Garthowen: A Story of a Welsh Homestead

GARTHOWEN

A STORY OF A

WELSH HOMESTEAD

By

ALLEN RAINE

First published in 1900

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Contents

ANNE ADALISA PUDDICOMBE

By Daniel Lleufer Thomas

CHAPTER I

A TURN OF THE ROAD

CHAPTER II

GARTHOWEN

CHAPTER III

MORVA OF THE MOOR

CHAPTER IV

THE OLD BIBLE

CHAPTER V

THE SEA MAIDEN

CHAPTER VI

GETHIN'S PRESENTS

CHAPTER VII

THE BROOM GIRL

CHAPTER VIII

GARTHOWEN SLOPES

CHAPTER IX

THE NORTH STAR

CHAPTER X

THE CYNOS

CHAPTER XI

UNREST

CHAPTER XII

SARA'S VISION

CHAPTER XIII

THE BIRD FLUTTERS

CHAPTER XIV

DR. OWEN

CHAPTER XV

GWENDA'S PROSPECTS

CHAPTER XVI

ISDERI

CHAPTER XVII

GWENDA AT GARTHOWEN

CHAPTER XVIII

SARA

CHAPTER XIX

THE SCIET

CHAPTER XX

LOVE'S PILGRIMAGE

CHAPTER XXI

THE MATE OF THE GWENLLIAN

CHAPTER XXII

GETHIN'S STORY

CHAPTER XXIII

TURNED OUT!

CHAPTER XXIV

A DANCE ON THE CLIFFS

ANNE ADALISA

PUDDICOMBE

By Daniel Lleufer Thomas

Mrs. Anne Adalisa Beynon Puddicombe, writing under the pseudonym of Allen Raine (1836-1908), novelist, born on 6 Oct. 1836 in Bridge Street, Newcastle-Emlyn, was the eldest child in the family of two sons and two daughters of Benjamin Evans, solicitor of that town, by his wife Letitia Grace, daughter of Thomas Morgan, surgeon of the same place.

The father was a grandson of the Rev. David Davis (1745–1827) of Castell Howel, and the mother a granddaughter of Daniel Rowlands (1713–1790)

After attending a school at Carmarthen for a short time she was educated first (1849–51) at Cheltenham with the family of Henry Solly, unitarian minister, and from 1851 till 1856 (with her sister) at Southfields, near Wimbledon. She learnt French and Italian and excelled in music, though she was past forty when she learned the violin.

At Cheltenham and Southfields she saw many literary people, including Dickens and George Eliot. The next sixteen years she spent mainly at home in Wales, where her colloquial knowledge of Welsh was sufficient to gain her the intimacy of the inhabitants, and she acquired a minute knowledge of botany.

On 10 April 1872 she was married at Penbryn church, Cardiganshire, to Beynon Puddicombe, foreign correspondent at Smith Payne's Bank, London. For eight years they lived at Elgin Villas, Addiscombe, near Croydon, where Mrs. Puddicombe suffered almost continuous ill-health. They next resided at Winchmore Hill, Middlesex. Her husband became mentally afflicted in February 1900, and she removed with him to Bronmor, Traethsaith, in the parish of Penbryn, which had previously been their summer residence. Here he died on 29 May 1906, and here also she succumbed to cancer on 21 June 1908, being buried by the side of her husband in Penbryn churchyard. There was no issue of the marriage.

From youth Miss Evans showed a faculty for story-telling, and the influence of the Sollys and their circle helped to develop her literary instincts. At home a few sympathetic friends of like tastes joined her in bringing out a short-lived local periodical, Home Sunshine (printed at Newcastle-Emlyn). It was not however till 1894 that she took seriously to writing fiction. At the National Eisteddfod held that year at Carnarvon she divided with another the prize for a serial story descriptive of Welsh life. Her story, Ynysoer, dealing with the life of the fishing population of an imaginary island off the Cardiganshire coast, was published serially in the North Wales Observer but was not issued in book form. By June 1896 she completed a more ambitious work, which after being rejected (under the title of Mifanwy) by six publishing houses (see letter of Mr. A. M. Burghbs in Daily News, 24 July 1908) was published in August 1897, under the title A Welsh Singer. By Allen Raine.

