Garthowen
A >> Allen Raine >> GarthowenGARTHOWEN
A Story of a Welsh Homestead.
by
ALLEN RAINE.
Author of "Torn Sails," "A Welsh Singer,"
"By Berwen Banks," Etc.
Sixty-Fifth Thousand
London
Hutchinson & Co.
Paternoster Row
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. A Turn of the Road
II. "Garthowen"
III. Morva of the Moor
IV. The Old Bible
V. The Sea Maiden
VI. Gethin's Presents
VII. The Broom Girl
VIII. Garthowen Slopes
IX. The North Star
X. The Cynos
XI. Unrest
XII. Sara's Vision
XIII. The Bird Flutters
XIV. Dr. Owen
XV. Gwenda's Prospects
XVI. Isderi
XVII. Gwenda at Garthowen
XVIII. Sara
XIX. The "Sciet"
XX. Love's Pilgrimage
XXI. The Mate of the "Gwenllian"
XXII. Gethin's Story
XXIII. Turned Out!
XXIV. A Dance on the Cliffs
GARTHOWEN
CHAPTER I
A TURN OF THE ROAD
It was a typical July day in a large seaport town of South Wales.
There had been refreshing showers in the morning, giving place to a
murky haze through which the late afternoon sun shone red and round.
The small kitchen of No. 2 Bryn Street was insufferably hot, in spite
of the wide-open door and window. A good fire burnt in the grate,
however, for it was near tea-time, and Mrs. Parry knew that some of her
lodgers would soon be coming in for their tea. One had already
arrived, and, sitting on the settle in the chimney corner, was holding
an animated conversation with his landlady, who stood before him, one
hand akimbo on her side, the other brandishing a toasting fork. Her
beady black eyes, her brick-red cheeks and hanks of coarse hair, were
not beautiful to look upon, though to-day they were at their best, for
the harsh voice was softened, and there was a humid gentleness in the
eyes not habitual to them. Her companion was a young man about
twenty-three years of age, dark, almost swarthy of hue, tanned by the
suns and storms of foreign seas and many lands, As he sat there in the
shade of the settle one caught a glance of black eyes and a gleam of
white teeth, but the easy, lounging attitude did not show to advantage
the splendid build of Gethin Owens. One of his large brown fists,
resting on the rough deal table, was covered with tattooed
hieroglyphics, an anchor, a mermaid, and a heart, of course! Anyone
conversant with the Welsh language would have divined at once, by the
long-drawn intonation of the first words in every remark, that the
subject of conversation was one of sad or tender interest.
"Well, indeed," said Mrs. Parry, "the-r-e's missing you I'll be,
Gethin! We are coming from the same place, you see, and you are
knowing all about me, and I about you, and that I supp-o-s-e is making
me feel more like a mother to you than to the other lodgers."
"Well, you _have_ been like a mother to me, mending my clothes and
watching me so sharp with the drink. Dei anwl! I don't think I ever
took a glass with a friend without you finding me out, and calling me
names. 'Drunken blackguard!' you called me one night, when as sure as
I'm here I had only had a bottle of gingerpop in Jim Jones's shop," and
he laughed boisterously.
"Well, well," said Mrs. Parry, "if I wronged you then, be bound you
deserved the blame some other time, and 'twas for your own good I was
telling you, my boy. Indeed, I wish I was going home with you to the
old neighbourhood. The-r-e's glad they'll be to see you at Garthowen."
"Well, I don't know how my father will receive me," said her companion
thoughtfully. "Ann and Will I am not afraid of, but the old man--he
was very angry with me."
"What _did_ you do long ago to make him so angry, Gethin? I have heard
Tom Powell and Jim Bowen blaming him very much for being so hard to his
eldest son; they said he was always more fond of Will than you, and was
often beating you."
