CHAPTER XXI
THE MATE OF THE "GWENLLIAN"
"There!" said Mrs. Jones next morning, as she gave Sara's toilet a finishing touch, consisting of sundry tugs of adjustment to the red mantle and an encouraging pat on the shoulders; "there! go 'long with you now and find your precious Gethin, and give him a good scolding from me. Tell him he is the last man in the world I would expect to desert an old friend as he has done lately. There! the sight of such a tidy, fresh-looking little country woman will do our pale-faced town people good. Oh, anwl! I wish my Tom was alive; he'd have piloted you straight to the Gwenllian. He knew every ship that came into the docks. His heart was with the shipping though he could do nothing but look at them, poor boy!" and drying her eyes with her apron she dismissed Sara, who started with a brave heart.
Up the grimy, uninteresting Bryn Street, which the bright morning sunlight scarcely improved, and soon into a wide, busy thoroughfare where hurrying footsteps and jostling crowds somewhat disconcerted her.
The gay shops, especially the fruit shops, interested her greatly, as well as the vehicles of every description, from the humble costermonger's to the handsome broughams bearing their wealthy owners to their offices for the day; the prettily-dressed children who toddled beside their busy mothers to their early shopping; and, above all, the strains of a brass band which was enlivening the morning hours with its familiar repertoire. Each and all were a revelation of delight to the simple peasant. Straight from the gorse and heather, a woman exceptionally endowed with the instincts of a refined nature, one whose only glimpses of the world had been gathered from the street of a small provincial town, was it to be wondered at that to her the varied sights and sounds around her seemed like the pageantry of a dream?
"'Tis a blue and gold world," she murmured, "and I'm glad I have seen it before I die, but I can't think why the people look so dull and cross."
Although she was unconscious of it, she was herself an object of interest to the hurrying passers-by. Many of them turned round to look at the picturesque peasant woman, with her country gown and quaint headgear.
"A woman come down from the hills," said a lady to her companion, as
Sara passed them, for a moment raising her eyes to theirs.
"And what a sweet face, and what wonderful eyes, so dark and blue.
There is something touching in that smooth fringe of grey hair."
But Sara passed on unheeding. She was now in a quieter street, and as she passed under the high grey walls of the jail, the prison van crossed her path. The heavy iron doors opened and it passed out of her sight; the doors closed with a soft click and a turn of the key, and Sara went on her way with a sigh.
"There are grey and black shadows in the making of it, too," she said, and hurried on.
Once or twice she stopped to ask her way of a passer-by.
"The docks this way? Yes, go on, and turn to the left."
At the end of the road she came upon a crowd of boys who were playing some street game with loud shouts and laughter, and Sara, who had hitherto braved all dangers, shrank a little.
"Hello, mother! where are you going? There's a penny to pay for passing through this way," and they crowded clamorously around her.
She looked at them calmly, disregarding their begging.
"Iss one of you will show me the docks, then shall he have a penny. You," she said, pointing to one with a round pale face, and honest black eyes.
"Yes 'll I," said the boy, and he turned down a corner, beckoning to her to follow.
"Go on, old witch!" cried the disappointed ones; "where's your broom?"
"Can't you speak Welsh?" she asked, as she came abreast with her guide.
"Yes, that can I," said the boy in his native tongue.
"Oh, very good, then. 'Tis the Gwenllian I am wanting—Captain
Price—can you find her?"
"Oh, yes, come on," said the boy. "I was on board of her yesterday morning, but she was about sailing for Toulon with a cargo of coal. Most like she's gone."
Sara's heart sank, and as they came in sight of the forests of masts, the bales of goods, the piles of boards, of pig iron, of bricks and all the other impedimenta of a wharf, for the first time her heart was full of misgivings.
"Stop you there," said the boy, "and I will go and see," and he darted away, leaving Sara somewhat forlorn amongst the rough crowd of sailors and dockmen.
"Hullo, mother!" said a jolly-looking red-faced man who had nearly toppled over the little frail figure; "what you doing so far from home? They are missing you shocking in some chapel away in the hills somewhere, I'm sure."
"Well, indeed, 'tis there I would like to go as soon as my business is ended. 'Tis Gethin Owens I am looking for, mate of the Gwenllian."
"Oh, ho," said the man, "you may go back to chapel at once, little woman; you won't find him, for he sailed yesterday for France."
At this moment the boy returned with the same information, and Sara turned her face sorrowfully away from the shipping.
