Читать книгу Torn Sails: A Tale of a Welsh Village - Allen Raine - Страница 5

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"O Gwyn ei fyd! yr hwn nis gwyr

Am ferch fu'n flinder iddo;

Ond wn i ddim yn sicr chwaith,

Ai gwyn ei fyd ai peidio!"

—Ceiriog.

"Happy the man whose guarded heart

The chain of love refuses;

But yet in truth I am not sure,

Whether he gains or loses."

—Trans.

High up the village, and perched on a little knoll, overlooking what was politely called "the road," stood a cottage, in nowise different from the other houses, except that, perhaps, its walls were whiter and its thatch was browner. Its two tiny windows were clear as crystal, an arch over each being painted brick red; the top of the door was ornamented in the same way; and inside, the earthen floor of the passage, which was almost as hard and shining as marble, had its edges marked in a bordering of the same dark red.

The door stood wide open; indeed, it was never closed from one year's end to another, except at night and in stormy weather. Within the penisha sat a girl busily knitting, though her thoughts were evidently not on her work, for her eyes were fixed dreamily on the sunset sky which lightened up the little window. But stay, was she a girl? No! if age counts by the number of years that have passed since birth, for Mari Vaughan (or Vone, as it is pronounced in Wales) was thirty-five years of age, and had long taken her place amongst the elder and soberer portion of the community; the younger and more frivolous girls had dropped her out of their companionship, only remembering her when at times she appeared amongst them, and then with an uncomfortable feeling of being eclipsed by her beauty. She was tall and graceful, her figure had lost nothing of the fulness and charm of youth, her pale golden hair was as luxuriant as ever, and her face was one to be always remembered. She was pale, but not with the hue of sickness, for her health was perfect; her skin was not of the milky white, which, in Gwladys' face, contrasted so beautifully with the glowing cheeks, but more of an ivory whiteness; her eyes of deep blue were shaded by the white lids, fringed with brown lashes; her teeth were even and white, and rather large; a dimpled cleft in her chin gave the pale face the amount of spirit and life which it required; and when she spoke, there was a liquid softness in her musical voice, which gave the most ordinary remarks a tone of tenderness.

Fifteen years before, she had passed through a crisis in her life, which had left indelible traces upon her character. At twenty she had given her heart to Hugh Morgan—the handsomest and most promising lad in the village—a promise which had been amply fulfilled by his subsequent life. 'N'wncwl Jos, who stood in the place of parents to the orphan girl, had given a willing consent. Hugh had already bought his business and re-furnished his cottage home at his father's death, and Mari loved him with a love deeper, even in its intensity, than she herself was aware of; but with the thoughtlessness of youth, petted and indulged by her uncle, and somewhat spoiled by the attentions of her lover, she had foolishly listened to the blandishments of a new suitor, who had appeared in the village, a sailor, who bore the distinguishing charm of a foreign name, that of "Alfred Smith." Still more interesting, he could not speak a word of Welsh. He spoke his own language with a peculiar accent, which, though in reality a vulgar Cockney, fascinated the simple Mari, accustomed only to the broad, strong tones of her native tongue. Alas, for the perversity of Fate! Hugh Morgan, who had noticed a slight coldness in her manner of late, and, moreover, had heard sundry gossiping rumours in the village, had brought matters to a crisis by reproaching her with her fickleness, and proposing that her marriage with him should take place at once.

"The house is ready, and I am ready, and longing for thy presence, Mari. Art ready thyself?"

"No, I am not," was her answer, with a toss of her head; "and thou mustn't hurry and order me as if I were a child!"

Hugh, who also had the hasty temper of his race, burst into a flame of passion.

"It is that d——d Sais!"[1] he said, his eyes flashing and his breath coming in short gasps. "Thou hadst better tell me the truth at once——"

"What truth?" said Mari.

"That thou preferrest him to me; that while I was working for thee by day, and dreaming of thee at night, a foolish word from the Englishman's slippery tongue drew thee away from me! Such love is not worth having!"

"If that's how it is, it is not worth giving," said Mari; "and so it won't grieve thee to hear that I have none to give."

She spoke in a pert little voice, and with a toss of her head, very unlike her usual manner.

Hugh was silent for a moment, while he tried to control his angry feelings, and the blood surged through his veins and sang in his ears. Had it come to this? His deep and unswerving love for Mari, who had been the star of his life from boyhood upwards, to be crushed ruthlessly! his tender feelings to be trampled upon at the word of a Sais!

When he spoke next his voice trembled, and he was pale and agitated.

"Think well, Mari; I am not one to turn from my word, or to change the colour of my heart as I change my coat; so think well, lass, before thou answerest my next question, 'Wilt have me or not?'"

"Oh, not, then!" said Mari.

She seemed to be possessed by a spirit of perversity, which ever after she wondered at.

They had just reached her uncle's, and she prepared to leave her lover, and enter the house.

"Stop one moment, Mari," he said, grasping her arm tightly; "remember that although I love thee now with my whole heart, and will forgive thee thy fickleness and forget thy folly, if thou wilt come to me, and draw back thy words—yet——"

Mari was beginning a hasty answer, but he interrupted her with a fierce—

"Hush! listen. I will sit down there on the limekiln until the moon has set—she is not far from her setting; thou wilt see me by the glow of the limekiln," and his voice changed to a low, pleading tone. "I will be waiting for thee, Mari, and if thou comest, my arms will be open to receive thee; but if not, I will never ask thee again; and, moreover, I will do all in my power to shut thine image out of my heart."

"Nos da," was all her answer, as she entered the cottage.

The house was empty, for 'n'wncwl Jos was out on one of his fishing expeditions, and running into the penucha, she bolted the door, and threw herself on her bed in a perfect storm of tears.

