Through Welsh Doorways Part 18

Gabriel had noticed that Maggie was growing weaker; her hands shook, she talked to herself, and often, when Gabriel came into the room, she started. Gabriel did not wish to see these things; he was like a cruel prophet exulting in sacrifice, even in the sacrifice of Maggie to the uttermost. The stress of these days but added strength to his step and power to his glance. In chapel he sang with a mighty voice, and loud and frequent were his a.s.sents to the minister's prayers. From his deacon's seat, where he received congratulation from those less blessed by persecution than himself, he could see Maggie seated limply upon the narrow pew bench, all her one-time erectness gone, her eyes wandering to the windows high above the heads of the congregation, and to the mountains, higher still, which looked down into this little chapel of men. Gabriel was like some protomartyr of ancient Wales, like Amphibalus or Alba.n.u.s of Caerlon; in his zeal he was indifferent to personal discomfort and sacrifice. He exulted in his strength with a savage joy, and because he was resisting his natural inclination to be kind to Maggie, he was roughly unkind,--unkind for the first time in their lives. On his fingers he told over and over all the sacrifices martyrs and prophets and teachers had made of their nearest and dearest. It was a glorious bead-roll, one to make the eyes of a valiant man shine. He could give nothing more precious than Maggie. He exhorted her to be strong in spirit. She listened patiently to his words, her hands unclasped in her lap, her head drooping, and a gentle "yes" breathed from time to time. She was like a tired child, good still, but too weary to know what it was all about. To Gabriel she seemed so ineffective that he wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, for in his eyes righteousness had gone completely out of her. She was a vessel empty of strength, and every time he spoke to her, her head drooped a little more and the poor hands lay more weakly in her lap. "Yes, father, I will try," she would say in reply to his exhortation; and then the touch of the place ached in her fingers and ran up into her heart, and her one longing was to gather it all to her breast, if only she could, and run away with it to the ends of the earth, where persecution could not take it from her again. There was no piece of its wood or stone that was not living to her, that had not entered into her sense of motherhood, of possession, for which she did not feel, where a good woman weak or strong feels everything that is inseparable from her.

One day, four days before they must leave Isgubor Newydd, Gabriel came out of his fields, rich with the gra.s.s the benefit of which he was not to reap, and saw something creeping slowly by the hedge along the road to the village. He studied it. He rubbed his old eyes and looked again.

It was Maggie's cloak and cap, and she was well up the hill to the town.

But she went slowly, one hand leaning on the wall in front of the hedge, the other grasping a stick. Suddenly Gabriel started. Ah, if she had _that_ in mind! He hurried forward to overtake her. As he approached, Maggie turned.

"Is that you, dad?" she said.

"Mam," was all he answered, his eyes looking her through.

"I--I was goin' to--to the town," she faltered.

"Why?"

"To--to buy somethin'," she replied unsteadily.

"At Mr. Thatcher's shop?" Gabriel demanded.

"A--a little, dad," she replied, stretching out one hand upon the wall for more support.

"Give me your purse."

Maggie gave it to him and Gabriel opened it; there within lay the three gold pieces. Gabriel took her by the arm, and, shaking her, turned her towards home.

Another day went by, and Maggie continued to pick up things that should be packed, only to put them down again. The Welsh have tender hearts for trouble, and many a kind soul among her neighbours would have been glad to a.s.sist her. Besides, there was the added incentive of persecution which makes all the Welsh world kin and which made the village proud of Isgubor Newydd. But the thought of neighbourly a.s.sistance was repulsive to Maggie. She could not let others see those things now. Under Gabriel's condemnation, too, she had lost her self-respect, and was furtive and half ashamed of meeting her neighbours. When Gabriel was in the house, she moved about from thing to thing, with a feint of accomplishing something of the work of which so much was to be done. But when he was out she hurried from object to object, talking incessantly to herself and whatever she touched.

"There, little one," she said to a creamer she took from a shelf, stuffing a piece of paper into it, "that will be grand to keep your heart from crackin' while you're away from home." Then, looking aimlessly about the room, she put the pitcher back again upon the shelf and went over to the latticed light where stood a pot of tall fuchsias.

With her finger she counted the blossoms: "Twenty blossoms an' fifty buds; that's less than this time last year. You must grow, little hearts," she said. "Ow! he'll be comin' back an' not a thing done," she continued, hastening to a pile of plates that had stood in the same place for almost a week. "My! but the lads wore the bench slidin' in an'

out, an' here's a rough place; I'll call Eilio to make it smooth.

Eilio!" she called, then brushed her hand uncertainly over her forehead.

"He's not here," she said. "Ow! there's the candlesticks. I'd most forgotten ye, ten--a dozen bright eyes; that's a many for old Maggie,--I'm old now, yes, I am,--a dozen bright eyes for one old woman; aye, an' for Gabriel, too, the lad'd not do without ye. In ye go!" And she took them all and threw them clattering into an empty box. "Hwi, hwi, now go to sleep while mam sings a lullabye--a sweet lullabye--a little lullabye--shoo! Here, Gwennie bach, here, darlin'--it's--it's just a bit of tea-cake mam made for ye--it's rich, most too rich for a little one an', dear little heart, it's plums in it an'--an'----" And with a moan Maggie slipped to the slate flaggings, the empty plate breaking upon the stones.

