The Sassiwn day dawned bright and clear, and as the time for the first
service drew near, the roads and lanes were thronged with pedestrians
and vehicles of every description.
The doors of the houses in all the surrounding villages were closed for
the day, except in a few cases where illness made it impossible for the
inmates to leave their beds. Everybody--man, woman, and child,
including babies innumerable--turned their faces towards the sloping
field which for the day was the centre of attraction.
Already the grass was getting hidden by the black throng, and still the
crowds arrived, seating themselves row behind row on the wild thyme and
heather. The topmost corner of the field merged into a rocky
wilderness of stunted heath and patches of burnt grass, studded with
harebells, and this unapportioned piece of ground stretched away into
the adjoining corner of the Vicar's long meadow. In the afternoon
Cardo, who had virtuously kept away from the morning meetings,
sauntered down to chat with Dye, who had condescended to absent himself
from the third service, in order to attend to his duties on the farm.
"You sit here, Mr. Cardo," he said, with a confidential wink, "on your
own hedge; the Vicar can't be angry, and you will hear something worth
listening to."
Soon the sloping bank was crowded with its rows of human beings, all
listening with intense interest to a pale, dark man, who stood on the
front of the platform at the bottom of the field, and with sonorous
voice delivered a short opening prayer, followed by an impassioned
address. In the clear, pure air every word was distinctly heard all
over the field, the surging multitude keeping a breathless silence,
broken only by the singing of the birds or the call of the seagulls.
Sometimes a baby would send up a little wail of fatigue; but generally
the slumberous air soothed and quieted them into sleep.
The prayer over, the preacher gave out the words of a well-known hymn,
and with one accord the people stood up, and from those hundreds and
thousands arose the swelling tones of one of those old hymns which lay
hold of every Welshman's heart, its strange reminiscences, its
mysterious influences swaying his whole being, and carrying him away on
the wings of its rising and falling melody. His fathers and
grandfathers sang it in their old thatched cabins--and, farther back,
the warriors and bards of his past ancestry breathed the same
tones--and, farther back still, the wind swept its first suggestions
through the old oaks of the early solitudes.
"Is it this, I wonder, this far-reaching into the past, which gives
such moving power to the tones of an old Welsh hymn?" Thus Cardo
mused, as he sat on the hedge in the spring sunshine, his eyes roaming
over the dense throng now settling down to listen to the sermon, which
the preacher was beginning in low, slow sentences. Every ear was
strained to listen, every eye was fixed on the preacher, but Cardo
could not help wondering where Valmai was. He saw Essec Powell with
clasped fingers and upturned chin listening in rapt attention; he saw
in the rows nearest the platform many of the wives and daughters of its
occupants. Here surely would be the place for the minister's niece;
but no! Valmai was nowhere to be seen. In truth, she had been
completely forgotten by her uncle, who had wandered off with a knot of
preachers after the hospitable dinner, provided for them at his house
by Valmai's exertions and Marged Hughes' help; but he had never thought
of introducing to his guests the real genius of the feast. She had
snatched a hurried meal in the pantry, and, feeling rather lost and
bewildered amongst the crowd of strangers, had retired to rest under
the elder bushes, until called upon by Marged Hughes to help at the
table, which she did at once, overcoming her shyness, and keeping as
much as possible in the background.