Mors Triumphans

I Griffith Griffiths has a Happy Thought and takes a Trip

Each new election for the Town Council found Griffith Griffiths still unelected. The primary reason for his failure was a party matter: Griffiths was a Conservative, whereas every other Welshman in the town of Bryn Tirion was a Radical. Let him change his politics, said Bryn Tirion. No, said Griffith Griffiths, never! And the town knew he meant it. But, added Griffiths, I will be a member. For thirty years this battle was waged; children were born and their children; mothers grew old and died; and Griffiths grew rich in slate and sheep. Now he was sixty and still unsuccessful. If he wished he could buy up all Merionethshire; true, but he could not buy up one independent honest Welshman, whether that Welshman counted his sheep by tens or thousands. Nor, to do Griffiths justice, did he think of buying votes, for he was as honest as his fellow townsmen. Pulling his whiskers, he looked vindictively at the mantelpiece before him, with its cordon of shining, smiling china cats. Had he not done more for the village than any other man? He had given Bryn Tirion two sons of whom to be proud, he had provided the young minister with a wife in the person of a beloved daughter, he had piously paid for tearing down a shabby old treasure of a church built in the time of Edward I., he had presented the village with a fountain and a new bread-oven, he had introduced improved methods in cleaning and shearing sheep, and he employed daily over one hundred men in his slate-quarry. Notwithstanding all these benefactions, he was still obliged to consider schemes for winning a paltry election.

“That’s a happy thought,” he exclaimed, starting forward, “I’ll do it. Aye, it’ll win this time. I’ll go for it myself an’ bring it home, I will. There’ll be no word spoke when they see that. It’ll cost me a hundred pounds an’ the trip, but I’ll do it.”

Griffith’s eyes twinkled as he winked at the mantelpiece cats. “There’ll be no doubt this time, my girls. No doubt, no doubt this time, an’ every old granny in the town a-thankin’ me. Oho, ho, ho!”

Mrs. Griffiths peered in.

“Father!”

“Aye!”

“Father?”

“Well, mother?”

“Is it a joke?”

“No-o, a joke, yes, a—no-o, it is not.”

“Father, what are ye thinkin’?”

“I—I, well, I’ve been a-thinkin’!” replied Griffiths, with conviction.

Mother’s face expressed censure.

“I’m thinkin’ now, mother, I’m thinkin’ of goin’ to Liverpool.”

“Liverpool! an’ what would ye be goin’ there for?”

“I’m thinkin’, mother, of goin’ to-morrow.”

“Thinkin’ of goin’ to-morrow?”

“Aye!”

“Are ye goin’ about slate?”

“No, not just about slate,” father hedged.

“Is it sheep?”

“No, not exactly sheep.”

Mrs. Griffiths by this time regarded her husband with alarm.

“Ye’ve not been to Liverpool in twenty years; am I goin’?”

“Why, no, mother, I’ll travel there one day and back the next. I’m—I’m a-goin’ just—I’m a-goin’ for the trip.”

“For the trip!” sniffed Mrs. Griffiths.

“What’ll I bring ye, mother?”

“I’m no’ wantin’ anything,” replied Mrs. Griffiths coolly.

II Griffith Griffiths takes a Trip and his Wife receives a Call

While her generous husband was running about Liverpool to buy another benefaction for Bryn Tirion, Mrs. Griffiths was receiving calls at Sygyn Fawr.

“Good-day,” said Olwyn Evans, stepping over the brass doorsill of Sygyn Fawr.

“Good-day,” replied Betty Griffiths.

“I hear Griffiths is gone to Liverpool?”

“Aye, he is.”

“He went yesterday?”

“Aye.”

“He comes back this evening?”

“Aye.”

The clock ticked and the china cats smiled blandly in the silence.

“He’s not come yet?”

“No, he has not.”

Olwyn readjusted her shawl.

“Evan says he’s not taken the trip for twenty years?”

“No, twenty years ago this September.”

“Rhys Goch says he’s gone for new machinery come from Ameriky; has he so?”

At this point there was a chorus of yaps and shrieks from Colwyn Street, on which Sygyn Fawr stood.

“It’s Marged Owen’s baby, Johnny. Dalben’s terriers are always upsettin’ him when they’re fightin’. At Cwm Dyli farm they say he’s gone to sell sheep; has he so?”

“It’s neither sheep nor slate,” replied Betty Griffiths acridly.

“Is it so?”

The street rang with another volley of yells.

“It’s Cidwm Powell this time, fallin’ off the slate copin’. He always is; some day he’ll fall in, an’ I don’t know what Maggie’ll do then.”

“No, nor I,” added Olwyn Evans, “it’s her only. Jane Wynne and Jane Jones is ill. Their folks’ve been to the chemist’s in Tremadoc for them, but you’d think they’d have the doctor, now wouldn’t you?”

“You would,” assented Betty. “Jane Wynne’s eighty; how old is Jane Jones?”

