Intermittently the wind whined and raced, howling like a wolf, through the Gwynen Valley; and intermittently, too, the rain doused the bridge on whose slate coping Vavasour Jones leaned. It was a night when spirits of air and earth, the racing wind, the thundering water, the slashing rain, were the very soul of this chaos of noise. Still, cosy lights shone on either side of the bridge, the lights of Ty Ucha and Ty Usaf, where a good mug of beer could be had for a mere song to a man of Vavasour’s means. And the lights from all the cottages, too, for it was All-Hallows’ Eve, twinkled with festive brilliance upon the drenched flags of the street. Indeed, there was not one of these houses in all Gwynen whose walls and flaggings were not familiar to him, where Vavasour Jones and his wife Catherine had not been on an occasion, a knitting-night, a Christmas, a bidding, a funeral, an All-Hallows’ Eve. But to-night his eyes gazed blankly upon these preliminary signs of a merry evening within doors, and he seemed unconscious of the rain pouring upon him and the wind slapping the bridge. He moved when he saw a figure approaching.

“Hist! Eilir!”

“Aye, man, who is it?”

“It’s me, it’s Vavasour Jones.”

“Dear me, lad, what do ye here in the dark and rain?”

Vavasour said nothing; Eilir peered more closely at him. “Are ye sick, lad?”

“Och, I’m not sick!” Vavasour’s voice rang drearily, as if that were the least of ills that could befall him.

“Well, what ails ye?”

“It’s All-Hallows’ Eve an’——”

“Aren’t ye goin’ to Pally Hughes’s?”

“Ow!” he moaned, “the devil! goin’ to Pally Hughes’s while it’s drawin’ nearer an’ nearer an’—Ow!”

“Tut, man,” said Eilir sharply, “ye’re ill; speak up, tell me what ails ye.”

“Ow-w!” groaned Vavasour.

Eilir drew away; here was a case where All-Hallows’ had played havoc early in the evening. What should he do? Get him home? Notify Catherine? Have the minister? He was inclining to the last resource when Vavasour groaned again and spoke:—

“Eilir, I wisht I were dead, man.”

“Dear me, lad, what is it?”

“It’s the night when Catherine must go.”

“When Catherine must go? What do ye mean?”

“She’ll be dead the night at twelve.”

“Dead at twelve?” asked Eilir, bewildered. “Does she know it?”

“No, but I do, an’ to think I’ve been unkind to her! I’ve tried this year to make up for it, but it’s no use, man; one year’ll never make up for ten of harsh words an’ unkind deeds. Ow!” groaned Vavasour, collapsing on to the slate coping once more.

“Well, ye’ve not been good to her,” replied Eilir, mystified, “that’s certain, man, but I’ve heard ye’ve been totally different the past year. Griffiths was sayin’ he never heard any more sharp words comin’ from your windows, an’ they used to rain like hail on the streets some days.”

“Aye, but a year’ll not do any good, an’ she’ll be dyin’ at twelve to-night, Ow!”

“Well,” said Eilir, catching at the only thing he could think of to say, “there’s plenty in the Scriptures about a man an’ his wife.”

“Aye, but it’ll not do, not do, not do,” sobbed Vavasour Jones.

“Have ye been drinkin’, lad?”

“Drinkin’!” exclaimed Jones.

“Well, no harm, but lad, about the Scriptures; there’s plenty in the Scriptures concernin’ a man an’ his wife, an’ ye’ve broken much of it about lovin’ a wife, an’ yet I cannot understand why Catherine’s goin’ an’ where.”

“She’s not goin’ anywhere, Eilir; she’ll be dyin’ at twelve.”

Whereupon Vavasour Jones rose up suddenly from the coping, took a step forward, seized Eilir by the coat-lapel, and, with eyes flickering like coals in the dark, told his story. All the little Gwynen world knew that he and his wife had not lived happily or well together; there had been no children coming and no love lost, and, as the days went on, bickering, scolding, harsh words, and even ugly actions. Aye, and it had come to such a pass that a year ago this night, on All-Hallows’ Eve, he had gone down to the church-porch shortly before midnight to see whether the spirit of Catherine would be called, and whether she would live the twelve months out. And as he was leaning against the church-wall hoping, aye, man, and praying that he might see her there, he saw something coming around the corner with white over its head; it drew nearer and nearer, and when it came in full view of the church-porch it paused, it whirled around, and sped away with the wind flapping about its feet and the rain beating down on its head. But Vavasour had time to see that it was the spirit of Catherine, and he was glad because his prayer had been answered, and because, with Catherine dying the next All-Hallows’, they would have to live together only the year out. So he went homeward joyfully, thinking it was the last year, and considering as it was the last year he might just as well be as kind and pleasant as possible. When he reached home he found Catherine up waiting for him. And she spoke so pleasantly to him and he to her, and the days went on as happily as the courting days before they were married. Each day was sweeter than the one before, and they knew for the first time what it meant to be man and wife in love and kindness. But all the while he saw that white figure by the churchyard, and Catherine’s face in its white hood, and he knew the days were lessening and that she must go. Here it was All-Hallows’ Eve again, and but four hours to midnight, and the best year of his life was almost past. Aye, and it was all the result of his evil heart and evil wish and evil prayer.

