Part 9

On the Sunday after this week that Gelligaer will never forget, the minister, without a note of any kind on the desk or in his hand, preached a sermon of extraordinary power. And the old white-haired deacons sitting in a row around the pulpit nodded their heads approvingly, for it seemed to them that the good old times of fifty years ago were coming back, when all preaching in Wales was extemporaneous. Keturah alone looked with troubled face upon the minister, certain that a catastrophe was overtaking him, at the nature of which she had shrewdly guessed. And it was the Monday following this Sunday that the Reverend Samson Jones made a convulsive resolution to see Jane Elin and tell her all. He would send for her to come to his pastoral study; it would be easier to talk with her there. His action in sending for Jane Elin was like the action of the man who instinctively puts out his hand to shield his head from a blow, for Samson Jones saw the calamity coming upon him.

He stood with down-dropped eyes as she came into the study, fingering the objects on his writing-table.

Jane Elin went up to him swiftly. "What is it, Samson? Has anything happened? Do you need me?"

"Aye, I have been meaning this last week--it seemed only right--I don't see how it is possible--I----"

"Och, tell me, Samson, tell me quickly, what is it?"

"Well, that day two weeks ago----"

"Dear, dear!" Jane Elin interjected, turning pale.

Samson Jones was thinking of an escape, any escape--this was too horrible, he could not continue with it--when his eye fell on a letter just received from his mother in answer to the one sent by the deacon's wife, and the word "mother" flashed over his whole being like a great light revealing a path in the darkness. The joy in the freedom that came to him with this thought was almost too great for him to bear. His mother would help him.

"My mother," he stammered, "my mother, och, it is too horrible!"

"Dear anwyl!" said Jane pitifully, thinking of sickness or of death. "Is it that bad?"

"Aye," he muttered, looking around wildly, and then at his watch; "there's just time to catch the narrow-gauge to Qwyllyn. Och, goodbye!" And he was gone.

With a sense of real relief, Jane Elin stood still a moment. It was that, after all, which had been worrying him. Why had he not told her before that his mother was ill?

She walked thoughtfully toward the kitchen. "Keturah, is she very ill?"

"Who?"

"The master's mother; he told me to tell you he'd gone to catch the narrow-gauge. Is she?"

Keturah's eyes widened and contracted as she said, "Aye, very."

"Och, 'tis too bad! I must go to him."

"Nay, nay, there's no need, Miss Williams, he'll manage somehow."

"Aye, but I can nurse her; yes, I must go; I can get the next train."

"Well, ye know best," replied Keturah.

Keturah continued to sit by the fire, muttering to herself: "Well, well indeed, 'tis as I thought; dear, the poor lass, the poor lad! Trouble, trouble, trouble!" She leaned forward to stir the pot. "He'll not be wantin' it, not at all." Keturah dwelt moodily on her thoughts, with no change in attitude except when she took the oat-cake from the skillet and reached forward to stir the pot. "'Tis certain disgrace whatever; och, och, the poor lad!"

Suddenly there was the rush of hurrying feet and Deb came in breathless and excited. "Well, well, he's gone, and I didn't know that his mother----" she gasped.

"Aye, he went over an hour ago," interrupted Keturah.

"He was passin' the window, an' my mistress saw him an' called to him; but he wouldn't stay, he said he couldn't, he was runnin' to catch the train."

"Aye, so he was indeed," agreed Keturah.

"An' she ordered me to pack up an' call the coach, an' so I did; she thought she'd get there all the quicker to help him than by takin' the train an' makin' so many changes."

"Jane Elin's gone, too; she left Gelligaer over half an hour past," said Keturah slowly.

"The schoolmistress gone?" questioned Deb. "What for, indeed?"

"To be with him."

"To be with him!"

"Aye, ye're blind, blind as a bat, Deborah, an' that trustin' ye see nothin' and believe anythin'. Believin' the whale swallowed Jonah is nothin' to what ye're capable of takin' on faith," ended Keturah, with infinite sarcasm.

"Dear, dear, dear, Keturah, I cannot believe this whatever! What shall we do? Och, the disgrace it'll be!"

There was an imperative rap on the door: "Keturah, where is my sister?"

"Gone, Mr. Tudur, to be with the minister."

"She left word his mother was ill. I do not believe it. Is she?"

"Nay, to my knowledge, the old lady Jones is not ill."

"Och, the scoundrel! I thought it of him. There, you Deb, where's your mistress?"

"She's--she's gone, too," Deb answered, shaking from her ankles up.

"Gone where?"

