“Aye, man, it’s bad; it’ll have to be endured, an’ to think ye brought it on yourself. Where’s Catherine?”
“She’s to Pally Hughes’s for the All-Hallows’ party.”
“Och, she’ll be taken there!”
“Aye, an’ oh! Eilir, she was loth to go to Pally’s, but I could not tell her the truth.”
“That’s so, lad; are ye not goin’?”
“I cannot go; I’m fair crazy an’ I’ll just be creepin’ home, waitin’ for them to bring her back. Ow!”
“I’m sorry, man,” called Eilir, looking after him with an expression of sympathy: “I can be of no use to ye now.”
Across the bridge the windows of Pally Hughes’s grey-stone cottage shone with candles, and as the doors swung to and fro admitting guests, the lights from within flickered on the brass doorsill and the hum of merry words reached the street. Mrs. Morgan the baker, dressed in her new scarlet whittle and a freshly starched cap, was there; Mr. Howell the milliner, in his highlows and wonderful plum-coloured coat; Mrs. Jenkins the tinman, with bright new ribbons to her cap and a new beaver hat which she removed carefully upon entering; and Mr. Wynn “the shop,” whose clothes were always the envy of Gwynen village; and many others, big-eyed girls and straight young men, who crossed the bright doorsill.
Finally, Catherine Jones tapped on the door. Within, she looked vacantly at the candles on the mantelpiece and on the table, all set in festoons of evergreens and flanked by a display of painted china eggs and animals; and at the lights shining steadily, while on the hearth a fire crackled. Catherine, so heavy was her heart, could scarcely manage a decent friendly greeting to old Pally Hughes, her hostess. She looked uncheered at the big centre table, whereon stood a huge blue wassail-bowl, about it little piles of raisins, buns, spices, biscuits, sugar, a large jug of ale and a small bottle tightly corked. She watched the merriment with indifference; bobbing for apples and sixpences seemed such stupid games. There was no one in whom she could confide now, and anyway it was too late; there was nothing to be done, and while they were talking lightly and singing, too, for the harp was being played, the hours were slipping away, and her one thought, her only thought, was to get home to Vavasour. “Oh,” reflected Catherine, “I’m a wicked, wicked woman to be bringin’ him to his death!”
The candles were blown out and the company gathered in a circle about the fire to tell stories, while a kettle of ale simmered on the crane and the apples hung roasting. Pally began the list of tales. There was the story of the corpse-candle Lewis’s wife saw, and how Lewis himself died the next week; there were the goblins that of All-Hallows’ Eve led Davies such a dance, and the folks had to go out after him with a lantern to fetch him in, and found him lying in fear by the sheep-wall; and there were the plates and mugs Annie turned upside down and an unseen visitor turned them right side up before her very eyes.