"I will give you two pennies if you will take me back to Bryn Street."
"Come on," said the boy.
He did not tell her that his home lay in that identical street, and that he was already due there.
Once more the little red mantle passed through the busy crowd. Not for years had Sara felt so sad and disappointed, the heavy air of the town probably added to her dejection.
Mrs. Jones was loud in her sympathy as Sara, faint and weary, seated herself on the settle.
"Oh, Kitty Jones fâch!" she said, leaning on her stick and swaying backwards and forwards. "I am more sorry than I can say. To go back without comfort for Garthowen or my little Morva. He's gone to France, and I suppose he won't be back for a year or six months, whatever, and I have no money to stop here all that time."
"Six months!" said Mrs. Jones; "there's ignorant you are in the country. Why, he'll be back in a fortnight, perhaps a week. What's the woman talking about?"
"Yes, indeed?" said Sara, in delighted astonishment. "Yes, I am a very ignorant woman, I know, but a week or a fortnight, or even three weeks, I will stop," and the usual look of happy content once more beamed in her eyes.
Every day little Tom Jenkins, upon whom Sara's two pennies had made a favourable impression, went down to the docks to see if the Gwenllian had arrived. When a week, a fortnight, and nearly three weeks had passed away, and still she was not in port, Mrs. Jones suggested that probably she had extended her voyage to some other port, or was perhaps waiting for repairs.
At last one sunny morning Tom Jenkins came in with a whoop.
"The Gwenllian is in the docks!" he cried, and Sara prepared at once for another expedition in that direction.
"Wait a bit," said Mrs. Jones. "You can write, Sara?"
"Yes, in Welsh," said the old woman.
"Well, then, send a letter, and Tom will take it for you."
Sara took her advice, and, putting on her spectacles, wrote as follows:
"Sara Lloyd, Garthowen Moor, is writing to thee, Gethin Owens, to say she is here at Mrs. Jones's, No. 2 Bryn Street, with good news for thee. All the way from Garthowen to fetch thee, my boy, so come as soon as thou canst."
The writing was large and sprawly, it was addressed to "Gethin Owens, mate of the Gwenllian,—Captain Price," and when Tom had departed, with the letter safe in his jacket pocket, the two women set themselves to wait as patiently as they could; but the hours dragged on heavily until tea-time.
"Gethin was fond of his tea," said Mrs. Jones, "and I wouldn't wonder if he'd be here before long."
The tea table was laid, the cakes were toasted the tea brewing was delayed for some time. It was Mrs. Jones's turn now to be anxious, and even irritable; but Sara had quite regained her composure.
"He'll come," she said. "I know he'll come. I know my work is nearly over."
"There's missing you I'll be," said Mrs. Jones. "I wish my poor old mother was as easy to live with as you, Sara; but 'tis being alone so long has made her cranky. And the money—oh, she loves it dearly. Indeed, if I can get Davy to agree, we will give up this house and go home and live near her; 'tis pity the old woman should grow harder in her old age."
"Yes," said Sara. "'Tis riper and softer we ought to be growing in our old age, more ready to be gathered. I will go and see her sometimes; oftener than I have."
Their conversation was interrupted by a shadow passing the window, and a firm footstep in the passage.
"Hoi, hoi!" said a loud, breezy voice, "Mrs. Jones!—how is she here?" and Gethin Owens clasped her hand with a resounding clap.
"Much you care how I am, Gethin Owens. Never been to see me for so long."
"Well, you look all the better for my absence, I think. But what you want with me? Tom Jenkins said an old woman wanted to see me shocking, and I gave him a clatch on his ear, to teach him not to call a young woman like you an old woman. Why, you look ten years younger than when I saw you last."
"Go 'long, Gethin Owens," said Mrs. Jones. "Didn't you have the letter?"
"No. Tom said the boys in the streets had torn it in a scrimmage they had; but he gave me your message."
"Well, come in and look on the settle then."
In the shadow of the settle, Sara sat listening to the conversation, with a look of amusement in her eyes.
Gethin looked a moment into the dark corner, and, recognising her, took two steps in advance, with extended hands and a smiling greeting on his lips; but suddenly the whole expression of his face changed to one of anxiety and distrust.
"What is it," he said, "has brought you so far, Sara? Is the old man dead?"
"Nonsense, no!" said Sara.
"Well, you wouldn't come so far to tell me Will was married."