"To Qwyllyn."

"I'll go after," he shouted, slamming the door.

Keturah sank back by the fire. "Well, indeed, well, indeed!" she said, with the peaceful accent of one who has accomplished an end, "they're all off now. Ye've no need to cry, for what will be, will be," she continued dryly to Deb, who was sobbing. "The old lady Jones will manage."

"Och, but 'tis shockin', shockin'; an' they'll never have him in Gelligaer again."

"So 'tis. Well, they're all on the road now. The master's about at Dinas; Jane Elin, if her train's on time, is at Llanengan; the widow Morgan, if her coach is makin' good speed, is about at Abersoch; and Tudur's just leavin' Gelligaer. The old lady Jones will have her hands full, but she's a wise old lady, a very wise old lady. 'Twill all get settled when she takes it up, aye, so 'twill."

_A Last Discipline_

"Barbara, the flummery's sour!"

Samuel pushed back his dish and dropped his spoon.

"Aye, dad, a bit sour; I'm sorry."

"A bit sour!" exclaimed the husband, "a bit sour! tut, _more'n_ a bit sour, whatever!"

Barbara looked at him, the corners of her sweet old mouth trembling, "Father, I'm sorry; I thought it was better nor usual."

"Better nor usual! Ye're full of fancies, Barbara, a-runnin' round nursin' other folks, an takin' other folks' troubles, all except your own. Yesterday ye made broth for the servant-men, an' it was every bit meat; broth like that'll ruin my pocket, an' anyhow we arn't providin' for gentlemen's families."

"Aye, father dear, but for a long while they've had nothin' but barefoot porridge, an' there was a little extra meat in the house, an' I thought----"

"An' ye thought! Ye needn't think, mother. Such thinkin' as ye do is ruinin' my prospects."

"Dad dear, I'll not do it again if ye say no."

"I did not say 'no,' I said yesterday ye gave the men an all-meat broth an' it was no holiday."

The old man's voice grew petulantly angry, the childlike appeal of his wife's eyes, the trembling lips, her gentle sweetness, irritated him.

"Very well, dear."

"Mother, they've milk on the farm, which is more'n they'd have in their own homes; if they lived at home they'd be scramblin' with their children to suck herrin'-bones. Stirabout with plenty of milk is good for any man, an' it's especially good for a workin' man; they have all the stirabout they can eat here, an' some kind of meat-broth an' tart every day."

"Very well, dear, I'll see that it doesn't happen again."

"Aye, an' mother, I found one of the tubs of butter in the dairy touched; there was most a half a pound of butter taken out. Do ye know who took it?"

"Dad, I took it for Mrs. Powell the carpenter, who's ill."

"For Mrs. Powell the carpenter! An' then how are we goin' to pay the landlord, think ye, if ye go takin' the butter to sick people?"

"She's very sick, father, an' they're very poor, an' I thought it would be such a nice to her just now, and she did relish it so."

"Relish it! Aye, soon ye'll be distributin' the sheep to the neighbours. An', mother, I found some broken crockery in the garden out by the corner of the hedge. It looked most as if it had been hidden there; do ye know anythin' about it?"

"Aye, I know somethin' about it."

"An' what do ye know?"

"Father, that I shall not be tellin' ye, whatever."

"Not be tellin' me! not be tellin' _me_?" he exclaimed hotly. "Tut, Barbara, what's come over ye?"

"No, father, not be tellin' ye," answered Barbara, with gentle deliberateness.

"Indeed, we'll see. Maggie, Maggie," shouted Samuel, "Maggie, come here!"

Maggie came hurrying to the door, anxiety in every feature of her face.

"Maggie Morgan, what do ye----" began Samuel.

"Father, that will do," interrupted Barbara; "Maggie, ye may go."

The girl turned and went; speechless, Samuel regarded his wife.

"Father," she continued gently, "I broke it an' I hid it. I was--mixin' oat-cake in the bowl an' the bowl was on my knee, an' suddenly it slipped an' fell on to the flaggin's an' broke. Then I hid it 'cause,"--the quiet voice faltered,--"'cause--why 'cause, of course, father, I thought ye'd be troubled over it if ye saw it, an' ye'd not miss it if ye didn't."

"Alack, mother!" There was genuine astonishment in the husband's exclamation. "Barbara! to think we'd be livin' together forty-five years an' ye deceivin' me at the last like this. I've just one thing the more to say to ye. There's no cause for makin' a duck-pond out'n the kitchen floor an' if----"

"But, father," interrupted Barbara, wiping her eyes with her apron, "father _dear_, the lads was just foolin' a little an' they spilt a bit of water on the flaggin's, an' before Maggie could mop it up ye came in."

