Title: Torn Sails - A Tale of a Welsh Village
Author: Raine, Allen
Language: English
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  TORN SAILS

  _A TALE OF A WELSH VILLAGE_



  BY

  ALLEN RAINE

  AUTHOR OF MIFANWY, A WELSH SINGER


  NEW YORK
  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
  1898



  COPYRIGHT, 1898,
  BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.



  CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER

  I.--Mwntseison
  II.--Hugh Morgan
  III.--Mari "Vone"
  IV.--Owen's "bidding"
  V.--Traeth-y-daran
  VI.--Changes
  VII.--A wedding call
  VIII.--Confidences
  IX.--Gwen's rebellion
  X.--Hugh's suspicions
  XI.--The storm
  XII.--Unrest
  XIII.--Doubts and fears
  XIV.--The mill
  XV.--Torn sails
  XVI.--Peace
  XVII.--The mill in the moonlight



TORN SAILS.



  "Caraf ei morfa, a'i mynyddedd,
  A'i gwilain gwynion, a'i gwymp wreigèdd."
                                      --Hab Owain.

  "I love her golden shores, her mountains bare,
  Her snow-white seagulls, and her maidens fair."
                                            --Trans.


CHAPTER I.

MWNTSEISON.

Between two rugged hills, which rose abruptly from the clear, green
waters of Cardigan Bay, the Gwendraeth, a noisy little river, found
its way from the moors above to the sands which formed the entrance
from the sea to the village of Mwntseison.

In the narrow valley, or "cwm," through which the fussy little
streamlet ran, the whole village lay.  It looked like nothing more
than a cluster of white shells left by the storm in a chink of the
rocks, the cottages being perched in the most irregular confusion
wherever sufficient space could be found between the rocky knolls for
a house and garden.

The stream running through the centre of the village was an object of
interest and attraction to the whole community, being the common
rendezvous for all sorts of domestic operations.  On its banks the
household washing was carried on, fires being lighted here and there,
on which the water was boiled in large brass pans.  There was much
chattering and laughter, varied sometimes by hymn singing in chorus,
so that "washing day" at Mwntseison was a holiday rather than a day
of toil.

Here Nance Owen rinsed the laver-weeds[1] preparatory to boiling them
down into that questionable delicacy known as "laver-bread."

Here the sheep from the moors above were washed once a year with much
calling and shouting and barking of dogs.  The barefooted boys and
girls paddled and sailed their boats in its clear waters in the
summer evenings; and here, when the storms of winter made the little
harbour unsafe, the fishing-boats were hauled up together; here, too,
the nets were washed; and here every day the willow baskets full of
vegetables were brought down to be rinsed before they were flung into
the boiling crock of water and oatmeal, which hung from every chimney
at the hour of noon, vegetables being the chief ingredients in the
appetising "cawl" that spread its aroma through the whole village.

A strong wooden bridge with an iron rail spanned the narrow river,
but was seldom used except in winter, a few broad stepping-stones
making a more natural mode of communication between the two sides of
the valley.

There was nothing like a street in Mwntseison, a rocky, stony road
alone passing through it down to the shore, in an independent sort of
way, as if disclaiming any connection with the cottages following its
course, and, where possible, rather clinging to its sides.  Most of
the houses were straw thatched; a few had slated roofs, and they
looked awkward and bare in their uncongenial attire.  The fierce
storms, however, which rushed up that narrow cwm in the winter months
soon softened any look of rawness which clung to such an innovation
as a slate roof!

At the end of the village nearest the sea, and not far from the top
of the cliff, stood a large, wooden building, which seemed to attract
much of the energy and interest of the place, for in and out of its
wide-open doors there was always somebody passing.  Within its
boarded walls was carried on the thriving business of sail-making,
which gave employment and comfort to almost every household in the
village.  Hard by, in a cleft of the great hillside, stood the house
of the master, Hugh Morgan, "Mishteer," as he was called, for he was
the owner of more than half of Mwntseison.

In Wales the landlord is still called "Master," and about the term
hangs, in spite of modern and radical suggestions, a flavour of the
old affection which once existed between landlord and tenant.

There was nothing in the house to distinguish it from the other
cottages, except that it was a little larger, and moreover boasted of
a second floor, over the two windows of which the brown thatch curved
its comfortable mantle.

Its front was well sheltered from the sea wind by a bank of the
cliff, covered with sea pinks and yellow trefoil.  The sun shone full
upon its white-washed walls, and in the "cwrt," or front garden, grew
two splendid bushes of hydrangia, the pride of the village.

Inside, in the spacious old "pen-isha," or living-room, the brown
rafters hung low in the dim light, for the window was small, and
deeply set in the thick walls.  The chimney was of the old-fashioned
sort, known as "lwfwr," and encircled within its wattled sides a
large portion of the kitchen.  Under its shade there was room for the
small round table, the settle, and the cosy bee-hive or lip chair.
Along the front of its bulging brow ran a shelf, ranged upon which
stood various articles of pewter, copper, and brass, glittering with
all the brilliancy that Madlen, the maid's, strong arm could give
them.  She was proud of her long service under the Mishteer, of the
pre-eminence which he held over the rest of the villagers; she was
proud of her well-scrubbed tables and chairs, and her invariably
clean and cheerful hearth; but above all things, she was proud of
that shelf with its shining company of "household gods."  Indeed,
some of the articles ranged upon it would have roused the enthusiasm
of a modern collector of curios.  The quaint, old brass bowl, with
its curious inscription, still faintly visible in spite of Madlen's
vigorous rubbing, a rugged old flagon of pewter, bearing the same
inscription, not to speak of the quaintly-shaped copper pans, and a
regiment of tall, brass candlesticks.  When questioned as to the
manner in which he had become possessed of such a goodly array, Hugh
Morgan was wont to say carelessly, "Oh!  I only know they were my
grandmother's, and I have heard her say they were _her_
grandmother's."  He did not add, as he might have done, that she had
also told him that in long past days, the eldest son of the family
was always christened from that bowl, for he rather despised and
disliked any allusion to the old tradition afloat in the village that
his forefathers belonged to a different class from that in which he
now lived.

On the evening on which my story opens he had just come home to his
tea.  The big doors of the sail-shed had been closed, the busy
workmen and women had separated and sauntered away, for nobody
hurried at Mwntseison.  There was time for everything, and Ivor
Parry--Hugh Morgan's manager--had locked the door and put the key in
his pocket, with the comfortable feeling, so unfamiliar to dwellers
in towns, that he not only had plenty of work to fill up his time,
but also plenty of time for his work.  He was tall and manly looking,
ruddy featured and blue-eyed, his broad forehead surmounted by thick
waves of light brown hair.  It was a pleasant face to look upon, and
one which inspired confidence.

When as a boy of twelve he had entered upon his work in the
sail-shed, the Mishteer had been his ideal of all that was manly and
strong, and he had constituted himself not only his willing servant,
but his almost constant personal attendant.  The Mishteer smiled at
first, but gradually learnt to value the lad's attachment; and, as
the years went on, they became fast friends, in spite of the
difference in their ages.  Although their friendship was never marked
by any condescension in Hugh's manner, it was always felt by Ivor to
be a privilege as well as an honour, and this feeling had grown with
his growth, and increased with every year of personal intercourse
with his employer.  Some such thoughts as these filled his mind
to-night as he traversed the bit of green sward lying between the
shed and the Mishteer's house.

Having hung the key on its usual nail near the door, he peeped round
the brown painted boards which divided the living-room from the
passage, and saw Hugh Morgan seated at his tea.  He was well under
the shadow of the large open chimney, where a bright fire burned on
the stone hearth, although it was May; for here, in the face of the
north-west wind, the evenings were often cold.

Madlen had drawn the round table for cosiness near to the fire, in
the glow of which the tea-things and snowy cloth gleamed cheerfully,
while the little brown teapot kept company with the bubbling kettle
on the hearth.

"Oh, Mishteer," said Ivor, putting his head in, "I can remind Deio
Pantgwyn to send the waggon and horses to-morrow; I am going that
way."

"There's what I was thinking about," said Hugh; "but I thought thou
wert going to the singing class to-night at Brynseion?"

"They must do without me to-night.  Owen Jones is a good leader,"
replied Ivor.

"H'm, h'm!  I don't know," said Hugh thoughtfully, "how he'll manage
that change of key in the new glee; but I must watch him.  Well, tell
Deio to be here at eleven to-morrow, for the sails for the Lapwing
have to be on the pier at Aberython by four in the afternoon."

"Right!" said Ivor laconically; "good-night."  And away he went
whistling, with his hat pushed back, and his thumbs in the armholes
of his waistcoat.

The affection which he felt for his master was shared by almost every
man, woman, and child in the village, where Hugh Morgan's influence
had spread itself, unconsciously to him, through every household.
What special trait in his character had roused this strong feeling it
would be difficult to say; but the Welsh are an impressionable race,
and doubtless the uprightness and firmness of his moral principles,
coupled with an unswerving adherence to truth, had laid the
foundation of the power which he possessed over his neighbours.  He
had also the reputation of being a shrewd man of business, and it
would have caused a shock of astonishment to the villagers had he
committed a dishonourable action, or miscalculated the result of a
business transaction.  Their attachment to him was not unmixed with a
certain amount of wholesome fear, perhaps to be accounted for by the
complete dependence of the majority of them upon him for their daily
bread.  He was a proof of the truth of the saying, "A little leaven
leaveneth the whole lump," for Mwntseison was, outwardly at least, a
pattern village.  There was very little brawling or drinking,
considering that most of the younger inhabitants were seafaring men.

Later in the evening, as Ivor Parry wended his way towards Deio
Pantgwyn's farm, his cheerful whistle accompanied a train of busy
thought--pride in the consciousness that Hugh Morgan confided in him
entirely and made of him a special friend, gratitude for the
kindnesses which he had heaped upon him, and pleased satisfaction at
the thought that he was of real service to the Mishteer.  On the brow
of the hill he passed the gaunt and bare Methodist Chapel, from the
open doors of which came a stream of music, the result of sixty or
seventy young fresh voices, blended into the delicious harmony of a
popular Welsh glee.

Ivor stopped to listen.  His voice, the richest and most musical of
the whole party, was much missed in the gallery of the chapel, where
the singing class always met.  He longed to enter, and take his usual
place; but the pleasure of serving Hugh Morgan outweighed this
desire.  A smile flitted over his face as he listened attentively to
the female voices, which took one part alone.  One voice soared above
the others in clearness and sweetness, and he took note of it with a
side jerk of his head.

"Gwladys," he said; "I would know it anywhere; yes, I would know it
amongst the angels in heaven!" and he turned down the stubby lane,
which led its meandering way through fields and farmsteads to
Pantgwyn, where Deio himself was whittling a stick at the house door.
When reminded of his promise to send the waggon and pair of horses
the next day to Hugh Morgan's workshop, he answered in a grumbling,
dissatisfied voice:

"Three horses you ought to have; 'twill be a heavy load for two."

"Not a bit of it," said Ivor; "you may be certain if three were
required the Mishteer would have them.  If you lived in our village
you would know that, Deio."

"Oh!  I have no doubt," answered the man, in a sneering voice; "the
King of Mwntseison is always right!"

"Well, eleven o'clock is the time--will you be there, or will you
not?"

"I'll be there," said Deio, still whittling.

"Good-night!" said Ivor, turning away, and receiving no answer from
the grumpy man.  "Sulky old dog!" he soliloquised, as he retraced his
footsteps.

When he reached the chapel all was silent, the doors were closed, and
evidently the singing class was over.  A look of disappointment came
over his face, to be quickly followed by one of satisfaction, as he
stooped to pick up a book, evidently dropped by a member of the glee
class which had just dispersed.

It was a thin book with a paper cover, and he recognised it as the
collection of glees then occupying the attention of the class.

"What good luck," he said, as he read the name on the cover in his
own handwriting, for he had distributed the books himself.  "Gwladys
Price! that is lucky.  I must take it up to her to-night," and
putting it carelessly into his pocket, he continued his whistling and
his walk.

Before he had gone many steps, however, he saw the owner of the book
come round a turn of the road, evidently in search of her lost
music--a girl of eighteen, slim, tall, and of unusual beauty.  As she
approached, Ivor was able to note every charm and grace afresh,
though they were already indelibly stamped on his mind.  Her wealth
of brown hair, uncovered by hat or hood, was gathered into a thick
knot at the back of her head; it was drawn straight away from the
broad, low brows, and on the head of a girl of shorter stature would
have looked heavy from its thickness, but the graceful neck carried
it with a perfect and easy pose.  Her skin was of a pure white, and
almost transparent clearness, her cheeks of the rich pink of the
sea-shell; a pair of dark brown eyes, shaded by their long lashes,
looked out rather seriously upon the world, though they sometimes
added a sparkling glance to the smile on her expressive mouth; her
full red lips disclosed a row of perfect teeth.  In fact, Gwladys
Price was, without doubt, the possessor of great beauty.

At the first glance she recognised Ivor, for--did they not work under
the same roof every day of their lives except Sundays? and on those
days did they not meet regularly three times in Brynseion Chapel?

"Aha, Gwladys, thou hast lost something I see, for thou are hunting
about."

"Yes--and thou hast found it, for I see it kiwking[2] out of thy
pocket."

"Well voyr![3] so it is; I was bringing it to your house."

"Oh, anwl! there's lucky I am to find it so soon.  I missed it as
soon as I had taken off my hat.  Thee wasn't at the singing class
to-night?"

"No--didst miss me?"

"Yes; Owen Jones' voice does not lead as well as thine."

This was not exactly what he had hoped to hear.

"Was the Mishteer there?"

"Yes, of course; we could not get on far without him.  What a voice
he has, Ivor!"

"Yes, I thought I could distinguish it, from the road--and thine,
Gwladys!  It was like a thread of silk in a skein of wool!"

"Since when art thou a bard, Ivor?" she said, with a merry laugh; "I
won't know thee in that guise!"

"Oh!  I am not taken often in that way," he said; "but some sights
would make a bard of anyone!" and he gazed with rapture at the deep,
brown eyes.

But Gwladys was proof against any implied compliment, her simple
guileless nature was slow to take in any suggested admiration, more
especially from Ivor Parry, who she knew was rather given to fun and
banter.  She had grown up so calmly and quietly, had budded into
womanhood so suddenly, as it seemed to Ivor, that with a tender
shrinking from disturbing the even tenor of her life, born of true
love, he had tried, and successfully, to hide his passion from
everyone, more especially from the object of it.

And thus it was that hitherto she had not guessed its existence,
neither did she know that she loved Ivor!  They had grown up
together, had paddled in the same stream, sung in the same glee
classes, and latterly, for several years, had worked under the same
employer.  Ivor had long known that the happiness of his life was
bound up in her, while she was only just awaking to the feeling that
the boy who, being seven years her elder, had always constituted
himself her protector, had grown into the man whom of all the world
she was most desirous of pleasing.

During this digression she had thoughtfully inspected her glee book.

"There's a beautiful glee we are learning now, isn't it? only 'tis
pity the words are English!  There's hard to say, 'Whosse rocey
fingares ope the gates of day.'"

"'Tis hard at first," he answered.

A silence fell on them as they approached the village together.  Ivor
was filled with varied feelings: pleasure at thus having Gwladys all
to himself, anxiety lest another should rush in where he feared to
tread, and above all, the difficulty of keeping his feelings under
proper control in her presence.  "Only eighteen," he thought.  "I
will wait till she is twenty; but meanwhile I will try to win her
love."

Oh, blind and foolish Ivor! and no less blind Gwladys! who stood upon
the brink of that awakening which should let in a flood of light and
happiness upon her life.  Both seemed to shrink from drawing aside
the curtain which hid the future from their sight; for was it not
sufficient happiness thus to meet every day, and almost every hour of
the day?  Was it not enough for Gwladys to raise her eyes from her
work on the rough sail-cloth, and see his stalwart form moving about
amongst the bales and cordage, and often to find his clear, blue eyes
fixed upon her!  A word or a smile from him would raise a flush to
her face, and caused a tumultuous flutter under the pink muslin
'kerchief crossed in soft folds over her bosom.  She knew it was
pleasant to be near him; but that he found the same delight in her
presence was beyond the range of her imagination, for was he not her
master in one sense, being Hugh Morgan's manager, who trusted him
entirely, and made no secret of his intention to take him into
partnership?

As they reached her mother's door, she hesitated to ask him in; but
he settled the matter by raising the thumb latch, and preceding her
into the cottage.

"Hello, Nani," he said; "here is your daughter, whom I found straying
about the roads, peering about like a chicken seeking for grain!"

As he spoke, a woman rose from a low oak stool by the fire with a
pleasant smile of welcome.  She was pale and delicate-looking, but
still bore traces of the beauty which had once been hers.

"Wel! wel!  Ivor Parry! it is you, indeed, who are so kind as to
bring me back the truant?  Many thanks to you.  She rushed away like
a wild thing, and I guessed she had lost her glee book.  And how are
Lallo and Gwen?"

"Well, indeed, and in good spirits.  You have heard the news, of
course!  No?  Gwen is going to be married next week.  Siencyn Owen
and she have been long enough making up their minds, haven't they?"

"So soon!" answered Nani.  "Wel! that will be a grand thing for
Lallo!"

"Would you be so willing to part with Gwladys, then?"

"No, indeed; that would be quite different; but Lallo! why, I don't
think there has ever been such a thing as a wedding in her family
before!  Wel, not for three generations whatever!"

"No, I suppose not; but Gwen thinks a new name will be better than
the old one.  After the bidding she will sail away with Siencyn in
the Speedwell."

"I am glad," said Nani; "and you will be glad, Ivor!"

"Yes," said the young man thoughtfully, "I will not be sorry,
although I have been very happy with Lallo and Gwen.  I am going to
Mary the Mill's to-morrow.  Wel!  I must go now.  Nos da, Nani; nos
da, Gwladys."

The girl was standing beside the little window looking over the sea,
her brown eyes fixed on the ripples of gold and crimson that
stretched away to the west.  She pointed with her finger to the
sinking sun as she answered:

"Nos da.  I was just thinking _there_ was something to make a bard of
thee."

Ivor saw that she had not understood his former compliment, so would
not venture upon another, and merely saying, "'Tis a promise of fine
weather," left the cottage.

"Come, dear heart," said Nani, "thee'lt want thy supper after all thy
singing!  How did it go to-night?"

"Oh, pretty well, mother!" and as she sat down to the shining oak
table she hummed to herself the English words which had puzzled her:

  "Who teeps the hills with gold,
  Whosse rocey fingares ope the gates of day."


"What gibberish is that?" said the gentle-faced mother.  "Now, don't
thee get too proud to speak Welsh!  And Gwen is going to be married
so soon!"

"Ivor seems glad, mother."

"And no wonder!  When a lass shows her love too plainly, a sensible
man draws back."

Gwladys did not answer for some time, till her mother spoke again.

"Didst think Ivor Parry would ever have taken a fancy to Gwen?"

"Oh, mother, no! never such a thing came to my thoughts!  Ivor Parry!
no, no, he never thinks of such things!"


[1] The thin dark green seaweed, known to the learned as ulva
latissima.  When boiled down, it is mixed with oatmeal, and fried in
butter.

[2] Peeping.

[3] Well, indeed!



CHAPTER II.

HUGH MORGAN.

  "Blodau'r flwyddin yw f'anwylyd,
  Ebrill, Mai, Mehefin hefyd.
  Ma'i fel yr haul 'n'twynu ar gy scod,
  A gwenithen y genethod."
                            --_Old Ballad_.

  "My love has every charm of weather,
  April, May, and June together.
  She's like the sunshine after rain)
  She's like the full ear's ripest grain."
                                    --_Trans_.


When Ivor reached his own lodgings he found Gwen had brought her work
out of the cwrt[1] to catch the last beams of the evening sun.

"Ah!" he said pleasantly, "getting on with the laces and ribbons?"

"Oh, yes," she said, with a toss of her head; "I am not one to let
the grass grow under my feet when once I have made up my mind."

"No, indeed, you never were," and he disappeared under the low
doorway, where his voice could be heard in cheerful conversation with
Lallo.

There had been nothing unfriendly in Gwen's words, but Ivor was quite
aware of the spiteful, sweeping glance which she cast after him.

When she soon after followed him into the dark penisha,[2] she flung
her work aside, saying:

"Wfft to the old sun; he went down just as I wanted him."

"Never mind, he'll come round again to-morrow," said Lallo, "and thou
canst catch his first beams if thou wishest."

Gwen made no answer, but raked the embers together with her wooden
shoe.  She was a pale, freckled girl, with a short nose and a wide
mouth, and had no pretensions to beauty; but her shrewdness and
quickness of repartee had made her a favourite with the lads of the
village.

Siencyn Owen had courted her for years, had been flattered and
rebuffed in turns, and had remained faithful through all; while Gwen,
who had nursed a secret passion for Ivor, had in vain made every
endeavour to win his affections.  At length her shrewdness had made
it evident to her that she was wasting her youth and her
blandishments in a hopeless cause, and she had accepted the
long-enduring Siencyn, although in that passionate, fiery little
heart of hers, Ivor Parry still had the first place.

"Well," she said, examining the brass tips of her clocs,[3] "what did
Gwladys say about the news?"

He was startled at the suddenness of the question, but knew better
from experience than to try to parry Gwen's thrusts.

"She was very glad," he said, "and so was Nani----"

"I suppose so!  And was she glad to get her glee book?"

"Yes, indeed!" said Ivor, rising and standing in the doorway, a black
figure against the crimson sky.  "Little witch!" he said to himself,
"I wonder how she knew; but what doesn't she know!  They said her
grandmother was a witch, and her ways have descended to her
granddaughter, I think."

As a fact, Gwen, returning through the fields from the singing class,
had seen him stoop to pick up the book.  Ivor was not absolutely free
from superstition; what dweller on that rocky coast is?  With his
hands thrust deep in his pockets, he sauntered down the road to learn
what tidings 'n'wncwl[4] Jos (the general newsmonger of the village)
had of the Skylark which should have arrived with the morning's tide.

Meanwhile Gwen had carried her bit of work to the penucha[5] and had
locked it up in the shining, black "coffor," which contained the
wardrobe of the family.  She saw her mother pass the window, carrying
her red pitcher to the well, and knowing she was alone in the house,
sat down in front of the fire and gave the rein to her thoughts, and
even spoke them aloud.

"She was very glad, no doubt, and they rejoiced together!  Oh, yes,
Ivor, I have guessed your secret long ago, and if she were not such a
fool, such a simple baby, she would have seen it, too; but she
doesn't, that's one comfort!  Llances![6]  But never mind, it wasn't
for nothing that I lived with my grandmother.  No, it wasn't for
nothing that I sat with her night after night over the peat fire!  I
found out much from her," and rising, she stamped her foot and
clenched her hand, and an evil look came into the eyes which looked
so cunningly under those half-closed lids.

"I hate her!" she said; "and granny has told me that if you have
reason to hate anyone you can work them harm without going near them
or touching them!  And haven't I reason?  'You can keep your mind,'
she said, 'so constantly fixed upon that one wish that your enemy
will not prosper.'  Wel, indeed! perhaps that is nonsense!  I will
marry Siencyn Owen--poor lad, he is faithful and true, and I will
make him a good wife--but 'tis Gwladys I will often be thinking
about!"

She paused a moment, and approached the little window, through which
the glow of the setting sun lighted up her face; it was not pleasant
to look upon.

"Yes, happy thoughts!" she said, with a sneering smile.  "Granny!"
she cried, turning back to the gloom of the little room, and raising
her hand above her head.  "Granny, granny!  I wish you were here to
help me! and, who knows, perhaps you are!  There was no love lost
between you and Nani Price!"

Almost as she spoke the last words Ivor Parry returned.

"I am as hungry as a hound," he said.

"Supper then directly; and here comes mother," she said.

And as the three sat at their supper of barley bread and fresh
butter, with the addition, of course, of a bowl of cawl,[7] no one
who looked in through that little window would have guessed that such
stormy passions had, a few minutes ago, filled the heart of one of
the party.

Next day the large doors of the sailmaker's shed stood wide open,
letting in a flood of sunshine and a refreshing breeze, which bore on
its wings the scent of the seaweed lying strewn on the shore below.
Inside the air was full of merry talk and laughter, while the call of
the seagulls and the plash of the waves on the shore came in with the
wind.  The Mishteer was busily engaged with his foreman arranging the
sails which had been ordered from Aberython, occasionally going to
the doorway to look up the hill for the waggon which was to carry
them away.

He was about forty years of age, broad-shouldered and firmly built,
his head, covered with closely curling jet black hair, was perfect in
pose and shape; exposure to all weathers had browned a naturally dark
skin.  His black beard and moustache were trimly and carefully kept.
His teeth were unusually white and even, the eyes which he was
shading from the glare of the morning sun were black as night, but
had in their depths such a bright sparkle, that they suggested the
idea of black diamonds.  His open shirt and upturned sleeves
disclosed a brawny chest and muscular arms.  Everything about him
betokened firmness and strength; and as he turned round to address
his workmen, his voice, though pleasant, and even musical, made
itself heard clearly above the loud talking and laughing.

"Here, somebody!" and instantly there was a hush in the hubbub, while
two or three men and women came forward to show their alacrity.
"That knot of boys down the valley!  I believe they are ill-treating
some helpless creature in the stream!"

Before he had finished his orders, one of the workmen had clapped his
hat on, and, running down to the river, was soon dispersing the
little crowd of evil-doers.

"The Mishteer has seen you!" was all he said; but this was quite
enough to make the dirty little brown hands loosen their hold on the
stones, and the sun-burnt heads droop with shame, while they stared
with round, repentant eyes at the half-drowned dog which they had
been pelting with stones, and which the messenger was carrying gently
away.

"Another lucky dog like myself!" mused Will, as his long strides
carried him up the bank to the sail-shed.

"Who were the boys?" asked Hugh Morgan, looking down at the
frightened, shivering dog.  "Ah, Shân Pentraeth's!  Well, none of you
boys are to play with them for a week; d'ye hear?"

"Or goren,[8] Mishteer," came in answer from ten or a dozen boys
working together at one end of the shed.

Hugh Morgan having made a bed for the dog on a coil of ropes, turned
once more to the doorway as Deio Pantgwyn appeared leading a horse
and cart.

"Where's your waggon and two horses?" asked the Mishteer, with a
darkening look on his face, which his work-people all knew betokened
a storm.

"Wel, Mishteer, Cymro hurt his leg last night, and he was limping
this morning, so I could not bring him; but it's all right, Flower
can easily take the load herself."

"Stop, Deio; didn't you tell Ivor Parry last night that we ought to
have three horses? and now you want one to take the load!  Go home
again, and learn that no one who works for me shall be cruel to any
animal----"

"But I thought the sails must be on the quay to-day?"

"So they ought; and you will put me to great expense, and Captain
Morris to great inconvenience; but that horse shall not carry that
load--so off you go!"

Deio stormed and swore; but the Mishteer was inexorable, and, turning
to Ivor, said:

"Leave everything as it is until the full moon tide, and I will go
myself to-night to explain to Captain Morris----"

"Will I borrow another horse to harness with Flower?" Deio shouted
from outside, "since you think so much more of a horse than of a
man's time and trouble."

"It would be too late now, and I shall not want you again."

Deio turned his horse and cart away, and the little incident seemed
to pass out of Hugh Morgan's mind, for he turned his attention to
some other section of his work with apparent equanimity.

"I have been thinking lately, Ivor, that we ought to have one of
those machines for rolling up and holding the work in place for the
women.  See Gwladys Price now, how she has to drag at that sail to
sew on the reef points."

"Yes," said Ivor, "it would lighten the work very much, no doubt; but
it does not seem to weigh very much on her strength or spirits just
at present, does it?" and the two men looked over to where a knot of
girls were listening with evident amusement to 'n'wncwl Jos, who, on
the strength of the fact that he took in a weekly newspaper,
constituted himself the general dispenser of news.

Every day he made his appearance in the sail-shed brimful of
information, and should the newspapers be wanting in anything
interesting, he did not hesitate to invent new or garnish up old
tales from the store of his memory.

In personal appearance he resembled a bundle of knobs; in fact, had
not a wooden leg somewhat broken the circular outline, he would have
looked like a big knob himself.  His head was certainly like a black
knob, and his face, the colour of new polished mahogany, was made up
of shining knobs, his nose being round and smooth, his cheeks the
same, especially one which always held a large quid of tobacco, and
his fat, brown fists were like two more knobs.

One of his eyes was always closed as if in a chronic wink, while the
other was unusually wide open.  It was an undecided question in the
village whether the closed eyelid covered an eye or not.  As a matter
of fact, it did not, for he had lost it when quite a young man, and
it was the account of this event which was now exciting the laughter
of the women gathered around him.

"Come, let us have a share of the fun," said Hugh Morgan,
approaching, his eyes fixed smilingly on Gwladys Price's laughing
face.  She held her sides, and threw her head back in a fit of
laughter, her dimpled face and white teeth looking very charming in
their abandon of mirth.

"Oh, dear, dear! its 'n'wncwl Jos!  Oh, dyr anwl, I have laughed till
my sides ache."

"Yes, there's a girl she is to laugh," said 'n'wncwl Jos, putting in
the stops with his wooden leg, "in spite of those serious brown eyes
of hers.  Hegh, hegh, hegh!  I'll back her for a good laugh against
any other girl in Mwntseison."  (Stump, stump.)  "I was only telling
her how I lost my eye long ago, and that's how she takes it!  Hegh,
hegh! true as I am here.  I was in the Bay of Loango, out there in
Africa, me sitting on the edge of the ship, The Queen of the South,
Captain Lucas, and whew! back I went among the sharks.  In a moment
an old ghost of a fellow darted after me.  'Here I'm going,' says I
to myself, 'safe to Davey Jones' locker, and in a nasty conveyance,
too!'  (There she is laughing again, look!)  The shark stopped a
minute just to take a good look at me, when what should I feel but a
sharp hook in my eye.  I knew at once 'twas the rope and the hook
from the ship, and Diwedd anwl![9]  I'd rather have forty hooks in my
eye than be swallowed by that old white ghost.  I was reaching the
sandy bottom just as the hook caught me, and partly with the pain,
and partly with joy, I danced and floundered about ('twas before I
lost my leg) and kicked up such a shindy, that I made a thick cloud
of sand about me, and the old shark backed a bit, and I tugged the
rope, and they pulled me up."

"By the hook in thine eye?" asked Gwen sarcastically, for 'n'wncwl
Jos's stories were always taken _cum grano salis_.

"Diwedd anwl!  No!  I took that out pretty sharp--hegh! hegh!
hegh!--and fastened it in the band of my trousses.  'Fforwel, old
boy!' sez I, with my thumb to my nose, though I was nearly losing my
breath; and as true as I'm here, the old fellow was
offended"--(stump, stump)--"hegh! hegh! hegh!--for he made a spring
at me, and snapped at my leg, just as they were pulling me out of the
water.  If it wasn't for my trousses he'd have had her off!  I have
thanked the Lord hundred thousand times for those good, strong
trousses, so glad I am that the old fellow didn't have the pleasure
of his dinner from me!  not so much for the worth of the leg (for she
often gave me trouble with rheumatics--hegh! hegh!--and she does now,
though she's buried safe in Glasgow!  True as I'm here she does!),
but to spite the old shark!  'Not for the worth of the loaf,' as the
woman said, 'but for the roguery of the baker!'--hegh! hegh! hegh!"
(Stump, stump, stump.)

"Keep the rest till to-night, 'n'wncwl Jos," said Hugh Morgan,
joining in the laugh which followed the story; "I'm coming in to have
a pipe with you.  How is Mari?"

"Mari!" said the old man, with a strangely softened look on his
sunburnt, shining face.  "Mari! oh, she's very well, calon fâchl[10]
she is well, indeed; though, now I remember, she had a
headache--there's a brute I am to forget!" and off he stumped in
great haste to make up for his forgetfulness.

Gwladys dried her tears of laughter, and applied herself with renewed
attention to the huge sail, of which she held one corner, while Gwen
sewed at the other.

"'Tis heavy for thee, lass," said Hugh Morgan, drawing near, and
rolling a log under the corner which Gwladys was working at.

The girl smiled, but looked a little embarrassed by the Mishteer's
kindness.

"Oh, no! no heavier than Gwen's corner, Mishteer, and I am quite as
strong."

It was said innocently, and Hugh knew it was; but a deep flush
overspread his face as he turned to the other girl, and offered her
the same help.

"The same log will do for both," he said.

"Oh, no need," said Gwen, with a slight sneer in her voice, as much
as she dared show the Mishteer; "of course this corner is lighter
than the other."

As Hugh passed on to another set of workers, she looked after him
with a slowly dawning perception in her eyes.

"He is very kind to thee," she said, looking at Gwladys under her
half-closed lids; "what has come over him?"

"Wel, indeed, he is always kind, isn't he?  even to his dogs.  See
how that little half-drowned dog wags his tail when he passes."

Gwen did not answer; but as her companion proceeded with her work she
looked at her furtively from time to time with hatred and jealousy in
her eyes.

The afternoon found them again at their work.  Gwen had had time,
while she drank her cawl and ate her barley bread at dinner, to
arrange her ideas.

"Art coming to my wedding on Monday?" she asked carelessly.

"Oh, anwl, of course!  Thee'st asked me and mother, and we are
coming."

"Madlen is to be my bridesmaid, and Ivor Parry will be the
teilwr.[11]  Who shall I find for thee?  Dye Pentraeth?  I have heard
thee art fond of him!"

"Dye Pentraeth?" said Gwladys, with perfect composure.  "Wel, indeed!
he will do very well for me; I will get on all right with him; but I
don't think thou hast ever heard I am fond of him, Gwen; thee hast
made a mistake."

"Perhaps, indeed!" said Gwen, with a yawn.  "Was it Ivor Parry,
perhaps?  I didn't take much notice."

Now, indeed, Gwladys was moved, and Gwen watched her mercilessly as a
crimson flush overspread cheeks, forehead, and neck.

"They were right, too, I see," she said, in a sarcastic tone.  "Wel,
wel, merch i, 'tis to be hoped he will be pleased when I tell him."

"They were _wrong_!" said Gwladys, covering her face with both hands
for a moment; and then, standing up, she indignantly threw the corner
of the sail away from her.  "Thee hast insulted me enough!  To say I
loved a man who did not love me!  Wel wyr!" and her fiery Welsh blood
surged through her veins, her bosom heaved, and her eyes flashed, and
Gwen was satisfied.

"Twt, twt," she said, "there's no need for a beacon fire!  I wasn't
thinking what I said----"

"Wilt tell him such a thing?" said Gwladys; "if thee dost, I will
tell the Mishteer!"

"Not I!" said Gwen; "I have other things to think about."  And
sitting down to her work again, Gwladys' quick temper subsided as
suddenly as it had arisen, and they parted at the end of the day with
no outward signs of anger.

Later on, when the sun had set and the sea lisped and murmured down
in the little harbour, Gwladys took her creel on her shoulders, and
made her way across the wet, shining sands.  Her destination was a
creek just round the reef of rocks that bounded the harbour on the
south side, where Nance Owen gathered her laver weed every day,
leaving it in a shady place until Gwladys, to whom the work was a
labour of love, could carry it home for her, as she was too weak and
infirm herself.

The moon rose round and golden behind the hills, and already threw
black shadows across the beach.  Gwladys did not sing as usual, but
walked slowly with bent head.

Gwen's words rankled in her mind and troubled her much.  Her love for
Ivor had been so deeply buried, so carefully hidden even from
herself, that it pained and shocked her to have it thus dragged into
the garish light.  But----  "Was Gwen right? did she love him?" and
with flushed cheeks she was forced to confess to herself, "Yes--I
love him; but he shall never know it!"  After crossing the beach, she
found the tide was not low enough for her to reach the further creek;
so, sitting down, she waited, looking out over the sea which the
sunset glow tinted with a coppery red.  Suddenly a boat came round
the point, and in it Gwladys recognised Ivor.  As the prow of the
boat grated on the shingle, she rose, and stood uncertain what to do.

"Hello!  Gwladys, thee'st mistaken the time to-night, for the tide
won't be down for another half hour.  See!  I have brought the laver
weed for thee."  And, jumping lightly on the shore, he filled the
creel which she carried on her shoulders.  "Would'st like a row,
lass?"

"Wel, indeed," said Gwladys, "I haven't been on the water a long
time; but my mother won't know where I am, whatever."

"Oh! come, we won't be long----"

"Wel, indeed, I don't know," she said again, but at the same time
allowing herself to be helped into the boat.  Slipping the creel from
her shoulders, she took the second oar, for she was as much
accustomed to the boats and the rowing as any sailor in the place,
having spent the greater part of her childhood on the shore and on
the bay.  They rowed silently for some time out towards the sunset,
where the coppery glow on the water was beginning to catch the silver
of the moon on its ripples; then shipping their oars, they floated
idly on.  Gwladys bent over the side of the boat and drew her fingers
through the smooth waters.

The moon shone full on Ivor's handsome and sunburnt face.  They did
not speak much, but in the hearts of both arose a full tide of
content and happiness.  They were alone on the heaving, whispering
waters; sea and sky seemed to fold them in a mantle of love and
beauty; the bewitching softness of the hour threw its glamour over
them; and though the strong influence of the situation was felt by
both with all the fervour of youth and romance, they kept their
feelings under strong restraint, and their conversation was confined
to ordinary commonplaces.

"Here's a splendid evening!" said Ivor, stooping also towards the
deep green water in the shadow of the boat.  His voice was low and
tender, and Gwladys drooped her eyes to her fingers rippling through
the water.

"Yes, beautiful!  And last night was as beautiful!"

"Not quite," said Ivor; "there has never been such a sunset--such a
moonrise--I think."

"Perhaps, indeed," said Gwladys.

"Art going to Gwen's wedding?" he asked.

"Yes, I think," she said.

"And to the bidding?"

"Yes, I suppose.  Is the Mishteer coming?"