“She’s comin’ seventy-five.”

“She is?”

“The chemist says it’s failin’ with both,” commented Olwyn. “They’ll not die very far apart. They’ll be keepin’ the minister busy what with visitin’ them and then buryin’ them. It’ll be hard on Robert.”

“It will.”

“You say Griffiths is not back?”

“No, not back.”

“He’ll be comin’?”

“Aye.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

III Griffith Griffiths brings his Happy Thought Home

The evening light lay purple and lavender on the heather-covered hills; it cut through Aberglaslyn Pass in a golden shaft, gilding the jagged top of Craig y Llan and making the cliff side of Moel Hebog sparkle. Griffith Griffiths sniffed the honeyed air of his Welsh valleys hungrily. The nearer he came to home the more purple seemed the heather and the more golden the gorse.

“How d’ye think of it, Griffiths?” said Jones, looking back approvingly.

“Well, the village hasn’t any.”

“It’ll be a great surprise, man.”

“It will be,” agreed Griffiths.

“The folks over to C’n’rvon can’t give themselves airs any more.”

“Well, no, they cannot.”

“Did Betty know?”

“No, a woman worries when she’s to keep a secret.”

“The folks have all been askin’ for ye for two days”; and Jones’s face shone with the same delighted goodwill as that on his master’s.

“We’ll take it to Ty Isaf; it’ll be kept there.”

“Aye. Ye’re a thoughtful man, Griffiths. Ye’ve done about everything could be done for this village. There ain’t a man better thought of nor ye, except ye’re a Conservative. But they ought to put ye on the Council just the same.”

The caravan moved slowly into Bryn Tirion. At the rumble of wheels Olwyn thrust her head out of Cwm Cloch door, took one look at the moving load, and rushed into the back garden for Evan.

To Ty Isaf they hurried with the crowd; girls with water-pails dropped them; children staggering along under mammoth loaves of bread fresh from the oven tumbled them in the white dust of the road; mothers with babies strapped to them by shawls tightened the shawls and hastened along; old women put down their bundles of faggots; dogs ceased their quarrelling and children their playing, all rushing in the same direction.

Griffiths and Jones were stripping away the crating.

“It’s an organ for Chapel,” said Marged Owen.

“It’s a new pulpit,” exclaimed Maggie Powell.

“It’s a hearse!” cried Olwyn Evans, as the bagging was ripped from one side.

For an instant admiration made the concourse silent; then old Marslie Powell said softly: “If the Lord had ’a’ asked me what I wanted most He could not’ve done better.”

“Surely, it is the Lord’s gift,” affirmed Ellen Roberts.

“To think I’d live to see a real live hearse!” shrilly exclaimed old Annie Dalben.

“It’s a fine smart present, it is,” said Howell Roberts, “an’ there wouldn’t no one else ’a’ thought of it except Griffith Griffiths.”

“It’ll be pretty and tasty with mournin’, now won’t it!” commented Gwen Williams.

“It’s a pity Jane Jones and Jane Wynne’s too sick to be here an’ see it when they’re likely to have first chance at it!” declared Olwyn Evans.

“It’ll be fine for the first as is buried in it,” nodded Ellen Roberts wistfully.

“It’ll be an honour,” assented old Annie Dalben.

IV Bryn Tirion sees a Lighted Candle of the Dead and a Contest

“The doctor from Tremadoc has been called in,” remarked Betty.

“Has he so!” replied Griffiths, toasting his feet before the fire and eyeing the smiling cats benevolently. “He’s a clever young man.”

“Aye, but it won’t save Jane Jones nor Jane Wynne.”

“No?”

“The Joneses is havin’ him come every other day, so the Wynneses is doin’ the same. They’re both failin’ rapidly. When the family asks about Jane Jones, all he’ll say is, ’She’s no worse.’ An’ when the Wynneses ask about Jane Wynne he says, ’She’s no better.’ Olwyn Evans says it’s her opinion he don’t know which is worse; doctors, she thinks, has to keep quiet, they’re always so uncertain what the Lord is plannin’. It’ll be hard on Robert if they both die the same day an’ he has to bury them simultaneous. Virginia says he’s poorly now from havin’ to make so many visits each day on the Joneses, to say nothin’ of the neighbours flockin’ in to ask him questions after each visit. It’s hard on Robert.”

“Aye, it is,” assented Griffiths peacefully.

In the thirtieth year of the contest Griffith Griffiths had won his election; by the gift of the hearse he put Bryn Tirion under a final obligation. Politics paled before the generations of dead who would be indebted to this benefactor. That a man should be a Conservative or a Radical mattered not to the dead, and the living must discharge for the dead their debt of gratitude. But the outcome of this contest was quickly lost sight of in the uncertainty of a new strife. Would Jane Jones or Jane Wynne be buried first in the new hearse? While Griffiths and Betty were still discussing this question the door-knocker clapped rapidly.

“I do believe it’s Olwyn Evans come with news,” exclaimed Betty.