“Think, man,” groaned Vavasour, “prayin’ for her callin’, aye, goin’ there hopin’ ye’d see her spirit, an’ countin’ on her death!”

“Oh, man, it’s bad,” replied Eilir mournfully, “aye, an’ I’ve no word to say to ye for comfort. I recollect well the story my granny used to tell about Christmas Powell; it was somethin’ the same. An’ there was Betty Williams was called ten years ago, an’ didn’t live the year out; an’ there was Silvan Evans, the sexton, an’ Geffery his friend, was called two years ago, and Silvan had just time to dig Geffrey’s grave an’ then his own, too, by its side, an’ they was buried the same day an’ hour.”

“Ow!” wailed Vavasour.

“Aye, man, it’s bad; it’ll have to be endured, an’ to think ye brought it on yourself. Where’s Catherine?”

“She’s to Pally Hughes’s for the All-Hallows’ party.”

“Och, she’ll be taken there!”

“Aye, an’ oh! Eilir, she was loth to go to Pally’s, but I could not tell her the truth.”

“That’s so, lad; are ye not goin’?”

“I cannot go; I’m fair crazy an’ I’ll just be creepin’ home, waitin’ for them to bring her back. Ow!”

“I’m sorry, man,” called Eilir, looking after him with an expression of sympathy: “I can be of no use to ye now.”

Across the bridge the windows of Pally Hughes’s grey-stone cottage shone with candles, and as the doors swung to and fro admitting guests, the lights from within flickered on the brass doorsill and the hum of merry words reached the street. Mrs. Morgan the baker, dressed in her new scarlet whittle and a freshly starched cap, was there; Mr. Howell the milliner, in his highlows and wonderful plum-coloured coat; Mrs. Jenkins the tinman, with bright new ribbons to her cap and a new beaver hat which she removed carefully upon entering; and Mr. Wynn “the shop,” whose clothes were always the envy of Gwynen village; and many others, big-eyed girls and straight young men, who crossed the bright doorsill.

Finally, Catherine Jones tapped on the door. Within, she looked vacantly at the candles on the mantelpiece and on the table, all set in festoons of evergreens and flanked by a display of painted china eggs and animals; and at the lights shining steadily, while on the hearth a fire crackled. Catherine, so heavy was her heart, could scarcely manage a decent friendly greeting to old Pally Hughes, her hostess. She looked uncheered at the big centre table, whereon stood a huge blue wassail-bowl, about it little piles of raisins, buns, spices, biscuits, sugar, a large jug of ale and a small bottle tightly corked. She watched the merriment with indifference; bobbing for apples and sixpences seemed such stupid games. There was no one in whom she could confide now, and anyway it was too late; there was nothing to be done, and while they were talking lightly and singing, too, for the harp was being played, the hours were slipping away, and her one thought, her only thought, was to get home to Vavasour. “Oh,” reflected Catherine, “I’m a wicked, wicked woman to be bringin’ him to his death!”

The candles were blown out and the company gathered in a circle about the fire to tell stories, while a kettle of ale simmered on the crane and the apples hung roasting. Pally began the list of tales. There was the story of the corpse-candle Lewis’s wife saw, and how Lewis himself died the next week; there were the goblins that of All-Hallows’ Eve led Davies such a dance, and the folks had to go out after him with a lantern to fetch him in, and found him lying in fear by the sheep-wall; and there were the plates and mugs Annie turned upside down and an unseen visitor turned them right side up before her very eyes.

Then they began to throw nuts in the fire, each with a wish: if the nut burned brightly the wish would-come true. Old Pally threw on a nut, it flickered and then blazed up; Maggie tossed one into the fire, it smouldered and gave no light. Gradually the turn came nearer Catherine; there was but one wish in her heart and she trembled to take the chance.

“Now, Catherine!”

“Aye, Catherine, what’ll she be wishin’ for, a new lover?” they laughed.

With shaking hand she tossed hers into the fire; the nut sputtered and blackened, and with a shriek Catherine bounded from the circle, threw open the door and sped into the dark. In consternation the company scrambled to their feet, gazing at the open door through which volleyed the wind and rain.

Old Pally was the first to speak: “’Tis a bad sign.”

“Aye, poor Catherine’s been called, it may be.”

“It’s the last time, I’m thinkin’, we’ll ever see her.”

“Do ye think she saw somethin’, Pally, do ye?”

“There’s no tellin’; but it’s bad, very bad, though her nut is burnin’ brightly enough now.”

“She seemed downcast the night, not like herself.”

“It can be nothin’ at home, for Vavasour, they say, is treatin’ her better nor ever, an’ she’s been that sweet-tempered the year long, which is uncommon for her.”

As she fled homeward through the dark, little did Catherine think of what they might be saying at Pally’s. When Vavasour heard feet running swiftly along the street, he straightened up, his eyes in terror upon the door.

“Catherine!” he cried, bewildered at her substantial appearance, “is it ye who are really come?”

There was a momentary suggestion of a rush into each other’s arms checked, as it were, in mid-air by Vavasour’s reseating himself precipitately and Catherine drawing herself up.

“Yes,” said Catherine, seeing him there and still in the flesh, “it was—dull, very dull at Pally’s; an’ my feet was wet an’ I feared takin’ a cold.”

“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.”