"Not to the wedding, I think," said Ivor, "we couldn't expect the
Mishteer to do that, though he is so isel,[12] but to the bidding he
will come----"

"Yes, indeed!" said Gwladys, "and with his hand in his pocket I am
sure.  He is so kind; he gave my mother our cow, you know; indeed, I
don't know what we should have done without him since my father died;
but let us go back."

"Why," asked Ivor, "art tired? or is there anyone waiting for thee?"

"Tired? no; and nobody is waiting for me, except my mother, perhaps."

"Art sure no lover is waiting thee?"

"I am sure," said Gwladys, raising her brown eyes to his; "I have no
lover to wait for me----"

Ivor's eyes trembled as he answered:

"Thee canst not be sure of that, Gwladys; perhaps thee hast one who
hides his love from thee?"

"Wel, indeed," she said laughing, "he succeeds in hiding it
completely then, for I know of none; but I think my mother will
wonder where I am, and Nance will come and look for her laver weed."

Ivor did not speak, but, taking up their oars, they were soon
silently cleaving the waves, and drawing near the shore again.  The
night air swept by them, loosening the girl's hair, which streamed
back on the wind, and sometimes, as Ivor bent to the oar, it swept
across his face, and for a moment he was tempted with one hand to
press it to his lips, while with the other he still handled his oar.

Gwladys looked round.  "I thought something pulled my hair?"

"Perhaps!" said Ivor; "who knows?  On a night like this the mermaids
and mermen come out, and may be one might like to touch thy hair."

Gwladys flushed in the darkness.  She was sure it was Ivor's hand
that had touched her, and it woke a thrill of happiness within her,
an emotion which, however, she instantly smothered.

"He is playing with me," she said, "and he means no more than the sea
breeze means when it touches my hair."  And they rowed on again in
silence, until they reached the strand on one side of the harbour.

"Wilt come another night, Gwladys?"

"Perhaps, indeed," said the girl, settling her creel in its place,
and jumping lightly from the prow of the boat on to the rock.

As they parted on the shore, the moon shone full upon her, and Ivor
took note afresh of every charm in the varying expression of her face.

"Hast enjoyed it, lass?"

"Yes, to be sure," she answered.

"Wel, nos da."

"Nos da," said Gwladys, beginning her way over the beach.

He did not offer to accompany her, and she thought she understood his
reason.

"He would not like to be seen walking with me in the moonlight," she
mused.  "Well, he is right; but he need not fear I would think he
meant anything by it," and she tossed her head proudly as she entered
Nance Owen's cottage and deposited her basket of weed on the table.

The house-door stood wide open, the moonlight and the sea wind
streaming in together, a few smouldering turfs burnt on the hearth,
the old cat sat beside them and blinked, but Nance was out gossiping;
and Gwladys went out again, and pursued her uneven path up the
village road to her own home with a strange sense of happiness in her
heart, which would not be stamped out even by that potent emotion,
"Welsh pride."


[1] Front garden.

[2] Lower, or living-room.

[3] Wooden shoes.

[4] Uncle.

[5] Upper-room, or parlour.

[6] Hateful creature.

[7] Leek broth.

[8] All right.

[9] Good Lord!

[10] Dear heart.

[11] Best man.  In olden times the man who made the wedding garments
was always supposed to see his employer safely through the ceremony,
hence the best man is still called the "tailor."

[12] Without pride.



CHAPTER III.

MARI "VONE."

  "O Gwyn ei fyd! yr hwn nis gwyr
    Am ferch fu'n flinder iddo;
  Ond wn i ddim yn sicr chwaith,
    Ai gwyn ei fyd ai peidio!"
                            --Ceiriog.

  "Happy the man whose guarded heart
    The chain of love refuses;
  But yet in truth I am not sure,
    Whether he gains or loses."
                                --Trans.


High up the village, and perched on a little knoll, overlooking what
was politely called "the road," stood a cottage, in nowise different
from the other houses, except that, perhaps, its walls were whiter
and its thatch was browner.  Its two tiny windows were clear as
crystal, an arch over each being painted brick red; the top of the
door was ornamented in the same way; and inside, the earthen floor of
the passage, which was almost as hard and shining as marble, had its
edges marked in a bordering of the same dark red.

The door stood wide open; indeed, it was never closed from one year's
end to another, except at night and in stormy weather.  Within the
penisha sat a girl busily knitting, though her thoughts were
evidently not on her work, for her eyes were fixed dreamily on the
sunset sky which lightened up the little window.  But stay, was she a
girl?  No! if age counts by the number of years that have passed
since birth, for Mari Vaughan (or Vone, as it is pronounced in Wales)
was thirty-five years of age, and had long taken her place amongst
the elder and soberer portion of the community; the younger and more
frivolous girls had dropped her out of their companionship, only
remembering her when at times she appeared amongst them, and then
with an uncomfortable feeling of being eclipsed by her beauty.  She
was tall and graceful, her figure had lost nothing of the fulness and
charm of youth, her pale golden hair was as luxuriant as ever, and
her face was one to be always remembered.  She was pale, but not with
the hue of sickness, for her health was perfect; her skin was not of
the milky white, which, in Gwladys' face, contrasted so beautifully
with the glowing cheeks, but more of an ivory whiteness; her eyes of
deep blue were shaded by the white lids, fringed with brown lashes;
her teeth were even and white, and rather large; a dimpled cleft in
her chin gave the pale face the amount of spirit and life which it
required; and when she spoke, there was a liquid softness in her
musical voice, which gave the most ordinary remarks a tone of
tenderness.

Fifteen years before, she had passed through a crisis in her life,
which had left indelible traces upon her character.  At twenty she
had given her heart to Hugh Morgan--the handsomest and most promising
lad in the village--a promise which had been amply fulfilled by his
subsequent life.  'N'wncwl Jos, who stood in the place of parents to
the orphan girl, had given a willing consent.  Hugh had already
bought his business and re-furnished his cottage home at his father's
death, and Mari loved him with a love deeper, even in its intensity,
than she herself was aware of; but with the thoughtlessness of youth,
petted and indulged by her uncle, and somewhat spoiled by the
attentions of her lover, she had foolishly listened to the
blandishments of a new suitor, who had appeared in the village, a
sailor, who bore the distinguishing charm of a foreign name, that of
"Alfred Smith."  Still more interesting, he could not speak a word of
Welsh.  He spoke his own language with a peculiar accent, which,
though in reality a vulgar Cockney, fascinated the simple Mari,
accustomed only to the broad, strong tones of her native tongue.
Alas, for the perversity of Fate!  Hugh Morgan, who had noticed a
slight coldness in her manner of late, and, moreover, had heard
sundry gossiping rumours in the village, had brought matters to a
crisis by reproaching her with her fickleness, and proposing that her
marriage with him should take place at once.

"The house is ready, and I am ready, and longing for thy presence,
Mari.  Art ready thyself?"

"No, I am not," was her answer, with a toss of her head; "and thou
mustn't hurry and order me as if I were a child!"

Hugh, who also had the hasty temper of his race, burst into a flame
of passion.

"It is that d----d Sais!"[1] he said, his eyes flashing and his
breath coming in short gasps.  "Thou hadst better tell me the truth
at once----"

"What truth?" said Mari.

"That thou preferrest him to me; that while I was working for thee by
day, and dreaming of thee at night, a foolish word from the
Englishman's slippery tongue drew thee away from me!  Such love is
not worth having!"

"If that's how it is, it is not worth giving," said Mari; "and so it
won't grieve thee to hear that I have none to give."

She spoke in a pert little voice, and with a toss of her head, very
unlike her usual manner.

Hugh was silent for a moment, while he tried to control his angry
feelings, and the blood surged through his veins and sang in his
ears.  Had it come to this?  His deep and unswerving love for Mari,
who had been the star of his life from boyhood upwards, to be crushed
ruthlessly! his tender feelings to be trampled upon at the word of a
Sais!

When he spoke next his voice trembled, and he was pale and agitated.

"Think well, Mari; I am not one to turn from my word, or to change
the colour of my heart as I change my coat; so think well, lass,
before thou answerest my next question, 'Wilt have me or not?'"

"Oh, not, then!" said Mari.

She seemed to be possessed by a spirit of perversity, which ever
after she wondered at.

They had just reached her uncle's, and she prepared to leave her
lover, and enter the house.

"Stop one moment, Mari," he said, grasping her arm tightly; "remember
that although I love thee now with my whole heart, and will forgive
thee thy fickleness and forget thy folly, if thou wilt come to me,
and draw back thy words--yet----"

Mari was beginning a hasty answer, but he interrupted her with a
fierce--

"Hush!  listen.  I will sit down there on the limekiln until the moon
has set--she is not far from her setting; thou wilt see me by the
glow of the limekiln," and his voice changed to a low, pleading tone.
"I will be waiting for thee, Mari, and if thou comest, my arms will
be open to receive thee; but if not, I will _never_ ask thee again;
and, moreover, I will do all in my power to shut thine image out of
my heart."

"Nos da," was all her answer, as she entered the cottage.

The house was empty, for 'n'wncwl Jos was out on one of his fishing
expeditions, and running into the penucha, she bolted the door, and
threw herself on her bed in a perfect storm of tears.

"Oh Hugh, Hugh, beth na'i?"[2]  She knew now how much she loved
him--how every feeling of her heart would be torn in losing him.  She
knew that the flattery and admiration of Sais were as nothing to her
compared to Hugh Morgan's love, and yet--and yet--she could not stoop
to ask his pardon.  She rose and looked through the little window;
she saw the glow from the limekiln, and also saw the dark figure
sitting there.  The moon hung very low in the sky, and she watched it
tremblingly.  The clock struck in the penisha; time was passing, and
soon it would be too late.

Another storm of tears--and she rose again to look at the dark figure
by the limekiln.  The moon had already touched the horizon.

"Should she rush out now and ask his forgiveness?"  She had a feeling
that the dim, grey quietness of the night was a forecast of what her
life would be without Hugh, while the light and warmth of the glowing
kiln portrayed his deep love for her.  She had but to ask, and she
would be folded in its mantle of happiness.  But the moon--she's
gone!--and Mari fell sobbing on the floor.

She was roused by the stumping of 'n'wncwl Jos's wooden leg, and rose
slowly and straightened herself, and, turning to the window, saw the
dark figure by the limekiln was gone; and she passed over the
threshold of the penucha with a strange perception that all the
delight, the passionate love, the intense enjoyment of life were left
behind her, and that the future contained for her only the dim and
grey quietness of evening.  But this was fifteen years ago, and Hugh
had never asked her again.  She had never spoken to Alfred Smith
afterwards.  The very thought of him was hateful to her.

As the long years went by, she and Hugh were frequently thrown
together in that small community.  They learnt to meet without
embarrassment, and to part without a pang; and gradually Hugh's
strong nature found its solace in his work, and in the
ever-increasing claims of his work-people upon his time and thoughts.
He alone knew how hard had been the struggle to regain calmness and
comparative content after the shattering of his hopes which Mari's
fickleness had brought upon him; but it came at last, and he thought
he had entirely got over his old love-affair.

True, no day seemed complete on which he had not seen Mari Vone.  His
love for her had developed into a perfect friendship--so he thought.
He scarcely ever arranged a business transaction without asking her
advice, and although she was not employed in his sail-shed, every
incident connected with his work was laid before her, and her opinion
on every matter weighed much with him.

She had never married, neither had Hugh, and their intercourse had
outwardly lost every trace of the romance which once hung round it.
Thus it was with Hugh Morgan; but what had the years brought to Mari?
At first a deep and bitter regret, a wild unrest, which nothing but
pride enabled her to hide.  She knew that the misunderstanding
between her and her lover was the subject of much gossiping interest
around her, and she determined that no one should guess her sorrow,
or see any sign of her pain.  She schooled herself to meet Hugh with
calmness and outward indifference, though not a tone of his voice or
a change of looks or manner escaped her notice.  Deep in her heart
she nourished her undying love for him, and when, as time went on,
she saw that a warm friendship had taken the place of love in his
heart, she endeavoured, with the unselfishness of a true woman, to
accommodate herself to his wishes and ideas.

The fifteen years that had passed since she and Hugh had watched the
moon sink beneath the horizon with such tumultuous feelings, had
scarcely altered her or aged her in the least.  Time seemed to have
stood still with her, or to hesitate to lay his destroying finger
upon her charms of person, although on her spirit his hand was ever
setting new and tender graces, and as she sat at her knitting, with
her eyes fixed on the sunset, her ear was strained to catch the
faintest sound of an approaching footstep.  And here it comes.  And
in the darkening twilight Hugh Morgan stoops his head as he enters
the low doorway.  Mari did not rise; these visits were of too
frequent occurrence for ceremony, and she merely looked up from her
shining needles as the stalwart form stood before her, asking,
"Where's 'n'wncwl Jos?"

"He's not come in; wilt look for him?  Most like he is smoking on the
lower limekiln."

"Well, I will wait."

"B'tshwr,"[3] said Mari, rising and pushing the rush chair towards
him; "supper will be ready directly," she said.  "We have fresh
buttermilk from Glanynys."

"And potatoes?"

"Of course."

"Well, I will stop and have some, for that is a dish Madlen always
spoils."

"'Tis pity, indeed; I must show her how to do them."

"Can diolch,"[4] he said.

"What dost want 'n'wncwl Jos for--anything particular?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "I want his advice--and yours, Mari, on a subject
very important to me.  But here is 'n'wncwl Jos!"

As the old man stumped in, he greeted Hugh with the usual friendly
"Hello!  Mishteer," before he seated himself on the settle, Mari at
once placing beside him a bucket of sea-sand, into which he squirted
his tobacco juice with unerring aim, for he had learned under Mari's
regime to dread a spot upon the speckless floor.  Hugh had taken out
his pipe, and the two men were soon sending wreaths of smoke up the
big, open chimney, as they sat round the bright fire of culm[5] balls.

Gwen's approaching marriage was the subject of conversation.

"Well, indeed, I think he's a lucky chap," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "for
she's a tidy girl, and saving, and steady."

"Yes, very good girl," said Hugh.

"Ivor Parry will have to find new lodgings now," said Mari.

"Yes, Mary the Mill is glad to have him.  Are you going to the
wedding, Mari?"

"Yes, I have promised.  You are not, I suppose?"

"Well, no--but I am going to the bidding."

"Yes, there's what I heard."

"I was thinking that would be enough," he said.  "What do you think?"

"Quite enough," said Mari.  "Being the Mishteer, they would scarcely
expect you to both; and if you went to this one, you would offend
others by refusing----"

"Exactly what I was thinking," said Hugh.

"We had better have supper now," said Mari, "the potatoes are done."
And taking the huge crock which hung by a chain from the wide
chimney, she placed it on the floor, and with the large wooden spoon
or "lletwad" mashed the snowy potatoes into a steaming paste, adding
a little salt and cream.  From this crock she partly filled the
black, shining bowls which were ranged on the table, placing a wooden
spoon for herself and her uncle.  A large jug of buttermilk stood in
the centre of the table.

For the Mishteer, Mari placed a quaint, slender silver spoon; but he
indignantly pushed it away, and she laughingly substituted for it a
wooden one like her own.

"Mari, fâch," he said, "what dost think I am made of that I should
eat out of a silver spoon while thou art satisfied with a wooden one?
Not I, indeed!  Well, I don't think anyone ever did cook potatoes
like thee.  More?  Caton pawb! no, I have made two suppers in one."

After supper she closed the door, and throwing a log over the culm
fire made it blaze up brightly.

A spirit of rest and content came over Hugh, which he invariably felt
in her presence.  Her needles clicked, and her golden head was bent
over her work; the shining points of her little shoes peeped out
under her red petticoat; and as she chatted cheerfully, her white
teeth glistening and her dimpled chin adding its charm to her fair
pale face, even 'n'wncwl Jos noticed how fair she was to look upon.
Hugh was accustomed to sudden awakenings to her charms, but had
schooled and hardened himself against their influence.  Besides,
to-night he was pre-occupied--his thoughts were full of something
else.  The clock in the corner struck nine, drawing near bedtime in
that simple village.

"Howyr bâch!" said Hugh, with a start; "it will be time to go before
I have said what I wanted to."

"What is it?" inquired Mari.

"Well, thou know'st," he answered, "I always like 'n'wncwl Jos's
advice; and--and I am thinking of getting married."

Mari's heart stood still; and at that moment, while her needles
continued to click, and she showed no sign of the agony within her
even then, the hope that had been nourished for fifteen years died;
not the love, for that was all enduring and undying.  And while she
passed through a spasm of pain, she yet raised her white lids calmly,
and looking full into Hugh Morgan's face, said:

"It will be better for thee than living alone."

"Diws anwl!" said 'n'wncwl Jos; "there's news I'll have to give in
the sail-shed to-morrow.  Nobody'll listen to the war in China."

"Stop, stop," said Hugh; "you must tell no one: Perhaps the girl
won't have me, man.  Wait until I give you leave."  And turning his
black eyes upon those into which he had once looked with passionate
love, he said, "I'm afraid, Mari, thou wilt not approve of my choice."

"Who is she?" asked Mari.

"Gwladys Price."

There was a dead silence for a moment.  Mari put down her knitting;
'n'wncwl Jos changed his quid from one cheek to the other.

"Jâr-i!" he said; "she's a nice girl."

"What dost say, Mari?" said Hugh; "too young, dost think?"

"Well," she answered calmly, "she's the best girl in the village; and
if she does not think herself too young, it won't matter what others
think."

"There's just what I was thinking," said Hugh.  "Mari, thou art
always a sensible woman.  She has no other lover, and er--and er--in
fact, I love her.  I have been a lonely man for years--since the old
days, Mari.  Nay, don't blush; I'm not blaming thee, lass.  And
perhaps if it had been otherwise, we wouldn't now be such perfect
friends."

"Perhaps, indeed," said Mari, beginning to recover her equanimity.
She saw in her mind's eye another long stretch of arid desert before
her; but her courage rose, and her love was not quenched.  She would
still be his friend, and that could bring nothing but blessing upon
him.  Though unchanged and undiminished in its depth and fervour, her
love had become more and more free from the selfishness and taint of
earthly passion.

"Well, in my little deed!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, "if any girl in
Mwntseison could tempt me to do such a foolish thing as to get
married, 'twould be Gwladys Price."

"Caton pawb!" said Hugh, with a merry ring in his voice, which was
not lost upon Mari's quick ear; "don't you go and be my rival now,
'n'wncwl Jos, or I will have no chance, indeed!"

"No doubt, no doubt!" answered the old man, with, a perfect storm of
laughter and stumps of his wooden leg.

Mari went on knitting quietly.  "Thou hast my best wishes, Hugh," she
said at last, looking up into his face; "thou know'st that."

"Yes," said Hugh laconically.  He took her hand in his, and for a
moment he longed to ask her if his marriage would cost her one pang
of pain; but with the memory of the long years of calm friendship
lying between them and that evening when the moon set too soon for
both, how could he ask such a question?  So he was silent, and the
opportunity went by for ever.  "Nos da!"[6] was all he said, "and
hundred thanks for your good wishes.  Nos da, 'n'wncwl Jos; none of
this in the sail-shed, mind, until I give you leave."

"No, no!" said the old man; "but diws anwl, don't be long."  And he
stumped his wooden leg four or five times on the ground.

Outside in the moonlight Hugh Morgan walked a few paces, with his
head rather drooping on his chest, thinking, not of his new love, but
of his old.  How fair she was still! how sweet and tender! how true
and tried a friend!  God grant that through life her friendship might
continue his!

At the turn of the path he came in sight of Gwladys' cottage.  A
light was in the window, and a figure passed and re-passed before it.
The night breeze blew straight from him to the cottage, and on its
wings Hugh sent a fervent "God bless her!" while a light awoke in his
eyes and a flush rose into his face, which, he was glad to remember,
no one could see.

"Only eighteen!" he said, "and I--forty! old enough to be her father!
Will she have me?  If she will, she shall never repent it; my love
shall hedge her in, and shield her from every earthly ill."  And as
he entered his house he felt as he had not done for years--how lonely
it was, and he pictured Gwladys' presence lighting up the quiet
hearth.

When he smoked his last pipe tender the big chimney his thoughts
returned to Mari.

"How completely she had forgotten the old days! and what a good thing
it was!  'It will be better for thee than living alone!'  Kind
friend, she always knew what was wisest and best!"


[1] Englishman.

[2] What shall I do?

[3] Certainly.

[4] A hundred thanks.

[5] A small kind of anthracite rubble mixed with clay and water,
which, made into oval balls, burn slowly, but with a fierce bright
glow.

[6] Good-night.



CHAPTER IV.

GWEN'S "BIDDING."

Gwen and Siencyn had been married in the morning with much fluttering
of ribbons and firing of guns.  The Speedwell, at anchor in the bay,
gaily bedecked with pennons and flags, was to sail away for Ireland
with the evening tide, bearing the happy Siencyn and his bride on
their honeymoon voyage.  Each having a frugal mind, meant to combine
business with pleasure, and, therefore, were to carry with them in
the hold a cargo of slates.  But a more important function even than
the wedding was to take place in the afternoon, namely, "the
bidding."  A week before, the invitations had been sent out--two men
of substantial standing in the village having, in the usual fashion,
volunteered to leave the "bidding" letters at every farm or cottage
in the parish.  They were printed in the same formula, as they had
borne for generations, and were as follows:--


"DEAR FRIENDS,--As it is our intention to enter the matrimonial
state, we are encouraged by our friends to make a 'bidding,' which
will be held on Monday, the 28th inst., at our own house in
Mwntseison, in the parish of Abersethin.  Your agreeable company on
the occasion is humbly solicited; and whatever donation you may be
pleased to confer on us then will be gratefully received, and repaid
whenever called for.

  "We are, dear friends,

      "Your obedient servants,
            "SIENCYN OWEN,
            "GWEN HUGHES.


"The young man, together with his mother and brother, desire that all
gifts due to them will be returned to him on that day, and will be
thankful for all additional favours.

"The young woman and her mother desire that all gifts due to them be
returned to her on that day, and will be thankful for all favours
granted.

"N.B.--All gifts due to the young man's late father, Robert Owen, are
humbly solicited to be repaid."


In earlier years this outspoken reminder was couched in still plainer
terms:--

"Come," it said, "with your goodwill on the plate; bring current
money--a shilling, or two, or three, or four, or five, with cheese
and butter.  We invite the husband and wife, and children and men
servants, from the greatest to the least."

And it promised "drink cheap, stools to sit on, and fish, if we can
catch them; but if not, hold us excusable."

With this insinuating reminder before them, every householder began
to search the stores of his memory.

"Let me see," said one of the invited, "what did Lallo give our Nell?
A shilling, I think it was; and old Peggi Shân, her mother, gave a
sixpence, I know, for I remember Nell's burying it in the garden, for
she was afraid of a witch's money--that's eighteen pence for me."

"Jâr-i, what must I give?" said 'n'wncwl Jos, scratching his head.
"Old Peggi Shân came to thy mother's bidding, Mari, and gave
sixpence, for I kiwked[1] at it as it went into the basin, and I
fished it out pretty sharp.  'Ach y fi!' I said, 'no witch's money
for my sister!' and sure as I'm here, 'twas a _bad_ sixpence; so I
don't owe much to Gwen."

But when the bidding day arrived, 'n'wncwl Jos was one of the
noisiest and merriest there, welcoming the guests as if he were the
father of the bride.  "Dewch 'mewn! dewch 'mewn!"[2] and he guided
each fresh arrival to the door of a disused cowhouse at the end of
the garden, where Gwen sat in state just inside the door, across
which a table had been placed; on this table stood a basin covered
with a plate ready to receive the gifts of her friends.  As soon as a
piece of money was put upon it Gwen tilted the plate, and emptied its
contents into the basin, replacing it again empty and ready for the
next donation.

"Come along!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, piloting Gwladys Price to the door,
"here's the bride!  Nothing less than a shilling now, Nani! for you
don't know how soon Gwen will have to return it."

Nani smiled.  "Not too soon I hope; I don't want to lose my daughter
yet."

She dropped a shilling on the plate, and Gwladys followed with her
modest sixpence.  Everybody said "Priodas dda i chi!"[3] as he or she
turned away to make room for another.

Gwen was very smiling and grateful as the sixpences and shillings and
even half-crowns came tumbling on to the plate, and the basin had
several times to be handed over to the bridesmaid, who quickly
slipped an empty one in its place.

"What a good bidding she's having," whispered the women to each
other, as they kept a keen eye on the numerous changes of basins.
"Why!  I've seen a pink and a green and a blue on the board already!
Siencyn has done a good thing for himself, whatever!"

There was a little excitement in the company as Hugh Morgan came down
between the cabbage-beds, followed by Ivor Parry, and there was quite
a craning of necks to see how much the Mishteer put on the plate.

"A gold sovereign, as sure as I'm here!" said a woman to her
neighbours; "and Ivor Parry two crown pieces!  Wel wyr! there's rich
she'll be!"

"Oh!  Mishteer bâch!" said Gwen, "a piece of gold!  Wel wyr! did man
ever hear of such a thing!  A hundred thanks!" and she rose to make a
bob curtsey.  "Well, indeed, indeed, you are too kind, and you must
let Siencyn always carry your culm and coal in the Speedwell for
nothing!  Oh, yes, indeed you must!  And I thank thee, too, Ivor
Parry, and hope to return thy gift soon at thine own bidding!"

"Well, Priodas dda," said both men, shaking hands and turning towards
the house, where the fun and merriment began to wax loud and furious
under the influence of the "cwrw da,"[4] which Siencyn dispensed with
liberal hand.

In the penisha a crowd of women sat round a long table drinking tea
and eating "light cakes," a delicious kind of batter cake, considered
indispensable at a Welsh festive gathering; while in the penucha
every guest of the opposite sex was expected to taste the ale which
had been brewed for the occasion, and to eat one of the
diamond-shaped "bidding cakes."  Here there was much boisterous
laughter and loud talking, which was somewhat hushed as the Mishteer
entered.

"A 'blue' for the Mishteer!" shouted somebody to Siencyn, who
presided at the tap.  And Hugh drained his cup, and placed his cake
in his pocket.  Having wished Siencyn "Priodas dda," and made a few
joking remarks to the men, who had soon recovered from their
momentary silence, he made his way into the penisha, where Gwladys
Price and her mother were coming to an end of their tea and light
cakes, Dye Pentraeth having deserted them for the more potent charms
of the beer barrel.

"Come," said Hugh, "this is more in my line; a cup of tea, Esther!"
and he took a vacant seat next to Gwladys, who blushed at the honour,
and handed him a plate of light cakes.

"How fortunate for me to find this seat vacant, Gwladys, unless,
indeed, thou wert keeping it for someone else."

"No, no, indeed," stammered the girl, for her tender conscience told
her she had not been without hope that Ivor might come in and fill
it; but he had been pounced upon by a fat farm wife, who kept him in
attendance upon her and her daughter--the little tricks of society
not being confined to one class.

Hugh made most of his time.  His sparkling black eyes and ready wit,
together with a certain earnestness of manner and a superior
education to that of his neighbours, gave an indefinable charm to his
conversation, which the simple women around him were not slow to
feel, though they could not have explained it in words.

Gwladys, amused and flattered, was soon chatting and laughing
unrestrainedly, her face glowing with the fun and excitement of the
occasion.  Deep below the surface was the unconfessed longing for
Ivor's presence, and when at last he entered the room, and took his
seat on the opposite side of the table, she found it difficult to
keep up her interest in her companion's conversation.

Hugh Morgan's experiences of life being limited to one small village,
in the shelter of a lonely bay, he had no great range of subjects
upon which to dilate; but his natural good taste and intelligence
made him aware that the daily occupation of the sail-shed had better
be kept in the background, and he confined himself to the fairs and
eisteddfods of the neighbourhood, and amused Gwladys by a description
of a competition in which he had been adjudicator, where the three
competitors had quarrelled so violently on the platform, that they
had to be turned out of the meeting.

"Oh, anwl!  I wish I had been there," she said.

"I was there," said Ivor.  "I am sorry, Mishteer, to call you away,
but Captain Roberts wants to see you about those sails which were
torn so much in the last gale.  Will I take him a message for you?"

"No, no," said Hugh, rising at once; "business must be attended to.
Come and take care of Gwladys while I am gone."  And Ivor, nothing
loth, took his place beside her.

"What a good bidding Gwen has had," she said, examining her plate
shyly.

It was the general opinion, but Ivor did not agree with it.  He
shrugged his shoulders, and said:

"A bad bidding I call it.  I have not seen thee to speak a word to
to-day."

The pattern on Gwladys' plate seemed to interest her still more.

"The Mishteer has been making me laugh about the Abersethin
Eisteddfod," she said.

"Yes--I was glad to see him so lively; it is seldom he speaks to a
woman; and a good thing they say, for they all fall in love with him."

"Wel, indeed, there is something very nice about him," said Gwladys.
"I can't think how Mari Vone refused him.  She did once, they say."

"Yes, so I have heard.  Not often do parted lovers become such good
friends as they are."

While he had been speaking, he had poured out a glass of the foaming
cwrw which Siencyn had just brought in, and he held it towards the
girl, who shook her head, saying, "I prefer tea."

"But thou'lt drink from my hand," he said, in a low tone; and
Gwladys, knowing that a refusal to the request, "Drink from my hand,"
would be reckoned an insult, smilingly took the glass and put her
lips to it.

"No more?  I will drink the rest to thy health then, lass, and may
thy life be full of love and happiness!  Wilt wish something for me?"

"Yes, I wish thee the same!" and Ivor seemed satisfied.

Gwladys was in a dream of bliss, and it was only when Hugh Morgan
returned, and Ivor rose to make room for him, that she began as usual
to fear that she had made her preference for the latter too apparent.
She called herself to task for her too evident happiness in his
presence, and her dissatisfaction at his absence.

"What do I expect?" she said.  "Ivor is kind and pleasant, but he
does not love me; _that_ I know full well!"

Later in the afternoon, when the guests were beginning to disperse,
and the sound of the waves came fuller and plainer through the open
windows, everyone knew it was nearly full tide, and time for Siencyn
and Gwen to take their departure.  The money collected at the bidding
was counted, and the bride was loudly congratulated upon the large
amount.

"Thirty pounds--enough to set the young couple up in comfort!"

It was entrusted to Lallo's keeping, and later in the evening she
handed it over with much pride to Hugh Morgan, who stood in the place
of "banker" to the whole village.

A large party of the young people attended the happy couple to the
shore, singing as they went an old part song of farewell greeting.

There was no way of reaching the boat that was to carry them to the
Speedwell which danced and dipped in the bay, so Siencyn
unceremoniously took off his shoes and stockings, and, hoisting his
bride on his shoulders, waded through the surf, amongst the shouts
and laughter and boisterous "hwré's" of the company.  They waited on
the shore until the Speedwell was fairly under weigh, and with
fluttering pennons and flags had disappeared round the horn of the
bay.

All the evening, and late into the moonlight, the lads and lasses of
the village kept up the festive character of the day, sitting about
in knots on the rocks and cliffs, and of course singing to their
hearts' content.  Lallo alone seemed rather depressed as she led her
pig home from a neighbour's stye, to which it had been banished for
the day; he was now evidently in a hurry to get back to his own home,
tugging violently at the string tied to his leg, which Lallo held.
When he was safely housed, she stood somewhat tearfully thinking.
Her life was a constant warfare with her pig, and either her voice or
his, or both together, were generally to be heard.  He had in every
way disappointed her.  She had meant him to be a fat and short pig;
but instead of that he had grown long, and when he stood on his hind
feet to argue with her, he was taller than the gate!  She had had a
board added to the top, but the pig had grown still longer, and was
still able to put his head over the gate and vociferate his
remonstrances.

"There, thou villain!" said Lallo, pouring a steaming bucketful of
food into his trough; "hold thy tongue if thou canst."

"Oo'ee--oo'ee--oo'ee!" shrieked the pig, and Lallo imitating his
tones derisively, the noise was deafening.  At last, retiring from
the frequent fray, she threw herself down on the settle in the
penisha, from which all the guests had departed, and where nothing
but the remains of the feast were left.

"Yes," she mused, "it is just as well that Gwen is married; there
will now be a man to manage him; he wants a firmer hand than
mine--the villain!  Ivor never managed him properly.  Now I will take
the money to the Mishteer."

She had no sooner appeared at her front door than the pig assailed
her with a fresh burst of "Oo'ee--oo'ees!" and Lallo shook her fist
at him.

"Devil!" she said; "but never mind, my boy, wait till the fifth of
September."

A few days afterwards, when the evening shadows were falling, Gwladys
took her way to the beach, again to fill her creel for Nance Owen.
The sun was sinking behind the sea in a glory of purple and gold,
making a crimson pathway, which broadened out at her feet.  She stood
and gazed over the rippling surface, wondering whether Ivor was out
fishing this evening.  Once or twice a little boat crossed the
shining pathway like a grey moth, and she called to mind the happy
hour she had spent with him on the moon-lit bay.  Would it ever
happen again?  Why did it seem so distant and so impossible?  Is this
his boat coming swiftly towards her?  She heard the grating of the
prow on the sand, she saw a stalwart form, who leapt to the shore,
and walked hurriedly towards her.  For a moment her heart beat
faster, but only for a moment, for she saw the broad shoulders and
firm step belonged to Hugh Morgan.

"Gwladys!" he called, "is it thee?  Luck follows me to-day.  This
morning brought me good news, and this evening brings me something
better.  Wilt come in my boat for a row?  It is real summer on the
water this evening."

"I would like it; but, indeed, Mishteer, I can't, for Nance Owen will
want her laver weed, and my creel is full."

"Nance can wait," said Hugh, "and I will loosen thy creel."  And he
began to loosen the strap which crossed her bosom.  She did not think
of resisting; "it was the Mishteer!"  And she quietly helped to slip
her head out of the strap.  It was not without some measure of
gratified vanity that she felt herself singled out from all the other
girls in the village by his kindness; and therefore it was with a
little flutter of pride that she allowed herself to be lifted into
the boat, though the glamour which had brooded over sea and sky
during her row with Ivor was absent.  It was evident to her that the
Mishteer was pleased with her work, and perhaps with her industry;
but that he loved her had never dawned upon her mind.  She took her
oar naturally--every man, woman, and child at Mwntseison being
perfectly at home on the water--and they rowed straight out towards
the sunset, until the shore and village looked like a pretty vignette.

"There's nice, it is!" exclaimed Gwladys, "out here on the bay!  'Tis
pity, indeed, that we can't come oftener!"

"And why not?" said Hugh, resting his oars on the rowlocks, and
motioning to her to do the same.

"Wel indeed, Mishteer," she answered, laughing, "what would become of
the work then?  Who would make the sails?"

"Somebody else might," said Hugh; and he was silent for some time.
"If I had my way," he said at last, "thou shouldst have a boat of
thine own.  Wouldst like that, lass?"

"Oh, anwl!  What would I do with a boat--alone on the water?  'Twould
soon become wearisome."

"But thou shouldst not be alone; I would row thee, Gwladys."

"Mishteer!" was all her answer.

"Yes, Gwladys.  Hast not seen that I love thee? dost not know that
all I have I would gladly give for thy love?"

His voice trembled, his eyes flashed, and the hand which held the oar
in its nervous grasp shook like a leaf.

Gwladys was too astonished to think.  She stooped over the soft,
undulating water, pretending to look into its depths; and when at
last his passionate words revealed plainly his meaning, she could
only bend her head and ask timidly:

"Me?"

"Yes, thee," said Hugh.  "Canst not understand that my happiness is
in thine hands?"

Gwladys clasped her hands.  "Oh, Mishteer!" she said, "I don't
understand your words, or what you want of me."

"I want thee, Gwladys, to come and be the brightness of my home, the
idol of my love--to be my wife, lass!"

Gwladys covered her face with her hands to hide her mingled feelings
of astonishment and fright.

"It was the Mishteer!--he who had been mainstay and protector to her
mother and herself ever since her father's death--to whom their
cottage belonged--to whom they owed a year's rent--who had, in fact,
loaded them with kindnesses and brightened their lives.  And it was
he who now desired to confer upon her this great honour.  To be the
Mishteer's wife!--she, a girl of eighteen, to be raised over all the
other girls of the village; to own his house, his riches, and (above
all) his heart!  It was too wonderful for her to realize!  But
why--oh! why did not Ivor love her like this?"

All this flashed through her mind while she covered her face.  Hugh
came nearer, and, gently trying to draw away her hands, spoke again
(and his voice was trembling and husky):

"Thou canst not love me!  Tell me, Gwladys--hast any other lover?"

"No, no!" said the girl--"indeed, no!  Nobody loves me!  But,
Mishteer--you are mistaken; you cannot care for-me--a poor girl, a
fisherman's daughter, the humblest and poorest of your work-people!"

"I love thee," he said, taking both her hands in his; "and I am
content that it should be all on my side at first--only at first,
Gwladys--for my deep love for thee must in time awaken the same in
thine heart for me.  I know thou canst not love me now--I am so much
older than thee.  I cannot expect thee yet to care for a great rough
fellow like me--but marry me, and I will change thy coldness to love!
Believe me!  Wilt try me, lass?"

Gwladys was trembling all over as she answered, "I cannot, Mishteer;
oh! indeed I cannot!"

"Why not?"

"Because I am frightened and surprised."

"Dost dislike me then?"

"Oh, no!  indeed, indeed we all love you; I love you Mishteer, but
not--not as a girl ought to love her--lover."

"Say husband, Gwladys."

"Well, her husband."

"But I am satisfied to wait for that love.  Wilt have me, girl?"

"Oh!  Mishteer, we have drifted far out to sea; let us turn back; let
me go home to mother--give me time."

"Of course!" said Hugh, beginning to use his oar again; "let us go
back.  I will not take thine answer here alone on the sea--I ought
not to have asked thee; but to-morrow, Gwladys, to-morrow evening at
this time, I will come to thee for my answer."

"Yes," whispered the girl, as she bent with a will to her oar.

