Through Welsh Doorways Part 8

"Did I see? Yes, I saw your _cocyn_ hangin' to the window."

Nelw sat up straight.

"Do--do you understand, Pedr? Did you hear them mockin' me?"

"Aye, an' I know it's your _cocyn_." Pedr smiled, "Little lamb, did you think that would make any difference?"

"But, Pedr," she said insistently, as if she must make him understand, "these curls are all I really--really have." She drew one out straight.

"Aye, dearie, I'm thinkin' that is enough."

If he had been telling her a fairy story Nelw's eyes could not have grown wider.

Pedr c.o.c.ked his head critically to one side.

"It's very pretty, whatever," he added; "I was always likin' that part of your hair the best."

And now there is no more story to tell; for Pedr set to work to get the tea for Nelw. As he went in and out of a door, sometimes they smiled at each other foolishly and sometimes Pedr came near enough to pat her on the head. The room, although it would have been difficult to lay hands on its visitors, had other inmates too, for it was full of Pedr's comrades. Every minute they increased in number, as is the way of the world when two people, even if they are not very wise,--and of course they never will be wise if they are not by the time they are middle-aged,--are joined together in love. And every one of these little visitors took the heart it held in its wee transparent hands and offered it to Nelw. And Nelw, as Pedr had done almost twenty-four hours ago, gathered the dreams into her arms, and there they lay upon her breast like the children they really were. And above this scene the s.h.i.+ning silver river ran in and out, in and out among its alleys of green trees singing a gentle song which, once it has been learned, can never be forgotten.

_t.i.t for Tat_

On the chimney-pot of Adam Jones's cottage sat two rooks. They put their bills together this morning just as they did every day, and one said "Ma! Ma!" and the other answered "Pa! Pa!" in raucous but affectionate tones. And the grey wood-pigeons in the woods said "Coo! Coo! Coo!" all day long; and the geese by the stream made futile rushes at one another and pa.s.sed harmlessly like clumsy knights atilt. And when the kittens played, as they did sometimes on Twthill, there was no suggestion of frolic about it; the ladies' chain with their mother's hind legs was done with such harmonious _ensemble_ that it was just as quiet as the chapel-going step of old Deacon Aphael Tuck and his wife Olwyn. Even the l.u.s.ty toad who lived under the holly-bush hopped only half-way home, and then, lifting himself unwillingly, straddled _p.r.o.nunciamento_ to the holly stem.

At half-past seven the milkman went by, with a very small can in a very small cart, ringing a very big bell,--a bell big as a dinner-bell, that went "Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong," in the sleepiest fas.h.i.+on in all the world. And this bell the milkman had to ring a long, long time, for, either it put the inhabitants to sleep and then they must have leisure to wake up again before they could attend to their business, or they were asleep anyway and must have time to get up. And an hour later the post went by, marked V. R. in large shabby gilt letters, for you may be certain that _Eduardus Rex_ had not yet got on to any doc.u.ment inside or outside this cart that bowled slowly up Twthill, looking as it disappeared at the top like a lazy beetle crawling into a hole. And down at the bottom of Twthill a little stream purred and purred and purred, like a convention of all the comfortable tabby-cats in the universe, or a caucus of drowsy tea-kettles. In the woods beyond the stream, where the wood-pigeons cooed, a little bird called "Slee-eep! Slee-ep!

Slee-p!" Some of the young people on Twthill had been known to maintain that it said "Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!" But later they changed their minds, and it seemed like "Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!" to them, too, and they sharply corrected other young people for thinking nonsense. And every day there was the sound of Deacon Aphael Tuck puffing up the hill, saying under his breath, "Tut, tut, tut, a hill whatever, tut, now isn't it!"

At the foot of the hill, in the midst of all this quiet lived a little old woman, Gladys Jones, the wife of Deacon Adam Jones. The Welsh have a saying that the first man Adam was a Welshman and that his name was Adam Jones. However that may be, this Adam Jones seemed a.s.suredly the first man in all the world to Gladys, and, in the course of the story you may consider Adam justified in thinking of Gladys sometimes as his Eve. They were very different in appearance. He was tall, gaunt, with a saintly look about his waxen features, a look made attractively human by two deep lines on either side of his mouth. When Gladys was at her antics, caprioling like a shy, pathetic marmoset, these lines deepened, and he would pull his beard and his eyes would twinkle much as stars twinkle on a frosty night. Adam Jones was a saint, and he had need to be. Gladys was tiny in size, round, merry, alert. Her face was round, too, with cheeks as full-moulded as a baby's, and a small pointed chin that was as sensitive as it was whimsical, and wide, round blue eyes that were as apt to weep as they were to sparkle.

This Sat.u.r.day morning Gladys sat by the hearth, her head forward, listening for a step. At her left the table was spread with an abundant breakfast. As she listened, misfortune did not come running, but slowly and with the footfall of an old man. Gladys was waiting for an answer concerning the thing she wished to do more than anything else in the world, more than she had ever wished to do anything; the thing she had never done, the thing she had never had a chance to do: go to the Circus. The Circus was to be held on Monday in Carnarvon, near the Castle where the Eisteddfod was held last year; and Carnarvon, only eight miles away, was her old home. She knew that no one else in Twthill had even thought of such an act as going. But what was there wicked about it? Gladys asked herself; and reasoning thus she forthwith asked the deacon for permission. First he looked astounded, then he said he must consider the matter over-night. Now he was coming in to breakfast, and she would have his answer.