Her pseudonym was suggested to her in a dream. Like most of her subsequent works A Welsh Singer is a simple love-story; the chief characters are peasants and sea-faring folk of the primitive district around the fishing village of Traethsaith. Despite its crudities it caught the public ear. She dramatised the novel, but it was only acted for copyright purposes. Thenceforth Mrs. Puddicombe turned out book after book in rapid succession. Her haste left her no opportunity of improving her style or strengthening her power of characterisation, but she fully sustained her first popularity mainly owing to her idealisation of Welsh life, to the prim, simple and even child-like dialogue of characters in such faulty English as the uncritical might assume Cardiganshire fishermen to speak, and also to the imaginative or romantic element which she introduces into nearly all her stories.

All her works have been re-issued and their total sales (outside America), it is stated, exceed two million copies. An Allen Raine Birthday Book appeared in 1907.

A Biography from

Dictionary of National Biography, 1912 supplement

GARTHOWEN

CHAPTER I

A TURN OF THE ROAD

It was a typical July day in a large seaport town of South Wales. There had been refreshing showers in the morning, giving place to a murky haze through which the late afternoon sun shone red and round. The small kitchen of No. 2 Bryn Street was insufferably hot, in spite of the wide-open door and window. A good fire burnt in the grate, however, for it was near tea-time, and Mrs. Parry knew that some of her lodgers would soon be coming in for their tea. One had already arrived, and, sitting on the settle in the chimney corner, was holding an animated conversation with his landlady, who stood before him, one hand akimbo on her side, the other brandishing a toasting fork. Her beady black eyes, her brick-red cheeks and hanks of coarse hair, were not beautiful to look upon, though to-day they were at their best, for the harsh voice was softened, and there was a humid gentleness in the eyes not habitual to them. Her companion was a young man about twenty-three years of age, dark, almost swarthy of hue, tanned by the suns and storms of foreign seas and many lands, As he sat there in the shade of the settle one caught a glance of black eyes and a gleam of white teeth, but the easy, lounging attitude did not show to advantage the splendid build of Gethin Owens. One of his large brown fists, resting on the rough deal table, was covered with tattooed hieroglyphics, an anchor, a mermaid, and a heart, of course! Anyone conversant with the Welsh language would have divined at once, by the long-drawn intonation of the first words in every remark, that the subject of conversation was one of sad or tender interest.

Well, indeed, said Mrs. Parry, the-r-e's missing you I'll be, Gethin! We are coming from the same place, you see, and you are knowing all about me, and I about you, and that I supp-o-s-e is making me feel more like a mother to you than to the other lodgers.

"Well, you have been like a mother to me, mending my clothes and watching me so sharp with the drink. Dei anwl! I don't think I ever took a glass with a friend without you finding me out, and calling me names. 'Drunken blackguard!' you called me one night, when as sure as I'm here I had only had a bottle of gingerpop in Jim Jones's shop," and he laughed boisterously.

Well, well, said Mrs. Parry, if I wronged you then, be bound you deserved the blame some other time, and 'twas for your own good I was telling you, my boy. Indeed, I wish I was going home with you to the old neighbourhood. The-r-e's glad they'll be to see you at Garthowen.

Well, I don't know how my father will receive me, said her companion thoughtfully. Ann and Will I am not afraid of, but the old man—he was very angry with me.

"What did you do long ago to make him so angry, Gethin? I have heard Tom Powell and Jim Bowen blaming him very much for being so hard to his eldest son; they said he was always more fond of Will than you, and was often beating you."

Halt! said Gethin, bringing his fist down so heavily on the table that the tea-things jingled, not a word against the old man—the best father that ever walked, and I was the worst boy on Garthowen slopes, driving the chickens into the water, shooing the geese over the hedges, riding the horses full pelt down the stony roads, setting fire to the gorse bushes, mitching from school, and making the boys laugh in chapel; no wonder the old man turned me away.

But all boys are naughty boys, said Mrs. Parry, and that wasn't enough reason for sending you from home, and shutting the door against you.