"Halt!" said Gethin, bringing his fist down so heavily on the table
that the tea-things jingled, "not a word against the old man--the best
father that ever walked, and I was the worst boy on Garthowen slopes,
driving the chickens into the water, shooing the geese over the hedges,
riding the horses full pelt down the stony roads, setting fire to the
gorse bushes, mitching from school, and making the boys laugh in
chapel; no wonder the old man turned me away."
"But all boys are naughty boys," said Mrs. Parry, "and that wasn't
enough reason for sending you from home, and shutting the door against
you."
"No," said Gethin, "but I did more than that; I could not do a worse
thing than I did to displease the old man. I was fond of scribbling my
name everywhere. 'Gethin Owens' was on all the gateposts, and on the
saddles and bridles, and once I painted 'G. O.' with green paint on the
white mare's haunch. There was a squall when that was found out, but
it was nothing to the storm that burst upon me when I wrote something
in my mother's big Bible. As true as I am here, I don't remember what
I wrote, but I know it was something about the devil, and I signed it
'Gethin Owens,' and a big 'Amen' after it. Poor old man, he was
shocking angry, and he wouldn't listen to no excuse; so after a good
thrashing I went away, Ann ran after me with my little bundle, and the
tears streaming down her face, but I didn't cry--only when I came upon
little Morva Lloyd sitting on the hillside. She put her arms round my
neck and tried to keep me back, but I dragged myself away, and my tears
were falling like rain then, and all the way down to Abersethin as long
as I could hear Morva crying and calling out 'Gethin! Gethin!'"
"There's glad she'll be to see you."
"Well, I dunno. She was used to be very fond of me; she couldn't bear
Will because he was teazing her, but I was like a slave to her. 'I
want some shells to play,' sez she sometimes, and there I was off to
the shore, hunting about for shells for her. 'Take me a ride,' sez
she, and up on my shoulder I would hoist her, as happy as a king, with
her two little feet in my hands, and her little fat hands ketching
tight in my hair, and there's galloping over the slopes we were, me
snorting and prancing, and she laughing all the time like the swallows
when they are flying."
They were interrupted by a clatter of heavy shoes and a chorus of
boisterous voices, as three sailors came in loudly calling for their
tea.
"Hello, Gethin! not gone? Hast changed thy mind?"
"Not a bit of it," said Gethin, pointing to his bag of clothes. "I
have been a long time making up my mind, but it's Garthowen and the
cows and the cawl for me this time and no mistake."
"And Morva," said Jim Bowen, with a smile, in which lurked a suspicion
of a sneer. "Thee may say what thee likes about the old man, and the
cows, and the cawl, but I know thee, Gethin Owens! Ever since I told
thee what a fine lass Morva Lloyd has grown thee'st been hankering
after Garthowen slopes."
There was a general laugh, in which Gethin joined good-humouredly,
standing and stretching himself with a yawn. The evening sun fell full
upon him, showing a form of sinewy strength, and a handsome manly face.
His dark skin and the small gold rings in his ears, so much affected by
Welsh sailors, gave him a foreign look, which rather added to the
attractiveness of his personal appearance.
When the tea had been partaken of, with a running accompaniment of
broad jokes and loud laughter, the three sailors went out, leaving
Gethin still sitting on the settle. This was Mrs. Parry's hour of
peace--when her consumptive son came home from his loitering in the
sunshine to join her at her own quiet "cup of tea," while her rough
husband was still engaged amongst the shipping in the docks.
"Well, what'll I say to Nani Graig?" said Gethin.
"Oh, poor mother, my love, and tell her if it wasn't for my boy Tom I'd
soon be home with her again, for I'll never live with John Parry when
my boy is gone."
"He's not going for many a long year," said Gethin, slapping the boy on
the back, his more sensitive nature shrinking from such plain speaking.
But Tom was used to it, and smiled, shuffling uneasily under the slap.
"What you got bulging out in your bag like that?" he asked.