The tide had turned, and the long billowy swells carried them swiftly
back towards the land; a belated seagull floated by them, a sound of
singing came fitfully on the breeze from the shore.

"They are practising the anthem at Brynseion Chapel," said the girl,
anxious to change the conversation; "they will wonder where I am."

"And I," said Hugh, "have been absent twice lately.  I will go there
at once, and make it all right for thee; thou wouldst like to go home
to thy mother?"

"Yes," was all she said.

When they reached the shore Hugh once more took her in his arms to
lift her from the boat, and placing her gently on the sands, he
grasped her hand, and for a moment retained it in his own.

"At least wilt not deceive me, lass?"

"Deceive you, Mishteer!  Oh! no, indeed; you are the Mishteer, and I
am only Gwladys Price, but I never could break my word."

"Must I wait longer for the kiss that I am longing for?" he said.

She bent her head and made no answer; but she did not run away, and
Hugh, gently drawing her towards him, imprinted a passionate kiss on
her full red lips.

"Shall I come with thee, or wilt go alone?"

"I would rather go alone," said Gwladys, and she left him pulling his
boat up the little strand.

Her mind was full of confused emotions--astonishment, pride,
admiration for the man whom she considered so much above her, wonder
why the events of the night left, her so dissatisfied; and above all,
her heart was sore with longing for Ivor's love!  She dropped her
creel of laver-weed at Nance Owen's door, and as she reached the
village road, with every step her heart asked the weary question,
"Why--why is it not Ivor?"

Darkness had fallen, and the moon, hidden by a bank of clouds, shed
no light on the scene; but every step of the road was familiar to
Gwladys.  She moved aside to make room for a rumbling car which came
noisily down the hill, its occupants talking loudly, and--surely one
of the voices was Ivor's!  There were three sitting close together on
the board which did duty for a seat, the driver and Ivor, and between
them a girl, around whom the latter's arm was thrown, and who seemed
content with his protection.  She knew Ivor had been absent from the
village since the previous day, for he had accompanied the delayed
sails in the waggon to their destination on Aberython quay; and from
there he was now returning rather hurriedly, for the purpose of
consulting the Mishteer on some matter of business which had cropped
up at the little town.  He was bringing with him a cousin, who was to
stay some weeks at his lodgings for change of air; she was a delicate
girl, far gone in consumption, and his kindly thought had suggested a
short sojourn at Mwntseison.  The drive had shaken her much, and he
had held her up with his strong arm, until he had lifted her safely
out of the car, and placed her under his landlady's care.

After a hasty visit to Hugh Morgan he returned the same night to
Aberython.

A spasm of jealousy was added to the dull aching already filling
Gwladys' heart, and as she plodded on up the hill, she called herself
to task, and blamed herself for her misery.

"Oh! if mother knew," she said, "that her little daughter had been so
bold and so foolish as to give her heart to a man who had never asked
for it, what would she say?  What did she say about Gwen?  'When a
girl shows her love too plainly, a wise man draws back!'  Have I
shown my love to Ivor? and is he drawing back because of that?  I
will be more careful--and I don't love him! to-night I feel I hate
him!  And who was that bold girl, I wonder, who sat with him? not
Madlen, nor Shân, nor Ana!  But why do I care?"

"Oh, mother, I am tired!" she added, as she entered the house, and
threw herself wearily on the settle.

Her mother looked at her with surprise, for the words, "I am tired,
mother!" had been left behind with her childish frocks and bare feet.

"Come to supper, merch i.  Where hast been?"

"On the shore and the water," said Gwladys, in a listless tone.
"Mother, I have something wonderful to tell thee!"


[1] Peeped.

[2] "Come in! come in."

[3] "A happy bridal to you!"

[4] Good beer.



CHAPTER V.

TRAETH-Y-DARAN.

The business which called Ivor Parry to Aberython had proved more
wearily slow in its progress than is usual, even in that land where
to attend to a thing at once, and to compass its completion without
delay, is considered not only unnecessarily flurrying, but also
scarcely dignified; so a whole week went by before he returned to
Mwntseison.

He had never been so long absent before, and was returning one
evening in the following week with a fund of bright, fresh interest
in his work in the old sail-shed.  He was in good spirits, having
finished the Mishteer's work satisfactorily, and was bringing with
him an order for new sails for the Lapwing; and besides all this, did
not his way lie down the hill past Gwladys' cottage? and had he not
found an excuse for going in as he passed?

And then he fell to wondering what Hugh Morgan meant when he had said
good-bye to him with the words, "I will have something to tell thee
on thy return."  What was it? Ivor wondered.

"Something pleasant, I know, by the twinkle in his eye; perhaps an
order for the new schooner at Caer Madoc!"  And as he trudged down
the hill, his thumbs in his armholes, he began to sing lustily one of
the old ballads always floating about in the country air:--

  "In a garden of flowers I roamed one day,
  And I said, I will find me a posy gay;
  I passed the red roses and lilies so fair--
  And a handful of nettles I gathered there!"


"Twt, twt!" he said, stopping suddenly; "there's a grumbling song
I've got hold of this fine evening."  And he began again in another
key, and filled the summer air with melody:--

  "Alone on the shore of the stormy bay
    A snow-white sea-gull stands;
  And she preens her feathers damp with spray
    On the wet and shining sands.

  "Perhaps 'tis a maiden who stands to-day
    All wet in a rain of tears;
  And perhaps she will weep by that stormy bay,
    Through all the coming years!"


"Well, tan i marw!  That's not much better," he said.  "What's the
matter with the man?" And reaching Nani Price's cottage, he stooped
his head, and entered the low doorway.  "Hello, Nani!" he called, and
she rose from the dark chimney corner.

"Wel, wyr![1]  Ivor, thy voice came in at the door before thee!  I am
glad to see thee back again.  And what dost think of Aberython?"

"Oh, 'tis very well," answered Ivor.  "There's a fine street going
down to the quay, and shops all the way on both sides," and he
thought joyfully of the pretty ribbon he had safe in his pocket for
Gwladys.  "But where's Gwladys?" he asked, looking round; "not come
home from the sail-shed yet?"

"Well, she's not been there to-day; she's gone to Mari Vone's with
patterns of wool for the weaving.  Thou'st come to wish her joy, no
doubt, like all the rest?"

"Wish her joy! of what?" said Ivor, sitting down on the end of the
spinning-wheel bench.  There was a curious darkening of the sunshine
at the doorway and a confused rushing in his head which made him glad
to sit down.

"Hast not heard the news, then?" said Nani.  "Why, she's going to be
married to the Mishteer!"  And the good woman, for once forgetting
everything but her own satisfaction, in the information she had to
impart, was blind to the change in Ivor's face.

"To be married to the Mishteer!  Gwladys, who had filled his thoughts
and heart for so long--yes, ever since he could remember!"  And the
whole universe was shattered, as far as Ivor Parry was concerned; but
he sat still and made no sign, for always the most agonising points
of life are the most silent.  When at last the bitter tale was all
told he rose slowly.

"There's news I've given thee," said Nani, stopping for breath.

"News, indeed!" said Ivor; "but I must go.  Well, 'wish her joy' for
me, Nani," and out again to the June evening Ivor went, bruised,
wounded, bleeding, but fighting bravely with his sorrow, and
sustained by his pride.  Not for worlds would he--Ivor Parry, the
cheeriest and bravest bachgen in the village--let it be seen that he
was sorely wounded; and he resumed his old attitude with his thumbs
in his armholes, and struck up another verse of his disconnected
ballad, though how he managed it he never afterwards could
understand.  With head erect, and with many improvised turns and
grace notes, he sang, as he went his way down the road:

  "O gwae fi, and woe is me!
    And my heart is full of pain;
  For the ship that sailed across the sea
    Will never come back again!"


On reaching his lodgings he was even more lively than usual, making
his cousin laugh at his merry sallies, and hearing his own voice as
if it had been a stranger's.  He even made a show of enjoying his
tea; but after it was over he went out, and, leaving the sail-shed
behind him, turned his face towards the cliffs.  Slipping down
through the broom bushes, he made his way by an unfrequented sheep
path to the beach below, and, crossing the shore, reached the south
end of the harbour.  The turmoil of thoughts within him seemed to
urge him forwards, and every step he took strengthened the only
determination he could evolve out of the chaos of misery in his
heart.  He must see Gwladys, must hear his doom from her own lips!
The south end of the shore was less frequented than the other.  The
crags were higher and more frowning here, the shadows were deeper,
the sands were seldom trodden, and the sea seldom ruffled by oar or
sail; but here in the deep shadows the laver weed grew thickest, and
here Gwladys might come to fill her creel as usual, "unless, indeed,"
thought Ivor, "she might to-night be roaming over the cliffs with
Hugh Morgan, and so forget her creel and Nance Owen."  The thought
was so bitter that he groaned aloud.

Gwladys had returned home a few minutes after he had left the house,
even soon enough to hear an echo of his voice as he trolled out the
well-known ballad.  Her mother met her with a happy, smiling face.

"Merch fâch i!" she said, as she drew the back of her fingers
caressingly over the girl's cheek, where the rich colour had paled a
little.  Her heart was full of gratitude to the daughter whose
marriage promised to bring so much comfort and freedom from care into
her life.  "Ivor Parry has been here to 'wish thee joy,'" she said;
and Gwladys' heart throbbed painfully.

"There's a merry man he is," continued Nani, as she clattered the
tea-cups on the little round table; "singing he was when he came in,
and singing again when he went out."

In the gloom of the cottage she had not noticed the pallor that
overspread his face upon receiving her news, neither did she now
notice her daughter's preoccupied silence.  It was very evident that
her elation of spirits had for the time smothered Nani's usual tender
thoughtfulness for others.

"Yes, I thought 'twas his voice," said Gwladys at last.  "What did he
say, mother?"

"Oh, well, he was very glad.  'There's good news, indeed!' sez he,
and 'wish her joy for me, Nani.'  Hast settled which stripe thee'lt
have in thy petticoat, lass?  What did Mari Vone say?"

"Oh, she liked best the blue.  I don't care which; you can settle it,
mother."

"Don't care!" said Nani, raising her hands in astonishment.  "Well,
in my deed, thou art an odd girl in some things!  Going to be married
to the Mishteer, and not care whether thy stripes are to be red or
blue!  If it had been to a common man like Dye Pentraeth or Ivor
Parry, it would be no 'otts' perhaps--but to the Mishteer, the owner
of half the village, so rich, and so handsome, and with his achan[2]
going back I don't know where!  A scarlet stripe it shall be, then;
and I wish there was a brighter colour!" and she whisked the crock of
"mash," which she was warming for her ailing cow, off its hook over
the fire with such a swing of triumph that some of its contents was
spilt on the hearth, and Gwladys looked after her with a smile,
half-sad, half-amused.

"Mother fâch,[3] I have made her life happy, whatever!" she said, and
standing there in the twilight, with the skeins of bright wool
hanging from her unconscious fingers, she fell into a deep reverie.
"Is this how every girl feels when she is going to be married?" and
then a silence.  "Wish her joy for me!"  Well, what more could she
expect from any man who heard of her approaching marriage?  The
curves of the mobile mouth fell, and the brown eyes became suffused
with tears.  Both signs of sadness, however, were chased away as she
heard a manly footstep at the door, and Hugh Morgan entered the
cottage.  At the same moment Nani returned from the cowshed, so,
according to Welsh custom, Hugh's manner was jovial and friendly
only, nothing warmer being considered decorous in the presence of a
third person, more especially that of a future mother-in-law.

"Well, are you here, little people?  Coming in from the sunset, I
can't see you yet."

"We are here all right, Mishteer, and glad to see you.  Come in,"
said Nani, as she dusted a chair with her apron.

"I just came in to say I am going to Abersethin to-night on business,
so I sha'n't be able to bring the new glee to show thee, Gwladys.
How does the world go with thee to-night, Nani?"

"Right well, Mishteer.  Sit down, sit down."

"I must not stay long," said Hugh, and Nani considerately made her
sick cow an excuse for pottering in and out of the house.  She
remembered the old saying, "I had better go," said the crow, "when
the dove begins to coo!"  When she had left the house, Hugh's manner
changed at once.

"How is my darling?" he said, taking the listless fingers which held
the red and blue skeins; "and what are these pretty things?  Aha! now
I'll warrant they are for some new clothes for thy wedding," and he
drew the blushing girl towards him.  "The old sail-shed is dull
without thee, lass.  When will my wild sea-bird get over her shyness?"

"Well, I'm coming to-morrow, whatever, Mishteer," said Gwladys.

"Halt, halt!" said Hugh, laughing; "you must drop that word now.
Mishteer, indeed!  Remember I will fine thee a kiss for every time
thou call'st me that!"

"I will try, indeed; but 'twill be hard at first."

"Oh, I won't be very angry if thou fail'st to remember sometimes,"
answered Hugh, and, as Nani's shadow darkened the door again, he
returned to his less warm, but still cordial, manner, and soon rose
to go.

"Nos da to you both!" he said, and, with a loving look towards
Gwladys, which he was careful Nani should not see, he left the house.

Meanwhile Ivor had waited on the darkened shore until the sun had
long set, and the moon, now at her full, looked down upon the
shimmering bay.

The tide had turned, and still Gwladys had not come; and while he
waited there in the shadow of the cliff, he pondered bitterly on
Nani's words, and sought in vain for any loophole for hope that the
news was not true, and that he should yet find Gwladys free and
unfettered.

"Fool! fool!" he said; "to think I could safely loiter on the path of
love! to see the answer to my own heart gradually coming into those
brown eyes!  That's what I waited for; but caton pawb! how could I
expect such happiness?  I have never seen a sign of that love in her
which fills my heart.  Sometimes, indeed,"--and his troubled face
took a tender, faraway look--"sometimes I have seen her eyes droop,
and her blushes come when I have spoken to her, and then I thought
perhaps she cared a little for me, for she is not like some
girls--Gwen or Ana, now.  'Twas not far to seek for their smiles--no,
nor their kisses either!  But Gwladys!  I was afraid even to touch
her, lest she should fly away like a bird!" and he groaned aloud in
his trouble, and confessed to himself that the darkest and direst
misfortune that could befall him was casting its shadow on his
path--nay, had already caught and overwhelmed him.  Had his rival
been anyone else, he could have fought against his fate--yes, fought,
and perhaps conquered!  But the Mishteer! his friend! his master! the
man whom, of all others, he held in such high esteem.  No!  the
thought was unbearable.  Life was not made to hold such bitterness
for him!  But, alas! life does hold out to us sometimes a cup of so
much bitterness that imagination even would hesitate to picture it as
a possible event in our experience.  We drink it to the dregs, and we
survive it.

A step on the pebbles, and Gwladys had at last appeared, and Ivor
watched her as she picked her way between the boulders, unconscious
of his presence.  Oh, how lovely she looked, her brown hair tossed by
the soft night breeze, the moon shining full upon the clear brown
eyes, and the coral of her lips! and what the moonlight failed to
reveal was only too plainly pictured on his memory.  She held her two
hands on her bosom, grasping the strap of her creel, and she rather
bent her head over them as she drew near.  She did not see Ivor until
she was close upon him, and for a moment stood perfectly still.

"Gwladys!" was all he could say at first, and his voice was so
altered, so hoarse, that she stood up straight before him, and looked
in astonishment in his face, while she answered, in a startled tone:

"Ivor Parry! it is thee, indeed?  Ach y fi!  I was not expecting to
see thee; but I'm not surprised, though, 'tis such a beautiful night."

Before she had finished speaking, Ivor had regained his composure.

"Yes, 'tis a fine night," he said; "but 'twas not that made me come
out.  I have been at thy mother's on my way home from Aberython, and
I--I----" and he lifted his hat and pushed his fingers through his
hair, which was damp and clammy.

"Yes, indeed," said Gwladys, beginning to lose her own calmness.
"She gave me thy message.  I was not long after thee, for I heard
thee singing.  I thank thee for thy good wishes."

"I thought, perhaps, it was not true," said Ivor, and his voice shook
a little.

Gwladys was silent for a moment, during which a flood of new emotions
surged through her whole being, so that her heart beat fast, her
limbs trembled, and the whole world seemed to take a new shape before
her.  Ivor's altered manner, his hoarse voice, the nervous trembling
of the hands which he held out towards her, all told the tale which
he had withheld so long, and, with a sudden flash of intuition which
comes in a great crisis, his love and misery were all revealed to
her; and alas! her love for him!  She could not do otherwise than
place her hands in those which were stretched out so eagerly towards
her; but while she did so, her head drooped, and her tears fell like
rain.

"'Tis true," she said at last, "'tis true, Ivor."

"Didst not know, Gwladys, that I loved thee, that every hair of thine
head was precious to me?"

Many years passed over Ivor's head after that night, but he never
forgot the cry with which she heard his words.

"Oh, Ivor! what is this thou art telling me?" and sitting down on the
upturned creel which had slipped from her shoulders, she swayed
backwards and forwards, endeavouring to smother the sobs which shook
her frame.  In truth, it was only the bursting of the floodgates,
which she had kept closed by a strong effort of will ever since she
had made her final promise to Hugh Morgan.  The discovery of Ivor's
love had been too much for her overstrained nerves, and now, with the
abandon of a child, she sat on her creel and cried bitterly.  Ivor
seated himself on a rock beside her, his worst fears confirmed, and
at last, when the sobbing girl had a little regained composure, took
her hand and said:

"Didst not know that for long years I have loved thee?--for ever, I
think!"

"I did not know--no, indeed!" said the girl.

"If thou hadst known it, lass, what wouldst thou have done?"

She did not answer at once, but continued to rock herself backwards
and forwards, and even to moan a little.

"Tell me, Gwladys," Ivor said again; and at last her answer came in
clear, firm tones:

"Whatever thou wouldst, Ivor."

"Wouldst have married Hugh Morgan?"

"Oh, never, never!  But now I must.  Beth na'i? beth na'i?"[4]

"No, no, lass, it must not be--shall not be!  I have hungered too
much for thy love to let it slip from me now.  'Tis not too late!  I
will go to Hugh Morgan and tell him all.  Thou know'st him,
Gwladys--a man who never did a mean thing--a man who would tear out
his heart sooner than injure his friend!  I will go to him, and tell
him, 'Gwladys' love is mine--not thine--and, by heaven! thou shalt
not have her!'"

His voice was hoarse with eagerness, and the hand that held hers
trembled with excitement.

But Gwladys only drew her hand away, and said:

"'Tis too late, Ivor.  I have promised the Mishteer, and our banns
have been called once!"

At the mention of the word "banns," Ivor made a gesture of despair.
Here, indeed, was the downfall to all his reviving hopes--a bar
across his path only one degree less insuperable than death
itself--for though to a Welshman scarcely any obstacle seems
insurmountable, scarcely any stratagem dishonourable in the course of
his impetuous love-making, yet marriage and all connected with it
holds the high place in his reverence, which it seems to have lost in
many nations.

It is true that morality amongst the unmarried peasantry lays itself
open to reproach; but a lapse from the paths of the strictest virtue
after marriage is always looked upon as an unpardonable disgrace.

The knowledge, therefore, that Hugh Morgan's banns were published
crushed every hope that had begun to spring up anew within Ivor's
breast.

"Mawredd anwl![5] 'tis impossible!" he cried; "so soon!  Gwladys, say
it is not true, or thou wilt kill me--an' 'tis the best thing thou
canst do for me, for now I see, indeed, that thou art gone from me
for ever!  Hugh Morgan has not loitered, whatever!  Only one short
week I was away, and in that time another man has won thee, and thy
banns are out!"

She made no answer, but sat with her face buried in her hands.

"Thou art crying, lass; is it pity for me?"

"Yes," she sobbed, "and--and for me!"

"Didst love me, then, all the time, f'anwylyd?  Tell me; I have a
right to know."

He had drawn her close to his side, and she felt his breath on her
hair as he continued to plead--

"Say it, Gwladys--only once--only to-night!"

Poor Gwladys!  The glamour of the love she had thirsted for was upon
her in all its fulness--was wrapping her in its folds.  Its strength
subdued her; she forgot her scruples, and stifled the whispers of her
usually tender conscience, and, yielding to Ivor's pleadings and her
own impulsive, passionate nature, let her lover draw from her the
truth, which she had hitherto scarcely confessed to herself.

"Yes--yes; I have loved thee always."

"And will love me for ever?--whisper it, fanwylyd," said Ivor.

"No, I must not say that; but thou knowst it all.  Oh! beth na'i,
beth na'i?"

A step on the shingle disturbed them.

"Only Sianco fetching his crab-pots; but here is my boat.  Let us go
to Traeth-y-daran, where the sand is never trodden; there we shall be
alone, for I tell thee, Gwladys, this night is mine and
thine--_nothing_ shall tear it from us!"

He drew the boat to the side of the rock and once again Gwladys and
he were out together on the moonlit bay.  It was so calm that nothing
could be heard but the creaking of the oars in the rowlocks and the
dripping of the water from the blades.  Neither spoke until reaching
Traeth-y-daran, the boat glided in between the rocks, and they landed
on the shore which lay lonely and peaceful in a flood of moonlight.

"Here is a seat for thee, love, and one for me beside thee close.
Oh, yes; I said this night was made for thee and me!  For a few hours
let us put everything else away from us, Gwladys, and talk and think
and feel nothing--nothing but our love for each other.  I will have
it so!" he said almost fiercely.  "To-night is for
happiness--to-morrow is for--?.  Tell me, lass, dost remember our
last row on the bay?"

"Yes, I have had it in my thoughts often, and in my heart always,"
said Gwladys.

"Hast indeed?" said Ivor; "didst feel my kiss on thy hair?"

"I felt it," she answered, with head drooping and burning cheeks;
"but I did not think it meant anything--indeed I didn't, Ivor!" and
she looked up pleadingly into his face.

"No, a fool I was!  I hid it all, thinking to win thy love gradually
and then to tell thee!  I thought I would guard thee so well that no
other man could approach thee unknown to me, and then I would speak
to thee at once.  Oh, what a fool I was! and now----"

"And now?" repeated Gwladys tearfully; and a silence fell upon them
as they both thought of "what might have been!"  Into the girl's
dream there came a shadow from the future--a picture of Hugh Morgan
bending over her as she sat at work in his house on the hillside.  It
was a momentary glimpse and she shuddered as it crossed her mind.

"Art cold, f'anwylyd?"

"No, no," she answered; "on this May night who would be cold?  I am
warm, Ivor; 'tis the future makes me shiver----"

"Hush!" he said, "don't speak about that; there is no law in earth or
heaven that can part us, if only thou wilt let me go to Hugh Morgan
and ask him to free thee from thy promise----"

"But the banns, Ivor?  Oh, no; 'tis impossible to bring this shame
upon the Mishteer's name.  And my mother--she would break her heart!
No, no; 'tis too plain we must part.  Will God give me strength, I
wonder?  Beth na'i? beth na'i?"

For some time Ivor, carried away by the new-born happiness of knowing
he had her love, endeavoured to shake her determination; but here she
was firm, in spite of the weakness with which she had allowed herself
to be swayed by the strong tide of love, which had overwhelmed her on
discovering Ivor's feelings towards her.

There were long pauses in their talk when the sea seemed to add its
sweet whispers of entreaty to his pleading, until at last as the
night wore on there came a little pleading into Gwladys' voice also--

"Oh!  Ivor, do not tempt me; I have done wrong to come here, I ought
to have said 'nos da' and passed straight home--I am like the
seaweed, tossed hither and thither by the fierce waves, but still
fastened to the rock, and so am I bound to the Mishteer.  Only that
one thing is certain in all this sea of trouble.  O gwae fi! beth
na'i?  Let me go, lad!  Thou wouldst always help me when I was a
child; everywhere I was safe and strong, if thou wert there.  And
now, Ivor, help me, for the storm is upon me!"

"I cannot, Gwladys--I cannot, indeed!  I seek for the strength within
me, and I do not find it; but so far I can do, whatever--I will stand
out of thy way and let thee pass on to--the Mishteer."

Gwladys, scarce knowing whether this made her more or less miserable,
but taking his words somewhat in a literal meaning, began to move a
little towards the boat.

"Stop, stop, fanwylyd!" said Ivor, "not to-night will I stand
aside--not to-night will I part with thee!  I have said, and I swear
it again, to-night thou art mine! and my fine promises do not begin
till to-morrow."

He drew her again closer to him--and again they fell into a long
silence.

"Gwladys," said Ivor at last, "wilt tell me what have thy thoughts
been?"

"The same as thine, I do believe, Ivor," said the girl, in a broken
voice.  "Our happiness would be to be together, but our duty bids us
part.  I cannot break my promise to the Mishteer.  Our banns are
called!  I am half married to him!  I ought not to be here; I am a
wicked girl.  Why, why has he set his love upon me?  I have promised
to marry him, and I will keep my word though my heart should break."

Ivor did not speak, he was struggling with a trial which had come
upon him unexpectedly and unprepared for.  Every fibre of his being
was shaken by the shattering of his fondest dreams--the love which he
had cherished for years, and for which he had built such fair palaces
of hope!  Was it now to be stifled and put out of sight for ever? to
be cast under the feet of another man, who would walk over it with
joy and happiness on his face, unconscious of the sacrifice which his
friend was making for him!

For some time they sat thus suffering together, both brooding on the
untoward events which had separated them, and on the bitter trial
which lay before them.

It was Gwladys who spoke first.

"See how the moon has travelled, Ivor; she is near her setting; the
dawn is not far off.  Let us go.  What will my mother think?"

"She will think thou art staying with Nance Owen, as thou often hast
before.  Dost see that bright star?  We will wait until it sets!  So
short a time for happiness out of all our long lives, Gwladys!"

"The good God will not grudge it us!" she whispered.

"When that star sinks down behind the sea I will loosen my hold of
thee, fanwylyd; but until then thou art mine--and mine only!  We are
alone in the world--two ships which have sailed together half-way
across the ocean, and now must separate for ever!"

Gwladys' long-drawn sobs had subsided, and left only a little catch
in her breath, which Ivor heard with yearning tenderness.

"'Tis hard for us both, love; but God grant thee comfort as the years
go by.  Thou wilt, perhaps, gain peace, and learn to forget the past."

"Never, never!" said the girl.  "Calm and peace! where are they
coming from, Ivor?  Oh, never, never!"

"'Tis a cruel thing, this life which is before us, lass.  If I had
known that Hugh had set his love on thee, I might have strangled mine
at its birth, even though I had killed myself in doing so; but now,
'tis too late, indeed!"

"God knows about it, whatever," said Gwladys between her sobs.

"Dost think, indeed!" was all Ivor's answer.

Both had their eyes fixed upon the star, which hung like a jewel in
the sky; it was already losing some of its brilliancy in the haze
which bordered the horizon.

"See, Ivor, it is going!"  And she shuddered.

"Not yet, fanwylyd!" he replied; and for a few minutes they watched
in silence as one watches at a death-bed.

"Our happiness draws near its last moment," he said at last; and they
both stood up together, with their eyes fixed on the star, which now
drew close to the horizon.

"Repeat those words, Gwladys, 'I love thee, I love thee, Ivor!'"

And with whispering, trembling breath she obeyed.

The star had reached the line of the sea; and, with a simultaneous
impulse, they turned to each other, and their lips met in a long,
passionate kiss, and it was with a sudden gasp that Ivor opened his
arms, leaving Gwladys standing alone on the edge of the wave.  He
said not another word, but drawing his boat higher up the strand, he
lifted her gently over the surf.  She felt the nervous trembling of
his strong arms as he longed to press her to his heart; but he
resisted the impulse, and in another minute they were both rowing
silently away from the Traeth-y-daran.

Before they reached Mwntseison Ivor spoke.

"Wilt land here?" he said, pointing to a narrow creek between the
cliffs, where a little stream came trickling down from the hills
above.

"Yes," was all she could say in reply; and once more Ivor lifted her
over the surf, and placed her on the tiny beach.  He sprang back into
his boat as if afraid to trust himself near her.

"Fforwel!" he said, in a hard, dry voice.

"Fforwel!" answered Gwladys.  And with eyes fixed upon each other
they separated, every wave of the ebbing tide increasing the distance
between them.

As soon as Ivor had passed the point of rocks which enclosed the
little creek, he set to with hard rowing to reach the further end of
the harbour, passing by Mwntseison still asleep.  His face was white
and hard set, his hair hung in damp clumps on his forehead, and as he
rowed his pale face wore an expression of sullen anger,--in truth, an
expression very foreign to his general disposition.  Having reached
the southern side where the cliffs towered higher and more frowning
from the sea, where the fishing boats never came, he was as much
alone as if he had been off some far desert island.  With an angry
motion he flung both the oars from him, rattling noisily as they
fell, and sitting moodily in the stern he gave himself up to his
bitter reflections.  He did not feel the cool morning breezes on his
damp face, nor hear the lapping of the water under the keel of his
boat as it rose and fell on the gentle swells; all so calm and
peaceful around him, and he so full of tumult within!  It was just
the hour between the dark and the dawn; the sea was of the rough grey
of a herring's back, melting into the soft white of the horizon.  The
gurgle of the fish coming up to the surface for a breath of air was
distinctly audible in the silence, and as the flush of the dawn rose
higher behind the hills, all sorts of mysterious sounds awoke round
the little boat.  The hoarse cry of an invisible puffin came over the
waters--a soft whispering of the morning breeze filled the air, the
strangely human cries of the young seals which still haunt the caves
in the cliffs of Mwntseison, all fell unheeded on Ivor's ear.  He was
fighting with an emotion which he had never known before--jealousy of
Hugh Morgan! a blind, unreasoning anger; and underlying it, a
desperate conviction that in the end he should submit to his
fate--for to fight against the Mishteer was as impossible to him--as
contrary to his nature--as it would have been to commit a crime!  And
it was rebellion against this iron destiny which filled his heart
with impotent anger.  From the moment when he had caught the last
glimpse of Gwladys standing solitary on the shore of the creek, he
had known how it would be with him--how strong and unbending were the
bonds which compelled him to give his best to his friend.

"As for her," he thought, "she would forget him, would soon learn to
be content with her lot--yes, more than content--for no woman could
be loved by Hugh and not love him in return!  That he never doubted;
but for himself?"  Self-sacrifice as an abstract idea had never
dawned upon him.  He was but an untaught man, whose only education
had been what a tender nature and a simple country life had brought
him; but one thing was plain to him, he must efface himself, and Hugh
Morgan must have his way!

Meanwhile Gwladys remained motionless, watching the little boat,
until, a mere speck, it rounded a ridge of rocks which jutted out
into the bay, and behind which lay Mwntseison; then she dragged her
weary steps up the steep cliff from the shore, following a shepherd's
path through the broom and heather bushes, till she reached the top
of the hill, where she sat down to watch the rising sun.  Behind her
lay the sea, with its soft sighings and tender whisperings, the old
world of her happiness and her youth--and Ivor! before her lay the
cold east, from whose mysterious bosom the dawn was breaking, and as
she watched, the sun rose and tipped each little blade and leaf with
gold.  Here, kneeling between the broom bushes, while the morning
breeze ruffled her hair, alone on the hillside, she struggled in an
agony of tears and supplications to put away from her the memory of
the past night, with its golden moon of love and its bitter waves of
sorrow--and to turn her face towards that path of duty which lay
before her.  At another time how she would have delighted in the
sounds and sights around her! the dewdrops glistening on the
sea-pinks, the gossamer webs stretched like frosted silver from bush
to bush, the rabbits peeping out of their burrows, the shepherd
awakening his flock, the sea-gulls sailing high above the hill top,
where the little sea-crows were beginning the day with a squabble;
but it was all lost upon Gwladys, who reached her mother's house
while the village was still sleeping under the early morning sun.
There was only the wooden bolt to push back, and she knew the simple
trick by which it was reached from the outside.

"Why! thou hast risen early," said her mother, as she saw her enter.
"What! is Nance Owen up so early?"

"I have not been there!"

There was something in the girl's voice which startled her mother.

"Where, then?" she cried, sitting up in bed.

"With Ivor Parry out on the bay!  Mother, it will never happen
again--we had something to say to each other--it is passed--you must
forget it, mother, as I shall--but I wanted to tell you----"

Her mother, breathless and frightened, stared at the girl, who, pale
and dry-eyed, began to set about her household duties.  Whether she
understood what that "something" had been which had been spoken at
Traeth-y-daran, she never disclosed; but she opened her arms and drew
Gwladys towards her, "Calon fâch!"[6] was all she said as she pressed
the girl to her heart.


[1] Well, indeed.

[2] Pedigree.

[3] Little mother.

[4] "What shall I do?"

[5] Good God!

[6] Dear heart.



CHAPTER VI.

CHANGES.

The work in the sail-shed went on as usual in the following week--the
same hum of voices, the same chatter and laughter amongst the women.
The only difference was that Ivor Parry looked ill and worn.

"He had been out fishing one night," so ran the story, "and returning
in the early morning had slipped as he jumped from his boat, and
falling on a slippery rock had had what 'n'wncwl Jos called 'a nasty
old shake.'  When asked about it, he had treated it with
indifference, saying, 'I did slip and twisted my back a little; but,
caton pawb! what is that?'  And he had been as busy as ever at his
work, scoffing at any suggestions of sympathy."

Gwladys, at the further end of the long shed, worked quietly at her
canvas, with drooping eyelids and flushed cheeks.  She knew she was
an object of interest to those around her, and was thankful to
remember that no one knew anything about her love for Ivor.  She
heard the comments upon his fall and his altered appearance with a
strange callousness which frightened her.  Her heart was like a stone
within her; she never turned her eyes towards the other end of the
shed where the harder and heavier part of the work was carried on by
the men.  Fortunately for her, it is not considered etiquette in
Wales for a lover to pay marked attentions to his betrothed in
public, so she was spared the pain of conversing with Hugh in Ivor's
presence, except upon the ordinary topics connected with the work.
But although Hugh adhered to the usual fashion of ignoring his
sweetheart's presence before the curious eyes of the gossips, he yet
held his head more proudly than ever.  There was a light in his eyes
and a smile on his lips which added a fresh charm to his handsome
face; and as he gave directions to his work-people, there was a ring
of happiness in his voice which plainly told its own tale.  One thing
troubled him--Ivor was suffering!  Of that he was sure.  And as it
drew near closing time, he spoke to his friend words of serious
advice and of kindly sympathy; for Hugh could be as tender as a woman
in spite of his burly frame.

"Look here, 'mach-geni!"[1] he said, sitting on a bale in front of
Ivor; "this will never do.  Every hour thou art getting to look paler
and thinner; thou must stop in bed to-morrow, and I'll send to
Abersethin for Dr. Hughes.  I'm afraid thou hast got more of a wrench
than thou knowest of."

"Not a bit," laughed Ivor; but his laugh had not its usual
light-heartedness.  "I know exactly what the wrench was--it hurt a
good deal; but dost think I'm going to stop in bed and send for a
doctor?  I never did such a thing in my life!  Twt, twt, 'twill be
all right if thou wilt let me alone, and not bother me about my
looks."

Hugh had never known him so irritable before, and he looked at him
critically as he left him.

"Well, if thou won't listen to advice, I can't help thee."

"What about that order for the Sea Nymph?" Ivor called after him.

Hugh shook his head.  "I cannot take it," he said; "the time is too
short.  Send them to Rees of Carnarfon; it will be quite as
convenient for the owners, and more so for me," and he returned
slowly towards Ivor.  "I am going to be married next week," he said;
"come down this evening, lad, and I'll tell thee all about it.  Thou
must sprack up, and arrange some jollification for the people.  We'll
have two days' holidays, and I'll leave all the fun in thine hands,
Ivor, only come to me for the money.  I know I can trust thee to
manage it all.  Dost hear, man?  Why, what's the matter with thee?
Dr. Hughes shall see thee to-night, or my name's not Hugh Morgan."

"'Twas only a wrench," said Ivor; "it's all over, and I'll see to the
bonfires and shooting."

"Right," said Hugh; but he shook his head as he went away.

Later on in the evening, as Madlen was preparing supper under the big
open chimney in the kitchen, a step disturbed her.

"Who's that?" she said snappishly, for the uwd[2] was at the point of
boiling.  "Oh, Ivor Parry!"

"Yes," he answered, walking in unceremoniously.  "I wanted to see the
Mishteer."

"Wel wyr! didst expect to see him here?  He is up with Gwladys Price,
of course.  Howyer bach![3]  There's going to be changes!  I tell
thee, Ivor Parry, he's perfectly mad about the girl.  Wel, dwla dwl
yw dwl hên!"[4]

"Will he come to his supper?"

"Most likely not; not even potatoes and buttermilk will bring him
home now."

But her prognostications were false to-night, for at that moment Hugh
entered, bright and breezy.

"Hello, Ivor! just in time for supper, 'mach-geni; sit down.  Art
better?"

"Oh, all right," he said, sitting down to the table, on which Madlen
placed the smoking "uwd" with a large jug of milk.  In every other
cottage in Mwntseison wooden bowls and wooden spoons would have been
used, but the Mishteer's table was graced by blue-rimmed basins and
silver spoons.

"I wanted to see thee, Ivor; we've not had a talk for some time."

"No, I have been too busy."

"And so have I, in my deed," said Hugh.  "What between the torn sails
of the Albatross--the new boat which is building for me--and a few
new things I am getting for my house--well, the time has seemed to
fly.  What dost think of the new 'coffor' I have bought for Gwladys?"
and he opened with pride the doors of a handsome oak wardrobe.  "The
best piece of work John 'Saer'[5] has ever done, I think."  The
shelves inside were well filled with stores of snowy napery, sheets,
and table-cloths, etc., luxuries little known in Mwntseison.  "And
these drawers at the bottom to keep her clothes!  Mari Vone has seen
to it all for me."

"A splendid coffor, indeed," said Ivor; "and John Saer knew who he
was working for, I think."  But then he added a most irrelevant
remark, "Poor Mari Vone!"

"What dost mean by that?" said Hugh, flushing a dark red.

"Oh, nothing," said Ivor.  "I was only thinking how dull it must be
for her to arrange the household for another girl."

