Welsh Journals

William. By Phyllis Howell. "HOW ar-r-e you, my dear-r-r? I look up startled, for I had been so intent II on filling my basket with ripe black- berries that I had not noticed anyone near. It is William ,of course. No one else would address me like that. My eyes follow the direction from which the voice came, and I see in the hedge a gate, and leaning upon it the figure of a man. Dear old William! He looks a shade uglier and more disreputable than usual to-day. He has not shaved for a week appa- rently. His weather-beaten face is all crinkled up in a leer, which he fondly imagines to be a most engaging smile. A pair of sleepy grey eyes look languishingly at me. A dirty clay pipe protrudes from William's lips. His old green coat is in rags, and the collar of his flannel shirt suggests an acquaintance with candle grease. His battered and ancient straw hat is pulled well over his manly brow, and altogether his appearance is such that the unenlightened might well be pardoned for mistaking him for a tramp. Certainly no one would suppose him to be a rich farmer and the owner of these seff-same fields in which I am now trespassing. Yet this is indeed the case, and William, despite his ugli- ness, is the despair of young women for miles around, since he successfully eludes all attempts to catch him. He is, I grieve to say it, a miser and fears to marry lest his wife's extravagance should land him in the workhouse. When I was seventeen William wanted to marry me. It amuses me now, but it made me furious at the time. Perhaps I will be your husband some day, Miss Hazel," he would remark, bold in the possession of a new Sunday suit and a clean collar. "William, how dare you? would be my almost tearful response, as I fairly stamped with rage. But you don't know, Miss Hazel. Perhaps I will be some day," persisted William, regard- ing me with an amorous expression calculated to drive me almost crazy. Poor William! Friend of my childhood, my adorer in adolescence, now my admirer from a respectful distance. For William does not talk of marrying me these days. The truth is I spend too much on personal adornment for him. Yet he still cherishes a warm affection for his old sweetheart which he does not attempt to conceal. Perhaps he is secretly hoping that when I am about fifty I shall settle down a bit and dress more soberly. Until then William waits. W;th an exclamation of pleasure I put down my blackberries and hasten to greet William, But even as I move towards him through the long grass, already damp with the dews of evening, the figure at the gate vanishes, and becomes one with the phantom shadows that lurk among the trees and hedges. And the lone countryside that had been so still grows stiller yet, and the homely cackling of hens and geese, and the familiar clattering of pails and pans in the neighbouring farmyard, seem to sound very far off. I am alone in the long green meadow, shut in bv monster hedges. Far away, far away is the village and all its voices, and the twinkling lights in every homestead. There is no living creature near me, save the owl that flutters ominous wings in the twilight. A chill wind passes before my face, and suddenly I am afraid. I am horribly, desperately afraid, for the gate is empty! And then with a shock I remember that William died long ago. The voice I heard calling is stilled for ever. William sleeps peace- fully in yonder green churchyard. His broad acres know him no more, and have passed ages since into the hands of strangers. What won- der, then, that I am afraid? It is almost dark now. I strain my eyes staring into the thick gloom to catch a second glimpse of that figure, but in vain. Yet I saw William. Of that I am very sure. William has come back. Strange that he should return at that hour, when day merged almost imperceptibly into dusk, and dusk into darkness! Yet not so strange. To- day is All Hallow's Eve. On what day should he come back but this, and to whom should he reveal himself if not to me? For if William had not died I should not be here this afternoon in his fields gathering his blackberries. William died that I might live. And now I look again into the shadows, and see another autumn day, just such a day as this has been. All through the afternoon I picked blackberries in these fields. The sky was blue and cloudless. The green meadows were bathed in sunshine. White farms slept in the drowsy warmth of the autumn day. Sheep sauntered across the lonesome hills. Bees hummed in the heather. Here and there in vivid contrast to the green were cornfields with their stacks of gold. The trees were turning colour. Autumn tints- brown and orange, green and gold and crimson, flamed like lamps in the forest. The rich, ripe blackberries were almost falling off the loaded bramble bushes. Here stood a tree, its hundreds of tiny green crab apples, delicately tinted with a faint blush of pink. Lower down was a black- thorn bush, its grey-green leaves dotted with small purple sloes. Still further on was a vivid patch of autumnal foliage, ranging from palest gold to pink and crimson. Among the leaves were clusters of gleaming scarlet berries. Every- thing was beautiful, and the intense brooding stillness of the quiet autumn afternoon was the most beautiful of all.