So Gabriel found her lying huddled upon the hearth, her cap awry, her eyes closed, her mouth open and her breath coming harshly. Out in the barn he had heard the call for Eilio and stopped to wonder what it meant. Then followed a great clatter, and shortly a crash as of breaking china.

"Mam," he said, gathering her head awkwardly into his arms, "mam, are ye hurt?"

There was no answer.

"Mam," he whispered, staring at her, "what is it?" Still the eyelids, puffed and blue, lay unstirred. "Och!" he cried, "mam, mam, can't ye speak?"

Tremblingly Gabriel picked her up and carried her over to the couch. He fetched water and wrung out his handkerchief in it and bathed Maggie's head. He dropped on his knees beside her and clumsily loosened her cap and blouse. He thought he had killed Maggie, and he saw now that he had done so without making even an effort to keep what might have saved her life. The sense of righteousness had gone completely out of him, and his satisfied and valiant soul was crumpled into a wretched little wad, the very thought of which sickened him. Year after year she had taken the brunt of all the trouble of their home, and there was no sorrow that had not rested its head on her bosom, and, soothed by her hand, found its peace there. Gabriel bathed her face with the cool water; still no sign of consciousness stirred the bland look of the mouth. She had worn herself out in his service, and now at the last he had been willing, without an effort to see her point of view, to sacrifice her on the altar of his self-righteousness. He was a man; steward or no steward, he could have fought for her rights. Even if he had not won, if the landlord had proved as obdurate as the steward was corrupt, why the fight might have heartened Maggie for what must come. He not only had not fought for her, but he had been cruel to her, leaving her wholly alone at a time when she most needed support and sympathy.

"Poor little mam!" he whispered, helpless with the thought that he might be helpless to do anything for her any more.

With a sigh Maggie opened her eyes and smiled at him.

"Lad, are ye here?"

"Aye, mam."

"Did it break?"

"No, dearie," he replied, looking from the strewn floor with such rea.s.surance for her that the deacons, if they could have seen his face, would have been confounded.

"An' the creamer I stuffed so full of paper? I thought I heard it crack."

"No, mam, not a crack."

"What'm I lyin' here for, lad? Dreamin'?"

"Aye, restin' ye a little."

"Aren't we goin' somewhere? I'm a bit tired, dad; I'd rather stay here,"

she concluded, looking up at him trustfully.

"We're goin' nowhere whatever, mam; an' ye shall stay here," Gabriel answered.

"Is that the children playin'?"

"Aye, dearie, playin' in the garden."

"Dear, dear!" Maggie exclaimed, "I hear their little clogs clattering like ponies. I'll just peek at the lambs."

She lifted herself up and dropped back.

"I'm tired!" she exclaimed apologetically.

"Aye, dearie," Gabriel said; then asked, "Will ye be still here a half hour while I write a bit of a letter an' take it out?"

"Yes," she said, "very still, lad; I'll just sleep awhile"; and smiling at him, she closed her eyes.

"Poor old man!" Sir Evan muttered, his austere young face angry and pained. He turned to the letter again.

"Sir," it read, "Mr. Thatcher said we must leave Isgubor Newydd in two weeks. It broke Maggie's heart. A few minutes ago I found her lying on the floor touched. It will kill her if we must go. Sir, if your honoured lady mother were living, would you have the heart to send her away from her home? Sir, for G.o.d's sake let me hear from you. Your humble servant, GABRIEL WILLIAMS."

The stewards of the estate had been brought up upon it for generations in an unbroken line of eldest sons from one family of the tenantry. So rigid had the family's adherence to this custom been, that sometimes their world had had a good steward, sometimes a bad, just as all the Empire had had sometimes an excellent monarch, sometimes a wicked or incompetent ruler. It was a condition of affairs Sir Evan had taken for granted, without question of the right and wrong to himself or to others. He had wasted neither liking nor affection upon Thatcher, but it had not occurred to him that he could employ some one in whom he had confidence. Now Evan saw the possibilities of the past few years, the injustices and neglect and trouble which the steward might have inflicted in the landlord's name. How could he know that repairs, for which he paid, had been carried out? How could he know that all the houses had been kept in good condition? How could he tell whether the tenants were receiving an equal amount of attention, that the fields were being improved and the stock increased? He was convinced that there had been injustice of some kind to Gabriel and Maggie; he knew the old man well enough to know that he would have trouble with any steward not so uncompromisingly honest as himself. Evan realised now, with the letter before him, what sort of a master he had been to these people who called him "Master," and in every one of whose homes there hung a picture of himself. He did not know now, he had never known, whether they had been dealt with justly or unjustly.

As he rode on towards Isgubor Newydd his mind was full of anxieties. For the first time in the few years of his majority possessions had become a burden. The real obligation to administer, he saw, could not be given to a deputy as he had been giving it to Thatcher. And all the while he had known the steward was not the man morally or otherwise that he should be. Evan saw a new meaning in the fields and hills of his estate and a new accountability for himself--one in which he would himself be directly responsible. Already, however, it might be too late to undo some of the harm he had wrought. He asked immediately for Maggie when Gabriel opened the door.

"She's the same, sir," replied Gabriel, admitting him.

"O Gabriel, I'm so sorry," Evan said.

"Aye, sir," Gabriel replied, with some stiffness, "it's natural your wantin' church tenants."

"But did you think I would let Thatcher send you away from the home you have had so long?" asked Evan, sick with the thought that this after all was what his tenants thought he would do.