Through Welsh Doorways Part 23

The girl turned and went; speechless, Samuel regarded his wife.

"Father," she continued gently, "I broke it an' I hid it. I was--mixin'

oat-cake in the bowl an' the bowl was on my knee, an' suddenly it slipped an' fell on to the flaggin's an' broke. Then I hid it 'cause,"--the quiet voice faltered,--"'cause--why 'cause, of course, father, I thought ye'd be troubled over it if ye saw it, an' ye'd not miss it if ye didn't."

"Alack, mother!" There was genuine astonishment in the husband's exclamation. "Barbara! to think we'd be livin' together forty-five years an' ye deceivin' me at the last like this. I've just one thing the more to say to ye. There's no cause for makin' a duck-pond out'n the kitchen floor an' if----"

"But, father," interrupted Barbara, wiping her eyes with her ap.r.o.n, "father _dear_, the lads was just foolin' a little an' they spilt a bit of water on the flaggin's, an' before Maggie could mop it up ye came in."

"Tell them an' such as them to go live with the pigs!" And Samuel, pus.h.i.+ng back his chair, rose hastily to his feet, and left the room.

"Father, father _dear_!" called Barbara.

There was no answer, and she was alone.

"Oh, father, if ye but loved me as ye used to! There were never any words then. Oh, lad, lad!"

There was no reproach, no bitterness in her voice, only longing; she loved him so, and their time at best was short, and she couldn't manage to please him in anything. And perhaps this was their one chance--a few years at best, perhaps a few weeks, and it might be only days. She cried patiently as if she had lost something irrecoverable, an ideal, a hope, a child. Their past, the past of their youth, lay before her now, in its human romance and young love, like something perished; and, wistful, she dwelt in its memories, on its common human beauty. Suddenly she ceased crying.

"Aye, but I lied to him an' I never did before, indeed. I was afraid Maggie'd lose her place if he knew she broke it; an' to think that I hid the pieces from him! Oh, Sammie, Sammie! I'm deservin' what's come to-day, deservin' it," she concluded with satisfaction, "for sinnin' so against conscience."

She sat up straight in her chair as if to receive punishment.

"An' I'm more blessed than most. Samuel's a good man an' well respected--no man better respected. He's honest in his dealin's, he's more generous than some to his men. There was Eilir's little lad he paid the doctor's bill for, an' Morgan's old mother he buried an'----"

Barbara was sitting very straight in her chair now, with one wrinkled hand spread before her, telling off on its fingers Samuel's good deeds; her eyes shone joyously, there were so many, and in their numbering she forgot a sore heart, a cap askew, a kerchief wet over the bosom, and a wrinkled ap.r.o.n. "An' there was old Silvan he'd partly fed an' clothed these ten years, an' an old crot no one would do anything for, an'

Sammie helped her, too. An' there was the dress he brought me from the fair, an' the gold-rimmed spectacles from Liverpool, an' the beautiful linen for caps, better nor any one else in the valley has. An' he's done everythin' for the children, an' one of them's fine a scholar as any in Wales, which is sayin' much. Aye, he's a good man, an' I'm a wicked woman to be dreamin' so; but oh, lad, lad _dear_," she ended lamely, "if ye'd only love me as ye used to!"

Samuel went out on to the farm with irritable thoughts, indignant against extravagances which he laid to Barbara, and which meant a slender purse even in their old age. He was willing to admit that she was a good woman, aye, a more than ordinarily good woman, but where she fell short, he thought, was in managing. Yes, he had prospered a little; for an instant he had an uncomfortable sense of owing this prosperity in part to the efforts of some one besides himself. But there was this constant leakage, and again his mind flamed up over the broth and the broken pottery. It was the woman's business to see to it that no ha'penny was wasted; he failed to recall a certain rusted spade, some moulded straps, and a snapped fill in the year's calendar. And then, at last, manlike, in the midst of the work out on the farm, he not only washed his lungs with the keen mountain air, but he washed his mind of the whole difficulty, straightway forgetting it.

When once more he entered the house for his tea, he found Barbara in the kitchen knitting before the fire--knitting socks for him. There was no trace of what had pa.s.sed, no trace of her care, her grief. Her cap was fresh and tied with new ribbons, her kerchief was folded neatly over her shoulders, her ap.r.o.n clear white and starched, and out from beneath the short skirt peeped two bra.s.s-toed shoes bright-eyed as mice. Samuel did not know how quaint and sweet she looked. But then, why should he? she had been always just so. He took her, all of her, for granted,--the bit of red in her old cheeks, red that matched the bright cap-ribbons; the soft white hair, the tender eyes, the kind tired mouth, the little figure dainty as the sweet alyssum in their garden--in short, there was nothing to be remarked upon; he simply took her for granted as he had done always, or as, for example, one takes the fresh air till one is in prison, or the sky till one goes blind, or love till it is gone.

