CHAPTER XVI.

PEACE.

Weeks and months slipped by, and when two years had passed away, the events connected with Hugh Morgan's death had been almost forgotten; only in some hearts their memory lived on, fresh and green, undimmed by the lapse of time.

At Melin Berwen, Ivor Parry's life appeared to glide on in peaceful monotony. He was an industrious and honest miller, and business flowed in apace, so that his days were fully occupied, and it was only at night, when the mill wheel was silent, and he sat alone under the big chimney, smoking or reading, that his musings led him into sad memories of the past--of the close companionship and warm friendship, which had been broken so suddenly for him and the Mishteer.

In the queer old mill kitchen, the evenings were always cosy; and Ivor Parry, like most of the peasantry, gathered much pleasure and satisfaction from the hours spent on his lonely hearth. There was always the country gossip gathered by Acsa from every stray caller at the mill, and retailed at night for his benefit, while she clattered about her work. Although they belonged to the same class, there was a fine discrimination in her nature, generally possessed by the Welsh peasant, which forbade her sitting down at the hearth with her master, unless requested, and even ordered to do so; and then the order would be obeyed in an awkward, shame-faced manner, and at the first opportunity she would break away with some excuse of a forgotten duty.

In the course of the evening, Ivor would open the old glass bookcase which stood in the corner. It had been found there by Robert Owen when he entered the mill thirty years before, and left by him as impedimenta when Ivor took his place there. It was filled not only with account books and musty papers, but also contained the old books accumulated by two or three generations past: dog-eared, brown-leaved books of travel, of history, of biography, all of old-world interest, but which Ivor pored over with the thirst for knowledge which is so strong an element in Welsh life; and if the knowledge he gained was but crude and imperfect, still the pleasure he derived from his hour's reading was great.

The only modern intelligence that reached the old mill came in the weekly newspaper and the yearly almanac, the latter being studied in Welsh cottages with great interest.

"Are you hearing what I am saying, master?" Acsa would ask sometimes, when her rambling story had brought no response from Ivor; and he would close his book with a bang, and return to his everyday interests, and often to his sober musings and memories of the old sail-shed, and of his careless, happy life before his ill-fated visit to Aberython. He rejoiced to think that at last Hugh knew him as he was! And then came the memory of that last scene, when Hugh had placed Gwladys' hand in his, and the fierce strong desire of his life rose unquenched within him, that "some day," when time had softened her sorrow, she would remember her husband's dying wishes. He scarcely ever went to Mwntseison--it recalled too vividly to his mind the painful scenes of Hugh's death; and when he did go, it was no further than to Mari Vone's cottage. To her he felt irresistibly drawn, and though never a word passed between them on the subject of his love for Gwladys, or of hers for Hugh, yet both felt that between them existed the link of a mutual understanding.

When the winter was over, and the earth was beginning to swell and burst with the throbbing of new life within her, even into the dusty mill the spring breezes carried suggestions of green things, Ivor began to walk in his sunny garden, which stretched along the side of the hill even to the edge of the cliffs. Here Acsa, in short petticoats and wooden shoes, was already beginning to dig the leek-bed, and in the corner, under the furze hedge, a clump of sweet violets sent up a fragrant greeting. Ivor paused and looked at them; he remembered seeing a posy of them once in Gwladys' bodice. Why should he not take her these? He had never seen her alone since Hugh's death, had never happened to meet her on the cliff or in the village, and even on Sundays he did not see her, for she and her mother had taken to the new chapel which had lately been built on the other side of the Gwendraeth.

He gathered the violets slowly, adding green leaves, and tying them with a blade of long grass.

"Yes, spring is coming, and this is a sunny garden," observed Acsa. "We shall have a fine bed of leeks here. Caton pawb! what are you going to do with those?"

"I think, perhaps, Mari Vone would like them."

"Shouldn't wonder, indeed," said Acsa. "She's an odd woman; there's pretty she is! They say God's blessing is upon her that she never grows old; and she's thirty-seven in May--that I know, because Mary, my sister's daughter, is the same age. She looks old enough to be Mari Vone's mother; 'tis very strange."

Ivor pondered, as he went slowly over the cliffs, upon Mari Vone's unfading beauty. Latterly she had seemed to him fairer than ever, and even to grow younger as the days passed on. There was a light in her eyes, a happy smile on her lips, and her coils of golden hair looked more than ever like an angel's crown.

"She is beautiful, no doubt," he thought, "with a beauty that reminds one more of heaven than earth. Mari's troubles have been changed to golden blessings, I think."

She was busily laying the simple supper on the table when Ivor entered, 'n'wncwl Jos telling her one of his marvellous tales, punctuated with stumps of his wooden leg.

"Hello, Ivor! come in; just in time for supper--cawl it is, too, my boy."

"Oh, Ivor!" said Mari, coming to meet him, "there's sweet flowers. I always say it is such a shame there is no name for them--such a sweet smell!--but never mind, I love them well without a name."

"In English they call them violets," said Ivor.

"Vayolet, vayolet!--oh, it suits them well. I must share them with Gwladys." And placing them in a little mug of water, she made room for Ivor at the table.

"How's all going on at Mwntseison?" he said at last.

"Oh, just as usual," said Mari, with a smile. "Poor Lallo seems to be coming back to her cheery ways a little, though she looks much older; and Gwladys, too, is getting quite well and strong--she is busy in the garden every day now, and often she comes down to me. We like to sit together, Ivor, though we don't talk about the past--some things, thou know'st, are too sacred for words. But we understand each other, and love to sit silent, with our knitting and our thoughts."

"Yes," was all his answer; but she knew he was grateful for her reference to Gwladys.

"Wel wyr," said 'n'wncwl Jos, as she bolted the door after his departure, "thee and Ivor are such friends, perhaps thee'lt make a match of it after all."

Mari sat down to laugh. "Oh, 'n'wncwl Jos!" she said, "will you never remember my age? I am ten years older than Ivor."

"So thou art, so thou art, merch i; but upon my dear little deed, nobody would guess it."

As the spring advanced, and the days lengthened, Mari frequently walked out over the cliffs to gather bracken for Peggi Pentraeth's donkey, sometimes going as far as the brow of the hill, from which she could look down at the old mill in the valley. At these times, Ivor, seeing her from below, would run up the sheep path to meet her, just for a word of news from Mwntseison--just in the hopes of hearing something of Gwladys. And Mari, who knew well what drew him towards her, and what lent wings to the vigorous steps with which he climbed the hill, would always reward him with some scrap of information.

"Price Merthyr preached at Tan-y-groes Chapel last night, Ivor," she said one evening, as they walked slowly over the cliff together. "Gwladys and I went to hear him. Her mother questioned us close when we came home about the sermon; indeed, we remembered pretty well, both of us. There was the pwnc[1] after the sermon, and we stopped for that" (Ivor listened eagerly), "but not for the singing class, for, of course, Gwladys cannot join in that yet."

"B'd siwr!" said Ivor, with a shake of his head, for he knew, and felt himself, that to join in the singing would look like disrespect to the Mishteer's memory; "as far as that goes, 'twas a long time before I could sing myself. The first tones of my voice brought the memory of Hugh Morgan to my mind, and the singing seemed to die away."

"I cannot tell how it is," said Mari, "but I can sing. My heart seems strangely happy. It seems such a thin veil between us and Hugh, and life is so short! so very short at the utmost, it is not worth while mourning for anyone. But I must go. See those fishing boats going in? I must see if they have any fish for 'n'wncwl Jos's supper. Fforwel, Ivor!" and she waved her hand at parting.

He looked after her as her tall, graceful figure was lost to view behind the broom bushes.

"Jâr-i! she is a beautiful creature!" he thought. "How such a woman came to be born at Mwntseison I can't think!" And he trudged down the hill, whistling as he went, his thumbs in his armholes.

At the mill door stood a small boy who had come up over the sands from Mwntseison, the tide being low at the time.

"What is it?" said Ivor.

"'Tis Eynon Bryneithin is wanting to know, can he send his corn to be ground to-morrow? He was coming up to see you himself, but he got a hurt on his foot coming over the rocks, and there he is now sitting at 'The Ship,' and there he will be sitting till Catrine turns him out to-night. She sent me up to tell you."

"I will come back with thee and speak to him," said Ivor, "for I cannot grind his corn till Monday. There's Glasynys coming to-morrow, and Peutre-du next day," and Ivor took his way once more to the top of the cliff, accompanied by the boy.

The sun was setting in crimson and gold behind the sea; the silver crescent moon rising above the upland fields; the sea-gulls were flying homewards overhead; and the little sea-crows quarrelled and cawed as they settled down to their nests on the sides of the cliff. The sea shimmered and rippled in the gorgeous colours of the sunset, and the soft evening air was laden with the scent of the furze, which spread its golden mantle over every grassy knoll. Even the boy was struck by the beauty of the scene.

"'Tis a nice night," he said.

"Brâf!" said Ivor, drawing in a long breath of the perfumed air.

"What is that?" said the boy, pointing to something on the side of the path, a few yards in front of them.

"'Tis a woman," said Ivor, "resting; tired, I suppose, poor thing!" But as he approached nearer his eyes took a troubled, anxious look. "Can it be Mari Vone? 'tis like her red petticoat."

The boy ran on.

"Yis, 'tis Mari Vone, asleep, I think."

And Ivor hastened up to see a sight which in all the coming years he never forgot.

Yes; 'twas Mari Vone who lay there, half reclining against the grassy hedge, her cheek resting upon her hand, her pillow a clump of harebells and wild thyme. Evidently she had thrown herself down to rest, and rest was depicted upon every feature of her face, and every curve of her figure; the white eyelids were closed, the waxen cheek was scarcely paler than usual, and on the lips was a smile of ineffable sweetness.

"There's nice she looks!" said the boy, in an awed whisper, "like an angel!"

"Yes," said Ivor, chafing her hands, "like an angel as she is. Go, run to the village and bring somebody here, and a sail to carry her."

For there was no doubt about it, Mari Vone was dead. The heart had ceased to beat, and though she was still warm, and the fingers which Ivor rubbed and pressed were pliant as his own, he never doubted the fact; he knew that that gentle spirit had quitted the beautiful tenement in which it had lived for thirty-seven years; he knew that he should never more see it look out of those deep blue eyes, never hear it speak with that tongue now silent, and a flood of sorrow filled his heart. He sat beside her while the sun sank below the horizon; the grassy pillow upon which she lay shone with the burnished gold of its last rays, which threw also with its last kiss a rosy flush over Mari's face. Ivor gazed at her with something of the awe which the boy had felt.

"Was it possible that this was death?"

The sea sighed and whispered on the shore below, the evening breeze lifted the little stray curls of her golden hair. A thrush in a thorn-bush near sang its last song to the sinking sun; the flowers seemed to send up a stronger perfume as they bent and trembled in the sea-breeze; the clouds of gold and copper speckled the pale blue sky; everything in earth, sea, and sky seemed to speak of beauty and love, and in the next silent half-hour Ivor realised more vividly the nearness of things unseen than in his work-a-day life he had ever done before.

When help came at last, he felt almost a pang of regret at being robbed of that lovely form, in whose presence he had experienced such a vision of peace and beauty. With hushed voices and silent tread the villagers approached, and with awe struck faces gazed at the silent form on the green sward.

"There's beautiful--she's smiling!" said one.

"She has reason to smile, I expect," said Joshua Howels, preparing to tenderly lift her, and place her in the improvised stretcher brought from the sail-shed. "'Tis the same sail that carried Hugh Morgan," he said; and solemnly and slowly they carried their light burden to her home.

"There's pity! poor 'n'wncwl Jos and Gwladys Morgan are gone to Caer Madoc!" whispered one.

"Wel, indeed, there's sad news for them, whatever!"

"I hope she will alter before the funeral," said a sturdy sailor, who had helped to carry her in. "We won't like to bury her looking like that!" And the villagers crowded round to look at the familiar face, whose strange unearthly beauty struck even the children as something unusual.

Lallo and Nani Price attended to the arrangements of the death chamber, allowing themselves to be persuaded by Ivor to leave on the body of his friend the clothes in which she died, instead of arraying her in the grandeur of a Sunday gown and the best clothes which she possessed. They were rather scandalised, and gave way only upon Ivor's pointing out to them how speckless and fresh they looked--how snowy the kerchief crossed on her bosom!--how beautiful the crown of golden hair!--how pretty the dainty, shiny shoes! "You could never make her look better!"

"That's true, indeed, whatever," said Nani Price; "and, after all, Mari Vone was different to anybody else."

"Caton pawb! yes," said Lallo; "never a speck nor a smot upon her! But _I_ would be sorry to be buried in anything but the clothes I go to meeting in, or a decent shroud."

"Well," said Nani, closing the door softly, as they all left the room together, "Mwntseison will be no better than any other village, now that Mari Vone and Hugh Morgan have left it! Ivor Parry, wilt go and meet 'n'wncwl Jos and Gwladys and break the news to them?"

"No," he said. "Go you, Nani fâch; it will come better from a tender woman than a hard man like me. I will go to Dr. Hughes. There must be a 'quest, I suppose."

In less than a week Mari Vone was laid to rest in the little wind-swept churchyard on the hill; and none of the villagers seemed surprised when Gwladys expressed a wish that her grave should be dug close beside the Mishteer's. Their hearts had been too deeply moved for gossip, and they seemed to have been impressed with the reality of something beyond and behind the fleeting scenes of life.

Later on, a simple white cross stood between their graves with the words:

"In memory of Hugh Morgan (The Mishteer), who died November 18th, 18--, aged 45. And of his friend, Mari Vaughan, who died May 1st, 18--, aged 37.

"They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided."

[1] A kind of catechism in which the preacher questions the people, who all answer in monotone.