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.