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Garthowen: A Story of a Welsh Homestead

by Allen Raine · English · Gutenberg #18778 · 467,012 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Garthowen: A Story of a Welsh Homestead

Author: Allen Raine


        
Release date: July 7, 2006 [eBook #18778]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18778

Credits: E-text prepared by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GARTHOWEN: A STORY OF A WELSH HOMESTEAD ***


E-text prepared by Al Haines



GARTHOWEN

A Story of a Welsh Homestead.

by

ALLEN RAINE.

Author of "Torn Sails," "A Welsh Singer,"
"By Berwen Banks," Etc.







Sixty-Fifth Thousand
London
Hutchinson & Co.
Paternoster Row




CONTENTS

CHAP.

     I. A Turn of the Road
    II. "Garthowen"
   III. Morva of the Moor
    IV. The Old Bible
     V. The Sea Maiden
    VI. Gethin's Presents
   VII. The Broom Girl
  VIII. Garthowen Slopes
    IX. The North Star
     X. The Cynos
    XI. Unrest
   XII. Sara's Vision
  XIII. The Bird Flutters
   XIV. Dr. Owen
    XV. Gwenda's Prospects
   XVI. Isderi
  XVII. Gwenda at Garthowen
 XVIII. Sara
   XIX. The "Sciet"
    XX. Love's Pilgrimage
   XXI. The Mate of the "Gwenllian"
  XXII. Gethin's Story
 XXIII. Turned Out!
  XXIV. A Dance on the Cliffs




GARTHOWEN


CHAPTER I

A TURN OF THE ROAD

It was a typical July day in a large seaport town of South Wales.
There had been refreshing showers in the morning, giving place to a
murky haze through which the late afternoon sun shone red and round.
The small kitchen of No. 2 Bryn Street was insufferably hot, in spite
of the wide-open door and window.  A good fire burnt in the grate,
however, for it was near tea-time, and Mrs. Parry knew that some of her
lodgers would soon be coming in for their tea.  One had already
arrived, and, sitting on the settle in the chimney corner, was holding
an animated conversation with his landlady, who stood before him, one
hand akimbo on her side, the other brandishing a toasting fork.  Her
beady black eyes, her brick-red cheeks and hanks of coarse hair, were
not beautiful to look upon, though to-day they were at their best, for
the harsh voice was softened, and there was a humid gentleness in the
eyes not habitual to them.  Her companion was a young man about
twenty-three years of age, dark, almost swarthy of hue, tanned by the
suns and storms of foreign seas and many lands, As he sat there in the
shade of the settle one caught a glance of black eyes and a gleam of
white teeth, but the easy, lounging attitude did not show to advantage
the splendid build of Gethin Owens.  One of his large brown fists,
resting on the rough deal table, was covered with tattooed
hieroglyphics, an anchor, a mermaid, and a heart, of course!  Anyone
conversant with the Welsh language would have divined at once, by the
long-drawn intonation of the first words in every remark, that the
subject of conversation was one of sad or tender interest.

"Well, indeed," said Mrs. Parry, "the-r-e's missing you I'll be,
Gethin!  We are coming from the same place, you see, and you are
knowing all about me, and I about you, and that I supp-o-s-e is making
me feel more like a mother to you than to the other lodgers."

"Well, you _have_ been like a mother to me, mending my clothes and
watching me so sharp with the drink.  Dei anwl!  I don't think I ever
took a glass with a friend without you finding me out, and calling me
names.  'Drunken blackguard!' you called me one night, when as sure as
I'm here I had only had a bottle of gingerpop in Jim Jones's shop," and
he laughed boisterously.

"Well, well," said Mrs. Parry, "if I wronged you then, be bound you
deserved the blame some other time, and 'twas for your own good I was
telling you, my boy.  Indeed, I wish I was going home with you to the
old neighbourhood.  The-r-e's glad they'll be to see you at Garthowen."

"Well, I don't know how my father will receive me," said her companion
thoughtfully.  "Ann and Will I am not afraid of, but the old man--he
was very angry with me."

"What _did_ you do long ago to make him so angry, Gethin?  I have heard
Tom Powell and Jim Bowen blaming him very much for being so hard to his
eldest son; they said he was always more fond of Will than you, and was
often beating you."

"Halt!" said Gethin, bringing his fist down so heavily on the table
that the tea-things jingled, "not a word against the old man--the best
father that ever walked, and I was the worst boy on Garthowen slopes,
driving the chickens into the water, shooing the geese over the hedges,
riding the horses full pelt down the stony roads, setting fire to the
gorse bushes, mitching from school, and making the boys laugh in
chapel; no wonder the old man turned me away."

"But all boys are naughty boys," said Mrs. Parry, "and that wasn't
enough reason for sending you from home, and shutting the door against
you."

"No," said Gethin, "but I did more than that; I could not do a worse
thing than I did to displease the old man.  I was fond of scribbling my
name everywhere.  'Gethin Owens' was on all the gateposts, and on the
saddles and bridles, and once I painted 'G. O.' with green paint on the
white mare's haunch.  There was a squall when that was found out, but
it was nothing to the storm that burst upon me when I wrote something
in my mother's big Bible.  As true as I am here, I don't remember what
I wrote, but I know it was something about the devil, and I signed it
'Gethin Owens,' and a big 'Amen' after it.  Poor old man, he was
shocking angry, and he wouldn't listen to no excuse; so after a good
thrashing I went away, Ann ran after me with my little bundle, and the
tears streaming down her face, but I didn't cry--only when I came upon
little Morva Lloyd sitting on the hillside.  She put her arms round my
neck and tried to keep me back, but I dragged myself away, and my tears
were falling like rain then, and all the way down to Abersethin as long
as I could hear Morva crying and calling out 'Gethin!  Gethin!'"

"There's glad she'll be to see you."

"Well, I dunno.  She was used to be very fond of me; she couldn't bear
Will because he was teazing her, but I was like a slave to her.  'I
want some shells to play,' sez she sometimes, and there I was off to
the shore, hunting about for shells for her.  'Take me a ride,' sez
she, and up on my shoulder I would hoist her, as happy as a king, with
her two little feet in my hands, and her little fat hands ketching
tight in my hair, and there's galloping over the slopes we were, me
snorting and prancing, and she laughing all the time like the swallows
when they are flying."

They were interrupted by a clatter of heavy shoes and a chorus of
boisterous voices, as three sailors came in loudly calling for their
tea.

"Hello, Gethin! not gone?  Hast changed thy mind?"

"Not a bit of it," said Gethin, pointing to his bag of clothes.  "I
have been a long time making up my mind, but it's Garthowen and the
cows and the cawl for me this time and no mistake."

"And Morva," said Jim Bowen, with a smile, in which lurked a suspicion
of a sneer.  "Thee may say what thee likes about the old man, and the
cows, and the cawl, but I know thee, Gethin Owens!  Ever since I told
thee what a fine lass Morva Lloyd has grown thee'st been hankering
after Garthowen slopes."

There was a general laugh, in which Gethin joined good-humouredly,
standing and stretching himself with a yawn.  The evening sun fell full
upon him, showing a form of sinewy strength, and a handsome manly face.
His dark skin and the small gold rings in his ears, so much affected by
Welsh sailors, gave him a foreign look, which rather added to the
attractiveness of his personal appearance.

When the tea had been partaken of, with a running accompaniment of
broad jokes and loud laughter, the three sailors went out, leaving
Gethin still sitting on the settle.  This was Mrs. Parry's hour of
peace--when her consumptive son came home from his loitering in the
sunshine to join her at her own quiet "cup of tea," while her rough
husband was still engaged amongst the shipping in the docks.

"Well, what'll I say to Nani Graig?" said Gethin.

"Oh, poor mother, my love, and tell her if it wasn't for my boy Tom I'd
soon be home with her again, for I'll never live with John Parry when
my boy is gone."

"He's not going for many a long year," said Gethin, slapping the boy on
the back, his more sensitive nature shrinking from such plain speaking.

But Tom was used to it, and smiled, shuffling uneasily under the slap.

"What you got bulging out in your bag like that?" he asked.

"Oh, presents for them at Garthowen; will I show them to you?" said the
sailor awkwardly, as he untied the mouth of the canvas bag.  "Here's a
tie for my father, and a hymn-book for Ann, and here's a knife for
Will, and a pocket-book for Gwilym Morris, the preacher who is lodging
with them.  And here," he said, opening a gaily-painted box, "is
something for little Morva," and he gently laid on the table a necklace
of iridescent shells which fell in three graduated rows.

"Oh! there's pretty!" said Mrs. Parry, and while she held the shining
shells in the red of the sun, again the doorway was darkened by the
entrance of two noisy, gaudily-dressed girls, who came flouncing up to
the table.

"Hello!  Bella Lewis and Polly Jones, is it you?  Where you come from
so early?" said Mrs. Parry.

"Come to see me, of course!" suggested the sailor.

"Come to see you and stop you going," said one of the girls.  "Gethin
Owens, you _are_ more of a skulk than I took you for, though you are
rather shirky in your ways, if this is true what I hear about you."

"What?" said Gethin, replacing the necklace in the box.

"That you are going home for good, going to turn farmer and say
good-bye to the shipping and the docks."  And as she spoke she laid her
hand on the box which Gethin was closing, and drew out its contents.
There was a greedy glitter in her bold eyes as she asked, "Who's that
for?" and she clasped it round her own neck, while Gethin's dark face
flushed.

"Couldn't look better than there," he answered gallantly, "so you keep
it, to remember me," and tying up his canvas bag he bade them all a
hurried good-bye.

Mrs. Parry followed him to the doorway with regretful farewells, for
she was losing a friend who had not only paid her well, but had been
kind to her delicate boy, and whose strong fist had often decided in
her favour a fight with her brutal husband.

"There you now," she said, in a confidential whisper and with a nudge
on Gethin's canvas bag, "there you are now; fool that you are! giving
such a thing as that to Bella Lewis!  What did you pay for it, Gethin?
Shall I have it if I can get it from her?  Why did you give it to her?
you said 'twas for little Morva--"

"Yes, it was," he said; "but d'ye think, woman, I would give it to
Morva after being on Bella Lewis's neck?  No! that's why I am running
away in such a hurry, to buy her another, d'ye see, and Dei anwl, I
must make haste or else I'll be late on board.  Good-bye, good-bye."

Mrs. Parry looked after him almost tenderly, but called out once more:

"Shall I have it if I can get it?"

"Yes, yes," shouted Gethin in return, and as he made his way through
the grimy, unsavoury street, he chuckled as he pictured the impending
scrimmage.




CHAPTER II

"GARTHOWEN"

Along the slope of a bare brown hill, which turned one scarped
precipitous side to the sea, and the other, more smooth and undulating,
towards a fair scene of inland beauty, straggled the little hamlet of
Pont-y-fro.  Jos Hughes's shop was the very last house in the village,
the road beyond it merging into the rushy moor, and dwindling into a
stony track, down which a streamlet trickled from the peat bog above.
The house had stood in the same place for two hundred years, and Jos
Hughes looked as if he too had lived there for the same length of time.
His quaintly cut blue cloth coat adorned with large brass buttons, his
knee breeches of corduroy, and grey blue stockings, looking well in
keeping with his dwelling, but very out of place behind a counter.  His
brown wrinkled face and ruddy cheeks were like a shrivelled apple, his
shrewd inquisitive eyes peered out through a pair of large brass-rimmed
spectacles, and, to judge by his expression, the view they got of the
world in general was not satisfactory.

It was a day of brilliant sunshine and intense heat, but through the
open shop door the sea wind came in with refreshing coolness.  Behind
the counter Jos Hughes measured and weighed lazily, throwing in with
his short weight a compliment, or a screw of peppermints, as the case
required.

"Who is this coming up in the dust?" he mumbled.

"'Tis Morva of the moor," said a woman standing in the doorway and
shading her eyes with her hand.  "What does she want, I wonder?
There's a merry lass she is!"

"Oh! day or night, sun or snow don't matter to her," said Jos Hughes.

At this moment the subject of their remarks entered the shop, and,
sitting on a sack of maize, let her arms fall on her lap.  She was
quickly followed by a large black sheep dog, who bounded in and,
placing his fore-paws on the counter, with tongue hanging out, looked
at Jos Hughes intently.

"Down, Tudor!" said the girl, and he sprang on a sack of peas beside
her.

The mountain wind blowing in through the open doorway touzled the
little curls that were so unruly in Morva's hair; it was neither gold
nor ebony, but, looking at its rich tints, one was irresistibly
reminded of the ripe corn in harvest fields, while the blue eyes were
like the corn flowers in their vivid colouring.

"How are they at Garthowen?" asked Fani "bakkare."

"Oh! they are all well there," answered the girl, panting and fanning
herself with her sun-bonnet, "except the white calf, and he is better."

"There's hot it is!" said Fani, taking up her basket of groceries.

"Oh! 'tis hot!" said the girl, "but there's a lovely wind from the sea."

"What are you wanting to-day, Morva?" said Jos.

"A ball of red worsted for Ann, and an ounce of 'bacco for 'n'wncwl
Ebben, and oh! a ha'porth of sweets for Tudor."

The dog wagged his tail approvingly as Jos reached down from the shelf
a bottle of pink lollipops, for, though a wild country dog, he had
depraved tastes in the matter of sweets.

"There's serious you all look! what's the matter with you?" said the
girl, looking smilingly round.

"Nothing is the matter as I know," said Fani, "only there's always
plenty of trouble flying about.  We can't be all so free from care as
you, always laughing or singing or something."

"Indeed I wish we could," said Madlen, a pale girl who was bending over
a box of knitting pins, looking round curiously and rather sadly; "I
wish the whole world could be like you, Morva."

Morva snatched the girl's listless hand in her own warm firm grasp, and
pressed it sympathetically, for she knew Madlen's secret sorrow.

"Wait another year or two," said Fani, "we'll talk to you then!  Wait
till your husband comes home drunk from 'The Black Horse!'"

"And wait till you put all your money into a shop and then find it
doesn't pay you," said Jos.

Madlen said nothing, but Morva knew that in her heart she was thinking,
"Wait until your lover proves false to you!" and she gave her hand
another squeeze.

"Well, indeed!" she said springing up, "what are you all talking about?
I won't put all my money in a shop, and I won't marry a drunkard!
Sixpence, is it?  I am going home over the bog and round the hill, but
I am going to sit on the bench outside a bit first.  There's lots of
swallows' nests under your eaves, Jos Hughes; that brings good luck,
they say, so your shop ought to pay you well."

So saying she passed out, and sitting on the bench round the corner of
the house she kissed her hand toward the swallows, who flitted in and
out of their nests, twittering ecstatically.

"Hark to her," said Fani, "singing again, if you please--always
light-hearted! always happy!  I don't think its quite right, Jos bâch,
do you?  You are a deacon at Penmorien and you ought to know.  If it
was a hymn now! but you hear it's all nonsense about the swallows.  Ach
y fi! she is learning them from Sara ''spridion';[1] some song of the
'old fathers' in past times!"

"Yes," said Jos, sanctimoniously clasping his stubby fingers, "I'm
afraid the girl is a bit of a heathen.  What wonder is it?  Nursed by
Sara--always out with the cows or the sheep, and they say she thinks
nothing of sleeping under a hedge, or out on the slopes, if any animal
is sick and wants watching."

Fani went out with a toss of her head, as the sweet voice came in
through the little side window with the twittering of the swallows and
the cluck, cluck of a happy brood hen.

Outside, Morva had forgotten all about Jos Hughes and Fani "bakkare's"
sour looks, and was singing her heart out to the sunshine.

"Sing on, little swallows," she said, "and I'll sing too.  Sara taught
me the 'bird song' long ago when I was a baby."

And in a clear, sweet voice she joined the birds, and woke the echoes
from the brown cliffs.  The tune was quaint and rapid; both it and the
words had come down to her with the old folklore of generations passed
away.

  "Over the sea from the end of the wide world
  I've come without wetting my feet, my feet, my feet,
  Back to the old home, straight to the nest-home,
  Under the brown thatch, oh sweet! oh sweet! oh sweet!

  "When over the waters I flew in the autumn,
  Then there was plenty of seed, of seed, of seed.
  Women have winnow'd it, threshers have garner'd it,
  Barns must be filled up indeed, indeed, indeed!

  "Are you glad we have come with a flitter and twitter
  Once more on the housetop to meet, to meet, to meet?
  Make haste little primroses, cowslips, and daisies, we're
  Longing your faces to greet, to greet, to greet!"

    --_Trans._


"Yes, that's what you are singing.  Good-bye," and waving her hand
towards them again, she turned her face to the boggy moor, picking her
way over the stepping-stones which led up to the dryer sheep paths.

The golden marsh marigolds glittered around her, the beautiful bog bean
hung its pinky white fringe over the brown peat pools, the silky plumes
of the cotton grass nodded at her as she passed, and the wind whispered
in the rushes the secrets of the sea.

Morva listened with a smile, a brown finger up-raised.  "Yes, yes, I
know what you are singing too down there in the rushes, sweet west
wind," she said.  "Sara has told me, but I haven't time to sing the
'wind song' to-day," and reaching the sheep path which led round the
mountain, she sped against the wind, her hair streaming behind her, her
blue skirt fluttering in the breeze, the ball of scarlet worsted and
the shining 'bacco box held high in either hand to steady her flying
footsteps, Tudor barking with joy as he bounded after her and twitched
at her fluttering skirts.

It was tea-time when she reached Garthowen, and, winter or summer, that
was always the pleasantest hour at the farmstead, when the air was
filled with the aroma of the hot tea, and the laughter and talk of the
household.  On the settle in the cosy chimney corner sat Ebben Owens
himself, the head of the family and the centre of interest to every
member of it.  He possessed that doubtful advantage, the power of
attracting to himself the affection and friendship of everyone who came
in contact with him; his children idolised him, and Morva was no whit
behind them in her affection for him.  In spite of his long grizzled
locks, and a slight stoop, he was still a hale and hearty yeoman under
his seventy years.  His cheeks bore the ruddy hue of health, his eyes
were still bright and clear, the lines of his mouth expressed a gentle
and sensitive nature.  It was by no means a strong face, but its very
weakness perhaps accounted for the protecting tenderness shown to him
by all his family.  As he sat there in the shadow of the settle it was
easy to understand why his children were so devotedly attached to him,
and why he bore the reputation of being the kindest and most
good-natured man in Pont-y-fro and its neighbourhood.  Ann, his only
daughter, was looking smilingly at him from the head of the table, her
smooth brown hair parted over her madonna-like brows, her brown eyes
full of laughter.  Opposite to her, at the bottom of the table, sat
Gwilym Morris, preacher at the Calvinistic Methodist chapel, down in
the valley by the shore.  He had lived at Garthowen for many years as
one of the family, being the son of an old friend of Ebben Owens.
Having a small--very small--income of his own, he was able to devote
his services to the chapel in the valley, expecting and receiving
nothing in return but a pittance, for which no other minister would
have been willing to work.  He was a dark, pale man, of earnest and
studious appearance, of quiet manners, and rather silent, but often
seeking the liquid brown eyes which lighted up Ann's gentle face.

"Tis the only time father is cross when he has lost his 'bacco box,"
said Ann, laughing; "but then he is as cross as two sticks."

"Lol! lol!" said the old man snappishly, "give me a cup of tea; but I
can't think where my 'bacco box is.  I swear I left it here on the
table."

Gwilym Morris hunted about in the most unlikely places, as men
generally do--on the tea tray, between the leaves of some newspapers
which stood on the deep window-sill.  He was about to open Ann's
work-bag in search of it, when Morva entered panting, and placed the
shining box and ball of red wool on the table.

"Good, my daughter," said Ebben Owens, pocketing his new-found
treasure, and regaining his good temper at once.

"I saw it was empty, so I took it with me to Jos Hughes's shop," she
said.

