Through Welsh Doorways Part 25

"Goodbye, my dear," she faltered; "be--a--good--girl."

"Och, mistress, please let me tell----"

"No, Maggie, no, not--a--word," she answered. Then suddenly Barbara cried out, "Sammie!" the first terror of death in her voice.

"There, there, mam _dear_; aye, dearie, I'm here."

"Oh, Sammie, to die--away--from home,--aye, once--over--the threshold,"

she murmured.

For an instant her eyes tried to smile into his, then consciousness slipped away, and a wing swept over them,--they fluttered and they closed. The doctor's stern "No matter, she will recover in the air,"

checked the sobs of Maggie; and so they bore her, still and white, over the threshold of her home, past the farm-servants, to the carriage.

Fields, hills, buildings flashed by, seeming with their shadows and forms to flick the windows of the railway coach. The doctor and Samuel sat side by side, and opposite on the long seat lay Barbara, quiet and semi-conscious. The half-day's journey to Liverpool stretched out interminably, even now the most of it had been covered. Samuel was thinking, thinking, thinking, as he had never thought before, and the discipline of these thoughts was biting into him like acid. There were lines graven on his face which years alone could never write there. Aye, to learn a lesson like this in a few hours which should be learned through a lifetime,--to learn it thus in one last brief discipline! Oh, Barbara, Barbara, what had he done for her, what had he been to her? And now _if_--the thought strangled him--where, where was she going?

Then came to him the years when he might not be able to tell her any more how he regretted the selfishness of weeks and months, aye, of half a century. Even now the separation had begun; she was too weak to listen to him, he could not tell her, and in a few hours the one chance might be gone. Already, as she lay there hovering between life and death, she was no longer his in the old substantial way, but merely a hostage, fragile, ethereal, of a past life. If he had loved her every hour of those days that seemed so lastingly secure, if he had tried in every way--all the little ways--to show her how tenderly, how deeply he really loved her, the years would have been too short. And to-day, at the best, there was the one chance growing less certain every minute; there were but a few years at the most when he might try to make her know what she was to him.

Then, with a revulsion of feeling, the little commonplace joys dear to them both crowded in upon him; he felt benumbed in their midst, helplessly conscious that the heart of them all was slipping, slipping away. The road of their life flowed swiftly behind him, receding ribbonlike, as the hills and trees and fields pa.s.sed the coach-window, into indistinguishable distance. Their tea-time with its happy quiet, their greeting at night, their rest side by side, their goodbye in the morning, Barbara's caps, Barbara's knitting, the s.h.i.+ning eyes, the smile--each daily commonplace thing a part of his very being. He had a sickening sense of having the roots of existence torn out.

With a pang came the thought of that other trip to Liverpool they had planned to take. What would the boy say now? And he must know how that mother-life had been wasted, neglected. And the books they were going to bring the lad, and the socks Barbara had made, and the shoes that were to delight her, and the new clothes for both, and the bonnet over which they had laughed so merrily--the agony of these simple things, remembered, ate at his thoughts like fire. They were so little; he had never known before what they meant, or he had forgotten; now, surely, they could not be taken from him. Samuel's mind prostrated itself in pet.i.tion to that Inexorable in whose power lay these little joys, his, his only, of account only to him, sacred to him only, that he might be allowed to keep them.

His face was gray with the battle of these hours when the doctor spoke, telling him that they were almost in Liverpool and must move quickly.

Their voices aroused Barbara; her eyes sought Sammie's and smiled faithfully into them.

"Dearie!" he said, leaning forward with such an expression that Barbara, if she saw it clearly, could never doubt his love again.

"Lad!" she whispered in reply.

But Samuel's eyes shrank when he saw the ambulance at the station, waiting. The doctor was going in it with Barbara. Oh! this cut, cut, as that knife would cut Barbara. Already they were being separated. They were taking her out of the train, away from him, and he was looking around the great station blindly, when he felt a strong grip on his arm and heard the word, "Father!" Nothing else seemed clear after that, and the way, the long way, rumbling through those streets, was like a narrow lane in the night. Barbara was in the streets, alone, without him, or she was already at that place where lay the one chance for him.

"There, father," the lad was comforting him, "there's no better place for her; you did just right."

Samuel sobbed convulsively, tears rolling out of his eyes unnoticed, his hands clenching the chair.

"Father, father, don't; we shall know soon."

But the old face over which he leaned paid no heed to what was said; nor did Samuel hear the quick entrance into the room and the whispered words.

"Father, do you hear? Mother's safe."

Then Samuel rose to his feet, started forward, and swayed uncertainly.

The lad took his arm.

"Father," he said, "mother's very weak, and we must be careful; we can see her only a minute, that is all, the doctor says."

When they entered, Barbara lay on the bed, smiling. The nurse stepped outside; ah! she had seen so many, many moments like this, and yet her heart ached for the old man coming through the door, coming through to take into his arms the few precious years that were left.

"Mother!" he said simply.

"Sammie _dear_!" she answered, her heart s.h.i.+ning in her eyes.

Then she espied the lad standing behind his father.

Samuel watched their greeting, his lips twitching. "Lad, lad," he cried, unable to withhold the words, "I've not been good to mam."

A flush overspread Barbara's face.

"Tut, Sammie _dear_, ye never----" she commenced indignantly.

"Be still, mother, I'm goin' to say it now; ye know I've not been good to ye. Lad," he continued, turning to him, "when ye marry, as ye will, don't think any way is too little to show her that ye love her."

"Tut, tut, Sammie _dear_," insisted Barbara, "ye _are_ good to me, an' I lied to ye an'----"

"It's time to leave," said the nurse, coming in.

"But I'm going to have one word more," Barbara replied, the life springing into her eyes with this gentle defiance. "Sammie, Sammie _dear_," she called as the two men were urged through the door, "I lied about the bowl--I didn't break it but I did hide it. Maggie broke it, an' I was afraid she'd lose her place, so I hid it. Father, did ye _hear_?"

"There!" said the nurse, shutting the door.

_Respice Finem_

"Good-mornin', Mrs. Rhys," said Megan Griffiths, as she stooped to save her high beaver.

"'Tis kind of ye to come," answered Nance.

"How is Mr. Rhys?"

"Och, he's no----" Nance began, but she was hindered by a merry voice singing in the next room.

"Dear, dear, I can't hear ye. Did ye say he is the same?"

"Aye, he's no better."

"Is that him singin'?"

"Aye," admitted Nance.

"He's not got any cause to sing, I'm thinkin'. 'Tis a pity," she continued significantly, "ye couldn't attend Harry James's funeral.

'Twas grand. They had beautiful black candles with Scripture words written on them."

Chuckles and a protesting bark followed this observation. Megan stiffened.

"Such a funeral, Mrs. Rhys," she snapped, "is an _honour_ to Rhyd Ddu!

An' such loaves as she handed over the bier to that hungry Betsan! An'

the biggest cheese in the parish, with a whole guinea stuck in it! At every crossin' they rung the bell, an' we knelt down to pray in all that drenchin' wet."