CHAPTER XV.
The return of our hero to Tregaron. His welcome from old friends, cronies, and acquaintances. Is engaged by Squire Graspacre, and is elevated socially and physically.
After setting out early in the morning, and walking all day over the rugged mountain road, the heart of Twm Short Catty thrilled with delight, and the tears filled in his eyes, when, late in the evening, his own native place, the humble town of Tregaron appeared before him. Each object that met his eager gaze was familiar; not a shrub but Twm knew it, not a spot but was remembered in Twm’s mind by some vagary or other practised either by himself or the renowned Watt; and although his feet were so blistered that he could scarcely move, he attempted to make his limbs partake of the new vigour which sprung up in his heart, and essayed to run, but failing in his aim, fell down completely mastered by exhaustion and fatigue. Whether, like Brutus, he was re-nerved by breathing awhile on the bosom of his mother earth, or that the thoughts within, of home and its association, gave him strength, he rose much refreshed, but with considerable pain continued the short untraced portion of his journey.
Entering the town, at length, just as the darkness began to veil every object, he came to his mother’s door, which was open, and cast an inquiring look before he entered. Catty had long dismissed her scholars, and sat in the chimney corner with her back towards the door; whilst Carmarthen Jack was busily engaged upon an artistic combination upon the handle of a ladle. He was a thoroughly business man, as far as spoons and ladles were concerned, and on this occasion he sat sullenly busy in scooping out the bowl of a new ladle.
Twm’s merry trick-loving soul is not to be subdued by his troubles; having drawn his flat-rimmed old hat over his eyes, he leaned over his mother’s hatch, and in a feigned voice, begged for a piece of bread and cheese, saying that he was a poor boy, very hungry and tired, who was making his way home to Lampeter. “We are poor folk ourselves, and have nothing to give,” said Carmarthen jack, rather gruffly. “Stop!” cried Catty, “he’s a poor child, Jack, a bit of bread and cheese is not much, and somebody might take pity on my poor Twm, and give him as much, if he should need it.”
The affectionate heart of Twm could no longer contain itself, but opening the latch, he burst forward, dashing his hat on the ground, and falling on her neck, giving the most ardent utterance to the word “mother,” and after the tender pause of nature’s own embrace, he cried with streaming eyes, “My good, kind, charitable mother! you shall never want bread and cheese while your poor Twm has health and strength to earn it.” Warmly returning his embrace and kisses, Catty long clasped her boy, and was quite terrified to see his pale lean cheek, and altered looks. Ashamed of the exposure of his pitiless nature, Jack now came up, shook hands and condoled with him, but Twm had seen the man, and loved him not.
Twm was an excellent judge of human nature, and he knew well the duplicity and cunning of his father-in-law, and shunned him accordingly. Twm would never fraternize harmoniously with those he did not like. In this, he was invariably honest.
After being refreshed, Catty eagerly enquired of all that had happened to him since he left home, and wept much as he detailed his narrow escape from starvation and the small-pox. By twelve o’clock next day, his tale was known to everybody at Tregaron.
The catastrophe at Morris Greeg’s, of course, was considered a judgment from heaven for his miserly propensities; and Ianto Gwyn again set his poetical muse at work, and after a slight effort wrote a pathetic ballad, to the great edification of old women and tender-hearted damsels, giving a true and particular account of the whole affair; to which was attached a moral on the cruelty of mal-treating parish apprentices, and stuffing them with mouldy bread and sour flummery. This interesting ballad was daily sung by Watt, the mole-catcher, to the English tune of Chevy Chase, which gained the good-will of all those old cronies who had taken deep offence at his numerous tricks.
Carmarthen Jack, although so careful of his bread and cheese, was determined not to be outdone on this occasion, but brought the graphic art to perpetuate his stepson’s tale; that is to say, he carved on a wooden bowl the figures of four beings, well-attended, in bed, with the scythe of death across their throats, while in the distance a meagre boy was snatching a joint of meat from the fire. The effort, artistically regarded, was not calculated to carry away the Royal Academy’s prize; the idea perhaps was better than the execution; but altogether it gained Jack very great applause.