[[12]] Without pride.
CHAPTER III.
MARI "VONE."
"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!"