CHAPTER XII.

UNREST.

"Pen addysg pan oeddwm, i'r gwyrdd-ddail mi gerddwn, A'r man y dymunwn mi ganwn a'r gog; Yn awr dan ryw geubren 'rwy'n nuchu ac yn ochen, Fel clomen un adeu anwydog."

"Time was when calm in wisdom's ways, with heart at rest, I roamed the wood to hear the cuckoo sing; But now I seek the shade alone, unblest, And mourn--a shivering bird with broken wing."

"You must go to bed, Hugh," said Mari, when the moon began to look in through the little chamber window, where Gwladys lay quiet and thoughtful. "She has her mother with her, and I will come down in the early morning and make you a cup of tea; so get to bed--your eyes look weary, and your hand is shaking. A good night's rest will be best for you. I will take care of Gwladys, fâch."

"I know, I know," said Hugh; "you will be a better nurse than me, so good-night, lass. Can diolch!"

He made his way to the little back attic, where the tiny window looked out under the roof to the rugged cliffs and brown hills stretching round the edge of the bay.

Madlen, who slept in the corresponding room in the loft, wondered what kept the Mishteer up so late; for long after she had gone to bed, she had heard him pacing up and down. Mari had left Gwladys under her mother's care, with a mould candle for company, just to show any of the villagers who might look that way that the interest of the situation had not entirely departed. It was considered an imperative duty at Mwntseison to keep a candle alight in any room where there was sickness or death.

So Nani Price lighted her candle and placed it near the window, where its modest glimmer was frequently remarked upon during the night by the sympathetic villagers.

"There's a light still in the Mishtress's window," said Nell, pressing her nose against her two-paned window--"a good light, too--a shop candle, no doubt. But the Mishteer can afford it--or perhaps," she added, as she returned to bed, "perhaps it is only a dip put close to the blind!"

Sara Pentraeth was equally impressed as she looked up the road at the glimmering light.

"Wel wyr!" she said, "they have lighted a second candle--and shop candles, depend on it! Dear, dear! there's nice it is to be rich!"

In the little room under the thatch, where Hugh Morgan had retired for the night, there was no candle or lamp, but it was flooded by a stream of moonlight, which made a slanting path across the rough, uneven floor. Hugh crossed and re-crossed it as he walked with folded arms and bent head up and down--up and down until the moon was high in the sky. A rough wooden bedstead and bed occupied one dark end of the long, low room, which was otherwise destitute of furniture, excepting a worm-eaten bench which stood against the bare, white-washed wall. At the further end, in the dark shadow, stood two or three generations of spinning-wheels, in various stages of decay, accompanied by a few old cloaks and fishing-nets hanging over the rough rafters.

Here Hugh Morgan set himself to face his troubles and to fight with his angry feelings; and if, when the morning dawned, he had neither chased away the one nor conquered the other, he had at least gained courage to meet them with fortitude and patience. Suddenly he started, with his eyes fixed steadily on the further end of the room--for there, in the shadow, stood Mari Vone, her tall, graceful figure stooping forward a little, one white arm hanging by her side, the other raised and with finger pointing upwards, seemed to remind him that though he sought in vain for comfort on earth, from Heaven he might still gather help and strength! Her golden hair was unbound, and hung, as he remembered it of old, in flowing waves below her waist; and as he gazed earnestly into the darkness, her face, with every feature and lineament distinctly marked, appeared before him--the deep blue eyes, the white eyelids that too often drooped over them, the parted lips, the dimpled chin--all were distinctly visible. He did not stop to ask himself how she had come there, but with the instinctive relief which her presence always brought him, he stretched out his hands with an exclamation of greeting, and, stepping across the bar of moonlight into the dark shadow, stood face to face with--nothing!--nothing but the old spinning-wheels and nets, and cloaks of different hues which hung down beside them. He stood baffled and astounded.

"Could these old rags have shaped themselves in his imagination into Mari's beautiful form?"

He returned to his seat on the bench, and tried once more to recall the picture to his mental vision--but in vain. She was gone! And Hugh turned again to face his loneliness and sorrow. Curiously enough, as the night advanced, his thoughts were withdrawn in a great measure from Gwladys, and were occupied with Mari Vone. A sore feeling of resentment against her took the place of the placid, contented friendship which for so many years had reigned in his heart.