No, said Gethin, but I did more than that; I could not do a worse thing than I did to displease the old man. I was fond of scribbling my name everywhere. 'Gethin Owens' was on all the gateposts, and on the saddles and bridles, and once I painted 'G. O.' with green paint on the white mare's haunch. There was a squall when that was found out, but it was nothing to the storm that burst upon me when I wrote something in my mother's big Bible. As true as I am here, I don't remember what I wrote, but I know it was something about the devil, and I signed it 'Gethin Owens,' and a big 'Amen' after it. Poor old man, he was shocking angry, and he wouldn't listen to no excuse; so after a good thrashing I went away, Ann ran after me with my little bundle, and the tears streaming down her face, but I didn't cry—only when I came upon little Morva Lloyd sitting on the hillside. She put her arms round my neck and tried to keep me back, but I dragged myself away, and my tears were falling like rain then, and all the way down to Abersethin as long as I could hear Morva crying and calling out 'Gethin! Gethin!'

There's glad she'll be to see you.

Well, I dunno. She was used to be very fond of me; she couldn't bear Will because he was teazing her, but I was like a slave to her. 'I want some shells to play,' sez she sometimes, and there I was off to the shore, hunting about for shells for her. 'Take me a ride,' sez she, and up on my shoulder I would hoist her, as happy as a king, with her two little feet in my hands, and her little fat hands ketching tight in my hair, and there's galloping over the slopes we were, me snorting and prancing, and she laughing all the time like the swallows when they are flying.

They were interrupted by a clatter of heavy shoes and a chorus of boisterous voices, as three sailors came in loudly calling for their tea.

Hello, Gethin! not gone? Hast changed thy mind?

Not a bit of it, said Gethin, pointing to his bag of clothes. I have been a long time making up my mind, but it's Garthowen and the cows and the cawl for me this time and no mistake.

And Morva, said Jim Bowen, with a smile, in which lurked a suspicion of a sneer. Thee may say what thee likes about the old man, and the cows, and the cawl, but I know thee, Gethin Owens! Ever since I told thee what a fine lass Morva Lloyd has grown thee'st been hankering after Garthowen slopes.

There was a general laugh, in which Gethin joined good-humouredly, standing and stretching himself with a yawn. The evening sun fell full upon him, showing a form of sinewy strength, and a handsome manly face. His dark skin and the small gold rings in his ears, so much affected by Welsh sailors, gave him a foreign look, which rather added to the attractiveness of his personal appearance.

When the tea had been partaken of, with a running accompaniment of broad jokes and loud laughter, the three sailors went out, leaving Gethin still sitting on the settle. This was Mrs. Parry's hour of peace—when her consumptive son came home from his loitering in the sunshine to join her at her own quiet cup of tea, while her rough husband was still engaged amongst the shipping in the docks.

Well, what'll I say to Nani Graig? said Gethin.

Oh, poor mother, my love, and tell her if it wasn't for my boy Tom I'd soon be home with her again, for I'll never live with John Parry when my boy is gone.

He's not going for many a long year, said Gethin, slapping the boy on the back, his more sensitive nature shrinking from such plain speaking.

But Tom was used to it, and smiled, shuffling uneasily under the slap.

What you got bulging out in your bag like that? he asked.

Oh, presents for them at Garthowen; will I show them to you? said the sailor awkwardly, as he untied the mouth of the canvas bag. Here's a tie for my father, and a hymn-book for Ann, and here's a knife for Will, and a pocket-book for Gwilym Morris, the preacher who is lodging with them. And here, he said, opening a gaily-painted box, is something for little Morva, and he gently laid on the table a necklace of iridescent shells which fell in three graduated rows.

Oh! there's pretty! said Mrs. Parry, and while she held the shining shells in the red of the sun, again the doorway was darkened by the entrance of two noisy, gaudily-dressed girls, who came flouncing up to the table.

Hello! Bella Lewis and Polly Jones, is it you? Where you come from so early? said Mrs. Parry.

Come to see me, of course! suggested the sailor.

Come to see you and stop you going, said one of the girls. "Gethin Owens, you are more of a skulk than I took you for, though you are rather shirky in your ways, if this is true what I hear about you."