"Indeed I would, then," she said, rising. "Come, thou foolish boy, didn't I say it was good news? Oh! but thou hasn't had my letter."
Gethin took both her hands between his own.
"Tis very kind of thee, Sara fâch, but a letter would have brought me the news quite as safely. Well! I wish him joy. 'Tisn't Gethin Owens is going to turn against his brother, because he has been a fortunate man, while I have been unfortunate. Yes, I wish him joy, and sweet Morva every blessing under the sun."
"Twt, twt!" said Sara, "thee art all wrong, my boy. 'Tisn't Morva he has married at all! and that's how I thought a letter could not explain everything to thee as I could myself, and bring thee home to the old country again."
Gethin shook his head.
"No, no; I have said good-bye to Garthowen, I will never go there again."
"Well! why?" said Sara, still holding his hands, and looking into his face with those compelling eyes of hers.
"There is no need to tell thee, Sara," said the sailor, a dogged, defiant look coming into his eyes. "I have said good-bye to Garthowen, and will never darken its doors again."
"And yet thou hast been very happy there?"
"Ah! yes," said Gethin, a tender smile chasing away the angry look on his face. "I was very happy there indeed, when I whistled at my plough, with the song of the larks in my ears, and the smell of the furze filling the air. But now—no—no! I must never turn my face there again."
"Wilt not, indeed?" asked Sara. "Wait till I've told thee all, my lad. And now I have a strange story to tell thee, 'tis of thy poor old father, Gethin."
"My father? what's the matter with him? Thou hast said he's alive, what then? Is he ill? Not ill? What then, Sara?" and his face took a frightened expression; "what evil has come upon the old man?"
His voice sank very low as he clutched the old woman's hand and wrung it unconsciously.
"What is it? not shame, Sara—say, woman, 'tis not shame that has come upon him in his old age!"
Sara was embarrassed for the first time.
"Shame," she said, "in the eyes of men, is sometimes honour in the eyes of God! Listen, Gethin—Dost remember the night of thy going from Garthowen?"
He nodded with a serious look in his eyes.
"That night I had a dream; only, I was awake when I saw it. I was at Garthowen in my dream, and I saw a dark figure entering Gwilym Morris's room; he stooped down and opened a drawer, and took something out of it. I could not see the man's face, but it was not thee, Gethin, though thy sudden disappearance made them think at first, that thou wert the thief; only Morva and I knew better. She heard a footstep that night, and when she went out to the passage, she saw thee coming out of that room. But she and I knew that it was not thou who took the money. What dreadful sight met thee in that room, Gethin bâch, we did not know, but it was something that made thee reel out like a drunken man."
"It was, it was," he answered, shuddering and covering his eyes with his hands, as though he saw it still.
"'Twas a sight that shadowed the whole world to me, and has altered my life ever since. Dei anwl! 'twas a sight I would give my whole life not to have seen."
"I know it all now, my boy, and I know what thou must have suffered. 'Twas thy father who took Gwilym Morris's money. Sorrow and bitter repentance have been his companions by day, and have sat by his pillow at night, ever since he was tempted to commit that sin. He has become thin, and haggard, and old. He confessed it all at the Sciet. And think how hard it must have been for him to bring himself to tell it all before the men who had thought so highly of him. 'Twas for Will's sake, but 'twas you that he wronged, Gethin, and that is what is breaking his heart."
"Me!" said Gethin. "Me? He is not grieving for me, is he? Poor old man! he did me no wrong; 'twas I by going away, brought the dishonour upon myself. And he confessed it all!"
"Yes," said Sara, "and made it all as black as he could. Canst forgive him, Gethin?"
"Forgive him? Fancy Gethin Owens forgiving anyone! as if he was such a good man himself! especially his own father! I have nothing to forgive; he did me no harm, poor old man. And if all the world is going to turn against him because his love for his son did prove stronger than his honesty, why! it's home to Garthowen I'll go, to cheer him and to love him, and to show the world that I for one will stick to him, weak or strong, upright or sinful!"
"Gethin bâch! thou know'st what real love is! Love that no folly or weakness, or even sin, in the dear one can alter. That is what I have come to fetch; a son to support and comfort my old friend in his latter days. Gwilym Morris is good and kind to him, and Ann—thou know'st they are married these four years?"
"Yes, Jim Brown told me, and I was very glad."
"But 'tis his own son he is longing for. ''Tis my boy Gethin I want to see,' he says; 'he was so kind to me.'"
"Did he say that?"