“Good-evening,” said Olwyn, disposing of her greeting. “She’s seen it!”

“Seen it?”

“Aye, Gwen Williams. She was walkin’ there by the old hedge over the Glaslyn this evening, an’ first she thought it was a light in the old mill, for it looked large just like a lamp-flame. Then she saw it was movin’ and it was comin’ toward her.”

“It was the Candle of the Dead she saw?” asked Griffiths.

“Aye, it was; the nearer it came the smaller grew the flame till it was no bigger than a thimble. Gwen was frightened so she couldn’t move from the wall; she let it pass close by her, and it was a woman carryin’ the light.”

“A woman!”

“Aye, a woman, an’ she moved on to the doorsill of Jane Jones’s house an’ stopped there.”

“Jane Jones’s?”

“Aye, an’ then she went over to Jane Wynne’s door an’ stopped there.”

“She did?”

“Aye, she did, an’ then she went over to the graveyard an’ waved her candle over the gate, an’ it went out. Gwen says there weren’t no more thickness to her than to the candle-flame,—ye could thrust your finger straight through her.”

“Which door did she go to first—Jane Jones’s?”

“Aye, it was Jane Jones’s, but Gwen says she stood nearer the Wynne’s plot in the graveyard.”

Griffith’s eyes sought the cats, and he pulled his side-whiskers thoughtfully. “Ye cannot tell which it’ll be, now can ye?”

“No, you cannot, but I’ve my opinion it’ll be Jane Jones, she’s more gone in the face. I must be goin’; Betty, will you be comin’ with me; I promised Gwen I’d step in for a neighbourly look at the Joneses, an’ perhaps I can help her decide which it’ll be.”

First they went to Jane Wynne’s; they found her propped up in bed surrounded with a circle of interested neighbours. The doctor had just gone and the minister was on his way in. Old Marslie Powell curtsied gravely to the minister as he entered. “Dear love, she’ll not last the night.”

“Aye, aye,” chorused the circle of neighbours, “her breath’s failin’ now.”

But in Jane Wynne’s eye there was a live coal of intelligence; she beckoned imperiously with her scrawny old hand to the young minister.

“If I do, ye’ll put it on the stone?” she whispered eagerly.

“Yes, Jane, Hugh will have it done.”

“She’s not long,” said Olwyn to Betty; “let us be goin’ to Jane Jones’s.”

They walked across the street.

“Poor dear,” said Ellen Roberts to them as they entered, “she’ll not last till morn. Her heart’s beatin’ slower a’ready.”

“Aye, aye, she’s failin’,” assented the neighbours.

“It would be a credit, somethin’ to be proud on,” whispered old Annie Dalben.

“Aye, a credit,” agreed the neighbours.

Jane beckoned to the doctor.

“If I do, tell Robert Roberts to make mention of it in his sermon,” she pleaded weakly.

“I will,” replied the doctor.

“Well,” remarked Olwyn Evans as they went out, “it’ll be a credit either way to one of the families to be carried in that smart hearse. Jane Wynne’s older, an’ perhaps she’d ought to get it; but then the Joneses has always meant more to Bryn Tirion, an’ it seems as if they’d ought to have the honour. I never saw two families more ambitious for anything. It does seem as if Griffiths had thought of everything a man could think of to benefit the village.”

“Aye,” assented Betty proudly, “he’s a wonderful man for thinkin’ of other folks.”

V Bryn Tirion sees Death Triumphant

“I don’t know,” said Olwyn Evans, in a resigned voice, “I don’t know but it was best. The Wynneses always had fewer chances than the Joneses. Hugh Wynne didn’t say much, but I could see he was happy, an’ the Wynne girls was so pleased. They said as long as their mother had to go she couldn’t have done better, the stone’ll look so pretty with it all writ on it; an’ then the hearse an’ their mournin’ did look so nice together.”

“There was a good many folks there?” suggested Griffiths.

“Aye, there was; I thought it was more’n pleasant for all the Joneses to come, because they must feel disappointed with Jane Jones still livin’.”

“Is she the same?” asked Griffiths.

“Aye, no worse.”

“There was people at the funeral from Tremadoc,” added Betty.

“From Tremadoc and from Rhyd Dhu, too. Some haven’t ever seen a real hearse before. A cart to draw the coffin in is all the Rhyd Dhu folks know,” concluded Olwyn.

“They say the plate on the coffin was more’n filled with money,” added Betty.

“Aye, it was,” said Olwyn; “there was more’n enough to pay both the doctor an’ the minister. It does the town good to have a lot of folks here. They wasn’t all interested in Jane Wynne, but they was interested in seein’ which’d die first, an’ in the hearse. I suppose they wanted to come an’ make sure she really was dead. Well, you never did better by Bryn Tirion, Griffith.”

“Aye,” said Griffith, tapping his finger-tips together and smiling contentedly at the row of big-eyed, whiskered cats, “aye, it’s an assistance.”