CHAPTER XV.

TORN SAILS.

In the village the excitement was intense, for where the sail-shed had once stood--the backbone of Mwntseison, the dispenser of the means of livelihood to so many families--there was now nothing but a smouldering heap of charred wood, surrounded by a ring of horror-stricken villagers. 'N'wncwl Jos had suggested a dreadful idea last night when Hugh Morgan was carried home and laid on his bed.

"Wasn't I right?" he said, as he stumped back to the burning building; "didn't I say 'clap her in'? and if they had done so, we should not have lost the best man that ever trod the sands of Mwntseison!"

"What! dost mean Gwen? anwl! anwl! mad as she was she wouldn't have injured the Mishteer!"

"Wel, indeed," said Dye Pentraeth, "I was coming home late last night from Traeth Berwen, and my heart nearly jumped out of my body when I passed the sail-shed, for who should I see standing close to the wall but Gwen; she was the same colour as the grey boards. Ach y fi! I was frightened."

"Oh, yes," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "'tis plain enough who did it--and where is she now? Nobody knows! and there is poor Lallo, druan fâch! seeking her everywhere!" And beginning to fâch! seeking her everywhere!" And beginning to relish the part of "seer," he added, "And nobody will see Gwen again; she has run away, probably to Caer Madoc. Wel, 'twill save us the trouble of taking her there, for I'm sure I don't know how we're going to manage that now, nor anything else whatever, without the Mishteer. Oh, bobol anwl! I have lost a friend!"

"But Dr. Hughes is very clever, perhaps he will bring him through," said one of the crowd; "if not, what will become of us all, and the Mishtress, druan fâch!"

Little groups of people, with anxious and mournful faces, were gathered together here and there along the rocky road. To lose the Mishteer from their midst! the thought was unbearable! He had for so long been their guide and support--his strong will and good moral influence had been for years the moving spring of their lives, unconsciously to themselves and to him--and his death, therefore, would be a dire calamity.

"Look here, frindiau," said Josh Howels, "if we ever expect any good to come of our prayer meetings this is the time to hold one." And a murmur of approval followed his words.

"When shall it be, then?" said 'n'wncwl Jos.

"Wel! there's no time like the present," said Josh Howels; and with one accord they turned en masse to the door of the Methodist chapel, and filled the square building to overflowing.

In their strong poetic language they poured forth their supplications; and if sometimes the prayers uttered in their meetings had been aimless, creed-bound perorations, to-day all was reality and earnestness, though tinged by the nautical imagery ever uppermost in their minds.

"'Tis our Mishteer we are coming to Thee about, O Lord," said Josh Howels, in a voice made tremulous by suppressed feeling; "but Thou knowest that. Forgive our weak words, for we are shaken in our hearts, and blinded with our tears. Spare us the Mishteer, we beseech Thee, for without him how can we steer our frail barks across the troubled sea of life? When the storms arise, and we are tossed about in the waves, who will point us to Thee? Spare him, O Lord, for the aged pilgrims still to lean upon! so that the middle-aged may not lose his companionship, and that the children may still have his example to steer by!"

Tears and sobs filled up the pauses in the prayer.

"But if," he added, and here there was a breathless silence, "if it be not Thy will to spare him to us, if he must go, then, Lord, pilot him safely into the harbour! guide his frail bark over the dark and stormy waters! make a rift in the clouds, O God! and give him a glimpse of the Morning Star!"

One after another they knelt and poured out their souls in prayer, with the strong craving for relief from the tension of fear and sorrow which was weighing them down, and it was three o'clock in the afternoon before the meeting broke up. Of course they could not separate without singing a hymn. And that hymn was long remembered at Mwntseison; its rising and falling cadences had never so torn their heartstrings--never hymn before had been so mingled with sobs and tears; and when it came to an end, they left the chapel in solemn silence.

In a short time they were once more gathered round the scene of the fire, and anxiously inquiring for news of the Mishteer's condition.

Suddenly there was a cry of horror from the children, for where the flames had risen highest, and the fire had burnt the fiercest, they pointed to a little heap of charred bones, which lay in the midst of the debris. They would scarcely have been recognisable as human remains but for the iron buckles of Gwen's wooden shoes which lay beside them.

"Dear God!" said the scared villagers, "who'd have thought of such a thing! 'N'wncwl Jos was right after all! Oh, vila'nes! vila'nes!"[1] And not even the gruesome sight before them could quite restrain their expressions of horrified anger. But a silence fell upon them when Lallo appeared in their midst.