What? said Gethin, replacing the necklace in the box.

That you are going home for good, going to turn farmer and say good-bye to the shipping and the docks. And as she spoke she laid her hand on the box which Gethin was closing, and drew out its contents. There was a greedy glitter in her bold eyes as she asked, Who's that for? and she clasped it round her own neck, while Gethin's dark face flushed.

Couldn't look better than there, he answered gallantly, so you keep it, to remember me, and tying up his canvas bag he bade them all a hurried good-bye.

Mrs. Parry followed him to the doorway with regretful farewells, for she was losing a friend who had not only paid her well, but had been kind to her delicate boy, and whose strong fist had often decided in her favour a fight with her brutal husband.

There you now, she said, in a confidential whisper and with a nudge on Gethin's canvas bag, there you are now; fool that you are! giving such a thing as that to Bella Lewis! What did you pay for it, Gethin? Shall I have it if I can get it from her? Why did you give it to her? you said 'twas for little Morva—

Yes, it was, he said; but d'ye think, woman, I would give it to Morva after being on Bella Lewis's neck? No! that's why I am running away in such a hurry, to buy her another, d'ye see, and Dei anwl, I must make haste or else I'll be late on board. Good-bye, good-bye.

Mrs. Parry looked after him almost tenderly, but called out once more:

Shall I have it if I can get it?

Yes, yes, shouted Gethin in return, and as he made his way through the grimy, unsavoury street, he chuckled as he pictured the impending scrimmage.

CHAPTER II

GARTHOWEN

Along the slope of a bare brown hill, which turned one scarped precipitous side to the sea, and the other, more smooth and undulating, towards a fair scene of inland beauty, straggled the little hamlet of Pont-y-fro. Jos Hughes's shop was the very last house in the village, the road beyond it merging into the rushy moor, and dwindling into a stony track, down which a streamlet trickled from the peat bog above. The house had stood in the same place for two hundred years, and Jos Hughes looked as if he too had lived there for the same length of time. His quaintly cut blue cloth coat adorned with large brass buttons, his knee breeches of corduroy, and grey blue stockings, looking well in keeping with his dwelling, but very out of place behind a counter. His brown wrinkled face and ruddy cheeks were like a shrivelled apple, his shrewd inquisitive eyes peered out through a pair of large brass-rimmed spectacles, and, to judge by his expression, the view they got of the world in general was not satisfactory.

It was a day of brilliant sunshine and intense heat, but through the open shop door the sea wind came in with refreshing coolness. Behind the counter Jos Hughes measured and weighed lazily, throwing in with his short weight a compliment, or a screw of peppermints, as the case required.

Who is this coming up in the dust? he mumbled.

'Tis Morva of the moor, said a woman standing in the doorway and shading her eyes with her hand. What does she want, I wonder? There's a merry lass she is!

Oh! day or night, sun or snow don't matter to her, said Jos Hughes.

At this moment the subject of their remarks entered the shop, and, sitting on a sack of maize, let her arms fall on her lap. She was quickly followed by a large black sheep dog, who bounded in and, placing his fore-paws on the counter, with tongue hanging out, looked at Jos Hughes intently.

Down, Tudor! said the girl, and he sprang on a sack of peas beside her.

The mountain wind blowing in through the open doorway touzled the little curls that were so unruly in Morva's hair; it was neither gold nor ebony, but, looking at its rich tints, one was irresistibly reminded of the ripe corn in harvest fields, while the blue eyes were like the corn flowers in their vivid colouring.

How are they at Garthowen? asked Fani bakkare.

Oh! they are all well there, answered the girl, panting and fanning herself with her sun-bonnet, except the white calf, and he is better.

There's hot it is! said Fani, taking up her basket of groceries.

Oh! 'tis hot! said the girl, but there's a lovely wind from the sea.

What are you wanting to-day, Morva? said Jos.

A ball of red worsted for Ann, and an ounce of 'bacco for 'n'wncwl Ebben, and oh! a ha'porth of sweets for Tudor.

The dog wagged his tail approvingly as Jos reached down from the shelf a bottle of pink lollipops, for, though a wild country dog, he had depraved tastes in the matter of sweets.