"Oh, presents for them at Garthowen; will I show them to you?" said the
sailor awkwardly, as he untied the mouth of the canvas bag. "Here's a
tie for my father, and a hymn-book for Ann, and here's a knife for
Will, and a pocket-book for Gwilym Morris, the preacher who is lodging
with them. And here," he said, opening a gaily-painted box, "is
something for little Morva," and he gently laid on the table a necklace
of iridescent shells which fell in three graduated rows.
"Oh! there's pretty!" said Mrs. Parry, and while she held the shining
shells in the red of the sun, again the doorway was darkened by the
entrance of two noisy, gaudily-dressed girls, who came flouncing up to
the table.
"Hello! Bella Lewis and Polly Jones, is it you? Where you come from
so early?" said Mrs. Parry.
"Come to see me, of course!" suggested the sailor.
"Come to see you and stop you going," said one of the girls. "Gethin
Owens, you _are_ more of a skulk than I took you for, though you are
rather shirky in your ways, if this is true what I hear about you."
"What?" said Gethin, replacing the necklace in the box.
"That you are going home for good, going to turn farmer and say
good-bye to the shipping and the docks." And as she spoke she laid her
hand on the box which Gethin was closing, and drew out its contents.
There was a greedy glitter in her bold eyes as she asked, "Who's that
for?" and she clasped it round her own neck, while Gethin's dark face
flushed.
"Couldn't look better than there," he answered gallantly, "so you keep
it, to remember me," and tying up his canvas bag he bade them all a
hurried good-bye.
Mrs. Parry followed him to the doorway with regretful farewells, for
she was losing a friend who had not only paid her well, but had been
kind to her delicate boy, and whose strong fist had often decided in
her favour a fight with her brutal husband.
"There you now," she said, in a confidential whisper and with a nudge
on Gethin's canvas bag, "there you are now; fool that you are! giving
such a thing as that to Bella Lewis! What did you pay for it, Gethin?
Shall I have it if I can get it from her? Why did you give it to her?
you said 'twas for little Morva--"
"Yes, it was," he said; "but d'ye think, woman, I would give it to
Morva after being on Bella Lewis's neck? No! that's why I am running
away in such a hurry, to buy her another, d'ye see, and Dei anwl, I
must make haste or else I'll be late on board. Good-bye, good-bye."
Mrs. Parry looked after him almost tenderly, but called out once more:
"Shall I have it if I can get it?"
"Yes, yes," shouted Gethin in return, and as he made his way through
the grimy, unsavoury street, he chuckled as he pictured the impending
scrimmage.
CHAPTER II
"GARTHOWEN"
Along the slope of a bare brown hill, which turned one scarped
precipitous side to the sea, and the other, more smooth and undulating,
towards a fair scene of inland beauty, straggled the little hamlet of
Pont-y-fro. Jos Hughes's shop was the very last house in the village,
the road beyond it merging into the rushy moor, and dwindling into a
stony track, down which a streamlet trickled from the peat bog above.
The house had stood in the same place for two hundred years, and Jos
Hughes looked as if he too had lived there for the same length of time.
His quaintly cut blue cloth coat adorned with large brass buttons, his
knee breeches of corduroy, and grey blue stockings, looking well in
keeping with his dwelling, but very out of place behind a counter. His
brown wrinkled face and ruddy cheeks were like a shrivelled apple, his
shrewd inquisitive eyes peered out through a pair of large brass-rimmed
spectacles, and, to judge by his expression, the view they got of the
world in general was not satisfactory.
It was a day of brilliant sunshine and intense heat, but through the
open shop door the sea wind came in with refreshing coolness. Behind
the counter Jos Hughes measured and weighed lazily, throwing in with
his short weight a compliment, or a screw of peppermints, as the case
required.
"Who is this coming up in the dust?" he mumbled.
"'Tis Morva of the moor," said a woman standing in the doorway and
shading her eyes with her hand. "What does she want, I wonder?
There's a merry lass she is!"
