In North Wales
The June of 18-- had been glorious and sunny, and full of flowers;
but July came in with pouring rain, and it was a gloomy time for
travellers and for weather-bound tourists, who lounged away the days
in touching up sketches, dressing flies, and reading over again for
the twentieth time the few volumes they had brought with them. A
number of the _Times_, five days old, had been in constant demand in
all the sitting-rooms of a certain inn in a little mountain village
of North Wales, through a long July morning. The valleys around were
filled with thick cold mist, which had crept up the hillsides till
the hamlet itself was folded in its white dense curtain, and from the
inn-windows nothing was seen of the beautiful scenery around. The
tourists who thronged the rooms might as well have been "wi' their
dear little bairnies at hame;" and so some of them seemed to think,
as they stood, with their faces flattened against the window-panes,
looking abroad in search of an event to fill up the dreary time.
How many dinners were hastened that day, by way of getting through
the morning, let the poor Welsh kitchen-maid say! The very village
children kept indoors; or if one or two more adventurous stole out
into the land of temptation and puddles, they were soon clutched back
by angry and busy mothers.
It was only four o'clock, but most of the inmates of the inn thought
it must be between six and seven, the morning had seemed so long--so
many hours had passed since dinner--when a Welsh car, drawn by two
horses, rattled briskly up to the door. Every window of the ark was
crowded with faces at the sound; the leathern curtains were undrawn
to their curious eyes, and out sprang a gentleman, who carefully
assisted a well-cloaked-up lady into the little inn, despite the
landlady's assurances of not having a room to spare.
The gentleman (it was Mr Bellingham) paid no attention to the
speeches of the hostess, but quietly superintended the unpacking of
the carriage, and paid the postillion; then, turning round with his
face to the light, he spoke to the landlady, whose voice had been
rising during the last five minutes:
"Nay, Jenny, you're strangely altered, if you can turn out an old
friend on such an evening as this. If I remember right, Pen trê
Voelas is twenty miles across the bleakest mountain road I ever saw."
"Indeed, sir, and I did not know you; Mr Bellingham, I believe.
Indeed, sir, Pen trê Voelas is not above eighteen miles--we only
charge for eighteen; it may not be much above seventeen; and we're
quite full, indeed, more's the pity."
"Well, but Jenny, to oblige me, an old friend, you can find lodgings
out for some of your people--the house across, for instance."
"Indeed, sir, and it's at liberty; perhaps you would not mind lodging
there yourself; I could get you the best rooms, and send over a
trifle or so of furniture, if they wern't as you'd wish them to be."
"No, Jenny! here I stay. You'll not induce me to venture over into
those rooms, whose dirt I know of old. Can't you persuade some one
who is not an old friend to move across? Say, if you like, that I had
written beforehand to bespeak the rooms. Oh! I know you can manage
it--I know your good-natured ways."
"Indeed, sir--well! I'll see, if you and the lady will just step into
the back parlour, sir--there's no one there just now; the lady is
keeping her bed to-day for a cold, and the gentleman is having a
rubber at whist in number three. I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you, thank you. Is there a fire? if not, one must be lighted.
Come, Ruthie, come."
He led the way into a large, bow-windowed room, which looked gloomy
enough that afternoon, but which I have seen bright and buoyant with
youth and hope within, and sunny lights creeping down the purple
mountain slope, and stealing over the green, soft meadows, till they
reached the little garden, full of roses and lavender-bushes, lying
close under the window. I have seen--but I shall see no more.
"I did not know you had been here before," said Ruth, as Mr
Bellingham helped her off with her cloak.
"Oh, yes; three years ago I was here on a reading party. We were here
above two months, attracted by Jenny's kind heart and oddities; but
driven away finally by the insufferable dirt. However, for a week or
two it won't much signify."
"But can she take us in, sir? I thought I heard her saying her house
was full."
"Oh, yes--I dare say it is; but I shall pay her well; she can easily
make excuses to some poor devil, and send him over to the other side;
and, for a day or two, so that we have shelter, it does not much
signify."
"Could not we go to the house on the other side, sir?"
"And have our meals carried across to us in a half-warm state, to say
nothing of having no one to scold for bad cooking! You don't know
these out-of-the-way Welsh inns yet, Ruthie."
"No! I only thought it seemed rather unfair--" said Ruth, gently; but
she did not end her sentence, for Mr Bellingham formed his lips into
a whistle, and walked to the window to survey the rain.
The remembrance of his former good payment prompted many little lies
of which Mrs Morgan was guilty that afternoon, before she succeeded
in turning out a gentleman and lady, who were only planning to remain
till the ensuing Saturday at the outside, so, if they did fulfil
their threat, and leave on the next day, she would be no very great
loser.