"It was her fault," he thought--"all this bitter trouble that had come upon him! Everybody in the village knew that she had jilted him shamefully! And what did that mad woman mean?--'The girl who has loved you all her life!' But whatever she meant, it was some fancy of her disordered brain!"

Mari Vone had injured him--had spoiled his life, and had laid him open to the temptation of a foolish headstrong passion--a passion that had already died out within him like the furze bush on yonder hillside that blazed up so merrily when the farmer's boys lighted it to-night at ten o'clock, and now see, scarcely a spark remained. So had his passion for Gwladys died out within the last few days, and Mari Vone had been the cause of all his mistakes and troubles! As for Gwladys, he bore her no resentment.

"Poor child, poor child!" he thought; "it has been no fault of hers! I alone am to blame! I was the Mishteer, and she dared not refuse me! But Ivor--how has he repaid me? But I will watch and see that at least he shall not lead Gwladys into mischief. Could they have met clandestinely? But no! the thought was unworthy of him or of her! But yet--he would watch! Yes--watch!" And for the first time in his life the giants of suspicion and jealousy clamoured loud at the door of his heart.

But he showed no outward sign of disturbance next morning when, rather late, he entered Gwladys' room. Mari Vone stood beside her, and, leaning over the still pale invalid, raised one finger to enforce silence; and the attitude instantly reminded Hugh of the figure he had seen by the old spinning wheels, and the feelings of resentment which it had roused again took possession of him.

"Hush!" said Mari, "she is sleeping!"

"That is all right," he answered, in a cold and formal voice. "I will see to my wife now, Mari; and we need trouble you no longer."

Mari was conscious in every fibre of her being of the change in his manner. She flushed visibly, but showed no intention of giving up her post beside Gwladys.

"I have promised Gwladys not to leave her to-day; so have patience with me, Hugh, and leave me here. Your breakfast is waiting."

It was in his heart to thank her for all her tenderness and affection for his unhappy wife; but he hesitated, struggling with his new-born anger, and, saying something about his breakfast, left the room awkwardly; and Mari was once more left to keep watch by the sleeping girl-wife. Downstairs in the living-room she had carefully arranged Hugh's breakfast, and after partaking of it silently, he once more entered his wife's room. She was now awake, and when he appeared stretched both hands to meet him.

"Hugh bâch!" she said, "come and sit by me. Wilt go out for a bit, Mari lass? or stay if thee lik'st, for I have no secrets from thee."

But Mari, having first stooped down to kiss her, slipped out of the room, and Hugh took the chair which she had vacated.

Gwladys' breath came in short gasps, her nervousness was painful to witness, and Hugh was smitten with a deep pity for the girl whose happiness he considered his mistaken passion had wrecked.

"I want to tell you----" she began, with dry lips and fluttering breath.

"Thou shalt tell me nothing, child! I know it all. Thou hast never loved me--thou hast never loved me since we were wedded! I have wronged thee, Gwladys; I might have known a young girl of thine age could not love a middle-aged man like me! But thou hast wronged me, too--thou shouldst have told me this that night when I went to thy mother to ask her for thee! But not a word from anyone! no one thought it worth while to stop me when they saw me rushing to destruction like a blind horse who gallops madly over the cliffs. 'Twas cruel! and I think I would have stretched out my hand to save the unhappy creature; but apparently Hugh Morgan has no friends--not even Mari Vone called me back! Well, Gwladys merch i, we have both made a mistake. Now our eyes are open, and we can only walk together to the end of our lives side by side, each one trying to lighten the sorrow of the other. God only knows how it is going to be, Gwladys fâch; but that is the path for us--it will be a dry and dusty one for us both. May it lead to the golden gates of the West at sunset!"

Gwladys, with her face hidden in the pillow, was sobbing bitterly. Hugh let her cry for a while, and then, drawing his hand tenderly over the brown curls, asked, in a voice of much emotion:

"One question only I will ask, and that is, Didst mean to do it? Was it with clear purpose that dreadful race over the cliffs--that leap on to the sands below? Oh, Gwladys, didst think of it and settle it all while I was sleeping here beside thee? Wert so unhappy with me? Didst hate me so much, merch i, that the cold creeping tide and the wind and rain were a haven of refuge?"