"Oh! day or night, sun or snow don't matter to her," said Jos Hughes.
At this moment the subject of their remarks entered the shop, and,
sitting on a sack of maize, let her arms fall on her lap. She was
quickly followed by a large black sheep dog, who bounded in and,
placing his fore-paws on the counter, with tongue hanging out, looked
at Jos Hughes intently.
"Down, Tudor!" said the girl, and he sprang on a sack of peas beside
her.
The mountain wind blowing in through the open doorway touzled the
little curls that were so unruly in Morva's hair; it was neither gold
nor ebony, but, looking at its rich tints, one was irresistibly
reminded of the ripe corn in harvest fields, while the blue eyes were
like the corn flowers in their vivid colouring.
"How are they at Garthowen?" asked Fani "bakkare."
"Oh! they are all well there," answered the girl, panting and fanning
herself with her sun-bonnet, "except the white calf, and he is better."
"There's hot it is!" said Fani, taking up her basket of groceries.
"Oh! 'tis hot!" said the girl, "but there's a lovely wind from the sea."
"What are you wanting to-day, Morva?" said Jos.
"A ball of red worsted for Ann, and an ounce of 'bacco for 'n'wncwl
Ebben, and oh! a ha'porth of sweets for Tudor."
The dog wagged his tail approvingly as Jos reached down from the shelf
a bottle of pink lollipops, for, though a wild country dog, he had
depraved tastes in the matter of sweets.
"There's serious you all look! what's the matter with you?" said the
girl, looking smilingly round.
"Nothing is the matter as I know," said Fani, "only there's always
plenty of trouble flying about. We can't be all so free from care as
you, always laughing or singing or something."
"Indeed I wish we could," said Madlen, a pale girl who was bending over
a box of knitting pins, looking round curiously and rather sadly; "I
wish the whole world could be like you, Morva."
Morva snatched the girl's listless hand in her own warm firm grasp, and
pressed it sympathetically, for she knew Madlen's secret sorrow.
"Wait another year or two," said Fani, "we'll talk to you then! Wait
till your husband comes home drunk from 'The Black Horse!'"
"And wait till you put all your money into a shop and then find it
doesn't pay you," said Jos.
Madlen said nothing, but Morva knew that in her heart she was thinking,
"Wait until your lover proves false to you!" and she gave her hand
another squeeze.
"Well, indeed!" she said springing up, "what are you all talking about?
I won't put all my money in a shop, and I won't marry a drunkard!
Sixpence, is it? I am going home over the bog and round the hill, but
I am going to sit on the bench outside a bit first. There's lots of
swallows' nests under your eaves, Jos Hughes; that brings good luck,
they say, so your shop ought to pay you well."
So saying she passed out, and sitting on the bench round the corner of
the house she kissed her hand toward the swallows, who flitted in and
out of their nests, twittering ecstatically.
"Hark to her," said Fani, "singing again, if you please--always
light-hearted! always happy! I don't think its quite right, Jos bach,
do you? You are a deacon at Penmorien and you ought to know. If it
was a hymn now! but you hear it's all nonsense about the swallows. Ach
y fi! she is learning them from Sara ''spridion';[1] some song of the
'old fathers' in past times!"
"Yes," said Jos, sanctimoniously clasping his stubby fingers, "I'm
afraid the girl is a bit of a heathen. What wonder is it? Nursed by
Sara--always out with the cows or the sheep, and they say she thinks
nothing of sleeping under a hedge, or out on the slopes, if any animal
is sick and wants watching."
Fani went out with a toss of her head, as the sweet voice came in
through the little side window with the twittering of the swallows and
the cluck, cluck of a happy brood hen.
Outside, Morva had forgotten all about Jos Hughes and Fani "bakkare's"
sour looks, and was singing her heart out to the sunshine.
"Sing on, little swallows," she said, "and I'll sing too. Sara taught
me the 'bird song' long ago when I was a baby."