Soon afterwards, seated on her milking stool, she was singing to the
rhythm of the milk as it streamed into the frothing pail, for Daisy
refused to yield her milk without a musical accompaniment.  Very soft
and low was the girl's singing, but clear and sweet as that of the
thrush on the thorn bush behind her.

  "Give me my little milking pail,
  For under the hawthorn in the vale
  The cows are gathering one by one,
  They know the time by the westering sun.
  Troodi, Troodi! come down from the mountain,
  Troodi, Troodi! come up from the dale;
  Moelen, and Corwen, and Blodwen, and Trodwen!
  I'll meet you all with my milking pail."


So sang the girl, and the lilting tune caught the ears of a youth who
was just entering the farmyard.  He knew it at once.  It was a snatch
of Morva's simple milking song.  He stopped to pat Daisy's broad
forehead, and Morva looked up with a smile.

"Make haste," she said, "or tea will be finished.  Where have you been
so late?"

"Thou'll be surprised when I tell thee," said the young man; but before
he had time for further conversation, Ann's voice called him from the
kitchen window, and he hurried away unceremoniously.

Morva continued her song, for Daisy wanted nothing new, but was
contented with the old stave which she had known from calfhood.

Will Owens, arriving in the farm kitchen, had evidently been eagerly
awaited.  Both Ann and Gwilym Morris came forward to meet him, and
Ebben Owens rubbed his hands nervously over his corduroy knees.

"Well?" said all three together.

"Well!" echoed Will, flinging his hat across to the window-sill.  "It's
all right.  I met Price the vicar coming down the street, so I touched
my hat to him, and he saw at once that I wanted to speak to him, and
there's kind he was.  'How's your father?' he said, 'and Miss Ann, is
she well?  I must come up and see them soon.'"

"Look you there now," said his father.

"'They will be very glad to see you sir,' I said, but I didn't know how
to tell him what I wanted.

"'I am very glad to hear how well you get on with your books,' he said;
'but 'tisn't every young man has Gwilym Morris to help him and to teach
him.'  And then, you see, when he made a beginning, 'twas easier for me
to explain."

The preacher's pale face lighted up with a smile of pleasure, and Ann
flushed with gratified pride as Will continued.

"'He is a man in a hundred,' said Mr. Price, 'and 'tis a pity that his
talents are wasted on a Methodist Chapel.  I wish I could persuade him
to enter the Church.'

"'Well, you'll never do that,' I said.  'You might as well try to turn
the course of the On.  He won't come himself, but he is sending a very
poor substitute to you, sir.'

"'And who is that?  You?' said Mr. Price.

"'Well, sir, that is what I wanted to see you about.  You know that
although we are Methodists bred and born, both my grandfather and my
great-grandfather had a son in the Church,' and with that he took hold
of my two hands.

"'And your father is going to follow their good example?  I _am_ glad!'
and he shook my hands so warmly."

"There for you now!" said Ebben Owens.

"'I will do all I can for you,' Mr. Price said, 'and I'm sure your
uncle will help you.'

"'Oh!' said I, 'if my father will send me to the Church, sir, it will
be without pressing upon anyone else for money,' for I wasn't going to
let him think we couldn't afford it."

"Right, my boy," said Ebben Owens, standing up in his excitement; "and
what then?"

"Oh! then he asked me when did I think of entering college; and I said,
'Next term, sir, if I can pass.'

"'No fear of that,' he said again, 'with Gwilym Morris at your elbow.'
But I'm choking, Ann; give me a cup of tea, da chi.[2]  I'll finish
afterwards."

"That's all, I should think," said the preacher; "you've got on pretty
far for a first interview."

"I got a little further, though," said Will.  "What do you think,
father, he has asked me to do?"

"What?" said the old man breathlessly.

"He asked would I read the lessons in church next Sunday week.
''Twould be a good beginning,' he said; 'and tell your father and Miss
Ann they must come and hear you.'

"'Well,' I said, 'my father hasn't been inside a church for years, and
I don't know whether he will come.'"

"Well, of course," said the old man eagerly, "I will come to hear you,
my boy, and Ann--"

"Not I, indeed," said Ann, with a toss of her head, "there will be a
sermon in my own chapel."

"But it will be over before eleven, Ann, and I don't see why you
shouldn't go if you wish to," said Gwilym Morris.

"I don't wish to," she answered, turning to the tea-table, and pouring
out her brother's tea.

She was a typical Welsh woman, of highly-strung nervous temperament,
though placid in outward appearance and manners, unselfish even to
self-effacement where her kindred were concerned, but wary and
suspicious beyond the pale of relationship or love; a zealous
religionist, but narrow and bigoted in the extreme.  In his heart of
hearts Ebben Owens also hated the Church.  Dissent had been the
atmosphere in which his ancestors had lived and breathed, but in his
case pride had struggled with prejudice, and had conquered.  For three
generations a son had gone forth from Garthowen to the enemy's Church,
and had won there distinction and riches.  True, their career had
withdrawn them entirely from the old simple home circle, but this did
not deter Ebben Owens from desiring strongly to emulate his ancestors.
Why should not Will, the clever one of the family, his favourite
son--who had "topped" all the boys at the village school, and had taken
so many prizes in the grammar school at Caer-Madoc--why should not he
gain distinction and preferment in the Church, and shed fresh lustre on
the fading name of "Owens of Garthowen," for the name had lost its
ancient prestige in the countryside?  In early time theirs had been a
family of importance, as witness the old deeds in the tin box on the
attic rafters, but for two hundred years they had been simple farmers.
They had never been a thrifty race, and the broad lands which tradition
said once belonged to them had been sold from time to time, until
nothing remained but the old farm with its hundred acres of mountain
land.  Ebben Owens never troubled his head, however, about the past
glories of his race.  He inherited the "happy-go-lucky,"
unbusiness-like temperament which had probably been the cause of his
ancestors' misfortunes, but Will's evident love of learning had aroused
in the old man a strong wish to remind the world that the "Owens of
Garthowen" still lived, and could push themselves to the front if they
wished.

As Will drank his tea and cleared plate after plate of bread and
butter, his father looked at him with a tender, admiring gaze.  Will
had always been his favourite.  Gethin, the eldest son, had never taken
hold of his affections; he had been the mother's favourite, and after
her death had drifted further and further out of his father's good
graces.  The boy's nature was a complete contrast to that of his own
and second son, for Gethin was bold and daring, while they were wary
and secret; he was restless and mischievous, while his brother was
quiet and sedate; he was constantly getting into scrapes, while Will
always managed to steer clear of censure.  Gethin hated his books too,
and, worse than all, he paid but scant regard to the services in the
chapel, which held such an important place in the estimation of the
rest of the household.  More than once Ebben Owens, walking with proper
decorum to chapel on Sunday morning, accompanied by Will and Ann, had
been scandalised at meeting Gethin returning from a surreptitious
scramble on the hillside, with a row of blue eggs strung on a stalk of
grass.  A hasty rush into the house to dress, a pell-mell run down the
mountain side, a flurried arrival in the chapel, where Will and his
father had already hung up their hats on the rail at the back of their
seat, did not tend to mitigate the old man's annoyance at his son's
erratic ways.

Gethin was the cause of continual disturbances in the household,
culminating at last in a severer thrashing than usual, and a dismissal
from the home of his childhood--a dismissal spoken in anger, which
would have been repented of ere night had not the boy, exasperated at
his utter inability to rule his wild and roving habits, taken his
father at his word and disappeared from the old homestead.

"Let him go," Ebben Owens had said to the tearful pleading Ann.  "Let
him go, child; it will do him good if he can't behave himself at home.
Let him go, like many another rascal, and find out whether cold and
hunger and starvation will suit him.  Let him feel a pinch or two, and
he'll soon come home again, and then perhaps he'll have come to his
senses and give us less trouble here."

Ann had cried her eyes red for days, and Will had silently grieved over
the loss of his brother, but he had been prudent, and had said nothing
to increase his father's anger, so the days slipped by and Gethin never
returned.

His father, relenting somewhat (for he seldom remained long in the same
frame of mind), made inquiries of the sea-faring men who visited the
neighbouring coast villages, and learning from them that Gethin had
been taken as cabin boy by an old friend of his, whom he knew to be of
a kindly disposition, felt quite satisfied concerning his son's safety,
and congratulated himself upon the result of his own firmness.

"There's the very thing for him," he thought; "'twill make a man of
him, and 'tis time he should be brought to his senses! and he won't be
so ready with his 'Amens!' again.  Ach y fi!"

From time to time as the years sped on, news of Gethin came in a
roundabout way to the farm, and at last a letter from some foreign
port, from which it was evident that the youth, now growing up to
manhood, still retained his bright sunny nature and laughter-loving
ways, together with the warmth of heart which had always distinguished
the troublesome Gethin.  There was no allusion to the past, no begging
for forgiveness, no hint of a wish to return home.  His father seldom
looked at the lad's letters, but flung them to Will to be read, the
quarrel between him and his son, instead of dwindling into
forgetfulness, seeming to grow and widen in his mind with each
succeeding year, as trifling disagreements frequently do in weak but
obstinate natures.

"Gethin will be an honour to us yet," Ann would say sometimes.

"Honour indeed!" the old man would answer, with a red spot on each
cheek, which always denoted his rising anger.  "What honour?  A common
sailor lounging about from one foreign port to another!  'Tis stopping
at home he ought to be, and helping his old father with the farming.
If Will is going to be a clergyman I will want somebody to help me with
the work."

"Well, I'm sure he would come, father, and glad too, if he knew that
you were wanting him."

"Oh, I don't want him.  Let him come when he likes; that's fair enough."

But Gethin still roamed, and latterly nothing had been heard of him, no
letters and no news.  'Tis true, a dim and hazy report had reached
Garthowen from some sailor in the village "that Gethin Owens was
getting on 'splendid,' that he was steady and saving."  Ann had flushed
with pleasure, but the old man had laughed scornfully, saying, "Well,
I'll believe that when I see it--Gethin steady and saving!"  And even
Will had joined in the laugh, but Gwilym Morris looked vexed and
serious.

"I think, indeed, you are too hard upon that poor fellow,", he said;
"he may return to you some day like the prodigal son.  Don't forget
that, Ebben Owens--"

"Oh, I don't forget that," said the old man; "and when he comes home in
the same temper as the son we read of, then we'll kill for him the
fatted calf."

"Well, I'd like to know what did he do whatever?" said a girlish voice
from behind the settle, where Morva Lloyd (who was shepherdess,
cowherd, milkmaid, all in one), was drying her hands on a jack-towel;
"what did Gethin do so very bad?"

"Look in his mother's Bible," said the old man, "and you'll see his
last sin."

"I've put it away," said Ann.  "Twas too wicked to leave about; but he
was very young, father, and Gwilym says--"

"Oh!  Gwilym," said her father, "has an excuse for everyone's faults
except his own; for thine especially."

There was a general laugh, during which Morva made up her mind to hunt
up the old Bible.

"I hope," said Ann, addressing Will, when he had come to an end of his
tea, "you told Price the vicar that Gwilym did not spend evening after
evening here helping you on with your studies, _knowing_ that you were
going to be a clergyman?"

"No, I didn't tell him that, but I can tell him some other time,"
answered Will, who would have promised anything in his desire to
propitiate Ann and his father, and to gain their consent to his
entering Llaniago College at the beginning of the next term.

"I'll tell him if he comes here," said Ann.  "I wouldn't have him think
that Gwilym Morris, the Methodist minister, spent his time in teaching
a parson."

"Well," said the preacher, who was standing at the old glass bookcase
looking for a book, "you certainly did spring the news very suddenly
upon me, Will; you kept your secret very close; but still, Ann, it
makes no difference.  I would have done anything for your brother, and
I'm glad, whatever his course may be, that I have been able to impart
to him a little knowledge."

"Look you here now," said the old man, shuffling uneasily, for there
was a secret consciousness between him and his son that they had
wilfully kept Gwilym Morris in the dark as long as possible, fearing
lest his dissenting principles might prevent the accomplishment of
their wishes, "look you here now, Will, October is very near, and it
means money, my boy, and that's not gathered so easy as blackberries
about here; you must wait until Christmas, and you shall go to Llaniago
in the New Year, but I can't afford it now."

Will's handsome face flushed to the roots of his hair, his blue eyes
sparkled with anger, and the clear-cut mouth took a petulant curve as
he answered, rising hastily from the tea-table:

"Why didn't you tell me that sooner, instead of letting me go and speak
to Mr. Price?  You have made a fool of me!"  And he went out, banging
the door after him.

There was a moment's silence.

"Will's temper is not improving," said Ann at last.

"Poor boy," said the indulgent father, "'tis disappointed he is; but it
won't be long to wait till January."

"But, father," said Ann, "there is the 80 pounds you got for the two
ricks?  You put that into the bank safe, didn't you?"

"Yes, yes, yes, quite safe, 'merch i.  Don't you bother your head about
things that don't concern you," and he too went out, leaving Ann
drumming with her fingers on the tea-tray.

Her father's manner awoke some uneasiness in her mind, for long
experience had taught her that money had a way of slipping through his
hands ere ever it reached the wants of the household.

"I went with him to the bank," said Gwilym Morris reassuringly, "and
saw him put it in," and Ann was satisfied.

Under her skilful management, in spite of their dwindled means,
Garthowen was always a home of plenty.  The produce of the farm was
exchanged at the village shops for the simple necessaries of domestic
life.  The sheep on their own pasture lands yielded wool in abundance
for their home-spun clothing, the flitches of bacon that garnished the
rafters provided ample flavouring for the cawl, and for the rest Will
and Gwilym's fishing and shooting brought in sufficient variety for the
simple tastes of the family.  Indeed, there was only one thing that was
not abundant at Garthowen, and that was--ready money!



[1] Spirit Sara.

[2] Do.




CHAPTER III

MORVA OF THE MOOR

When Will had reached the door of the farm kitchen in a fume of hot
temper, the cool sea breeze coming up the valley had bathed his flushed
face with so soothing an influence that he had turned towards it and
wandered away to the cliffs which made the seaward boundary of the
farm.  A craggy hill on the opposite side of the valley cast its
lengthening shadow on his path until he reached the Cribserth, a ridge
of rocks which ran down the mountain side on the Garthowen land.  It
rose abruptly from the mountain pasturage, as though some monster of
the early world were struggling to rise once more from its burial of
ages, succeeding only in erecting its rugged spine and crest through
the green sward.  This ridge marked a curious division of the country,
for on one side of it lay all the signs of cultivation of which this
wind-swept parish could boast.  Here were villages, fertile fields, and
wooded valleys; but beyond the rugged escarpment all was different.
For miles the seaward side of the hills was wild and bare, except for
the soft velvet turf, interspersed with gorse and heather, which
stretched up the steep slopes, covering and softening every rough
outline.  Even Will, as he rounded the ridge, recovered his equanimity,
and his face lighted up with pleasure at the sight which met his view.
Down below glistened a sea of burnished gold, with tints and shades of
purple grey; above stretched a sky of still more glowing colours; and
landward, rising to the blue of the zenith, the rugged moorland was
covered with a mantle of heath and gorse, which shone in the evening
sun in a rich mingling of gold and purple.

"What a glorious evening!" were Will's first thoughts.  The birds sang
around him, the sea lisped its soft whispers on the sea below, the song
of a fisherman out on the bay came up on the breeze, the rabbits
scudded across his path, and the seagulls floated slowly above him.
All the sullenness went out of his face, giving way to a look of
pleased surprise, as out of the carpet of gorgeous colouring spread
before him rose suddenly the vision of a girl.  It was Morva who came
towards him, her hair glistening in the sunshine, her blue eyes dancing
with the light of health and happiness.  Behind a rising knoll stood
her foster-mother's cottage, almost hidden by the surrounding gorse and
heather, for, according to the old Welsh custom, it had been built in a
hollow scooped out behind a natural elevation, which protected it from
the strong sea wind; in fact, there was little of it visible except its
red chimney-pot, from which generally curled the blue smoke of the
furze and dried ferns burning on the bare earthen floor below.

Turning round the pathway to the front of the house, one came upon its
whitewashed walls, the low worm-eaten door deep set in its crooked
lintels, and its two tiny windows, looking out on the sunny garden,
every inch of which was neatly and carefully cultivated by Morva's own
hands; for she would not allow her "little mother" to tire herself with
hard work in house or garden.  To her foster-child it was a labour of
love.  In the early morning hours before milking time at the farm, or
in the grey of the twilight, Morva was free to work in her own garden,
while Sara only tended her herb bed.  There at the further end was the
potato bed in purple flower, here were rows of broad beans, in which
the bees were humming, attracted by their sweet aroma that filled the
evening air; there was the leek bed waving its grey green blades, and
here, in the sunniest corner of all, was Sara's herb bed, which she
tended with special care, whose products were gathered at stated times
of the moon's age, not without serious thought and many consultations
of an old herbal, brown with age, which always rested with her Bible
and Williams "Pantycelyn's" hymns above the lintel of the door.  For
nearly seventeen years this had been Morva's home, ever since the
memorable night of wind and storm which had wrecked the good ship
_Penelope_ on her voyage home from Australia.  She had reached Milford
safely a week before, after a prosperous voyage, and having landed some
of her passengers, was making her further way towards Liverpool, her
final destination.  It was late autumn, and suddenly a storm arose
which drove her out of her course, until on the Cardiganshire coast she
had become a total wreck.  In the darkness and storm, where the foaming
waves leapt up to the black sky, the wild wind had battered her, and
the cruel waves had torn her asunder, and engulphed her in their
relentless depths; and when all was over, a few bubbles on the face of
the water, a few planks tossed about by the waves, were all the signs
left of the _Penelope_.  The cottagers on the rugged coast never forgot
that stormy night, when the roofs were uplifted from the houses, when
gates were wrenched from their hinges, when the shrieking wind had torn
the frightened sheep from their fold, and carried them over hedges and
hillocks.  There had never been such a storm in the memory of the
oldest inhabitant, and when in the foam and the spray, Stiven "Storrom"
had raked out from the debris washed on to the shore a hencoop, on
which was bound a tiny baby, sodden and cold, but still alive, every
one of the small crowd gathered on the beach below Garthowen slopes,
considered he had added a fresh claim to his name--a name which he had
gained by his frequent raids upon the fierce storms, and the harvest
which he had gathered from their fury.  That baby had found open arms
and tender hearts ready to succour it, and when Sara "'spridion" had
stretched imploring hands towards it, reminding the onlookers of her
recent bereavement, it was handed over to her fostering care.  "Give it
to me," she said, "my heart is empty; it will not fill up the void, but
it will help me to bear it.  There are other reasons," she added, "good
reasons."  She had carried it home triumphantly, and little Morva had
never after missed a mother's love and tenderness.  The seventeen years
that followed had glided happily over her head; in fact she was so
perfect an embodiment of health and happiness, that she sometimes
excited the envy of the somewhat sombre dwellers on those lonely
hillsides; and when in the golden sunset, she suddenly rose from the
gorse bloom to greet Will's sight, she had never appeared brighter or
more brimful of joy.

"Well, indeed," said Will, casting a furtive glance behind him, to make
sure that no one from Garthowen was following in his footsteps, "Morva,
lass, where hast come from?  I will begin to think thou art one of the
spirits thy mother says she sees.  I thought thee wast busy in the
dairy at home!"

Morva laughed merrily.

"I had some milk to bring home, and Ann sent me early to help mother a
bit.  I was going now to gather dry furze and bracken to boil the
porridge.  Will you come and have supper with us, Will?"

"I have just had my tea," he said, "and a supper of bitter herbs into
the bargain, for my father angered me by something he said.  He is
changeable as the wind, and I was roaming over here to seek for
calmness from the sea wind, and perhaps a talk with Sara."

