The old man clasped and unclasped his hands helplessly, childish disappointment overspreading his face.
“David dear, if ye’d but listen to what I was a-goin’ to say”—Annie gulped—”I was a-goin’ to say that I’ve not heard the cuckoo yet, but that everythin’ ’s over early an’ I’m expectin’ to hear one any time now. It’s so warm there might be one singin’ at dusk to-day—there might be!”
“Might there be?” asked David, his eyes brightening, “might there be, Annie?”
“Aye, there might be, lad,” and she lifted his head on her arm gently while she turned the pillow.
“It’s over early,” he objected, “an’, Annie——”
“Davie dear, be still,” she commanded, drawing his head close to her bosom before she put him down on the pillow again. “Pastor Morris says everythin’ ’s over early; even the foxglove is well up in the garden; an’ the heather by Blaen Cwm will be bloomin’ a month early, an’ the hills will be pink, lad—soon. Now, dearie, I’ll be back by and by with the broth; ye must be still awhile.”
Annie went out of the room stepping as softly as she could. For a moment she stood on the doorsill, looking into the old garden, green at last after the dreary winter and beautiful in the promise of coming summer blossom. Foxglove and columbine, honeysuckle, lilies and roses would bloom, but David would see them no more! For fifty springs they had gone into the garden together, he to trim the hedge and bind up the honeysuckle, she to dig about the rose-bushes and flowers. And every spring there had been one evening when the cuckoo’s song was heard for the first time and when there came into David’s eyes a look of boyish joy. Ah, lad, lad, how she loved him! And he should hear the cuckoo again!
Resolutely Annie started up hill, climbing close by the high pasture wall, and, panting made her way as best she could over boggy places. After she had gone about a quarter of a mile she looked around her, furtively. There lay Gwyndy Bach in the distance, Ty Ceryg and Cwm Cloch far away, and the Chapel still farther. Only the mountains were near by, and a few lazy sheep trailing over their wild, grey ledges. She did not see even a sheep-dog. When she sat down by the stone-wall there was a look of approval on her face, followed, as she opened her mouth, by a look of appealing misery.
“Aye, it was somethin’ like this: coo-o. Dear, let me see, every year I’ve heard it, an’ David he does it. Coo-o-o! Tut, that sounds like a hen.” Annie peered about her. “Cu, cu,” then she shook with silent laughter. “I know! it goes over and over again, sing-song, sing-song, like this: cu-cu, cu-cu. Aye, that’s better.” Practising the song Annie rocked herself backwards and forwards. “It’s growing better!” she exclaimed, “but, lad, lad, I’m plannin’ to deceive ye”; and the tears rolled out of her old eyes. She brushed the tears away impatiently and began the song again: “Cucu-cu, cucu-cu, cucucucu, cu; aye, that’s fair, aye, it’s fine! He’ll not know me from a real cuckoo. I’ll have to be tryin’ it now, for ye’ve no long, dearie.”
Annie went down into the valley, humming the bird-notes over to herself lest she forget what she had learned. She lifted her short skirts and waded through the marshy places; in her eagerness she was unmindful of the pasture-bogs, her seventy years, her weary body; and her sparse grey hair lay damp on her forehead. In her mother-heart was but one thought: bringing his wish to Davie. Gasping she reached the southern corner of the cottage garden, and there leaned on a trellis for support till she could get her breath. Completely engrossed in what she was to do, she did not think to look about her, she did not listen for possible approaching footsteps, and even Davie had slipped in importance a wee bit behind the cuckoo song. Finally she drew a long breath and began; she paused a moment, then repeated the song, softly, slowly. Pleased with her success, she sang the song again, very softly, very slowly, till it sounded much as if it came from a distance somewhere by the stream near the mill wheel.