Page:Century Magazine v082.djvu/87
freely. In their times of sorrow, and times of glee at the Eisteddfods[1] and funerals it was his voice and harp that strove earnestly to reflect the mood and express the emotions of the simple village folk.
But as he grew to manhood the desire for independence woke within him, and he chafed at his inability to do his man's share in the work of the world. It was then that old Hugh Owen, the carpenter, built him the shelter in the wood, and found the means for him to earn his daily bread.
For five long summers he sat playing by the roadside, aware of the passing feet but taking little heed of them, glad sometimes of a child's laugh, or a word of passing cheer, but for the most part completely absorbed in a world of his own.
He was a poet, and the song rose in him as the sap rises in the young tree in the spring. Without color, or form, or visible motion the earth was still beautiful to him. He smiled out into the darkness, and sang as the birds sing for very joy of living.
As he sat there, day after day, in the sunshine and the rain, with the music in his soul, something of the sweetness of the still wood, and the mystery of the sunlight became inwoven in his very being. It was as if Nature played upon him, as he played upon his harp, tuning the subtle strings of his sensitive soul, making him responsive to her moods and the moods of her children.
Without teachers, without guidance, he sought and found the highest life can give, in the silence of the wood, in the depths of his own soul, and in the gentle humanity that lies in the hearts of men.
Yet a very human craving at last took possession of him, a longing that would not be stilled.
As he sat one day in the warm luxury of the noonday sun, his hands dropped listlessly, and he sighed. Again and again he had told himself that he must not dream of love, that he must only sing of it, and know it through the joys of others, but he had not counted on the possibility of a rebellious heart.
Voices from the path below made him quickly raise his head. The sound of laughter and lively chatter told him that a band of village boys and girls were on their way to a merrymaking over beyond the Pont-y-Bryn.
In an instant he was all eagerness to go, as alert as a young hound who sees his master start for the hunt. He rose to put his harp under the shelter, but paused: the way was long and rough, and the sudden fear of being a burden held him back.
"Give us a reel, Evan, lad!" called one of the boys as the noisy crowd trooped up the hillside.
"We 'll dance here on the turf, and lighten our feet for the rest of the journey."
Evan once more drew forth his harp, and struck up a lively air. As he played he could hear the shuffling of feet on the grass, and the merry exclamations of the dancers. His own foot tapped the time, and his body swayed, but he was not thinking of the dance. He was listening, as only the blind can listen, for the sound of one voice in the crowd, the voice of Gladdwyd Owen.
Evan knew that where the jest was merriest and the laughter the gayest, there was Gladdwyd. He knew that her hand had been the first one claimed for the dance, and that every boy in the village, sought her smile. He knew that for him she was as some nymph in the wood of whom he dreamed, some beautiful intangible, elusive presence, that tormented and enchanted him. He knew above all that he was but Evan Kyffin the blind harper in the wood, and yet he dreamed.
A flower was brushed across his cheek, as some one dropped breathlessly on the bench beside him.
"There 's hot I am!" exclaimed Gladdwyd's voice, "I 'll dance no more. Let me play, Evan!"
With mischievous fingers she swept the strings, and as she leaned past him, he could feel her soft hair brush his face.
"I wish thou wert going, Evan," she said impulsively as the dancing came to a sudden end. "There 's not one of us but would guide thee, right willingly."
He smiled straight before him but shook his head.
"I 'll keep to my harp, Gladdwyd. But
- ↑ Eisteddfod (literally "a sitting of learned men" is a survival of the early triennial) is the annual musical and literary festival, which assemblies of the Welsh bards.