"Yes, come!  She is in the herb garden gathering her bear's claws and
rue; 'tis the proper time for them.  But first we must cut the bracken."

Will took her sickle and soon cut a pile of the dry brittle fuel,
binding it with a rope which she carried; and turning towards the
cottage, they dragged it behind them.

"You go and seek mother," said Morva, "while I go and boil the
porridge."

And in the garden Will found Sara stooping over her herb bed, and
deeply intent upon her task.

The sun was setting now, and threw its ruddy beams upon the sunny
corner, and upon the aged face and figure of the old woman.

"Well, 'machgen i," she said, straightening herself.  "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing," said Will; "only, roaming about the moor, I came in to
see you, and Morva has asked me to have supper with you--you are
gathering your herbs?"

"Yes, 'tis time to dry them and hang them up under the rafters; if they
will save one human being from pain 'twill be a good thing.  Last night
Mari Lewis came to ask me for something for her boy; I gave it to her,
but she never came to tell me whether it had done him any good," and
she smiled as she led the way back to the cottage carrying her bunches
of herbs.

"Was it Dan?" asked Will.

"Yes."

"Then he is well, for I saw him ploughing this evening."

"That's better than thanks," said the old woman, entering the dark
cottage, where Morva was stirring a crock which hung on a chain from
the open chimney, the furze and bracken flaming and crackling beneath
it and lighting up her beautiful face.  Once in the cottage, Sara sat
down on the old oak settle and waited for her supper, her herbs lying
in a green heap on the floor beside her.  The square of scarlet
flannel, which she always wore pinned on her shoulders, made a bit of
bright colour in the gloom, her wrinkled hands were clasped on her lap,
and a far-away look came into her wonderful dark eyes.

Morva looked up from her work.

"Are you seeing anything, mother?"

"No, no, child, nothing.  Make haste with the supper," said Sara.

And when Morva had divided the porridge in the three shining black
bowls, they drew round the bare oak table, on which the red of the
setting sun made a flickering pattern of the mallow bush growing on the
garden hedge.  They talked about the farm work, the fishing, the lime
burning, the fate of the _Lapwing_, which had sailed in the autumn and
had never returned, until, when supper was over, Will rose to go with a
stretch and a yawn.

"Ann wants me to give the white calf his medicine to-night, mother,"
said Morva.

"Wilt come with me now?" said Will, "for I am going."

"Yes, go," said the old woman, "go together."

But as the two young people went out under the low doorway she looked
after them pensively, and remained long looking up at the evening sky,
which the open door revealed.  At last she tied up her herbs and began
washing her bowls, and while engaged at her work she sang.  Her voice
had the pathetic tremble of old age, but was still true and musical,
for she had once been a singer among singers, and the song that she
sang--who shall describe it? from what old stores of memory did it come
to light? from what old wells of ancient folklore and tradition did it
spring?  But Sara was full of songs and hymns--of the simplest and
oldest--of the rocky path--of the golden summit--of the angelic
host--of the cloud of witnesses--but of the more modern hymns of church
festivals or chapel revivals, of creeds and shibboleths, she knew
nothing!

Outside on the heath and gorse Will and Morva made their way along the
narrow sheep paths, until, reaching the green sward where two could
walk abreast, he drew nearer, and passing his arm round her shoulders,
turned her gently towards the side of the cliff, where jutting crags
and stunted thorns made "sheltered nooks for lovers' seats."

"Come, sit down here, Morva," he said; "all day I have wanted to talk
to thee.  Dost know what kept me so long at Castell On to-day?  Dost
know what grand thing is opening out before me?  Dost know, lass, the
time is coming when I will be able to put rings on thy fingers, and
silken scarves on thy shoulders, and pretty shoes on thy little feet?"

Morva's lips parted, disclosing two rows of pearly teeth, as she stared
in astonishment at her companion.

"Oh, Will, lad, what is the matter with thee?  Hast lost thy senses?
We mustn't be long or Ann will be waiting."

"Oh, Ann!" said Will pettishly, "let her wait; listen thou.  I am going
to finish with them all before long; I am not going to plod on here on
the farm any longer; I am going to college, lass; I am going to pass my
examination and be a clergyman, like Mr. Price, or like that young
curate who was stopping with him a month ago.  Didst see him, Morva?
Such a gentleman! dressed so grand, and went from town in the Nantmyny
carriage."

Morva was still speechless.

"Oh, anwl! what art talking about, Will?" she said at last.

"Truth, Morva; I will be like that young man before long, and when I
have a home ready I will send for thee; thou shalt come secretly to
meet me in some large town where no one will know us.  I will have a
silken gown ready for thee, and we will be married, and thou shalt be a
real lady."

Morva's only answer was a peal of laughter, which reached over moor and
crag and down to the sandy beach below.

"Oh, Will, Will!" she gasped, with her hand on her side, "now indeed
thy senses are roaming.  Morva Lloyd in velvet shoes and silken gowns,
and Will Owens with flapping coat tails like Mr. Price, and one of
those ugly shining hats that the gentlemen wear!  Oh, Will, Will!
there's funny indeed!" and she laughed again until she woke the echoes
from the cliffs.

"Hush-sh-sh!" said Will, a good deal nettled, "or laugh at thyself if
thou wilt, but not at me, for I tell thee that's how thou'lt see me
very soon."

"Well, indeed, then," said the girl, "when thou tak'st that path thou
must say 'good-bye' to Morva Lloyd, for such things will never suit
her."

"I tell thee, girl," said Will, taking both her hands in his, "thou
must come with me.  I will follow that path--I feel I must, and I feel
it will lead to riches and honour, but I feel, too, that I can never
live without thee; thou must come with me, Morva.  What is in the
future for me must be for thee too! dost hear?"

"Yes, I hear," said the girl, with a gasp.

"Dost remember thy promise, Morva?  When we were children together, and
sat here watching the stars, didn't I hold thy little finger and point
it up to the North Star and make thee promise to marry me?  And if thou
art going to change thy mind, 'twill break my heart," and his mouth
took a sad, pathetic curve.

"But I am not going to change.  I remember the star which I pointed to
when I promised to marry thee.  'Twill be up there by and by when the
light is gone, for it is always there, though the others move about."

"Yes, 'tis the North Star, and the English have a saying, 'As true as
the North Star'--that's what thou must be to me, Morva."

"Yes, indeed.  The English are very wise people.  But after all, Will,
I must laugh when I think of a clergyman marrying a shepherdess.  Oh!
Will, Will!" added the girl more seriously and in a deprecating tone,
"thou art talking nonsense.  Think it over for a day or two, and then
we'll talk about it.  I cannot stay longer--Ann will be angry."

And slipping out of his grasp, she ran with light footsteps over the
soft turf, Will looking after her bewildered and troubled, until she
disappeared round the edge of the ridge; then he rose slowly, picked up
his book, and followed her with slow steps and an anxious look on his
handsome face.  He was tall and well grown, like every member of the
Garthowen family; his reddish-brown hair so thick above his forehead
that his small cap of country frieze was scarcely required as a
covering for his head; and not even the coarse material of his homespun
suit, or his thick country-made shoes, could hide a certain air of
jaunty distinction, which was a subject of derision amongst the young
lads of his acquaintance, but of which he himself was secretly proud.
From boyhood he had despised the commonplace ways of his rustic home,
and had always aimed at becoming what he called "a gentleman."  No
wonder, then, that with his foot, as he thought, on the first rung of
the ladder, he was pensive and serious as he followed Morva homewards.

Ebben Owens, when he had risen from the tea table, had followed his son
into the farmyard, but finding no trace of him there, his face had
taken a troubled and anxious expression, for Will was the idol of his
soul, the apple of his eye, and a ruffle upon that young man's brow
meant a furrow on the old man's heart.  He reproached himself for
having allowed "the boy" to proceed too far with his plans for entering
college before he had suggested that there might be a difficulty in
finding the required funds.  After a long reverie, he muttered as he
went to the cowsheds:

"Well, well, I must manage it somehow.  I must ask Davy my brother, to
lend me the money until I have sold those yearlings."

Not having the moral courage to open his mind to his son, he allowed
the subject to drift on in the dilatory fashion characteristic of his
nation; and as time went on, he began to allude to the coming glories
of Llaniago in a manner which soothed Will's irritation, and made him
think that the old man, on reconsideration, was as usual becoming
reconciled to his son's plans.  As a matter of fact, Ebben Owens was
endeavouring to adjust his ideas to those of his son, solving the
difficulties which perplexed him by mentally referring to "Davy my
brother," or "those yearlings."

Will also took refuge, as a final resource, in the thought of his rich
uncle, the Rev. Dr. Owen, of Llanisderi, who, through marriage with a
wealthy widow, had in a wonderfully short time gained for himself
preferment, riches, and popularity.

"I will stoop to ask Uncle Davy to help me," he thought, "rather than
put it off;" but he kept his thoughts to himself, hoping still that his
father would relent, for he considered the want of funds was probably a
mere excuse for keeping him longer at home.

It had been very easy, one day a month earlier, when, sitting in the
barn together, they had talked the matter over, for Ebben Owens to make
any number of plans and promises, for he had just sold two large ricks
of hay, and had placed the price thereof in the bank.  He was,
therefore, in a calm and contented frame of mind, and in the humour to
be reckless in the matter of promises.  The whole country side knew how
good-natured he was, how ready to help a friend, very often to his own
detriment and that of his family; he was consequently very popular at
fair and market.  Everybody brought his troubles to him, especially
money troubles; and although Ebben Owens might at first refuse
assistance, he would generally end by opening his heart and his
pockets, and lending the sum required, sometimes on good security,
sometimes on bad, sometimes on none at all but his creditors' word of
honour, whose value, alas! was apt to rise or fall with the tide of
circumstances.  He had many times given his own word of honour to his
anxious daughter, that he would never again lend his money or "go
security" for his neighbours without consulting his family; but over
the first blue of beer, at the first fair or market, he had been unable
to withstand the pleadings of some impecunious friend.  Only a week
after he and Will had talked over their plans in the barn, Jos Hughes,
who was his fellow-deacon at Penmorien Chapel, had met him in the
market at Castell On, and had persuaded him to lend him the exact
amount which his ricks had brought him, with many promises of speedy
repayment.


"Tis those hard-hearted Saeson,[1] Mr. Owens bâch!  They will never
listen to reason, you know," he had argued, "and they are pressing upon
me shocking for payment for the goods I had from them last year; and me
such a good customer, too!  I must pay them this week, Mr. Owens bâch,
and you are always so kind, and there is no one else in the parish got
so much money as Garthowen.  I will give you good security, and will
pay you week after next, as sure as the sun is shining!"

It was a plausible tale, and Ebben Owens, as usual, was weak and
yielding.  He liked to be considered the "rich man" of the parish, and
to be called "Mr. Owens," so Jos went home with the money in his
pocket, giving in return only his "I. O. U.," and a promise that the
transaction should be carefully kept from Ann's ears, for Ebben Owens
was more afraid of his daughter's gentle reproofs than he had ever been
of his wife's sharp tongue.



[1] English.




CHAPTER IV

THE OLD BIBLE

On the following Sunday, Morva kept house alone at Garthowen, for
everyone else had gone to chapel, except Will, who had walked to
Castell On, which was three miles away up the valley of the On, he
having been of late a frequent attendant at Mr. Price's church.  The
vicar was much beloved by all his parishioners, beloved and respected
by high and low, but still his congregation was sparse and uncertain,
so that every new member was quickly noticed and welcomed by him--more
especially any stray sheep from the dissenting fold possessed for him
all the interest of the sheep in the parable, for whose sake the ninety
and nine were left in the wilderness.  Will had gone off with a large
prayer book under his arm, determined to take special note of the
Vicar's manner in reading the lessons, for on the following Sunday this
important duty would devolve upon him.

No one who has not spent a Sunday afternoon in a Methodist household
can really have sounded the depths of dullness; the interminable hours
between the early dinner and the welcome moment when the singing kettle
and the jingling of the tea-things break up the spell of dreariness,
the solemn silence pervading everything, broken only by the persistent
ticking of the old clock on the stairs, Morva had noted them all rather
wearily.  Even the fowls in the farmyard seemed to walk about with a
more sober demeanour than usual, but more trying than anything else to
an active girl was the fact that _there was nothing to do_.

It was a hot blazing summer afternoon; she had paid frequent visits to
the sick calf, which was getting well and mischievous again, and
inclined to butt at Tudor, so even that small excitement was over, and
the girl came sauntering back under the shady elder tree which spread
its branches over the doorway of the back kitchen.  She crossed to the
window, and leaning her arms on the deep sill looked out over the yard,
and the fields beyond, to the sea, whose every aspect she knew so well.
Not a boat or sail broke its silvery surface, even there the spell of
Sabbath stillness seemed to reign.  She thought of the chapel with its
gallery thronged with smiling lads and lasses; she thought of Will
sitting bolt upright at church.  Yes; decidedly the dullness was
depressing; but suddenly a brightening thought struck her.  Why should
she not hunt up the old Bible which Ann said was too bad to leave
about?  What could Gethin have written in it that was so wicked?  She
remembered him only as her friend and companion, and her willing slave.
She was only a child when he left, but she had not forgotten the burst
of bitter wailing which she sent after him as he picked up his bundle
and tore himself away from her clinging arms, and how she had cried
herself to sleep that night by Sara's side, who had tried to pacify her
with promises of his speedy return.  But he had never come, and his
absence seemed only to have left in his father's memory a sense of
injury, as though he himself had not been the cause of his boy's
banishment.  Even Ann and Will, who had at first mourned for him, and
longed for his return, appeared to have forgotten him, or only to
regard his memory as a kind of sorrowful dream.  Why, she knew not, but
the thought of him on this quiet Sunday afternoon filled her with
tender recollections.  She opened every dusty book in the glass
bookcase, but in vain.  Here was Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress"; and
here a worm-eaten, brown stained book of sermons; here were Williams of
"Pantycelyn's" Hymns and his "Theomemphis," with Bibles old and new,
but _not_ the one which she sought.  Mounting a chair, and from thence
the table, she at last drew out from under a glass shade, covering a
group of stuffed birds, a dust-begrimed book, with a brass clasp and
nails at the corners.  Dusting it carefully she laid it on the table
before her, and proceeded to decipher its faded inscriptions.  Yes--no
doubt this was the book for which she had sought, and with a brown
finger following the words, she read aloud:

    "ANN OWENS, HER BOOK,
        GARTHOWEN."

Beneath this was written in a boyish hand the well-known doggerel lines:

  "This book is hers, I do declare,
  Then steal it not or else beware!
  For on the dreadful Judgment Day
  You may depend the Lord will say,
  'Where is that book you stole away?'"


It was written in English, and Morva, though she could make herself
understood in that language, was not learned enough to read it easily.
However, there was no difficulty in reading the signature of "William
Owens" which followed.  She turned over a leaf, and here indeed were
signs of Gethin, for all over the title page was scrawled with many
flourishes "Gethin Owens, Garthowen," "Gethin Owens," "G. O.,"
"Gethin," etc.  It was wrong, no doubt, to deface the first page of the
Bible in this way, but Ann had said "too wicked to leave about!" so
Morva searched through the whole book, until on the fair leaf which
fronted "The Revelations" she found evident proof of Gethin's
depravity; and she quailed a little as she saw a vivid and realistic
pen and ink drawing of a fire of leaping flames, standing over which
was a monster in human shape, though boasting of a tail and cloven
hoofs.  With fiendish glee the creature was toasting on a long fork
something which looked fearfully like a man, whose starting eyes and
writhing limbs showed plainly that he was not as happy as his
tormentor.  It was very horrible, and Morva closed the book with a
snap, but could not resist the temptation of another peep, as there was
something written beneath in Welsh, which translated ran thus:

  "Here's the ugly old Boy!  I tell you beware!
  If you fall in his clutches there's badly you'll fare!
  Look here at his picture, his claws and his tail,
  If you make his acquaintance you're sure to bewail!
  Hallelujah!  Amen!
      --GETHIN OWENS."


At the last words Morva stood aghast; this then was Gethin's terrible
crime!  "Oh! there's a boy he must have been!" said the girl, clasping
her fingers as she leant over the big Bible.  "Oh! dear, dear! no
wonder 'n'wncwl Ebben was so angry!  I don't forget how cross he was
one day when I let the Bible fall; didn't his face alter!  'Dost
remember, girl,' he said, 'it is the Word of God!' and there's
frightened I was!  Poor Gethin! 'twas hard, though, to turn him away,
for all they are such wicked words.  'Hallelujah!  Amen!'  Well,
indeed! the very words that 'n'wncwl Ebben says so solemn after the
sermon in Penmorien!" and she shook her head sorrowfully, "and here
they are after this song about the devil.  Will would never have done
that," and she pondered a little seriously; "but poor Gethin!  After
all, he was only a boy, and boys do dreadful things--but Will never
did!  Mother reads her Bible plenty too, but I don't think she would
have turned me out when I was a little girl if I had made this song.
I'll tell her to-night, and see what she says about Gethin, poor
fellow."

She closed and clasped the book, and mounting the table again, replaced
it in the hollow at the top of the bookcase, with the stuffed birds and
glass case over it.

When Ann and her father returned from chapel, there was a conscious
look on her face which they both remarked upon at once.

"What's the matter, Morva?" asked Ann.

"Is the calf worse?" asked the old man.

"No," answered the girl, her seriousness vanishing at once.  "Nothing's
the matter; the calf is getting quite well."

As she spoke Will arrived from church, wearing a black coat and a white
cotton tie, his prayer-book under his arm.

Ebben Owens looked at him with an air of proud satisfaction.

"Here comes the parson," he said, and Will smiled graciously even at
Morva, whom he generally ignored in the presence of Ann and his father.

"Hast been stopping at home, Morva?  I thought thee wast at chapel."

"I am going home now," said the girl, eyeing him rather critically.  "I
will tell mother I have seen the 'Rev. Verily Verily.'"

Will flushed up, though he pretended to laugh; but Ebben Owens looked
annoyed.

"No more of that nonsense, Morva; thou art a bit too forward, girl;
remember Will is thy master's son, and leave off thy jokes."

"Oh! she meant no harm," said Will apologetically; "'twill be hard if
we can't have our jokes, parson or no parson."

"Well, indeed," said Morva, without a shade of annoyance in her voice,
"'twill be hard at first; but I suppose I will get used to it some day.
Will you want me again to-night, Ann?"

"No; but to-morrow early," said Ann.

And Morva went singing through the farmyard, and along the fields to
the Cribserth; but to-day it was a hymn tune of mournful minor melody
which woke the echoes from moor and cliff.  Rounding the ridge, the
same fair view greeted her eyes, as had chased away Will's ill-temper
on the preceding evening, and she sat a moment under the shadow of a
broom bush to ponder, for Morva was a girl of many thoughts though her
mind was perfectly uneducated, her heart and soul were alive with
earnest questions.  Her seventeen years had been spent in close
companionship with a woman of exceptional character, and although the
girl did not share in the abnormal sensitiveness of her foster-mother,
she had gained from her intimacy with her, an unusual receptivity to
all the delicate influences of Nature.  Sara claimed to be clairvoyant,
though she had never heard the word.  Morva was clear seeing only; her
pure and simple spirit was undimmed by any mists of worldly ideas; no
subterfuge or plausible excuse ever hid the truth from her, and yet in
spite of this crystal innocence, she kept her engagement to Will a
secret from all the world, excepting Sara.

