Read Ebook: Torn Sails: A Tale of a Welsh Village by Raine Allen

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Ebook has 902 lines and 43500 words, and 19 pages

le groups on the warm sand, the sailors on the bay, and the haymakers in the field; but oftenest of all, the walls of the old sail-shed echoed to its tones. It ran as follows, though English words can but poorly express the vivid brightness of the original:--

"Out there on the raging sea The wind is high; Nothing but foam and mist to see Under the sky! Father and mother, come down to the shore; Friends and neighbours, stand at the door; Pray--if you never have prayed before-- 'Lord, hear our cry!' Torn sails and broken mast-- Oh! let the boat come home at last! Ja houp, hal! Ja houp, hal! Hal! Hal! Hal! Hal!

"Out there on the stormy main A calm has come! The sunshine chases the wind and rain, And gilds the foam. Father and mother, come down to the shore; Friends and neighbours, come out to the door; And shout--if you never have shouted before-- A welcome home! Torn sails and broken mast-- The boat is safe at home at last! Ja houp, hal! Ja houp, hal! Hal! Hal! Hal! Hal!"

The corn harvest was nearly over before the news reached the village of Ivor Parry's convalescence.

The Lapwing had flitted across the bay to the northern port, and had returned, bearing the news of his recovery and many warm greetings from him to his friends at Mwntseison.

"Tell me exactly how he was, my lad. I hunger to hear something of him," said Hugh Morgan to the youthful captain of the little ship, and speaking English, for sailors possessed the distinguishing accomplishment of being able to speak the English language, and are proud of it. Hugh himself spoke it fluently and grammatically, though with a broad Welsh accent.

"Wel, he wass looking pale and thin," replied Captain Jones, "and the daughter of the house brought a chair for him to sit on outside the door. Gwladys is her name, and she's a purty girl, too!

"'There,' he says, 'turn my chair where the wind will blow straight from the sea.'

"Wel, he didn't say nothin' to that, but he took a long breath, and he sighed very heavy."

"'Oh, I'll soon be well now,' he sez, 'and begin my work again.' And when I was parting, he sez: 'Remember me to the Mishteer,' sez he, 'and tell him that distance don't make no difference at all in my friendship for him.'"

"And what message to the Mishtress?"

"'Oh, yes, of course,' he sez, 'my kind remembrances to her, too!' and he didn't say no more."

"Well, that's enough," said Hugh, returning to his Welsh, "to know that he is getting well, and that his heart is with us yet. We'll have him back again yet, boys. We'll send him a 'round robin,' and every one in Mwntseison shall sign it. Thee and I shall be the first to sign it. Dost hear, Gwladys? But thee must sprack up, girl, or Ivor will ask me what I've been doing to thee to make thee so pale and thin!" And he, too, sighed heavily, as Ivor had.

The winter months sped on, and the spring once more awakened land and sea. On one of her brightest and freshest mornings the doors of the sail-shed stood wide open, as they had done a year ago, and Hugh Morgan as usual worked busily amongst his men, arranging, watching, directing with indefatigable spirit, though, truth to tell, things had been going rather against him lately. He missed Ivor's watchful interest in his business, and his absence, like an intangible cloud, somewhat tarnished the brightness of his life.

At the first glance, Hugh's manly form and handsome face seems unchanged, but a closer scrutiny reveals a haunting sadness behind his genial smile.

Gwladys was also present, and was busily engaged in directing some portion of the work which she took under her own particular surveillance, and part of which she was able to do in her own home, much against her husband's wishes, for he would have liked to see her spend her days, her time, and his money in pleasure only; but the time hung heavily on her hands, and she felt herself perforce obliged to seek for work outside her own home, and playfully insisted upon taking upon her a portion of the work to which she had been accustomed from childhood.

"Wilt come up to-night, Nell," she said, as she left the shed one day, "and bring up those reef points and the new flag for me to hem? There's a bag of sucan and half a cheese you can have."

"Tank'ee, tank'ee, Mishtress f?ch," said Nell, standing up to make a series of bob curtseys; "there's good you are to me, and I will bring you a bunch of 'moon rocket.' I gathered it when the moon was full in a cleft of the rocks at Traeth-y-daran. 'Tis splendid for bringing the colour back to your blood. Will you try it, mem?"

"Yes," said Gwladys, "I will try it to please thee, Nell. From Traeth-y-daran, didst say? Bring it to me; but I am quite well," and she left the shed, Hugh looking after her with a wistful sadness, for it was now very evident that the girl, who a year ago might have stood for a picture of "Hebe," had now lost much of the full ripe form, as well as the glow of health, which had once made her so peculiarly attractive. She was still very fair and lovely, perhaps more so than before, but in a different way. Her dark brown eyes had deep shadows beneath them, and her lips a curve of sadness. What was the cause of this sudden failing of health? Hugh tried in vain to discover, and he was fast resigning himself to the belief that her delicacy was due to that much-dreaded disease, consumption, which was very prevalent in that neighbourhood. Whether from the continual intermarriage of the villagers on the coast, or from some other cause, this cruel disease is very rife amongst the young people of both sexes; and Hugh looked every day, with nervous fears, for signs of the dreaded enemy.

Gwladys laughed at his fears, however, and continued to declare she was quite well.

