Chapter V: Bryn Tirion sees Death Triumphant (3)

"Aye," replied Vavasour, looking with greed upon her rosy face and snapping eyes, "aye, it's better for ye here, dearie."

There was an awkward silence. Catherine still breathed heavily from the running, and Vavasour shuffled his feet. He opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again.

"Did ye have a fine time at Pally's?" he asked.

"Aye, it was gay and fine an'--na----" Catherine halted, remembering the reason she had given for coming home, and tried to explain. "Yes, so it was, an' so it wasn't," she ended.

Vavasour regarded her with attention, and there was another pause, in which his eyes sought the clock. The sight of that fat-faced timepiece gave him a shock.

"A quarter past eleven," he murmured; then aloud: "Catherine, do ye recall Pastor Evans's sermon, the one he preached last New Year?"

Catherine also had taken a furtive glance at the clock, a glance which Vavasour caught and wondered at.

"Well, Catherine, do----"

"Aye, I remember, about inheritin' the grace of life together."

"My dear, wasn't he sayin' that love is eternal an' that--a man--an'--an' his wife was lovin' for--for----"

"Aye, lad, for everlastin' life," Catherine concluded.

There was another pause, a quick glancing at the clock, and a quick swinging of two pairs of eyes towards each other, astonishment in each pair.

"Half-after eleven," whispered Vavasour, seeming to crumple in the middle. "An', dear," he continued aloud, "didn't he, didn't he say that the Lord was mindful of our--of our--difficulties, and our temptations, an' our--our----"

"Aye, an' our mistakes," ended Catherine.

"Do ye think, dearie," he went on, "that if a man were to--to--na--to be unkind a--a very little to his wife--an' was sorry an' his wife--his wife--died, that he'd be--be----?"

"Forgiven?" finished Catherine. "Aye, I'm thinkin' so. An', lad dear, do ye think if anythin' was to happen to ye the night,--aye, _this_ night,--that ye'd take any grudge away with ye against me?"

Vavasour stiffened.

"Happen to _me_, Catherine?"

Then he collapsed, groaning.

"Oh, dearie, what is it, what is it, what ails ye?" cried Catherine, coming to his side on the sofa.

"Nothin', nothin' at all," he gasped, slanting an eye at the clock. "Ow, the devil, it's twenty minutes before twelve!"

"Oh, lad, what is it?"

"It's nothin', nothin' at all, it's--it's--ow!--it's just a little pain across me."

Catherine stole a look at the timepiece,--a quarter before twelve, aye, it was coming to him now, and her face whitened to the colour of the ashes in the fireplace.

To Vavasour the whimpering of the wind in the chimney was like the bare nerve of his pain. Even the flickering of the flame marked the flight of time, which he could not stay by any wish or power in him. Only ten minutes more, aye, everything marked it: the brawl of the stream outside, the rushing of the wind, the scattering of the rain like a legion of fleeing feet, then a sudden pause in the downpour when his heart beat as if waiting on an unseen footstep; the very singing of the lazy kettle was a drone in this wild race of stream and wind and rain, emphasising the speed of all else. Vavasour cast a despairing glance at the mantel, oh! the endless _tick-tick, tick-tick_, of that round clock flanked by rows of idiotic, fat-faced, whiskered china cats, each with an immovably sardonic grin, not a whisker stirring to this merciless _tick-tick_. Aye, it was going to strike in a minute, and the clanging of it would be like the clanging of the gates of hell behind him. He did not notice Catherine, that she, too, unmindful of everything, was gazing in horror at the mantel. Vavasour groaned; oh! if the clock were only a toad or a serpent, he would put his feet on it, crush it, and--oh!--Vavasour swore madly to himself, covering his eyes. Catherine cried out, her face in her hands--the clock was striking.

Twelve!

The last clang of the bell vibrated a second and subsided; the wind whimpered softly in the chimney, the tea-kettle sang on. Through a chink in her fingers Catherine peered at Vavasour; through a similar chink there was a bright agonised eye staring at her.

"Oh!" gulped Catherine.

"The devil!" exclaimed Vavasour.

"Lad!" called his wife, putting out a hand to touch him.

Then followed a scene of joy; they embraced, they kissed, they danced about madly, and having done it once, they did it all over again and still again.

"But, Katy, are ye here, really _here_?"

"Am _I_ here? Tut, lad, are _ye_ here?"

"Aye, that is, are we _both_ here?"

"Did ye think I wasn't goin' to be?" asked the wife, pausing.

"No-o, not that, only I thought, I thought ye was goin'--to--to faint. I thought ye looked like it," replied Vavasour, with a curious expression of suppressed, intelligent joy in his eyes.

"Oh!" exclaimed Catherine. Then, suddenly, the happiness in her face was quenched. "But, lad, I'm a wicked woman, aye, Vavasour Jones, a bad woman!"