"Oh, is it true what I hear?" she cried; "that my Gwen is burnt? that she did this dreadful deed? Gwae fi[2] that I had taken the Mishteer's advice before it was too late! Oh, merch anwl i! my beloved daughter!" and turning with imploring hands to the crowd of bystanders, she pleaded for their forgiveness. "Don't be too angry with her. Remember my beloved child was not wise; ever since she lost her baby she wasn't wise. Oh, my Gwen! don't judge her too harshly!"

Even the strong men were touched by her sorrow, and gently led her away, while all that remained of poor Gwen was reverently gathered together.

Meanwhile, in the quiet room under the thatch, Gwladys still watched, and Mari Vone crept silently in and out, carrying down scraps of information to Ivor and 'n'wncwl Jos, who sat in the deserted kitchen, hoping for some news of improvement.

Ivor's arm was tied in a sling, for it had been badly injured in his frantic efforts to lift the heavy beam under which he had found Hugh. The flesh had been lacerated almost from wrist to elbow, yet he had felt nothing until Hugh had been carried home, and there was no more for him to do. The flames had caught his hands, too, and he was suffering much, in spite of Dr. Hughes' soothing dressing; but he heeded nothing--scarcely felt his pain, so intense was his anxiety.

Mari escaped without a burn. The same extraordinary Providence that had carried her through life unscathed and unmarred by the ravages of time seemed to have preserved her unhurt through the terrible experiences of the preceding night.

Ivor was struck afresh by the ethereal beauty of her appearance. She seemed lifted above the sorrow which he knew was pressing so heavily upon her. In the stress of her agony the night before he had overheard the words: "Oh, Hugh fanwylyd!" and Ivor, so accustomed to the continual haunting void in his own heart, required no word of explanation. He knew it all, and realised with a sudden intuition the long years of crushed hopes and unselfish devotion of this woman.

At length there was a little movement on the boards above their heads, and Mari once more crept half-way up the stairs and listened, returning with a smile on her lips.

"He is better! I hear them talking quietly. Let us go and leave them together." And they went out, gently drawing the door on the latch.

Ivor went home with them, for "Dear God!" he said, "I cannot go to the mill till he is better; and, besides, I will be nearer Dr. Hughes, and for thy kind nursing."

"B'tshwr, Ivor bâch. 'Twill save me the walk over the cliffs, for I will not lose sight of thee until thy arm is well. Thou hast risked thy life for the Mishteer. Come and stretch thyself on 'n'wncwl Jos's bed." And Ivor, worn out with his exertions, did as he was bid, and lay quiet for some hours, suffering much in mind and body.

In the sick-room, while Gwladys watched, Hugh Morgan had opened his eyes naturally and calmly, as one who awakes refreshed from a long sleep. Her heart leapt for joy, but she was learning to curb her feelings.

"Art better, Hugh bâch?" she said gently.

"Yes, merch i," was the quiet answer, after which he relapsed again into silence, while with observant eyes he looked around him, seeming to ponder thoughtfully the condition of things, taking in and arranging in his mind all he saw, and all that the scene suggested to him. This at least was Gwladys' impression, and she wisely waited a few moments before speaking again.

"This has been poor Gwen's work. Isn't it so, Gwladys?"

"Yes, Hugh bâch."

"Poor soul! poor soul! Thou hast gone through a bad time, merch i. Thou hast been called to bear much sorrow in thy young days."

Gwladys was crying silently.

"But thou art better now, Hugh, and the light is shining again! Oh! it will only be an ugly dream that passes away with the morning, now that thou art better. I cannot help crying; but it is for joy, Hugh bâch, thou hast slept so long! I feared thou wouldst never awake, and now the joy is too great for me."

He smiled. "Poor little thing! druan fâch!" and again the long silence and the deep pondering.

"Now I will fetch a cup of tea, Hugh; it will refresh thee." And she called down the stairs with such joy and cheer in her voice, though in hushed tones, that Madlen knew at once what had happened, and in five minutes the news had spread through the village, "The Mishteer was better!--was talking!--was going to have a cup of tea!"

But Hugh declined the proffered cup, and thus dashed Gwladys' hopes to the ground. To refuse a cup of tea after a long night's sickness seemed to her to point to something very serious.