There's serious you all look! what's the matter with you? said the girl, looking smilingly round.

Nothing is the matter as I know, said Fani, only there's always plenty of trouble flying about. We can't be all so free from care as you, always laughing or singing or something.

Indeed I wish we could, said Madlen, a pale girl who was bending over a box of knitting pins, looking round curiously and rather sadly; I wish the whole world could be like you, Morva.

Morva snatched the girl's listless hand in her own warm firm grasp, and pressed it sympathetically, for she knew Madlen's secret sorrow.

Wait another year or two, said Fani, we'll talk to you then! Wait till your husband comes home drunk from 'The Black Horse!'

And wait till you put all your money into a shop and then find it doesn't pay you, said Jos.

Madlen said nothing, but Morva knew that in her heart she was thinking, Wait until your lover proves false to you! and she gave her hand another squeeze.

Well, indeed! she said springing up, what are you all talking about? I won't put all my money in a shop, and I won't marry a drunkard! Sixpence, is it? I am going home over the bog and round the hill, but I am going to sit on the bench outside a bit first. There's lots of swallows' nests under your eaves, Jos Hughes; that brings good luck, they say, so your shop ought to pay you well.

So saying she passed out, and sitting on the bench round the corner of the house she kissed her hand toward the swallows, who flitted in and out of their nests, twittering ecstatically.

Hark to her, said Fani, "singing again, if you please—always light-hearted! always happy! I don't think its quite right, Jos bâch, do you? You are a deacon at Penmorien and you ought to know. If it was a hymn now! but you hear it's all nonsense about the swallows. Ach y fi! she is learning them from Sara ''spridion';[¹] some song of the 'old fathers' in past times!"

Yes, said Jos, sanctimoniously clasping his stubby fingers, I'm afraid the girl is a bit of a heathen. What wonder is it? Nursed by Sara—always out with the cows or the sheep, and they say she thinks nothing of sleeping under a hedge, or out on the slopes, if any animal is sick and wants watching.

Fani went out with a toss of her head, as the sweet voice came in through the little side window with the twittering of the swallows and the cluck, cluck of a happy brood hen.

Outside, Morva had forgotten all about Jos Hughes and Fani bakkare's sour looks, and was singing her heart out to the sunshine.

Sing on, little swallows, she said, and I'll sing too. Sara taught me the 'bird song' long ago when I was a baby.

And in a clear, sweet voice she joined the birds, and woke the echoes from the brown cliffs. The tune was quaint and rapid; both it and the words had come down to her with the old folklore of generations passed away.

"Over the sea from the end of the wide world

I've come without wetting my feet, my feet, my feet,

Back to the old home, straight to the nest-home,

Under the brown thatch, oh sweet! oh sweet! oh sweet!

"When over the waters I flew in the autumn,

Then there was plenty of seed, of seed, of seed.

Women have winnow'd it, threshers have garner'd it,

Barns must be filled up indeed, indeed, indeed!

"Are you glad we have come with a flitter and twitter

Once more on the housetop to meet, to meet, to meet?

Make haste little primroses, cowslips, and daisies, we're

Longing your faces to greet, to greet, to greet!"

—Trans.

Yes, that's what you are singing. Good-bye, and waving her hand towards them again, she turned her face to the boggy moor, picking her way over the stepping-stones which led up to the dryer sheep paths.

The golden marsh marigolds glittered around her, the beautiful bog bean hung its pinky white fringe over the brown peat pools, the silky plumes of the cotton grass nodded at her as she passed, and the wind whispered in the rushes the secrets of the sea.

Morva listened with a smile, a brown finger up-raised. Yes, yes, I know what you are singing too down there in the rushes, sweet west wind, she said. Sara has told me, but I haven't time to sing the 'wind song' to-day, and reaching the sheep path which led round the mountain, she sped against the wind, her hair streaming behind her, her blue skirt fluttering in the breeze, the ball of scarlet worsted and the shining 'bacco box held high in either hand to steady her flying footsteps, Tudor barking with joy as he bounded after her and twitched at her fluttering skirts.

It was tea-time when she reached Garthowen, and, winter