These household arrangements complete, she solaced herself with tea
in her own little parlour, and shrewdly reviewed the circumstances of
Mr Bellingham's arrival.
"Indeed! and she's not his wife," thought Jenny, "that's clear as
day. His wife would have brought her maid, and given herself twice as
many airs about the sitting-rooms; while this poor miss never spoke,
but kept as still as a mouse. Indeed, and young men will be young
men; and, as long as their fathers and mothers shut their eyes, it's
none of my business to go about asking questions."
In this manner they settled down to a week's enjoyment of that Alpine
country. It was most true enjoyment to Ruth. It was opening a new
sense; vast ideas of beauty and grandeur filled her mind at the sight
of the mountains now first beheld in full majesty. She was almost
overpowered by the vague and solemn delight; but by-and-by her love
for them equalled her awe, and in the night-time she would softly
rise, and steal to the window to see the white moonlight, which gave
a new aspect to the everlasting hills that girdle the mountain
village.
Their breakfast-hour was late, in accordance with Mr Bellingham's
tastes and habits; but Ruth was up betimes, and out and away,
brushing the dew-drops from the short crisp grass; the lark sung high
above her head, and she knew not if she moved or stood still, for the
grandeur of this beautiful earth absorbed all idea of separate and
individual existence. Even rain was a pleasure to her. She sat in the
window-seat of their parlour (she would have gone out gladly, but
that such a proceeding annoyed Mr Bellingham, who usually at such
times lounged away the listless hours on a sofa, and relieved himself
by abusing the weather); she saw the swift-fleeting showers come
athwart the sunlight like a rush of silver arrows; she watched the
purple darkness on the heathery mountain-side, and then the pale
golden gleam which succeeded. There was no change or alteration of
nature that had not its own peculiar beauty in the eyes of Ruth;
but if she had complained of the changeable climate, she would have
pleased Mr Bellingham more; her admiration and her content made him
angry, until her pretty motions and loving eyes soothed down his
impatience.
"Really, Ruth," he exclaimed one day, when they had been imprisoned
by rain a whole morning, "one would think you had never seen a shower
of rain before; it quite wearies me to see you sitting there watching
this detestable weather with such a placid countenance; and for the
last two hours you have said nothing more amusing or interesting
than--'Oh, how beautiful!' or, 'There's another cloud coming across
Moel Wynn.'"
Ruth left her seat very gently, and took up her work. She wished she
had the gift of being amusing; it must be dull for a man accustomed
to all kinds of active employments to be shut up in the house. She
was recalled from her absolute self-forgetfulness. What could she say
to interest Mr Bellingham? While she thought, he spoke again:
"I remember when we were reading here three years ago, we had a week
of just such weather as this; but Howard and Johnson were capital
whist players, and Wilbraham not bad, so we got through the days
famously. Can you play _écarté_, Ruth, or picquet?"
"No, sir; I have sometimes played at beggar-my-neighbour," answered
Ruth, humbly, regretting her own deficiencies.
He murmured impatiently, and there was silence for another half-hour.
Then he sprang up, and rung the bell violently. "Ask Mrs Morgan for a
pack of cards. Ruthie, I'll teach you _écarté_," said he.
But Ruth was stupid, not so good as a dummy, he said; and it was
no fun betting against himself. So the cards were flung across the
table--on the floor--anywhere. Ruth picked them up. As she rose, she
sighed a little with the depression of spirits consequent upon her
own want of power to amuse and occupy him she loved.
"You're pale, love!" said he, half repenting of his anger at her
blunders over the cards. "Go out before dinner; you know you don't
mind this cursed weather; and see that you come home full of
adventures to relate. Come, little blockhead! give me a kiss, and
begone."
She left the room with a feeling of relief; for if he were dull
without her, she should not feel responsible, and unhappy at her own
stupidity. The open air, that kind soothing balm which gentle mother
Nature offers to us all in our seasons of depression, relieved her.
The rain had ceased, though every leaf and blade was loaded with
trembling glittering drops. Ruth went down to the circular dale, into
which the brown-foaming mountain river fell and made a deep pool,
and, after resting there for a while, ran on between broken rocks
down to the valley below. The waterfall was magnificent, as she had
anticipated; she longed to extend her walk to the other side of the
stream, so she sought the stepping-stones, the usual crossing-place,
which were over-shadowed by trees, a few yards from the pool. The
waters ran high and rapidly, as busy as life, between the pieces of
grey rock; but Ruth had no fear, and went lightly and steadily on.
About the middle, however, there was a great gap; either one of the
stones was so covered with water as to be invisible, or it had been
washed lower down; at any rate, the spring from stone to stone was
long, and Ruth hesitated for a moment before taking it. The sound of
rushing waters was in her ears to the exclusion of every other noise;
her eyes were on the current running swiftly below her feet; and
thus she was startled to see a figure close before her on one of the
stones, and to hear a voice offering help.