It is the custom of the country to keep a love affair a secret as long
as possible; if it is discovered and talked about by outside gossips,
half its delight and charm is gone; indeed it is considered indelicate
to show any signs of love-making in public.  It is true that this
secrecy often leads to serious mischief, but, on the other hand, there
is much to be said for the sensitive modesty of the Welsh maiden, when
compared with an English girl's too evident appreciation of her lover's
attentions in public.  So hitherto Morva had followed Will's lead, and
shown no signs of more than the love and affection which was naturally
to be expected from her close intercourse with the Garthowen family
from babyhood.  Did she feel anything more?  She thought she did.  From
childhood she had been promised to Will; the idea of marrying him when
they were both grown to manhood and maidenhood had been familiar to her
ever since she could remember.  It caused no excitement in her mind, no
tumult in her heart.  It was in the nature of things--it was Will's
wish--it was her fate!  She did not rebel against it, but it woke no
thrill of delight within her.  She had promised, and the idea of
breaking that promise was one that never entered her mind; but this
evening, as she sat under the broom bush, a curious feeling of unrest
came over her.  How was it all to end?  Would it not be wiser of Will
to turn his face to the world lying beyond the Cribserth ridge, where
the towns--the smooth roads--the college--and the many people lay, and
leave her to her lonely moor--to the sheep, and the gorse, and the
heather?  She looked around her, where the evening sun was flooding
land and sea with golden glory.

"I would not break my heart," she thought; "here is plenty to make me
happy; there's the sea and the sands and the rocks! and at night, oh,
anwl! nobody knows how beautiful it is to float about in Stiven
'Storrom's' boat, in and out of the rocks, and the stars shining so
bright in the sky, and the moon sometimes as light as day.  Oh, no; I
wouldn't be unhappy," and stretching her arms out wide, she turned her
face up to the glowing sky.  "I love it all," she said, "and I do not
want a lover."

Catching sight of the blue smoke curling up from the heather mound
behind which Sara's cottage was buried, she rose, and dropping her
sober thoughts, ran homewards, singing and filling the sweet west wind
which blew round her with melody.  But ere she reached the cottage
door, there came a whistle on the breeze, and, turning round, she saw
Will standing at the corner of the Cribserth, just where the rocky
rampart edged the hillside.  She turned at once and slowly retraced her
footsteps, Will coming to meet her with more speedy progress.  He had
changed his clothes, and in his work-a-day fustian looked far better
than he had in the black cloth suit which he had worn to church.

"Well, indeed, Morva lass, thou runn'st like the wind; I could never
catch thee.  Come and sit down behind these bushes, for I want to talk
to thee.  Wert offended at what my father said just now?"

"Offended! no," said the girl.  "Garthowen has a right to say what he
likes to me, and besides, he was right, Will.  I must learn to treat
thee with more respect."

"Respect!" said Will, laying hold of her hands, "'tis more love I want,
lass, and not respect; sometimes I fear thou dost not love me."

"But I do," said the girl calmly; "I do love thee, Will.  'Tis truth
that I would lay down my life for thee and all at Garthowen.  Haven't
you been all in all to me--father, sister, brother? and especially you
and I, Will, have been together all our lives.  Ann has not been quite
so much a sister to me since we've grown up, but then I am only the
milkmaid, and Gwilym Morris has come between."

"Yes, true," said Will; "but between me and thee, Morva, nothing has
ever come.  Promise me once more, that when I have a home for thee thou
wilt marry me and come and live with me.  My love for thee is the only
shadow on my future, because I fear sometimes that something will part
us, and yet, lass, it is the brightest spot, too--dost believe me?"

"Yes," said Morva, with eyes cast down upon the wild thyme which her
fingers were idly plucking, "I believe thee, Will.  What need is there
to say more?  I have promised thee to be thy wife, and dost think I
would break my word?  Never! unless, Will, thou wishest it thyself.
Understand, that when once I am sure that thou hast changed thy mind
then I will never marry thee."

"That time will never come," said Will; and they sat and talked till
the evening shadows lengthened and till the sun sank low in the west;
then they parted, and Morva once more turned her footsteps homewards.
She walked more soberly than before, and there was no song upon her
lips.




CHAPTER V

THE SEA MAIDEN

Sara was sitting at tea when the girl arrived.  Through the open
doorway came the glow of the sunset, with the humming of bees and the
smell of the thyme and the bean flowers.

"Thou hast something to ask me, Morva.  What is it?" she said, making
room for her at the little round table in the chimney corner.

"Oh, 'tis nothing, I suppose," said Morva, cutting herself a long slice
of the flat barley loaf; "only 'tis the same old questions that are
often troubling me.  What is going to become of me?  What is in the
future for me?  I used to think when I grew to be a woman I would marry
Will, and settle down at Garthowen close to you here, mother fâch, and
take care of 'n'wncwl Ebben when Ann and Gwilym Morris were married;
but now, somehow, it all seems altered."

The old woman looked at her long and thoughtfully.

"Wait until later, child," she said.  "Clear away the tea, tidy up the
hearth, and let me read my chapter while the daylight lasts," and
finishing her tea Morva did as she was bid.

Later on in the evening, sitting on the low rush stool opposite to
Sara, she continued her inquiries.

"Tell me, mother, about Will and Gethin when they were boys.  Was
Gethin so very wicked?"

"Wicked?  No," said Sara, "never wicked.  Wild and mischievous and full
of pranks he was, but the truest, the kindest boy in the world was
Gethin Owens Garthowen."

"And Will?"

"Will was a good boy always, but I never loved him as I loved the
other.  Gethin had a bad character because he stole the apples from the
orchard, and he took Phil Graig's boat one day without asking leave,
and there was huboob all over the village, and his father was mad with
anger, and threatened to give him a thrashing; but in the evening
Gethin brought the boat back quite safely.  He had been as far as
Ynysoer, and he brought back a creel full of fish for Phil, to make up.
Phil made a good penny by the fish, and forgave the boy bâch; but his
father was thorny to Gethin for a long time.  Then at last he did
something--I never knew what--that offended his father bitterly, and he
was sent away, and never came back again."

"Mother," said Morva solemnly, "I have found out what he did.  He got
his mother's Bible and he wrote some dreadful things in it, and made a
fearful picture."

"Picture of what?" asked the old woman.

"A picture of flames and fire, and the devil toasting a man on it, and
a song about the devil.  Here it is; I remember every word," and she
repeated it word for word, it having sunk deeply into her mind.  "Then
at the bottom he had written, 'Hallelujah, Amen!  Gethin Owens
Garthowen.'"

A smile overspread Sara's countenance as she observed Morva's
solemnity, a smile which somewhat lessened the girl's disquietude.

"Was it so very wicked, mother?"

"Wicked?  No," said the old woman.  "What wonder was it that the boy
drew a picture of the things that he heard every Sunday in
chapel--God's never-ending anger, and the devil's gathering in the
precious souls which He has created.  That would be a failure, Morva,
and God can't fail in anything.  No, no," she added shrewdly, nodding
her head, "He will punish us for our sins, but the devil is not going
to triumph over the Almighty in the end."

Morva pondered seriously as she fed the fire from a heap of dried furze
piled up in the corner behind the big chimney.

"I was very little when Gethin went away, but I remember it.  Now tell
me about the night when first I came to you.  I love that story as much
now as I did when I was a child."

"That night," said Sara, "oh! that night, my child.  I see it as
plainly as I have seen the gold of the sunset to-night.  It had been
blowing all day from the north-west till the bay was like a pot of
boiling milk.  It was about sunset (although we couldn't see the sun),
there was a dark red glow over everything as if it were angry with us.
Up here on the moor the wind shrieked and roared and tore the poor
sheep from the fold, and the little sea-crows from their nests.  I sat
here alone, for it was the year when my husband and baby had died, and,
oh, I was lonely, child!  I moaned with the wind, and my tears fell
like the rain.  I heaped the furze on the fire and kept a good blaze;
it was cold, for it was late in October.  It grew darker and darker,
and I sat on through the night, and gradually my ears got used to the
raging of the storm, I suppose, for I fell asleep, sitting here under
the chimney, but suddenly I awoke.  The wind was shrieking louder than
ever, and there in that dark corner by the spinning-wheel I saw a faint
shadow that changed into the form of a woman.  She was pale, and had on
a long white gown, her hair, light like thine, hung down in threads as
if it were wet.  She held out her hands to me, and I sat up and
listened.  I saw her lips move, and, though I could not hear her voice,
I seemed to understand what she said, for thee know'st, Morva, I am
used to these visions."

"Yes," said the girl, nodding her head.

"Well, I rose and answered her, and drew my old cloak from the peg
there.  'I am coming,' I said, and she glided before me out through the
door and down the path over the moor.  I saw her, a faint, white
figure, gliding before me till I reached the Cribserth, and there she
disappeared, but I knew what she wished me to do; and I followed the
path down to the shore, and there was tumult and storm indeed, the air
full of spray, and even in the black night the foaming waves showing
white against the darkness.  Out at sea there was a ship in distress,
there was a light on the mast, and we knew by its motion that the poor
ship was sorely tossed and driven.  Many people had gathered on the
shore in the darkness.  No one had thought of calling me, for here we
are out of the world, Morva; but the spirits come more easily to the
lonely moor than to the busy town.  Ebben Owens was there, and little
Ann, and all the servants and the people from the farms beyond the
moor, but no one could help the poor ship in her distress.  At last the
light went out, and we knew the waves had swallowed her up, and all
night on the incoming tide came spars and logs and shattered timber,
and many of the drowned sailors.  Stiven 'Storrom' was there as usual,
and in the early dawn, when there was just a streak of light in the
angry sky, he shouted out that he had found something, and we all ran
towards him, and there, tied safely to a hencoop, lay a tiny baby, wet
and sodden, but still alive.  It was thee, child, so wasn't I right to
call thee Morforwyn?[1] though indeed we soon shortened it to Morva.
When I saw thee I knew at once 'twas thy mother who had come to me
here, and had led me down to the shore, and I begged them to give me
the baby.  'There is a reason,' I said, but I did not tell them what it
was.  What was the good, Morva?  They would not understand.  They would
only jeer at me as they do, and call me Sara ''spridion.'[2]  Well, let
them, I am richer than they, oh! ten thousand times, and I would not
change my life here on the lonely moor, and the visions I have here,
for any riches they could offer me."

"No, indeed, and it is a happy home for me, too, though I don't see
your visions; but then you tell me about them, and it teaches me a
great deal.  Mother, I think my life is more full of happy thoughts
than most of the girls about here because of your teaching.  No, I
don't want to leave here, except, of course, I must live at Garthowen
when Will wants me."

The old woman made no answer, but continued to gaze at the crackling
furze.

"You wish that too, mother?" asked the girl.

"I did, 'merch i, but now I don't know indeed, Morva.  Thou must not
marry without love."

"Without love, mother!  I have told you many times I love Will with all
my heart."

Sara shook her head with a smile of incredulity.

"It is a dream, child, and thou wilt wake some day.  Please God it may
not be too late."

A pained look overspread the girl's face, a turmoil of busy thought was
in her brain, but there was no uncertainty in the voice with which she
answered:

"Mother, I love Will.  I have told him so.  I have promised to be his
wife, and I would rather die than break my word."

"Well, well," said Sara, "there is no need to trouble, child, only try
to do right, and all that will be settled for thee; but I think I see
sorrow for thee, and it comes from Will."

"Well," said Morva bravely, as she flung another bunch of furze on the
fire, "I suppose I must bear my share of that like other people.  'As
the sparks fly upward,' mother, the Bible says, and see, there's a fine
lot of them," and she raked the small fire with the lightsome laugh of
youth.

"Ah!" said the old woman, "thou canst laugh at sorrows now, Morva; but
when they come they will prick thee like that furze."

"And I will stamp them out as I do these furze, mother," and again she
laughed merrily, but ceased suddenly, and, with her finger held up,
listened intently.

"What is that sound?" she asked.  "It is some one brushing through the
heather and furze.  Who can it be?  Is it Will?"

Both women were fluttered and frightened, for such a thing as a
footstep approaching their door at so late an hour was seldom heard,
for at Garthowen they all retired early, and the cottagers in the
village below avoided Sara as something uncanny, and looked askance
even at Morva, who seemed not to have much in common with the other
girls of the countryside.

"'Tis a man's step," she whispered, "and he is coming into the cwrt,"
and, while she was still speaking, there came a firm, though not loud,
knock at the door.

Morva shrank a little under the big chimney, where she stood in the
glow of the flaming furze; but Sara rose without hesitation, and going
to the door, opened it wide.

"Who is here so late at night?" she asked.

"Shall I come in, Sara, and I will explain?" said a pleasant, though
unknown voice.  "'Twas to Garthowen I was going, but when I reached
there every light was put out, so I wouldn't wake the old man from his
first sleep, and I have come on here to see can you let me sleep here
to-night?  Dost know me, Sara?"

"Gethin Owens!" exclaimed the old woman, with delighted surprise.  "My
dear boy, come in!"

There was no light in the cottage except that of the fitful furze fire,
so that when Gethin entered he exclaimed at the darkness,

"Sara fâch, let's have a light, for I am longing to see thee!"

Morva threw a fresh furze branch on the fire.  The motion attracted
Gethin's attention, and as the quick flame leaped up, the girl stood
revealed.  While Sara fumbled about for the candle the flame burnt out,
and for a moment there was gloom again.

"Hast one of thy spirits here, or was it an angel I saw standing there
by the fire?" said the newcomer; but when Sara had succeeded in
lighting the candle, he saw it was no spirit, but a creature of flesh
and blood who stood before him.

"No, no, 'tis only Morva," said Sara, dusting a chair and pushing it
towards him.  "Sit thee down, my boy, and let me have a good look at
thee.  Well! well! is it Gethin, indeed? this great big man, so tall
and broad."

But Gethin's eyes were fixed upon the girl, who still stood astonished
and bewildered under the chimney.

"Morva!" he said, "is this little Morva, who cried so bad after me when
I went away, and whom I have longed to see so often?  Come, shake
hands, lass; dost remember thy old playmate?" and he advanced towards
her with both hands outstretched.

Morva placed her own in his.

"Yes, indeed," she answered, "now in the light I can see 'tis thee,
Gethin--just the same and unaltered only--only--"

"Only grown bigger and rougher and uglier, but never mind; 'tis the
same old Gethin who carried thee about the slopes on his shoulders,
but, dei anwl! I didn't expect to see thee so altered and so--so
pretty."

Morva blushed but ignored the compliment.

"Well, indeed, there's glad they'll be to see thee at Garthowen."

"Dost think?"

"Yes, indeed; but won't I put him some supper, mother?"

"Yes, 'merch i, put on the milk porridge."

And Morva, glad to hide her embarrassment, set about preparing the
evening meal, for Gethin's eyes told the admiration which he dared not
speak.  His gaze followed her about as she mixed the milk and the
oatmeal in the quaint old iron crochon.

"'Twill soon be ready; thee must be hungry, lad," said Sara, laying the
bowls and spoons in readiness on the table.

"Yes, I am hungry, indeed, for I have walked all the way from
Caer-Madoc.  'Tis Sunday, thee seest, so there were no carts coming
along the road.  Halt, halt, lass!" he said, "let me lift that heavy
crochon for thee."

"Canst sleep on the settle, Gethin?" asked the old woman, "for I have
no bed for thee.  I will spread quilts and pillows on it."

Gethen laughed boisterously.

"Quilts and pillows, indeed, for a man who has slept on the hard deck,
on the bare ground, on a coil of ropes; and once on a floating spar,
when I thought sleep was death, and welcomed it too."

"Hast seen many hardships then, dear lad?" said Sara.  "Perhaps when we
were sleeping sound in out beds, thou hast oftentimes been battling
with death and shipwreck."

"Not often, but more than once, indeed," said Gethin.

"Thou must tell us after supper some of thy wonderful escapes."

"Yes, I'll tell you plenty of yarns," said Gethin, his eyes still
following Morva's movements.

A curious silence had fallen upon the girl, generally so ready to talk
in utter absence of self-consciousness.  She served the porridge into
the black bowls, and shyly pushed Gethin's towards him, cutting him a
slice of the barley bread and butter.

"I have left my canvas bag at Caer-Madoc," said Gethin, when he had
somewhat appeased his appetite.  "'Twill come up to Garthowen
to-morrow.  I have a present in it for thee, Morva."

"For me?" said the girl, and a flood of crimson rushed into her face.
"I didn't think thee wouldst be remembering me."

"There thou wast wrong, then," said Gethin, cutting himself another
slice.

"Well, indeed, I have never had a present before!"

"I have one for Ann, and Will, and my father, God bless him!  And how
is good old Will?"

"He is quite well," said Morva.

"As industrious and good as ever?  Dei anwl! there's a difference there
was between me and him!  You wouldn't think we were children of the
same mother.  Well, you can't alter your nature, and I'm afraid 'tis a
bad lot Gethin Owens will be to the end!"  And he laughed aloud, his
black eyes sparkling, and the rings in his ears shining out in the
gloom of the cottage.

Morva looked at the stalwart form, the swarthy skin, the strong, even
teeth, that gleamed so white under the black moustache, the jet-black
hair, the broad shoulders, and thought how proud Ann would be of such a
brother.

They sat long into the night, Sara gathering from the young man the
history of all his varied experiences since he had left his father's
home; Morva listening intently as she cleared away the supper, Gethin's
eyes following her light figure with fascinated gaze.

At last the door was bolted, the fire swept up, and Sara and Morva,
retiring to the penucha, left Gethin to his musings, which, however,
quickly resolved themselves into a heavy, dreamless sleep, that lasted
until the larks were singing above the moor on the following morning.



[1] Sea-maiden.

[2] Spirit Sara.




CHAPTER VI

GETHIN'S PRESENTS

The corn harvest had commenced, and Ebben Owens was up and out early in
the cornfields.  Will, too, was there, but with scant interest in the
work.  It had never been a labour of love with him, and now that fresh
hopes and prospects were dawning upon him, the farm duties seemed more
insignificant and tedious than ever.  Had it been Gethin who stretched
himself and yawned as he attacked the first swathe of corn, Ebben Owens
would have called him a "lazy lout," but as it was Will, he only
jokingly rallied him upon his want of energy.

"Come, come," he said, "thee'st not got thy gown and bands on yet.
We'll have hard work to finish this field by sunset; another hand
wouldn't be amiss."

"Here it is, then," said a pleasant, jovial voice, as a sunburnt man
came through the gap, holding out his brown right hand to Ebben Owens.
The other he stretched towards Will, who had thrown his sickle away,
and was hastily approaching.

No human heart could have steeled itself against that frank countenance
and beaming smile, certainly no father's.  There was no questioning
"Who art thou?" for in both father's and brother's hearts leaped up the
warm feeling of kinship.

"Gethin!" said Ebben Owens, clasping the hand held out to him so
genially.  "'Machgen i, is it thee indeed?  Well, well, I am glad to
see thee!"

And Will, too, greeted the long-lost one with warm welcome.

The reapers gathered round, and Gethin's reception was cordial enough
to satisfy even his anticipations; for he had thought of this
home-coming, had dreamt of the welcome, and had earnestly desired it,
with the intense longing for home which is almost the ruling passion of
a Welshman's heart.

"Here I am," he said, laughing, his eyes sparkling with
happiness--"here I am, ready for anything!  'The prodigal son' has
returned, father.  Will you have him?  Will you set him to work at once
with your hired servants?  For I love hard work, and if I don't get it,
perhaps I'll fall into mischief again."

"No, no," said Ebben Owens, "no work for thee this morning, lad.  Thee
must go home with Will, and lighten Ann's heart, for she has grieved
for thee many a time, and I will follow at noon.  To-morrow thou shalt
work if thou wilt; there is plenty to do at Garthowen, as usual.  Come,
boys, come, on with the work.  Nothing must stop the harvest, not even
the homecoming of Gethin."

The men stooped to their work again, but there were muttered comments
on the master's want of feeling.

"Dei anwl! if it had been Will," said one man to his neighbour, "the
reaping would have been thrown to the winds, and we would have had a
grand supper on the fatted calf.  But Gethin is different.  There's a
fine fellow he is!"

"Yes," said another; "did you notice his broad chest and his bright
eyes?  Will looks nothing by him."

