On the flat at the bottom the carpenters were already at
work at a large platform, upon which the preachers and most honoured
guests were to be seated; while the congregation would sit on the
hillside, which reached up to the Vicar's land. At least three
thousand, or even four, might be expected.
All day Cardo looked over the valley with intense interest, and when
the day's work was over, unable to restrain his curiosity and
impatience any longer, he determined to take a closer survey of the old
house on the hill, which for so many years he had seen with his outward
eyes, though his inner perception had never taken account of it. At
last, crossing the beach, he took his way up the steep path that led to
Dinas. As he rounded a little clump of stunted pine trees he came in
sight of the house, grey, gaunt, and bare, not old enough to be
picturesque, but too old to look neat and comfortable, on that
wind-swept, storm-beaten cliff. Its grey walls, marked with patches of
damp and lichen, looked like a tear-stained face, out of which the two
upstairs windows stared like mournful eyes. Downstairs, in one room,
there was a little sign of comfort and adornment; crimson curtains hung
at the window, inside which a few flowers grew in pots. Keeping well
under the hedge of elders which surrounded the cwrt or front garden,
Cardo passed round to the side--the pine end, as it is called in
Wales--and here a little lattice window stood open. It faced the
south, and away from the sea a white rose tree had ventured to stretch
out its straggling branches. They had evidently lately been drawn by
some loving hand towards the little window. A muslin curtain fluttered
in the evening breeze, on which came the sound of a voice. Cardo knew
it at once. It was Valmai singing at her work, and he longed to break
through the elder bushes and call her attention. He was so near that
he could even hear the words of her song, softly as they were sung.
She was interrupted by a querulous voice.
"Valmai," it said in Welsh, "have you written that?"
"Oh! long ago, uncle. I am waiting for the next line."
"Here it is then, child, and well worth waiting for;" and, with
outstretched arm marking the cadence of its rhythm, he read aloud from
a book of old poems. "There's poetry for you, girl! There's a
description of Nature! Where will you find such real poetry amongst
modern bards? No, no! the bards are dead, Valmai!"
"Well, I don't know much about it, uncle; but isn't it a modern bard
who writes:
"'Come and see the misty mountains
In their grey and purple sheen,
When they blush to see the sunrise
Like a maiden of thirteen!'"
That seems very pretty, whatever."
"Very pretty," growled the man's voice, "very pretty; of course it
is--very pretty! That's just it; but that's all, Valmai. Pwff! you
have put me out with your 'blushing maiden' and your 'purple sheen.'
Let us shut up Taliesin and come to 'Drych y Pryf Oesoedd.' Now, you
begin at the fifth chapter."
There was a little sigh, which Cardo heard distinctly, and then the
sweet voice began and continued to read until the sun sank low in the
west.
"It's getting too dark, uncle. Will I go and see if the cakes are
done?"
"No, no!" said the old man, "Gwen will look after the cakes; you light
the candle, and come on with the book."
How Cardo longed to spring in through the lattice window, to fling the
old books away, and to draw the reader out into the gold and purple
sunset--out over the breezy cliffs, and down to the golden sands; but
the strong bonds of circumstances held him back.
The candle was lighted, and now he could see into the room. Old Essec
Powell sat beside the table with one leg thrown over the other, hands
clasped, and chin in the air, lost in the deep interest of the book
which his niece was reading.
"He looks good for two hours longer," thought Cardo, as he saw the old
man's far-away look.
There was a little tone of weariness in her voice as, seating herself
at the table by the open window, Valmai drew the candle nearer and
continued to read.
Outside in the dusky twilight Cardo was gazing his fill at the face
which had haunted him ever since he had seen it on the road from Caer
Madoc. Yes, it was a beautiful face! even more lovely than he imagined
it to be in the dim evening light. He took note of the golden wavy
hair growing low on her broad, white forehead, her darker eyebrows that
reminded him of the two arches of a beautiful bridge, under which
gleamed two clear pools, reflecting the blue of the sky and the glint
of the sunshine, the straight, well-formed nose, the pensive, mobile
mouth, the complexion of a pale pink rose, and added to this the
indescribable charm of grace and manner which spread through her
personality.
The evening shadows darkened, the sunset glow faded, and the moon rose
in a cloudless sky. The distant sound of the regular plash of the
waves on the beach reached Cardo's ears. He thought of the long
reaches of golden sand lying cool and grey in the moonlight, and all
the romantic dreams of youth awoke within him.
