Through Welsh Doorways Part 3

_ Griffith Griffiths takes a Trip and his Wife receives a Call_

While her generous husband was running about Liverpool to buy another benefaction for Bryn Tirion, Mrs. Griffiths was receiving calls at Sygyn Fawr.

"Good-day," said Olwyn Evans, stepping over the bra.s.s doorsill of Sygyn Fawr.

"Good-day," replied Betty Griffiths.

"I hear Griffiths is gone to Liverpool?"

"Aye, he is."

"He went yesterday?"

"Aye."

"He comes back this evening?"

"Aye."

The clock ticked and the china cats smiled blandly in the silence.

"He's not come yet?"

"No, he has not."

Olwyn readjusted her shawl.

"Evan says he's not taken the trip for twenty years?"

"No, twenty years ago this September."

"Rhys Goch says he's gone for new machinery come from Ameriky; has he so?"

At this point there was a chorus of yaps and shrieks from Colwyn Street, on which Sygyn Fawr stood.

"It's Marged Owen's baby, Johnny. Dalben's terriers are always upsettin'

him when they're fightin'. At Cwm Dyli farm they say he's gone to sell sheep; has he so?"

"It's neither sheep nor slate," replied Betty Griffiths acridly.

"Is it so?"

The street rang with another volley of yells.

"It's Cidwm Powell this time, fallin' off the slate copin'. He always is; some day he'll fall in, an' I don't know what Maggie'll do then."

"No, nor I," added Olwyn Evans, "it's her only. Jane Wynne and Jane Jones is ill. Their folks've been to the chemist's in Tremadoc for them, but you'd think they'd have the doctor, now wouldn't you?"

"You would," a.s.sented Betty. "Jane Wynne's eighty; how old is Jane Jones?"

"She's comin' seventy-five."

"She is?"

"The chemist says it's failin' with both," commented Olwyn. "They'll not die very far apart. They'll be keepin' the minister busy what with visitin' them and then buryin' them. It'll be hard on Robert."

"It will."

"You say Griffiths is not back?"

"No, not back."

"He'll be comin'?"

"Aye."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

III

_Griffith Griffiths brings his Happy Thought Home_

The evening light lay purple and lavender on the heather-covered hills; it cut through Aberglaslyn Pa.s.s in a golden shaft, gilding the jagged top of Craig y Llan and making the cliff side of Moel Hebog sparkle.

Griffith Griffiths sniffed the honeyed air of his Welsh valleys hungrily. The nearer he came to home the more purple seemed the heather and the more golden the gorse.

"How d'ye think of it, Griffiths?" said Jones, looking back approvingly.

"Well, the village hasn't any."

"It'll be a great surprise, man."

"It will be," agreed Griffiths.

"The folks over to C'n'rvon can't give themselves airs any more."

"Well, no, they cannot."

"Did Betty know?"

"No, a woman worries when she's to keep a secret."

"The folks have all been askin' for ye for two days"; and Jones's face shone with the same delighted goodwill as that on his master's.

"We'll take it to Ty Isaf; it'll be kept there."