Читать книгу Through Welsh Doorways - Jeannette Augustus Marks - Страница 8

Table of Contents

The evening light lay purple and lavender on the heather-covered hills; it cut through Aberglaslyn Pass in a golden shaft, gilding the jagged top of Craig y Llan and making the cliff side of Moel Hebog sparkle. Griffith Griffiths sniffed the honeyed air of his Welsh valleys hungrily. The nearer he came to home the more purple seemed the heather and the more golden the gorse.

“How d’ye think of it, Griffiths?” said Jones, looking back approvingly.

“Well, the village hasn’t any.”

“It’ll be a great surprise, man.”

“It will be,” agreed Griffiths.

“The folks over to C’n’rvon can’t give themselves airs any more.”

“Well, no, they cannot.”

“Did Betty know?”

“No, a woman worries when she’s to keep a secret.”

“The folks have all been askin’ for ye for two days”; and Jones’s face shone with the same delighted goodwill as that on his master’s.

“We’ll take it to Ty Isaf; it’ll be kept there.”

“Aye. Ye’re a thoughtful man, Griffiths. Ye’ve done about everything could be done for this village. There ain’t a man better thought of nor ye, except ye’re a Conservative. But they ought to put ye on the Council just the same.”

The caravan moved slowly into Bryn Tirion. At the rumble of wheels Olwyn thrust her head out of Cwm Cloch door, took one look at the moving load, and rushed into the back garden for Evan.

To Ty Isaf they hurried with the crowd; girls with water-pails dropped them; children staggering along under mammoth loaves of bread fresh from the oven tumbled them in the white dust of the road; mothers with babies strapped to them by shawls tightened the shawls and hastened along; old women put down their bundles of faggots; dogs ceased their quarrelling and children their playing, all rushing in the same direction.

Griffiths and Jones were stripping away the crating.

“It’s an organ for Chapel,” said Marged Owen.

“It’s a new pulpit,” exclaimed Maggie Powell.

“It’s a hearse!” cried Olwyn Evans, as the bagging was ripped from one side.

For an instant admiration made the concourse silent; then old Marslie Powell said softly: “If the Lord had ’a’ asked me what I wanted most He could not’ve done better.”

“Surely, it is the Lord’s gift,” affirmed Ellen Roberts.

“To think I’d live to see a real live hearse!” shrilly exclaimed old Annie Dalben.

“It’s a fine smart present, it is,” said Howell Roberts, “an’ there wouldn’t no one else ’a’ thought of it except Griffith Griffiths.”

“It’ll be pretty and tasty with mournin’, now won’t it!” commented Gwen Williams.

“It’s a pity Jane Jones and Jane Wynne’s too sick to be here an’ see it when they’re likely to have first chance at it!” declared Olwyn Evans.

“It’ll be fine for the first as is buried in it,” nodded Ellen Roberts wistfully.

“It’ll be an honour,” assented old Annie Dalben.