Was it right that Valmai should be bending over a musty book in a
dimly-lit room? while outside were the velvet turf of the cliffs, the
plashing waves, and the silver moonlight.
But the reading still went on, the gentle voice growing a little weary
and monotonous, and the white eyelids falling a little heavily over the
blue eyes.
Long Cardo watched and gazed, and at last, turning away, he walked
moodily home. He knew his father would expect him to supper at ten
o'clock punctually, and hurried his steps as he approached the house.
Just in time, for Betto was placing on the table an appetising supper
of cawl and bread and butter, which the two men were soon discussing
silently, for the Vicar was more pre-occupied than usual, and Cardo,
too, was busy with his own thoughts.
Suddenly the former spoke.
"Is the long meadow finished?" he said.
"Yes; Dye is a splendid fellow to work, and Ebben and he together get
through a good deal."
"To-morrow they can clear out the barn. The next day is the market at
Llanilwyn; they must go there and buy a cow which Jones Pant y rych is
going to sell. I have told Ebben he is not to give more than 8 pounds
for her, and that is one pound more than she is worth."
Cardo was silent. To clear out the barn next day was easy enough, but
to get Dye and Ebben to the market on the following day would be
impossible. It was the opening of the Sassiwn, and he knew that
neither of the men would be absent on that occasion, even though
disobedience should cost them their place. They were both Methodists,
and it had gone hard with the Vicar before he had taken them into his
service; but the exigencies of farm life had compelled him to do so, as
there was absolutely not one young man amongst his own congregation.
To do him justice, he had forgotten for the moment that the market day
at Llanilwyn would also be the Sassiwn day.
"Do you remember, father, the Sassiwn begins the day after to-morrow?"
"I had forgotten it, but I don't see what difference that can make to
my buying a cow."
"But Ebben and Dye will want to be at the meetings."
A shadow crossed the old man's face. He made no answer, but continued
to eat his supper in silence, and at last rose, and with a short
"Good-night, Cardo," went into his study. He knew as well as his son
did that it would be useless to try and persuade his servants to be
absent from the meetings, and the knowledge galled him bitterly, too
bitterly for words, so he was silent; and Cardo, knowing his humour,
said nothing to Dye and Ebben of his father's wishes.
"Poor old dad!" he sighed, as he finished his supper, "it is hard for
him to see his congregation dwindled away to a mere handful, while the
chapels around him arc crowded to overflowing. By Jove! there must be
something wrong somewhere."
As usual after supper he followed Betto into the old kitchen, where the
servants were assembled for supper, and where Shanw was again holding
forth, to her own delight and Betto's disgust, on the coming glories of
the Sassiwn.
"To-morrow evening will be the first meeting."
"Will it be in the field?" asked Cardo.
"Oh, no, Ser; the first is in the chapel always, and no strangers are
there. Essec Powell will have to shut up his old books for a few days
now, and poor Valmai will have rest. Marged Hughes says she is reading
to him for hours every day, but once she can get out of his sight he
forgets all about her, and goes on reading himself."
"When does he prepare his sermons?" said Cardo.
"Prepare his sermons!" said Shanw indignantly. "Do you think Essec
Powell would write his sermon out like a clergyman and read it out like
a book? No, indeed! Straight from the 'brist'--that's how Essec
Powell preaches!"
"What time is the first meeting next day?"
"Oh, early, Ser--eight o'clock. Are you coming? Anwl! there's glad
they'd be. You shall go on the platform with Price Merthyr and Jones
Abertawe and all the rest."
"Saul among the prophets," said Cardo, laughing, and picturing himself
among the solemn-faced preachers. "No, no; that wouldn't do, Shanw.
What would my father say?"
"Well, well!" said Shanw, clicking her tongue against her teeth; "'ts,
'ts! 'tis pity indeed. But, there, everybody knows it is not your
fault, Ser."
Cardo frowned, and fell into a brown study. It wounded him to hear his
father blamed, and yet in his heart of hearts he wished he would so far
temper his zeal with Christian charity as to attend the meetings which
were moving the hearts of the people so much.
[1] "The old know, the young appear to know."
[2] Leek broth.
[3] Rodomontade.
[4] Peeped.
[5] Glamorganshire.