"No, no, no!" said Gwladys, rising on her elbow, and looking at him with streaming eyes, "that I can tell thee, at all events. I did not plan it beforehand; I was restless and wicked, and I knew nothing till I was out in the blinding rain; I felt nothing but wanting to get away anywhere out of myself. It seemed as if an evil spirit had got hold of me. Gwen had been here in the early morning when I first came downstairs; she had taunted me and sneered at me, and the cruel look in those eyes of hers seemed to wake some mad creature inside me; and I felt nothing but on--on--until I had jumped down to the sands. Indeed, indeed, Hugh, that is the truth!"

"Thank God for that," said Hugh. "Cheer up, merch i, we shall pass through life somehow; and some day, I am sure, God will lighten thy burden."

"Thy tenderness is wounding me sore, Hugh. I have been a wicked girl, but try me once more. Mari Vone has been with me since five o'clock, and she has been trying to show me how I can best find my way back to thine heart, and how I can repay thee for all thy goodness to me. Let me get up--I am longing to begin, and thou shalt see--oh! thou shalt see what a good and true wife I can be!"

"Right, merch i, thou art on the right path any way; and from henceforth try not to hate me, lass--try to love me, as if I were thy father or an elder brother. Canst give me so much, girl?"

"Oh, Hugh!" said Gwladys, springing on to the floor, and flinging her arms about his neck, "I have always loved you so--fondly, dearly!"

He gently loosened the hands which were clasped behind his neck, and still holding them in his own, stooped and kissed her forehead once--twice--three times--before he quietly left the room. He was on his way to the sail-shed when he was accosted by Sara Pentraeth, who came running madly down the hill to catch him, carrying her wooden shoes in her hand, closely followed by Nell.

"Oh, Mishteer! come back, come back! Come to poor Lallo--she is calling for you!"

"Come, Mishteer bâch!" said Nell.

"A dreadful thing has happened," said Sara. "Oh, Mishteer bâch! 'tis Gwen, the vilanes--she has done a fearful thing----"

But Hugh was already out of hearing. He had turned at once, and with rapid strides was shortening the distance between him and Lallo's cottage.

As he approached it, he saw a crowd of villagers gathered round the pig-stye, gazing with exclamations of horror at something which lay inside the enclosure. Lallo, weeping bitterly, made one of the crowd. Gwen was nowhere to be seen, being in reality hidden behind the pig-stye, listening with a pleased smile to the various comments of her neighbours.

Lallo's sympathising friends plied her alternately with condolences and questions. A stream of blood ran from under the pig-stye door, and trickled down the rocky road--inside, lying prone on its side, was the pig, with a horrible gash in its throat from which the life-blood was still trickling.

"What is the meaning of this?" said Hugh, looking down at the slaughtered animal.

"'Tis Gwen!--Gwen did it, Mishteer, and then walked quietly into the house, and put the razor on the table! Didn't she, Lallo?"

"She did, she did!" said Lallo, beginning to cry afresh.

"Never mind, Lallo fâch!" said Sara; "you know you had settled to kill him next month."

"Oh, but that's a very different thing. To die at the appointed time, and to be properly salted and dried, every pig expects--but to be hurried unprepared like this is terrible."

"But you can salt him and dry him," said Nell, offering her mite of comfort.

"Can I, do you think?--oh! but I shall never have the heart to do it."

"Well, be thankful," said an old crone who had the reputation of being the wisest woman in the village, "be thankful it is the pig and not yourself who is lying there."

"Yes--you couldn't be salted and dried," said 'n'wncwl Jos.

"Well, that's true enough," answered Lallo, addressing Hugh Morgan. "Mishteer bâch, I am in terror of my life--what will you advise me to do? If she could kill that poor pig who never did her any harm, she may do the same to me. I have borne and borne, but I can bear no more. What shall I do, Mishteer bâch?"

"Well," said Hugh, "you must either have a strong man to live with you, who can keep a constant watch upon her, or you must send her to the asylum--that is my advice. Send her to the asylum."

"My Gwen to the 'sayloom!" cried Lallo, in angry tones. "No, no, we have not fallen so low as that! My aunt was not wise the last years of her life, but she died peacefully in her own bed, and my cousin was a mad 'iolin,'[1] but his mother kept him respectably shut up in the penucha for many years, and he died singing 'O, frynian Caersalem!' like a saint. No, no, my Gwen shall not go to the 'sayloom!"

"What did you ask my advice for, woman, if you will not take it?"