And they looked after the two young men as they passed through the gap
together, Ebben Owens taking up Will's sickle and setting to work in
his place.

Meanwhile Gethin, with a sailor's light, swinging gait, hastened Will's
more measured steps towards the homestead.

"Well, Will lad, there's glad I am to see thee!"

"And I," said Will.  "No one knows how much I grieved after thee at
first, but latterly I was beginning to get used to thy absence."

"Well, 'twas quite the contrary with me, now," said Gethin.  "At first
I was full of the new scenes and people around me, and I didn't think
much about old Wales or any of you; but as the time went on my heart
seemed to ache more and more for the old home--more and more, more and
more!--till at last I made up my mind I would give up the sea and go
back to Garthowen and stay, if they wanted me there, and help the old
man on the farm.  Dost think he will have me?"

"Yes, of course," said Will.  "Thou hast come in the nick of time, and
'twill be easier for me to leave home, as I am going to do next month."

"Leave home?" said Gethin, in astonishment.

"Yes," and Will began to expatiate with pride on his new plans, and his
intention of entering Llaniago College at once.

"Diwss anwl!" said Gethin; "have I got to live continually with a
parson?  I'm afraid I had better pack up my bundle at once; thee wilt
never have patience with me and my foolish ways."

Will looked sober.  "Thy foolish ways!  I hope thou hast left them
behind thee."

"Well, truth," said Gethin, "as we grow older our faults and follies
get buried deeper under the surface; but it takes very little to dig
them up with me.  I am only a foolish boy in spite of my strong limbs
and tall stature.  But so it will always be.  You can't make a silk
purse out of a sow's ear, and Gethin Owens will be Gethin Owens always.
There's the dear old place!" he cried suddenly; "there's the elder tree
over the kitchen door!  Well, indeed!  I have thought of it many times
in distant lands and stormy seas, and here it is now in reality!  God
bless the old home!" and he took off his cap and waved it round his
head as he shouted, "Hoi! hoi!" to Ann, who, already apprised of his
coming, was running through the farmyard to meet him.

"Oh, Gethin anwl!" she sobbed, as she clasped her arms round his neck.

Gethin gently loosed her clinging fingers, and kissed the tears from
her eyes, and in her heart welled up again the tender love which had
been smothered and buried for so long.

Gwilym Morris came hurrying down from his "study," a tiny room
partitioned off from the hayloft.  And if the fatted calf was not
killed for Gethin's return, a fine goose was, and no happier family sat
down to their midday meal that day in all Wales than the household of
Garthowen.

In the afternoon Gethin insisted upon taking his sickle to the
cornfield, and although the work was new to him his brawny arm soon
made an impression on the standing corn.  The field was full of
laughter and talk, the sweet autumn air was laden with the scent of the
blackberries and honeysuckle in the hedges, and the work went on with a
will until, at four o'clock, the reapers took a rest, sitting on the
sunny hedge sides.

Through the gap Ann and Morva appeared, bringing the welcome basket of
tea.  Gethin hurried towards them, relieving them of the heavy basket
which they were carrying between them.

"Thee'll have enough to do if thee'st going to help the women folk
here," said Will.

"He's been in foreign parts," said a reaper, "and learnt manners, ye
see."

"Yes," said another, "that polish will soon wear off."

"Well, caton pawb!" said Gethin, "manners or no manners, man, I never
could sit still and see a woman, foreign or Welsh, carry a heavy load
without helping her."

The two girls spread the refreshing viands on the grass, and with merry
repartee answered the jokes of the hungry reapers.

"'Twill be a jolly supper to-night, Miss Ann; we'll expect the 'fatted
calf,'" said one.

"Well, you'll get it," replied Ann; "'tis veal in the cawl, whatever."

"Hast seen Gethin before?" said Will to Morva, observing there was no
greeting between them.

"Well, yes," answered the girl, blushing a rosy red under her
sunbonnet; "wasn't it at our cottage he slept last night? and indeed
there's glad mother was to see him."

"And thee ought to be too," said one of the reapers, "for I'll never
forget how thee cried the day he ran away."

"Well, I'll never make her cry again," said Gethin.  "Art going at
once, lass?  Wilt not sit here and have tea with us?" and he drew his
coat, which he had taken off for his work, toward her, and spread it on
the hedge side.

Morva laughed shyly; she was not used to such attentions.

"No, indeed, I must go," she answered; "we are preparing supper."

As she followed Ann through the gap Gethin looked after her with a
smile in his eyes.

"There's bonnie flowers growing on the slopes of Garthowen, and no
mistake," he said.

Will examined the edge of his sickle and did not answer.

Later on, when the harvest supper was over, and the last brawny reaper
had filed out of the farmyard in the soft evening twilight, the
Garthowen household dropped in one by one to the best kitchen, where
their own meals were generally partaken of.  Ebben Owens himself, as
often as not, took his with the servants, but Will, especially of late,
preferred to join Ann and Gwilym Morris in the best kitchen or hall.
Here they were seated to-night, a glowing fire of culm balls filling
the large grate, and throwing a light which was but little helped by
the home-made dip standing in a brass candlestick on the middle of the
table, round which they were all gathered while Gethin displayed his
presents.

"Here's a tie for you, father; green it is, with red spots; would you
like it?"

"Ts-ts!" said the old man, "it has just come in time, lad, for me to
wear on Sunday when I go to hear Will reading in church."

"That will be a proud day for you, father; I will go with you.  And for
thee, Will, here's a knife.  I remember how fond thee wast of the old
knife we bought in the fair together."

"Well, indeed!" said Will, clasping and unclasping the blades; "'tis a
splendid one, too, and here's a fine blade to mend pens with!"

"And for Ann," continued Gethen, "I have only a hymn-book."

"What couldst thou bring me better?  And look at the cover!  So good.
And the gold edges!  And Welsh!  I will be proud of it."

"Yes," said Gethin; "I bought it in Liverpool in a shop where they sell
Welsh books.  And for you, sir," he said, turning to Gwilym Morris.

"'Sir,'" said the preacher, laughing; "Gethin bâch, this is the second
time you have called me 'sir.'  Drop it, man, or I will be offended."

"Well!  I won't say it again.  Dei anwl!  I will have to be on my best
behaviour here, with a parson and a preacher in the house!  Well! it's
a pocket-book for you, I thought very like, being a preacher, you would
like to put down a word sometimes."

"Quite right, indeed," said Gwilym Morris; "and look at my old one,
barely hanging together it is!"

At the bottom of the bag from which Gethin drew his treasures, lay the
little painted box containing Morva's necklace.

"Where's Morva?" he asked.  "I've got something for her, too."

"Oh, well," said Will, "thou art a generous man and a rich, I should
think!  Perhaps thou hast one for Dyc 'pigstye' and Sara ''spridion'
too."

"Dyc 'pigstye'; no!  But Sara, indeed I'm sorry I didn't remember her,
whatever."

"I hear Morva's voice in the yard.  Will I call her in?" said Ann, and
she tapped at the little side window.

"No, no," said Gethin, "I will take it to her," and he went out,
carrying the gaudy box in his hand.

"Morva!" he called, and under the elder tree, where she was counting
the chickens at roost on its branches, the girl stood facing him, the
rising moon shining full upon her.  "Morva, lass," he said, drawing
near; "'tis the present I told thee of.  Wilt have it?" and there was a
diffident tremor in his voice, which was not its usual tone; for
to-night he was as shy as a schoolboy as he opened the box and drew out
the shining necklace.  The iridescent colours gleamed in the moonlight
and Morva exclaimed in admiration:

"Oh, anwl! is that for me?"

"Yes, for thee, lass; for who else?" said Gethin.  "Let me fasten it on
for thee.  'Tis a tiresome clasp," and as she bent her shapely neck and
his fingers touched it for a moment, she gently drew further away.

"Dost like them?" said Gethin, looking from the shining shells to the
glowing face above them.

"Oh, they are beautiful!" she answered, feeling them with her fingers.
"I will go in and show them to Ann.  I haven't said 'thank you,' but I
do thank thee indeed, Gethin;" and he followed her into the "hall,"
where the glowing light from the fire and the candle fell on the
changing glitter of the shells.

"Oh, there's beautiful!" said Ann.  "Come near, Morva, and let me look
at them.  Well, indeed, they are fit for a lady."

"Thee must have paid a lot for that," said Ebben Owens, rather
reproachfully.

"Not much indeed, father, but I wasn't going to forget my little
playfellow, whatever."

"No, no, my boy, that was quite right," said the old man; and Will too
tried to smile and admire, but there was a flush of vexation on his
face which did not escape Morva's notice.

"I must go now," she said, a little shadow falling over her.

"Let me loosen the clasp for thee," said Gethin; but Morva, remembering
the touch of the brown fingers, quickly reached the door.

"No--no, I must show them to mother."

"Hast thanked Gethin, lass?" said the old man.

"Not much, indeed," she answered, turning back at the door, "but I
thank thee, Gethin, for remembering me," and, half-playfully and
half-seriously, she made him a little bob curtsey.

Arrived in the cottage she drew eagerly into the gleam of the candle.

"Mother, mother, look! see what Gethin has brought me.  Oh! look at
them, mother; row under row of glittering shells from some far-off
beach.  Look at them, mother; green--blue--purple with a silver sheen
over them, too.  I never thought there were such shells in the world."

"They are beautiful, indeed," said Sara, "but just like a sailor.  If
he had given thee something useful it would have been better.  They
will not suit a shepherdess.  Thee will have to take them off in a day
or two and lay them away in their box.  'Tis a pity, too, child."

"Any way, mother, I will wear them sometimes; they are only shells
after all.  'Tis hard I can't wear them because they are so lovely."

And the next day she wore them again, and, longing to see for herself
how she looked, made her way up to the moor in the early morning
sunshine to where a clear pool in the brown peat bog reflected the sky
and the gold of the furze bushes.  Here she stood on the edge and gazed
at her own reflection in the clear water.

"Oh, 'tis pretty!" she said leaning over the pool, and as she gazed her
own beautiful face with its halo of golden hair impressed itself on her
mind as it had never done before.  "And there's pretty I am, too," she
whispered, and gazing at her own image she blushed, entranced with the
vision.  "Good-bye, Morva," she whispered again, "good-bye.  I wonder
does Gethin see me pretty?  But I must not think that; what would be
the use?  Will does, and that must be enough for me;" and with a sigh
she turned down the moor again.




CHAPTER VII

THE BROOM GIRL

One morning in the following week the high road leading to Castell On
presented a lively appearance.  It was white and dusty from the tramp
of the country folk and the vehicles of all descriptions which followed
each other towards the town, whose one long street would be crowded
from ten o'clock in the morning till late afternoon, as it was market
day.  This was the weekly excitement of the neighbourhood, and there
was scarcely a household within the radius of a few miles that did not
send at least one of its members to swell the number of chafferers and
bargainers in the market.  Jolly farmers, buxom maidens, old women in
witch hats and scarlet scarves, pigs, sheep, horses, all followed each
other in the same direction.

Amongst the rest came a girl who rather stooped under what looked like
a large bunch of blooming heather.  It was Morva, who was carrying her
bundle of heath brooms to the corner of the market-place, where she was
eagerly waited for by the farmers' wives.

Dyc "pigstye" was accustomed to bring her a bundle of broom handles,
which he had roughly fashioned in the wood in the valley, and she and
Sara employed their leisure hours in tying on to them the bunches of
purple heather, binding them firmly with the young withies of the
willows growing here and there on the boggy moor.

There was always quite a little knot of women round her stall of brooms
and wings, for she collected also from the farmhouses the wings of the
geese and ducks which had been killed for the market, and after drying
them carefully in the big chimney, sold them as brushes for hearth and
stairs.  Sometimes, too, her stock-in-trade was increased by a
collection of wooden bowls, spoons, scales, and trenchers, which Stiven
"Storrom," living on the shore below, turned off his lathe, and sold
through Morva's agency.  At such times she borrowed Stiven's
donkey-cart, and stood by it in the market until her wares were sold.
But to-day she had only her brooms, and tying them on her shoulders,
she held the cords crossed over her bosom, stooping a little under
their weight.  Her head was buried in the purple blossoms, so that she
did not hear the tramp of footsteps following close behind her.

Gethin and Will were going to the market together, and the latter had
recognised the girl at some distance off, but had kept silence and
lessened his speed a little until his brother had asked:

"Who is this lass walking before us?  Let's catch her up and carry her
brooms for her."

"Nonsense," said Will.  "A Garthowen man may drive his sheep, his oxen,
and his horses to market, but to carry a bundle of brooms would not
look well.  Leave them and the fowls to the women, and the pigs to the
men-servants--that's my fancy."

"Well, my fancy is to help this lassie," said Gethin.  "She's got a
tidy pair of ankles, whatever; let's see what her face is like."

"'Tis Morva," said Will, rather sulkily.

"Then we know what her face is like.  Come on, man.  Who will be the
first to catch her?" and Gethin hurried his steps, while Will held back
a little.  "Why, what's the matter?  Surely thou art not ashamed to be
seen with Morva?"

"Of course not," said Will irritably; "but--er--er--a broom girl!"

"Oh, jawks!" said Gethin.  "Brooms or no brooms, I am going to catch
her up," and coming abreast other, he laid his hand on the bunches of
blooming heather.

"Morva," he said, bending round her purple burden, "where art here,
lassie?  Thee art buried in flowers!  Come, loosen thy cords, and hoist
them upon my shoulder."

And as the girl looked at him from under the brooms, his voice changed,
the brusque sailor manner softened.

"'Tis not for a girl like thee to be carrying a heavy weight on thy
shoulders," he said gently.  "Come, loosen thy cords."

But Morva held them tightly.

"Not for the world," she said.  "It is quite right I should carry my
wares to market, but I would not like to see a son of Garthowen with a
bundle of brooms on his shoulders."

"I will have them," he said; "come, loosen the cords," and he laid hold
of one of the hands which held the rope.

A warm glow overspread Morva's face, as the large brown hand covered
hers in its firm grasp.

"No, I will do this to please thee," she said, and loosening her hold
of the bundle, she flung it suddenly into an empty red cart which was
rattling by.  "Take care of them, Shemi, thou know'st my corner in the
market."

"Yes, yes," said Shemi, "they will be all right."

And Morva stood up in the sunshine freed from her burden.

Will seemed to think it the right time to join them, and suddenly
appearing, greeted the girl, but rather coldly, and the three walked on
together, Gethin much resenting Will's bad temper, and endeavouring to
make up for his brother's somewhat silent and pre-occupied manner by
keeping up the conversation himself.  But a little constraint fell upon
them all, Gethin chafing at the girl's apparent nervousness, and his
brother's silence; Morva fearful of offending Will, and disturbed at
her own pleasure at meeting Gethin.  When they reached the town she
bade them good-bye.

"Here's my corner," she said, "and when I have sold my brooms, I am
going home in the cart from the mill at Pont-y-fro."

Will seemed relieved at this solving of his difficulties, but Gethin
was not so satisfied; he roamed the market discontentedly, filling his
pockets with sweets and gingerbread.  Many times that day he peered
through the crowd into the corner out of the sun, where Morva's purple
blooms made a grand show.  At last he ventured nearer, and laying his
sweets and gingerbreads down beside her, said:

"Thee'll be hungry by and by, Morva; wilt have these?"

The girl's eyes drooped, and she scarcely answered, but the smile and
the blush with which she took up the paper bags were quite enough for
Gethin, who went home early, with that smile and blush gilding every
thought and every subject of conversation with his companions of the
road.

In the afternoon Morva, having sold her brooms, prepared to leave the
market.  Looking up the sunny street, she saw Will approaching, and the
little cloud of sadness which Gethin's genial smile had banished for a
time, returned, bringing with it a pucker on the brows and a droop at
the corners of her mouth.

"Well, indeed," she soliloquised, "there's grand Will is looking, with
his gloves and shining boots; quite like a gentleman.  'Tis not only me
he will have to say good-bye to soon, I am thinking, but to all at
Garthowen."

Her thoughts were interrupted by his arrival.  "Art still here, Morva?"
he said; "I thought thee wouldst have gone long ago."

"Only just now I have sold my brooms.  There's Jacob the Mill, now I
will go."

Will looked at the cart uneasily as it rumbled up the street; already
he was beginning to be ashamed of his rustic surroundings.

With keen sensitiveness Morva read his thoughts.

"Nay, there's no need for you to help me, Will.  I am used to the mill
cart, and indeed to goodness, 'twould not suit with gloves and shining
boots to be helping a girl into a red cart."

"Twt, nonsense," said Will irritably; but he nevertheless allowed her
to leave him, with a wave of her hand, and an amused twinkle in her eye.

As she hurried to catch the cart, he stood a moment moodily looking
after her, his better nature prompting him to follow and help her, but
it was too late; already the brilliant vehicle, with Morva and the
burly Jacob sitting in it side by side, was swallowed up by the crowd
of market people and cattle, and Will turned on his heel with a look of
vexation on his face.

The market was at its liveliest, the sunny air laden with a babel of
sounds.  Men and women chattered and chaffered, pigs shrieked, sheep
bleated, and cattle lowed, but Will scarcely noticed the familiar
sounds.  A light step and a soft voice, however, attracted his
attention, and he saw approaching him two girls, who evidently belonged
to a different class from those whose simple ways we have hitherto
followed.  One was a lady of very ordinary appearance, but the other he
recognised as Miss Vaughan of Nantmyny, a young lady whose beauty and
pleasant manners were the frequent theme of the countryside gossip,
"and no wonder," he thought, "she _is_ pretty!"

"Ah! what a pity!" she was saying to her friend, who was evidently a
young housekeeper intent upon her purchases, "the brooms are all gone!
we're too late!"

Will walked away hastily, lest standing upon that spot he might appear
to be in some way connected with the broom girl.  Suddenly there was a
tumult in the air, a rushing of feet, and cries of fright, and in a
cloud of dust he saw rushing towards him an infuriated bull, which had
evidently escaped from his attendant, for from the iron ring in his
nose still hung the rope by which he had been held.  With head lowered
and tail curled high over his back, he dashed towards the two ladies,
who fled in affright before him, one escaping through an open doorway,
while the other, bewildered and terrified, catching her foot in an
upturned stall-table, fell prone exactly in the path of the bull.  The
poor animal, as frightened as any of his shouting pursuers, increased
his own mad fury by continually stepping upon the rope which dangled
from the ring in his nose, thus inflicting upon himself the pain from
which he endeavoured to escape.

The girl screamed with terror, as the snorting nostrils and curving
horns came close upon her.  In another moment she would undoubtedly
have been seriously gored, had not Will, who was in no wise lacking in
personal courage, rushed in upon the scene.  One look at the beautiful,
pale face lying helpless in the dust, and he had seized the creature's
horns.  The muscular power of his arms was well known at Garthowen, and
now it stood him in good stead, for calling his full strength to his
aid, he succeeded by a sudden wrench in turning the bull's head aside,
so that the direct force of his attack came upon the ground instead of
the girl's body.

In a moment the enraged animal turned upon his assailant, and probably
Will would have fared badly had not a drover arrived, who, possessing
himself of the rope, gave a sudden and sharp twitch at the bull's nose,
a form of punishment so agonising and alas, so familiar, that the
animal was instantly subdued, and brought under comparative control,
not, however, before his horn had slightly torn Will's arm.

An excited crowd of market people had now reached the spot, and while
the animal, frightened into submissiveness by the blows and cries that
surrounded him, was led away snorting and panting, Will looked in
affright at the girl who lay white and unconscious on the ground.

"Did he toss her?" asked one of the crowd, "or is she only frightened?
Dear! there's white she looks, there's delicate the gentry are!"

"'Tis her foot, I think," said Will; "let be, I will hold her."

"Yes, 'tis her foot," said another, "the bull must have trampled on it,
see how dusty it is--there's a pity."

