Through Welsh Doorways Part 17

"Good reason; there's power there we know nothin' about," Gabriel said meditatively, "an', mam," he continued, "he appears like a gentleman; you might think he'd been born an' bred a gentleman."

"Yes, dad, an' they say he's questionin' himself seriously," replied Maggie, leading away from the possibility of a renewed debate; "that he's puzzlin' an gettin' learnin' an' goin' to college. It's been a sweet season, father; the long winter's not been dull at all, what with meetin's every night till ten and eleven."

"Aye, it's been a blessed time, mam, an' growin' better every day. With the singin' above the housetops an' the heavenly lights, it looks like a new revelation."

"But I'm wishin' the Revival was quieter in some ways," Maggie objected; "there's people that's fairly crazed by it; yes, an' when they're gettin' the hwyl so many at once it's--it's----"

"Tut, mam," said Gabriel fiercely, "it's hot, aye; but it's a grand an'

blessed stir. An' the strength it brings to men!"

As Gabriel raised his hand to enforce his belief, there was a rap on the cottage door. Maggie got up nimbly, smoothed down her ap.r.o.n, and hastened to the low entry.

"Aye, Mr. Thatcher, come in."

"Ah!" said Mr. Thatcher, coming in, "cosy little room, bra.s.ses attractive, pretty willow-wood there. Ah, good-afternoon, Gabriel, about to have your tea, don't let me disturb you." And Mr. Thatcher seated himself comfortably by the kitchen fire.

"We can wait for our tea, Mr. Thatcher," said Gabriel, continuing to stand.

"Ah, very well, I won't keep you long! I just came in to speak to you about that little matter I mentioned the other day. Sir Evan is much in earnest; he feels that church tenants would be a decided advantage to--to the harmony of the estate."

Maggie's glance fluttered anxiously to Gabriel.

"Mr. Thatcher, a man can't change his beliefs to suit his landlord's, meanin' no disrespect to Sir Evan," came the reply, in a voice as uncompromising as Gabriel's att.i.tude.

"Ah-h, well," drawled Mr. Thatcher, tapping his long nose; "there's Price an' Howell an' Jenkins, they're church people _now_," he concluded.

"May every one pity them!" exclaimed Gabriel.

"Dad, dad!" called Maggie rebukingly.

"Ah!" said Mr. Thatcher. "Well, Gabriel, I came here to speak of other matters, too. You never come to my shop?"

"No, Mr. Thatcher, I don't."

Maggie was wringing her hands under her ap.r.o.n.

"You farmers don't know when you're well off; it would be profitable for you to trade there."

Maggie stared in dismay at the red mounting under Gabriel's eyes and flushing the edges of his bald head.

"Is that a bribe ye're offerin' me, Mr. Thatcher?" Gabriel asked.

"Ah! no impertinence, if you please," replied the steward. "As I was saying, Sir Evan is very devout now and much in earnest about having his people churched, so it will be necessary, unless you have a change of opinion, for you to leave Isgubor Newydd in two weeks."

Mr. Thatcher rapped his gaiter and looked before him into the fire.

"Father," said Maggie, poking him, her wrinkled cheeks white, her lips trembling; "father, did he say _leave_ Isgubor Newydd?"

"You heard Mr. Thatcher, mam," answered Gabriel stonily.

"Of course, Gabriel," continued the steward, "there is the shop, as a favour to you, if----"

"Sir!" roared Gabriel, his hands working, his eyes blazing.

"Dad, dad dear!" cried Maggie, clinging to his arm; "father, remember."

Mr. Thatcher had risen and was stepping towards the door.

"Good-afternoon," he said, "in two weeks, if you please."

They watched the figure of the steward disappear through the doorway, then Gabriel took his seat by the fire.

"Leave Isgubor Newydd?" Maggie whispered.

"Well, mam, I'd rather go than stay," said Gabriel sharply.

"Dad!"

"Aye, it'll be sacrificin' somethin' for the faith."

"Och, you don't understand," Maggie cried; "I was born here, mother was born here--for hundreds of years we've lived in Isgubor Newydd!"

"Mam, it'll be doin' somethin' for the faith," Gabriel replied obstinately, in his voice the trumpet-sound of battle; "an' I say I'd rather go than stay, whatever."

"Och, father, father dear, how can ye? An' we were married here an' the little ones were born here, an' when they come home where'll they come to now?"

For an instant Gabriel looked bewildered, then said stoutly, "Tut, mam!"

"I can't believe the young master did it," continued Maggie, unsilenced; "lovin' the house is most like lovin' the children. Dear beloved, can't you see?"

Without even a shake of the head Gabriel stared before him.

"Dad, I have----" Maggie hesitated, "I've three pounds put by for an ill day."

"Well?"

"Dad dear," Maggie whispered, desperate courage on her lips, desperate fear in her eyes, "would ye--would ye buy me somethin'--somethin' at Mr.

Thatcher's shop--or--that is just for me or--or--I'll do it, father?"

"Maggie Williams," Gabriel shouted, "do ye know what ye are sayin', or are ye the devil temptin' me?"

With the habit of a lifetime Maggie, in the end, tried to acquiesce and think only of Gabriel's point of view. She chid herself for lack of strength, for want of courage to act for her faith. She made, as the days went by, an effort to seem the same to Gabriel, but all the while it was as if something were eating out her life. As she went about the little cottage her hands followed from one object to another, for whereever her eyes fell they fell upon something dearly loved. It took her an interminable time to pack anything to leave Isgubor Newydd; it was handled and handled again, and then set aside because, after all, she could not tell what should be done with it. As a result, for the first time in many generations the cottage was in confusion.

Maggie began with the chest. The very odour from the oaken box made her ache. When, first of all, out came the little garments of the children who had scattered over the world, as a Welshman's children often must, she wept. The wee, clumsy clogs with their stubbed toes, the patched corduroy trousers, the round caps, seemed so dear, as if their little master's frolics were a thing of yesterday.

But Maggie knew that time now to be a thing of the past,--a past of which she could not keep even the hearth, the walls, the garden within which these joys had been lived. Next, she took out a beaver hat that had been her mother's; she smoothed it gently as if it were a tired head, she put it against her cheek, she held it away from her, looking at it tenderly, then with a moan she dropped it back into the chest.

That part of her life, too, seemed but yesterday, and yet it was so much older than Gabriel and the children. As long as she lived, Maggie asked herself, would these things always be young to her? As she stood there thinking, it came to her that people at least did not realise that they were growing old if they stayed in the same place, for the place was always young, its rafters staunch, its walls fresh, the flowers renewed their bloom and the gra.s.s its colour. With sudden resolve Maggie decided that they must not leave Isgubor Newydd, for Gabriel did not know what he was doing. There were the three pounds--perhaps that might help them. She had no time to lose, she must hasten, and her thoughts ran feverishly forward into the future.