And in a clear, sweet voice she joined the birds, and woke the echoes
from the brown cliffs. The tune was quaint and rapid; both it and the
words had come down to her with the old folklore of generations passed
away.
"Over the sea from the end of the wide world
I've come without wetting my feet, my feet, my feet,
Back to the old home, straight to the nest-home,
Under the brown thatch, oh sweet! oh sweet! oh sweet!
"When over the waters I flew in the autumn,
Then there was plenty of seed, of seed, of seed.
Women have winnow'd it, threshers have garner'd it,
Barns must be filled up indeed, indeed, indeed!
"Are you glad we have come with a flitter and twitter
Once more on the housetop to meet, to meet, to meet?
Make haste little primroses, cowslips, and daisies, we're
Longing your faces to greet, to greet, to greet!"
--_Trans._
"Yes, that's what you are singing. Good-bye," and waving her hand
towards them again, she turned her face to the boggy moor, picking her
way over the stepping-stones which led up to the dryer sheep paths.
The golden marsh marigolds glittered around her, the beautiful bog bean
hung its pinky white fringe over the brown peat pools, the silky plumes
of the cotton grass nodded at her as she passed, and the wind whispered
in the rushes the secrets of the sea.
Morva listened with a smile, a brown finger up-raised. "Yes, yes, I
know what you are singing too down there in the rushes, sweet west
wind," she said. "Sara has told me, but I haven't time to sing the
'wind song' to-day," and reaching the sheep path which led round the
mountain, she sped against the wind, her hair streaming behind her, her
blue skirt fluttering in the breeze, the ball of scarlet worsted and
the shining 'bacco box held high in either hand to steady her flying
footsteps, Tudor barking with joy as he bounded after her and twitched
at her fluttering skirts.
It was tea-time when she reached Garthowen, and, winter or summer, that
was always the pleasantest hour at the farmstead, when the air was
filled with the aroma of the hot tea, and the laughter and talk of the
household. On the settle in the cosy chimney corner sat Ebben Owens
himself, the head of the family and the centre of interest to every
member of it. He possessed that doubtful advantage, the power of
attracting to himself the affection and friendship of everyone who came
in contact with him; his children idolised him, and Morva was no whit
behind them in her affection for him. In spite of his long grizzled
locks, and a slight stoop, he was still a hale and hearty yeoman under
his seventy years. His cheeks bore the ruddy hue of health, his eyes
were still bright and clear, the lines of his mouth expressed a gentle
and sensitive nature. It was by no means a strong face, but its very
weakness perhaps accounted for the protecting tenderness shown to him
by all his family. As he sat there in the shadow of the settle it was
easy to understand why his children were so devotedly attached to him,
and why he bore the reputation of being the kindest and most
good-natured man in Pont-y-fro and its neighbourhood. Ann, his only
daughter, was looking smilingly at him from the head of the table, her
smooth brown hair parted over her madonna-like brows, her brown eyes
full of laughter. Opposite to her, at the bottom of the table, sat
Gwilym Morris, preacher at the Calvinistic Methodist chapel, down in
the valley by the shore. He had lived at Garthowen for many years as
one of the family, being the son of an old friend of Ebben Owens.
Having a small--very small--income of his own, he was able to devote
his services to the chapel in the valley, expecting and receiving
nothing in return but a pittance, for which no other minister would
have been willing to work. He was a dark, pale man, of earnest and
studious appearance, of quiet manners, and rather silent, but often
seeking the liquid brown eyes which lighted up Ann's gentle face.
"Tis the only time father is cross when he has lost his 'bacco box,"
said Ann, laughing; "but then he is as cross as two sticks."
"Lol! lol!" said the old man snappishly, "give me a cup of tea; but I
can't think where my 'bacco box is. I swear I left it here on the
table."
Gwilym Morris hunted about in the most unlikely places, as men
generally do--on the tea tray, between the leaves of some newspapers
which stood on the deep window-sill. He was about to open Ann's
work-bag in search of it, when Morva entered panting, and placed the
shining box and ball of red wool on the table.