"Dull!" said Hugh earnestly, and with a momentary sadness in his
voice.  "Thou art mistaken, Ivor.  Mari Vone knows not what dullness
means.  She would laugh to hear thy words."

"When art going to be married?"

"Why, on Tuesday," said Hugh; "of course I expect thee to be my
teilwr.  Pretty Gwennie Hughes and Laissabeth Owen are to be
bridesmaids."

"That is what I came down to speak about," said Ivor.  "I thought
very likely thou wouldst want me to be teilwr."

"Of course! who else?"

"Well, I'm afraid I cannot be that," said Ivor awkwardly, digging his
hands in his pockets.  "See this letter, and say if thou thinkest I
ought to refuse so good an offer."

Hugh took the letter with a look of serious surprise, and read it
without comment from beginning to end; then he folded it up
deliberately, and returned it to Ivor, looking him full in the face,
and before his honest eyes Ivor's quailed and were cast down.

"Thou wilt better thyself very much by accepting their offer; but I
never thought thou wouldst leave me, Ivor.  I would have given thee
as much as that had I known thou wert looking for it.  I have,
perhaps, been slow in rewarding thy merit; but, Ivor, I looked upon
thee as a brother, and I meant only to wait until my wedding was over
to offer to take thee into partnership, but now--go!  I have been
mistaken in thee; I never thought money would come between us.  Even
now--stay, Ivor, and I will give thee what Rees Carnarfon offers
thee."

Ivor shook his head.  "I have determined to go," was all he answered.

Hugh was wounded to the quick.  He had a deep love for his manager--a
love that had grown up for years between them, in spite of the
difference in their ages--and to find that parting had no bitterness
for Ivor meant bitter sorrow for Hugh.

"Then there's no more to be said, but pay what I owe thee," and he
counted it out on the table.

Ivor gathered it stolidly into his palm, and took up his hat.

"Fforwel, Mishteer," he said, "we must part now; your life is
full--you can do without me.  There is Josh Howels, he is quite able
to take my place; he knows all the ins and outs of the business,"
continued Ivor.

Hugh nodded.  "Oh, yes, I can do without you," he said, in an
offended tone.

"Fforwel, then," said Ivor, and he held out his hand, which Hugh,
after a moment's hesitation, grasped warmly.  "If you are ever in any
trouble, send for me, Mishteer, and I will come."

Again they said "Fforwel," and parted--Hugh Morgan with a feeling of
burning indignation and a smarting sense of disappointment; Ivor with
a dull, heavy aching, which he was not to throw off for many a weary
month.

"Let him think me ungrateful and grasping," he said; "it is better
for him than to know the truth.  Fforwel, Hugh Morgan, I shall never
meet a man like you again!"

Indignation and sorrow were the feelings uppermost in Hugh's mind as
he sat smoking on his lonely hearth that evening.  Madlen had gone to
bed, and he sat long into the night, gazing into the dying embers of
the peat fire, "chewing the cud of sweet and bitter thought."  The
announcement of Ivor's intended departure was a crushing blow to him.
He had loved the man with all the tenderness which in his lonely life
had had no other outlet until Gwladys Price's beauty had enslaved
him; and even this had not altered his feelings for his friend, but
had rather drawn him nearer to him.  Mari Vone and Ivor had been his
ideals of all that was manly and womanly, and his affections had gone
out to them unstintingly; and now he would have been ashamed that any
one should see how deeply he felt the change in Ivor--in truth, his
bright, black eyes were dimmed with unshed tears as he knocked the
ashes out of his pipe, and, slipping the wooden bolt of the front
door into its hasp, walked slowly up the stairs.

The next day Ivor was absent from the sail-shed.  Such a thing had
never happened before, excepting when he had been attending to
business for the Mishteer; but now everybody knew this was not the
cause, and gossip, with its busy tongue, suggested all sorts of
reasons--all of them, fortunately, very wide of the mark.  "He had
injured his back too much to continue working," one said.  "The
increased wages offered by Rees Carnarfon had dazzled him."  "He was
tired of Mwntseison, and thought this would be a good opportunity for
making a move," etc., etc.

"What can it mean?" said a girl to Gwladys, as she entered the
sail-shed in the morning.  "What can have come to Ivor?  Have you any
idea?"

Gwladys shook her head, and would not trust her voice to speak.

"I'll tell you what they say," said the girl, "that he is jealous of
you."

They were already beginning to drop the familiar "thee" and "thou" in
addressing Gwladys.  She noticed the omission, and blushed a vivid
red.

"There!" said her friend, holding up her hands in admiration,
"there's the colour we've been used to see in your face; in my deed,
you are not like yourself lately.  Twt, twt, it is not such a
wonderful thing to be married that you need grow thin and pale about
it.  'That will be the end of us all,' as the old maid said when she
watched the wedding.  There! look at her now, Mishteer!"  And Hugh,
who was just entering, gazed with admiration at Gwladys' blushing
face.

"Thou hast brought back her roses, indeed, Malen," he said, smiling.
"What hast been saying to her?"

"We were talking about Ivor Parry, and I tell her it is jealousy of
her that has made him leave."

"Was that possible?" thought Hugh, as he turned away.  "Was it the
jealousy of love that had caused Ivor's strange behaviour?" and
somehow the thought brought comfort to him; the loss of his friend
did not weigh quite so heavily upon him.  "He would get over this
foolish feeling; he would return to Mwntseison again, and to his work
in the sail-shed, and the same happy relations would exist between
them as had of old."

Gwladys had retired to her old corner.  The sail had already been
spread in a convenient position for working, her stool placed before
it, and she knew well whose tender care had arranged her work for
her.  She looked over to where Hugh Morgan was standing, stalwart and
strong, as if he were going to address his work-people, and a wan
little smile flitted over her face, where the rich colour was already
ebbing.

Hugh caught the smile, and his heart beat fast, for, though he hid
his feelings from the eyes of the crowd, as was his bounden duty to
do if he did not wish to brush the bloom off the peach, to rob his
love of the romance of a real Welsh courtship, still his thoughts
were ever hovering round Gwladys.  Be it remembered that, though he
was past the intoxication of "love's young dream," he had succumbed
to the passion which had assailed him with all the strong fervour
belonging to middle age.  His heart had been so long steeled against
the glamour of love that now at last, when it had made a breach in
his walls, he had completely surrendered to its mad enthralment.  His
fervid words, the passionate ardour of his looks and his embraces,
fell upon Gwladys' soul with scorching pain; she could not feel the
same love for him, and, therefore, wearied of its intensity.  She
reproached herself incessantly with coldness and want of feeling, and
endeavoured by occasional warmth of manner to make up for the
ordinary want of interest.

"I will love him when we are married, and, God helping me, I will be
a good wife to him."  This was the continual burden of her thoughts;
her life was one constant struggle to banish from her mind the memory
of Ivor, and, though his image ran like an under-current through the
stream of her existence, she yet managed to keep all conscious
thoughts of him in abeyance.  "What was to come of it all?  What was
going to happen to smooth out the tangled path into which her feet
had so unintentionally strayed?  God knows!  I can only trust, and
try to be a good wife."

While these thoughts passed through her mind, Hugh was speaking, and
the work-people had dropped their tools, and were listening with
attention.

"You know, my friends," he said, "that a great sorrow has fallen upon
me in the loss of my right-hand man, Ivor Parry.  His reasons for
going are good ones.  He has been offered a post of great
responsibility, bringing with it an increased salary.  It is every
man's duty to make his way in the world if he can, and however much
we may regret his loss here, I know that there is not one of you,
man, woman, or child, who does not send with him to-day a greeting of
love, and an earnest hope that his path may be blessed with every
good which can fall to man in this world.  Josh Howels will take his
place as my manager, and I expect from you the same obedience and
deference to him, and to my orders through him, as you have always
shown to Ivor Parry."

Josh Howels rose to say a few words in answer.  Gwladys leant back
against the boarded wall of the shed, her head leaning on a rough
shelf, her eyes fixed on the sky and sea, which were visible through
the wide open doors.  She saw the sea-gulls sailing in the air; she
heard the hoarse cry of the puffins, which crowded the cliffs above
Traeth-y-daran; and the picture of a moonlit beach, on which sat two
figures close together, arose before her mental vision; but, with a
spasm of pain, she literally shrank from the picture, and by a strong
effort of will banished it from her mind.

In a few days the eventful week had dawned which she had dreaded, and
yet longed for of late!  Surely this dull aching would cease! surely
this sharp agony of thwarted desires would be quenched when once she
was Hugh Morgan's wife!  Here lay her only hope--and to this hope she
clung with the frantic energy of a drowning man.  Her mother had
finished all her simple preparations for the wedding, which was to
bring such honour and lustre upon them; she had forced herself to
forget that pale dawn when Gwladys had entered the house like a
spirit or unrest.  Sometimes when she heard of Ivor's intended
departure from the village, or when she saw Gwladys' paling cheek, a
throb of disquietude would pierce her heart; but Hugh Morgan's
tenderness, his absolute devotion to her daughter re-assured her.

"She must love him," she thought; "no woman could help it!  She will
be a happy girl, and I shall be a happy mother-in-law!"

Indeed, in the whole village congratulations for Nani and Gwladys
were rife, and "There's a fortunate girl!" was the refrain of every
conversation upon the subject of the Mishteer's marriage.  One alone
was dissatisfied--Mari Vone!  And as she sat in the gloaming on the
eve of the wedding-day, her thoughts were evidently none of the
happiest; her fair golden head drooped a little over her shining
knitting needles, her graceful tall figure had a listless curve in it
as she sat looking out of the open doorway; she heard a footstep on
the road which she recognised at once.  "He is going to Gwladys!" she
thought, and she patiently clasped her hands upon her bosom, as if to
quiet the throbbing heart within; but no! the steps drew near, and
against the red sunset the figure of Hugh Morgan loomed clear and
large.  He nodded pleasantly over his pipe, and Mari pushed a rush
stool nearer the door for him to sit upon.

"That will do!" he said; "the smoke will blow out to the road."  And
with a long-drawn "Ah!" of satisfaction, he stretched out his legs,
and gave himself up to the enjoyment of his pipe for a time, during
which Mari plied him with questions, most of which he answered with a
nod or shake of the head.

"Hast Madlen finished her baking? and roasted her chickens?  The
lobster and crab I have boiled myself.  Gwladys will be glad of a
dainty supper, for she will be very tired.  It is well for her that
she is marrying a man who can afford to give her dainties, for her
mother tells me she has a poor appetite lately, and turns away from
the barley bread."

"God bless her! she shall have white bread, white as a dog's tooth!
and anything else she may fancy," said Hugh, and he puffed away in
silence a little longer.

"You are sure to be at the wedding, Mari?"

"Oh, yes, I am coming," she answered quietly.

"It gave me a terrible fright when somebody said you were not
coming--you and Ivor away.  I should have felt it a bad omen, Mari."

"Oh, twt, twt! nonsense about bad omens!  If I had stopped away it
would only have been because I am getting too old for weddings, and
biddings, and fairs.  I leave that to the young girls now."

Hugh laughed sarcastically.

"You know better than that, Mar.  You know very well that whenever
you appear the girls have all to hide their heads.  They are none of
them fit to hold a candle to you.  What old age may make of you I
don't know; but sure I am, no creature that treads God's earth graces
it more than you do!"

"Oh! there's pretty words, whatever, Hugh," said Mari, dropping her
knitting on her lap, and letting her hands fall with it, and gazing
out rather sadly over Hugh's shoulder to the glowing sea and sky
beyond.

"You are going to see Gwladys to-night, of course?  She will be
expecting you."

"Yes," said Hugh; "I am going now--but--but Mari, I felt I wanted to
say something before I went.  We have been friends for years--we
shall be friends still--eh?" and he held out his broad brown hand.

Mari placed her own in it.

"Friends forever, Hugh, as long as life shall last!"

"And after," he said.  "Well, fforwel, and God bless you!" and Hugh
made his way under the wreaths and banners which already spanned the
road, in readiness for next day's festivities, leaving Mari to her
thoughts and to her knitting, upon which by and by a large tear fell.

"Hoi! hoi! stop a bit!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, whom Hugh met stumping
down the road.  "Don't go under the banners before the wedding.  It
brings bad luck, man."

"It's too late," answered Hugh jovially, "for I have been under two
or three," and his beaming smile and sparkling eyes, as he turned up
the path towards Gwladys' cottage, showed that whatever the future
had in store for him, to-night he was well content.


[1] My boy!

[2] Porridge.

[3] Dear people! (an exclamation).

[4] "There is no fool like an old fool!"

[5] Carpenter.



CHAPTER VII.

A WEDDING CALL.

The month of May, with all her charms on earth, sea, and sky, had
slipped away, and June reigned in her place, pouring forth her stores
of bud and blossom, laying her warm hand on the ripening fruit in the
orchards, turning their cheeks to crimson and gold, lulling the waves
to rest, and folding the young broods of birds, which swarmed in the
cliffs, in her mantle of soft balmy air.  The shepherd's song was
heard from the hillside as he sat basking in the sunshine, the clap,
clap of the mill came on the breeze, the clinking of the village
anvil, the voices of little children, all blended together in
delicious harmony.  Every door and window in the village was open,
and the air was filled with the "sh-sh" of the sea.  The children sat
playing on the warm, dry sand.  'N'wncwl Jos sat astride on the keel
of his boat, which had been turned upside down for repairs.  He had a
pot of tar and some tow beside him, but the work did not proceed very
rapidly, as The Ship Inn was so near, and the heat of the sun made an
occasional "blue" a necessity.  'N'wncwl Jos's time was a commodity
that hung heavily on his hands, and there was no hurry to get the
boat done, so he exchanged his quid of tobacco from one cheek to
another, and took his daily snooze in the June sunshine.  Suddenly a
gentle voice aroused him.

"'N'wncwl Jos!"

"Well, merch i?"[1] and he began busily to caulk a crack in his boat.

It was Gwladys who stood beside him, rather paler, perhaps, than when
he saw her last, but with the same sweet curves over mouth and
chin--with the same serious look in the brown eyes--which were shaded
by the white sun-bonnet.

"Wilt come and help me with the brewing this afternoon?" she said,
with a languid tone in her voice, which, perhaps, was due to the heat.

"B'd siwr! b'd siwr!"[2] replied the old man, waking up with evident
interest.

"Hugh says thou hast the secret for making the beer clear."

"So I have, merch i--learnt it from my grandmother.  How far hast
thou got with thy brewing?"

"The brecci is working," she said, "but I'm afraid it won't be clear.
I have never brewed before."

"I'll be up this afternoon," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "and we shall see
whether thine ale will be clear or not.  The Mishteer knew where to
send thee for advice!  Have you heard the news?"

"What news?"

"Why, that Ivor Parry is very ill; there he lies stranded at
Carnarvon, poor fellow, in some strange lodging, laid up with fever.
The Lapwing arrived at Abersethin last night from Carnarvon with
slates, and brought the news.  I thought he was sickening for
something before he left; didst notice how white he looked?"

"Yes," said Gwladys, looking across the bay, where in the distance
the line of the Carnarvonshire hills looked like a chain of blue
clouds.

"The Mishteer will be shockin' sorry to hear it," said the old man,
shaking his head.  "I'm going to the sail-shed to tell him as soon as
I have finished this job."

Gwladys turned silently away, her heart like a lump of lead, her eyes
burning with tears which she must not shed.  She must not even ask
for more particulars--nay, she must not even wish for more; and as
she walked back over the dusty road to her new home, she tightened
her grasp upon her own feelings, and laid a strong curb upon her
natural instincts.

She followed the progress of the brewing with punctilious care,
patiently and gently directing Madlen, who endeavoured to frustrate
all the plans of the new mistress with the annoying obstinacy of a
jibbing horse.  She peeped into the mash-tub, and exclaimed:

"Sure as I'm here, it'll never clear; it's as thick as the Gwendraeth
after rain!"

Getting no reply she tried in another direction:

"Ivor Parry and Mishteer always praised my ale; 'twas as clear as
cryshal,[3] but cawl it'll be to-day!"

Gwladys smiled.  "Thee's an evil prophetess, Madlen!"

They both looked up as a shadow fell through the open doorway.  It
was Gwen.

"I came to ask thee if I could help in the brewing.  Thee'lt like be
anxious about thy first brewing; how does it go?"

"Pretty well, I think," said Gwladys.  "It will be casked to-night."

"Have you heard of Ivor's illness?" said Gwen, looking full into her
face, which visibly blanched under her keen glance.

"'N'wncwl Jos has just been telling me," said her victim, trying in
vain to speak in a natural tone.  "What is it?"

"Fever, they say," said Gwen, "but a bad one.  Siencyn saw him in his
lodgings; 'tis a good thing he is well looked after.  The daughter of
the house seems very fond of him, and he of her, for he calls her
continually, 'Gwladys!  Gwladys!' if she only leaves him for a
minute.  Dir anwl![4] how pale thou art getting!  Art not well?"

"Not very," said Gwladys.  "The heat has been so great to-day, and
the wind blows straight from the limekilns."

"Perhaps, indeed! but thou hast lost thy roses whatever!" and lifting
the lid of the mash-tub, she peered into its contents.  "There's a
muddy cloud in it!  That will spoil thy brewing."

"Perhaps, indeed!" said Gwladys, using the formula that does duty in
Wales for every variety of expression.

"What will the Mishteer say?"

"Oh, well, he won't mind much if I do not grieve about it."

"No; I suppose thou canst do pretty well what thou lik'st with him
now.  So can I with Siencyn; but that won't last.  'There's never a
pig' thee knowest, 'without a twist in his tail,' and 'never a man
without a quirk in his temper!'  Oh! yes, we shall see it some day;
but as long as we have nothing to _hide_ we need fear nothing.  But
diwedd anwl![5] the time goes like the andras.[6]  I must go.  Pity
for Ivor Parry--isn't it?"

When she was gone, Gwladys began to breathe again, and endeavoured to
steel herself against the wounds which she would receive in her
passage through life, and to endure, for this, she felt, would be her
portion for the future.

"Gwladys!" called a manly voice, and Hugh entered from the sunshine,
"where art, my little one?  Come and comfort me, for I have had bad
news, and thou wilt be sorry, too!  Poor Ivor is ill; hast heard?"

"Yes," she said; "Gwen has just been telling me; but he has a good
nurse, and we must not look on the dark side."

"No, true, merch i; but I'd give much to have him back here
again--foolish boy!  I believe he was jealous of my love for thee!
Siencyn Owen says he was quite delirious; called constantly for the
girl who nurses him, 'Gwladys, Gwladys!' sometimes in such pitiful
tones that Siencyn felt like crying; and talking, talking without
stopping about the sea and the moon and the stars!  'Gwladys,' he
said, 'our star is sinking--sinking--sinking!'  Oh, 'tis pity,
indeed, we can't have him here to nurse him--thy gentle ways and thy
tender care would bring him round, Gwladys; but what is the matter,
lass?"

"Oh, a pain!" said the girl, laying her hand on her bosom.  "A sharp
pain, a real pain!  I have had it before to-day; I think it must be
the brecci, which I have tasted too often."  And a pitiful little
smile crossed her face.

Hugh was all anxiety and fright, and not without cause, for Gwladys
had quietly slipped to the ground in a dead faint.

In a moment, Madlen the contumacious had forgotten her pique, and was
rushing about in search of the inevitable "drop of brandy," while
Hugh lifted his wife from the ground, and placed her on the settle,
where she presently regained consciousness.  His tender words of love
were the first that reached her ears.

"Gwladys, fâch! my little girl! dear heart! open thine eyes.  Art
better, darling?"

"Yes, yes," said the girl, reaching both hands towards him, and
bursting into tears.  "Hugh, Hugh, you have married a foolish, weak
girl; but have patience with me, and I will get wiser and better."

"Oh, ho! as for that," said Hugh, tenderly drawing her towards him,
"I want no change in thee!"

After the never-failing restorative of a cup of tea, Gwladys revived,
and Hugh was happy again; and when 'n'wncwl Jos arrived in the
afternoon, Hugh left him with Gwladys to the mysteries of casking the
beer, his wooden leg stumping up and down incessantly from the
beer-cellar to the living-room.  He placed some mysterious object on
the table, wrapped up in paper, refusing to unfold it until the last
moment.

"Now," he said, when the casks had been placed in position, and
everything prepared for pouring in the brecci, "now, then, Mishtress,
let's see if your brewing won't be the clearest in Mwntseison."

"Gwen said there was a cloud in it this morning!"

"Gwen!" he said, with a start.  "She hasn't been looking at it, has
she?"

Gwladys nodded.

"Ach y fi! there's a pity!  She is too nearly related to Peggi Shân
for her eyes or her fingers to do any good to thy brewing.  I
remember once, when my mother was brewing (and she was famed for her
clear cwrw), but jâr-i!  Peggi Shân came to the door; 'twas a very
sunny day, and her shadow fell straight over the mash-tub, and, sure
as I'm here, the beer was as thick as bwdran![7]  Always after that
we kept the door locked on brewing days."

"Perhaps, indeed!" said Gwladys!  "I will do so next time, for there
is something about Gwen I don't like."

"Well, we've got nothing to do but try our best now; but 'tis pity
Gwen looked at it!"  And he unfolded from the crumpled newspaper a
large lump of coal, which, after well washing, he placed at the
bottom of the cask, pouring the fermented brecci gently over it.
"There it is!  Now all I ask for my secret is--that when your cask is
empty, you will take the coal out, and burn it in the middle of your
strongest fire; it will bring good luck to your next brewing; you
will be surprised to see what a mass of mud will be gathered round
it, and your beer will be like the cryshal! and I'll come and taste
the first glass."

"Yes, thou shalt indeed!"

"Well, good-bye, Mishtress; 'tis only Gwen I am afraid of now!  Hast
heard any more about Ivor Parry?"

"No," answered Gwladys, in a calm voice which astonished herself,
"only that he is well nursed by the daughter of the house--Gwladys is
her name!"

"Well, well, poor fellow! when you are ill it is well to have a woman
about you," and he stumped away.

Quite in the gloaming, when the hearth had been swept up, Gwladys,
dressed in her neatest frock of Welsh flannel, with her favourite
pink muslin kerchief tied loosely round her neck, sat knitting near
the little window, through which the setting sun sent a rosy parting
glow.

Hugh had gone a few miles into the country on business, and Nell
Jones and Sara Pentraeth, two near neighbours, had taken the
opportunity of paying their first wedding call upon the bride.  They
were constant friends and companions, and although they quarrelled at
almost every interview, never seemed happy apart.  They had heard so
much of the glories of Gwladys' new home that they had been dying to
see it for the last fortnight, but had been unable hitherto to
overcome their jealousy sufficiently to pay the requisite visit; this
evening, however, they both made their appearance in the doorway.

"Dir anwl! is it you, Nell fâch? and you, Sara, venturing to leave
your little baby? there's kind you are," and Gwladys dusted too
already speckless chairs and placed them for her guests.

"Well, we have come to wish you 'Priodas dda,' Mishtress," said Sara,
who was spokeswoman, Nell being too busily engaged with roving eyes
in taking stock of the furniture; "and we would have come before, but
as for me, indeed, to goodness, my heart sank down to my clocs, when
I heard of all the grand things around you; but I am glad now I came,
for I am not so frightened after all, and I don't see anything out of
the way here!"

"I hope not indeed," said Gwladys, smiling.

"No, no! the Mishteer knew better than to make it too grand for you;
it would be too great a change.  But that is a beautiful chair you
are sitting on--solid oak, I see!"

"Yes," said Gwladys, rising; "Hugh had it made for me."

"Caton pawb!"[8] said both women, raising their hands in
astonishment, "a red velvet cushion!  Wel! wel! the queen couldn't
have anything better!  But there, we all know how an old lover spoils
his wife!"

Here Nell turned to the dresser.

"Wel, to be sure! the dresser looks nice; I have heard tell it is the
best-dressed dresser in the parish; but so many things alike.  For my
part, I like different colours--green, blue, and pink, not all pink
like these.  And what are these?" and she gingerly raised the covers
of two vegetable dishes, which stood one each side of the dresser
shelf.

"They are for the potatoes and cabbages," said Gwladys meekly,
feeling that she was indeed in danger of hurting the susceptibilities
of her touchy neighbours by the exhibition of her treasures; "and
those are the dishes--six plates and three dishes, and two little
ones for gravy; they called it a dinner service at the shop at Caer
Madoc."

"Perhaps indeed!" said Sara, whose mingled feelings of jealousy and
astonishment could only be expressed by this never-failing phrase.

Meanwhile, Nell was walking round the room, examining with curious
eyes and busy fingers every little adornment which the cosy cottage
contained; but the coffor was the object of their deepest admiration.

"Look at the polish of it!" said Nell, who was not so clever as Sara
at hiding her feelings.

Gwladys with pride opened every drawer.

"Full to the brim!" said Nell, with gasping envy.  "I expect old
'Ebenezer' will be well filled on Sunday; everyone is looking out for
your new jacket."

"They will be disappointed then," said Gwladys, laughing, "for Hugh
comes with me to Brynseion from this time forward."

"Wel! wel! the Mishteer has given up his soul to you!" in a tone half
spiteful, half abject, for "to give up his chapel" was synonymous
with "giving up his soul," even though it was only to attend another
of the same denomination more conveniently situated.

At this last proof of Hugh Morgan's complete subjection to his wife's
charms the two women were quite overcome, and when they went away
they made their adieux in more humble tones, and tacked a "mem" and a
bob curtesy on to the end!  But it was only until they were out of
sight that this meek behaviour continued, for as they walked up the
road they drew closer together, and with sundry nudges and winks
discussed the situation.

"Did ever man see such a thing?" said Sara.  "A red velvet-cushion!
didst ever hear of such a thing?  Nani's daughter to sit upon a red
velvet cushion!  No wonder her stool in the sail-shed is so often
empty!  Wel! wel! the ways of Providence are puzzling indeed.  But of
all things in the world, Nell, fâch--the dishes for the potatoes!
Wouldn't basins do, I should like to know?"

"Oh!  I don't expect they use them," said Nell.  "What did she call
them?  Some English name."

"'A dinner service,' if you please," said Sara, in tones of disgust.
"Ach y fi! what is the world coming to when Nani's daughter sits on a
red velvet cushion, and has a 'dinner service' on her dresser? dost
know what, Nell, fâch?  I am sick of the world; it is so foolish.
And didst see her ring? as thick as two, Nell, fâch!  Wel, wel! the
poor Mishteer has made a fool of himself at last!  'Dwla dwl yw dwl
hên!'[9] But, Nell," with another nudge and a shrewd wink, "we've got
to curtsey to her, my woman.  But we've got to hide our feelings in
this world, Nell, fâch.  There's two pigs in the sty; and that pretty
poppet won't do all the salting herself, I'll be bound.  And there's
the herrings to be salted in the autumn.  I won't mind doing the work
for her, but there's many a bit of pork can be spared from the
salting, and I daresay she'll throw a dozen or two of herrings into
my pay!"

"Oh, I can salt as well as thee," said Nell, "and I can set the
garden for them----"

"Oh, yes, I daresay thee'lt pick something out of them!" said Sara.
"So we must curtsey and say, 'mem' to Mishtress.  Ach y fi!  I am
tired of this old world.  There's Shemi coming home, I must go and
put the cawl on; good-night."

As they turned into their cottages, Hugh came whistling down the
road.  He had settled his business in the farm on the moor, and was
returning with hurrying steps to the home which held his young bride;
for, no doubt, in a great measure the old proverb was right, and
Hugh, the man of forty, was more absolutely enslaved by the new-born
passion which had come into his life than a younger man would have
been.  The thought of Gwladys filled his heart to the exclusion for
the time of every other consideration.  She was the sweetest and
fairest woman in the world--the peerless pearl of all the
maidens!--and his whole life should be devoted to her happiness.  He
would guard her path from every danger; he would brush every thorn
away, and spread it with flowers for her to walk upon; and as he saw
the light which twinkled from his window, and pictured Gwladys' slim
figure moving about the room, his heart leapt up with joy, and life
seemed to stretch before him in one long boundless haze of happiness.
He passed 'n'wncwl Jos standing at his cottage door with a nod only.

"Ha, ha!" said the old man, "'tis no use asking you to come in
now--too much attraction at home, eh?"

"Well," said Hugh, stopping a moment, "'tis too late to-night, and I
don't like to leave the little one alone, you see; but to-morrow
night, she is going to see Nani, and I'll come up and sit with thee
and Mari.  How is she?"

"Quite well," said 'n'wncwl Jos.  "She has been hay-making all day,
and has not come home yet."

On the following Sunday the worshippers at Brynseion Chapel paid less
attention than usual to their minister's fiery sermon.  Gwladys
Morgan's jacket had been the subject of their thoughts and
conversation during the foregoing week, and now here it was in all
its glory of lace and bead trimming, plainly exposed to every
eye--nay, Sara Pentraeth and Nell Jones had been so fortunate as to
secure seats in the very next pew behind the Mishteer and Mishtress,
so that they were able correctly to appraise its value.  Nell's eyes
as usual roamed over every bead and frill, and a series of
unconscious nudges in Sara's side expressed the feelings which the
presence of the minister and congregation obliged her to conceal.
Hugh had commissioned a friend, a sea-captain, to buy the jacket for
him at a large seaport town up the bay.  The price was to be no
object, but fashion and good taste alone were to be considered, and
consequently its arrival had created quite a little ferment in the
village.  Gwladys, when it was presented to her the day after her
marriage, went into the expected raptures; but, truth to tell, its
grandeur threw a shadow over her Sundays, and though Nani looked
across the chapel at her with beaming admiration, she was glad to
exchange it for her quiet Welsh flannel dress when the three services
of the day were over, and Hugh and she could doff their broadcloth
and silk, and lay them to rest in the coffer until the following
Sunday.  It was midsummer, and as they emerged from the crowded
chapel on the day when the glories of the jacket first dazzled the
eyes of Mwntseison, the sweet, pure air greeted them like a blessing.
The road, shaded on both sides with old gnarled elder trees, was
white with the fallen blossoms, the scent of which mingled with that
of the wild honeysuckle climbing over the hedges.

They stopped a moment to lean over a bridge which crossed the little
stream just where it took a headlong leap over the rocks down to the
lower level, upon which it made its more sober way through the
village into the sea.  The spray from the waterfall wetted their
faces as they looked through the honeysuckle and ivy into the depths
below.  The swallows darted backwards and forwards where the water
filled the air with its rushing sound.

"'Tis a gay world, lass, eh?" said Hugh, looking with almost wistful
tenderness into Gwladys' face.

"Yes, indeed," she answered; "'tis a pity we live in houses; we lose
a lot of beauty so."

"Yes," said Hugh; "but to me, now, the real beauty and happiness of
life are at home.  Since I have thee always with me, my life seems to
be almost too full of joy.  Dost feel the same, f'anwylyd?  Art as
happy with me?"

For a moment there was a rushing sound in her ears which drowned the
sound of the waterfall, and tears filled her eyes as she sought for a
truthful answer.

"Oh, Hugh, bâch!" she said at last, "who could live with thee without
loving thee?  Indeed I am far happier than I deserve to be--my only
trouble is lest I should not fill thy life completely; but if thou
art telling the truth, and dost not find anything wanting in me, that
is all I want."

"Nothing, merch i, nothing," said Hugh.  And he spoke the truth, for
he had not as yet fully realised that there was a something wanting
in his cup of happiness; while in Gwladys' heart, every fresh proof
of her husband's passionate love seemed to press deeper the barb of
unrest and misery which was poisoning her life.  His tender words,
his caresses only deepened her sense of loss, while, added to her own
sorrow, pity for Hugh Morgan began to awaken within her.  She had not
realised that the bitterness could not be hers alone, but that
through her it would reach the man who loved her, and whom she
admired and honoured so much.

"Could I only tell mother; but no!"  She felt she must hide her
misery from every human eye, and, above all, from Hugh, whose heart
the knowledge would break.  Yes, whatever it cost her, she must hide
it from him; and she must make more strenuous efforts to appear and
be glad in Hugh's love, and in all the comforts surrounding her.

All this passed through her mind while she watched the swallows
darting through the spray and listened to the rush of the waterfall.
She turned to her husband with as merry a smile as she could call to
her lips.

"Come, 'mach-geni, we must not quite forget our home in watching the
birds and the water; let us go home."

There was a ring of gaiety in the speech which Hugh felt and
responded to at once, and leaning over the bridge he reached a wild
rose which grew out of the mossy masonry.

"A posy for my darling," he said, offering it to her.

She took it, smiling, and fastened it on her breast in spite of the
silk jacket; and Hugh Morgan turned homewards a happy man.


[1] My lass.

[2] Of course.

[3] Crystal.

[4] Dear! dear!

[5] Good gracious!

[6] Devil.

[7] A kind of porridge.

[8] An exclamation, as "good gracious!"

[9] "There is no fool like an old fool."



CHAPTER VIII.

CONFIDENCES.

The summer and autumn months slipped by, bringing but little change
to Mwntseison.  The hay harvest brought its usual sweet additions to
the charms of the season--the scent of the dry hay and meadow-sweet
on the air, the call of the corncrake in the grey evenings, the wisps
of hay left hanging on the hedges by the laden waggons.  The men and
women had all become a shade browner from exposure to the sun, for
even the work of the sail-shed was suspended for the haymaking; and
there was not a man, woman, or child who did not find some excuse for
tossing the hay.  The air seemed full of song, for people at
Mwntseison always felt the work went better while they sang in chorus
together.  In the sail-shed there was a murmur of singing, commenced
by the women and taken up by the lads and men until alto, tenor, and
bass filled up the harmony.  Best of all went the music when the
Mishteer's rich voice joined in in the bass.  A favourite glee was
The Herring Boat, which went with so tuneful a swing that it seemed
to suit every kind of occupation and experience.

The children sang it sitting in little groups on the warm sand, the
sailors on the bay, and the haymakers in the field; but oftenest of
all, the walls of the old sail-shed echoed to its tones.  It ran as
follows, though English words can but poorly express the vivid
brightness of the original:--

      "Out there on the raging sea
          The wind is high;
      Nothing but foam and mist to see
          Under the sky!
  Father and mother, come down to the shore;
  Friends and neighbours, stand at the door;
  Pray--if you never have prayed before--
          'Lord, hear our cry!'
      Torn sails and broken mast--
      Oh! let the boat come home at last!
      Ja houp, hal!  Ja houp, hal!
      Hal!  Hal!  Hal!  Hal!

      "Out there on the stormy main
          A calm has come!
      The sunshine chases the wind and rain,
          And gilds the foam.
  Father and mother, come down to the shore;
  Friends and neighbours, come out to the door;
  And shout--if you never have shouted before--
          A welcome home!
      Torn sails and broken mast--
      The boat is safe at home at last!
      Ja houp, hal!  Ja houp, hal!
      Hal!  Hal!  Hal!  Hal!"


The corn harvest was nearly over before the news reached the village
of Ivor Parry's convalescence.

The Lapwing had flitted across the bay to the northern port, and had
returned, bearing the news of his recovery and many warm greetings
from him to his friends at Mwntseison.

"Tell me exactly how he was, my lad.  I hunger to hear something of
him," said Hugh Morgan to the youthful captain of the little ship,
and speaking English, for sailors possessed the distinguishing
accomplishment of being able to speak the English language, and are
proud of it.  Hugh himself spoke it fluently and grammatically,
though with a broad Welsh accent.

"Wel, he wass looking pale and thin," replied Captain Jones, "and the
daughter of the house brought a chair for him to sit on outside the
door.  Gwladys is her name, and she's a purty girl, too!

"'There,' he says, 'turn my chair where the wind will blow straight
from the sea.'

"'Tis blowing straight across the bay today,' sez I.  ''Tis coming
later from Mwntseison than me, though I only left yesterday morning.'

"Wel, he didn't say nothin' to that, but he took a long breath, and
he sighed very heavy."

"'Oh, I'll soon be well now,' he sez, 'and begin my work again.'  And
when I was parting, he sez: 'Remember me to the Mishteer,' sez he,
'and tell him that distance don't make no difference at all in my
friendship for him.'"

"And what message to the Mishtress?"

"'Oh, yes, of course,' he sez, 'my kind remembrances to her, too!'
and he didn't say no more."

"Well, that's enough," said Hugh, returning to his Welsh, "to know
that he is getting well, and that his heart is with us yet.  We'll
have him back again yet, boys.  We'll send him a 'round robin,' and
every one in Mwntseison shall sign it.  Thee and I shall be the first
to sign it.  Dost hear, Gwladys?  But thee must sprack up, girl, or
Ivor will ask me what I've been doing to thee to make thee so pale
and thin!"  And he, too, sighed heavily, as Ivor had.

The winter months sped on, and the spring once more awakened land and
sea.  On one of her brightest and freshest mornings the doors of the
sail-shed stood wide open, as they had done a year ago, and Hugh
Morgan as usual worked busily amongst his men, arranging, watching,
directing with indefatigable spirit, though, truth to tell, things
had been going rather against him lately.  He missed Ivor's watchful
interest in his business, and his absence, like an intangible cloud,
somewhat tarnished the brightness of his life.

At the first glance, Hugh's manly form and handsome face seems
unchanged, but a closer scrutiny reveals a haunting sadness behind
his genial smile.

Gwladys was also present, and was busily engaged in directing some
portion of the work which she took under her own particular
surveillance, and part of which she was able to do in her own home,
much against her husband's wishes, for he would have liked to see her
spend her days, her time, and his money in pleasure only; but the
time hung heavily on her hands, and she felt herself perforce obliged
to seek for work outside her own home, and playfully insisted upon
taking upon her a portion of the work to which she had been
accustomed from childhood.

"Wilt come up to-night, Nell," she said, as she left the shed one
day, "and bring up those reef points and the new flag for me to hem?
There's a bag of sucan[1] and half a cheese you can have."