She looked up and saw a man, who was apparently long past middle
life, and of the stature of a dwarf; a second glance accounted for
the low height of the speaker, for then she saw he was deformed. As
the consciousness of this infirmity came into her mind, it must have
told itself in her softened eyes, for a faint flush of colour came
into the pale face of the deformed gentleman, as he repeated his
words:
"The water is very rapid; will you take my hand? Perhaps I can help
you."
Ruth accepted the offer, and with this assistance she was across in
a moment. He made way for her to precede him in the narrow wood path,
and then silently followed her up the glen.
When they had passed out of the wood into the pasture-land beyond,
Ruth once more turned to mark him. She was struck afresh with
the mild beauty of the face, though there was something in the
countenance which told of the body's deformity, something more and
beyond the pallor of habitual ill-health, something of a quick
spiritual light in the deep set-eyes, a sensibility about the mouth;
but altogether, though a peculiar, it was a most attractive face.
"Will you allow me to accompany you if you are going the round by
Cwm Dhu, as I imagine you are? The hand-rail is blown away from the
little wooden bridge by the storm last night, and the rush of waters
below may make you dizzy; and it is really dangerous to fall there,
the stream is so deep."
They walked on without much speech. She wondered who her companion
might be. She should have known him, if she had seen him among the
strangers at the inn; and yet he spoke English too well to be a
Welshman; he knew the country and the paths so perfectly, he must
be a resident; and so she tossed him from England to Wales and back
again in her imagination.
"I only came here yesterday," said he, as a widening in the path
permitted them to walk abreast. "Last night I went to the higher
waterfalls; they are most splendid."
"Did you go out in all that rain?" asked Ruth, timidly.
"Oh, yes. Rain never hinders me from walking. Indeed, it gives a new
beauty to such a country as this. Besides, my time for my excursion
is so short, I cannot afford to waste a day."
"Then, you do not live here?" asked Ruth.
"No! my home is in a very different place. I live in a busy town,
where at times it is difficult to feel the truth that
There are in this loud stunning tide
Of human care and crime,
With whom the melodies abide
Of th' everlasting chime;
Who carry music in their heart
Through dusky lane and crowded mart,
Plying their task with busier feet,
Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.
I have an annual holiday, which I generally spend in Wales; and often
in this immediate neighbourhood."
"I do not wonder at your choice," replied Ruth. "It is a beautiful
country."
"It is, indeed; and I have been inoculated by an old innkeeper at
Conway with a love for its people, and history, and traditions. I
have picked up enough of the language to understand many of their
legends; and some are very fine and awe-inspiring, others very poetic
and fanciful."
Ruth was too shy to keep up the conversation by any remark of her
own, although his gentle, pensive manner was very winning.
"For instance," said he, touching a long bud-laden stem of fox-glove
in the hedge-side, at the bottom of which one or two crimson-speckled
flowers were bursting from their green sheaths, "I dare say, you
don't know what makes this fox-glove bend and sway so gracefully. You
think it is blown by the wind, don't you?" He looked at her with a
grave smile, which did not enliven his thoughtful eyes, but gave an
inexpressible sweetness to his face.
"I always thought it was the wind. What is it?" asked Ruth,
innocently.
"Oh, the Welsh tell you that this flower is sacred to the fairies,
and that it has the power of recognising them, and all spiritual
beings who pass by, and that it bows in deference to them as they
waft along. Its Welsh name is Maneg Ellyllyn--the good people's
glove; and hence, I imagine, our folk's-glove or fox-glove."
"It's a very pretty fancy," said Ruth, much interested, and wishing
that he would go on, without expecting her to reply.
But they were already at the wooden bridge; he led her across, and
then, bowing his adieu, he had taken a different path even before
Ruth had thanked him for his attention.
It was an adventure to tell Mr Bellingham, however; and it roused and
amused him till dinner-time came, after which he sauntered forth with
a cigar.
"Ruth," said he, when he returned, "I've seen your little hunchback.
He looks like Riquet-with-the-Tuft. He's not a gentleman, though. If
it had not been for his deformity, I should not have made him out
from your description; you called him a gentleman."
"And don't you, sir?" asked Ruth, surprised.
"Oh, no! he's regularly shabby and seedy in his appearance; lodging,
too, the ostler told me, over that horrible candle and cheese shop,
the smell of which is insufferable twenty yards off--no gentleman
could endure it; he must be a traveller or artist, or something of
that kind."
"Did you see his face, sir?" asked Ruth.
"No; but a man's back--his _tout ensemble_ has character enough in it
to decide his rank."
"His face was very singular; quite beautiful!" said she, softly; but
the subject did not interest Mr Bellingham, and he let it drop.