It was in fact more from the pain of the crushed foot than from fright
that Gwenda had fainted, for she was a brave girl.  Though fully alive
to her danger she had not lost consciousness until her foot had been
crushed, and even then not before she had seen Will's rush to her
rescue, and his energetic twist of the animal's horns.

Two or three gentlemen now came running up the street, amongst them her
uncle, Colonel Vaughan, who, standing at the door of the hotel, had
witnessed the escape of the bull, and the pursuit of him by the excited
throng of market people.  Remembering that his niece had but a few
moments previously passed up the street, he too ran in the same
direction, and arrived on the scene as promptly as his short legs and
shorter breath permitted him.  In a fever of fright and flurry he
approached, the crowd making way for him as he snapped out a cannonade
of irrelevant questions.

"Good heavens!  Gwenda!  What is it?  My darling, are you hurt?  Who
did it?  How very careless!"

"'Tis her foot, I think, sir," said Will.  "She has not been gored, and
if you will send for your carriage I will lift her in as I am already
holding her."

"She'd have been killed for certain," said one of the crowd, "if this
young man had not rushed at the bull and saved her life.  I saw it all
from the window of the Market Hall.  He risked his life, I can tell
you, sir, and you've got to thank him that the young lady is not
killed."

"Yes, yes, a brave young fellow, pommy word.  There comes the carriage,
now raise her gently," and Will lifted the slender form as easily as he
would have carried a swathe of corn.

Slipping her gently into a recumbent position in the carriage, he
endeavoured to rest her foot on the opposite seat, but she moaned and
opened her eyes as he did so, crying out with evident pain.

"'Tis plain the position hurts her," said her uncle.

Will lifted the foot again, and the moaning ceased.

"That's it," said the colonel; "sit down and hold it up."

Will did as he was bid in a maze of bewilderment, and while the colonel
continued to wonder, to lament, and to congratulate, Will made a soft
cushion of a wrap which he found beside him, and resting the foot upon
it he held the two ends, so that the injured limb hung as it were in a
sling, thus lessening very much the effect of the jolting of the
carriage over the rough road.

"Drive slowly," said the colonel to his coachman, "and call at Dr.
Jones's on your way.  Can you spare time to come as far as Nantmyny?"
he said, addressing Will.

"Oh! yes, sir, certainly," he answered in good English.

"Tis the right foot, I think," said the old gentleman, unbuttoning the
boot.

The girl opened her eyes.

"Oh! uncle, it hurts," she said.  "Keep it up," and catching sight of
Will, she looked inquiringly at her uncle.

"Tis the young man who saved your life, child," he explained.

"Oh! not that, sir," said Will.  "I am sorry I have not even prevented
her being hurt."

At first there was a pompous stiffness in Colonel Vaughan's manner, but
he added more graciously:

"I hope you were not hurt yourself.  Bless me! is that blood on your
hand?"

"I have cut my wrist a little, but 'tis nothing," said Will.  "Please
not to think about it."

"Oh! certainly, certainly, we must.  Here's Dr. Jones.  Come in,
doctor.  You must squeeze in somewhere.  Gwenda has had a narrow
escape, and this young fellow has hurt his wrist in saving her.  A very
brave young man!  Mercy we were not all killed, I'm sure!"

"I'll attend to them both when we get to Nantmyny," said Dr. Jones.

"Keep her foot in that position, and be as quiet as possible, young
man," said the colonel, and Will, though he resented the tone and the
"young man," still felt a glow of satisfaction at the turn affairs had
taken.

To have sat in the Nantmyny carriage!  What a story to tell Ann and his
father! and Will felt as they drove through the lodge gates that the
charm of the situation outweighed the twinges of pain in his arm.

Gwenda Vaughan, recovering a little, smiled at him gratefully.

"Thank you so much for holding up my foot," she said.  "It is easier
so.  I am sorry you have hurt your wrist.  Does it pain you much?"

"Oh, 'tis nothing at all," said Will, not accustomed to think much of
slight wounds or bruises.

On arriving at Nantmyny he assisted in carrying her into the house.

"Now," said the doctor, when they had laid her on a couch, "let me see,
and I will look at your wrist afterwards.  Young Owens of Garthowen, I
think--eh?"

"Yes," said Will, quietly retreating into the background, while Colonel
Vaughan and the maids pressed round the sofa.  He only waited until,
after a careful examination, the doctor said, "No bones broken, I'm
glad to say, only rather badly bruised," and then, leaving the room
unnoticed, found his way to the front door, and in a glow of excitement
walked back to Castell On.  His arm was getting more painful, so on his
way through the town he called on Dr. Hughes, who was considered "the
people's" doctor, while Dr. Jones was more patronised by "the gentry."




CHAPTER VIII

GARTHOWEN SLOPES

Dr. Jones's visits to Nantmyny were very frequent during the following
week, for Gwenda's foot had been rather severely crushed, and the pain
was acute; but being a girl of great spirit she bore it patiently,
though it entailed many long hours of wearisome confinement to the
house and sofa.  During these hours of enforced idleness, she indulged
in frequent "brown studies," for her firm and decided character was
curiously tinged with romance.  She had received but a desultory
education; her uncle, though providing her amply with all the means of
learning, yet chafed continually against the application which was
necessary for her profiting by them.

"Come out, child," he would call, standing outside the open window, his
jovial face broadening into a smile of blandishment, most aggravating
to Miss Howells, who, inside the window, was trying to fix her pupil's
attention upon some subject of history or grammar.  The rustling of the
brown leaves and the whispering of the wind in the trees added their
own enticements, which required all Gwenda's firmness to resist.

"No, uncle," she would say, shaking her finger at him.  "Yesterday and
Monday you made me neglect my studies.  You mustn't come again this
week to tempt me out.  I have promised Miss Howells to be industrious.
It will soon be four o'clock, and then I will come."

And her uncle had perforce to be content, for at Nantmyny there was no
doubt that Gwenda "ruled the roost."  Somehow she emerged from the
stage of girlhood with a fair amount of knowledge, although her
mother's sisters, the two Miss Gwynnes of Pentre, were much
dissatisfied with her want of what they called "polish."

"She'll never make a good match," they were wont to say, "never!  That
plain outspokenness is all very well in a man, or even in an old woman,
but it's very unbecoming in a girl, and I'm sure it will ruin her
prospects."  And on the subject of her "prospects" they were accustomed
to dilate so continually and so earnestly that Gwenda had a shrinking
dislike to the word, as well as to the subject to which it referred.

"We must really speak to her again, Maria, for of course George may
marry some day, and then what would become of her prospects?"  And
another lecture was prepared for Gwenda.

A few days after the accident which made her a prisoner, lying on the
sofa in the morning-room she had fallen into a deep reverie, which had
caused quite a pucker between her eyebrows.  Being naturally a
romantic, sentimental girl, she mentally resented the sordid necessity
so continually urged by her aunts of making a "good match."  It was in
Gwenda to cast all their prudent manoeuvres to the winds, and to follow
the bent of her own inclinations; but it was in her also to immolate
herself entirely upon the altar of an imagined duty.  She chafed
somewhat at the want of freedom in her surroundings, her aunts
declaring it was incumbent upon her to please her uncle by marrying
well, and as soon as possible.  And all these restrictions galled the
young lady, in whom the romantic dreams of the natural woman were
calling loudly for fulfilment.  Perhaps these feelings would account
for the little look of worry and discontent in her face on the Sunday
morning while her uncle lingered round her sofa.

"Well, I'm sorry to leave you alone, Gwenda; but here are the
magazines, and I'll soon be back.  I don't like the Nantmyny pew to be
empty, you know.  Good-bye."

When the sounds of the carriage-wheels had died away, Gwenda took up
one of the magazines and turned over the pages listlessly.  She sighed
a little wearily, and fell asleep--a sleep which lasted until her uncle
returned from church, and came blustering into the room.

"Well, pommy word, child, I think you have had the best of it this
morning.  Price the vicar didn't preach.  Some Jones of Llan something,
and you never heard such a rhodomontade in your life; but I went to
sleep and escaped the worst of it--all about mortar, give you my word
for it, Gwenda, and about not putting enough cowhair in the mortar."

"Really!" she said, yawning.  "No wonder you went to sleep.  Were the
Williamses there?"

"Yes, and the Griffiths of Plâsdu, and the Henry Reeses, and Captain
Scott is staying with them.  Well, I'm going to have a smoke."  But at
the door he turned round with a fresh bit of news.  "Oh, what d'ye
think, Gwenda?  A young man stood up to read the lessons, and I
couldn't for the life of me remember where I'd seen him before, and I
bothered my brains about it all through the sermon till I fell asleep.
After service I asked Price the vicar, and who should he be but that
young fellow who tackled the bull the other day?  Pommy word, he's a
fine-looking fellow; got his arm in a sling, though."  And he went out
banging the door.

Gwenda pondered with a brightening look in her face.

The young man who seized the bull!  How strange!  Reading the lessons!
What was the meaning of that?  And with his arm in a sling!  It must
have really required attention when he disappeared so mysteriously the
other day.  Handsome?  Yes, he was very handsome.  That broad white
forehead crowned with its tawny clumps of hair!  She would like to
thank him once more, for he had certainly saved her life.  She rang the
bell, and a maid appeared.

"Lewis, can you tell me who that man was who seized the bull the other
day?"

"'Twas young Owens Garthowen, miss."

"My uncle says he read the lessons in church to-day."

"Yes, I daresay indeed, miss.  He's going to be a clergyman, they say.
He hurt his arm shocking the other day, miss, because he went to Dr.
Hughes on his way from here, and he is keeping it in a sling ever
since."

"Where does he live?"

"Oh, about three miles the other side of Castell On, miss, towards the
sea.  'Tis an old grey farmhouse, very old, they say; 'tis on the side
of the hill towards the sea, very high up, too.  'Tis very windy up
there, I should think."

Here the colonel entered again.

"Lewis tells me, uncle, that young man who read the lessons is going to
enter the Church."

"Shouldn't wonder at all; every Cardiganshire farmer tries to send one
son to the Church.  There's Dr. Owen, now, he was a farmer's son.
Bless my soul!  Why, he is this young man's uncle!  Never thought of
that!  Of course.  He's own brother to Ebben Owens, Garthowen.  I don't
think he keeps up any acquaintance with them, though, and, of course,
nobody alludes to them in his presence.  I daresay he will take this
young man in hand and we shall have him canon or archdeacon or bishop
very soon."

This was something more for Gwenda to ponder over, and before the day
was ended she had woven quite a halo of romance round Will's
unconscious head.

"Shouldn't we send to ask how his arm is, uncle?"

"Yes; pommy word we ought to.  I am going to the meet to-morrow at
Plâsdu, 'twill be very little out of my way to go up to the farm and
ask how the young fellow is."

The next afternoon when he returned from the hunt, he brought a fresh
item of news for his niece, for he pitied the girl lying there
inactive, a state of existence which above all others would have galled
him beyond measure.

"I called up at the farm, Gwenda, and saw our young friend with the
lion locks.  He was crossing the farmyard with a book under his arm,
which was still in a sling, but when I asked him about it he only
laughed (splendid teeth all those Garthowens have, old Ebben's even are
perfect)!  He said his arm was quite well and he didn't know why Dr.
Hughes insisted upon keeping it in a sling.  If he could only be sure,
he said, that the young lady's foot was not giving her more pain than
he felt he would be glad.  I told him your foot was painful, but would
soon be all right.  Well-spoken young man.  By the by, all the men on
the field asked after you, and most of them said that was a brave
fellow who sprang at the bull.  I told them it was one of Ebben Owens's
sons.  Everybody knows him, you know.  Very old family.  At one time, I
am told, the Garthowen estate was a large one.  Griffiths Plâsdu's
grandfather bought a great deal of it, all that wooded land lying this
side of the moor.  By the by, Captain Scott is coming round this way to
dine with us to-morrow and to stay the night.  Pommy word, child, I
think he has taken a fancy to you.  He seemed quite anxious about you.
Good-bye, my dear, I must go."

Gwenda turned her face to the window.  The black elm branches swayed
against the evening sky, a brilliant star glittered through them, a
rising wind sighed mournfully and the girl sighed too.

"Yes, Captain Scott no doubt was interested in her, probably he would
propose to her, and if he did, probably she would accept him, with all
his money, his starting eyes, and his red nose!  How dull and
uninteresting life is," she said.  "I wonder what we are born for?"

      *      *      *      *      *      *

At Garthowen the stream of life was flowing on smoothly just then.
Will was happy and content.  He had read the lessons on Sunday to Mr.
Price's entire satisfaction, clearly and with an evident understanding
of their meaning.  Sometimes the roll of the "r's" and the lengthening
of the "o's" showed the Welshman's difficulty in pronouncing the
English tongue, but upon the whole, the accent was wonderfully good.
Above all things Will had taken pains to acquire the English tone of
speech, for he was sufficiently acute to know that however learned a
Welshman may be, his chances of success are seriously minimised by a
Welsh accent, therefore he had paid much attention to this point.

"The time is drawing near, father," he said one day.  "I am determined
to go to Llaniago, and if you can't pay I must get the money somewhere
else, that's all," and he had risen from the table with that wilful,
dogged curve on his mouth which his father knew so well, and had always
been so weakly unable to resist.

"Twt, twt, my boy," he said, "that will be all right; don't you vex
about that."

And thus reassured, Will gladly banished the disquieting doubt from his
mind, and his good humour returned.

Gethin seemed to fall naturally into his place as eldest son of the
family, taking to the farm work with zeal and energy, and making up for
his want of experience by his complete devotion to his work.

Ann was calm and serene as usual, happy in her brother's prospects, and
deeply interested in the grey stone house which the congregation at
Penmorien were building for their minister.

Gwilym Morris devoted himself entirely to Will's preparations for his
entrance examination.

And for Morva, what had the autumn brought?  A rich, full tide of life
and happiness.  Every morning she rose with the sun, and as she opened
the door and let in the scent of the furze and the dewy grass, her
whole being responded to the voice of Nature around her.  She was
constantly running backwards and forwards between Garthowen and the
cottage.  Nothing went well at the farm without her, and in the cottage
there were a score of things which she loved to do for Sara.  There
were the fowls to be fed, the eggs to be hunted for, the garden to be
weeded, the cottage to be cleaned, Sara's knitting to be set straight,
the herbs to be dried and sorted and tied up in bundles under the brown
rafters.  Oh, yes! every day brought for Morva its full harvest of
lovely scenes, of beautiful sounds, and sweet scents.  Certainly, Will
was a little cold and irritable lately, but she was well used to his
variable humours, and somehow the home-coming of Gethin had filled the
only void there had been in her life, though of that she had scarcely
been conscious.  There was hardly an hour in the day when Morva's song
might not be heard filling the autumn air with melody, for how could
she help singing as she sat knitting on the moorside while she watched
the cattle, and kept them from roaming too near the edge of the cliff.

On the brow of the hill Gethin was harrowing.  His lively whistle
reached her on the breeze, and she would look up at him as he passed
along the skyline, and rejoice once more that he had returned to make
their lives complete, to fill Ann's heart with happiness, and his
father's with content; for the girl, generally so clear-sighted, so
free from guile or pretence, was deceiving herself utterly, and
imagined that the increased joy and glory of life which had permeated
her whole being since Gethin's return, arose only from the deep
interest she took in every member of the Garthowen family, and was due
solely to the happiness which the return of the wanderer naturally
evoked.  Was not Gethin Will's brother? had she not every reason to be
glad in his return to the old home? her playmate, the friend of her
childhood? and she gave herself up unrestrainedly to the happiness
which brooded over every hour of her life.

To Gethin, too, the world seemed to have changed to a paradise.  Every
day, every hour drew him closer to Morva; in her presence he was lost
in a dream of happiness, in her absence she was ever present like a
golden vision in his mind.  Will's manner towards the girl being
intentionally formal and distant, had completely blinded his brother to
the true state of affairs, and though his daily intercourse with Morva
seemed to him almost too delightful to last, he followed blindly the
chain that was binding him continually more closely to her.

"Art not going to the market to-day?" he shouted out to her one morning
as he drove the horses over the moor.

"No," called Morva in return.

"Will and Gwilym Morris are gone," he shouted again, beginning his way
towards her between the low gorse bushes.  "Art watching the sheep,
lass?"

"No; 'tis the calves who will stray to the bog over yonder.  Indeed,
they are wilful, whatever, for the grass down here is much sweeter.
There they go again--see!" and Gethin helped her with whoop and halloo,
and many devious races of circumvention to recover them.  "Oh, anwl,
they are like naughty children," she said, sitting down, exhausted with
laughter and running, Gethin flinging himself beside her, and picking
idly at the gorse blossoms which filled the air with their rich perfume.

The clear, blue autumn sky was over them, the deep blue sea stretched
before them, the larks sang overhead, the sheep bleated on the moor,
and in the grass around them the dewdrops sparkled in the morning sun.

"'Tis a fair world," said Morva; "didst ever see more beautiful sea or
land than ours in all thy voyages, Gethin?"

"Brighter, grander, warmer, but more beautiful--none, Morva.  Indeed to
me, since I've come home, every day seems happier and more
beautiful--and thou, too, Morva.  I think by that merry song thou wert
singing thou art not very unhappy."

"Well, indeed, 'twas not a very happy song," said the girl, "but I
suppose I was putting my own foolishness into it."

"Wilt sing it again, lass?"

"Wilt sing, too?"

"Oh, dei anwl, yes; there's no song ever reaches my ears but I must
join in it.  Come, sing on."

And Morva sang again, Gethin's rich tones blending with hers in full
harmony.  This time she was awake, and realised the sorrow of the words.

"Well, no," said Gethin, "'tis not a very merry thing, indeed, to set
your heart upon winning a maiden, and to lose her as that poor fellow
did.  But, Morva," he said, tossing the gorse blossoms on her lap,
"'tis a happy thing to love and to be loved in return."

"Yes, perhaps," said the girl, thinking of Will, and wondering why,
though he loved her so much, there was always a shadow hanging over her
affection for him.

Gethin longed to break the silence which fell over them, but a nervous
fear deterred him, a dread of spoiling the happy freedom of their
intercourse--a nameless fear of what her answer might be; so he put off
the hour of certainty, and seized the joys of hope and delight which
the present yielded him.

"Where's thy necklace, Morva?"

"'Tis at home in the box.  Mother says a milkmaid should not wear such
beautiful things every day, and on Sunday the girls and boys would
stare at me if I wore them to chapel."

"What art keeping them for, then?" said Gethin.  "For thy wedding-day?"

"That will be a long time; oh, no, before then very often I will wear
it, now when I'm at home alone, and sometimes when the sun is gone down
I love to feel it on my neck; and I go up to the moor sometimes and
peep at myself in the bog pools just to see how it looks.  There's a
foolish girl I am!"

What a day of delight it was!  The browns of autumn tingeing the moor,
the very air full of its mellow richness, the plash of the waves on the
rocks below the cliffs, the song of the reapers coming on the breeze,
oh, yes, life was all glorious and beautiful on the Garthowen slopes
just then.

"To-morrow night is the 'cynos.'[1]  Wilt be there, Morva?" asked
Gethin.

"Well, yes, of course," answered the girl, "and 'tis busy we'll be with
only Ann and me and the men-servants, for Will never goes to the cynos;
he doesn't like farm work, and now he's studying so hard and all
'twould be foolish for him to sit up all night."

"I will be there, whatever," said Gethin.

"Wilt indeed?" and a glow of pleasure suffused her face.  "There's
going to be fun there, they say, for Jacob the miller is going to ask
Neddy 'Pandy' to dance the 'candle dance,' and Robin Davies the sailor
will play the fiddle for him.  Hast ever seen the candle dance?"

"No," said Gethin, his black eyes fixed on the girl's beautiful face,
which filled his mind to the exclusion of what she was saying.