"Tank'ee, tank'ee, Mishtress fâch," said Nell, standing up to make a
series of bob curtseys; "there's good you are to me, and I will bring
you a bunch of 'moon rocket.'  I gathered it when the moon was full
in a cleft of the rocks at Traeth-y-daran.  'Tis splendid for
bringing the colour back to your blood.  Will you try it, mem?"

"Yes," said Gwladys, "I will try it to please thee, Nell.  From
Traeth-y-daran, didst say?  Bring it to me; but I am quite well," and
she left the shed, Hugh looking after her with a wistful sadness, for
it was now very evident that the girl, who a year ago might have
stood for a picture of "Hebe," had now lost much of the full ripe
form, as well as the glow of health, which had once made her so
peculiarly attractive.  She was still very fair and lovely, perhaps
more so than before, but in a different way.  Her dark brown eyes had
deep shadows beneath them, and her lips a curve of sadness.  What was
the cause of this sudden failing of health?  Hugh tried in vain to
discover, and he was fast resigning himself to the belief that her
delicacy was due to that much-dreaded disease, consumption, which was
very prevalent in that neighbourhood.  Whether from the continual
intermarriage of the villagers on the coast, or from some other
cause, this cruel disease is very rife amongst the young people of
both sexes; and Hugh looked every day, with nervous fears, for signs
of the dreaded enemy.

Gwladys laughed at his fears, however, and continued to declare she
was quite well.

Mari Vone, who was her most intimate friend and companion, was as
much puzzled as Hugh at first.  With the quick intuition of a loving
heart, she had soon discovered that Hugh and Gwladys' marriage had
not brought to either of them the complete happiness which she had
expected would follow their union.  She spent some part of every day
in Gwladys' home, either helping in the household duties or sitting
with her at work, engaged in those long chats which seem to fill up
any blank there may be in the lives of women, as smoking does with
men.  She never stayed later than four or five o'clock, and Hugh was
wont to reproach her playfully with always leaving before he came
home.  Though Mari pleasantly laughed away his reproaches, it was
true that she could not look on unmoved while the man who yet reigned
supreme in her heart caressed and dallied with his young wife.  It
was true that she was not yet strong enough to feel no bitterness of
spirit when she saw the tender affection which Hugh lavished upon
Gwladys, and which seemed to be received by her without the
reciprocal delight which Mari herself would have felt.  Her pure and
unselfish love made her desire his happiness before any earthly good,
and it wounded her true heart to see that he missed something in his
wife, without plainly realising that he did so, or, at all events,
without confessing it even to himself.

It was during one of these long chats, when the two friends sat
knitting at the cottage door, that the suspicion first dawned upon
her which was afterwards to develop into such a miserable certainty.
They had sat silent for some time, both heads bent over their
clicking knitting needles, when Mari looked up and spoke.

"Wel, wyrl Lallo's new pig seems to be as noisy as the last year's.
You can always hear them abusing each other."

"Yes," said Gwladys, laughing; "I think, between the baby and the
pig, Siencyn will be glad to go to sea again."

"'Tis a crying baby, indeed," said Mari; "a frail little thing.  I'm
afraid it will not live."

"Oh, I hope so!  It would break poor Gwen's heart to lose it.  I
can't think why--but she's always very spiteful to me."

"To thee!" said Mari.  "Why?  I wonder--but she dare not show her
spite to the Mishtress, surely!  Poor Gwen!  I pity her.  Didst know
she was very fond of Ivor Parry once?"

A crimson blush overspread Gwladys' face as she bent more closely
over her knitting--a blush that faded as quickly as it had appeared,
leaving on her face a deathly pallor, though she answered in a calm
voice:

"I remember hearing something of it."

Mari saw the blush and the pallor, and quickly changed the
conversation, for if there was one trait in her character more
conspicuous than another, it was tenderness, and, with a spasm of
pain, she perceived she had touched upon a secret in Gwladys' life.

"It is drawing near tea-time; I must go.  'N'wncwl Jos is so
punctual!  the tap of his wooden leg is almost as good as a clock."

"Here is Hugh," said Gwladys, and she ran to the gate to meet him.

There was only the usual "Wel, merch i!" and "Wel, Hugh!" at meeting,
for the Welsh, although so emotional--perhaps because of this--are
very chary of any exhibition of tenderness in public.

"Ah! now I have caught thee, Mari, going to slip away as usual just
as I come in.  Indeed, now, stay to tea.  'N'wncwl Jos has gone out
in the Speedwell, and she will not be back till nine o'clock; he told
me to tell thee.  Come, sit thee down, and keep Gwladys and me
company."

"Oh, then I will, and I can fry those light-cakes for thee, Gwladys."
And before long they were seated round the oak table, in the shade of
the big chimney, for the evenings were still cold, although it was
May.

Gwladys hovered round her husband with all sorts of little nameless
attentions, endeavouring, as she always did, by faithfully performing
and even exceeding in every wifely duty to make up to him for the
love which was lacking in her.

"There's a bonnie pile of lightcakes," said Hugh, "as tall as Caer
Madoc church-steeple; but never mind, I'll soon knock the pinnacle
off it!" and he flipped two or three on to Gwladys' and Mari's plates.

"One at a time, Hugh bâch," said Gwladys.  "Thee wouldst soon make me
ill if thou hadst thy way."

"I'm afraid I have had my way, lass.  Dost see how pale she is, Mari?
What shall we do to her?"

"Well, I think, take her for a trip on the Aden Ydon.  She sails for
Cork in June.  That would bring her roses back."

"Perhaps indeed," said Hugh.  "But how shall I manage it?  I have had
complaints of the work in the sail-shed from many quarters lately,
and I must watch it closer.  But one thing is certain, I must ask
Ivor Parry to come back, and that won't hurt my pride, for we've
always been like brothers, and I believe his friendship is mine
still."

"No doubt of that," said Mari, endeavouring to attract Hugh's notice
from his wife, who sat with bent head, changing from white to red,
and from red to white.

When Hugh had left the house, she raised her hands, which had been
clasped on her lap, and covered her drooping face with them, while
Mari, pretending not to notice her, bustled about clearing the
tea-table; but so long did she remain in this position that it was
useless longer to ignore it, so, drawing a stool to her side, she
gently tried to draw away the hands which Gwladys still kept over her
face, and was surprised to find them wet with tears.

"Gwladys, anwl! what is it?"

"Something I must not tell you!" said the young wife, with head still
bent, the tears coursing each other down her cheeks; "something I
must keep for ever here,"--and she smote her breast with her clenched
hand--"until I lie in my coffin.  You heard Hugh say everything has
gone wrong with him lately?  It is true, Mari fâch.  Oh, everything
is wrong!  The whole world is twisted and torn, and I long to escape
from it."

Mari sat beside her, holding one of her hands in stricken silence.
"Ts, ts!" was all she said, while Gwladys' tears flowed
unrestrainedly.

"Poor Hugh! poor Hugh!" she said between her sobs; and Mari cried
too, but softly.

"I have heard that once Hugh and thee were lovers, Mari?"

"Oh, in the old, old past, Gwladys.  Now his heart is thine alone,
and my only prayer is that he should be happy with thee.  Dost
believe me, merch i?"

"Yes, I believe all that is good of thee, Mari.  Thou art an angel
somehow straying on earth.  Wilt be my guardian angel, and love me
still, though I am so weak and sinful?  Oh, why did not Hugh marry
thee, instead of me?  I believe in his heart of hearts he loves thee
still, although he has been carried away by a sudden wind of passion.
Yes--yes; there has been some terrible mistake," and she started to
her feet almost wildly, "and it can never be set right--never, never,
never!"  And with the last word she flung herself down on the settle,
crying bitterly.

Mari waited a moment in dazed silence.

"Art better, merch i?" she said at length, when the sobs began to
grow less violent; and stooping down, and whispering so softly that
not even the proverbial walls could hear, she said, "Now, no word of
explaining; none is wanted between thee and me; we have been soul to
soul together to-day.  I know all thy secret, and I think thou
knowest mine!"

Gwladys' lips moved in assent, but she seemed too broken down for
more.

"Listen again," said Mari.  "We are both women whose dream of
happiness has been shattered; but there is still one thing which we
can work for as long as life shall last--Hugh's happiness.  Can we
work together, Gwladys fâch? can we still be friends with these
bitter secrets between us?  It is for thee to settle."

Gwladys' only answer was to raise her arms and clasp them round
Mari's neck, drawing her close to her in a long embrace, during which
some silent tears were shed by both.

"Never leave me, Mari!"

"Never!"


[1] Crushed oats, with the husks on, used for making a kind of
strained porridge.



CHAPTER IX.

GWEN'S REBELLION.

"Where is Gwen?" said Hugh Morgan, looking at an unoccupied stool at
one end of the sail-shed; "she has not been here for two days."

"No," said one of her friends, "she's at home, Mishteer.  Her little
baby is ill, and she and Lallo are wild with fear of losing her."

"Ts, ts, that's a pity!  Has she had a doctor?"

"Malen hysbys[1] has been there, and the child would have been well
by now, but that Siencyn would open the window before he sailed
yesterday; of course the little one caught cold, and now I'm
afraid----" and she shook her head mournfully.

"Well, well," said the Mishteer, "I must go and see about getting a
doctor for her."  And he left the shed, and passed up the road
towards Gwen's cottage, upon reaching which, he found her deeply
intent upon a morsel of raw meat, which she was roasting on a fork
before the fire.  Her little baby, meanwhile, white and moaning, lay
across Lallo's knees, who also seemed much interested in the bit of
meat.

"Well, Gwen, I am sorry to hear your little one is ill; but diranwl!
babies have nine lives and recover from all sorts of illnesses."

Gwen scarcely withdrew her eyes from her cooking to answer.

"Oh! of course, I know that, Mishteer, I know she will be well soon;
but if you had a child of your own, you would know 'tis a cruel thing
to see it suffering!"

"B'tshwr, indeed!" said Hugh.  "I can quite understand that; but what
is it that you are cooking?"

"A mouse," said Gwen.  "Malen hysbys says a roasted mouse will cure
my baby."

"Caton pawb!" said Hugh, "what nonsense, Gwen!  I will send for Dr.
Hughes; he ought to have been here sooner.  A roasted mouse, indeed.
Where did she hear that from?  From Peggi Shân?"

"Peggi Shân knew more than Dr. Hughes a good deal," said Gwen; "and
if she was alive now my baby would not be suffering; but it will be
well by to-morrow."

"I hope so, indeed," said Hugh; "but if you do not let Dr. Hughes see
it, I think it will die, Gwen; that is the plain truth, and there is
no use hiding it.  I will send for him at once.  And throw away that
nasty thing you are roasting," he added as he left the house.

"Die!" said Gwen fiercely; "she shall not die!  There's calmly he
says 'die!'  I wish I had never let that wife of his touch my baby;
it hasn't been well since she nursed it here one day."

As she spoke, through the open doorway came the sounds of singing
from a knot of women and children passing by.

"Hard-hearted wretches!" she said, viciously pounding the mouse,
which had been cooked to a cinder.  "They can laugh and sing while my
child is sick; they don't care.  But their time will come!" she
added, as she mixed the dark powder with some brown sugar and butter,
and, with cooing, tender words, she coaxed the little moaning baby to
swallow the unsavory morsel.  At the same time Dr. Hughes entered,
breezy and fresh from his drive over the hill.

"Hello!" he called, as his portly form filled up the whole doorway.
"What's wrong here?  I met Hugh Morgan down the road, and he told me
I was wanted here.  What is it, Gwen?  Hello!" he said again, in
quite an altered tone, as he caught sight of the little panting baby,
its pretty lips discoloured with smears of butter and sugar and
something worse.  "What's this?" and he looked in anger from one
woman to another.  "How dare you!  You have been trying some of your
filthy messes again, and with the usual result.  You have killed your
baby.  Had you sent for me in time, I might have saved him; it is now
too late."

At the words "too late" Gwen screamed, and snatched the little one
from its grandmother's lap.  Disturbed by the scream it opened its
eyes for a moment, and then died with a little fluttering gasp.

"There, lay it down, poor little thing," said the doctor; "you can do
no more for it; but next time you see a baby dying, don't add to its
pain by stuffing filthy things into its mouth."

Gwen fixed her heavy-lidded eyes upon the doctor with an angry look,
saying:

"Go out of my house if you can do no good, and leave me to my sorrow.
You will repent of this."

"Of what, woman?"

She made no answer further than to point to the door, and Dr. Hughes
went out, shrugging his shoulders.

Through the open doorway the singing of the children came in on the
breeze.

"Fileiniaid," Gwen said, shaking her clenched fist at the doorway.
"I hate them.  Are they all to be happy while I am miserable?" and
hastily rising, she took her little dead baby in her arms, and
pressing it to her bosom, paced moaning up and down the room; while
Lallo, even in her fresh sorrows remembering the village proprieties,
closed the door and covered up the little window with a pocket
handkerchief, and, with no little difficulty, at last persuaded Gwen
to lay the child on the bed.

"Extraordinary woman that Gwen," said Dr. Hughes, as he called by the
sail-shed to report to Hugh Morgan.  "Devilish temper.  Second Peggi
Shân.  You see if I'm not right.  The little baby?  Oh, dead as a
herring, its last moments disturbed by some filthy concoction stuffed
into its mouth."

"Yes, I know, indeed," said Hugh; "a roasted mouse.  I saw her
cooking it."  And Dr. Hughes drove away with an oath.

"Mari," said 'n'wncwl Jos one day as he stumped in from the sunshine;
"isn't there a hole in Lallo's penucha?"

"Yes," said Mari, looking at him with some surprise.  "There is a
short board near the fireplace, where the damp earth comes quite near
to the top.  It was going to be finished fifteen years ago when the
floor was boarded, but the hole is still there.  Why, 'n'wncwl Jos?"

"Oh, nothing," said the old man.  "Hast heard the little one is to be
buried on Monday?  and to-morrow night there's to be a gwylnos.[2]
Wilt come, Mari?"

"No, indeed," she said.  "I will come to the prayer meeting, because
then I can sit at the door or in the passage; but to be shut up all
night in a room with a dead body makes me faint, and besides, I don't
like a gwylnos."

"Wel, no," said her uncle; "I know both thou and Hugh Morgan are very
odd in some things, and that is one thing--not to like a gwylnos.
Wel, I'm going anyway," and he stumped vigorously, and put on a
defiant look.  "What is the good of my never having married if I'm
going to be ruled by a woman after all?  Caton pawb!  Wouldst like us
to bury our dead as the Saeson[3] do?  To shut the door upon them and
say, 'There! we've finished with you; you stop there by yourself in
the dark!'  And then click with the key, and sit down in the warm
kitchen to a comfortable meal, and talk about who's to have his
clothes?  No, no!  Lallo and I are too old friends for me to desert
her now in her trouble; so to the gwylnos I'll go, merch i, whatever
thou say'st!"

"Well, b'dsiwr! if you like, 'n'wncwl Jos," said Mari; "and I only
meant that I didn't like the drinking and talking that goes on at a
gwylnos, for death is too solemn a thing for such nonsense."

"Oh, jâr-i!  I agree with thee there.  For a man to lie there, stiff
and cold, hearing and saying nothing, while his friends are smoking
and chatting near him, good liquor passing around him and he knowing
nothing about it--well, yes! 'tis a solemn thing!  But that's no
reason why we shouldn't stay with the poor fellow as long as he is
above ground, if it was only to comfort his relatives!"  And he began
to "furrage" in an old sea-chest, where he kept his own personal
treasures safely under lock and key, bringing out from its depths one
of the square, high-shouldered bottles of "Hollands" which he had
collected in a mysterious manner during his sea-faring days.  Having
closed the chest with a bang, he hid the bottle under his rough pilot
coat, and made his way up to Lallo's cottage.  His low tap at the
door was answered by Gwen herself.

"So sorry, calon fâch!" he said, "for thy trouble and for Lallo's.
This is for the gwylnos, merch i; give it to thy mother," and he held
out the square bottle.

Gwen made no answer, but turned away and called her mother, leaving
'n'wncwl Jos with outstretched arms at the doorway.

"Jâr-i! there's manners!" he muttered to himself.

But if Gwen was scant of gratitude, Lallo made up for it to
overflowing.

"'N'wncwl Jos bâch!  There's kind you are to remember us in our
trouble.  A hundred thanks! and I hope you will be at the gwylnos; I
will never forget your kindness!"

"Twt, twt! hisht about kindness," said the old man, backing from the
doorway, in fear lest he might be asked in "to see the body," a
compliment considered due to everyone who knocked at the door.

On the following day, which was Sunday, after every service in the
two chapels was added the notice, given out by one of the deacons in
the "set fawr" or big seat under the pulpit:

"There will be a prayer-meeting at the house of Lallo Hughes this
evening at eight o'clock, to be followed by a gwylnos for any friends
who are wishful to attend."

In the gloaming, when the many services of the day were over, the
congregations trooped down towards Lallo's cottage.  Of course, there
was no room inside, but they overflowed into the cwrt and into the
roadway, where they stood in the gathering twilight, only hearing a
faint murmur of the prayers which were offered up inside the house;
but still they waited patiently, listening to the rising and falling
of the prayers, which mingled with the soft sighing of the sea, and
speaking to each other in whispers.

Lallo, who managed to get a furtive peep through the corner of the
covered-up window, was much comforted by the presence of such a crowd
of sympathisers, and called to mind with satisfaction that at the
last gwylnos in the village, there had not been so large a gathering.

Mari Vone sat on the low hedge of the cwrt, looking over the sea,
where she was joined by Hugh Morgan and his wife.

"Canst hear, Mari?" he asked.

"No, nothing!  But I've been listening to the sea, and I quite forgot
the prayer-meeting, whatever."

Hugh opened his eyes, with a smiling pretence of reproof.

"Where is 'n'wncwl Jos?" he whispered; and Mari pointed to the
doorway.  Hugh looked grave.  "Is he going to stay to the gwylnos?"

"Yes," said Mari, with an uneasy look on her face.

"Wouldst like me to stay, lass?"

"Oh! no, Hugh bâch! and you hating a gwylnos as much as I do!"

"Twt, twt!" said Hugh, and he elbowed his way into the crowded
passage.

The meeting was fortunately drawing to a close when Hugh entered, for
the air in the small, close room was intolerably stifling.  In the
penucha he discovered the old man sitting close to the coffin, which
stood across the fireplace.  He had found the square hole in the
boards, and had been able to get safely through the meeting without
disturbing the gathering by the sound of his wooden leg, for in the
soft earth he had been able to stump unheard.

"Well, Mishteer!" he said, when the dispersing of the crowd and the
comparative emptying of the cottage enabled him to draw near his
friend, "there's beautiful prayers we had!  There's no doubt Sam Saer
beats anyone in Mwntseison on his knees.  Are you going to stop to
the gwylnos?"

"Well, what d'ye think?" said Hugh.  "'Tis shocking close here, and
the room is too full.  I think Lallo will be glad to get rid of a few
of us.  I'll stop if thou lik'st; but I was thinking perhaps thee and
Mari would come in and have supper with us to-night.  There's one of
the ducks since dinner got to be eaten, and we've tapped the fresh
cask, and it's as clear as cryshal--thanks to thy secret, 'n'wncwl
Jos!"

"Well, indeed, I think I will come," said the old man, "for I've sat
by that coffin till I'm stiff.  Good-bye, Lallo fâch!" he said,
turning into the penisha.  "I see you have so many friends here, I
will only be in the way.  Good-bye, Gwen fâch!  I will be at the
funeral to-morrow."  And he searched his memory for one of the stock
phrases which he tried to carry with him on such occasions.  "Cheer
up, merch i, and remember what the Bible says, 'Would God I had died
for thee, my son!'"

When the Mishteer had piloted him safely into the soft evening air,
he was rewarded by a look of gratitude from Mari's blue eyes.

"'N'wncwl Jos and you are coming to supper with us, Mari; he has
agreed to come, so now don't you hold back."

"Oh, well, that's a good thing," said Mari, "for I have already
promised Gwladys to come."

Lallo and her friends were already forming a semicircle around the
bright fire, Gwen sitting straight and silent in the corner.  Hour
after hour of the long night they sat there talking, at first quietly
and solemnly, but as the night wore on, and the contents of 'n'wncwl
Jos's bottle was handed round, tongues were loosed and conversation
flowed more freely.

Stories were told of "corpse candles" which wound their flickering
way from cottage to churchyard; of phantom funerals, in which the
narrator had been so closely pressed by the unseen crowd as nearly to
lose his breath, and become himself one of the mysterious company of
"cwn bendith y mamman"--the weird invisible pack of hounds, whose
yelping chorus rushes by on the wings of the wind; and many other
tales, but always ending with the words, "but that was in the olden
time, you know!  Now, of course, we're wiser!"  Their vaunted wisdom,
however, did not prevent their cowering more closely over the blazing
logs when the wind moaned in the chimney as it swept up the valley in
the small hours of the morning, when one day was dead and the other
was scarcely living.  In the early morning, when the grey dawn came
in as well as it could through the little covered window, everyone
was glad to welcome it, and to blow out the candles which stood at
the head of the coffin, to hang the kettle on the hook over the fire,
and to help Lallo with her preparations for breakfast, returning
without regret to the material pleasures of tea and buttered toast
from their incursions into the realm of darkness and mystery.

On the third day after its death, the little one was laid to rest,
followed by all the inhabitants of Mwntseison--for a funeral, no
matter of how young a child, is an important function in Wales, and
few within an area of two miles will fail to attend it, for there is
a chance of hearing a sermon, and the certainty of an old Welsh hymn
or two; and if there be anything on earth calculated to move the
feelings, and awaken sleeping memories, it is a Welsh funeral hymn.
Its rising and falling strains, always in a minor key, are harrowing
to the feelings of the bereaved; but by those not too closely
interested, their emotional character is thoroughly enjoyed.

Lallo's small cottage was crowded, the throng overflowing into the
garden and the road; and when the little coffin was carried out, and
the large concourse of people, outside and in, joined in the funeral
hymn, its wailing, dirge-like notes, rising and falling on the air,
touched poor Lallo's heart beyond endurance, and she moaned and wept
loudly, her sobs being accompanied by many a sympathising tear from
the crowd; but Gwen walked beside her, silent and tearless, with a
hard, angry gleam in her eyes.

"Poor thing! poor thing!" whispered the women; "she can't cry;
there's a pity!  She looks like Peggi Shân to-day!"

When, returned from the funeral, they reached their own door, one or
two neighbours proposed to stay with her a few hours, but she coldly
answered, "No, I don't want you," and, closing the door with a bang,
bolted it noisily.

Left to herself, she looked vaguely round the cottage, and, turning
to her mother, who had seated herself sobbing in the chimney corner,
said, in a cold, hard voice:

"What are thou crying about, woman?  It wasn't thy child upon whose
coffin the clods fell so heavily; they were not thine, those little
hands that lay so stiff and white, that used to close so tight round
my finger.  What hast thou to cry about?"

"Oh, Gwen," said poor Lallo, "thou art a strange woman.  Wasn't he
mine, too?  The very apple of my eye, calon fâch!  There's sad news
for poor Siencyn when he comes home next week!  But God knew best
what was good for him, and that is why He has taken him from us.  The
Bible says, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.'"

"Oh, silence with your texts!  God, indeed!  What sort of a God must
He be who gave me a little baby to fill my empty heart, and then tore
him cruelly away?  Be quiet about your God, mother.  If granny had
been alive I would not have wanted help from God or man."

"Oh, Gwen, Gwen, hisht!" said the poor, bewildered woman; "I know it
is hard to understand, but thou must bend before God, and say, 'He
knows best.'"

"I won't," said Gwen, kicking at the embers which had gone out on the
cold hearth.  "He can do no further harm to me.  My little one--born
in lawful wedlock, too! not like thee, mother, nor granny, nor yet
her mother!"

"No, indeed, it is true!" said Lallo, rocking herself backwards and
forwards; "bad luck has followed us for generations.  But thy father
was a respectable man, Gwen; he is deacon in his chapel at
Abersethin, and his wife and family are the best dressed in Salem
Chapel.  Oh, yes, thou hast no need to be ashamed of thy father,
though he did play me a scurvy trick in marrying Fani Hughes; but he
couldn't help it, poor fellow!  They say Fani's brother threatened to
shoot him if he hadn't married her!"

"Perhaps your God took my child, then, to punish me for your sins,"
said Gwen, with a sneer.

"Sins!" said Lallo, opening her eyes.  "'Twas a misfortune that might
have happened to thee or anyone.  Sins, indeed!  That's the first
time I have ever had that word thrown in my teeth!" and, much hurt,
she began to rekindle the fire.

Gwen made no answer, but angrily pulled away the pocket-handkerchief
which covered the little window.  She spoke little during the day,
and the following morning was at work in the sail-shed, pale and
sulky, refusing every offer of help, and receiving the condolences of
her neighbours with a silent contempt.

A few days afterwards the Mishteer wrote to Ivor Parry a letter in
his round, firm hand, one that Ivor treasured for years, taking it
out of his breast-pocket, sometimes, when the curling smoke from his
evening pipe carried up in its wreaths thoughts and memories of the
sweet and bitter past.

"Come back, mach-geni," it said.  "I cannot do without thee.  The
work calls for thee, my heart calls for thee, and the work-people all
desire thy presence.  Thou shouldst never have gone! there was no
need.  No new tie could ever loosen the cords of friendship that
exist between thee and me.  Nothing has gone well with me since thou
art gone.  I have had complaints of the work from several quarters.
Sweet Gwladys is not well; and, truth to tell, I myself am wanting
something, and it must be thee, lad, so come back to Mwntseison, and
all will be well."  In a postscript he added: "Of course thy pay
shall be the same as that thou art receiving now.  Indeed, I have
raised the wages of all my best workmen."

And Ivor had answered:

"I will come, for I have quite failed to make my home at Carnarvon;
and besides, if I can truly be of help to thee, nothing will keep me
away.  The Aden Ydon goes across next Monday, and I on board; but
remember I will take no more pay than I have always had of thee.  It
was good pay, and I never wanted more; so fforwel till we meet."

Hugh was in good spirits next day, and came homewards at noon waving
a letter round his head.

"Good news, Gwladys fâch!  Ivor will be here next Monday, or Tuesday,
or Wednesday at latest.  Everything will be alright now.  I feel like
a new man," and so absorbed was he with the prospect of his friend's
arrival, that he ate his dinner without noticing Gwladys'
embarrassment.

"Next week! so soon should she be called upon to bear so much I so
much bitterness, and alas! so much joy!  But the joy must be
smothered--be crushed out, and perhaps it would die some day."

She ate no dinner, and was thankful that Hugh did not notice the
fact.  From that moment a restless feeling took possession of her,
and as the time for the arrival of the Aden Ydon drew nearer, she was
consumed with a feverish dread of meeting Ivor.

Mari Vone often dropped in on one pretext or another, and though the
subject uppermost in both their minds was never mentioned between
them, she always left Gwladys more calm and courageous than when she
entered.

On Monday the weather was dark and lowering, what wind there was
blowing from the land, the waves scarcely breaking as they rippled on
the shore.

"The Aden Ydon won't sail to-day," said Hugh, as he looked out under
the thatched eaves of his window in the early morning.  "But
to-morrow, perhaps, the weather will have changed."

And so it was.  On Tuesday the wind blew fresh and full from the
north-west, and, standing at the door of the sail-shed, telescope in
hand, Hugh watched for the first glimpse of the Aden Ydon's white
sails.

"Yes, there she is!" he said, turning round to address his people.
"Here, now, one of you boys, run up and tell the Mishtress that Ivor
Parry will be with us before to-night."

Gwladys tried hard to keep her thoughts from roaming out to that blue
bay, which seemed to be more _en evidence_ than usual to-day.
Through every window and open door she saw it spreading fair and
broad before her.  The swish, swish of the waves filled her ears, the
air was laden with its briny odour, and nearer and nearer from the
dim blue hills, eighty miles away, came the white-winged ship that
bore such a freight of sorrow for her.

"Oh, God forgive me!" she cried, whenever her thoughts went over
those blue waters; and when, in the glow of the sunset, she saw the
little ship sail in to land, and disappear round the cliff that
towered high between Mwntseison and Abersethin, she fell on her knees
under the wide chimney, and with hands crossed on her bosom, remained
a few moments in silent prayer.  She rose calmer, and endeavoured
once more to busy herself in her household duties.

At last, when the evening shadows were closing in, and the glow in
the west had faded away, she heard voices and footsteps coming down
the opposite hillside, and across the wooden footbridge, and she knew
that Hugh was returning from Abersethin, and was bringing Ivor with
him.

Now the sound ceased, and she knew they were coming up the road.  Her
heart beat so violently that she felt suffocated, and went to the
doorway, partly to meet her fate and partly for a breath of air.

"What should she say?--how would he look?  What would Hugh think if
she should faint or falter?  God help me!" she said as the footsteps
came nearer, and in the twilight the two dark figures entered the
cwrt.

"Here he is, Gwladys," said Hugh boisterously, "just come in to see
thee on his way to his lodgings."

Gwladys blindly held out her hand, and Ivor took it in his.

"Well, Mishtress, and how are you?" he asked, in as cool a manner as
he could command.  A slight tremor in his voice was the only sign of
feeling--there was not even the friendly "thee" and "thou."  There
was no tender, meaning glance--no pressure of the hand.  She had not
expected it--nay, would have resented it--but still the tone of
indifference was painful to her, although she was perfectly aware it
was assumed, and she answered in the same commonplace tones:

"I am well, thank you."

And Hugh filled up the silence that followed with his loud and hearty
greetings.

"You will stay and have supper with us?" said Gwladys.

"Oh, no!" interrupted Hugh; "I am going to sup with him to-night.  I
will ask Mari to come and stay with thee."

"No," said Gwladys, "I would rather not.  I have enough to do to fill
up my time to-night."

"Wel, nos da, Mishtress," said Ivor; and he and Hugh left,
disappearing together through the gloaming.

Gwladys looked after them with a set white face, and then turned
wearily up the stairs.  Calling to Madlen, she said, in a calm voice:

"When the Mishteer comes in, tell him I was tired and went to bed."

On reaching her bedroom, she bolted the door, and, falling on the
bed, gave way to a storm of tears.

"Oh, Hugh, Hugh!--my kind husband--oh! good friend and true!--why has
God brought such sorrow upon thee?  But, no! he shall not
suffer--only me! only me!"

And then another flood of tears.  She rose and went to the window,
gazing silently at the leaden waters of the bay, silvered here and
there by the moon, which was rising behind the village; then in a
whisper she said:

"Ivor, Ivor! didst feel it as I did?  Yes.  I know by the tremble of
his voice--'How are you, Mishtress?'--'I am well, thank you.'  That
is all--and that is all that must be between us.  Ivor is strong and
good--I must be the same!"  And for the rest of the evening she lay
still and thoughtful.

And thus began Gwladys' martyrdom--and no less that of Ivor's.  To
meet in the ordinary course of daily life, though not oftener than
could possibly be avoided, was a trial under which, at first, both
suffered acutely; and Gwladys drooped and wilted visibly in the
stress of the storm through which she was passing.  She turned her
face daily towards the path of duty, endeavouring to take up every
thread of interest which her life presented to her, and to brighten
her husband's path, even though her own had been stripped of all
beauty and joy; and gradually she earned the reward of comparative
calm and peace--a peace which added a new charm to her beauty--so
much so, that the villagers often remarked--"Wel wyr! the Mishtress
grows prettier every day."

Hugh rejoiced much in the cheerfulness which she seemed to have
somewhat regained.

"'Tis thy coming back, mach-geni," he would say to Ivor sometimes.
"I put every good down to that as I put every evil to thy going away."

And Ivor would push his hat further back on his head, and attack his
work with more vigour, saying:

"I am glad, Mishteer, if it is so."

In the sail-shed, the work-people rejoiced to have him once more
amongst them--the same as ever in his frank and genial manner, though
much changed in outward appearance; for it was remarked by all how
much his illness had aged him.

"Why, thee look'st ten years older, man!" they said, with the usual
outspokenness of the peasantry.

And Ivor would only smile and say--"No doubt, no doubt!" while he
applied himself with extra care and interest in the Mishteer's
concerns.  Morning, noon, and night he was busy, apparently feeling
that he could not do enough for his friend.

And once more in the sail-shed could be heard the swinging chorus of--

  "Torn sails and broken mast--
  But the boat is safe at home at last!"


[1] Supernaturally wise.

[2] Watch-night.

[3] English.



CHAPTER X.

HUGH'S SUSPICIONS.

It was about this time that Gwen took to wearing her shawl over her
head, held tightly with one hand under her chin, and appearing in it
at all sorts of odd times and places.  This, to an outsider, may not
seem an event worth chronicling; but to anyone conversant with the
inner life of a Welsh coast village, it is full of meaning.  Where
intermarriage is so common as it is there, peculiarities of character
gather strength with every succeeding generation, and are affected by
the most trivial circumstances; and thus it comes to pass that
insanity is always lurking amongst the seeming calmness and rural
simplicity of the village life, ever ready to pounce upon the
harassed in mind and body.  It is no uncommon thing to see in a small
village containing two or three hundred inhabitants, two or three
windows boarded and barred, behind which are kept the unhappy
sufferers from this terrible fate.  The dread of the asylum hangs
like a cloud over the scene that appears such a picture of rustic
happiness.  The signs of increasing insanity are little noticed by
the villagers, it being considered courteous to ignore them as long
as possible, so that the dreadful malady lurks about and shows itself
unexpectedly when it is too late to cure it.  One sign which is
quickly noted, though never commented upon, is that of wearing the
shawl in the case of a woman over the head instead of the shoulders,
and the degree of insanity may be often gauged by the manner in which
the shawl is held.

In case of a quarrel between man and wife, or between two neighbours,
the woman whose temper has been most seriously ruffled appears next
day with her shawl over her head, and held tightly under her chin, as
a sign she is in no humour for frivolous conversation; and the sign
is so interpreted by her friends and neighbours.  So that when Gwen
carried her red pitcher to the well in one hand, and with the other
clutched her grey shawl under her chin, every one knew the death of
her child was weighing sorely upon her, and they passed her with a
nod only, or a formal "Dachi!"[1]

A few days later, the nod was not returned, but Gwen looked straight
before her with a glitter in her eye and a set look on her lips which
her neighbours noted with a sigh.

"Poor thing! poor thing! she's very bad.  Lallo fâch!  you must get
Mari Vone in to chat a bit and hearten her up!"

Lallo shook her head mournfully.

"I don't like it at all, Madlen fâch.  She will break her heart if
she does not cry or something; never a word day or night, but just
that silent, angry look.  Indeed, what should I do if it were not for
the pig?  But even with him she seems to be offended!"

When, later on, Gwen not only appeared invariably hooded by her grey
shawl, but held that shawl crossed over her mouth, she was observed
with more serious and sympathising looks.  A woman who had quarrelled
with her husband would sometimes appear with a shawl held _under_ her
chin; but few except the insane held their shawl over the mouth,
exhibiting only the nose and eyes.  And as Gwen hurried through the
village or roamed about the cliffs, she was followed by many a sigh
and shake of the head.  The village children, against whom she
directed spiteful glances as she passed them on the shore or on the
cliffs, soon learned to fear and hate her, and when she appeared
amongst them they would fly in all directions like a flock of
sparrows.

"Wel, wyr!" said Sara Pentraeth, as she looked after the miserable
woman.  "Peggi Shân has come back to Mwntseison, I think.  Ach y fi!
she looks angry with the sun himself."

Her place in the sail-shed was often unoccupied, and the Mishteer
remarked upon it with reproof as well as pity in his tone, when one
day she appeared, late in the afternoon, and sullenly took her seat,
and, after a few minutes' desultory work, rose and began her way to
the open doorway.

"Stop, Gwen!" he said kindly.  "What's the matter, merch i?  Sorrow
and hiraeth[2] we can all understand after such a loss; but what is
the meaning of that anger and sullenness?  Why, lodes,[3] art
offended with the Almighty?"

"I am offended with you, Hugh Morgan! you have no business to speak
to me as if I was a child, indeed, though you are the Mishteer."

"If you are a woman, Gwen, act like one, and remember that sorrow, if
properly borne, may turn to a blessing."

"I want neither blessing nor cursing," said Gwen, "but only to be let
alone.  Go home, Hugh Morgan, and attend to your own affairs; you
will find plenty to do with them," and she flung her shawl over her
head and left the shed.  Taking no notice of the scared looks of her
fellow-workers, she walked homewards, straight and unbending, and
passed her much-enduring mother in the cwrt without a word.  Lallo
looked after her sorrowfully, and went to the pig-stye door, over
which she leant in a musing attitude for some time.

When the soft grey November days had commenced, "Tewi du bach," or
the "little black weather," as it is called at Mwntseison, the sea
looked still and dreamy under its sheeny leaden surface, and the land
seemed to lie in a cold swoon, for the summer and autumn were dead,
and the sharp winter weather had not arrived; it was coming steadily
and rapidly behind that grey haze which looked so calm and innocent
on the north horizon of the bay.  The boats were overhauled, and the
nets were gathered in from the stretchers.  As the evening shadows
fell, over the steely glitter of the sea there came a rippling
roughness, and an oily movement on the tide, which told its tale to
the watchful fishermen.  The doors of the sail-shed were closed, and
down the grey beach the boats were pushed into the plashing waves;
lights glimmered on the bay, and every man in Mwntseison was full of
interest in the hauls of silver herrings which the boats brought to
land.

"Come home and sup with me, Ivor," said Hugh, after one of their
fishing excursions; "thou art tired out."

"Man alive!" answered Ivor, "am I fit to enter any clean house
covered with tar and herring-scales like this?  No, no, another time!"

"To-night it must be, or thou wilt offend me," said Hugh.  "Go home
and wash off thy herring-scales, lad, for I know Gwladys has a
wheaten loaf and a fine lobster for supper; and I'll take no more of
thy 'no, no's.'"

"Well, I'll follow thee," said Ivor, seeing a grave look in Hugh's
face.

"I'll go and tell Gwladys thou art coming," said Hugh; and as he went
up the uneven road, carrying a string of herrings, he fell into a
deep study--one of those reveries which had become rather frequent
with him of late.