Mari Vone, who was her most intimate friend and companion, was as much puzzled as Hugh at first. With the quick intuition of a loving heart, she had soon discovered that Hugh and Gwladys' marriage had not brought to either of them the complete happiness which she had expected would follow their union. She spent some part of every day in Gwladys' home, either helping in the household duties or sitting with her at work, engaged in those long chats which seem to fill up any blank there may be in the lives of women, as smoking does with men. She never stayed later than four or five o'clock, and Hugh was wont to reproach her playfully with always leaving before he came home. Though Mari pleasantly laughed away his reproaches, it was true that she could not look on unmoved while the man who yet reigned supreme in her heart caressed and dallied with his young wife. It was true that she was not yet strong enough to feel no bitterness of spirit when she saw the tender affection which Hugh lavished upon Gwladys, and which seemed to be received by her without the reciprocal delight which Mari herself would have felt. Her pure and unselfish love made her desire his happiness before any earthly good, and it wounded her true heart to see that he missed something in his wife, without plainly realising that he did so, or, at all events, without confessing it even to himself.

It was during one of these long chats, when the two friends sat knitting at the cottage door, that the suspicion first dawned upon her which was afterwards to develop into such a miserable certainty. They had sat silent for some time, both heads bent over their clicking knitting needles, when Mari looked up and spoke.

"Wel, wyrl Lallo's new pig seems to be as noisy as the last year's. You can always hear them abusing each other."

"Yes," said Gwladys, laughing; "I think, between the baby and the pig, Siencyn will be glad to go to sea again."

"'Tis a crying baby, indeed," said Mari; "a frail little thing. I'm afraid it will not live."

"Oh, I hope so! It would break poor Gwen's heart to lose it. I can't think why--but she's always very spiteful to me."

"To thee!" said Mari. "Why? I wonder--but she dare not show her spite to the Mishtress, surely! Poor Gwen! I pity her. Didst know she was very fond of Ivor Parry once?"

A crimson blush overspread Gwladys' face as she bent more closely over her knitting--a blush that faded as quickly as it had appeared, leaving on her face a deathly pallor, though she answered in a calm voice:

"I remember hearing something of it."

Mari saw the blush and the pallor, and quickly changed the conversation, for if there was one trait in her character more conspicuous than another, it was tenderness, and, with a spasm of pain, she perceived she had touched upon a secret in Gwladys' life.

"It is drawing near tea-time; I must go. 'N'wncwl Jos is so punctual! the tap of his wooden leg is almost as good as a clock."

"Here is Hugh," said Gwladys, and she ran to the gate to meet him.

There was only the usual "Wel, merch i!" and "Wel, Hugh!" at meeting, for the Welsh, although so emotional--perhaps because of this--are very chary of any exhibition of tenderness in public.

"Ah! now I have caught thee, Mari, going to slip away as usual just as I come in. Indeed, now, stay to tea. 'N'wncwl Jos has gone out in the Speedwell, and she will not be back till nine o'clock; he told me to tell thee. Come, sit thee down, and keep Gwladys and me company."

"Oh, then I will, and I can fry those light-cakes for thee, Gwladys." And before long they were seated round the oak table, in the shade of the big chimney, for the evenings were still cold, although it was May.

Gwladys hovered round her husband with all sorts of little nameless attentions, endeavouring, as she always did, by faithfully performing and even exceeding in every wifely duty to make up to him for the love which was lacking in her.

"There's a bonnie pile of lightcakes," said Hugh, "as tall as Caer Madoc church-steeple; but never mind, I'll soon knock the pinnacle off it!" and he flipped two or three on to Gwladys' and Mari's plates.

"One at a time, Hugh b?ch," said Gwladys. "Thee wouldst soon make me ill if thou hadst thy way."

"I'm afraid I have had my way, lass. Dost see how pale she is, Mari? What shall we do to her?"

"Well, I think, take her for a trip on the Aden Ydon. She sails for Cork in June. That would bring her roses back."

"Perhaps indeed," said Hugh. "But how shall I manage it? I have had complaints of the work in the sail-shed from many quarters lately, and I must watch it closer. But one thing is certain, I must ask Ivor Parry to come back, and that won't hurt my pride, for we've always been like brothers, and I believe his friendship is mine still."

"No doubt of that," said Mari, endeavouring to attract Hugh's notice from his wife, who sat with bent head, changing from white to red, and from red to white.

When Hugh had left the house, she raised her hands, which had been clasped on her lap, and covered her drooping face with them, while Mari, pretending not to notice her, bustled about clearing the tea-table; but so long did she remain in this position that it was useless longer to ignore it, so, drawing a stool to her side, she gently tried to draw away the hands which Gwladys still kept over her face, and was surprised to find them wet with tears.

"Gwladys, anwl! what is it?"

"Something I must not tell you!" said the young wife, with head still bent, the tears coursing each other down her cheeks; "something I must keep for ever here,"--and she smote her breast with her clenched hand--"until I lie in my coffin. You heard Hugh say everything has gone wrong with him lately? It is true, Mari f?ch. Oh, everything is wrong! The whole world is twisted and torn, and I long to escape from it."

Mari sat beside her, holding one of her hands in stricken silence. "Ts, ts!" was all she said, while Gwladys' tears flowed unrestrainedly.

"Poor Hugh! poor Hugh!" she said between her sobs; and Mari cried too, but softly.

"I have heard that once Hugh and thee were lovers, Mari?"

"Oh, in the old, old past, Gwladys. Now his heart is thine alone, and my only prayer is that he should be happy with thee. Dost believe me, merch i?"

"Yes, I believe all that is good of thee, Mari. Thou art an angel somehow straying on earth. Wilt be my guardian angel, and love me still, though I am so weak and sinful? Oh, why did not Hugh marry thee, instead of me? I believe in his heart of hearts he loves thee still, although he has been carried away by a sudden wind of passion. Yes--yes; there has been some terrible mistake," and she started to her feet almost wildly, "and it can never be set right--never, never, never!" And with the last word she flung herself down on the settle, crying bitterly.

Mari waited a moment in dazed silence.

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