"'Twas a long journey; mother; are you glad you took it?"

"Why, yes, child, of course, since I've gained my object. Gethin Owens will be home before long."

A crimson tide of joy rushed up into Morva's face, and an embarra.s.sment which she turned away to hide, but which was not lost upon Sara.

"Well, indeed, then," said the girl, "there's glad 'n'wncwl Ebben will be. Will I go and tell him when I have finished my bwdran?"

"No, no, better not tell him anything till Gethin arrives. Lads are so odd; he may not come for a week, and that would seem long waiting to his father."

It was long waiting for Morva too, but she hid the secret in her heart, and flooded the moor with happy songs.

On the following Sunday evening a special Sciet was held in the gaunt grey chapel in the valley; an event of small importance to the outside world, but to Ebben Owens and every member of his family one of momentous interest. To them every event of life was brightened or shaded by its connection with their religious life, and Penmorien Chapel was almost as sacred in their eyes as the Temple of old was to the Jews.

The members dropping in one by one from moor, or village, or sh.o.r.e, looked with sympathising curiosity as the Garthowen family entered, and took their places in the corner pew, Ebben Owens sitting with them, and for the first time for many years vacating his place amongst the deacons in the square seat under the pulpit.

A formal admission of sin is of frequent occurrence at an "experience meeting," but the real confession of a sinful action is very rare.

Therefore the Garthowen family required strong moral courage to enable them to pa.s.s through the trying ordeal of the Sciet, and its fiat of excommunication, with dignified firmness.

The doors were closed, the soft sea wind blew up the valley, and the breaking of the waves on the sh.o.r.e below was distinctly audible.

Sara and Morva did not attend the Sciet, but shut themselves up in their cottage, cowering over the fire as if it had been winter. Sara particularly, appeared to suffer acutely as the evening hours pa.s.sed on.

"There's the sun going, mother, 'tis seven o'clock, the Sciet is over.

Will I go and meet them? Oh! mother, I long to comfort 'n'wncwl Ebben."

"No, child, leave him alone to-night; he has better help than thou canst give him. To-night he will feel G.o.d's presence as he has never felt it before, and what else will he want, Morva? Come and read our chapter, 'merch i."

And while they read by the light of their tiny candle, and the furze crackled and sparkled up the open chimney, a bronzed and stalwart man was tramping down the stony road towards the chapel. Looking down the narrow valley, he saw the broad grey sea, its ripples tipped with the crimson of the setting sun. To the left towered the high cliffs which closed in the valley, and on the right stretched away the furze-covered slopes leading to Garthowen and the moor, and the rough sailor heart throbbed with the happiness of home-coming and the re-awakening of long deferred hopes. His brown face lighted up with pleasure, as he waved his hand towards the sunlit side of the scene, but he turned his face and his footsteps into the grey shadowed court-yard of the chapel. It was Gethin! He had sailed into Caer-Madoc harbour in the afternoon, the ships being the only things considered free to come and go during the Sabbath hours. He had met an Abersethin man in the town, who had promised to bring his luggage home in his cart next day, and had supplemented the promise by the information that on this particular evening, Ebben Owens would be turned out from the Penmorien Sciet.

"Jar-i! it's time for me to start, then," said Gethin; "will I be there in time, d'ye think?"

"Yes, if you walk sharp; but what will you do? You can't stop them turning him out! There's a pity!"

"No, no," said Gethin, "that's all right, I suppose; but I want to be there to meet the old man at the door. He'll find he's got one son that'll stick to him, whatever. G.o.d bless him!" and he started bravely along the old familiar road.

There were lights in the chapel windows as he approached, and outside the closed doors one solitary friend already waited. It was Tudor, who had sat there during the service, his eyes fixed on the blank closed door, doggedly resisting the inviting barks of a collie who had caught sight of him from the opposite hill. But when his long absent friend appeared on the scene his self-restraint was thrown to the winds, and Gethin in vain tried to check the joyous barks which accompanied his frantic gambols of greeting.

"Art come to guard the poor old man, lad?" whispered Gethin, holding up a reproving finger.

"Yes," said Tudor, as plainly as bark could speak.

"Then hush-sh-sh," said Gethin, pointing to the closed door, and Tudor smothered his barks.

The murmur of voices inside the chapel was distinctly audible, blending with the soft murmur of the sea. In a few moments the doors were opened, and the congregation filed out with a more than usually solemn look in their faces; some of the women dried their eyes, and actually refrained from even a whispered remark until they had got fairly outside the "cwrt."

Gethin kept out of sight until he saw his father leave the chapel, followed closely by Ann and Gwilym. The bent head and subdued appearance of the old man went straight to the sailor's warm, impulsive heart. With a single step he was at his father's side, taking his arm and linking it in his own.

"Who is it?" said Ebben Owens, his eyes blinded by tears and the darkening twilight.

"Gethin it is, father bach! come home to ask your forgiveness for all his foolish ways, and to stick to you and to old Garthowen for ever and ever."