The tea and bread and b.u.t.ter were on the table. Barbara poured out his cup, put in the sugar, the top of the cream, and pa.s.sed the cup to him as he sat toasting his feet before the fire. Then she handed him the bread.

"Well, father," she said, patting him on the shoulder, "did ye have a successful afternoon?"

"Aye, Barbara," he answered, "fine."

Without touching the tea, she took up her knitting.

"Are the lambs comin', dear?"

"Aye, mother, they're most as big as yearlin's now. Are ye not goin' to take tea?"

"No, I've a bit distress, no more'n I have often."

"Have ye tried the peppermint?"

"Aye, but it's no good. Did Eilir say what the shearin' 'd be?"

"He did; it'll be heavier nor usual. It'll make a big s.h.i.+pment this year."

"Good, father, we'll be takin' a trip to the lad's college yet, what with the lambs comin' fine, the wool heavy, the calves double the number they were last year. Father, do ye think the boy'd be ashamed of his old mam?"

"Ashamed? He's no lad of mine if he is. Well, mother, if it's all really comin' as well as it seems to be, we'll be takin' that trip to see the boy."

"Oh, father dear, 'twould be grand, what I've dreamed of these many, many years!" Barbara dropped her knitting and clasped her hands in childlike abandonment of pleasure.

"Tut, mam," added Samuel, his face lengthening, "it's not absolutely certain, what with waste in the kitchen, the breakin' of crockery, an'

the men eatin' themselves out'n house an' home, it's no tellin'. It might be an extravagance, but we'll see."

"But, father!" exclaimed Barbara impulsively, and stopped.

"Well, mam, maybe it'll be; maybe we'll see the boy an' see him a great man in his college, aye, a most successful man, as good's the best."

"Oh, dearie, to think we'll be seein' him--perhaps. But, dad, do ye think he'll forget he's my boy?"

"Why should he? Mother, if we're goin' it'll be in six weeks."

"Aye, but father,"--Barbara paused, her head reflectively to one side,--"there's the shoes. I'll have to be havin' shoes; these clogs'll not do for the lad's college."

"No matter, mother," replied Samuel, thrusting his hands into his pockets with boyish energy, "we'll have proper shoes for ye an' we'll go first to Liverpool for a travellin' suit for ye an' a proper bonnet for me an'----"

"Listen to what ye are sayin'--a bonnet for _ye_!" And Barbara laughed merrily.

"Dear me!" laughed Samuel, slapping his knee, "I mean a proper bonnet for _ye_ an' for _me_ a proper suit of clothes. Aye, we'll afford it all if the lambs keep comin'."

"Dearie, it'll be most too much happiness, the boy, the trip, an all the clothes. I'll be takin' him some socks an'----" Barbara gasped and touched her side with her hand.

"What ails ye, mother?"

"It's just a st.i.tch in my side." Samuel did not notice that Barbara had turned white up to the very edges of her cap. "An' what'll ye be takin'

him, dearie?"

"Dear, dear, I'll bring him a--a--well, mother, what'll I take him? He's such a great man 'twouldn't do to fetch him a cheese or eggs or a fowl, now would it?"

"That's so, father," replied Barbara reflectively. "Aye, he's a great man an' 'twouldn't do, whatever. I have it, dad, we'll be buyin' him books in Liverpool."

"Good, so we will, mam, as many books as we can afford." And Samuel thrust his hands still further into his pockets, pursed out his lips, spread his legs apart, and contemplated the fire earnestly. "Aye, mother, books is the very thing; the lad'll be more'n pleased to have them an' to think I thought of them."

"Aye, that's so, dearie."

"Well, I'll be goin' now; we'll have to be makin' haste to have all done in six weeks, an' we'll go, mother, we'll go if we can afford it."

Samuel strode out of the room; he was over seventy, but he walked with youthful elation; indeed, in some marked fas.h.i.+on, despite white hair, wrinkled skin, and limbs that were beginning to bend with years, he was still a boy.

Barbara looked after him, sighing wistfully as he left the room. "It seems a bit like bein' young once more, a bit like old times." She caught her side again. "This st.i.tch is worse than common. Aye, dearie, I was unjust to ye the mornin', an' I'm a bad old woman."

When Samuel came in for supper, he found Barbara lying down. Nothing was the matter, she a.s.sured him, "just a st.i.tch worse than common, aye, an'

they'd be goin' to Liverpool the same." But as the night wore on it grew worse still, and by morning she was a very sick woman, suffering what even his man's eyes could see was intense pain. The old cheeks had shrunk in the night, the face blanched to an ashen gray; only the eyes remained unchanged and shone sweetly and serenely upon him.