"Well, Mishteer, I did not expect _that_ advice; but I thought you would be able to tell me what I am to do." And she burst out into fresh sobs, mingled with indignant exclamations. "Ach y fi, no! 'Sayloom, indeed! Howyr bâch, no!"

"Well," said Hugh, turning to leave the crowd, "I have no more time to waste. Get Tim 'Twm' to cut up your pig properly and salt it, and get Gwen to help you--it will keep her from mischief--and by that time you will have calmed down, and will be ready for my advice, I expect. That woman is a danger to us all," he said to 'n'wncwl Jos, who stumped down the hill beside him, "and I must get her put in an asylum before another month is out."

"Must you, indeed!" said Gwen, suddenly facing them. She had glided from behind the pig-stye, where she had listened to the whole conversation, and followed close behind them down the road, and now, suddenly passing them, turned round facing them, and walking backwards, she fixed her glittering eyes upon Hugh. "Wilt take me to the 'sayloom, Hugh Morgan?--perhaps indeed! But we shall see--we shall see!" And laughing wildly, she turned suddenly up a path which led to the open cliffs.

"Tan y marw! 'tis Peggi Shân herself!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, who had not his usual cheerful jollity. In truth, the old man, in the excitement caused by the events of the preceding day, and in the absence of Mari's thoughtful care, had entirely forgotten to change his dripping garments until late in the evening. He was accustomed to think nothing of such a wetting, and had a score of times braved its dangers; but to-day he shivered, and indignantly confessed to himself that he believed he had been such a fool as to catch a cold like a babby!

"Art afraid of her?" said Hugh, noticing his unusual quiet manner. "I must see about her, poor thing, for certain--as soon as I have shifted my business on to Josh Howels. I see no safety for her or for us except the asylum."

"Yes, clap her in," said the old man. "I don't like the look of her eyes."

Ivor Parry, though looking pale and shaken, had astonished everybody by appearing in the sail-shed as usual in the morning, and when Hugh entered was standing not far from the open doorway. An exchange of greetings was unavoidable between them.

"A brâf day," said Ivor, looking up from a sail which he was examining, "a brâf day, Mishteer, and the end of the storm, I think. I hope the Mishtress has not suffered from her wetting."

"Not much," said Hugh, fixing grave eyes upon his whilom friend.

Poor Ivor endeavoured to stand his scrutiny, but, it must be confessed, with no great success.

"Not much," continued Hugh, "and I have to thank you for risking your life to save hers. Dear God! had I known it was my wife you were going to save, you would not so easily have overcome me and pushed me out of your boat."

"B'dsiwr, b'dsiwr! I did not know myself it was the Mishtress. I thought it was Gwen, or I would not have thrust you back. You must forgive me that, Hugh."

He was keenly conscious that, in addressing him, Hugh had dropped the familiar "thee" and "thou," and he fell at once into the more formal manner himself.

"We would both have done the same for any woman."

"I am glad to see you have not suffered, and I thank you again," said Hugh, with a slight show of warmth. He could not look into those honest blue eyes and not trust them, but he could not remember all he had learnt of late, and quite believe.

The death of Lallo's pig was the subject of conversation in the sail-shed that morning, and Hugh was thankful that its racy horrors had the effect of turning the gossip of the villagers from his wife's narrow escape.

"Oh, she is quite well, and none the worse for her dip," he answered jovially to every one who made inquiries.

"There's glad I am, indeed, indeed--she might be drowned. But, Mishteer, what shall we do about Gwen, weaving in and out amongst us? Ach y fi! there's dangerous."

"Yes, I am afraid she must go to the asylum as soon as I have settled my affairs a little," said Hugh, not sorry to add to the gruesomeness of the incident, and to turn their thoughts away from his wife.

"But how did the Mishtress get to Traeth-y-daran?" said the wise woman of the village--"that's what I want to know."

"Oh, she's but young, you know," said Hugh, smiling indulgently, "and thoughtless like all young things, and fancied she would like to see the storm from Traeth-y-daran. She might have fared badly if Ivor Parry had not risked his life so nobly. I have given her a good scolding." And he laughed cheerfully.

"Did Ivor know it was the Mishtress?" said the inquisitive wise woman.

"No, no, we both thought it was Gwen."

And so the incident was allowed to sink to rest, to make room for the more exciting adventures of Lallo's pig.

[1] Fool.