"Is it Gethin?" asked the old man, in a tone of awed astonishment; "is it Gethin indeed? Then G.o.d has forgiven me. I said to myself: 'When I see my boy Gethin at home again, then will I believe that G.o.d has forgiven me.' Now I will be happy though I'm turned out of the Sciet.

G.o.d will not turn me out of heaven, now that Gethin my son has forgiven me. Hast heard all my bad ways, lad?"

"Yes," said Gethin, "and I will confess, father, it nearly broke my heart. It made me feel there was no good in the world, if my old father was not good. But when I heard how brave you were in telling the whole world how you had fallen, and how you repented, my heart was leaping for joy. 'Now there's a man,' says I to myself, 'a man worth calling my father!' Any man may fall before temptation, but 'tisn't every man is brave enough to confess his sins before the world!"

Arm was already hanging on her brother's arm and pressing it occasionally to her side.

"Oh, Gethin!" she said, "Garthowen has been sad and sorrowful, but to-night it seems as if you had brought back all the sunshine. There's happy we'll be now."

"'Tisn't my doing," said her brother, "'tis Sara Lloyd who has done it all. G.o.d bless her! She came all the way to Cardiff to fetch me home.

And where is she to-night? I thought she and Morva would surely be at chapel."

"She has kept away for my sake, I think," said his father. "They call her Sara ''spridion,' and they mean no good by it, but I think 'tis a good name for her, whatever, for I believe the good spirits are always around her, helping her and blessing her just as she is always helping and blessing everybody around her."

"To be sure they are," said Gethin; "I always knew it from a little boy. Whether living or dying 'twould be well to be in Sara's shoes!"

When they reached the old farmyard, and pa.s.sed under the elder tree where the fowls and turkeys were already roosting in rows on the branches, little Gwil bounded out to meet them, Gwilym Morris at the same moment caught them up from behind, and Ebben Owens felt that his cup of earthly happiness was refilled almost to overflowing. Gethin alone missed Morva.

CHAPTER XXIV

A DANCE ON THE CLIFFS

On the following morning Gethin was up with the dawn, and so was every one else at Garthowen, for the day seemed one of re-birth and renewal of the promise of life to all. Leading his son from cowhouse to barn, from barn to stable, Ebben Owens dilated with newly-awakened pleasure upon the romance of Will's marriage, and on his coming visit with his bride to his old home, Gethin listening with untiring patience, as he followed his father from place to place. The new harrow and pigstye were inspected, the two new cows and Malen's foal were interviewed, and then came Gethin's hour of triumph, when with pardonable pride he informed his father of his own savings, and of the legacy which had so unexpectedly increased his store; also of his plans for the future improvement of the farm. Ebben Owens sat down on the wheel-barrow on purpose to rub his knees, and Gethin's eyes sparkled with pleasure, but he looked round in vain for Morva. Some new-born shyness had overwhelmed her to-day; she could not make up her mind to meet Gethin.

She had longed for the meeting so much, and now that it was within her reach, she put the joy away from her, with the nervous indecision of a child.

"Have the cows been milked?" asked Gethin, casting his eyes again over the farmyard.

"Oh, yes," said Magw, "while you were in the barn, Morva helped me, and ran home directly; she said her mother wanted her."

All the morning she was absent, and n.o.body noticed it except Gethin, and Gwilym Morris, who, with his calm, observant eyes, had long discovered the secret of their love for each other. An amused smile hovered round his lips as, later in the forenoon, he entered the best kitchen bringing Gethin with him from the breezy hillside. Morva was tying Gwil's cap on when they entered, and could no longer avoid the meeting; but if Gwilym had expected a rapturous greeting, he was disappointed; for no shy schoolboy and girl ever met in a more undemonstrative manner than did these two, who for so long had hungered for each other's presence.

"h.e.l.lo, Morva! How art, la.s.s, this long time?" said Gethin, taking her hand in his big brown palm in an awkward, shame-faced manner, and dropping it at once as if it had scorched him.

"Well, indeed, Gethin. How art thou? There's glad we are to see thee.

Stand still, Gwil," and she stooped to unfasten the knot which she had just tied.

Apparently there was nothing more to be said, and Gwilym saw with amus.e.m.e.nt how all day long they avoided each other, or met with feigned indifference.

"Ah, well," he thought, "'tis too much happiness for them to grasp at once. How well I remember when Ann and I, though we sought for each other continually, yet avoided each other like two shy fawns."

In the evening, when the sun had set and given place to a soft round moon, he was not at all astonished to find that Gethin was missing: nor was he surprised, as he stood at the farm door, to see him rounding the Cribserth and disappear on the moonlit moor.

Reaching the broom bushes, Gethin waited in their shadows, recalling every word and every look of Morva's on that well-remembered night, when she had turned away from him so firmly, though so sorrowfully.

Waiting, he paced the greensward, sometimes stopping to toss a pebble over the cliffs, and ever watching where on the grey moor a little spark of light shone from Sara's window.