"Tell them an' such as them to go live with the pigs!" And Samuel, pushing back his chair, rose hastily to his feet, and left the room.

"Father, father _dear_!" called Barbara.

There was no answer, and she was alone.

"Oh, father, if ye but loved me as ye used to! There were never any words then. Oh, lad, lad!"

There was no reproach, no bitterness in her voice, only longing; she loved him so, and their time at best was short, and she couldn't manage to please him in anything. And perhaps this was their one chance--a few years at best, perhaps a few weeks, and it might be only days. She cried patiently as if she had lost something irrecoverable, an ideal, a hope, a child. Their past, the past of their youth, lay before her now, in its human romance and young love, like something perished; and, wistful, she dwelt in its memories, on its common human beauty. Suddenly she ceased crying.

"Aye, but I lied to him an' I never did before, indeed. I was afraid Maggie'd lose her place if he knew she broke it; an' to think that I hid the pieces from him! Oh, Sammie, Sammie! I'm deservin' what's come to-day, deservin' it," she concluded with satisfaction, "for sinnin' so against conscience."

She sat up straight in her chair as if to receive punishment.

"An' I'm more blessed than most. Samuel's a good man an' well respected--no man better respected. He's honest in his dealin's, he's more generous than some to his men. There was Eilir's little lad he paid the doctor's bill for, an' Morgan's old mother he buried an'----" Barbara was sitting very straight in her chair now, with one wrinkled hand spread before her, telling off on its fingers Samuel's good deeds; her eyes shone joyously, there were so many, and in their numbering she forgot a sore heart, a cap askew, a kerchief wet over the bosom, and a wrinkled apron. "An' there was old Silvan he'd partly fed an' clothed these ten years, an' an old crot no one would do anything for, an' Sammie helped her, too. An' there was the dress he brought me from the fair, an' the gold-rimmed spectacles from Liverpool, an' the beautiful linen for caps, better nor any one else in the valley has. An' he's done everythin' for the children, an' one of them's fine a scholar as any in Wales, which is sayin' much. Aye, he's a good man, an' I'm a wicked woman to be dreamin' so; but oh, lad, lad _dear_," she ended lamely, "if ye'd only love me as ye used to!"

Samuel went out on to the farm with irritable thoughts, indignant against extravagances which he laid to Barbara, and which meant a slender purse even in their old age. He was willing to admit that she was a good woman, aye, a more than ordinarily good woman, but where she fell short, he thought, was in managing. Yes, he had prospered a little; for an instant he had an uncomfortable sense of owing this prosperity in part to the efforts of some one besides himself. But there was this constant leakage, and again his mind flamed up over the broth and the broken pottery. It was the woman's business to see to it that no ha'penny was wasted; he failed to recall a certain rusted spade, some moulded straps, and a snapped fill in the year's calendar. And then, at last, manlike, in the midst of the work out on the farm, he not only washed his lungs with the keen mountain air, but he washed his mind of the whole difficulty, straightway forgetting it.

When once more he entered the house for his tea, he found Barbara in the kitchen knitting before the fire--knitting socks for him. There was no trace of what had passed, no trace of her care, her grief. Her cap was fresh and tied with new ribbons, her kerchief was folded neatly over her shoulders, her apron clear white and starched, and out from beneath the short skirt peeped two brass-toed shoes bright-eyed as mice. Samuel did not know how quaint and sweet she looked. But then, why should he? she had been always just so. He took her, all of her, for granted,--the bit of red in her old cheeks, red that matched the bright cap-ribbons; the soft white hair, the tender eyes, the kind tired mouth, the little figure dainty as the sweet alyssum in their garden--in short, there was nothing to be remarked upon; he simply took her for granted as he had done always, or as, for example, one takes the fresh air till one is in prison, or the sky till one goes blind, or love till it is gone.

The tea and bread and butter were on the table. Barbara poured out his cup, put in the sugar, the top of the cream, and passed the cup to him as he sat toasting his feet before the fire. Then she handed him the bread.

"Well, father," she said, patting him on the shoulder, "did ye have a successful afternoon?"

"Aye, Barbara," he answered, "fine."

Without touching the tea, she took up her knitting.

"Are the lambs comin', dear?"

"Aye, mother, they're most as big as yearlin's now. Are ye not goin' to take tea?"

"No, I've a bit distress, no more'n I have often."

"Have ye tried the peppermint?"

