The Whispering Mountain Read Online Free

she took a turn for the better. But the lord said if she was ill she had better go to the workhouse, rather than infect his people. So he sent three of his men to carry her out of the lodge. Out in the snow they carried her, and put her in the cart. So we went on, over the hills, but that night was the worst storm of the winter, and the horse died in the shafts, halfway over, and Mama and my little brother died too.”
    There was silence for a minute. Then Arabis went on,
    â€œI’ve heard other tales of him too. They say the rents he charges his tenants are the highest in the country, and if they can’t pay, out they go that same day. And that he treats his servants like slaves—hundreds of them are at work, day and night, polishing the hoofs of his horses,
blowing between the leaves of his books, cleaning his collection of gold things. He keeps a footman who must run before his carriage wherever he drives. Imagine having to run faster than a carriage all day long!”
    With a start, Owen remembered the man who had rushed panting down the hill. So many things had happened since then that, until this moment, the strange event had vanished from his mind.
    Arabis went on, “If the Harp of Teirtu really belongs to him, it could hardly have a worse owner.”
    â€œNobody knows for sure yet,” Owen said. “But Grandfather is determined to act fairly in the matter.”
    Looking out (while they talked the horse Galahad had been slowly but stoutly breasting the steep hill from the river Gaff) he added, “We are almost at my home now. I should so much like Grandfather to meet you—won’t you please come in and—and take some refreshment? I think—I’m sure he’d like you.”
    As he said the words he felt a faint qualm. But surely old Mr. Hughes would like Arabis and her father? Who could fail to do so?
    â€œMy word!” Arabis exclaimed, looking out. “Do you live in a museum, then, boy?”
    â€œWhy yes,” he said, “my grandfather is the curator, you see, ever since he retired from being a sea-captain like my father.”
    The little town now lay below them, slate roofs shining with rain in the gloom, and only a dim street lamp here and there to throw a few dismal patches of light. In front of them a pair of gates, not unlike the school ones, led to a cobbled yard. A notice on the gates bore the words
    â€œYR AMGUEDDFA.”
    â€œO Dewi Sant!” breathed Arabis enviously. “To live in a museum! There’s lucky! Whenever we stop in a town, if Tom is busy with the hair-cutting, I always look for the museum. Full of wonders, they are. And your granda is the ceidwad? He must be a wise man, Owen, and greatly respected in the town!”
    â€œWell,” Owen said, “yes.” A troubled frown creased his brow. “But this trouble of the harp, and the sleepers’ tickets—’
    â€œSleepers’ tickets?”
    â€œHere we are, though,” he said. “I’ll tell you about that later. You can stay the night here? The wagon will go in the courtyard.”
    â€œHey, Da!” Arabis jumped out and ran round to take the reins from Tom Dando, who was in his usual dream and would have driven on over the mountain westwards towards the coast. She turned the horse and led him in through the gateway. “Wake up, Dada! Owen lives here in the museum, lucky boy! And he’s invited us in to meet his grandfather. Where shall I tie Galahad, Owen? To this stone pineapple on the gatepost?”
    She kicked a loose rock under the rear wheel of the wagon so that it should not run away backwards downhill into the river Gaff.
    The museum was housed in a brick hall that had once belonged to the Detached Baptists, until they had merged with the Separated Rogationists, who owned a larger chapel, built of granite, with an organ. The courtyard in front of the hall was a pool of dark, split by feeble rays
from a small lamp