Adam Jones came slowly through the doorway, which was surmounted by a gable guard of slate pigeons and flanked by slate rosettes. Out on the hedge poised a privet-cut pigeon, lacking the evil eye of his slate brethren, but possessed of an evil green tail now pointed with evil significance at Adam's entering back.

"Well, dad," said Gladys, as he took his seat at the table.

"Aye, mam, the mist means fine summer weather, indeed."

"Have ye been thinkin', father?"

"I dunno----" he faltered. "Aye, mam; better the evil we know than that we know not."

"Och, dad, am I _not_ to go?"

"'Twould be playing with fire, and that's no play, mam. I've been talkin' with Aphael Tuck, and with Keri Lewis, and Evan Edwards, and they say the only man in Twthill has thought of goin' is Morris Thomas.

Morris Thomas is a dark bird, he's always had a long spoon to eat with the devil, whatever. His missus is sick cryin' over his ways."

"But, father, I long so to go!" sobbed Gladys.

"Mother, ye are too gay, too gay! A weak doctrine, an easy path." The deacon was inclined to attribute Gladys's gaiety to her Wesleyanism; he himself was a Calvinist.

At this moment, with tears rolling down her cheeks, Gladys did not look over gay; and it would have been difficult for any one to divine the reputation for liveliness which she had made for herself. No good was coming to her now because she had lightened the heavy quiet of Twthill in various ways; because she had talked with the slate pigeons and clipped the wicked green tail of the privet pigeon; because she twinkled over the candytuft, bright and beautiful enough for a dozen Joseph's coats, or rang the Canterbury bells when n.o.body was looking, or pulled the bees off the honeysuckle, or fed the tiny sparrows and sandpipers and rooks as if they were geese, or tickled the toad under the holly-bush till he swelled with joy. It was no consolation to her now that she had always found something during the quiet dreary hours on Twthill to please her fancy, or that she had turned her attention successfully to her neighbours. Mrs. Thomas the greengrocer was a stupid thing, Betty Harries proud, and Olwyn Tuck the shop, starched with her doctrines. Many a trap of words had she set for them and many a trap had been sprung. There were harmless practical jokes, too, and there were matchmaking and theology. In these heat-producing topics Gladys had gained no mean skill, as the privet pigeon knew.

But the deacon took a serious view of her relation to a possible future.

He longed to grant everything she might desire. However, there was her soul to be kept! He gathered himself together.

"Mam, ye cannot go," was his final word.

Adam got up; he wanted to go out very much, and Gladys sat alone thinking. At last she straightened, and shook her head; then she half laughed, then she half cried, as children sometimes laugh and cry almost in the same breath. After this she said aloud to herself--

"I will do it, now, won't I?" She nodded, "Aye, I will indeed."

She arose, looking mischievously wicked, and stole out of the back-door of the cottage. She glanced about, and evidently her eyes alighted on what she wished, for she stood there thinking. It wasn't fair, och! it was such a silent place, not worth a man's while to wake up in. And that stream, purr, purr, purr, purr all day long, just as if the cats couldn't attend to that sort of noise better. And those heavy-looking ugly-coloured foxglove bells that grew on the sunny side of the stone wall, and rustled "Tinkle-tinkle, tinkle-tinkle" in a way that Gladys had sometimes thought like the mysterious swis.h.i.+ng of dry leaves or the scampering of tiny feet. What if they did know a deal about the Little Folk, it was of no earthly use to her. And the white clover and the red clover had such a warm sleepy smell, and those loppy dandelions that grew tall and drooped over, and those silly pink and white stone-crops that lay as still as lizards on the stone wall! Och, what if she had played with them once? She hated them all now. This stillness weighed down upon her like the rocks upon the hills.

She took something from the clothes-line and went into the house. Then she opened a long, heavy chest and was busy in its depths for several minutes. After that she was restlessly active throughout the day. At last bedtime came, and she went to sleep as innocently as the lamb in the sheepfold. But Adam Jones lay awake. He touched the plump wrinkled cheek gently and looked at Gladys's frilled nightcap with inexpressible longing. White Love, she was so different from other bodies in Twthill, enough to make a man happy as in the Garden of Eden these long years, but enough to vex him sorely too. Aye, he must manage to keep her soul for her, and the good deacon, his hands folded on his chest, his eyes blinking in an effort to stay awake, pa.s.sed from prayers for Gladys into sleep.

When they arose, the quiet on Twthill had deepened to silence, for it was the Sabbath. The milkman made his rounds as usual, but instead of the dinner-bell he had a small boy who tiptoed from door to door, gently rapping up the good wives. There was no sound in all Twthill; only the smoke from the chimney-pots told of the life within. And all day long there would be no sound except the Chapel bell ringing wors.h.i.+ppers to service and the tread of obedient Sunday-shod feet.

"Come," said Adam Jones to Gladys, "'tis time to be dressin' for Chapel."

"Nay, I'm not goin'."

"Not goin'! Dear heart, what's come over ye?"

"I'm not goin'," was all Gladys obstinately replied.

This was all the good deacon could get from her. Nor would she stir from her place by the fire.

"Mam, where's my Sunday socks?" he called from upstairs.

"How should I be knowin'?"

"But I cannot find them," was the distressed answer, while bureau drawers flew in and out.

"Mam," he called again, "I can't find them whatever, an' my grey socks are not here, either."

"They're in the mendin' basket to be darned."

"But, mam, then where's the other pair of greys?"

"They're not clean, they're to be washed to-morrow."

"Tut, tut, tut," said the deacon, sitting on the edge of the bed; then he pulled his boots on over bare feet and stretched down his trousers as far as he could. After that he went meekly downstairs.