"What can be the matter with Ivor?" he thought.  "What ails the man
that he never darkens my door?  I thought when once he came back we
should be always together; but no--it is always 'not to-night, Hugh,'
or 'another time, Mishteer.'  I cannot make him out.  And Gwladys,
too! what ails her?  When I say 'I will ask Ivor to come in
to-night,' she never seems glad, but turns away without a word.  Have
they had any quarrel, I wonder? but no!" and again a shadow fell over
his face, and an uneasiness crept into his mind, which had hitherto
been a stranger there; but he chased it away as he entered the house
and handed the herring to Gwladys to be fried for supper.

Ivor had tried so hard to put off his friend's frequent offers of
hospitality.  To-night he had no choice but to accept.  When, cleaned
and brushed, he entered the cottage, he would have given worlds to be
able to rush away and hide his eyes from the sight which he knew
awaited him there.  Yes, there she was, busying herself with the
arrangements of the simple supper, and, in the fitful light of the
blazing log fire, looking more beautiful than ever, though paler and
more pensive.

"Wel, Mishtress, I hope you are well," said Ivor, hurrying over the
awkwardness of meeting, while Hugh made him welcome with hearty
greeting.

Gwladys' answer was low and rather unsteady.  She set herself to her
duties of hostess, and endeavoured to enter naturally into the
conversation, but with very indifferent success, for which Hugh
suddenly called her to account.

"Wel, wyr!  Gwladys, Ivor will think he has come at an inconvenient
time if thou art so thoughtful and silent.  Come, lass, sprack up a
bit, and give my friend a welcome, if thou hast none for me."

Never before had she heard the slightest tone of blame in her
husband's words, and to-night the overstrained courage gave way for a
moment, and her eyes filled with tears, while she offered her poor
little excuses; but she quickly conquered her weakness.

"Indeed, Hugh, I am ashamed of myself; but Ivor knows I have not been
well lately, and he will forgive me, and thou must, too."

"Why, of course, of course, merch i; I only want to see the smiles
and roses come back to thy pretty face," and Hugh, as if trying to
make amends for his slight tone of reproach, passed his arm round her
waist, and drew her playfully towards Ivor.  "Here she is, Ivor.
Doesn't look as if we could be very angry with her, eh?"

Gwladys drooped her head shyly, though she tried to join in Hugh's
merry laugh, while Ivor felt the blood rush to his head, and every
pulse in his body beating painfully.

When they were at last seated at supper, Gwladys talked and laughed
with unnatural excitement, her eyes gleaming, and her cheeks burning
with even more than the old richness of colour.  Suddenly a little
sound or movement drew their eyes to the doorway, and there in the
gloom stood a grey figure, silent, and with glittering eyes fixed
upon the trio at the table.

"Ach y fi!  Gwen, is it thee, then?  Indeed, this is the second
fright thou hast given me to-day.  Wilt sit down to supper?" said
Gwladys.

But Gwen only shook her head, and, pointing to Hugh, went into peals
of laughter--laughter which they continued to hear as she left the
house, and took her way homewards.

Hugh shuddered.

"I believe she's crazy," he said.  "That laugh did not sound like
that of a sane woman; and, since she has taken to wear that grey
shawl over her head, she looks the image of her old grandmother.  I
believe it's the very shawl old Peggi Shân used to wear.  No wonder
the children call after her, 'Avaunt, witch!'  I feel inclined to say
the same myself."

"Wel, indeed, she frightens me often," said Gwladys.  "In the garden
or here by the fire, or leaning over the brewing tub, I look up, and
there she stands, saying nothing, but just staring, staring at me;
and her eyes seem to pierce me through and through."

"She has been distraught ever since her child died, I think," said
Ivor; "but we must see to her.  She must not trouble the Mishtress in
this way."

With the pardonable pride of a middle-aged husband, Hugh again drew
Gwladys forward, saying:

"No, no, she sha'n't be troubled by anything!  The best little woman
that ever trod the sands of Mwntseison, in spite of her silent ways
sometimes.  Eh, Ivor?"

The latter felt he was expected to make some reply, while Gwladys
stood flushed and perturbed before him.  His lips were dry and
parched, and his generally pleasant voice sounded harsh and hoarse as
he answered:

"Wel, everybody knows that you picked the flower of Mwntseison; and
everybody knows too, that only you, Mishteer, are worthy of her."

"Oh, halt there, lad, halt there!  I think sometimes I have stolen
her from a better man," and, as he loosened his arm from her waist,
and seated himself at the supper table, a serious look came over his
face, and a shadow seemed to have fallen upon his spirits.  He had
scarcely meant anything by his words; but even while he spoke there
came to his mind a dim foreboding, and to his heart a sharp
suspicion, of he knew not what, for he had not failed to notice the
change in Ivor's manner--the difficulty with which he had brought out
his words,--and, turning to look at Gwladys, he felt that those
downcast eyes and that troubled face were not the signs of a young
wife's pride in her husband's tender touch and admiring praises.  But
he smothered the feeling, and applied himself to his supper, and the
meal was gone through with some outward show of hilarity.  Having
finished, Hugh pushed the brown jug of ale towards his friend.  "Wilt
drink, lad?" he said.  "Wilt drink to my health and Gwladys'?"

"I will keep to the meth,"[4] answered Ivor; "'tis the best I ever
drank; it still tastes of the wild thyme and the sweet brier.
Mishtress! here's to your good health and the Mishteer's, and long
life and happiness to you both!"

There was a strange light in his eyes, as he stood with his head
thrown back, the glass of meth in his hand, and as he drank down its
contents, a deadly paleness spread over his face.  Sitting down again
he drew a long breath, and his hand trembled visibly as he replaced
the glass on the table.

"Canst thank him, Gwladys?" asked Hugh, looking keenly at his wife,
who shook her head with a smile on her lips which looked unnatural
and strained.

"Well, I will, then!  Ivor, they are fair _words_, none could be
better, and I thank thee for _them_."

"Words!" said Ivor, starting to his feet, and stretching out his hand
across the table, "Hugh Morgan! there are no words which could ever
make plain my friendship for thee.  Health and happiness to thee and
thy sweet wife!  God knows I would gladly shed my blood to bring it
to thee!"

"Good, then!" said Hugh, taking his hand; "there's no more to be
said.  Art going?  Well, it is late, I suppose.  Nos da!"

"Yes, and a storm is rising.  Nos da, Mishtress," said Ivor as he
left the house.

It was true the storm was rising fast, dark clouds scudded over the
moon, the wind moaned and wailed round the cliffs, the sea seemed to
swell and lash itself into threatening fury, and Ivor felt the tumult
of the elements accorded well with his feelings.

"Dear God!" he exclaimed, as he made his way through the buffeting
wind, "I can never go through that again--never! never! not even to
please thee, Hugh Morgan."

Meanwhile, in the cottage, Gwladys was clearing away the remains of
the supper, and endeavouring by busy employment to cover the
distressing awkwardness which her husband's manner had awoke in her.
As she passed him sitting thoughtful under the chimney, he rose, and
drawing her towards him, held her face between his two hands, and,
gazing steadily at her:

"Dost hide any secret from me behind those brown eyes?" he asked, in
a serious, tender tone; and before his honest black eyes her own
quailed, and a deep crimson flooded her face.

Hugh slowly drew away his hands with a heavy sigh, without waiting
for an answer.

All next day the storm gradually increased, with a sullen persistency
which seemed to threaten a more furious outburst for its tardy
consummation.  The wind soughed up the valley in fitful gusts; the
sea seemed swelling with repressed anger.  There was a heavy
stillness in the air, in strange contrast with the flying clouds
which passed at a high altitude from the north-west.  Every cottage
door was closed, the boats were safely moored, and the geese on the
upland farms flew with loud cackling in flocks from one stubble field
to another.

At the door of the sail-shed Hugh Morgan stood, lost in thought; the
stormy atmosphere around him accorded well with the deep unrest which
had taken possession of him.  The dark suspicion which had darted
into his mind on the previous evening had, with the suddenness of a
flash of lightning, disclosed to him a truth, which, if it had ever
before dawned upon his mind, had lain dormant, soothed to sleep by
Gwladys' gentle ways and his own mad infatuation.

He and Ivor had met at intervals as usual in the course of the day's
work, and each had felt that an undefined shadow had fallen between
them; and of the two, Ivor had suffered most.  He was conscious that
in Hugh's mind had awoke a suspicion that he could never allay
without a lie, for deep in his own heart he knew that his love for
Gwladys was unquenchable and eternal.  It was so with him, and
nothing could alter the unhappy truth; he knew it, and he knew now
that his friend knew it; but there was another thing that Hugh did
not know, and Ivor writhed under the impossibility of making clear to
him the depth and reality of his own unswerving devotion to his
friend.  As he had tramped home the night before, he had evolved out
of the turmoil of his thoughts one idea, which he clung to with some
gleam of comfort; he must leave Mwntseison; he must part from Hugh
Morgan; he must escape from the sight of Gwladys.  He would close
with the offer made him by Robert Rees, the miller.  At Traeth-Berwen
the old mill was to be let, as Robert had become wealthy and portly
and lazy, and had offered to sell his business on very generous terms
to Ivor Parry.  Yes! he would take the old mill, and pass the rest of
his days in the dreamy little valley.  True, it was only a mile away,
and he would still see Gwladys and Hugh on Sunday at Brynseion
Chapel; and, moreover, perhaps she would come to the mill sometimes
with the corn to be ground; but that would be better than seeing her
every day.  A sudden sharp stab is better than a continual probing!
and he had seized a moment of respite from work to rush down to "The
Ship," to catch Robert, and to settle the bargain with a slap of the
hand and a blue of ale, and for the rest of the day he had felt
somewhat less perturbed.

To Hugh, on the contrary, life seemed to hold out no loophole of
escape from the miserable dread which had dawned upon him.  At first
he had been filled with a dull aching anger that another man should
dare to love his wife; and that man his friend, whom he had
trusted--whom he had loved as a brother; and that he, Hugh Morgan,
who had always been considered, and who thought himself, too calm and
deliberate to be deceived, should thus have made a mistake in the
most important step in his life!  There was no anger against Gwladys.

"Poor child! poor child!" he was thinking, as he stood there at the
door, with his hands clasped behind him; "it was not her fault; I see
it all now.  She never loved me--she loved Ivor; and I, fool that I
was, thought my own love was enough, and would arouse the same
feelings in her; but--thou hast been a fool, Hugh Morgan, and thou
must open thine eyes now to thy folly, and make the best of a bad
bargain.  Well, this will help me to make up my mind on one point.  I
will leave the sail-shed, I will give up my business; I have enough
and to spare, and poor Gwladys shall not be left so much alone."  And
he looked down the village road with gloomy forebodings in his dark
eyes.

At this moment a large bunch of greenery came round the corner of the
shed, and stooping under it, and looking through the golden and green
leaves came Mari Vone, her shapely arms, crossed over her bosom, held
the restraining cords which bound her bundle of bracken on her
shoulders.  Her brick-red petticoat made a spot of brightness in the
gloomy landscape, and as she approached Hugh, her blue eyes looking
out between the overshadowing ferns like harebells in the grass, even
his sad face lightened as he met the sunny smile in the eyes, and
marked the perfect lips and the dimpled cleft in the chin.

"Caton pawb!  Mari, where'st been through the storm?" he asked,
leaving the shed door, and accompanying her up the village road.

"Wel wyr!  Now, thou'st never guess, Hugh.  'N'wncwl Jos had to go to
Caer Madoc to-day to receive his pension, storm or no storm, so he
borrowed Peggi Pentraeth's donkey-cart, and he does whip the poor
donkey so.  I hid the whip in the big furze bush by our house; but,
oh, dir anwl!  I couldn't hide his wooden leg, so I'm afraid he will
use that instead.  No, no!  I will not loosen my bundle, so let it
be.  'Tis a bed for the poor donkey to-night; I gathered it above
Traeth-y-daran, for I knew the poor creature would be tired.  Here's
Peggi's donkey shed; wilt wait while I spread his bed for him?"

"Nay, I will come and help thee, lass."  And in the little shed they
spread the sweet fresh litter in readiness for the weary beast.

"Always comforting some poor, weary creature, thou art, Mari; 'twill
be me next, lass.  Hast any salve for a miserable man?"

"Hugh," said Mari, instinctively pressing her hand to her side, "what
is it?  Gwladys--is she ill?"

"No--what am I saying?  Yes, she is sick--I am sick!  Come home,
lass, and let me tell thee."

And when they had strewn the litter of crisp bracken they went out
together, and reaching her cottage door, Mari went in, Hugh following
in silence.  She pushed the rush chair towards him without speaking;
and, leaning his elbow on the table, with his hands shading his eyes,
he unburdened his mind to the ear which had never failed to listen
with interest to every word that came from his lips.  It was not a
long story.  A very few words served to reveal the dismal tale--alas,
too common--of disappointed hopes and dire misgivings; of ruined
happiness in two hearts caused by one foolish step.

"Yes," said Hugh, bringing his fist down heavily on the table, "I
have been a fool, Mari--a blinded, headstrong fool!  Had I been a
boy, or even a young man like--like Ivor, there might have been some
excuse for me; but a man of my age, one who had lived so long in
quiet and wise solitude, and especially a man who had Mari Vone for
his friend!  Why didst not say to me," and he grasped her wrist
fiercely, "'Stop, stop, Hugh, for she loves another'?  _That_ would
have been real friendship, such as I thought thou hadst for me; but
it seems I was wrong there too.  I was mistaken in everything."

"I didn't know it, Hugh; indeed, I didn't know it!"

"Didst not?"

"No, indeed!" and the tears welled up into her eyes; but she
resolutely kept them in check while she answered, "Hugh bâch, I am
grieving for thee; but there are two things thou canst be certain of
in all this sea of trouble--my true and firm friendship, and that
sweet Gwladys is as pure as an angel."

To this Hugh made no answer, but continued for some time brooding
darkly, while Mari sought in vain for any words that might comfort
him.  At last he spoke.

"I am getting tired of my life, Mari--tired of myself.  Everything
seems wrong with me, and I feel like the outside world around me
these days, full of suppressed storm and unrest.  It is not only
Gwladys' want of love for me, not only that; but I myself am wrong.
I am dissatisfied with myself.  Come, guardian angel, and tell me
what to do!"

"What is it, Hugh bâch?" said Mari, standing tall and fair beside
him, and looking down with eyes of love and pity upon the
storm-tossed man, who sat with his elbow leaning on the table, and
his hands shading his troubled eyes.

"No! 'tis not Gwladys only who does not love, but I myself have
changed.  I, who thought my love for her was unchangeable and true,
have awoke to find it was only a tempestuous passion which laid hold
of me and carried me away, until I was cast shipwrecked and torn and
broken against the rocks.  Wilt despise me, Mari, when I tell thee
that Hugh Morgan, who thought he loved his young wife, has ceased to
do so?  At the first dawn of suspicion, his love died out.  Pity,
deep pity, and the tender love of a father for his child, or an elder
brother for his sister--that I still feel; but the passionate ardour
with which I began my married life is gone--died suddenly,
Mari--never to live again.  Thou art silent, lass, because thou art
sorry to hurt thine old friend by telling him how thou despisest him."

Mari laid her hand gently on his bowed head.  Her heart was strangely
moved within her; she would have been more than human had she felt no
joy at hearing that the love which she had craved for all her
life--if not hers--was, at all events, not another's!  But the
strongest feelings that prompted her words were sympathy for him and
for Gwladys, and an earnest longing to comfort them.

"Thou art altogether wrong, Hugh; I do not despise thee, but pity
thee, and sympathise--oh! with my whole heart.  Thou hast not ceased
to care for thy wife; it is only the passion, the earthly part of thy
love, that has died out.  The best part, the enduring, wise love
remains, and will remain for ever, to guard sweet Gwladys--to comfort
her and to guide her; for after all, Hugh, she is but a child, and
thou must be very gentle and patient with her.  I am as fond of her
as if she were my own sister."

"Keep close to her, Mari fâch!" said Hugh, rising, "for she will need
all thy tenderness--and I, too, Mari," and he held out his brown
hand.  "Don't turn me out of thine heart."

She took his hand in both her own, and pressed it in a warm clasp.

"Never, Hugh! while life shall last!"

"Right, merch i!" was all Hugh's answer, as he stooped his head under
the low doorway.  He turned back for a moment, while she still stood
pensive at the table.  "The old spar is drifting amongst the waves at
present, Mari; thou must help to guide it into calm waters."

She looked up from the finger with which she had been absently
writing on the table.

"I will, Hugh!  Galon wrth galon!"[5]

When Hugh returned to the sail-shed it was to hear the astonishing
news that Ivor Parry was about to break off his connection with the
sail-making, and to enter upon the less arduous duties of a miller's
life.

"Well, indeed," said Hugh, with forced cheerfulness, "this will be a
day to be remembered by the gossips, for I, too, have a piece of news
to give you."  And raising his voice a little, so that everyone in
the shed could hear him, he continued, "I meant to have called a
meeting this evening to let you know that I am thinking to give up my
business; but as Ivor Parry has already fired the pistol, I need not
be afraid to let off the gun!  Joshua Howels and I have had many
talks on the subject, and I have now made up my mind to give up the
sail-shed to him.  I have made enough money to keep my wife and
myself in comfort as long as we two live, and therefore I will not
stand in the way of another man's doing the same thing.  Now, I want
you not to make any remarks about this to me to-night.  You know I am
one of those foolish creatures who cannot spend the greater part of
every day under the same roof with other people without letting them
into his heart, and I don't want you to think little of me at the
last.  So, anwl frindiau,[6] let us go on quietly, until some evening
I slip out silently after work, and Joshua Howels comes in next
morning instead of me.  We need not say good-bye, as I am not going
away from Mwntseison, and I have no doubt that, whenever I have an
hour to spare, my feet will turn naturally towards the old sail-shed,
so that we shall meet often; only, I will not be the Mishteer any
longer."

Here his voice was drowned by an uproar of voices, and cries of
"Mishteer!  Mishteer!" filled the air.

"There has never been another Mishteer in Mwntseison," cried somebody
in the crowd, "and there can never be another!"

The warm Welsh hearts of his work-people were touched to the quick by
his evident emotion at parting with them.  When they saw him reach
down his straw hat, and turn towards the little office opening out of
the shed, and they realised the meaning of the speech, a hush fell
upon them more eloquent than words.

The Mishteer was unstrung.  He was sorrowing at parting with them.
There was a moisture in his eyes, the tears were not far off--and all
for them; and as they dropped their voices, and passed silently out
through the big doors, Hugh Morgan had never been so completely
master of their hearts.

Of course, next day Mwntseison was moved from hearth to roof--from
the Methodist chapel on the cliffs to the little church on the top of
the hill.  Over the whole neighbourhood the news was spread abroad,
and amongst others, Nell Jones and Sara Pentraeth had met early to
exchange ideas.  Their washing had been hurried over in a very
perfunctory manner, in the desire to reach the "hanging-out" stage of
the proceedings; and as good luck would have it, just as Nell began
to spread out her heavy Welsh flannels, Sara came out too with her
basket, and they were soon engaged in deep conversation over the low
hedge of blackened broom bushes which divided their sandy gardens.

"Nell fâch, didst ever hear of such a thing?  There's news! there's
an odd thing! that the Mishteer should change his mind like that--and
all of a sudden, too!  And, Nell anwl, to be handed over to Josh
Howels like a bowl of cawl!  Ach y fi!"

"Will he pay us as well? that's the thing!" said Nell; "for I've
heard tell he's a man who wants the penny and the pen'orth!"

"Perhaps indeed! shouldn't wonder; he is nearly related to his
father, and we all know what he was!  But there's one good thing, we
sha'n't have to call Gwladys 'Mishtress' any more--Mishtress indeed!
with her airs and her pride.  Ach y fi! shoes, if you please, instead
of clocs!" and, with another expressive "ach y fi," she flung a
garment over the hedge so roughly as to tear it, thus adding to her
own irritation.  "Madam's pride will come down now, Nell fâch; for
two women, whose grandfathers and great-grandfathers have lived at
Mwntseison, to have to say Mishtress to Nani Price's daughter is very
hard; for who was Nani Price's father, I should like to know?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Nell.  "What does that matter? and, indeed,
I can't say I have seen any pride in the Mishtress."

"Oh, dir anwl!" said Sara spitefully, "who could show pride to a
poor, humble creature like thee.  I have seen how thou hast flattered
and fawned upon her; but I don't think thy porridge will be any the
thicker for it.  As for me, I never cringe to anyone.  I can hold up
my head with anyone in the village.  My father was never suspected of
sheep-stealing, and my uncle's wife's brother never had occasion to
keep accounts to satisfy his master.  No! nor my mother never
promised to make a quilt for four shillings, and then charge six
shillings for it!"

This last thrust, alluding to something that was within Nell's
memories, was unbearable.

"Dost dare to say that my father stole sheep?" she said, with arms
akimbo, and looking with flashing eyes across the broom hedge.  "Dost
dare to say my uncle's wife's brother stole his master's money?  I'll
have the law upon thee as sure as----"

"The law!" said Sara.  "I defy the law, and thee into the bargain!  I
never _said_ thy father stole a sheep.  I only said _my_ father never
did.  No! and I'll tell thee another thing--_my_ daughter never
tripped on her way to the marriage market!"

At this last shaft, poor Nell was completely crushed, and finished
spreading out her flannels in silence, while Sara retired up the
garden with flying colours.


[1] Good-day!

[2] Longing.

[3] Girl.

[4] A drink made of fermented honey.

[5] "Heart to heart!"--A Druidical motto.

[6] Dear friends.



CHAPTER XI.

THE STORM.

  "Wild waves, where are you flowing
    Out on the seething bay?
  Wild wind, what are you doing
    Tearing the sea and tossing the spray?
  There the storm bells are pealing,
  There the sea-gulls are wheeling,
  And the cabin-boy kneeling,
    Out on the seething bay."


The next day the storm, which had threatened Mwntseison for days, was
at its height.  During the night the wind had increased into a
furious gale, lashing the foaming waves up the sides of the cliffs,
rushing up the narrow valley, and carrying huge lumps of foam into
the fields above the village.  Lying awake, Gwladys listened,
dry-eyed, to the roar of the sea and the shriek of the wind.  Every
hour since that critical moment when Hugh had looked into her eyes,
and they had quailed before his, seemed to bring but an access of
misery to her heart.  Her husband's tenderness had not
failed--indeed, the tones of his voice were even more gentle than
before; but she was too conscious of a subtle change, the cause of
which she knew too well.  Hugh no longer trusted her--no longer loved
her!  He was as fully aware of the state of her feelings towards Ivor
as though she had told him in plain words, "I love him, and I have
never loved thee as I ought."  Oh, the pity of it! that she could not
fling her arms about his neck and say, "Hugh, it is not true; it is a
foolish fancy of thine!  I love thee with all my heart," and, as she
looked at Hugh's sleeping form beside her, she would have given
worlds to be able thus to reassure him--but she could not.  He tossed
restlessly on his pillow, and she listened to his mutterings.

"What shall I do, Mari?" he murmured, in his sleep.  And Gwladys knew
that in the bitterness of his heart he was seeking comfort from Mari
Vone.

When the morning broke, she rose, listless and weary, and, leaving
Hugh still sleeping, went downstairs and busied herself with the
preparations for breakfast.  As she drew back the wooden bolt of the
house door, it was pushed open from without, and Gwen came into the
passage, as usual wrapped in her grey shawl.  She looked pale and
haggard, and her eyes gleamed fiercely as she brushed roughly past
Gwladys, and preceded her into the kitchen.  She seated herself on
the settle under the chimney, where Madlen was kindling the fire.

"Thou art up early to-day, Gwen," said Gwladys, a little trembling in
her voice, for a restless night had already shaken her nerves.  "Wilt
stay for breakfast with us?"

"Why, no; of course not!  I have breakfast at home, and want none of
thy charity.  Where's the Mishteer?"

"He's still sleeping.  Dost want to see him?"

"Oh, no, let him sleep," said Gwen; "he will awake some day."  And
her eyes, small and glittering as a snake's, followed Gwladys as she
busied herself with her household duties.

She tried to throw off the fascination of Gwen's look, but wherever
she went she felt oppressed by that basilisk stare.

"What makes thee so pale and downcast?" Gwen said at last.  "Everyone
thought that when thou wert the wife of Hugh Morgan thou wouldst be
the brightest and happiest in Mwntseison; but instead of that thou
look'st like a white storm-driven pigeon.  Come out in the rain with
me; 'twill suit thee better than all these comforts.  Has Hugh Morgan
begun to repent of his bargain yet?"

"What dost mean?" said Madlen, standing before her with arms akimbo,
"coming here, indeed, to insult the Mishtress before she's had a bit
or a sup inside her?  Get thee out, Gwen, if thee hasn't pleasanter
words in thy tongue."

"Oh, I am going," said Gwen, standing up and backing gradually
towards the doorway, with her eyes still fixed on Gwladys, who felt
frightened and trembling, "out in the wind and rain.  'Tis a brâf
morning."  And with one of her long uncanny peals of laughter, she
left the house, and Madlen bolted the door.

"There," she said, with satisfaction, "let her go to her wind and
rain.  Tan i marw![1]  I'm afraid of her."

When Hugh came down, he entered upon the subject of his intended
retirement from business.

"'Twill be better for thee, merch i," he said, "than being so much
alone.  Perhaps I have been wrong to leave thee here all day to fret
thyself.  I will try not to be in the way of the household work,
Gwladys."

"Oh, Hugh," said the girl, her voice trembling with emotion, "thou
hast not left me to fret.  Thou hast filled my life with kindness;
thou hast been everything to me--husband, friend, brother,--and I
will try--oh, I will try!--to be all I can to thee.  Have patience
with me, Hugh."  And, with timid attempts at reconciliation, she
surrounded him with little nameless attentions, piling his plate with
the frizzled ham, cutting thin slices of bread and butter from the
long barley loaf, and stooping herself to tie his shoe strings; but
Hugh's thoughts were absent, and he took no notice of the little
tendernesses.  The cloud was on his brow and the dark shadow of
suspicion in his heart, and, though his words were as kind, perhaps
more so than ever, there was an absence of the loving look and the
warm embrace, which cut his young wife to the quick.  After he had
left the house, she flung herself down in the rush chair in the
chimney corner, and, with her hands clasped listlessly on her lap,
she mused long and sorrowfully, making no answer to Madlen's frequent
allusions to the storm.

"There's yellow the sea is," said the latter, peeping out through the
little side window, which looked down to the bay.  "All the sand in
the bay is mixed with it, and oh, anwl! the waves are rising as high
as steeples!  Wel wyr!"

Gwladys still sat on in a turmoil of miserable thought.  What was to
become of her?  How should she bear the long life before her, always
mistrusted by her husband, and always fighting with this terrible
dear love for Ivor, which haunted her sleeping or waking, in the
garden, on the shore, or at her household duties? and "I am so young!
If I were old there would be some hope of an end of it.  But so
young--only twenty!  It is impossible!  I cannot bear it!" and in a
paroxysm of bitter trouble she started up, and, flinging an old grey
shawl over her head and shoulders, she went quickly out through the
back door and into the sandy garden.  She would battle with the wind
and the storm!  It would not be worse than the turmoil of thoughts
within, which made her heart ache and her head burn.  Out in the
garden the wind almost took her breath away.  The blackened broom
bushes in the low hedge which separated the garden from the cliffs
seemed to bend threateningly towards her; but she pushed her way
through them.  The long grass, beaten down by the pelting rain,
obstructed her footsteps; but she hurried on persistently, almost
unconsciously, scarcely feeling the cruel stings of the driving rain
in her face, and struggling with the fierce wind, which clutched at
her dripping garments and dragged her backwards.

"But I will go!" cried the girl, as she fought her way over the
cliffs, sometimes stopping to take breath, but again resolutely
renewing her battle with the storm.  Where was she going?  She knew
not--cared not; but somewhere--anywhere--away from herself and the
pitiless circumstances which pressed upon her!  Yes; Gwen was right.
The storm and the wind and the rain suited her better than the warm
hearth and the kind voice of her husband.

Could she reach Traeth-y-daran?  There she would sit on the rock
where Ivor and she had spent their last hours together.  Perhaps
there she would find peace, for in vain she had sought it in prayer
and supplication.  She knew if she were once able to make her way
down the dangerous path to the shore, the last step, which would be
of necessity a leap of ten feet, would render a return impossible.  A
dim perception of this ran through her mind; but the frenzy which had
taken possession of her sought only for its goal--oblivion, and a
termination of her sufferings.

In calmer moments she would not have dared to tread that dangerous
path in a high wind, but to-day she seemed possessed by some wild
spirit of unrest, which drove her forwards and impelled her flying
feet on--on--till the edge of the cliff was reached, and still on,
down the dangerous, zig-zag path, clinging to the stunted bushes.
Slipping, stumbling, and yet pursuing, she made her difficult
progress, and when the path ended abruptly at the top of a smooth,
perpendicular rock, she did not hesitate for a moment, but took the
leap with streaming hair and swirling garments, and alighting on the
beach below, sped onwards across the wet sands to where the low rocks
still lay uncovered by the in-coming tide.  At last she had reached
her goal, and, flinging herself down, she gave way to the tears which
she had hitherto restrained.  Every moment seemed to add to the fury
of the storm.

"Oh, wind, it is for me you are wailing and shrieking!  Oh, rain,
'tis for me your tears are falling!" and she mingled her own
passionate sobs and cries with the stormy sounds around her.  Here
she could cry aloud in her despair, for there was no one to hear--no
one but God.  "Does he hear me?" and she paused for a moment and
looked out at the boiling, seething cauldron before her, and up to
the streaming sky; but her survey brought her no comfort.  "No, He
does not!  No! no!  I am alone--alone!"

At that moment a huge wave broke with thundering force at a little
distance from the shore, and, helped by the wind and in-rushing tide,
it reached far up the beach, even to the rock on which Gwladys sat;
and for the first time she realised that, in taking that flying leap,
she had cut herself off from every chance of escape.  As she watched
the huge, curling waves rushing one after another towards her, a
strange joy rose within her.  She would be drowned!--and here would
end all the sorrow and all the sin which had made the last three
months of her life so intolerable to her.

How had she dared to think God had not heard her?--for here was the
answer to her prayers.  He was going to take her to Himself--to calm
her troubled breast and to unloose the tangled skein of her life!
And leaning back, her head on a bed of brown sea-weed, she set
herself to wait for death--the great consoler.  But when the cold
streams of water reached her, and, encircling the rock, began to
splash her face, already wetted by the rain, she moved a little
further up the beach.

"Not just yet," she thought; "I must have time to ask for pardon, and
to say good-bye to Ivor and dear Hugh!"

And again she threw herself back on the wet sea-weed--as wet and
sodden herself as was her cold bed.

Steadily the tide came up--not slowly and gracefully as in the quiet
summer mornings and evenings, but with rapid strides and
far-reaching, foaming arms, that seemed to stretch out hungrily
towards her.  She closed her eyes as the drenching rain fell on her
face, and with clasped hands waited--but not for long.  For soon the
roar became louder, the wind blew more fiercely, and once more she
moved further up the beach, until at last there was only a small
strip of sand under the cliffs left bare.

Gwladys rose, and wearily gained the narrow strand, and, seeing that
the swirling tide already swept over it, she took her stand, leaning
against the rocky wall, and once more prepared to wait her doom.
Suddenly there was a break in the leaden sky, and while the waves now
reached her ankles, the drift widened, and the sun peeped out and
cast a fitful gleam on the tossing waves.  It was only a gleam, but
enough to waken in Gwladys the natural instincts of youth, which had
slept within her lately.  After all, life was dear!  It was better to
live miserable than to die miserable!  After all, life might hold
some solution of her perplexities; God might lighten her burden--to
Him nothing was impossible.  But it was too late!  Already the water
reached her knees, and many a wave splashed even over her head.

Meanwhile, in the sail-shed, Hugh and Ivor worked each at his own
special work, avoiding each other as much as possible, but still
showing no other sign of disturbance.

"I see Captain Roberts at 'The Ship.'  Will I go and tell him his
sail is done, Mishteer?" said Ivor at last, standing square and
straight at the door of the little office.

"Yes," answered Hugh, "if thou canst get there through the storm."

"Twt, twt," was all Ivor's answer as he tied the ears of his cap
under his chin.  In a few minutes he had reached "The Ship" Inn, and
delivered his message, having done which he came out again into the
wind and rain.  From the door of "The Ship" one could see over the
jutting point which hid Traeth-y-daran from the rest of the shore;
and Ivor, looking across the stormy waters, seemed struck by
something he saw there.

Surely that was a human figure standing up against the bare rock!
Yes, the grey form of a woman!--Gwen, no doubt--and she would be
drowned for certain, unless he could save her.  A few moments he
stood uncertain, until, looking round him, he espied a man who
slouched up the road to meet him.

"Hello, Will! is that thee, lad?  Wilt come with me to
Traeth-y-daran?"

"Ay, ay!" shouted the man in return, for the storm was too loud for
the ordinary voice to be heard.  He was one of those unfortunate
creatures so common along the coast--a harmless idiot--a mental state
politely described in the neighbourhood as "not wise!"  He was always
ready to risk his life, of whose value he was but dimly conscious.

Ivor knew it would be useless to ask anyone else to dare with him the
fury of that boiling sea, "unless, indeed, Hugh was here," he
thought, as he pushed out his boat, regardless of the entreaties of
the knot of idlers who had immediately gathered round him.

"Here's the Mishteer!" said somebody, and Hugh was hastily making his
way through the buffeting wind and spray.

"Come out, Will," he cried; "I will go."  And laying hold of the
boat, he prepared to leap in, but was pushed back by Ivor.

"Not thee, Hugh.  Will and I are enough to risk our lives on yon
boiling pot.  Hast seen the woman?"

"Yes," said Hugh--"that mad Gwen in her grey shawl."  And he still
kept his hand on the boat.  "Let me be, lad--I am not going to let
thee go alone."

"Back!" shouted Ivor, endeavouring to spring past Hugh, who clutched
at him and struggled to leap in.  There was a moment's wrestling
between the two men, each heated by his own passionate will and the
new-born spirit of antagonism between them, until at length,
"Remember thy wife!" cried Ivor; "I have no one to leave
behind--back, man!"  And with a violent thrust, he flung Hugh
splashing prone in the shallow tide, and, springing into the boat, he
pushed it from the shore, while Hugh rose angrily from his
undignified position.

"Fool!" he cried, looking at the receding boat; "he will be drowned,
as sure as he's there!"

"That's what he knows, Mishteer," cried a man in the crowd.  "That's
why he won't let you go with him.  Tan i marw!  I think you must both
be tired of your lives!"

"As for me," said another, "I should say if Gwen put herself into
that pickle, let her come out of it!"

"Why, man," said a third, "how can she get out of it?  That wild sea
before her, and a straight rock as smooth as a wall behind her!"

"Twt, twt!" said the first speaker, "Peggi Shân would come and help
her!  There he goes round the point, now he will be in the strame of
the storm!  Poor fellow--druan bâch!"

"Druan a Gwen, too!" said the women.  "I hope he will reach her."

"He will reach her safe enough," said Hugh; "now that he has turned
the point the tide will be with him; but coming back will be the
difficulty!"

And with straining eyes they watched for the reappearance of the tiny
craft.

"Where was the woman, Mishteer?"

"At the further end of the shore, standing straight against the rock.
You can see her from 'The Ship' door; the tide must already have been
up to her knees, poor soul!  What frenzy made her go to
Traeth-y-daran of all places? for she knew there was no returning
from there!"

The rift in the clouds had grown larger, there was a streak of blue
sky and a stream of sunlight shining through upon the troubled sea,
and suddenly round the point and in a patch of light the boat
appeared, labouring and tossing like a cockle shell upon the stormy
waters.  The sight was greeted by a loud shout from the crowd, which
the roaring wind seemed to drive back into their throats.

Hugh's relief was intense, as deep as had been his terror, lest he
might never see his friend again.

"God bless him!" he murmured, straining his eyes eagerly, while the
little boat rose and fell between the billows; "there is Gwen in a
grey heap at his feet."

And shout after shout from the people welcomed each appearance of the
frail boat as it rose from the trough of the sea.

Will and Ivor rowed bravely; but skill was of little avail in such a
storm.  They had reached Traeth-y-daran in a lull of the wind, and,
sheltered a little by the encircling rocks, had not found much
difficulty in reaching the woman, who stood apparently calmly waiting
her doom like a martyr at the stake.

Gwladys saw the boat approaching, and quickly recognised Ivor as her
rescuer; and her blood, which had seemed frozen in her veins, began
once more to circulate; the heart which had beaten so faintly bounded
up, and fluttered back to life; and the eyes, which had closed in a
last prayer, became suffused with warm tears.

As for Ivor, when, reaching the strand, he became aware that it was
Gwladys, and not Gwen, whom he had come to deliver, he almost dropped
his oar in speechless horror.

"Gwladys' tender form to be beaten by the pelting rain and dashing
spray!  Gwladys to be there alone in peril!  What did it mean?"  And
sodden and wet as he was, a burning tide of heat rushed through his
frame, as a dim intuition of the cause flashed into his mind; but
there was no time to ask, for he saw that upon recognising him the
strained courage was giving way.  A huge wave rolled in and washed
over her, and in its backward flow bore the frail figure away with it.

Ivor sprang into the tide as she was carried past him, and, catching
her in his arms, lifted her safely into the boat, where she fell in a
crouching heap at his feet.

"Safe so far, thank God!" he said, and only waiting to lift aside the
dark brown hair which covered her face, and to rest her head on a
coil of ropes, he bent at once to his oar, and turning the prow of
the boat round, he and Will strained every nerve to reach the point,
where they knew their greatest danger lay, and where the tide and
wind together played havoc with the seething waters.