"No; let me be till the doctor comes," he said. "I feel pretty easy lying here; but something tells me not to move. Sit by me, f'anwylyd, and let me ask thee a few questions. Who was it saved me from that deadly furnace? I awoke choking, and tried to stagger into the shed; but at the door of the office a heavy beam fell on me. Who lifted it and carried me out? Ivor Parry, I am sure! faithful friend and true! But I thought there were two?"

"Yes, Hugh, it was Mari Vone."

"God bless her, and thou, Gwladys! Where wert thou?"

"Oh, Hugh, those terrible flames seemed to scorch my life away. I was in a faint in my mother's arms. Thou know'st of old I am a coward!"

"Poor little one, no wonder!" After another pause, he asked, "Is there anything left of the sail-shed?"

"Nothing, Hugh bâch! but don't thee speak another word, until the doctor comes."

And so he once more lay silent and motionless, until Dr. Hughes' step was heard on the stair. Gwladys hastened to meet him with a smile of gladness.

"Oh, doctor, he is much better!"

"Well, go down, Gwladys, while I look at him." And she went, wondering at the doctor's serious looks.

"Well," said Dr. Hughes, after an examination of his patient, "I am glad to find you so easy, so free from pain; but we are old friends, Hugh Morgan, and I will not deceive you. You have been seriously--h'm, h'm--caton pawb! Why do women always pull the blinds down!" And he rose and fumbled awkwardly at the blinds to hide the moisture which gathered in his eyes. "You are a brave man, Hugh Morgan, and I think I ought to tell you----"

"Don't trouble to tell me anything, doctor. There is something broken _here_, which not all your skill can mend," and he laid his strong brown hand upon the region of his heart.

"Not there, my dear fellow--on this side and lower down."

"Perhaps indeed! it doesn't matter what--if it must end my life; only tell me how long I shall live--minutes--or hours--or days?"

Dr. Hughes took the hand which still lay upon his heart, as if the pain were there, and clasping it in both his own said gently:

"A few hours! It grieves me to the heart to say this, Hugh Morgan, but I will not deceive you. I advise you not to move. Lie perfectly still and you may escape all pain."

Hugh's breast heaved with the panting breath, but he showed no other signs of distress.

"When I am gone, will you send for Mr. Lloyd the lawyer from Caer Madoc? he knows all my affairs. There will be less than I thought for Gwladys, owing to the fire; but still, thank God! there will be enough to keep her comfortably. I am sleepy."

"I will go, then," said Dr. Hughes, "and will come again." And he went softly down the stairs, to find Gwladys impatiently awaiting him.

"Oh, doctor, he will live, won't he? he is better, isn't he?"

"You must be brave, Gwladys," he answered gravely. "There is a terrible sorrow in store for you, and it depends upon how you bear it whether you make your husband's last moments peaceful or unhappy. May God strengthen you, merch i! Where is Mari Vone? she will be a comfort to you." And leaving Gwladys standing in stony despair, he drove to Mari's cottage, and in a few words told her of Hugh's impending death.

She did not speak a word, but, turning a shade paler, she prepared at once to leave the house to comfort Gwladys.

Ivor still lay in the heavy sleep which had fallen upon him, and Dr. Hughes refused to awaken him.

"No, let him sleep while he can, and I will see him later on."

Then Mari took her way down the village road. All the sorrow and pain she had ever suffered seemed now to have reached their climax. She entered the comfortable kitchen, where Madlen sat crying on the settle.

"Oh, Mari fâch! what will we do? how can we live in this cold world without the Mishteer?"

Mari's lips were white with suppressed sorrow. She could not answer, but passed quietly up the stairs.

In the sick-room Hugh still slept on, and Gwladys, white and rigid, sat beside him. There was a silent embrace between the two women, but no sound broke the stillness except the heavy breathing of the motionless figure before them, and so the long hours passed on.

In the afternoon Dr. Hughes once more came in, but only stood looking sorrowfully down at the sleeper.

As the evening shadows drew on, for the November sun was near its setting, and the little room grew darker, Hugh began to move restlessly, while Gwladys and Mari watched anxiously. Suddenly he opened his eyes, and, in the first moment of awakening, made an attempt to change his position slightly; but a look of anguish overspread his face, and a sharp cry escaped his lips, as he fell back once more into motionless silence.

Suddenly he called, "Ivor! Ivor Parry!" and quickly Ivor, who was now waiting below with Madlen, heard his own name, and hastened to the bedside.

