[CHAPTER XXXV
NEW YEAR’S EVE]
THE Pig-driver had been absent from his usual haunts for more than ten days, business having taken him on a stealthy tour of inspection to the connecting links of his trade; it was a duty which called to him at the end of each year, and he had returned this time lighter of heart than ever, for his affairs were flourishing, and the books so carefully kept by his nephew told a promising tale.
It was New Year’s Eve; a year and more since Rhys’ and Harry’s lives had crossed under the shadow of the Black Mountain in that unconscious rivalry which their destinies had forced upon them; a year since Mary had looked her last upon her lover’s face as he rode away from the Dipping-Pool. In the great shuffle which a year will sometimes bring to groups of people whose lives concentrate in the same circle, Bumpett was the unchanged one, as he shambled into Crishowell to hear what local news had cropped up since his departure.
As he went along between the houses a burst of singing, which came like a gust of wind from a cottage a little way in front, caught his attention and made him smile. He smiled because he intended to spend the night in the village and because he knew very well that no conviviality was considered complete without his presence, more especially on an occasion so important as the seeing-out of the Old Year. He moistened his lips with his tongue and hurried forward, a pleasant anticipation on his face; it was little more than eight o’clock, and there was a deal in the way of joviality possible before midnight.
He paused outside the house, like the discreet man he was, to see if he could identify any of the voices before committing himself to their society. A new song was beginning, and he recognized it as one called “Mary Morris” which had come from the mining districts, and which was very popular in the neighbourhood. It was sung by a single voice, and set forth the rather irregular loves of the mining character who was its hero. At the last line of each verse the company joined in with an ardour and a breadth of vowel which bid fair to rouse the village.
There was a large stone outside the door, the remains of an old horse-block, and on this the Pig-driver sat down to listen.
The singer made one or two false starts, and finding himself invariably landed in a higher key than he had bargained for, seemed inclined to desist but for the encouragements of his audience, which, at last, launched him safely upon the surging wave of the tune.
“O! Mary Ma-awris!
Why was you leave me?
You leave me all alone, most fit to break my he-a-art!
You have gone and left me,
All alone so cruel,
Never am I happy since you and I was pa-art!”
“Since yew an’ oi was pa-a-art!” roared the chorus.