"Good, my daughter," said Ebben Owens, pocketing his new-found
treasure, and regaining his good temper at once.
"I saw it was empty, so I took it with me to Jos Hughes's shop," she
said.
Soon afterwards, seated on her milking stool, she was singing to the
rhythm of the milk as it streamed into the frothing pail, for Daisy
refused to yield her milk without a musical accompaniment. Very soft
and low was the girl's singing, but clear and sweet as that of the
thrush on the thorn bush behind her.
"Give me my little milking pail,
For under the hawthorn in the vale
The cows are gathering one by one,
They know the time by the westering sun.
Troodi, Troodi! come down from the mountain,
Troodi, Troodi! come up from the dale;
Moelen, and Corwen, and Blodwen, and Trodwen!
I'll meet you all with my milking pail."
So sang the girl, and the lilting tune caught the ears of a youth who
was just entering the farmyard. He knew it at once. It was a snatch
of Morva's simple milking song. He stopped to pat Daisy's broad
forehead, and Morva looked up with a smile.
"Make haste," she said, "or tea will be finished. Where have you been
so late?"
"Thou'll be surprised when I tell thee," said the young man; but before
he had time for further conversation, Ann's voice called him from the
kitchen window, and he hurried away unceremoniously.
Morva continued her song, for Daisy wanted nothing new, but was
contented with the old stave which she had known from calfhood.
Will Owens, arriving in the farm kitchen, had evidently been eagerly
awaited. Both Ann and Gwilym Morris came forward to meet him, and
Ebben Owens rubbed his hands nervously over his corduroy knees.
"Well?" said all three together.
"Well!" echoed Will, flinging his hat across to the window-sill. "It's
all right. I met Price the vicar coming down the street, so I touched
my hat to him, and he saw at once that I wanted to speak to him, and
there's kind he was. 'How's your father?' he said, 'and Miss Ann, is
she well? I must come up and see them soon.'"
"Look you there now," said his father.
"'They will be very glad to see you sir,' I said, but I didn't know how
to tell him what I wanted.
"'I am very glad to hear how well you get on with your books,' he said;
'but 'tisn't every young man has Gwilym Morris to help him and to teach
him.' And then, you see, when he made a beginning, 'twas easier for me
to explain."
The preacher's pale face lighted up with a smile of pleasure, and Ann
flushed with gratified pride as Will continued.
"'He is a man in a hundred,' said Mr. Price, 'and 'tis a pity that his
talents are wasted on a Methodist Chapel. I wish I could persuade him
to enter the Church.'
"'Well, you'll never do that,' I said. 'You might as well try to turn
the course of the On. He won't come himself, but he is sending a very
poor substitute to you, sir.'
"'And who is that? You?' said Mr. Price.
"'Well, sir, that is what I wanted to see you about. You know that
although we are Methodists bred and born, both my grandfather and my
great-grandfather had a son in the Church,' and with that he took hold
of my two hands.
"'And your father is going to follow their good example? I _am_ glad!'
and he shook my hands so warmly."
"There for you now!" said Ebben Owens.
"'I will do all I can for you,' Mr. Price said, 'and I'm sure your
uncle will help you.'
"'Oh!' said I, 'if my father will send me to the Church, sir, it will
be without pressing upon anyone else for money,' for I wasn't going to
let him think we couldn't afford it."
"Right, my boy," said Ebben Owens, standing up in his excitement; "and
what then?"
"Oh! then he asked me when did I think of entering college; and I said,
'Next term, sir, if I can pass.'
"'No fear of that,' he said again, 'with Gwilym Morris at your elbow.'
But I'm choking, Ann; give me a cup of tea, da chi.[2] I'll finish
afterwards."
"That's all, I should think," said the preacher; "you've got on pretty
far for a first interview."