"That did he."
"Diwss anwl! I never knew he cared a button for me."
He was longing to ask for Morva.
"Thee hasn't asked for Morva yet," said Sara.
"Is she well?"
"Oh! well—quite well, and as happy as a bird since Will is married."
"Since Will is married! How can that be if he has deserted her and married another woman? I never thought Will would do that! And who has he married?
"A lady, Gethin! Miss Gwenda Vaughan of Nantmyny—didst ever hear such a thing?—and as sweet a girl as ever lived!"
"Well, well, and so Will has married a lady? Well, that's his choice, mine would never lie that way; a simple country lass for me, or else none at all, and most likely 'twill be that. Well, we may say good-bye to Will. I suppose we sha'n't see much more of him."
"Perhaps not."
"But 'tis Morva I'm thinking of, Sara; how does she bear it? She is hiding her grief from you—she loved him, I know she loved him! and for him to turn from her and give his love to another must have been a cruel grief to her."
"Gethin," said the old woman, "she never loved him. She promised to marry him when she was a child, before she knew what love meant, but since she has grown up her heart has been refusing to keep the promise which bound her to Will. She has tried over and over again to get her freedom; like those poor birds we see caught in the net sometimes, she has fluttered and fluttered, but all in vain; and when the letter came from Will to Garthowen telling his father of the wonderful marriage that was coming so near, 'twas as if someone had broken the net and let the bird go free. And there's Morva now, happy and bright like she was before she found out that her promise to Will was galling her sore. 'Tis only one thing she wants now, Gethin. 'Tis for Garthowen to be happy, and that will never be till thou art home once more. Come, Gethin bâch, come home with me; our hearts are all set upon thee."
"Halt!" said Gethin, and he pushed his fingers through his hair until it stood on end. "Phew! Mrs. Jones was never stinting with her fire; 'tis stifling hot here," and he turned away to the doorway, and stood a moment looking out into the street. "Will married—and not to Morva!" What wild hopes were rising again within him? but he crushed them down, and turned on his heel with a laugh. "How you women can live day after day with a roaring fire I can't think—but come, Sara, on with your story."
"Well!" she said, "all the way from Garthowen I have come to fetch thee, Gethin, and thou must come home with me."
"Would Morva like to see me?" he said, in a low, uncertain voice.
"Oh! Gethin, thou art a foolish man, and a blind man! Morva does not know what I have come here for; but if thou ask'st me the question, 'Would Morva be glad to see me?' I answer 'Yes.'"
"D'ye think that—that—"
"Never mind what I think, come home and find out for thyself."
"Sara, woman," said Gethin, bringing his fist down with a thump on the table, "take care what you are doing. I tell you it has taken me three long years to smother the hopes which awoke in my heart when I was last at home. Don't awake them again, lest they should master me; unless you have some gleam of hope to give me."
Sara laughed joyfully.
"Well, now, how much will satisfy thee?"
"D'ye think, Sara, she could ever be brought to love me?"
"Well," she said mischievously, "thee canst try, Gethin. Come home and try, man!"
"What day is it to-day? 'Tis Tuesday; I'll only stop to settle with
Captain Price, and I'll come home, Sara. Wilt stop for me?"
"No, no, I have been too long from home. Tomorrow the Fairy Queen is going back, and I will go with her. I can trust thee, my boy, to follow me soon."
"Dei anwl! Yes! the ship's hawser wouldn't keep me back! I'll be down there one of these next days. I'll cheer the old man up—and Sara, woman, I have money to lay out on the farm. 'Tis too long a story to tell thee now, how a man I helped a bit in the hospital at Montevideo died, and left me all his money, 500 pounds! I didn't care a cockleshell for it, but to-day I am beginning to be glad of it. There's glad I'll be to see the old place again! Mrs. Jones," he shouted, "come here and hear the good news. Didn't I tell you years ago I was going home to Garthowen, to the cows and the sheep and the cawl! and so I am then, and it is this good little woman who has brought it about!" and clasping his arms round Sara, he drew her from the settle, and twisted her round in a wild dance of delight, Sara entreating, laughing, and scolding in turns.
"Caton pawb! the boy will kill me!" but he seated her gently on the settle before he went away.
"I'll be on the wharf to meet you to-morrow, Sara, and see you safe on board the Fairy Queen. Good-night, woman, 'tis a merry heart you are sending away to-night!" and as he passed up the street they heard his cheerful whistle until he had turned the corner.