"Oh Hugh, Hugh, beth na'i?"[2] She knew now how much she loved him—how every feeling of her heart would be torn in losing him. She knew that the flattery and admiration of Sais were as nothing to her compared to Hugh Morgan's love, and yet—and yet—she could not stoop to ask his pardon. She rose and looked through the little window; she saw the glow from the limekiln, and also saw the dark figure sitting there. The moon hung very low in the sky, and she watched it tremblingly. The clock struck in the penisha; time was passing, and soon it would be too late.

Another storm of tears—and she rose again to look at the dark figure by the limekiln. The moon had already touched the horizon.

"Should she rush out now and ask his forgiveness?" She had a feeling that the dim, grey quietness of the night was a forecast of what her life would be without Hugh, while the light and warmth of the glowing kiln portrayed his deep love for her. She had but to ask, and she would be folded in its mantle of happiness. But the moon—she's gone!—and Mari fell sobbing on the floor.

She was roused by the stumping of 'n'wncwl Jos's wooden leg, and rose slowly and straightened herself, and, turning to the window, saw the dark figure by the limekiln was gone; and she passed over the threshold of the penucha with a strange perception that all the delight, the passionate love, the intense enjoyment of life were left behind her, and that the future contained for her only the dim and grey quietness of evening. But this was fifteen years ago, and Hugh had never asked her again. She had never spoken to Alfred Smith afterwards. The very thought of him was hateful to her.

As the long years went by, she and Hugh were frequently thrown together in that small community. They learnt to meet without embarrassment, and to part without a pang; and gradually Hugh's strong nature found its solace in his work, and in the ever-increasing claims of his work-people upon his time and thoughts. He alone knew how hard had been the struggle to regain calmness and comparative content after the shattering of his hopes which Mari's fickleness had brought upon him; but it came at last, and he thought he had entirely got over his old love-affair.

True, no day seemed complete on which he had not seen Mari Vone. His love for her had developed into a perfect friendship—so he thought. He scarcely ever arranged a business transaction without asking her advice, and although she was not employed in his sail-shed, every incident connected with his work was laid before her, and her opinion on every matter weighed much with him.

She had never married, neither had Hugh, and their intercourse had outwardly lost every trace of the romance which once hung round it. Thus it was with Hugh Morgan; but what had the years brought to Mari? At first a deep and bitter regret, a wild unrest, which nothing but pride enabled her to hide. She knew that the misunderstanding between her and her lover was the subject of much gossiping interest around her, and she determined that no one should guess her sorrow, or see any sign of her pain. She schooled herself to meet Hugh with calmness and outward indifference, though not a tone of his voice or a change of looks or manner escaped her notice. Deep in her heart she nourished her undying love for him, and when, as time went on, she saw that a warm friendship had taken the place of love in his heart, she endeavoured, with the unselfishness of a true woman, to accommodate herself to his wishes and ideas.

The fifteen years that had passed since she and Hugh had watched the moon sink beneath the horizon with such tumultuous feelings, had scarcely altered her or aged her in the least. Time seemed to have stood still with her, or to hesitate to lay his destroying finger upon her charms of person, although on her spirit his hand was ever setting new and tender graces, and as she sat at her knitting, with her eyes fixed on the sunset, her ear was strained to catch the faintest sound of an approaching footstep. And here it comes. And in the darkening twilight Hugh Morgan stoops his head as he enters the low doorway. Mari did not rise; these visits were of too frequent occurrence for ceremony, and she merely looked up from her shining needles as the stalwart form stood before her, asking, "Where's 'n'wncwl Jos?"

"He's not come in; wilt look for him? Most like he is smoking on the lower limekiln."

"Well, I will wait."

"B'tshwr,"[3] said Mari, rising and pushing the rush chair towards him; "supper will be ready directly," she said. "We have fresh buttermilk from Glanynys."

"And potatoes?"

"Of course."

"Well, I will stop and have some, for that is a dish Madlen always spoils."

"'Tis pity, indeed; I must show her how to do them."

"Can diolch,"[4] he said.

"What dost want 'n'wncwl Jos for—anything particular?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "I want his advice—and yours, Mari, on a subject very important to me. But here is 'n'wncwl Jos!"

As the old man stumped in, he greeted Hugh with the usual friendly "Hello! Mishteer," before he seated himself on the settle, Mari at once placing beside him a bucket of sea-sand, into which he squirted his tobacco juice with unerring aim, for he had learned under Mari's regime to dread a spot upon the speckless floor. Hugh had taken out his pipe, and the two men were soon sending wreaths of smoke up the big, open chimney, as they sat round the bright fire of culm[5] balls.

Gwen's approaching marriage was the subject of conversation.

"Well, indeed, I think he's a lucky chap," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "for she's a tidy girl, and saving, and steady."

"Yes, very good girl," said Hugh.

"Ivor Parry will have to find new lodgings now," said Mari.

"Yes, Mary the Mill is glad to have him. Are you going to the wedding, Mari?"

"Yes, I have promised. You are not, I suppose?"

"Well, no—but I am going to the bidding."

"Yes, there's what I heard."

"I was thinking that would be enough," he said. "What do you think?"

"Quite enough," said Mari. "Being the Mishteer, they would scarcely expect you to both; and if you went to this one, you would offend others by refusing——"

"Exactly what I was thinking," said Hugh.

"We had better have supper now," said Mari, "the potatoes are done." And taking the huge crock which hung by a chain from the wide chimney, she placed it on the floor, and with the large wooden spoon or "lletwad" mashed the snowy potatoes into a steaming paste, adding a little salt and cream. From this crock she partly filled the black, shining bowls which were ranged on the table, placing a wooden spoon for herself and her uncle. A large jug of buttermilk stood in the centre of the table.