The tide of life was already returning to Gwladys' chilled body, for
she was young, and accustomed to Nature's various moods.  Not a word
passed between her and Ivor; his eyes were fixed upon the sea, whose
dangers he was endeavouring to battle with--not for dear life for
himself, but for her who was dearer than life itself.  Once only he
looked at her.

"Art recovering, Mishtress?"

"Yes," she answered faintly.

"Thank God!"

They relapsed into silence, for, even to hear her faint answer, he
had been obliged to stoop close to her, so loud was the roar of the
wind and sea.  As they neared the point, even Will became conscious
of his danger.

"We'll drown, I think!" he shouted.

"But don't stop rowing," cried Ivor.

Indeed, it seemed impossible that such a tiny craft should ever make
its way in safety over that rough sea.  The waves ran mountains high,
and each one, as it rolled in upon them, threatened to engulf them.

Gwladys rose upon her knees sometimes, but sank down again in terror
at the sight which met her gaze.

They had now reached the patch of sunlight on the water, and the tide
and wind helped them onwards towards the beach.

Hugh watched them eagerly from the shore.

"Brave lad," he cried, "he will do it, I believe!"

At this moment somebody touched his arm, and, turning, he
beheld--Gwen, her grey shawl over her head, and held over her mouth,
her small eyes gleaming fiercely at him.  She asked:

"What is this fuss about?"

Hugh gasped.

"Gwen!" he said.  "Mawredd anwl![2] what is the meaning of this?
Another of thy witch ways!  Tell me, woman--art thou in that boat, or
here?  No more of thy mad tricks!"

"Mad tricks?" said Gwen fiercely.  "What dost mean, Hugh Morgan?"

"Yes, mad tricks," said Hugh angrily.  "Didn't I see thee half an
hour ago on Traeth-y-daran, with the waves dashing round thee? and
hasn't Ivor Parry ventured his life in that cockle shell to save
thee?"

"Mad, indeed!" replied Gwen, bringing her white face close to his.
"Who is maddest--thee or me, Hugh Morgan?  Dost think Ivor Parry
would risk his life to save me?  It was not me who ran so wildly over
the cliffs through the wind and rain to-day.  I am not the only one,
I am glad to say, whose heart is burning and aching.  Look nearer
home, man.  If I am mad, _I_ never left the girl who loved me all her
life to marry a croten[3] of a girl who did not love me, and who
loved somebody else.  'Tis thou art mad, Hugh Morgan, and 'twas thy
wife Gwladys who ran through the storm to Traeth-y-daran this
morning," and she burst into one of the long shrieking fits of
laughter which had latterly become the terror of Mwntseison.

Hugh looked at her in horrified amazement.  His mind was a chaos of
troubled thoughts, and, as a shout from the crowd caught his ear, he
turned again to watch the boat, but it was gone.

There had been a slight lull in the storm, during which Will and Ivor
had striven hard to reach the shore; but the wind rose again, and the
sea, as if regretting its momentary gentleness, suddenly increased in
violence.  A monstrous wave, towering higher than any that had
hitherto assailed them, came rolling with foaming crest towards the
boat.  Ivor and Gwladys realised at the same moment that to escape
its powerful mass was impossible.  With one impulse they stood up.

"'Tis death!" cried Gwladys.

"But together!" answered Ivor, as he clasped her in his arms; and
together they were washed out of the boat, and carried away by the
rushing wave.

Will struggled for a while to keep afloat but soon sank, never to
appear again.  The excitement on the beach was intense.  They were
now aware that it was not Gwen for whom Ivor had risked his life, for
she was amongst them, and they looked round to see who was missing.

In the seething, foaming inrush of waters, the tossed and struggling
figures clasped in each other's arms were sometimes visible, rolling
over and over, but ever carried nearer to land.

"Where are they?" shouted Hugh Morgan.  "Show me, for heaven's sake,
for I am blind and mad, I think!"

"There, there, Mishteer," explained several voices at once; "out
there where the floating buoy is fastened."

And Hugh, catching sight of the rolling figures for a moment, dashed
headlong into the waves, in spite of the restraining hands of his
workmen, who thought he was going to certain death.

"Mishteer, Mishteer! come back!" cried 'n'wncwl Jos; but Hugh did not
hear.  Already he was caught in the swirling waters, and the old man,
forgetting everything but his frenzied fear for the Mishteer's life,
dashed in after him, but only to be caught on the crest of a
thundering wave, and to be rolled over and over like a cork on the
foaming waters.  The sea would have none of them that day, the strong
tide and the fierce wind both setting landwards.

'N'wncwl Jos was quickly carried in far enough for Dye Pentraeth to
grasp him and drag him into safety.

"Come up, thou old fool!" he said.  "Dost think we can do without
thee and thy wooden leg?"

'N'wncwl Jos shook himself like a wet dog, and would have rushed in
again had he not seen Hugh at that moment flung like a broken spar on
the beach.  He rose in a minute, and as he rose he saw the forms of
Ivor and Gwladys borne in on a crest of a wave, and left upon the
sands almost at his feet.  They were at a little distance from the
small crowd, Gwen alone stooping with Hugh over the sodden figures.

"Who is mad now?  Gwen or Hugh Morgan?" she asked, in biting,
sneering tones.  "Let them alone, Mishteer,"--and she laid her hand
on his fingers, which were already endeavouring to loosen the strong
grip of the half-drowned Ivor and Gwladys--"let them alone; 'tis as
it should be!" she added.

"Away, you devil!" cried Hugh, battling with his bitter agony.  And
Gwen left him with one of her usual fits of laughter.

Hugh's fingers trembled visibly as he loosened the coils of Gwladys'
brown hair, which had twisted round and round Ivor's face.

"The water is cold," he said apologetically, and his trembling voice
and chattering teeth were accounted for; but when the long hair was
disentangled, and the clutching fingers loosened from their frantic
grasp, there were ejaculations of horror and astonishment from the
sympathising onlookers.

"The Mishtress! howyr bâch! how did she get there?  Druan fâch!
there's white she is!  And Ivor, too!  Surely there will be no
awakening for him.  So still, so white! but with a smile on his face.
Dost see it, Mari fâch?"

But Mari was busy with Gwladys.  Tenderly the fragile form was
carried up the road and into her own home, while Ivor was borne with
no less loving care to his lodgings, where the proper means of
restoration were, before long, successful in bringing him back to
life, and the crowd waiting outside turned up the road towards the
Mishteer's house.

"How did the Mishtress get there?"  was now their eager question.

This seemed likely to remain an unsolved mystery, for as Mari Vone
came gently down the stairs to answer their frequent inquiries, her
reassuring accounts of Gwladys' awakening and recovery stopped short
at this interesting point.

"Mari fâch," said Sara Pentraeth, in a voice made hoarse by the
excitement of the morning, "tell us, Mari fâch, how did the Mishtress
get there?" and in her eagerness she ran up two or three stairs, and
reached with clawing fingers towards Mari's skirts.

"She is better," said Mari, coming down the stairs; "the Mishteer is
with her, and begs you all to go home quietly.  The Mishtress will be
well in a day or two; but she is too frightened to answer any
questions yet."

And, reluctantly, they were compelled to control their curiosity for
the present, satisfying themselves by turning again towards Ivor's
lodgings, where they lingered about all day until relieved by the
information that his strong frame was battling bravely for life, and
that probably after a night's sleep he would be himself again.

Gwladys had opened her eyes and returned to consciousness with a
quiet calmness which was absent from Ivor's recovery.  The return of
life and warmth to the body which has so nearly severed its
connection with the soul is often a painful experience, and
especially in the case of partial drowning.  He had returned to
consciousness with much struggling and groaning, and when he realised
that the old life of thwarted hopes and bruised feelings had once
more to be encountered, the groans, which those around him attributed
to bodily pain, were caused by the fresh awakening to mental anguish.

"Gwladys! where is she?" were his first words.

"Safe at home, and getting right rapidly."

He said no more, but quietly seconded the efforts of those around him
to restore him.

Meanwhile, Hugh Morgan sat silent and thoughtful beside his young
wife's bed, holding her hand in one of his, while with the other he
occasionally smoothed away the brown locks, which, in drying, resumed
their tendency to curl and wave about the snowy forehead, while Mari
Vone came and went with gentle words and tender smiles.

"There's a good girl!" she said, as Gwladys returned an empty cup of
some steaming concoction which she had swallowed in quiet obedience.

The brown eyes looked up gratefully, but there was no answering smile
on the red lips.  Only when Mari had retired for a moment, she raised
Hugh's hand and pressed a silent kiss upon it, and as she let it drop
again, a tear rolled down her cheek.  It caught Hugh's glance at
once, and, with almost womanly tenderness, he wiped it away.  She
opened her lips to speak, but Hugh placed his finger playfully upon
them, saying:

"Not a word, merch i, until thou art well.  To-day and to-night thou
must be quiet, Dr. Hughes says, and to-morrow thou may'st talk to
thine heart's content."


[1] If I die!--A common exclamation.

[2] Merciful God.

[3] Slip of a girl.



CHAPTER XII.

UNREST.

  "Pen addysg pan oeddwm, i'r gwyrdd-ddail mi gerddwn,
  A'r man y dymunwn mi ganwn a'r gog;
  Yn awr dan ryw geubren 'rwy'n nuchu ac yn ochen,
  Fel clomen un adeu anwydog."

  "Time was when calm in wisdom's ways, with heart at rest,
  I roamed the wood to hear the cuckoo sing;
  But now I seek the shade alone, unblest,
  And mourn--a shivering bird with broken wing."


"You must go to bed, Hugh," said Mari, when the moon began to look in
through the little chamber window, where Gwladys lay quiet and
thoughtful.  "She has her mother with her, and I will come down in
the early morning and make you a cup of tea; so get to bed--your eyes
look weary, and your hand is shaking.  A good night's rest will be
best for you.  I will take care of Gwladys, fâch."

"I know, I know," said Hugh; "you will be a better nurse than me, so
good-night, lass.  Can diolch!"

He made his way to the little back attic, where the tiny window
looked out under the roof to the rugged cliffs and brown hills
stretching round the edge of the bay.

Madlen, who slept in the corresponding room in the loft, wondered
what kept the Mishteer up so late; for long after she had gone to
bed, she had heard him pacing up and down.  Mari had left Gwladys
under her mother's care, with a mould candle for company, just to
show any of the villagers who might look that way that the interest
of the situation had not entirely departed.  It was considered an
imperative duty at Mwntseison to keep a candle alight in any room
where there was sickness or death.

So Nani Price lighted her candle and placed it near the window, where
its modest glimmer was frequently remarked upon during the night by
the sympathetic villagers.

"There's a light still in the Mishtress's window," said Nell,
pressing her nose against her two-paned window--"a good light, too--a
shop candle, no doubt.  But the Mishteer can afford it--or perhaps,"
she added, as she returned to bed, "perhaps it is only a dip put
close to the blind!"

Sara Pentraeth was equally impressed as she looked up the road at the
glimmering light.

"Wel wyr!" she said, "they have lighted a second candle--and shop
candles, depend on it!  Dear, dear! there's nice it is to be rich!"

In the little room under the thatch, where Hugh Morgan had retired
for the night, there was no candle or lamp, but it was flooded by a
stream of moonlight, which made a slanting path across the rough,
uneven floor.  Hugh crossed and re-crossed it as he walked with
folded arms and bent head up and down--up and down until the moon was
high in the sky.  A rough wooden bedstead and bed occupied one dark
end of the long, low room, which was otherwise destitute of
furniture, excepting a worm-eaten bench which stood against the bare,
white-washed wall.  At the further end, in the dark shadow, stood two
or three generations of spinning-wheels, in various stages of decay,
accompanied by a few old cloaks and fishing-nets hanging over the
rough rafters.

Here Hugh Morgan set himself to face his troubles and to fight with
his angry feelings; and if, when the morning dawned, he had neither
chased away the one nor conquered the other, he had at least gained
courage to meet them with fortitude and patience.  Suddenly he
started, with his eyes fixed steadily on the further end of the
room--for there, in the shadow, stood Mari Vone, her tall, graceful
figure stooping forward a little, one white arm hanging by her side,
the other raised and with finger pointing upwards, seemed to remind
him that though he sought in vain for comfort on earth, from Heaven
he might still gather help and strength!  Her golden hair was
unbound, and hung, as he remembered it of old, in flowing waves below
her waist; and as he gazed earnestly into the darkness, her face,
with every feature and lineament distinctly marked, appeared before
him--the deep blue eyes, the white eyelids that too often drooped
over them, the parted lips, the dimpled chin--all were distinctly
visible.  He did not stop to ask himself how she had come there, but
with the instinctive relief which her presence always brought him, he
stretched out his hands with an exclamation of greeting, and,
stepping across the bar of moonlight into the dark shadow, stood face
to face with--nothing!--nothing but the old spinning-wheels and nets,
and cloaks of different hues which hung down beside them.  He stood
baffled and astounded.

"Could these old rags have shaped themselves in his imagination into
Mari's beautiful form?"

He returned to his seat on the bench, and tried once more to recall
the picture to his mental vision--but in vain.  She was gone!  And
Hugh turned again to face his loneliness and sorrow.  Curiously
enough, as the night advanced, his thoughts were withdrawn in a great
measure from Gwladys, and were occupied with Mari Vone.  A sore
feeling of resentment against her took the place of the placid,
contented friendship which for so many years had reigned in his heart.

"It was her fault," he thought--"all this bitter trouble that had
come upon him!  Everybody in the village knew that she had jilted him
shamefully!  And what did that mad woman mean?--'The girl who has
loved you all her life!'  But whatever she meant, it was some fancy
of her disordered brain!"

Mari Vone had injured him--had spoiled his life, and had laid him
open to the temptation of a foolish headstrong passion--a passion
that had already died out within him like the furze bush on yonder
hillside that blazed up so merrily when the farmer's boys lighted it
to-night at ten o'clock, and now see, scarcely a spark remained.  So
had his passion for Gwladys died out within the last few days, and
Mari Vone had been the cause of all his mistakes and troubles!  As
for Gwladys, he bore her no resentment.

"Poor child, poor child!" he thought; "it has been no fault of hers!
I alone am to blame!  I was the Mishteer, and she dared not refuse
me!  But Ivor--how has he repaid me?  But I will watch and see that
at least he shall not lead Gwladys into mischief.  Could they have
met clandestinely?  But no! the thought was unworthy of him or of
her!  But yet--he would watch!  Yes--watch!"  And for the first time
in his life the giants of suspicion and jealousy clamoured loud at
the door of his heart.

But he showed no outward sign of disturbance next morning when,
rather late, he entered Gwladys' room.  Mari Vone stood beside her,
and, leaning over the still pale invalid, raised one finger to
enforce silence; and the attitude instantly reminded Hugh of the
figure he had seen by the old spinning wheels, and the feelings of
resentment which it had roused again took possession of him.

"Hush!" said Mari, "she is sleeping!"

"That is all right," he answered, in a cold and formal voice.  "I
will see to my wife now, Mari; and we need trouble you no longer."

Mari was conscious in every fibre of her being of the change in his
manner.  She flushed visibly, but showed no intention of giving up
her post beside Gwladys.

"I have promised Gwladys not to leave her to-day; so have patience
with me, Hugh, and leave me here.  Your breakfast is waiting."

It was in his heart to thank her for all her tenderness and affection
for his unhappy wife; but he hesitated, struggling with his new-born
anger, and, saying something about his breakfast, left the room
awkwardly; and Mari was once more left to keep watch by the sleeping
girl-wife.  Downstairs in the living-room she had carefully arranged
Hugh's breakfast, and after partaking of it silently, he once more
entered his wife's room.  She was now awake, and when he appeared
stretched both hands to meet him.

"Hugh bâch!" she said, "come and sit by me.  Wilt go out for a bit,
Mari lass? or stay if thee lik'st, for I have no secrets from thee."

But Mari, having first stooped down to kiss her, slipped out of the
room, and Hugh took the chair which she had vacated.

Gwladys' breath came in short gasps, her nervousness was painful to
witness, and Hugh was smitten with a deep pity for the girl whose
happiness he considered his mistaken passion had wrecked.

"I want to tell you----" she began, with dry lips and fluttering
breath.

"Thou shalt tell me nothing, child!  I know it all.  Thou hast never
loved me--thou hast never loved me since we were wedded!  I have
wronged thee, Gwladys; I might have known a young girl of thine age
could not love a middle-aged man like me!  But thou hast wronged me,
too--thou shouldst have told me this that night when I went to thy
mother to ask her for thee!  But not a word from anyone! no one
thought it worth while to stop me when they saw me rushing to
destruction like a blind horse who gallops madly over the cliffs.
'Twas cruel! and I think I would have stretched out my hand to save
the unhappy creature; but apparently Hugh Morgan has no friends--not
even Mari Vone called me back!  Well, Gwladys merch i, we have both
made a mistake.  Now our eyes are open, and we can only walk together
to the end of our lives side by side, each one trying to lighten the
sorrow of the other.  God only knows how it is going to be, Gwladys
fâch; but that is the path for us--it will be a dry and dusty one for
us both.  May it lead to the golden gates of the West at sunset!"

Gwladys, with her face hidden in the pillow, was sobbing bitterly.
Hugh let her cry for a while, and then, drawing his hand tenderly
over the brown curls, asked, in a voice of much emotion:

"One question only I will ask, and that is, Didst mean to do it?  Was
it with clear purpose that dreadful race over the cliffs--that leap
on to the sands below?  Oh, Gwladys, didst think of it and settle it
all while I was sleeping here beside thee?  Wert so unhappy with me?
Didst hate me so much, merch i, that the cold creeping tide and the
wind and rain were a haven of refuge?"

"No, no, no!" said Gwladys, rising on her elbow, and looking at him
with streaming eyes, "that I can tell thee, at all events.  I did not
plan it beforehand; I was restless and wicked, and I knew nothing
till I was out in the blinding rain; I felt nothing but wanting to
get away anywhere out of myself.  It seemed as if an evil spirit had
got hold of me.  Gwen had been here in the early morning when I first
came downstairs; she had taunted me and sneered at me, and the cruel
look in those eyes of hers seemed to wake some mad creature inside
me; and I felt nothing but on--on--until I had jumped down to the
sands.  Indeed, indeed, Hugh, that is the truth!"

"Thank God for that," said Hugh.  "Cheer up, merch i, we shall pass
through life somehow; and some day, I am sure, God will lighten thy
burden."

"Thy tenderness is wounding me sore, Hugh.  I have been a wicked
girl, but try me once more.  Mari Vone has been with me since five
o'clock, and she has been trying to show me how I can best find my
way back to thine heart, and how I can repay thee for all thy
goodness to me.  Let me get up--I am longing to begin, and thou shalt
see--oh! thou shalt see what a good and true wife I can be!"

"Right, merch i, thou art on the right path any way; and from
henceforth try not to hate me, lass--try to love me, as if I were thy
father or an elder brother.  Canst give me so much, girl?"

"Oh, Hugh!" said Gwladys, springing on to the floor, and flinging her
arms about his neck, "I have always loved you so--fondly, dearly!"

He gently loosened the hands which were clasped behind his neck, and
still holding them in his own, stooped and kissed her forehead
once--twice--three times--before he quietly left the room.  He was on
his way to the sail-shed when he was accosted by Sara Pentraeth, who
came running madly down the hill to catch him, carrying her wooden
shoes in her hand, closely followed by Nell.

"Oh, Mishteer! come back, come back!  Come to poor Lallo--she is
calling for you!"

"Come, Mishteer bâch!" said Nell.

"A dreadful thing has happened," said Sara.  "Oh, Mishteer bâch! 'tis
Gwen, the vilanes--she has done a fearful thing----"

But Hugh was already out of hearing.  He had turned at once, and with
rapid strides was shortening the distance between him and Lallo's
cottage.

As he approached it, he saw a crowd of villagers gathered round the
pig-stye, gazing with exclamations of horror at something which lay
inside the enclosure.  Lallo, weeping bitterly, made one of the
crowd.  Gwen was nowhere to be seen, being in reality hidden behind
the pig-stye, listening with a pleased smile to the various comments
of her neighbours.

Lallo's sympathising friends plied her alternately with condolences
and questions.  A stream of blood ran from under the pig-stye door,
and trickled down the rocky road--inside, lying prone on its side,
was the pig, with a horrible gash in its throat from which the
life-blood was still trickling.

"What is the meaning of this?" said Hugh, looking down at the
slaughtered animal.

"'Tis Gwen!--Gwen did it, Mishteer, and then walked quietly into the
house, and put the razor on the table!  Didn't she, Lallo?"

"She did, she did!" said Lallo, beginning to cry afresh.

"Never mind, Lallo fâch!" said Sara; "you know you had settled to
kill him next month."

"Oh, but that's a very different thing.  To die at the appointed
time, and to be properly salted and dried, every pig expects--but to
be hurried unprepared like this is terrible."

"But you can salt him and dry him," said Nell, offering her mite of
comfort.

"Can I, do you think?--oh! but I shall never have the heart to do it."

"Well, be thankful," said an old crone who had the reputation of
being the wisest woman in the village, "be thankful it is the pig and
not yourself who is lying there."

"Yes--you couldn't be salted and dried," said 'n'wncwl Jos.

"Well, that's true enough," answered Lallo, addressing Hugh Morgan.
"Mishteer bâch, I am in terror of my life--what will you advise me to
do?  If she could kill that poor pig who never did her any harm, she
may do the same to me.  I have borne and borne, but I can bear no
more.  What shall I do, Mishteer bâch?"

"Well," said Hugh, "you must either have a strong man to live with
you, who can keep a constant watch upon her, or you must send her to
the asylum--that is my advice.  Send her to the asylum."

"My Gwen to the 'sayloom!" cried Lallo, in angry tones.  "No, no, we
have not fallen so low as that!  My aunt was not wise the last years
of her life, but she died peacefully in her own bed, and my cousin
was a mad 'iolin,'[1] but his mother kept him respectably shut up in
the penucha for many years, and he died singing 'O, frynian
Caersalem!' like a saint.  No, no, my Gwen shall not go to the
'sayloom!"

"What did you ask my advice for, woman, if you will not take it?"

"Well, Mishteer, I did not expect _that_ advice; but I thought you
would be able to tell me what I am to do."  And she burst out into
fresh sobs, mingled with indignant exclamations.  "Ach y fi, no!
'Sayloom, indeed!  Howyr bâch, no!"

"Well," said Hugh, turning to leave the crowd, "I have no more time
to waste.  Get Tim 'Twm' to cut up your pig properly and salt it, and
get Gwen to help you--it will keep her from mischief--and by that
time you will have calmed down, and will be ready for my advice, I
expect.  That woman is a danger to us all," he said to 'n'wncwl Jos,
who stumped down the hill beside him, "and I must get her put in an
asylum before another month is out."

"Must you, indeed!" said Gwen, suddenly facing them.  She had glided
from behind the pig-stye, where she had listened to the whole
conversation, and followed close behind them down the road, and now,
suddenly passing them, turned round facing them, and walking
backwards, she fixed her glittering eyes upon Hugh.  "Wilt take me to
the 'sayloom, Hugh Morgan?--perhaps indeed!  But we shall see--we
shall see!"  And laughing wildly, she turned suddenly up a path which
led to the open cliffs.

"Tan y marw! 'tis Peggi Shân herself!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, who had not
his usual cheerful jollity.  In truth, the old man, in the excitement
caused by the events of the preceding day, and in the absence of
Mari's thoughtful care, had entirely forgotten to change his dripping
garments until late in the evening.  He was accustomed to think
nothing of such a wetting, and had a score of times braved its
dangers; but to-day he shivered, and indignantly confessed to himself
that he believed he had been such a fool as to catch a cold like a
babby!

"Art afraid of her?" said Hugh, noticing his unusual quiet manner.
"I must see about her, poor thing, for certain--as soon as I have
shifted my business on to Josh Howels.  I see no safety for her or
for us except the asylum."

"Yes, clap her in," said the old man.  "I don't like the look of her
eyes."

Ivor Parry, though looking pale and shaken, had astonished everybody
by appearing in the sail-shed as usual in the morning, and when Hugh
entered was standing not far from the open doorway.  An exchange of
greetings was unavoidable between them.

"A brâf day," said Ivor, looking up from a sail which he was
examining, "a brâf day, Mishteer, and the end of the storm, I think.
I hope the Mishtress has not suffered from her wetting."

"Not much," said Hugh, fixing grave eyes upon his whilom friend.

Poor Ivor endeavoured to stand his scrutiny, but, it must be
confessed, with no great success.

"Not much," continued Hugh, "and I have to thank you for risking your
life to save hers.  Dear God! had I known it was my wife you were
going to save, you would not so easily have overcome me and pushed me
out of your boat."

"B'dsiwr, b'dsiwr!  I did not know myself it was the Mishtress.  I
thought it was Gwen, or I would not have thrust you back.  You must
forgive me that, Hugh."

He was keenly conscious that, in addressing him, Hugh had dropped the
familiar "thee" and "thou," and he fell at once into the more formal
manner himself.

"We would both have done the same for any woman."

"I am glad to see you have not suffered, and I thank you again," said
Hugh, with a slight show of warmth.  He could not look into those
honest blue eyes and not trust them, but he could not remember all he
had learnt of late, and quite believe.

The death of Lallo's pig was the subject of conversation in the
sail-shed that morning, and Hugh was thankful that its racy horrors
had the effect of turning the gossip of the villagers from his wife's
narrow escape.

"Oh, she is quite well, and none the worse for her dip," he answered
jovially to every one who made inquiries.

"There's glad I am, indeed, indeed--she might be drowned.  But,
Mishteer, what shall we do about Gwen, weaving in and out amongst us?
Ach y fi! there's dangerous."

"Yes, I am afraid she must go to the asylum as soon as I have settled
my affairs a little," said Hugh, not sorry to add to the gruesomeness
of the incident, and to turn their thoughts away from his wife.

"But how did the Mishtress get to Traeth-y-daran?" said the wise
woman of the village--"that's what I want to know."

"Oh, she's but young, you know," said Hugh, smiling indulgently, "and
thoughtless like all young things, and fancied she would like to see
the storm from Traeth-y-daran.  She might have fared badly if Ivor
Parry had not risked his life so nobly.  I have given her a good
scolding."  And he laughed cheerfully.

"Did Ivor know it was the Mishtress?" said the inquisitive wise woman.

"No, no, we both thought it was Gwen."

And so the incident was allowed to sink to rest, to make room for the
more exciting adventures of Lallo's pig.


[1] Fool.



CHAPTER XIII.

DOUBTS AND FEARS.

For some time after these events, a season of outward calm seemed to
reign over the Mishteer's household.  Gwladys had taken her place in
the daily routine of life with courage and patience, and, leaning
upon Mari Vone's strength of character, kept up the role of happy
wife!  She executed all her small duties with unswerving exactitude,
going out of her way to carry out the most trivial details; every
wifely duty was performed with apparently cheerful alacrity, and her
demeanour was perfect in its simulation of domestic happiness.  She
almost deceived herself, but there were moments when the gnawing
giant of unrest within her threatened to overwhelm her new-born
strength and earnestness of purpose.  She fought hard, and gained
comparative peace.  At evening, when Mari left her, the long
tremulous pressure of her embrace alone expressed her gratitude; but
her friend knew well the sunken rocks that underlay the seemingly
smooth current of life under Hugh Morgan's roof.

Truth to tell, the even flow of her own life had been much disturbed
of late, and though she still attended to all her domestic duties
with the same stately calmness, it was not without a feeling of sore
trouble that she observed the change in Hugh's manner.  Not only to
her, but to all around him, he appeared colder and more formal, much
absorbed in his own thoughts.

"Business, merch i!" he would explain sometimes, when, with a serious
wistfulness, Gwladys timidly rallied him.

Mari had again fallen into her old habit of leaving the house before
Hugh returned from the sail-shed in the evening, and as she always
went home before noon to prepare her uncle's cawl, many days went by
without her seeing Hugh.

"Thou must stand alone now, Gwladys fâch," she said one day, when her
friend demurred to her leaving her so early; "our house wants a
thorough clean-up.  I must white-wash the stone at the garden gate,
and put some fresh red paint at the back of the big chimney, the
smoke has blackened it so."

"Yes, I suppose I must," said Gwladys, "and I shall have Hugh home
soon to cheer me up--I will be bright and nice, as thou art!  I have
learnt a great deal in the last few weeks, and it has been all
through thee, Mari fâch! only, Mari," throwing away the stockings
which she was knitting, and clasping her knees, and looking up into
her face, if with less misery in her eyes, still with a look of
troubled thought, "only, I wish I was not walking along my path so
blindfolded.  I dare not look to the right or left, but I keep
straight on, as thou hast advised me--to try and make Hugh happy! try
and make Hugh happy!  Nothing else in my life, Mari; the last thing
at night and the first thing in the morning, it is my determination
and my wish and my prayer--and he is worthy of it all!  I am
beginning to feel it, Mari--but will I ever be worthy of _him_?"

"Yes, yes," said her friend, "a brighter day will dawn for us all; we
must remind each other of that when the clouds are hanging low."

"Yes," answered Gwladys.  "I am now going to prepare the tea.
Thinking is my enemy, which I must keep out of my life until I am an
old woman.  Perhaps, then, when I am sitting here with my spectacles,
and knitting, I shall be able to think again."

"Fforwel, then," said Mari; "perhaps I will not come to-morrow till
afternoon."  And she drew her shawl tightly around her and ran all
the way home, helped by the winter wind, which blew icily from the
sea.

Gwladys busied herself with her preparations for her husband's
evening meal, clattering the tea-things, humming at her work, and
making believe to be a busy housewife absorbed in her small duties;
and her attempts at cheerfulness were not without some measure of
success.  But it was a fictitious and unreal calm, and one which she
was conscious might at any moment crumble into ruins.  But for the
present her newly-formed resolutions kept her up; and as she tossed
the frizzling lightcakes on the griddle, she tried to hum an old
familiar tune, which had of late been a stranger to her lips.

It was at this moment that Hugh came in from the gusty twilight; he
heard the crooning song, and the sadness deepened in his face, and a
light shot into his eyes from some hidden spark of jealous suspicion.

"She's happy," he thought; "she has seen Ivor!" for during the
afternoon the latter had been absent from his work for an hour or so,
and Hugh had noted it and had wondered.

He closed the door when he entered, fighting rather testily with the
blustering sea-wind, which was accustomed to find easy access into
every part of the house.  Doors were always left open at Mwntseison,
except in the stormiest weather or when a death had occurred, so
Gwladys looked up with astonishment.

"Gwen is coming down the road, and I thought thou wouldst be better
without her."

"Oh, yes--bolt it, bolt it!" she said, her colour coming and going.
"I am afraid of her."

"Well, I think we shall all be afraid of her soon," he said; and
while his wife placed a chair for him under the chimney, and drew the
round table near the fire, and piled his plate with the crisp
lightcakes, he explained to her his arrangements for sending Gwen to
the asylum.

"Poor thing, poor thing! but it will be best indeed.  I will be glad
when thou art with me always, Hugh.  'Tis nervous work to be alone
all day, while she haunts the village like a grey ghost."

"Hast had no company to-day, then?" said Hugh, with a searching
glance.  "Hast not been out?"

"Yes, as far as mother's; but I did not meet Gwen."

Hugh was silent, and Gwladys' spirits flagged a little.  She was
conscious of some brooding thought in his mind, and with her
continued feeling of guilt and self-upbraiding, she became nervously
silent too.

The next day, in the sail-shed, Hugh was gloomy and pre-occupied, and
Ivor Parry observed it with sorrow.  He, too, was full of troubled
thoughts.  To lose Gwladys was a bitter trial; but what a solace it
would have been could he have kept Hugh's friendship--this man whom
he had loved and almost worshipped.  But now he realised the truth
that, in the nature of things, such a solace was impossible.  They
must walk along the road of life apart, and it were well that the
severance should be soon and complete.  Even to-morrow he hoped to
leave the sail-shed, with all its lingering associations of happiness
and sorrow; and, when five o'clock came, he remained alone, making
some final arrangements which would facilitate the winding up of the
Mishteer's affairs.  He had not noticed that Hugh had not left with
his workmen as usual.  In truth, the latter was now sitting before
his desk in the little office, whose badly-fitting door let in
between its gaping boards a full view of the shed.

The evening shades were fast darkening the old room, and Ivor Parry
had lighted a lamp, whose glimmering beams showed up the rafters, the
coils of rope, and the other impedimenta scattered about the floor.
Hugh, sitting at his desk in the darkness, could see the whole scene
through the chinks in the half-open door, and he gazed silently at
Ivor's manly form now stooping to re-arrange something on the floor,
now stretching to reach something from the rafters; and his heart
ached with a dull longing for the time that was past, for the
friendship which had filled his life more than he knew at the time,
and, if the truth must be told, for the old days before his passion
for Gwladys had enslaved him.  Those days could never return.  He had
bowed his neck to the yoke, and henceforth she must be his first care
and thought; and how easy and how sweet this would have been, if
only--and he brooded there in the darkness with mournful eyes and a
heavy heart.

Suddenly there was a step at the door of the sail-shed, a finger
raised the latch, the door was pushed open, and Gwladys entered.
Hugh trembled in every nerve, and watched eagerly what would happen.

For a moment, her only thought seemed to be to shut out the
boisterous sea-wind, which was swirling outside the door; then she
threw back the hood of her cloak, and looked in astonishment, while
Ivor Parry, no less taken by surprise, lifted himself up from a bale
of sail upon which he had been kneeling.  Gwladys involuntarily
clutched her hand to her side, while Ivor stood straight before her,
with both arms hanging down beside him.  Hugh's black eyes never
swerved in their keen glance; it never struck him that he was acting
dishonourably; his suspicious anxiety seemed to have smothered every
other feeling, as he sat there peering at the unconscious actors in
the scene before him.  A crimson flush spread over Gwladys' face and
neck and forehead; but Ivor was pale as death.  Neither spoke for
some time.  Her breath came and went in little fluttering gasps.
Ivor was the first to regain his self-possession, and Hugh strained
every nerve to listen.

"Well, Mishtress, how art thou?"

"I only came," said Gwladys, ignoring his question, "to fetch Hugh's
coat, and to look for him.  He has not come home."

"They have all left," said Ivor, glancing into the darkness of the
little office.  "I have only stayed on a bit to make things more
plain for the Mishteer--I am going to-morrow."

"Yes," was all her answer, while her head drooped, and she nervously
and unconsciously slipped her ring up and down her finger.  She
seemed suddenly anxious to get away, and, turning hurriedly to the
peg on which a coat of Hugh's was hanging, said, "I want it to darn."

The peg was just above her reach, so she sprang a little from the
ground, and succeeded in dislodging the coat from its hook, but in
doing so caught the wrist-band of her jacket in its place, and hung,
with toes just reaching the ground, in a helpless and uncomfortable
position, trying with her left hand to loosen the wrist-band from the
hook--an object which the weight of her body frustrated.  Ivor's
first impulse was to rush to her assistance, and every pulse in his
body throbbed with the desire once more to hold her in his grasp; but
his arms again dropped down, and he turned resolutely to a coil of
ropes, and, dragging it within reach of her feet, said:

"Stand on this, Mishtress."

His white set face and his trembling voice were the only signs of the
storm that raged within him; but they sufficed to make plain to
Gwladys, as well as to the silent watcher behind the half-closed
doors of the office, the strong curb which he was placing upon his
feelings.

Gwladys stepped off the coil of ropes, stood a moment, trembling and
blinded with her tears.

"That nasty hook has shaken thee," said Ivor; and she made no answer,
but, stooping to pick up the coat, gulped down a sob which Ivor and
Hugh distinctly heard.

"Fforwel, then!" she said, turning back for a moment as she reached
the door.  "I wish thee well at the mill, Ivor Parry."  And she
passed out into the night wind.

"Fforwel, Mishtress!" caught her ear as she went.

For a few minutes, Ivor stood with folded arms, looking after her
into the darkness, and then sitting down on the bale upon which he
had been at work, a great sob shook his frame, too, and it was with a
veritable groan of distress that he once more rose and applied
himself energetically to his work.

In the darkened office Hugh still sat on; but his head was bowed upon
his hands.  A feeling of humility, never quite a stranger to his
noble heart, tinged the bitter thoughts which occupied the silent
half-hour which passed before Ivor Parry extinguished his lamp and
left the sail-shed, locking the door behind him.  Then Hugh rose, and
letting himself out through a small door from his office, walked
homeward through the blustering gale which swept up the village road.

Gwladys looked up from her knitting as he entered the house with
relief, and, rising to meet her husband, placed a trembling hand on
his arm.

"Hugh, where have you been? you are so late!  I would be frightened,
indeed, only I know you have much to do to settle things before you
give up."

"Yes, business, merch i; I am not often late for meals--too good an
appetite for that, Gwladys; and you cook them too nicely for that!
What have you for supper?  Something good, I can tell by the smell."
And he rattled on to hide the embarrassment which he saw in Gwladys'
face.

"Yes, fried herrings and onions; you like them, don't you?" she said,
with a wistful anxiety to please, very touching to Hugh in his
present mood of self-reproach; "and a white loaf Madlen has made for
thee."

"Supper then, and business to the winds!" said Hugh cheerfully.
"Come and sit down, merch i, or the board will not be full."

"I went to look for thee," said Gwladys, sitting down opposite him at
the small table, "but there was no one in the sail-shed except Ivor
Parry."

"Perhaps indeed!" answered Hugh, with simulated indifference; "I
suppose he had some last arrangements to make; he is going to-morrow."

"Yes, he told me."  And with the relief of having been perfectly
open, Gwladys ate her supper, and talked with more ease and
cheerfulness than she had shown at first.