As Vavasour had poured himself out man unto man to Eilir, so woman unto man Catherine poured herself out to her husband.

"An', lad, I went to the church-porch hopin', almost prayin' ye'd be called, that I'd see your spirit walkin'."

"Catherine, ye did that!"

"Aye, but oh! lad, I'd been so unhappy with quarrelling and hard words, I could think of nothin' else but gettin' rid of them."

"Och, 't was bad, very bad!" replied Vavasour.

"An' then, lad, when I reached the church-corner an' saw your spirit was really there, really called, an' I knew ye'd not live the year out, I was frightened, but oh! lad, I was glad, too."

Vavasour looked grave.

"Katy, it was a terrible thing to do!"

"I know it now, but I didn't at that time, dearie," answered Catherine; "I was hardhearted, an' I was weak with longin' to escape from it all. An' then I ran home," she continued; "I was frightened, but oh! lad dear, I was glad, too, an' now it hurts me so to think it. An' when ye came in from the Lodge, ye spoke so pleasantly to me that I was troubled. An' now the year through it's grown better an' better, an' I could think of nothin' but lovin' ye an' wishin' ye to live an knowin' I was the cause of your bein' called. Och, lad, _can_ ye forgive me?" asked Catherine.

"Aye," replied Vavasour slowly, "I can--none of us is without sin--but, Katy, it was wrong, aye, a terrible thing for a woman to do."

"An' then to-night, lad, I was expectin' ye to go, knowin' ye couldn't live after twelve, an' ye sittin' there so innocent an' mournful; an' when the time came I wanted to die myself. Oh!" moaned Catherine afresh.

"No matter, dearie, now," comforted Vavasour, putting his arm about her, "it _was_ wrong in ye, but we're still here an' it's been a sweet year, aye, it's been better nor a honeymoon, an' all the years after we'll make better nor this. There, Katy, let's have a bit of a wassail to celebrate our All-Hallows' honeymoon, shall we?"

"Aye, lad, it would be fine," said Catherine, starting for the bowl, "but Vavasour, can ye forgive me, think, lad, for hopin', aye, an' almost prayin' to see your spirit, just wishin' that ye'd not live the year out?"

"Katy, I can, an' I'm not layin' it up against ye, though it was a wicked thing for ye to do--for any one to do. Now, dearie, fetch the wassail."

Catherine started for the bowl once more, then turned, her black eyes snapping upon him.

"Vavasour, how does it happen that the callin' is set aside an' that ye're _really_ here? Such a thing's not been in Gwynen in the memory of man"; and Catherine proceeded to give a list of the All-Hallows'-Eve callings that had come inexorably true within the last hundred years.

"I'm not sayin' how it's happened, Catherine, but I'm thinkin' it's modern times an' things these days are happenin' different,--aye, modern times."

"Good!" sighed Catherine contentedly, "it's lucky 'tis modern times."

_The Heretic's Wife_

"Mother, Mr. Thatcher oversteps himself; any such suggestions should be comin' from the landlord." Gabriel puffed out his whiskered cheeks and grew red under his eyes.

"There, father dear, there," Maggie hastened to soothe him.

"Tut, mam, a man knows what he's talkin' about by the time he's seventy, doesn't he? A man has a right to his own thoughts; now, hasn't he? I tell ye, it was insultin', most insultin'!"

"Aye, it's so," admitted Maggie ruefully, "but, father----"

"He's always interferin' with your private affairs, he is," Gabriel interrupted, heedless of Maggie's attempts to change the conversation. "At best he's nothin' but an absentee's gentleman, now, isn't he?"

"No, I think; I'm thinkin', dad, he is himself a gentleman," Maggie contradicted gently.

"Pooh! no gentleman at all! He's the lad's tool, given the education of a gentleman, taught to carry himself like a gentleman, an' livin' in the landlord's house in his absence; but for all that he's not a gentleman, naught but an upper servant, an' Sir Evan treats him so. I'm thinkin' a very self-respectin' man wouldn't be takin' such a position nowadays, now, would he?"

At the sound of a horse's hoofs upon the road Gabriel turned to the window with eager curiosity, his head travelling the width of the latticed light.

"There's the young master ridin' by now!" he exclaimed.

As she contemplated the back of Gabriel's head, his pink ears protruding independently from the sides of his bald, shiny pate as if they, too, had opinions of their own, Maggie's eyes gathered anxiety. Gabriel turned to the hearth again.

"Well, mam?"

"Father, these are dangerous new ideas ye're gettin'," she answered.

"Tut, if Mr. Thatcher, steward or no steward, felt like a gentleman, then in my eyes he'd be a gentleman, indeed. But no gentleman would ever act as Mr. Thatcher does, now, isn't it?"

"Lad, lad!" Maggie remonstrated.