"Aye, but it's no good. Did Eilir say what the shearin' 'd be?"

"He did; it'll be heavier nor usual. It'll make a big shipment this year."

"Good, father, we'll be takin' a trip to the lad's college yet, what with the lambs comin' fine, the wool heavy, the calves double the number they were last year. Father, do ye think the boy'd be ashamed of his old mam?"

"Ashamed? He's no lad of mine if he is. Well, mother, if it's all really comin' as well as it seems to be, we'll be takin' that trip to see the boy."

"Oh, father dear, 'twould be grand, what I've dreamed of these many, many years!" Barbara dropped her knitting and clasped her hands in childlike abandonment of pleasure.

"Tut, mam," added Samuel, his face lengthening, "it's not absolutely certain, what with waste in the kitchen, the breakin' of crockery, an' the men eatin' themselves out'n house an' home, it's no tellin'. It might be an extravagance, but we'll see."

"But, father!" exclaimed Barbara impulsively, and stopped.

"Well, mam, maybe it'll be; maybe we'll see the boy an' see him a great man in his college, aye, a most successful man, as good's the best."

"Oh, dearie, to think we'll be seein' him--perhaps. But, dad, do ye think he'll forget he's my boy?"

"Why should he? Mother, if we're goin' it'll be in six weeks."

"Aye, but father,"--Barbara paused, her head reflectively to one side,--"there's the shoes. I'll have to be havin' shoes; these clogs'll not do for the lad's college."

"No matter, mother," replied Samuel, thrusting his hands into his pockets with boyish energy, "we'll have proper shoes for ye an' we'll go first to Liverpool for a travellin' suit for ye an' a proper bonnet for me an'----"

"Listen to what ye are sayin'--a bonnet for _ye_!" And Barbara laughed merrily.

"Dear me!" laughed Samuel, slapping his knee, "I mean a proper bonnet for _ye_ an' for _me_ a proper suit of clothes. Aye, we'll afford it all if the lambs keep comin'."

"Dearie, it'll be most too much happiness, the boy, the trip, an all the clothes. I'll be takin' him some socks an'----" Barbara gasped and touched her side with her hand.

"What ails ye, mother?"

"It's just a stitch in my side." Samuel did not notice that Barbara had turned white up to the very edges of her cap. "An' what'll ye be takin' him, dearie?"

"Dear, dear, I'll bring him a--a--well, mother, what'll I take him? He's such a great man 'twouldn't do to fetch him a cheese or eggs or a fowl, now would it?"

"That's so, father," replied Barbara reflectively. "Aye, he's a great man an' 'twouldn't do, whatever. I have it, dad, we'll be buyin' him books in Liverpool."

"Good, so we will, mam, as many books as we can afford." And Samuel thrust his hands still further into his pockets, pursed out his lips, spread his legs apart, and contemplated the fire earnestly. "Aye, mother, books is the very thing; the lad'll be more'n pleased to have them an' to think I thought of them."

"Aye, that's so, dearie."

"Well, I'll be goin' now; we'll have to be makin' haste to have all done in six weeks, an' we'll go, mother, we'll go if we can afford it."

Samuel strode out of the room; he was over seventy, but he walked with youthful elation; indeed, in some marked fashion, despite white hair, wrinkled skin, and limbs that were beginning to bend with years, he was still a boy.

Barbara looked after him, sighing wistfully as he left the room. "It seems a bit like bein' young once more, a bit like old times." She caught her side again. "This stitch is worse than common. Aye, dearie, I was unjust to ye the mornin', an' I'm a bad old woman."

When Samuel came in for supper, he found Barbara lying down. Nothing was the matter, she assured him, "just a stitch worse than common, aye, an' they'd be goin' to Liverpool the same." But as the night wore on it grew worse still, and by morning she was a very sick woman, suffering what even his man's eyes could see was intense pain. The old cheeks had shrunk in the night, the face blanched to an ashen gray; only the eyes remained unchanged and shone sweetly and serenely upon him.

The physician was sent for, and while one of the men was fetching him, Samuel told Barbara at least fifty times that she would "be better the morrow," and each time Barbara, too weak for speech, nodded as much as to say that she certainly would be. When the doctor came he saw her extremity and sent Samuel and Maggie from the room. A quick examination followed.

"Samuel," said the doctor, stepping into the kitchen, "Barbara is a very sick woman."

"Aye, sir, but she'll be better the morrow."

"No, Samuel, not to-morrow."

"Not to-morrow, sir? Then next day?"

"No, man, nor the next day."

