"Yes," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "the Mishteer will see to it soon."
But a greater excitement than Gwen's madness was hanging over the village, for in a day or two the astounding news was spread abroad that 'n'wncwl Jos was ill. 'N'wncwl Jos! who had never been known to suffer an ache or a pain, except, indeed, the rheumatic twinges which he declared he still felt in the leg which was buried in Glasgow! 'N'wncwl Jos, who, though not wanting in sympathy, still tinged his expressions thereof with a slight tone of blame, as though sickness was invariably "somebody's" fault. And the strongest man in Mwntseison felt his tenure of life uncertain.
"Caton pawb! what's the matter with him?"
"Flammashwn! Never been well since he jumped into the sea after the Mishteer, when he kept his wet clothes on all day, though he won't confess it," said Dye Pentraeth; and the whole village was in a state of ferment, and Mari Vone was besieged by condoling friends.
The invalid at first fought valiantly with his sickness, declaring he would be all right in a day or two. The doctor shook his head, and hour by hour 'n'wncwl Jos grew worse, but still continued to crack his jokes when a moment's cessation from pain enabled him to do so.
"Oh, go 'long with you, Nell Jones," he said, when that worthy woman came in with what she considered an appropriate expression of countenance. "Go 'long with you, Nell, and don't pull a long face here; I've bin a deal worse than this! Why! at Glasgow, when I lost my leg, I came to myself when they were carrying me from the docks to the hospital. I didn't know where I was in that straight, narrow thing—'a stretcher' they call it in English—and raised my head to see, and there I was being carried by four men, and a long tail of boys, and men, and women running after me. 'Jâr-i,' sez I to myself, 'I never thought I should see my own funeral!' Well, in three weeks, I was out of the hospital, and—and—let me see—where's my wooden leg? I want to go down to the shore; there's a boat coming in——" and he rambled away in delirium, and in spite of his plucky spirit, his sickness conquered him, and for many days he lay at the point of death.
Then came the time when the warmth and tenderness of the Welsh hearts were shown—not a man, woman, or child who did not feel a personal sorrow. They took it in turns to watch through the long nights at the sick man's bed, with eager interest anticipating every want, and endeavouring to make Mari Vone's burden lighter. From every farm in the neighbourhood came presents of milk and eggs. The sailors brought high-shouldered bottles of Hollands and Schnapps; the fishermen dared the storms to procure fish; and even the children brought eggs or apples for Mari. Gwladys was a frequent visitor; and Hugh often sat beside the sick man, whose illness he felt was due to his faithful, though rash, devotion to himself. His presence seemed to have a soothing effect upon 'n'wncwl Jos; the excited, delirious talk would quiet down to a low rambling, even to a pleasant recalling of youthful days of merriment, and Mari Vone learned once more to welcome the sound of Hugh's footsteps as he approached the cottage door.
One afternoon, while Hugh sat beside him, the old man fell into a calm, refreshing sleep, a sleep that had been anxiously watched for by Dr. Hughes, but which seemed dangerously long delayed. Hugh knew the importance of this sleep, and, nodding to Mari, said quietly, "Go and rest thyself, I will watch till he wakes;" and she had gone thankfully, and resting on her own bed, the tension of the long anxiety was relaxed, and the drooping eyelids were fast closed in as heavy and refreshing a sleep as 'n'wncwl Jos's.
Through the broad, gaping hinges of the tar-painted bedroom door, standing half open, Hugh, as he sat there motionless, holding the sick man's hand, could see into the cosy penisha, and out through the open doorway into the road. It was one of those calm, sunny days which sometimes visit us in November. The sound of the sea filled the air, the click of Shoni-go's anvil, and the voices of the children at play on the beach, came on the breeze. Hugh sat on quietly dreaming, letting his thoughts roam uncurbed over the events of his past life. He remembered how, in the days gone by, he had crossed the threshold of this cottage with the ecstatic buoyancy of a lover, not unmixed with the reverence of a worshipper who enters the shrine which contains his idol. Certainly he had loved Mari Vone with a depth and intensity which he thought neither time nor eternity had power to annihilate. "Neither has it," he thought, "it is only altered. I am a married man now, and Gwladys has my love, my respect, my tender pity; but there is a bond which links me to Mari Vone, so pure, so strong, so enduring, that I fear not to lay it before God, and to ask His blessing upon it."
At this moment a shadow darkened the outer doorway, and a light footstep (everyone walked gingerly there now) came into the kitchen. Hugh raised his eyes, and a pleased, indulgent look came over his face as he saw through the crack that it was Gwladys. "The little one, bless her!" he thought, but he made no movement; and Gwladys, noticing the restful quiet in the house, the cessation of the rambling voice in the sick-room, guessed at once that the hoped-for sleep had come, and prepared to leave on tip-toe. She stood a moment at the table, laying down a bowl of curds and milk which she had brought for Mari, and at that instant another figure darkened the doorway, and raising her finger to her lips to enforce silence, she saw Ivor Parry enter silently. Hugh saw it all, too, and found it difficult to keep his hand quietly on 'n'wncwl Jos's. For a moment, as before, the two who confronted each other in the kitchen stood embarrassed and silent; but Gwladys first regained her composure, and in a whisper, which Hugh's quick ear caught distinctly, said: