CHAPTER VII.

A WEDDING CALL.

The month of May, with all her charms on earth, sea, and sky, had slipped away, and June reigned in her place, pouring forth her stores of bud and blossom, laying her warm hand on the ripening fruit in the orchards, turning their cheeks to crimson and gold, lulling the waves to rest, and folding the young broods of birds, which swarmed in the cliffs, in her mantle of soft balmy air. The shepherd's song was heard from the hillside as he sat basking in the sunshine, the clap, clap of the mill came on the breeze, the clinking of the village anvil, the voices of little children, all blended together in delicious harmony. Every door and window in the village was open, and the air was filled with the "sh-sh" of the sea. The children sat playing on the warm, dry sand. 'N'wncwl Jos sat astride on the keel of his boat, which had been turned upside down for repairs. He had a pot of tar and some tow beside him, but the work did not proceed very rapidly, as The Ship Inn was so near, and the heat of the sun made an occasional "blue" a necessity. 'N'wncwl Jos's time was a commodity that hung heavily on his hands, and there was no hurry to get the boat done, so he exchanged his quid of tobacco from one cheek to another, and took his daily snooze in the June sunshine. Suddenly a gentle voice aroused him.

"'N'wncwl Jos!"

"Well, merch i?"[1] and he began busily to caulk a crack in his boat.

It was Gwladys who stood beside him, rather paler, perhaps, than when he saw her last, but with the same sweet curves over mouth and chin--with the same serious look in the brown eyes--which were shaded by the white sun-bonnet.

"Wilt come and help me with the brewing this afternoon?" she said, with a languid tone in her voice, which, perhaps, was due to the heat.

"B'd siwr! b'd siwr!"[2] replied the old man, waking up with evident interest.

"Hugh says thou hast the secret for making the beer clear."

"So I have, merch i--learnt it from my grandmother. How far hast thou got with thy brewing?"

"The brecci is working," she said, "but I'm afraid it won't be clear. I have never brewed before."

"I'll be up this afternoon," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "and we shall see whether thine ale will be clear or not. The Mishteer knew where to send thee for advice! Have you heard the news?"

"What news?"

"Why, that Ivor Parry is very ill; there he lies stranded at Carnarvon, poor fellow, in some strange lodging, laid up with fever. The Lapwing arrived at Abersethin last night from Carnarvon with slates, and brought the news. I thought he was sickening for something before he left; didst notice how white he looked?"

"Yes," said Gwladys, looking across the bay, where in the distance the line of the Carnarvonshire hills looked like a chain of blue clouds.

"The Mishteer will be shockin' sorry to hear it," said the old man, shaking his head. "I'm going to the sail-shed to tell him as soon as I have finished this job."

Gwladys turned silently away, her heart like a lump of lead, her eyes burning with tears which she must not shed. She must not even ask for more particulars--nay, she must not even wish for more; and as she walked back over the dusty road to her new home, she tightened her grasp upon her own feelings, and laid a strong curb upon her natural instincts.

She followed the progress of the brewing with punctilious care, patiently and gently directing Madlen, who endeavoured to frustrate all the plans of the new mistress with the annoying obstinacy of a jibbing horse. She peeped into the mash-tub, and exclaimed:

"Sure as I'm here, it'll never clear; it's as thick as the Gwendraeth after rain!"

Getting no reply she tried in another direction:

"Ivor Parry and Mishteer always praised my ale; 'twas as clear as cryshal,[3] but cawl it'll be to-day!"

Gwladys smiled. "Thee's an evil prophetess, Madlen!"

They both looked up as a shadow fell through the open doorway. It was Gwen.

"I came to ask thee if I could help in the brewing. Thee'lt like be anxious about thy first brewing; how does it go?"

"Pretty well, I think," said Gwladys. "It will be casked to-night."

"Have you heard of Ivor's illness?" said Gwen, looking full into her face, which visibly blanched under her keen glance.

"'N'wncwl Jos has just been telling me," said her victim, trying in vain to speak in a natural tone. "What is it?"

"Fever, they say," said Gwen, "but a bad one. Siencyn saw him in his lodgings; 'tis a good thing he is well looked after. The daughter of the house seems very fond of him, and he of her, for he calls her continually, 'Gwladys! Gwladys!' if she only leaves him for a minute. Dir anwl![4] how pale thou art getting! Art not well?"

"Not very," said Gwladys. "The heat has been so great to-day, and the wind blows straight from the limekilns."

"Perhaps, indeed! but thou hast lost thy roses whatever!" and lifting the lid of the mash-tub, she peered into its contents. "There's a muddy cloud in it! That will spoil thy brewing."

"Perhaps, indeed!" said Gwladys, using the formula that does duty in Wales for every variety of expression.

"What will the Mishteer say?"

"Oh, well, he won't mind much if I do not grieve about it."

"No; I suppose thou canst do pretty well what thou lik'st with him now. So can I with Siencyn; but that won't last. 'There's never a pig' thee knowest, 'without a twist in his tail,' and 'never a man without a quirk in his temper!' Oh! yes, we shall see it some day; but as long as we have nothing to _hide_ we need fear nothing. But diwedd anwl![5] the time goes like the andras.[6] I must go. Pity for Ivor Parry--isn't it?"

When she was gone, Gwladys began to breathe again, and endeavoured to steel herself against the wounds which she would receive in her passage through life, and to endure, for this, she felt, would be her portion for the future.

"Gwladys!" called a manly voice, and Hugh entered from the sunshine, "where art, my little one? Come and comfort me, for I have had bad news, and thou wilt be sorry, too! Poor Ivor is ill; hast heard?"

"Yes," she said; "Gwen has just been telling me; but he has a good nurse, and we must not look on the dark side."

"No, true, merch i; but I'd give much to have him back here again--foolish boy! I believe he was jealous of my love for thee! Siencyn Owen says he was quite delirious; called constantly for the girl who nurses him, 'Gwladys, Gwladys!' sometimes in such pitiful tones that Siencyn felt like crying; and talking, talking without stopping about the sea and the moon and the stars! 'Gwladys,' he said, 'our star is sinking--sinking--sinking!' Oh, 'tis pity, indeed, we can't have him here to nurse him--thy gentle ways and thy tender care would bring him round, Gwladys; but what is the matter, lass?"

"Oh, a pain!" said the girl, laying her hand on her bosom. "A sharp pain, a real pain! I have had it before to-day; I think it must be the brecci, which I have tasted too often." And a pitiful little smile crossed her face.

Hugh was all anxiety and fright, and not without cause, for Gwladys had quietly slipped to the ground in a dead faint.

In a moment, Madlen the contumacious had forgotten her pique, and was rushing about in search of the inevitable "drop of brandy," while Hugh lifted his wife from the ground, and placed her on the settle, where she presently regained consciousness. His tender words of love were the first that reached her ears.

"Gwladys, fâch! my little girl! dear heart! open thine eyes. Art better, darling?"

"Yes, yes," said the girl, reaching both hands towards him, and bursting into tears. "Hugh, Hugh, you have married a foolish, weak girl; but have patience with me, and I will get wiser and better."

"Oh, ho! as for that," said Hugh, tenderly drawing her towards him, "I want no change in thee!"

After the never-failing restorative of a cup of tea, Gwladys revived, and Hugh was happy again; and when 'n'wncwl Jos arrived in the afternoon, Hugh left him with Gwladys to the mysteries of casking the beer, his wooden leg stumping up and down incessantly from the beer-cellar to the living-room. He placed some mysterious object on the table, wrapped up in paper, refusing to unfold it until the last moment.

"Now," he said, when the casks had been placed in position, and everything prepared for pouring in the brecci, "now, then, Mishtress, let's see if your brewing won't be the clearest in Mwntseison."

"Gwen said there was a cloud in it this morning!"

"Gwen!" he said, with a start. "She hasn't been looking at it, has she?"

Gwladys nodded.

"Ach y fi! there's a pity! She is too nearly related to Peggi Shân for her eyes or her fingers to do any good to thy brewing. I remember once, when my mother was brewing (and she was famed for her clear cwrw), but jâr-i! Peggi Shân came to the door; 'twas a very sunny day, and her shadow fell straight over the mash-tub, and, sure as I'm here, the beer was as thick as bwdran![7] Always after that we kept the door locked on brewing days."

"Perhaps, indeed!" said Gwladys! "I will do so next time, for there is something about Gwen I don't like."

"Well, we've got nothing to do but try our best now; but 'tis pity Gwen looked at it!" And he unfolded from the crumpled newspaper a large lump of coal, which, after well washing, he placed at the bottom of the cask, pouring the fermented brecci gently over it. "There it is! Now all I ask for my secret is--that when your cask is empty, you will take the coal out, and burn it in the middle of your strongest fire; it will bring good luck to your next brewing; you will be surprised to see what a mass of mud will be gathered round it, and your beer will be like the cryshal! and I'll come and taste the first glass."

"Yes, thou shalt indeed!"

"Well, good-bye, Mishtress; 'tis only Gwen I am afraid of now! Hast heard any more about Ivor Parry?"

"No," answered Gwladys, in a calm voice which astonished herself, "only that he is well nursed by the daughter of the house--Gwladys is her name!"

"Well, well, poor fellow! when you are ill it is well to have a woman about you," and he stumped away.

Quite in the gloaming, when the hearth had been swept up, Gwladys, dressed in her neatest frock of Welsh flannel, with her favourite pink muslin kerchief tied loosely round her neck, sat knitting near the little window, through which the setting sun sent a rosy parting glow.

Hugh had gone a few miles into the country on business, and Nell Jones and Sara Pentraeth, two near neighbours, had taken the opportunity of paying their first wedding call upon the bride. They were constant friends and companions, and although they quarrelled at almost every interview, never seemed happy apart. They had heard so much of the glories of Gwladys' new home that they had been dying to see it for the last fortnight, but had been unable hitherto to overcome their jealousy sufficiently to pay the requisite visit; this evening, however, they both made their appearance in the doorway.

"Dir anwl! is it you, Nell fâch? and you, Sara, venturing to leave your little baby? there's kind you are," and Gwladys dusted too already speckless chairs and placed them for her guests.

"Well, we have come to wish you 'Priodas dda,' Mishtress," said Sara, who was spokeswoman, Nell being too busily engaged with roving eyes in taking stock of the furniture; "and we would have come before, but as for me, indeed, to goodness, my heart sank down to my clocs, when I heard of all the grand things around you; but I am glad now I came, for I am not so frightened after all, and I don't see anything out of the way here!"

"I hope not indeed," said Gwladys, smiling.

"No, no! the Mishteer knew better than to make it too grand for you; it would be too great a change. But that is a beautiful chair you are sitting on--solid oak, I see!"

"Yes," said Gwladys, rising; "Hugh had it made for me."

"Caton pawb!"[8] said both women, raising their hands in astonishment, "a red velvet cushion! Wel! wel! the queen couldn't have anything better! But there, we all know how an old lover spoils his wife!"

Here Nell turned to the dresser.

"Wel, to be sure! the dresser looks nice; I have heard tell it is the best-dressed dresser in the parish; but so many things alike. For my part, I like different colours--green, blue, and pink, not all pink like these. And what are these?" and she gingerly raised the covers of two vegetable dishes, which stood one each side of the dresser shelf.

"They are for the potatoes and cabbages," said Gwladys meekly, feeling that she was indeed in danger of hurting the susceptibilities of her touchy neighbours by the exhibition of her treasures; "and those are the dishes--six plates and three dishes, and two little ones for gravy; they called it a dinner service at the shop at Caer Madoc."

"Perhaps indeed!" said Sara, whose mingled feelings of jealousy and astonishment could only be expressed by this never-failing phrase.

Meanwhile, Nell was walking round the room, examining with curious eyes and busy fingers every little adornment which the cosy cottage contained; but the coffor was the object of their deepest admiration.

"Look at the polish of it!" said Nell, who was not so clever as Sara at hiding her feelings.

Gwladys with pride opened every drawer.

"Full to the brim!" said Nell, with gasping envy. "I expect old 'Ebenezer' will be well filled on Sunday; everyone is looking out for your new jacket."

"They will be disappointed then," said Gwladys, laughing, "for Hugh comes with me to Brynseion from this time forward."

"Wel! wel! the Mishteer has given up his soul to you!" in a tone half spiteful, half abject, for "to give up his chapel" was synonymous with "giving up his soul," even though it was only to attend another of the same denomination more conveniently situated.

At this last proof of Hugh Morgan's complete subjection to his wife's charms the two women were quite overcome, and when they went away they made their adieux in more humble tones, and tacked a "mem" and a bob curtesy on to the end! But it was only until they were out of sight that this meek behaviour continued, for as they walked up the road they drew closer together, and with sundry nudges and winks discussed the situation.

"Did ever man see such a thing?" said Sara. "A red velvet-cushion! didst ever hear of such a thing? Nani's daughter to sit upon a red velvet cushion! No wonder her stool in the sail-shed is so often empty! Wel! wel! the ways of Providence are puzzling indeed. But of all things in the world, Nell, fâch--the dishes for the potatoes! Wouldn't basins do, I should like to know?"

"Oh! I don't expect they use them," said Nell. "What did she call them? Some English name."

"'A dinner service,' if you please," said Sara, in tones of disgust. "Ach y fi! what is the world coming to when Nani's daughter sits on a red velvet cushion, and has a 'dinner service' on her dresser? dost know what, Nell, fâch? I am sick of the world; it is so foolish. And didst see her ring? as thick as two, Nell, fâch! Wel, wel! the poor Mishteer has made a fool of himself at last! 'Dwla dwl yw dwl hên!'[9] But, Nell," with another nudge and a shrewd wink, "we've got to curtsey to her, my woman. But we've got to hide our feelings in this world, Nell, fâch. There's two pigs in the sty; and that pretty poppet won't do all the salting herself, I'll be bound. And there's the herrings to be salted in the autumn. I won't mind doing the work for her, but there's many a bit of pork can be spared from the salting, and I daresay she'll throw a dozen or two of herrings into my pay!"

"Oh, I can salt as well as thee," said Nell, "and I can set the garden for them----"

"Oh, yes, I daresay thee'lt pick something out of them!" said Sara. "So we must curtsey and say, 'mem' to Mishtress. Ach y fi! I am tired of this old world. There's Shemi coming home, I must go and put the cawl on; good-night."

As they turned into their cottages, Hugh came whistling down the road. He had settled his business in the farm on the moor, and was returning with hurrying steps to the home which held his young bride; for, no doubt, in a great measure the old proverb was right, and Hugh, the man of forty, was more absolutely enslaved by the new-born passion which had come into his life than a younger man would have been. The thought of Gwladys filled his heart to the exclusion for the time of every other consideration. She was the sweetest and fairest woman in the world--the peerless pearl of all the maidens!--and his whole life should be devoted to her happiness. He would guard her path from every danger; he would brush every thorn away, and spread it with flowers for her to walk upon; and as he saw the light which twinkled from his window, and pictured Gwladys' slim figure moving about the room, his heart leapt up with joy, and life seemed to stretch before him in one long boundless haze of happiness. He passed 'n'wncwl Jos standing at his cottage door with a nod only.

"Ha, ha!" said the old man, "'tis no use asking you to come in now--too much attraction at home, eh?"

"Well," said Hugh, stopping a moment, "'tis too late to-night, and I don't like to leave the little one alone, you see; but to-morrow night, she is going to see Nani, and I'll come up and sit with thee and Mari. How is she?"

"Quite well," said 'n'wncwl Jos. "She has been hay-making all day, and has not come home yet."

On the following Sunday the worshippers at Brynseion Chapel paid less attention than usual to their minister's fiery sermon. Gwladys Morgan's jacket had been the subject of their thoughts and conversation during the foregoing week, and now here it was in all its glory of lace and bead trimming, plainly exposed to every eye--nay, Sara Pentraeth and Nell Jones had been so fortunate as to secure seats in the very next pew behind the Mishteer and Mishtress, so that they were able correctly to appraise its value. Nell's eyes as usual roamed over every bead and frill, and a series of unconscious nudges in Sara's side expressed the feelings which the presence of the minister and congregation obliged her to conceal. Hugh had commissioned a friend, a sea-captain, to buy the jacket for him at a large seaport town up the bay. The price was to be no object, but fashion and good taste alone were to be considered, and consequently its arrival had created quite a little ferment in the village. Gwladys, when it was presented to her the day after her marriage, went into the expected raptures; but, truth to tell, its grandeur threw a shadow over her Sundays, and though Nani looked across the chapel at her with beaming admiration, she was glad to exchange it for her quiet Welsh flannel dress when the three services of the day were over, and Hugh and she could doff their broadcloth and silk, and lay them to rest in the coffer until the following Sunday. It was midsummer, and as they emerged from the crowded chapel on the day when the glories of the jacket first dazzled the eyes of Mwntseison, the sweet, pure air greeted them like a blessing. The road, shaded on both sides with old gnarled elder trees, was white with the fallen blossoms, the scent of which mingled with that of the wild honeysuckle climbing over the hedges.

They stopped a moment to lean over a bridge which crossed the little stream just where it took a headlong leap over the rocks down to the lower level, upon which it made its more sober way through the village into the sea. The spray from the waterfall wetted their faces as they looked through the honeysuckle and ivy into the depths below. The swallows darted backwards and forwards where the water filled the air with its rushing sound.

"'Tis a gay world, lass, eh?" said Hugh, looking with almost wistful tenderness into Gwladys' face.

"Yes, indeed," she answered; "'tis a pity we live in houses; we lose a lot of beauty so."

"Yes," said Hugh; "but to me, now, the real beauty and happiness of life are at home. Since I have thee always with me, my life seems to be almost too full of joy. Dost feel the same, f'anwylyd? Art as happy with me?"

For a moment there was a rushing sound in her ears which drowned the sound of the waterfall, and tears filled her eyes as she sought for a truthful answer.

"Oh, Hugh, bâch!" she said at last, "who could live with thee without loving thee? Indeed I am far happier than I deserve to be--my only trouble is lest I should not fill thy life completely; but if thou art telling the truth, and dost not find anything wanting in me, that is all I want."

"Nothing, merch i, nothing," said Hugh. And he spoke the truth, for he had not as yet fully realised that there was a something wanting in his cup of happiness; while in Gwladys' heart, every fresh proof of her husband's passionate love seemed to press deeper the barb of unrest and misery which was poisoning her life. His tender words, his caresses only deepened her sense of loss, while, added to her own sorrow, pity for Hugh Morgan began to awaken within her. She had not realised that the bitterness could not be hers alone, but that through her it would reach the man who loved her, and whom she admired and honoured so much.

"Could I only tell mother; but no!" She felt she must hide her misery from every human eye, and, above all, from Hugh, whose heart the knowledge would break. Yes, whatever it cost her, she must hide it from him; and she must make more strenuous efforts to appear and be glad in Hugh's love, and in all the comforts surrounding her.

All this passed through her mind while she watched the swallows darting through the spray and listened to the rush of the waterfall. She turned to her husband with as merry a smile as she could call to her lips.

"Come, 'mach-geni, we must not quite forget our home in watching the birds and the water; let us go home."

There was a ring of gaiety in the speech which Hugh felt and responded to at once, and leaning over the bridge he reached a wild rose which grew out of the mossy masonry.

"A posy for my darling," he said, offering it to her.

She took it, smiling, and fastened it on her breast in spite of the silk jacket; and Hugh Morgan turned homewards a happy man.

[1] My lass.

[2] Of course.

[3] Crystal.

[4] Dear! dear!

[5] Good gracious!

[6] Devil.

[7] A kind of porridge.

[8] An exclamation, as "good gracious!"

[9] "There is no fool like an old fool."