It was a dull heavy night, in which fog and darkness contended for precedence, and the moon gleamed as if about to retire altogether, when Twm Shon Catty shaped his course over the mountain, in the direction which led to Lampeter; he looked instinctively towards his dear native town, which a fashionable tourist would perhaps have called the most wretched village in the universe; but, to him, it was full of sweet associations, and recollections the most agreeable; the scene of his childhood, the home of his mother:
Dear to all their natal spot,
Although ’twere Nature’s foulest blot;
For, wherever we may roam,
There’s ne’er a place like Home, sweet Home.
He stopped, and looked wistfully towards Tregaron; the lights were glistening in their various humble casements, and he fancied that among them all he could distinguish his mother’s—his kind fond mother’s—whom, perhaps, he was never to see again,—and now he recollected many instances of her tenderness, which had long slumbered in his recollection. His eyes filled with tears, and the softness of his heart was put at once into mournful harmony.
A sudden thought, no less eccentric than daring, now took him, that thus disguised, he might safely pass through Tregaron, and perhaps see his mother before his departure. This idea was no sooner started than acted upon; and, before an hour had expired, he found himself once more in the long and almost only street in Tregaron. He met two or three old women whom he knew well, but there was no recognition on their part, only a long, vacant stare of astonishment, no doubt wondering who the stranger could be, venturing into Tregaron at that late hour. His mother’s door was closed for the night, and he durst not call to her, as Jack was not to be trusted. He moved on, looking earnestly to every door. The whole street seemed still as death, except that various snores, here and there, reminded Twm of the sweet sleep enjoyed by others though denied to him; while the stray villagers whom he had met were busy locking their doors, or barring them with the wooden sash.
He sauntered slowly along, meditating on the circumstance that made him afraid to face those who knew him, till opposite to the cottage of his old companion and elder brother in mischief, Watt the mole-catcher. Watt had long lived with a widowed mother, who had recently died, and now sojourned alone in her solitary hut; it was even reported that he had forsaken all his wicked ways, grown serious, and was consequently likely to do well. It occurred to Twm that he had often heard Watt deny the existence of ghosts and hobgoblins, and vaunt that nothing of that description could in the least frighten him; and now, thought Twm, I’ll put his courage to the trial.
Peeping through the casement, he saw Watt in bed, at the farther end of the cottage, and the fire burning through the peat heaped up to preserve it for the night, so that the white walls within were brightened by the gleams cast on them from the hearth. Softly lifting the latch, he opened the door, entered, and, walking quietly towards the hearth, sat on the three-legged stool, took up the old snoutless bellows, and began blowing the fire with all his might. Watt awoke in extreme terror, and seeing the figure of a tall woman in the chimney corner, deeming it no other than his mother’s spirit, his fright increased.
Trembling and almost dissolved in perspiration, he at last burst out into a roar of “Lord have mercy on me! oh, mother’s dear spirit, pity me!” Twm laughed out, and ran to his bed-side to stop his roaring cries, exclaiming, “Silence, man, ’tis I, Twm, your old friend, Twm Shon Catty.” Watt slowly awoke to the consciousness that his theory did not stand the test of practice, and that this had been proven by one who had often heard him vaunting as to his fearlessness of the supernatural.
Convinced of his identity, and having heard our hero’s story, he said, “’Twere better you were at the bottom of a river, Twm, than here, for I have been compelled, by Parson Evans, to make an oath that if you came here, I would immediately either send or run myself to inform him of your arrival; and I can’t break, an oath, Twm, for anybody.”
“I did not think,” said our hero coolly, “that you, who have broken so many laws, would scruple much about breaking a forced oath; but old companionship pleads weakly, opposed to the reward that will be given for my apprehension; I thought, though the whole town were to turn against me that you, Watt would have been my friend, for you have led me into many troubles, and I never laid a jot of blame to your charge, but took all to myself, and have often suffered on your account.”
Watt, who by this time had nearly dressed himself, was much affected by this appeal, and said, “No, Twm, I will never betray you, but, if I were known in the least to favour you it would ruin all my hopes of success in life. I am, next week, to be married to Betsy Gwevelheer, [140] Parson Evan’s maid that I have courted these ten years; and the parson has promised to do great things at the bidding: and more than that, I am to be the parish clerk and grave-digger when old Morgan Meredith dies, and he can’t live long, as I have made him a present of a good church-yard cough, by breaking a hole in the thatch over his bed, by which he has gained a great hoarseness, and nearly lost his voice; so that I expect to be called in to officiate for him next Sunday.”