This advanced thinking would do for the young ones; she would have had to confess to a liking for it in her children's letters. It was right for a new world perhaps; but she thought with alarm of Gabriel daring to assert such views here on the very flaggings, under the very thatch of Isgubor Newydd. She looked anxiously towards the hearth, as if she feared such social doctrine might quench its brightly glowing pot of coals, or destroy its shining fire-stools, candlesticks, pewter platters, and big copper cheese-dishes, or break its fragile, iridescent creamers and sugar basins and jugs,--there, much of it, four hundred years ago at a certain wedding-breakfast, just as it had been at her own some forty years ago. It would not have surprised her now to have it all come clattering down about her head and break in precious fragments on the stone hearth.

"Mam," said Gabriel, looking shrewdly at her troubled face, "do ye recall the repairs we asked for and never got?"

"Aye, dad dear."

"Well, mam, David Jones had his an' he asked after us. David Jones trades at Mr. Thatcher's shop, mam, an' we don't an' we're not a-goin' to," Gabriel ended pugnaciously.

"Och, father!"

"Aye, it's so, isn't it? It's insultin', isn't it, suggestin' a man change his way of prayin' to suit his landlord's steward an'--an'--" Gabriel added hesitatingly, "his landlord, I suppose, too; an' the steward obligin' him to trade at his shop to get any paint or a roof tatchèd."

The firelight shone upon Gabriel's fringe of whiskers and glowed through his pink ears and twinkled upon his bald head. He looked up indignantly to the rafters above him; they were well hung with hams and bacons upon which the dry salt glistened like frost. His expression mellowed. He glanced at the bright hearth with its bright trimmings; he looked from the purring kettle and purring kitten before Maggie's feet to Maggie herself, daintily upright on the dark settle, her cap and apron immaculately white. She was as comely and fragile as the antique china she cherished. Then Gabriel spoke contentedly, like a man who has counted his riches and found them after all more than sufficient.

"Well, mam, we've prospered even here, haven't we? It's leading a righteous life does it; aye, an' there's the young man has made us all feel like livin' better, hasn't he?"

"Aye, dear beloved," Maggie nodded, glad of the turn the conversation was taking, "even in his picture he looks like one lifted up, like the apostle Paul."

"They say, mam, that for fifteen years he prayed the same prayer to get knowledge an' do good."

"Aye, an' it came, an' now from being nought but a collier, he's influencin' thousands and thousands."

"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 apron, and hastened to the low entry.

"Aye, Mr. Thatcher, come in."

"Ah!" said Mr. Thatcher, coming in, "cosy little room, brasses 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 attitude.

"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 apron.

"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 grass 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.

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 assents 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 Albanus 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 grass 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 assist 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 assistance 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 reassurance 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 God'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.

"Indeed, sir, we didn't know."

"Ah well, it's my fault," Evan answered humbly. "For what reasons were you asked to leave?"

"Och, sir, you would not like the truth."

"Aye, Gabriel, but tell it since I ask for it."

"Well, sir, first because we wouldn't be churched."

Evan's eyes winced. "And then?"

"Well, sir, because we wouldn't trade at Mr. Thatcher's shop."

"Trade at Thatcher's shop?" Evan repeated incredulously, anger and humiliation in his tone.

"Aye, sir." Then seeing the mortification upon Sir Evan's face, Gabriel added hastily: "But it's my fault Maggie's out'n her head. I was cruel to her, an' between that an' havin' to leave home it broke her heart."

"No, Gabriel, it's more my fault than yours," said Evan. "May I see her?"

"Aye, sir," assented Gabriel, taking him into the kitchen.

Maggie raised her head, a bright look of love and welcome upon her face.

"Lad, I heard ye, I thought ye'd come, an' ye've come so far."

"Och, pardon her, sir," said Gabriel, "she thinks it's Eilio. Mam, it's the master, not Eilio."

Evan rested his hand on Maggie's hot forehead. "So," he asked, "you are not well to-day?"

"Aye, tired--but it's nothin' at all, nothin' at all, whatever, except a sorrow here, dearie," and Maggie pointed to her bosom.

"A sorrow, Maggie?"

"Aye, but it's no matter at all now," she answered. "I'll put it by in the creamer with the paper, stuff it in tight like cheese in a sack." And she laughed merrily.

"That's right," he replied.

"My, ye've grown to a sweet-lookin' lad," she said, patting his hand. "Could ye--could ye keep a home for mam now? I'll give ye," she whispered, looking at Gabriel furtively, "everythin' I have--that's three pounds. But ye mustn't tell him."

Evan glanced at Gabriel, but the old man did not see him, for he was staring at the floor.

"Lad, could ye?" Maggie demanded again.

"Yes, Maggie," Evan answered, "we will keep a home for you as long as you live. You shall have Isgubor Newydd--see, I will give it to you. You shall have a deed of it."

"There," said Maggie, "of course, tell father now, an'--an' I hope he'll want to stay."

_The Choice_