"'Tis gone out of fashion long ago, but Jacob the miller likes to keep
up the old ways."

"The candle dance," said Gethin absently, "what is it like?"

"Well, indeed," said Morva, shyly bending her head under his ardent
gaze, "thee wilt see for thyself; I have dropped a stitch."

A long silence followed while the stitch was recovered, and the furze
blossoms came dropping into her lap, into her hair, and on to her neck.
She laughed at last, and sprang up tossing them all to the ground.

"The calves! the calves!" she cried, and once more both ran in pursuit
of the wilful creatures.

So simple a life, so void of all that is supposed to make life
interesting, and yet so full of love and health and happiness that the
memory of it was impressed upon the minds of both for the rest of their
lives.  Yes, even in old age they called it to mind with a pensive
tenderness, and a lingering longing, and the words, "There's happy we
were long ago on the Garthowen slopes!"

Before he went to market in the morning Will had sought out Morva as
she sat on her milking-stool, leaning her head on Daisy's flank, and
milking her to the old refrain:

  "Troodi, Troodi! come down from the mountain!
  Troodi, Troodi! come up from the dale!"


"I want to see thee, Morva; wilt meet me beyond the Cribserth to-night?
'Twill be moonlight.  I will wait for thee behind the broom bushes on
the edge of the cliff."

"Yes, I will come."

Will was looking his best, a new suit of clothes made by a Caer-Madoc
tailor, the first of the kind he had ever had, set off his handsome
figure to advantage, his hat pushed back showed the clumps of red gold
hair, the blue eyes, and the mouth with its curves of Cupid's bow.
Yes; certainly Will was a handsome man.

"There's smart thou art," said Morva, with a mischievous smile.

"'Tis my new suit; they are pretty well," said Will.

"And what are those?  Gloves again! oh, anwl! indeed, it is time thee
and me should part," and rising from her stool she curtseyed low before
him with a little sarcasm in her looks and voice.

"Part, Morva--never!" said Will.  "Remember tonight."

Morva nodded and bent to her work again, and the white sunbonnet leant
against Daisy once more, and the sweet voice sang the old melody.  When
her pail was full she sighed as she watched Gwilym Morris and Will
disappear through the lane to the high road.



[1] The annual corn-grinding.




CHAPTER IX

THE NORTH STAR

Ebben Owens was going to market in his rough jolting car, Dyc "pigstye"
beside him, both dressed in their best frieze.  In the back of the car,
covered over with a netting, lay three small pigs, who grunted and
squealed in concert when a rough stone gave them an extra jolt.  In the
crowded street at Castell On, where the bargaining was most vigorous,
and the noise of the market was loudest, he stopped and unharnessed
Bowler, who had "forged" into town with great swinging steps and much
jingling of buckles and chains.

Having led him into the yard of the Plough Inn, he returned, and with
Dyc's help proceeded to lift out the pigs and carry them to the pen
prepared for them in the open street, Dyc taking them by the ears and
Ebben Owens by the tail.  Now, pigs have remonstrated loudly against
this mode of conveyance for generations, but nobody seems to have
listened to their expostulations.  They are by no means light and airy
creatures, indeed, for their size, they are of considerable weight, so
why they of all other animals should be picked out for this summary
mode of transport is difficult to understand.  At any rate the
Garthowen pigs resented it warmly, and the air was rent with their
shrieks as Will and Gwilym Morris came upon the scene.  Ebben Owens
almost dropped his pig in the delight of seeing his son in his new
clothes.  Will nodded smilingly at him, while keeping at a respectable
distance from the shrieking animals, and the old man was filled with a
glow of pride and happiness which threw a _couleur de rose_ over
everything for the rest of the day.  In truth, Morgan Jones of Bryn
made an easy bargain with him for those pigs, and Ebben went home in
the evening with ten shillings less in his pocket than he meant to have
had when he started from home.

"Look you here," he said to Ann and Gethin, who both hovered round him
on his return with loving attentions, "look you here now; wasn't a
gentleman in the market looking smarter than our Will to-day!  There
was the young son of Mr. Vaughan the lawyer, was dressed like him
exactly--same brown hat, same grey suit, and his boots not shining so
well as Will's!  Caton pawb! there's handsome he was!  Shouldn't wonder
if he didn't marry a lady some day, with plenty of money!"

"Shouldn't wonder, indeed," said Gethin, clapping him on the back; "and
there's proud he'll be to drive his old father to church with him!"

"Hech! hech! hech!" laughed the old man, sitting down and rubbing his
knees.  "Well, indeed, he's a fine boy, whatever!"

"Wasn't Gwilym there?" asked Ann.

"Yes, yes, to be sure, and he is looking very nice always; but I didn't
notice him much today."

Meanwhile, in the town, Will and Gwilym had much to do; there were
books to be got--there was a horse to be looked at for the farm--and,
moreover, Will was to call upon Mr. Price the vicar, so the hours
passed quickly away, until late in the afternoon when the crowd was a
little thinning, the Nantmyny carriage passed through the street,
within it Colonel Vaughan and his niece.  Will saw it at once, and
turned away to avoid recognition--for although nothing would have
pleased him more, he was a man of great tact and common sense, and
never spoiled a good chance by indiscreet intrusion.  As he turned
away, Colonel Vaughan caught sight of him, and, stopping the carriage,
beckoned to a bystander, who touched his hat with a knobbed stake from
the hedge.

"Isn't that young Owens of Garthowen?"

"Iss, sare," said the man, knocking his hat again.

"Ask him to come here, then."

And Will came, not too hurriedly, and with assumed nonchalance.

"Well, young man," said the colonel, "I want to know how your arm is?"

"It is quite well, thank you," said Will, carefully studying his
accent.  "I hope," he added, taking off his hat and turning to Gwenda,
who sat up interested, "I hope you are no longer suffering pain?"

"Very little, thank you.  I am so glad your arm is well again, and I am
glad to have this opportunity of thanking you."

And as Will prepared to withdraw again, lifting his hat and showing his
tawny locks and his white teeth, Miss Vaughan placed her hand in his
with a friendly good-bye.

The old colonel winced a little.

"I don't think you need have shaken hands with him, child; however, it
was very nice of you, and I've no doubt it will please the young man
very much.  I declare he looks like a gentleman."

"And speaks like one," said Gwenda.

"Yes; pommy word I don't know what's the world coming to!"

"Very nice people those Vaughans, I should think," said Gwilym Morris,
as he and Will tramped homewards in the evening.

"H'm! yes," said Will; "I daresay they thought they were honouring me
very much by their notice; but, mind you, Gwilym, in a few years I'll
show them I can hold up my head with any of them."

"Will," said Gwilym, after a pause, "I am afraid for you, lad; I am
afraid of what the world will make of you.  At Garthowen, with nothing
but the simple country ways around us, we escape many temptations; but
once we enter the world outside, even here in the market it reaches us,
that subtle insidious glamour which incites us, not to become what we
ought to be, but to appear different to what we are in reality."

"I can't follow you," said Will.  "I suppose it is every man's duty to
try and get on as far as he can in the path of life which he has
chosen.  I have chosen mine, and I don't mean to leave a stone unturned
which may help me on.  Yon can't blame me for that, Gwilym."

"No, no!  I suppose not; and yet--and yet--"

"And yet what?" asked Will irritably.

"You may get to the very top of the ladder, and then find it has not
been leaning against the right wall.  That would be a poor success,
Will."

"Well, well!" he said, as they entered the farmyard, "what's the matter
with you to-night?  You wait a few years, give me only a chance, and
you'll be proud of your old pupil."

When they had separated, Gwilym looked after him thoughtfully.

"I wonder will I, indeed!" he said.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

It was late in the evening when Morva made her way to the cliffs to
meet her lover.  The moor was bathed in a flood of silver moonlight,
the sea below was lighted up by the same serene effulgence, and the
silence of night was only broken by the trickle of the mill stream down
in the valley, the barking of the dogs on the distant farms, and the
secret scurry of a rabbit under the furze bushes.

As she neared the edge of the cliff, the peace and beauty of the scene
impressed her eye but did not reach her heart, which was beating with a
strange unrest.

In the dark shadow of the crags on the cliff side Will was waiting for
her.  He had been there some time, and was a little nettled at her
delay.

"Where hast been, Morva?" he said, stretching out his hand and drawing
her towards him in the shadow.  "Come out of the moonlight, lass.
There is Simon 'Sarndu' fishing down there with Essec Jones; they will
see thee."

"Well, indeed," said the girl, "what is the good of our going on like
this?  It will be a weariness to thee to be always hiding thy--thy--"

"My love for thee?  No, Morva, 'tis all the sweeter to me that nobody
guesses it.  And nobody must guess it; and that's what I wanted to
speak to thee about.  When a man begins his life in earnest, and takes
his place in the outside world, he must be careful, Morva--careful of
every step--and must act very differently to those who mean to spend
their lives in this dull corner of the world."

"Dull corner!" said Morva.  "To me it seems the one bright spot in the
whole world, and as if no other place were of any consequence.  I'm
sure if I ever leave here, I will be pining for the old home, the
lovely moor, and the sea and the cliffs.  Oh! I can never, never be
happy anywhere else!"

"Twt, twt," said Will, "thou art talking nonsense.  When I send for
thee to come and live with me in a beautiful home, thou wilt be happy.
But listen, girl!  Is thy love for me strong enough and true enough to
bear what may look like neglect and forgetfulness?  For a time, Morva,
I want to break away from thee, lest any whispers of my love for thee
should get abroad.  It would blast my success in life, 'twould ruin my
prospects if it were known that I courted my father's shepherdess, and
so, for a time I want to drop all outward connection with thee.  Canst
bear that, Morva, and still be true to me?"

"I don't know," said the girl.

"Canst not believe that I shall love thee as much as ever, and more
fervently perhaps than ever?"

"I will try," said Morva; "but I think thou art making a hard path for
thyself and me.  'Twould be better far to drop me out of thy life, then
thou couldst climb the uphill road without looking back."

"And leave thee free to marry another man?  Never, Morva!  I claim thy
promise.  Remember when thou wast a little girl how I made thee point
up to the North Star and promise to marry me some day."

"Indeed the star is not there to-night, whatever."

"It is there, Morva, only the moonlight is too bright for thee to see
it.  It is there unchangeable, as thou hast promised to be to me."

"Yes, I have promised; what more need be?"

"Yes, more; thou must tell me again to-night, Morva, that thou wilt be
true to me whatever happens--whatever thou mayst hear about me--that
thou wilt still believe that in my heart I love thee and thee only.
Dost hear, girl--_whatever_ thou dost hear?"

"I will believe nothing I may hear against thee, Will; nothing at all.
But when I see with my own eyes that thou art weary of me and art
ashamed of me, _then_ remember I am free."

"But thine eyes may deceive thee."

"I will swear by _them_, whatever," said Morva, with spirit.

Will sighed sentimentally.

"What a fate mine is! to be torn like this between my desire to rise in
the world and my love for a girl in a--in a humbler position than that
to which I aspire!"

"Oh, Will bâch! thou art getting to talk so grand, and to look so
grand.  Take my advice and drop poor Morva of the moor!"

"I will not!" said Will.  "I will rise in the world, and I will have
thee too!  Listen to me, lass, I am full of disquiet and anxiety, and
thou must give me peace of mind and confidence to go on my path
bravely."

"Poor Will!" said the girl, looking pensively out over the shimmering
sea.

"Once more, Morva, dost love me?"

"Oh, Will, once more, yes!  I love thee with all my heart, thee and
everyone at Garthowen."

"Well," said Will, "we have been kind to thee ever since thou wast cast
ashore by the storm.  It would be cruel and ungrateful to return our
kindness by breaking my heart."

"Oh, I will never, Will; I will never do that!  Be easy, have faith in
me, and I will be true to my promise."

"Wilt seal it with a kiss, then?"

Morva was very chary of her kisses, but to-night she let him draw her
closer to him; while he pressed a passionate kiss upon her lips.  There
was no answering fervour on her part, but she went so far as to smooth
back the thick hair which shaded his forehead and to press a light kiss
upon his brow.

"Well done!" said Will, with a laugh, "that is the first time thou hast
ever given me a kiss of thine own accord.  I must say, Morva; thou art
as sparing of thy kisses as if thou wert a princess.  Well, lass, we
must part, for to-morrow I am going to Llaniago to see about my rooms,
and there's lots to do to-night, so good-bye."

And once more holding her hand in his, he kissed her, and left her
standing behind the broom bushes.  She passed out into the moonlight,
and walked slowly back over the moor with her head drooping, an unusual
thing for Morva, for from childhood she had had a habit of looking
upwards.  Up there on the lonely moor, the vault of heaven with its
galaxy of stars, its blue ethereal depths, its flood of silver
moonlight, or its breadth of sunlit blue, seemed so closely to envelop
and embrace her that it was impossible to ignore it; but to-night she
looked only at the gossamer spangles on her path.

"What did Will mean by 'We must part!  Whatever thou mayst hear!'" and
she sighed a little wearily as she lifted the latch of the cottage door.

"Morva sighing!" said Sara, who sat reading her chapter by the
fireside.  "Don't begin that, 'merch i, or I must do the same.  I would
never be happy, child, if thou wert not happy too; we are too closely
knit together."

And she took the girl's strong, firm hand in her own, so frail, so
slender, and so soft.  Morva's eyes filled with tears.

"Mother, I am happy, I think.  Why should I not be?  They are all so
kind to me at Garthowen, and I love them all so much.  I would lay my
life down for them, mother, and still be happy!"

"Yes, child, I believe thou wouldst.  Come to supper, the cawl is
ready."

"Tis the cynos to-morrow night, mother, will I go?"

"Yes, of course; I wouldn't have thee go to the cynos of any other
farm; there is too much foolishness going on."

"Robin Davies, the sailor, is going to bring his fiddle, and there will
be fun, but Ann will not allow any foolishness."

"No, no," said Sara, "she's a sensible girl, and going to be married to
Gwilym Morris too! that will be a happy thing for her I think."

Morva was silent, following her own train of thoughts while she ate her
barley bread and drank her cawl, and when she broke the silence with a
remark about Will, to both women it came naturally, as the sequence of
their musings.

"Will is going away to-morrow, mother."

"Away to-morrow! so soon?"

"Only for a day or two, I think."

"Was that the meaning of the sigh then, Morva?"

"I don't know," said the girl, pensively chasing a fly with her finger
on the table.  "Oh, mother!  I don't know, it is all a turmoil and
unrest of thoughts here," and she drew her hand over her forehead.

"Well, never mind that, 'merch i, if it is rest and happiness _here_,"
and Sara laid her finger on the region of Morva's heart.  "Tell me
that, child; is it rest and love there?"

"Oh!  I don't know, mother; I don't know indeed, indeed."

And then she did what Sara had scarcely ever seen her do since she had
"gone into long frocks and turned her hair up," she crossed her arms on
the table, and leaning her head upon them, she sobbed, and sobbed, and
sobbed.




CHAPTER X

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!'"




CHAPTER XI

UNREST

"Ach y fi!" said Ann one day as the autumn slipped by, "only a week
before Will goes; there's dull it will be without him!"

"Twt, twt!" said Will, tossing his tawny mane, "'twill only be for
three months.  Christmas will be here directly, and I will be home then
for the holidays--vacation, I mean."

"Vacation; is that what they call it?  Dear! dear! we must mind our
words now with a college man among us."

Gethin seldom came into the house; from morning to night he worked hard
on the farm, and his father was obliged to confess that, after all his
roving, he showed more aptitude for steady work than Will did.  When he
did enter the house, it was only to take his meals hurriedly and
silently, and if by chance he encountered Morva, as was unavoidable
sometimes in the day's work, he was careful not to look at her.  The
girl, though conscious of his change of manner, showed no outward sign
of the acute suffering she was undergoing.  Her whole life seemed
upturned, full of discordant elements and strained relations.  To bear
Will's apparent indifference was not difficult, for she had been
accustomed to that all her life; but to know that she was bound to
him--that he still loved her, and would carry with him his faith and
trust in her, was a heavy burden.  The change in Gethin's manner, the
averted look, the avoidance of her, the formal question or request,
were positively so many sharp thorns that pierced her like some
tangible weapon, and added to this was a deep regret that she was so
unworthy of Will's love.  He did not ask her to meet him again behind
the broom bushes, and only one night in the old beudy,[1] where she had
carried a pail of grain to a sick cow, had he tried to speak to her
alone.  Gethin, who watched his brother with eager interest, was
astonished at the indifference he showed towards her.

Surely they must meet somewhere secretly!  Well, what was it to him?
What was anything to him?  For Morva's love he would willingly have
laid down his life; but now that that was denied him, nothing else was
of any consequence; and in troubled thought he sauntered out to cross
the farmyard on his way to Pont-y-fro.  The moor beyond the Cribserth
he avoided carefully, and when his work led him along the brow of the
hill, he tried to avert his eyes as well as his thoughts from its
undulating knolls, a background, against which memory would picture a
winsome girl, red-cloaked and blue-kilted.

Will had preceded him about a quarter of an hour, and had found Morva
pensively holding the empty pail before the cow, who had eaten up the
grain, and was licking round in search of more; she did not see him
until he was close upon her, and then she started from her dreams.

"Oh, Will!" she said, and nothing more.

"I wanted to see thee once more, lass, to say good-bye, and to remind
thee of thy promise."

"You will be back before Christmas, Will, and we will be together
again."

"Yes," he answered, "and then we must manage to meet sometimes, for I
find I cannot live without thee.  I cannot break away from thee
entirely; but we must be careful, very, very careful.  I would not have
anyone suspect our courtship for all the world.  Thou wilt keep my
secret, Morva?"

"Yes," she said wearily.

"Come, cheer up, lass, 'twill soon be over.  A year or two and I will
have a home for thee--I know I will.  And now good-bye, I hear
footsteps.  Good-bye, Morva."

He clasped her once to his heart, and whispered a word of endearment in
her ear; but she stood like a statue, and only answered "Good-bye," and
even that he did not hear, for he had already slipped away, and by a
circuitous path reached the house.

Crossing the farmyard, Gethin's approaching footsteps made but little
sound on the soft stubble; and Morva, thinking herself quite alone,
stood leaning just within the doorway, crying softly in the darkness,
for the flaring candle had gone out.

"Who is there?" said Gethin.

There was no answer, Morva checking her sobs, and standing perfectly
still.

"Morva, is it thee crying here by thyself?  What is it?  Tell me,
child."

"Oh! nothing," said the girl.  "Only Will has been here."

"Oh!  I see," said Gethin bitterly, "to bid thee fforwel, I suppose.
Well, it won't be for long; he will be back soon, and then thou wilt be
happy, Morva."

"Gethin, thee must promise me one thing."

"And what is that?" he said.

"Never to tell anyone what I told thee over yonder beyond the
Cribserth.  Will wants it to be a secret."

"Fear nothing," said Gethin, "I will never tell tales.  Gethin Owens
has not many good qualities, but he has one, and that is, he would
never betray a trust, so be easy, Morva.  I am going to Pont-y-fro.
Good-night!"

"Good-night," echoed the girl, and, taking up her pail, she closed the
beudy door, and as she crossed the yard under the bright starlight she
recalled Gethin's parting words, "Be easy, Morva," and repeated them to
herself with a sorrowful smile.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

"'Tis Martinmas Fair to-morrow," said Ann, as Morva entered the best
kitchen.  "Are you going, father?"

"Yes," he said.  "I have those yearlings to sell."

"I will come with you," said Gwilym Morris, for they seldom let the old
man go alone.  "I can see about Will's coat, and I want some books.
Come on, Ann, come with us; 'twill be a lively fair, I think."

"Very well, I'll come and look after you both."

"That's right," said the old man, rubbing his knees.  "Twm will drive
the yearlings.  Art coming, Will?"