Evidently Hugh Morgan's life was fast ebbing away.

Ivor was so overcome by the sight of his dying friend that for a few moments he could only stand speechless at the foot of the bed, until he heard again the broken voice which called him by name.

Gwladys had flung herself down by the side of the bed, and with her face buried in the bedclothes, tried to control the heavy sobs which shook her frame.

"Here I am, Hugh bâch!" said Ivor, bending over Hugh's prostrate form.

"Art there, lad? Give me thine hand. Wilt forgive me, Ivor, for all the pain I have caused thee? 'Twas done in ignorance; say thou wilt forgive me, lad. Let us part friends, as we have always lived."

"Oh, Hugh! I have nothing--nothing to forgive thee; only to be deeply grateful to thee. Thou hast filled my life with kindnesses, and above all, with thy friendship. I have not been worthy of it, but I have never wilfully done anything to betray it."

"No," said Hugh; "we can meet on the other side with open brows--friends for ever, Ivor! Gwladys--thine hand! Lift my head a little without moving my body." And Mari, seeing that Gwladys was too overcome to move, passed her arm gently under his head.

"That will do. Now I must make haste," and placing Gwladys' hand in Ivor's, he looked at him with serious but calm eyes. "Ivor, I leave her to thee; take care of her for my sake; thou know'st now my wishes. Fforwel, Ivor! I feel my life is going. Fforwel, Gwladys, my beloved child!"

There was a long silence, only broken by the panting breath and Gwladys' sobs.

Ivor had gently laid her hand on the coverlet, and retired once more to the foot of the bed.

"Who is holding my head?"

"'Tis me, Hugh--Mari Vone. Hast one word of fforwel for me?"

"No," he said; "lean forward that I may see thy face, lass." Already his words came broken and disjointed. "Death is always a revealer, and I see everything plainly now. Mari, no fforwel to thee."

Another long silence, while the face bleached visibly, and the dark eyelashes drooped on the waxen cheek. The lips moved, and stooping over him, Mari caught the words:

"Torn sails, broken mast!" and something about "in port at last!"

Breathlessly they waited for the end, when suddenly the eyes opened wide, and in clear though low tones, Hugh Morgan's voice was heard once more.

"Mari," he said.

"I am here; close to thee, Hugh anwl."

"Come soon," and with these words his spirit took its flight.

In a few days all that was mortal of Hugh Morgan was laid to rest in the little churchyard on the hill. Gwladys had completely succumbed to her sorrow, and she lay unconscious in the delirium of fever, while her husband's funeral left the house, thus escaping all the heart-searching accessories of a Welsh burial--the muffled tread of the crowd who assemble, the peculiar mournful monotone of the prayers, and above all, the wailing, sorrowful tones of the funeral hymn. In her absence, Ivor and Mari followed as chief mourners, and never in the memory of Mwntseison had there been so large a gathering.

All that remained of poor Gwen was buried in the same little churchyard on the brow of the hill, where the sea winds swept over her grave and Hugh's alike. The seagulls flew over them both, and the harebells nodded over them, and no stranger passing by would have guessed the tragedy that connected the two graves.

Gwladys lay long under the grasp of the fierce fever; but a healthy constitution and the vigour of youth at last conquered, and she came slowly back to consciousness and health.

Meanwhile, life in Mwntseison had returned outwardly to its usual routine, though the death of the Mishteer caused a blank in the lives of his work-people which Time was slow to fill up. But there is no one who, leaving his place vacant, is irretrievably missed; another is ready to step into his place, and the wheels of life go on with unchangeable uniformity.

Joshua Howels rebuilt the sail-shed, and once more the inhabitants of the village found their subsistence from their daily avocations there.

The loss occasioned by the fire fell upon Gwladys; but, in spite of this, Mr. Lloyd, the lawyer, was able to announce to her the possession of a small, but sufficient, competence for one in her position in life.

"His kindness reaches me still," she said. "Oh, mother, I wish I had been more worthy of it."

"Everyone knows thou hast been a good wife," said Nani, but without looking at her daughter.

She had an intuitive suspicion that the river of Gwladys and Hugh's married life had not flowed on unruffled; but she was a wise woman, and buried the knowledge, with many other secrets, in her tender heart.

Gwladys had come home to live with her once more, and Joshua Howels had married, and gone to live in the Mishteer's old house.

[1] Villain.

[2] Woe is me.