"But, sir, Barbara's never ill."

"She can never get well here."

"Not the week, sir?"

"Samuel, ye do not understand. _Barbara will never be well here._"

"Och!"

"She's dying, man; there's nothing to do for her that could be done out of Liverpool."

"Liverpool," said Samuel.

His thoughts seemed to be somewhere in the back of his mind, inaccessible, walled up from contact with the reality of what he heard and saw. He appeared unable to grasp what had happened, what was coming. Surely he was walking in a dream, and every minute there was the chance, so he thought, that he might awake from it. What was this that had come upon him in a night? Certainly not the reality, for with that he had been living for years--that was life. Barbara was dying; the words rang oddly in his ears without reaching his mind. Some stranger was speaking with him; he did not understand. Barbara was dying; no, not Barbara, somebody else; other people _did_ die. Barbara, was dying; not his Barbara, not the mother of his children, the wife of his fireside, his companion during a lifetime. Somebody _was_ dying; no, not his Barbara but somebody else; just give him time to think. Barbara was dying--could it be his Barbara?

"Dyin'?" asked Samuel aloud, "_Barbara_ dyin'?" He repeated the words as if questioning and testing them.

"Aye, man," replied the doctor sharply, "she's dying; she's caught herself lifting something. With an operation there might be some chance; but there's none here in this place, only in Liverpool."

"Aye, Liverpool," answered Samuel, "we're goin' to Liverpool soon."

The doctor glanced at him keenly; before this he had seen childishness with some shock of grief take a sudden, unrelinquishing hold on old age.

"Well," continued Samuel, still as if talking to himself or to some one outside the room, "we'll go now; aye, we'll take the chance."

"But, man," replied the doctor, "it'll cost more money than ye spend in two years."

"No matter, sir, we'll sell the sheep, if need be. Aye, dearie," he added gently, "we'll take the chance."

"There's no time to spare, then," said the doctor looking at his watch.

"Aye," replied Samuel, "we'll be ready."

"Then be sharp about it," said the doctor, alert for the one chance of life.

"Aye, sir"; and Samuel went into the room where Barbara lay.

He looked down upon her lying in bed; he could see that her strength was slipping, slipping away. He dropped on his knees beside her. He patted her hand, he smoothed her forehead.

"Mother!" he called.

Her eyes smiled confidingly, reassuringly up at him.

"Och, mother, I never thought of this!"

There came a feeble answering pat from her hand.

"Mother, we're goin' to Liverpool; aye, dear, they're goin' to make ye well."

Barbara moaned, and her eyes brimmed with tears.

"Father _dear_," she whispered, "let me--oh! Sammie--let me die--here."

"Tut, mam, ye're not goin' to die--aye, they'll be makin' ye well in Liverpool."

"Dad _dear_," she plead, "let me--die--here."

"But, mam," argued Samuel, "the lad'll be there waitin' for us--an'--an' to see ye," he ended weakly.

"Sammie, Sammie," she begged, "let me die here--not--away--from--home; the lad--will--understand."

"Barbara, there's a chance for ye to get well; will ye not take it for me, dearie--aye, will ye not do it for me, Barbara, for my sake?"

The big eyes that had looked into his without anger, without selfishness, through all the circumstances of life, smiled now with sudden sweetness. The hand lying in his hand tightened, her lips trembled.

"Aye, Sammie, lad, I will."

"Dearie, Barbara, my Barbara!" he exclaimed, struggling to control himself. "Oh, mam, I do love ye so, an' I've not been good to ye!"

"Sammie, not been good to me? but ye have been, lad, an' I'm a bad old woman an' before I leave the house----"

"Mam _dear_, ye're not to say such things. I've found fault with ye an' neglected ye, but ye do know I love ye?"

"Aye, lad _dear_, I know--ye--love me but I'm a bad--old--woman, an' I must tell ye before--I--leave the house----"

"Tut, mother, mother, ye're not to say such things. I'll do for ye now, oh! I will. Mam, I'd never thought of this."

"But lad," she persisted, "I'm a bad old woman an'----"

"Tut, dearie, no, no," he silenced her. "We've just a little while an' I must see about some things. I'll call Maggie an' she'll have ye all ready, dear."

Preparations were soon made, and when Maggie had her mistress wrapped up for the journey, Samuel and the doctor hastened into the room. It was evident that Barbara's strength was ebbing more and more rapidly away.

After she was lying on the stretcher she reached out a hand to Maggie. "Goodbye, my dear," she faltered; "be--a--good--girl."

"Och, mistress, please let me tell----"