"No," he answered, "I have promised to go to Caer-Madoc to-morrow."

And so Garthowen was empty next day, for Gethin did not return to the
midday meal.  Morva, as usual in Ann's absence, took charge of the
house, and very sad and lonely she felt as she roamed from one room to
another, dusting a chair or table occasionally, and looking out through
the windows at the dull, leaden sea, for outside, too, the clouds were
gathering, and the wind whispered threatenings of change.

Three nights ago!  Was it possible?  So lately as that was she bright
and happy, and was the world around her so full of light and warmth?

She leant her elbows on the deep window-sill and mused.  How long ago,
too, it seemed since she had taken down the old Bible and hunted up
Gethin's delinquencies.  She saw it now in her mind's eye, and, getting
upon the table, she reached it down again, and turned to the disfigured
page.

Now she knew how little harm there had been in those foolish, boyish
rhymes; now she knew the bright black eyes which had guided the pen in
those brown fingers were full of nothing but mischief.  "Oh, no! no
harm," she said, "only fun and mischief."  She read the lines again,
and a sad little smile came over her mouth, then she looked at the
signatures below.  "Gethin Owens, Garthowen."  "G. O."  "Gethin."  She
half-closed the old book, and then, with a furtive glance round the
room and through the window, opened it again, and, stooping down,
pressed her lips on the name, then, blushing a vivid red, she mounted
the table once more and replaced the Bible.

It was a long, weary day, but it came at last to a close.  She made up
the fire, prepared the tea, with piles of buttered toast and new-laid
eggs in plenty, and soon the jingling car drove into the farmyard,
Gwilym Morris lifting Ann bodily out, and both assisting the old man
with tender care, Morva hovering round.  She was to sleep at the farm
that night in order to be ready for the early churning next day, so
when they were all seated at the tea-table she left the house with the
intention of seeing if Sara required any help.

"I will be back before supper," she said, and hurried homewards over
the moor, where the wind was rising and sighing in the broom bushes.
The clouds were hurrying up from the north-west, and threatening to
overcast the pale evening sky, quivering flocks of fieldfares whirred
over her, and the gold and purple were fast losing their brilliant
tints.  As she neared the cottage in the darkening twilight, a patch of
scarlet caught her eye, and a warm glow of comfort rushed into her
heart.  It was Sara's red mantle and she knew the faithful heart was
waiting for her.

"The dear old mother," she said, and hastening her footsteps soon
reached Sara, who stood leaning on her stick and peering over the moor.

"Here I am, mother!" she said, as cheerfully as she could.

"'Merch fâch i!" said Sara tenderly, and they turned into the cottage
together.

The tea was laid on the little round table in the chimney corner.

"Did you expect me, then, mother?"

"Yes; I thought thou wouldst come, child, to see how I fared as thou
art sleeping there to-night," and sitting down together they chatted
over their tea.

At Garthowen there was much chat going on, too.  Ebben Owens had not
sold his yearlings.

"I wasn't going to give them away for half price, not I!" he said.
"I'd rather keep them till next fair."  So Twm had driven them home
again, and was even now turning them into the old cowhouse.

"Well!  I have a wonderful piece of news to give you all," said Gwilym
Morris, leaning back in his chair and diving deep into his pocket.
Having pulled out a canvas bag he laid it triumphantly on the table
with a bang.

"What is it?" said all, in a breath.

Gwilym did not answer, but undoing the pink tape which tied it, he
poured out on the table forty glittering sovereigns.

"There!" he said, "what do you think; old Tim 'Penlau' paid me the 40
pounds he has owed me so long!"

"Well, wonders will never cease!" said Ebben Owens.

"How long has he had them?" asked Will.

"Oh! these years and years.  I had quite given them up, but he was
always promising that when he sold his farm he would repay me.  Now
they have come just in time to furnish the new house, Ann."

"But why didn't you put them into the bank?" asked Will.

"'Twas too late, the bank was closed; but I will take them in
to-morrow."

"I saw you talking to Gryny Lewis in the market," said Ebben Owens.
"What were you saying to him?  You weren't such a fool as to tell him
you had received the 40 pounds?"

"Well, yes, indeed I did," replied Gwilym.

"Well, I wouldn't tell him.  Don't forget how he stole from Jos
Hughes's till."

"Well, indeed, I never remembered that.  Oh, I'll take care of them,"
he said, tying them once more in his bag, and returning them to his
pocket.  "I'll put them in my drawer to-night, and to-morrow I'll take
them to the bank."

When Morva returned they were still discussing the preacher's good
fortune in the recovery of the loan which he had almost despaired of.

"Oh, there's glad I am!" said the girl; and Gethin put in a word of
congratulation as he sauntered out to take a last look at the horses.

Long before ten the whole household had retired for the night.  Ann and
Morva slept in a small room on the first landing, just beyond which, up
two steps, ran a long passage, into which the other bedrooms opened.

Morva, who generally found the handmaid of sleep waiting beside her
pillow, missed her to-night.  Hour after hour she lay silent and
open-eyed, vainly endeavouring to follow Ann into the realms of
dreamland.

Tudor, too, who usually slept quietly in his kennel, seemed disturbed
and restless, and filled the air with mournful howling.

The girl was in that cruellest of all stages of sorrow, when the mind
has but half grasped the meaning of its trouble.  She had no name for
the deep longing which rebelled in her heart against the fate that was
closing her in; for she had as yet scarcely confessed to herself that
her whole being turned towards Gethin as the flower to the sun, and
that in her breast, so long calm and unruffled as the pools in the
boggy moor, was growing as strong a repulsion for one brother as love
for the other.  And as she lay quietly on her pillow, endeavouring not
to disturb her companion's rest, a tide of sorrowful regrets swept over
her, even as outside, under the shifting moonlight, the bay, yesterday
so calm, was torn and tossed by the rising north-west wind.  Through
all, and interwoven even with her bitter grief, was the memory of that
happy night--surely long ago?--when she had sat in the warm air of the
cynos, and Gethin had danced into her heart.  Oh, the pity of it! such
love to be offered her, and to be thrust aside!  "That is what I would
say if I were Will!"  And all night every sorrowful longing, every
endeavour after resignation, every prayer for strength, ended with the
same refrain, "If he were Will! if he were Will!"

Tick, tack, tick, tack! the old clock filled the night air with its
measured beat.  "Surely it does not tick so loudly in the day?" she
thought.

Ten, eleven, and twelve had struck, and still Morva lay wakeful, with
wide-open eyes, watching the hurrying clouds.  At last she slept for an
hour or two, and her uninterrupted breathing showed that the
invigorating sleep of youth had at length fallen upon her weary
eyelids.  For an hour or two she slept, but at last she suddenly
stirred, and in a moment was wide awake, with every sense strained to
the utmost.

What had awakened her she could not tell.  She was conscious only of an
eager and thrilling expectancy.

She was about to relapse into slumber when a gliding sound caught her
ear, and in a moment she was listening again, with all her senses
alert.  Was it fancy? or was there a soft footfall, and a sound as of a
hand drawn over the whitewashed wall of the passage?  A board creaked,
and Morva sat up, and strained her ears to listen.  After a stillness
of some moments, again there was the soft footfall and the gliding hand
on the wall.  She rose and quietly crept into the passage just in time
to see a dark figure entering the preacher's room.

Who could it be?

Intense curiosity was the feeling uppermost in her mind, and this alone
prevented her calling Ann.  Standing a few moments in breathless
silence, she heard the slow opening of a drawer; another pause of eager
listening, while the stealthy footsteps seemed to be returning towards
the doorway.

At this moment the moon emerged from behind a cloud, and in her light
Morva saw a sight which astonished her, for coming from the preacher's
room a well-known form stood plainly revealed.  It was Gethin! and the
girl shrank a little into the shadow of a doorway.  But her precaution
was needless, for he walked as if dazed or asleep, and with unsteady
footstep seemed to stagger as he hurriedly gained his own room.

Morva, frightened and wondering, returned to bed, and if the early
hours of the night had been disturbed and restless, those which
followed were still more so.

What could it mean?  What could Gethin want in Gwilym's room?  She had
thought it was a thief, and if not a thief what was the meaning of
those stealthy footsteps and the opening of the drawer? and full of
unrest she lay awake listening to the ticking of the clock, and to
Tudor's continued howling.  Should she wake Ann?  No! for Gethin had
evidently desired secrecy, and she would not be the one to frustrate
his intentions, for whatever might be the object of his secret visit to
the preacher's room, she never doubted but that it was right and
honourable.

All night she lay in troubled thought, rising many times to look
through the ivy-framed window towards the eastern brow of the slopes.
At length the pale dawn drew near, and Morva slept a heavy dreamless
sleep, which lasted till Ann called her for the churning.



[1] Cowhouse.




CHAPTER XII

SARA'S VISION

"Morva, lass," said Ann, "what's the matter to-day?  No breakfast;
after thy work at the churn, too?"

"Well, indeed," said Morva, "I drank so much butter milk that I don't
want much breakfast."

"Come, lass," said Ebben Owens, "hard work wants good feeding."

"Well," said Ann, "you are not eating much yourself.  Did you sleep
well, father?"

"Yes, of course," said the old man; "I always sleep like a top.  Here's
Will; he'll satisfy thee in the eating line, whatever."

"Yes; especially when there's fresh butter and new bread," said Will,
sitting down and cutting a thick slice for himself.  "What was the
matter with Tudor last night?  He was howling all night.  Did you hear
him, father?"

"Not I.  'Twas the moonlight, I suppose.  Dogs often howl on a
moonlight night."

"Tudor doesn't," said Ann.  "I'm glad I didn't hear him, ach y fi!  I
don't like it at all.  But where's Gwilym and Gethin?  There's late
they are."

At this moment the former entered and took his seat silently at the
table, looking pale and flurried.

"Where can Gethin be?" said Ann again; "not back from the mountain?"
and Magw was sent to the top of the garden to call him, which she did
with such stentorian tones that his name flew backwards and forwards
across the valley, but no Gethin came.

Breakfast over, the big Bible was placed before Ebben Owens as usual,
and all the farm servants assembled for prayers.  When they rose from
their knees and the wooden shoes had clattered out of the kitchen,
Gwilym said, as he drew his chair to the table:

"Ann, we must wait a little longer for our furniture.  My bag of
sovereigns is gone!"

"Gone?" echoed everyone, and Morva, who was putting away the Bible,
turned white with a deadly fear, which seemed to freeze the blood in
her veins.  In the excitement of the moment her change of countenance
escaped the notice of the other members of the family.

"Gone," said Will, "gone where?  What do you mean, man?  Stolen?"

"Yes, no doubt, for the window and the drawer were open."

"The window?" said Ebben Owens.  "Then the thief must have come in that
way."

"And gone out, too, I suppose," said Gwilym.

"Tis that devil, Gryffy Lewis," said Will.  "He could easily creep up
from his cottage.  You ought not to have told him."

"No, I ought not," said the preacher; "but, indeed, I was so glad of
the money and to find that Tim 'Penlau' was honest after all our
doubts, and Gryffy Lewis seemed as glad as I was."

"The deceitful blackguard!" said Ebben Owens.

"Well, we don't know it was he after all," suggested Gwilym.  "Poor
man, we must not blame him till we are certain.  I hoped and believed
that he had taken a turn for the better, and this would be a dreadful
blow to me."

"Blow to you!" said Will excitedly.  "I'll go to Castell On for a
policeman, and it'll be a blow to Gryffy when he feels the handcuffs on
his wrists."

"No--no," said Gwilym Morris, "that I will never allow."  For in his
daily life the preacher carried out his Master's teaching in its
spirit, and forgave unto seventy times seven, and with curious
inconsistency abhorred the relentless anger which on Sundays in the
pulpit he unconsciously ascribed to the God whom he worshipped.  "No,
let him have the money, it will bring its own punishment, poor fellow!
I have lived long enough without it, and can do without it still, only
poor Ann won't have mahogany chairs and a shining black sofa in her
parlour--deal must do instead."

"Deal will do very well," said Ann soothingly,

"Well," said Ebben Owens, "you take your trouble like a Christian,
Gwilym."

"Like a Christian!" said Will.  "Like a madman I call it!  I think you
owe it to everyone in the house, Gwilym, to send for a policeman and
have the matter cleared up."

"It wouldn't do," said Ebben, "to charge Gryffy without any proofs, so
we had better hush it up and say nothing about it before the servants."

"Yes, that is the best plan," said the preacher, "and perhaps in time
and by kindness I can turn Gryffy's mind to repentance and to returning
the money."

"But where's Gethin this morning?" inquired Will.  "I hope nothing has
happened to Bowler."

The morning hours slipped by, and yet Gethin did not appear.  At dinner
in the farm kitchen there were inquiries and comments, but nobody knew
anything of the absent one.

In the best kitchen the meal was partaken of in silence, a heavy cloud
hung over the household, and terrible doubts clutched at their hearts,
but no one spoke his fears.  When, however, the shades of evening were
closing in, and neither on moor nor meadow, in stable nor yard, was
Gethin to be seen, a dreadful certainty fell upon them.  It was too
evident that he had disappeared from the haunts of Garthowen.  Will
swore under his breath, Gwilym Morris was even more tender than usual
to every member of the family, and Ebben Owens went about the farm with
a hard look on his face, and a red spot on each cheek, but nobody said
anything more about sending for a policeman.  Ann cried herself to
sleep that night.  Morva went home to her mother, white and dry-eyed,
her mind full of anxious questioning, her heart sinking with sorrow.

Sara held out her wrinkled hand towards her.

"Come, 'merch fâch i, 'tis trouble, I know; but what is it, lass?"

"Oh, mother, 'tis too dreadful to think of!  How can such things be?
You say the spirits come and talk to you, they never come to me; ask
them to be kind to me, too, and to take me to themselves, for this
world is too full of cruel thorns!"

Sara's kind eyes filled with tears.

"Oh! that I could bear thy sorrow for thee, my little girl; but it is
one of the thorns of life that we cannot raise the burden of sorrows
from our dear ones and bind it on our own shoulders.  God alone can
help thee, my child."

"Mother, do you know what has happened?"

"Yes," said the old woman.  "I was quite failing to sleep last night,
so I got up and lighted the fire, and I read a chapter sitting here on
the settle.  After I had read, looking I was at the flames and the
sparks that flew upwards, and a vision came before me.  I was at
Garthowen in the dark, I saw a figure creeping quietly into a room; it
was a man, but I could not recognise him.  He opened a drawer, and took
something out of it, and I did not see anything more.  When I awoke the
fire had gone out, and I was very cold, so I went back to bed, and
slept heavily all night, and when I awoke this morning I knew thou
wouldst come to me in sorrow and fright."

"Well, mother, can you gather some comfort from your vision?  Oh! tell
me the meaning of it all.  What did Gethin want in Gwilym's room?"

"Gethin?" said Sara, in astonishment, "in Gwilym Morris's room!"

"Yes, I saw him; and from there a bag of sovereigns has been stolen.
He has gone away without a word to anyone, and I know they all think
that he has done this dreadful thing? but I will _not_ believe it,
never! never! never!"

"No, it is all dark, but one thing is plain to me and thee, Gethin did
not do this shameful thing.  Let me be, child, and perhaps it will all
come before me again, or perhaps Gethin will come back.  I know,
whatever, that my message to thee is Gethin is not guilty of this
wickedness."

"Mother, I believe you," said the girl; "and though all the world
should swear it was Gethin, I should know better, for you know, mother.
We only see with our bodily eyes, but your spirit sees.  Mother, I know
it--but he is gone!  What is the meaning of that; he is gone like the
mist of the morning--like a dream of the night, and he will never
return, and if he did return it could never be anything to me!"

And leaning on the table as she had done once before, her face buried
on her arms, she sobbed unrestrainedly, Sara sitting by her and crying
in sympathy.

All day they discussed the unhappy event.

"Who did it, mother? and why did Gethin go away?"

"I don't know," said the old woman.  "I shall never know perhaps who
did it, but I know it was not Gethin."

"Why did I see him, mother?  I awoke suddenly and went into the
passage, and there he was.  I wish I had slept sounder, for that sight
will always be on my mind.  When we came down to breakfast he was gone,
and every one will think he stole the money.  Forty sovereigns, mother!
Will he ever come back and clear it up?"

"Some day it will be plain, but now we must be satisfied to know it was
not Gethin."

"No one else will believe us, mother."

"Oh!  I am used to that," said the old woman, with a patient smile;
"that makes no difference in God's plans.  Thou must pluck up thy
heart, and have courage, child, for there is a long life before thee.
A dark cloud is shading thy path now, but 'twill pass away, and thou
wilt be happy again."

"Never! unless Gethin comes back to clear his name.  Oh! 'tis a cold
grey world.  Only here with you, mother, is the comfort of love.  When
I draw near the cottage I look out for your red mantle, and if I see
it, it sends a warm glow through me."

And so they talked until, as the twilight gathered round them, Morva
said:

"I must go; the cows must be milked.  Poor Garthowen is a sad house
to-day!  I wish I could comfort them a little, but 'tis all dark."

And as she crossed the moor to the Cribserth, she looked round her, but
found no shred of comfort.  The sea, all rough and torn by the high
wind, looked cold and cruel; the brow of the hill, which Gethin's
whistle had so often enlivened, looked bare and uninteresting; the moor
had lost its gorgeous tints; a rock pigeon, endeavouring to reach its
nest, was driven by the wind against a thorn bush.

"Tis pricked and beaten like me," thought the girl, and struggling with
the high wind, she helped the bird with tender fingers to extricate
himself.

When she entered the farmyard Daisy stood waiting, and Morva, knowing
that without her song there would be no milk, began the old refrain,
but her voice broke, and while she sang with trembling lips the tears
ran down her cheeks.

The news of Gethin's absence was soon bruited abroad, and many were the
conjectures as to its cause.

"He seemed so jolly at the cynos," said the farm servants; "who'd have
thought his heart was away with the shipping and the foreign ports?"

"Well, well," said the farmers, "Garthowen will have to do without
Gethin Owens, that's plain; the roving spirit is in him still, and
Ebben Owens will have to look alive, with only Ann and Gwilym Morris to
help him."

"Well, he needn't be so proud, then!  Will a clergyman indeed! 'tis at
home at the plough I'd keep him!"

But nobody knew anything of the robbery, which added so much poignancy
to the sorrow at Garthowen.  Ebben Owens seemed to take his son's
disappearance much to heart, and to feel his absence more in sorrow
than in anger.

Will grew more and more irritable, so that it was almost a relief when
one day in the following week he took his departure for Llaniago, his
father accompanying him in the car, and returning next day with glowing
accounts of his son's introduction to the world of learning and
collegiate life.

"If you were to see him in his cap and gown!" he said, "oh, there's a
gentleman he looks; in my deed there wasn't one in the whole college so
handsome as our Will! so straight and so tall, and everybody noticing
him."

And so Will was launched on the voyage of clerical life with full sails
and colours flying, while Gethin was allowed to sink into oblivion; his
name was never mentioned, his place knew him no more, and the tide of
life flowed on at Garthowen with the outward monotonous peace and
regularity common to all farm life.  Ebben Owens leant more on Gwilym
and Ann, and Twm took his own way more, but further than this there was
no difference in the daily routine of work.

The grey house at Brynseion was nearing completion, but Ann put off her
marriage again and again, and even hinted at the desirability of
breaking off her engagement entirely, unless it could be arranged for
her and her husband to live on at Garthowen, and let the grey house to
somebody else.

"Well!" said Gwilym, "'tis for you and your father to settle that.  I
will be happy with you anywhere, Ann, and I see it is impossible for
you to leave the old man while both his sons are away; so do as you
wish, 'merch i, only don't keep me waiting any longer."

And so it was settled, and Ann sat down to indite a letter to Will in
the fine pointed h

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