Hugh hastened to change the subject, and with tender thoughtfulness
took more than his share of the conversation all the evening.  If
there was one good trait stronger than another in his character, it
was justice.  Before all things, Hugh Morgan had been a "just" man;
and there was growing in his heart, where at first anger and
suspicion had held their own, a strong feeling of admiration for
these two--his friend and his wife--who had met under his own eyes,
where nothing but their honourable natures restrained them, where
they thought no eye was upon them to mark a loving look, no ear to
hear a tender farewell, no tongue of scandal to blame them, and yet
had come forth immaculate, spotless, blameless, from the trial.  He
doubted whether he himself would have passed scathless through the
temptation, and the nobility of his soul responded to the perfect
freedom from guile, which he had seen in the interview between Ivor
and Gwladys.  It was not to be wondered at, therefore, if, in the
days following, his voice, his manner, his actions towards his young
wife bore the stamp of a more than usually gentle and chivalrous
homage.  It fell on Gwladys' perturbed spirit like a tonic, bracing
her for still more strenuous efforts to keep in the difficult path on
which she had entered.  And so outward calm and peace brooded over
the Mishteer's cottage, for within it were two beings, who, though
the glamour and beauty of life were denied them, yet walked
courageously on with open brow and steadfast feet, looking neither to
the right nor to the left, but simply to the endeavour to do their
part nobly in the battle of life.

To Mwntseison also had returned a season of calm.  Its inhabitants
had latterly been considerably uplifted, not to say inflated, by the
evident personal notice accorded to them by Providence!  Gwen's
bidding, with the unheard-of generosity of the donors, had been like
a pleasant fillip to the lethargic tendency of the rural mind, had
stimulated and whetted their appetites for more sensations, so that
the Mishtress's narrow escape had been received with much
appreciation.

"Yes, yes," said 'n'wncwl Jos; "there's many things in Mwntseison
which you won't find in any other village along the bay.  Look at
Aberython and Clidwen; and there's Treswnd and Abermere!  Is there a
man like the Mishteer in one of those places?"

"No!  Nor a woman like Mari Vone neither!" said a burly sailor.

"No, no!" said 'n'wncwl Jos again; "there's no doubt the Almighty
keeps His eye on us, 'cos look at Lallo's pig now!"

"Well, it seems to me," said Shoni, the blacksmith, who was always
inclined to be irreverent, "that He wasn't watching very closely when
Gwen did that nasty trick!"

"Wasn't He, then!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, stumping violently with his
wooden leg.  "What was to prevent her killing her mother instead of
the pig?  If poor Gwen felt she must kill something, what could be
better than the pig?"

"What, indeed?" said everybody; "for though he was hurried away
rather (not so long, too! for he was to be killed in a month), he is
as well salted and dried as any pig ever was, and lying safe in sides
and hams on the shelves in Rhys Thomas's shop."

"Ach y fi!  I won't touch that bacon whatever," said Nell.

"And look at Ivor Parry, brought safe from the sea and the fever.
Oh, yes, caton pawb! it's as plain as the day.  Mwntseison is well
looked after!"

And there were many of the young and frivolous who wished for a few
more sensations, since it was evident that they brought them no harm.

"When is Gwen going to the 'sayloom?" said Shoni-go.[1]  "She was
screaming and laughing like a mad thing, as she is, last night, and
flying like a partridge over the cliffs, her arms spread out, and her
toes just touching the ground.  Diwedd anwl! my heart nearly leapt
out of my body when I heard her!"

"Yes," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "the Mishteer will see to it soon."

But a greater excitement than Gwen's madness was hanging over the
village, for in a day or two the astounding news was spread abroad
that 'n'wncwl Jos was ill.  'N'wncwl Jos! who had never been known to
suffer an ache or a pain, except, indeed, the rheumatic twinges which
he declared he still felt in the leg which was buried in Glasgow!
'N'wncwl Jos, who, though not wanting in sympathy, still tinged his
expressions thereof with a slight tone of blame, as though sickness
was invariably "somebody's" fault.  And the strongest man in
Mwntseison felt his tenure of life uncertain.

"Caton pawb! what's the matter with him?"

"Flammashwn!  Never been well since he jumped into the sea after the
Mishteer, when he kept his wet clothes on all day, though he won't
confess it," said Dye Pentraeth; and the whole village was in a state
of ferment, and Mari Vone was besieged by condoling friends.

The invalid at first fought valiantly with his sickness, declaring he
would be all right in a day or two.  The doctor shook his head, and
hour by hour 'n'wncwl Jos grew worse, but still continued to crack
his jokes when a moment's cessation from pain enabled him to do so.

"Oh, go 'long with you, Nell Jones," he said, when that worthy woman
came in with what she considered an appropriate expression of
countenance.  "Go 'long with you, Nell, and don't pull a long face
here; I've bin a deal worse than this!  Why! at Glasgow, when I lost
my leg, I came to myself when they were carrying me from the docks to
the hospital.  I didn't know where I was in that straight, narrow
thing--'a stretcher' they call it in English--and raised my head to
see, and there I was being carried by four men, and a long tail of
boys, and men, and women running after me.  'Jâr-i,' sez I to myself,
'I never thought I should see my own funeral!'  Well, in three weeks,
I was out of the hospital, and--and--let me see--where's my wooden
leg?  I want to go down to the shore; there's a boat coming in----"
and he rambled away in delirium, and in spite of his plucky spirit,
his sickness conquered him, and for many days he lay at the point of
death.

Then came the time when the warmth and tenderness of the Welsh hearts
were shown--not a man, woman, or child who did not feel a personal
sorrow.  They took it in turns to watch through the long nights at
the sick man's bed, with eager interest anticipating every want, and
endeavouring to make Mari Vone's burden lighter.  From every farm in
the neighbourhood came presents of milk and eggs.  The sailors
brought high-shouldered bottles of Hollands and Schnapps; the
fishermen dared the storms to procure fish; and even the children
brought eggs or apples for Mari.  Gwladys was a frequent visitor; and
Hugh often sat beside the sick man, whose illness he felt was due to
his faithful, though rash, devotion to himself.  His presence seemed
to have a soothing effect upon 'n'wncwl Jos; the excited, delirious
talk would quiet down to a low rambling, even to a pleasant recalling
of youthful days of merriment, and Mari Vone learned once more to
welcome the sound of Hugh's footsteps as he approached the cottage
door.

One afternoon, while Hugh sat beside him, the old man fell into a
calm, refreshing sleep, a sleep that had been anxiously watched for
by Dr. Hughes, but which seemed dangerously long delayed.  Hugh knew
the importance of this sleep, and, nodding to Mari, said quietly, "Go
and rest thyself, I will watch till he wakes;" and she had gone
thankfully, and resting on her own bed, the tension of the long
anxiety was relaxed, and the drooping eyelids were fast closed in as
heavy and refreshing a sleep as 'n'wncwl Jos's.

Through the broad, gaping hinges of the tar-painted bedroom door,
standing half open, Hugh, as he sat there motionless, holding the
sick man's hand, could see into the cosy penisha, and out through the
open doorway into the road.  It was one of those calm, sunny days
which sometimes visit us in November.  The sound of the sea filled
the air, the click of Shoni-go's anvil, and the voices of the
children at play on the beach, came on the breeze.  Hugh sat on
quietly dreaming, letting his thoughts roam uncurbed over the events
of his past life.  He remembered how, in the days gone by, he had
crossed the threshold of this cottage with the ecstatic buoyancy of a
lover, not unmixed with the reverence of a worshipper who enters the
shrine which contains his idol.  Certainly he had loved Mari Vone
with a depth and intensity which he thought neither time nor eternity
had power to annihilate.  "Neither has it," he thought, "it is only
altered.  I am a married man now, and Gwladys has my love, my
respect, my tender pity; but there is a bond which links me to Mari
Vone, so pure, so strong, so enduring, that I fear not to lay it
before God, and to ask His blessing upon it."

At this moment a shadow darkened the outer doorway, and a light
footstep (everyone walked gingerly there now) came into the kitchen.
Hugh raised his eyes, and a pleased, indulgent look came over his
face as he saw through the crack that it was Gwladys.  "The little
one, bless her!" he thought, but he made no movement; and Gwladys,
noticing the restful quiet in the house, the cessation of the
rambling voice in the sick-room, guessed at once that the hoped-for
sleep had come, and prepared to leave on tip-toe.  She stood a moment
at the table, laying down a bowl of curds and milk which she had
brought for Mari, and at that instant another figure darkened the
doorway, and raising her finger to her lips to enforce silence, she
saw Ivor Parry enter silently.  Hugh saw it all, too, and found it
difficult to keep his hand quietly on 'n'wncwl Jos's.  For a moment,
as before, the two who confronted each other in the kitchen stood
embarrassed and silent; but Gwladys first regained her composure, and
in a whisper, which Hugh's quick ear caught distinctly, said:

"'N'wncwl Jos is asleep, I think."

"I am glad," said Ivor; "that is good news.  I could not let another
day pass without coming to ask for him.  I am going back at once."

"You had better stay," said Gwladys, "till Mari comes out.  I am
going."

Ivor nodded silently, and Gwladys passed out into the sunshine.  Left
alone, he drew his hand over his face as if awaking from a dream, and
Hugh watched him gravely.  Suddenly a light gleamed in his eyes, a
flush overspread his face, and looking round like a thief who espies
a treasure, he stretched out his hand to the table, and clutched a
bunch of sea-pinks which had fallen from the folds of Gwladys'
neckerchief.  Hugh had noticed them there when she entered.  For a
moment Ivor looked at them, then pressed them to his lips before
thrusting them inside the breast of his coat.  He stood a few moments
in silent thought, and then left the house.

In the inner room, Hugh still watched with troubled eyes; but the
hand which held the sick man's remained firm and unmoved, and
'n'wncwl Jos slept on.


[1] Blacksmith.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE MILL.

Round the old mill at Traeth Berwen the night wind sighed and moaned,
as it always did here at the opening of the narrow valley.  Even in
the hot summer days, when the cattle sought the shade, and the
flowers drooped languidly, there was always a breeze blowing up or
down the cwm, and to-night it blew in gusts round every gable of the
old building, shaking the ricketty shutters, and brushing the
overhanging ivy against the window panes.  Inside, however, there was
no sign of anything but comfort and cheerfulness.  On the stone
hearth in the large kitchen a bright fire glowed, on which a huge log
had just been thrown, a crowd of crackling sparks and blue smoke flew
up the wide open chimney, and the ruddy glow brought into relief the
numerous pegs and stakes driven into its brown smoked walls, for the
suspension of future flitches and hams when Ivor Parry should have
become more settled into his domestic menage.  At present it was
empty, and as Ivor and his friend Robert the miller sat well under
its shade, they could look straight up its wattled walls to the night
sky above, where a bright star shone down upon them.  On a small
table beside them stood a quaint brown jug of ale, accompanied by two
"blues"; they smoked in silence, while Acsa clattered her pails and
wooden shoes in the background.  She had lived there all her life, at
least from childhood, as maid-of-all-work to Robert and his family,
and had been taken over by Ivor Parry as part of the furniture.
Indeed, to have separated Acsa from the mill would have been a
difficult task.  Robert had attempted it once, when some of her
wilful ways had tried the good-wife beyond endurance; but she had
howled and cried like a beaten dog, and had stayed starving and cold
about the precincts of the mill so pertinaciously, that she was at
last allowed to re-enter, to the delight of the children, and to the
secret satisfaction of the miller and his wife, who had missed her
faithful service.  No one had ever tried to eject her again, so here
she was to-night, perfectly satisfied to click clack about in her
wooden shoes, in and out of the brown shadows, scraping the potatoes,
cleaning the shoes, scouring the brass pans and the pails, without a
thought of any reward, except the small pittance of wages which she
always received with humble gratitude and a bob curtesy on the 11th
of November, this being the day appointed all through Cardiganshire
for the ending and beginning of a year of domestic service.

Robert had come down for a smoke and a chat with his successor at the
mill, and they had apparently exhausted every topic of interest, for
they puffed long in silence.  Suddenly a weird wailing sound came
down the chimney, and both men looked up at the shining star above
them, while Acsa exclaimed, "Ach y fi!"

"What is it?" said Ivor, listening with his pipe in his hand; and
again on the night wind came the long-drawn mournful tones of a
woman's voice, who sang some old-world melody with a wild refrain.

"Mark my word, 'tis that Gwen Owen again!" said Robert, "that mad
woman from Mwntseison; she has taken to coming here lately, and sits
on the edge of the cliffs, always at night, and always singing the
same tune.  I am beginning to know it quite well; indeed, I think I
must have heard my mother sing it, and I believe she called it a
Witch Song."

"I seem to know it, too," said Ivor.  "Let us go out and listen."

"Howyr bâch," said Acsa, "there's foolish you are to tempt the
Almighty like that! when He has given you a warm kitchen to sit in,
you go wilfully out to listen to a witch tune!  Take care she doesn't
draw you away with it; she is Peggi Shân's grand-daughter, and you
know, Robert the Mill, that your own uncle Simon was drawn by her
singing out there on her father's smack, till he was lost in the fog
and drowned!  Ach y fi! don't venture."

"Twt, twt," said Robert, "she's far enough from us here."  And he
slipped back the wooden bolt and opened the door.

"Shut it after you, then!" screamed Acsa, "for I won't let the tune
in here; but, oh! there it is in the chimney again!"  And she set
herself to her scrubbing to deaden the weird sounds.

Outside Robert and Ivor listened, while full and clear on the
night-wind came Gwen's voice, sometimes in a low, soft, wailing tone,
almost lost on the breeze; sometimes rising as if in tones of
entreaty; at other times in passionate words that almost ended in a
shriek.

"Caton pawb!" said Ivor, "she is madder than I thought she was!" And,
as a large white owl flitted silently by them, the two men started
nervously.

"It's enough to make one's blood run cold.  There! do you hear the
crows?  She has startled them from their nests on the cliffs."

"Poor Gwen!" said Ivor.  "I never thought she would come to this.
Let us go near her and hear what she says."

And up the side of the bank they went on the soft turf, until, on
reaching the top, they saw Gwen standing on the very edge of the
cliff, with arms outspread, and gesticulating wildly, singing, and
sometimes talking.

  "Oh, winds and waves and flames,
  I call you by your names,
  North, South, East, West,
  Hither come, do my behest,
  And hasten now to help me!"


They were close to her, but hidden by one of the many boulders
scattered about the greensward.

"How she repeats that verse," said Ivor.  "I am afraid of her,
Robert--not for myself, but for some of them at Mwntseison.  She
means to do some mischief with her waves and her winds and her
flames.  Listen! she is talking."

"Oh, yes, night-wind, I hear you, I know what you are saying--'Be
ready, Gwen--be ready, Gwen! and we will help you.'  Hush!" and, with
her finger raised, she bent over the cliff until the strong men
shuddered with fear.  "Hush! 'tis the sea; I hear you whispering 'Be
ready, Gwen--be ready, Gwen!' but you are worthless! bant a
chi[1]--bant a chi!  I have a better friend than you, though he is
not here to-night," and turning round she caught sight of a shower of
sparks which rose from the mill chimney.  "Yes, he is--yes, he is!"
she screamed, clapping her hands and dancing with delight; "there are
his signs!" and she burst into the wild refrain of her weird song
once more:--

  "Come flames of yellow, red, and blue,
  Help! for you are my servants true."

"Good-night," she said, waving her hands towards the old mill, "I
understand your message; I will be there, and you will be there."
And, turning, she fled back towards Mwntseison, as Shoni-go had said,
"like a partridge," with arms spread out, her grey shawl held like
wings, and her toes scarce touching the ground.

Ivor and Robert came slowly out of the shadow of the rock.

"Jâr-i!" said the latter, "I thought the witches were dead; but, God
save us, we have heard one sing to-night."

"Poor Gwen," said Ivor, remembering many a kindness which she had
shown him before she had married Siencyn Owen, "she's no witch, only
a poor misguided woman, whose life has turned sour, like milk in a
thunderstorm.  Remember she was brought up by that uncanny old sinner
Peggi Shân, and now it pleases her to think she has the same 'hysbys'
nature."

"Perhaps she has," said Robert, "for such things are."

"Perhaps indeed," said Ivor.  "Anyway, she can do mischief, and I
must keep an eye on Mistress Gwen."

And they returned to the mill, where Acsa let them in with a sense of
relief.

"Another glass of beer before you start?" said Ivor.

"Well, yes, indeed, and another whiff; that tune has given me a
shiver.  Ach y fi!" said Robert, taking up his long clay pipe once
more.  "I am glad to see thee so comfortable, Ivor.  'Tis a wife thou
wilt want most here now.  Come up to Blaensethin, lad, and see my
three pretty daughters; perhaps one will suit thy fancy."

"Perhaps indeed," said Ivor.  "I have heard they are so pretty 'tis
wiser to keep away; but I am safe, for a wife is a piece of furniture
that the old mill will have to do without as long as I live.  I am
born to be an old bachelor."

"Twt, twt," said Robert, rising, "come up to see us on Monday, and we
will go to Elinor Pugh's bidding together, and let's see if we can't
knock the old bachelor out of thee."

"Well, I won't promise; but we shall see," said Ivor.  "Nos da!"

"Nos da!" shouted Robert, taking the opposite direction to that along
which Gwen had flown homewards.

Ivor pondered long, lying awake in his bed and listening to the
sighing of the wind and the swish, swish of the waves on the beach
below the mill.  No other sound broke the silence of the night except
the "to-whit, to-hoo" of the white owl who sat in the ivied tower of
the old church higher up the valley.

All next day he was too busy for much thought, for, with the early
dawn, the carts came down the hills from one of the farms on the
uplands.  He heard the merry crack of the whip and the lively whistle
of the carters, while he donned his mealy garments, and, looking
through his ivy-curtained window, he saw the brilliant scarlet and
blue carts come lumbering down the hill, making a bright bit of
colouring in the leaden winter landscape.

He hurried down to open the big door, and to pull up the dam-board
from the leet, turning the water full on the cumbrous wooden wheel,
for he would not have it said that "the new miller was caught
napping," and before eight o'clock the mill was filled with the sound
of the grinding and crushing of the big millstones, the clap, clap of
the wheel, and the musical rushing of the Berwen as it poured and
trickled through the rude machinery.

The empty carts returned up the hill, to come again in the evening,
when the new corn and oats had been ground into the sweet brown flour
and delicious oatmeal, in readiness for the barley loaves and
oat-cakes of the farm.

One of the men servants and two jolly lasses stayed in the mill, and
shouted their jokes and chaff at each other through the noise.

Ivor, on his mettle, worked with a will, grinding the corn, and
endeavouring to show that the old Melin Berwen had still a thorough
and a jolly miller at the head of affairs.  He joined in the merry
laughter and talk, which helped on the work of the day; but through
it all the memory of Gwen's wild song haunted him, and, mingled with
the whirring and rushing of the mill, he seemed to hear the tones of
the refrain:

  "Come, flames of yellow, red, and blue,
  Help; for you are my servants true!"


When at last the meal had been tied into the sacks and the brilliant
blue and red cortége returned up the hill with whistling and shouting
and laughter, Ivor climbed up the ricketty stairs, and changed his
mealy clothes for his usual half-sailor garb.  As soon as his tea was
over he turned his face in the grey of the evening towards
Mwntseison.  It was almost dark when he reached the village, and he
was puzzled where to begin his search for Gwen.  "In her own home?
No! that would set her on her guard!  Where he most dreaded to find
her--in Gwladys' home?  No! there he must not enter!"

Mari Vone's white-walled cottage was the first to appear through the
twilight.

"Of course!" he said, "I want to know how 'n'wncwl Jos is."

He listened at the open door for a minute to the sound of voices
within.  No!  Gwladys' clear tones were not there; but 'n'wncwl Jos's
"Hegh! hegh! hegh!" was distinctly to be heard.

"Hello!" he said, in a cheery voice as he entered, "no need to ask
how the sick man is!"

Mari placed a chair for him by her uncle's side, who was bubbling
over with tales and laughter, his wooden leg once more in its proper
place, and the usual quid of tobacco in his cheek.

"Hooray, mach-geni! there's glad I am to see thee!  Wel wyr! they
have been nearly killing me here with their pills and their draughts
and things; but old 'n'wncwl Jos has diddled them all this time!" And
with a poke in Ivor's ribs, he laughed and stumped with something
like his old jollity.

"Don't listen to him, Ivor bâch!" said Mari; "thee know'st him of
old.  There never was a man more ready to take his physic, so anxious
he was to get well; not a pill nor a draught would he miss, and all
day he watched that clock to keep me up to time with his doses!"

"Listen not to her, lad," said 'n'wncwl Jos, rather shamefaced;
"she's a woman, and they always know how 'to change the feather to
the colour of the river.'  And how dost get on at Melyn Berwen?"

"Oh, very well so far!"

"Don't thee take too much toll now," said the old man, with another
nudge.  "Mari's got two Winchesters of barley for thee to grind next
week."

"Da iawn![2] and how does Mwntseison get on without me?  How is Gwen?"

"Oh, indeed, better, I think," said Mari, throwing a fresh log on the
fire; "she does not wander about the village so much--goes over the
cliffs and speaks to no one.  Hugh Morgan thinks it is a pity to put
her into an asylum just yet, while she is so quiet."

"Clap her in! clap her in!" said 'n'wncwl Jos; "she'll be safe there,
that's my advice."

"Well, indeed, it seems cruel to say so; but I think so, too," Ivor
answered; and he proceeded to tell them of her eccentric behaviour on
the cliffs the previous night, and the uncanny nature of her song.

Mari Vone laughed heartily; looking up from her knitting, she said:

"Why, Ivor bâch, hast forgotten thy childhood completely?  Dost not
remember that old game?  Why, we played it in a ring on the sands in
the summer evenings, singing those words all the time.  Every child
in Mwntseison knows it!"

"Well, b'tshwr!" said Ivor; "what a ffwlcyn[3] I was!  Well, indeed,
I thought it seemed familiar to me somehow; and Robert Owen, too,
said he thought he had heard it somewhere."

'N'wncwl Jos was extremely amused.

"Well, there's two fools you were!  'There's a pair of you,' as the
devil said to his wooden shoes."

Ivor joined in the laugh, and felt relieved by the discovery of his
mistake, more particularly when Gwen herself entered the house
suddenly and silently.  She stood a moment, with her white face and
piercing eyes half hidden under the shade of her grey shawl.  A
silence fell upon them as they encountered her cold stare, and Ivor
was the first to speak.

"Well, Gwen fâch!" he said kindly; "and how art thou and Lallo?"

"I am quite well, Ivor Parry, and my mother is quite well.  How art
getting on at the mill?"  And without waiting for an answer, she went
quietly away.

"We can't call that woman mad enough for an asylum, poor thing!" said
Mari.

"I say, clap her in!" said 'n'wncwl Jos; "she'll be safe there.  Clap
her in!"

"Well, she seemed quiet enough to-night, and sensible.  Perhaps I
have been too easily frightened," said Ivor.  "Wilt promise me, Mari,
to send over to the mill if she shows any signs of mischief?"

"I promise."

"Then good-night," said Ivor; "I was a fool not to know the old game
song."

As he passed Gwen's cottage, Lallo stood at the door.

"Well, I am glad," she said, "that thou hast not quite left us, Ivor
Parry.  Come in, come in, and have a chat, for I am all alone."

"Where is Gwen, then--and how is she?"

"Oh, she's better--very quiet indeed, and gone to bed."

"Da iawn!" said Ivor, "that is good news."  And making the lateness
of the hour an excuse for not entering, he returned over the cliffs
to Traeth Berwen.

Acsa was still up when he entered the mill kitchen, stooping over the
fire and crooning an old Welsh hymn.  With an oar-shaped porridge
spoon, she stirred the "bwdran" which babbled in the iron pot hanging
from a chain in the chimney.  In her quaint Welsh costume, a red
cotton handkerchief tied under her chin, her hard-featured face
catching the light of the glowing fire, she looked like a witch who
stirs the broth in her cauldron.

"Caton pawb, woman," said Ivor, as he entered and bolted the door,
"why art not in bed?  I wish I had one of those new machines for
taking pictures--I believe I would make my fortune by selling a few
of thee, sitting there over thy bwdran in the peat smoke."

Acsa laughed, and disclosed a toothless upper gum.

"Do then, indeed," she said--"'twould be the first time old Acsa had
been of use to anyone."

"Oh, halt there," said Ivor, sitting down to his supper.  "I don't
know how I should get on here without thee.  Give me a bowl of
bwdran."

"Well," she said good-naturedly, as she laid the steaming bowl before
him, "I am a good watch-dog; I can watch my master's property as well
as any policeman, and as for the foxes--they find me much too sharp
for them.  Never a fowl can they get from Berwen Mill."  And she
mumbled on while Ivor hurried through his supper, and, leaving her
still clattering amongst her pans and dishes, went to bed, and
quickly to sleep.

He had not slept more than an hour or so, when Acsa, as if to
maintain her character of "watch-dog," thumped at his bedroom door.

"Mishteer, there's a strange light in the sky--a fire in Mwntseison,
I think."

"A fire in Mwntseison!"  And almost before she had spoken the words,
Ivor was up, and hurrying on his clothes.  "A fire in Mwntseison!
Had he not dreaded it, pictured it?--was he not even dreaming of it
when Acsa gave the alarm?"

While he dressed he looked out at the sky, and over the brow of the
hill before him; the glow reddened and spread.  He was quickly
crossing the yard and climbing up the rugged path to the cliffs; and
having reached the top, he ran with breathless speed towards the
village, every moment nearing the crimson glow, now mixed with
sparks, which illumined the sky before him.

A few hours earlier, just as Ivor was entering Mwntseison and
hesitating as to where he should begin his search for Gwen, Hugh
Morgan and his wife sat down to their comfortable tea together, while
Madlen hovered about, or drank her tea on a bench under the chimney,
helping herself from her own special tea-pot, which sat snugly in the
embers on the hearth.

"There's quiet the village is, now that Gwen Owen is better," she
said.  "Indeed it is heaven upon earth not to hear her screaming and
laughing.  Lallo will be glad she didn't send her to the 'sayloom."

"Yes, poor thing," said Hugh; "I am very thankful I have been saved
that horrid job.  'Twould have gone hard with me to take one of our
village lasses to that big grey building at Caer Madoc.  It always
gives me a shudder when I pass it, though I never had a relation
there; hadst thou, Gwladys?"

"No, indeed, as far as I know, whatever; but I can't bear to see it,
too, so many of our friends are there, poor things.  Poor Laissabeth
Davies, whose two sons were drowned together."

"And Sianco, the lobster man," said Hugh.

"Yes, and Nell who used to paddle with me; poor Nell."

"Ach y fi! yes," said Madlen from her chimney corner; "and there's
two or three more from Mwntseison would be locked up there if their
friends were not so quiet about them."

"Perhaps they would be better off in the 'sayloom," said Gwladys.
"Indeed, I thought so to-day when I passed poor Reuben Pentraeth's
window at the back of his mother's house all boarded up.  It must be
so dark inside, with only those chinks to let in the light.  I often
hear him singing when I pass."

"Yes, he doesn't lose his fine voice," said Hugh, rising; "it makes
my heart ache to hear him.  But I must go, merch i; I daresay I will
be late coming home to-night, for I have my last accounts to make up.
Everything will be finished to-night, and to-morrow Josh Howels and I
will sign our names to the contract; and then good-bye to the old
sail-shed for ever.  Don't sit up for me, merch i.  Leave the door on
the latch."

"Oh, anwl!  I'm afraid of Gwen, Hugh."

"No, go to bed, Mishtress," said Madlen.  "I will be up with the
brewing till four o'clock, and I will let the Mishteer in."

And with a pleasant nod Hugh Morgan left the house.  It requires
nothing less than a death, or a parting for years, to make a Welsh
husband kiss his wife before stranger eyes.

Gwladys, when she had finished her own part of the brewing, went to
bed and to sleep, while Hugh sat over his accounts in the sail-shed
until his candle burnt low and the last column was added up.  Then,
with a satisfied "There!" he pushed the book away from him, and
leaning back in his chair, fell into a heavy sleep, quite unconscious
that a grey, ghost-like figure hovered round and round the old
sail-shed, sometimes pressing her ear to the keyhole, sometimes
peering in through the tiny window of the office; making no sound on
the soft turf that crept up close to the boarded walls of the shed,
for she carried her wooden shoes in her hand while she watched the
busy man bending over his accounts, and at last, in healthy fatigue,
throwing himself back for a refreshing sleep.  Yes! so heavily Hugh
Morgan slept, that he did not hear the creeping footsteps outside,
nor yet the crackling of burning wood around him, nor smelt the
sickening fumes from burning sails and ropes, which served to deaden
his oppressed senses.

When Ivor Parry, "with his breath in his throat," reached the burning
building, he found the whole population of Mwntseison gathered round
it, everyone eager to help, but all paralysed by the horror of the
scene.  Where was the Mishteer? he who would have been foremost in
helping and directing the surging crowd; his absence took the nerve
and pluck out of everybody, and the fear that he might be in the shed
intensified the excitement.

Gwladys, overcome by terror, lay swooning in her mother's arms.  She
opened her eyes when Ivor's voice reached her ears.

"Save him, Ivor, thy friend! save him if thou lov'st me!"

Her mother, who overheard her words, looked round in affright, lest
any other ear should have caught the frenzied accents.

Ivor was gone in a moment.  Leaving the crowd, he passed round to the
back of the shed where the little office was situated, and which the
flames had not yet reached.  One woman was already there.  It was
Mari Vone, who, in frantic excitement, dragged at the boards which
formed the walls of the building.  Her whole being seemed centred in
the effort to break a way into the office.  Ivor wasted no time in
words, but joined her at once in her mad tearing at the boards, and
with his additional strength, one at length gave way, and in a few
seconds a hole large enough to pass through rewarded their efforts.
A column of smoke rushed with such fury through the opening that, for
a moment, both were thrown back.  But, not to be beaten, Ivor pressed
in through the blinding smoke, followed closely by Mari.  They heard
the shouts and cheers of a small portion of the crowd, who had now
assembled on that side of the building and watched their efforts; but
there was no time for thought, for fear, or for conjecture; only one
mad impulse, to search on the ground while their breath lasted.  Not
at the desk! not at the cupboard!  Even at that moment of strained
suspense the memory of a tune passed through Ivor's brain.

  "Come, flames of yellow, red, and blue,
  Help! for you are my servants true!"


Stumbling at the door, he stooped, Mari with him, and felt the
Mishteer's body lying prone across the threshold.  A heavy beam lay
over his chest; his feet and legs were already licked by the curling
flames; while his head and shoulders lay within the little office.
Ivor saw or felt the situation at once, and Mari, whose busy fingers
groped with his in the smoke, understood it, too.  With almost
superhuman strength, he lifted the heavy beam, while Mari dragged
Hugh gently, but firmly, away from its crushing weight.

The density of the smoke was not quite so great on the floor as it
was higher up, and to this fact Hugh Morgan hitherto owed his life.
He was quickly carried to the breach in the wall, which willing hands
had enlarged during the few seconds occupied in his deliverance, and,
when Ivor and Mari emerged with their silent burden, a shout of joy
rose from the people--a shout which quickly subsided into an
awestruck silence when the straightened form lay motionless on the
grass before them.  Not a moment too soon had they made their escape,
for the office was now in a blaze of swirling flames.

Quickly the news of Hugh's safety was conveyed to Gwladys.

"He's alive, Mishtress!  Ivor and Mari have brought him out!"

But she did not hear them.  At the words, "He's alive," the reaction
from the terrible fear that had paralysed her was so great that she
fainted, and in this condition was carried home.

A stretcher had been quickly improvised from an old sail, and Hugh,
gently laid upon it, was also carried home by loving hands, and laid
tenderly upon his own bed, Mari Vone refusing to allow anyone but
Ivor and herself to lift him from the sail to the bed.  He moaned
once or twice during the removal, and afterwards lay still and
motionless, with closed eyes.

Dr. Hughes, who, together with all the inhabitants of Abersethin, had
seen the fire at Mwntseison, was quickly on the spot, and attending
to Hugh Morgan, while Gwladys, white and rigid, tottered in like a
ghost and flung herself down at the bedside in an abandonment of
grief.  The sound of her sobs reached Hugh's ears, and, opening his
eyes, he tried to speak, but failed in the attempt.

"Not yet," said Dr. Hughes; "lie quite still until you are stronger.
Now take this--and you, Gwladys, be quite silent if you wish to save
your husband's life."

Gwladys smothered her sobs, and, sitting still and shivering beside
her husband, said, in piteous accents:

"Don't send me from him! let me stay and do something."

"You can do nothing but be calm and quiet."

"I will," she said; and she kept her word.

In the early dawn of the next morning, pale and worn with the night's
watching, she looked out through the low thatched window on the
leaden waters of the bay, stretched out before her in the cold grey
stillness of the late autumn morning.  There was a pale yellow light
in the eastern sky, but down on the waters of the bay the dark
curtains of night had scarce yet been drawn.  She shuddered as she
looked at the broad expanse of even silence, unruffled by a wave,
untouched by the morning's sun.  "What would the day bring forth?"
and she turned again to watch the quiet form upon the bed.

He had been restless with pain in the early part of the night, but
for the last hour he had lain silent and still, the dark eyelashes
resting upon his pale cheek, the masses of black hair lying damp and
matted on the sunburnt forehead, his breathing scarcely audible.
"Was it sleep? was it unconsciousness? was it death already creeping
over him?"  The anguish of the thought was too great for her
over-strained nerves, and she shrank on her knees by the bedside,
and, burying her face in the bedclothes, sobbed convulsively:

"Oh, not that! not that!  Oh, God, not that!"

She would have given worlds for time to repair the wrong she thought
she had done--to bring peace and happiness to the heart to which she
had caused so much sorrow.  "Was it too late?  Would God listen to
her prayer, and spare him yet a while?  Oh, God! give me one more
chance," was her continual cry.

But the wheels of life rolled on, unchecked by their course, the
still form moved not, scarcely breathed, and the morning hours passed
wearily on.  Her mother brought her a cup of tea; Mari Vone came
gently into the room, gazed a moment at the sleeper, and passed out
again, leaving Gwladys to her watch alone.  It was her place, and,
without comment, everyone acceded to her earnest request, "Let me be
with him! let me watch him!" only they hovered near within call,
while Gwladys still watched on.


[1] Away with you!

[2] Very good.

[3] Fool; a dolt.



CHAPTER XV.

TORN SAILS.

In the village the excitement was intense, for where the sail-shed
had once stood--the backbone of Mwntseison, the dispenser of the
means of livelihood to so many families--there was now nothing but a
smouldering heap of charred wood, surrounded by a ring of
horror-stricken villagers.  'N'wncwl Jos had suggested a dreadful
idea last night when Hugh Morgan was carried home and laid on his bed.

"Wasn't I right?" he said, as he stumped back to the burning
building; "didn't I say 'clap her in'? and if they had done so, we
should not have lost the best man that ever trod the sands of
Mwntseison!"

"What! dost mean Gwen? anwl! anwl! mad as she was she wouldn't have
injured the Mishteer!"

"Wel, indeed," said Dye Pentraeth, "I was coming home late last night
from Traeth Berwen, and my heart nearly jumped out of my body when I
passed the sail-shed, for who should I see standing close to the wall
but Gwen; she was the same colour as the grey boards.  Ach y fi!  I
was frightened."

"Oh, yes," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "'tis plain enough who did it--and
where is she now?  Nobody knows! and there is poor Lallo, druan fâch!
seeking her everywhere!"  And beginning to fâch! seeking her
everywhere!"  And beginning to relish the part of "seer," he added,
"And nobody will see Gwen again; she has run away, probably to Caer
Madoc.  Wel, 'twill save us the trouble of taking her there, for I'm
sure I don't know how we're going to manage that now, nor anything
else whatever, without the Mishteer.  Oh, bobol anwl!  I have lost a
friend!"

"But Dr. Hughes is very clever, perhaps he will bring him through,"
said one of the crowd; "if not, what will become of us all, and the
Mishtress, druan fâch!"

Little groups of people, with anxious and mournful faces, were
gathered together here and there along the rocky road.  To lose the
Mishteer from their midst! the thought was unbearable!  He had for so
long been their guide and support--his strong will and good moral
influence had been for years the moving spring of their lives,
unconsciously to themselves and to him--and his death, therefore,
would be a dire calamity.

"Look here, frindiau," said Josh Howels, "if we ever expect any good
to come of our prayer meetings this is the time to hold one."  And a
murmur of approval followed his words.

"When shall it be, then?" said 'n'wncwl Jos.

"Wel! there's no time like the present," said Josh Howels; and with
one accord they turned en masse to the door of the Methodist chapel,
and filled the square building to overflowing.

In their strong poetic language they poured forth their
supplications; and if sometimes the prayers uttered in their meetings
had been aimless, creed-bound perorations, to-day all was reality and
earnestness, though tinged by the nautical imagery ever uppermost in
their minds.

"'Tis our Mishteer we are coming to Thee about, O Lord," said Josh
Howels, in a voice made tremulous by suppressed feeling; "but Thou
knowest that.  Forgive our weak words, for we are shaken in our
hearts, and blinded with our tears.  Spare us the Mishteer, we
beseech Thee, for without him how can we steer our frail barks across
the troubled sea of life?  When the storms arise, and we are tossed
about in the waves, who will point us to Thee?  Spare him, O Lord,
for the aged pilgrims still to lean upon! so that the middle-aged may
not lose his companionship, and that the children may still have his
example to steer by!"

Tears and sobs filled up the pauses in the prayer.

"But if," he added, and here there was a breathless silence, "if it
be not Thy will to spare him to us, if he must go, then, Lord, pilot
him safely into the harbour! guide his frail bark over the dark and
stormy waters! make a rift in the clouds, O God! and give him a
glimpse of the Morning Star!"

One after another they knelt and poured out their souls in prayer,
with the strong craving for relief from the tension of fear and
sorrow which was weighing them down, and it was three o'clock in the
afternoon before the meeting broke up.  Of course they could not
separate without singing a hymn.  And that hymn was long remembered
at Mwntseison; its rising and falling cadences had never so torn
their heartstrings--never hymn before had been so mingled with sobs
and tears; and when it came to an end, they left the chapel in solemn
silence.

In a short time they were once more gathered round the scene of the
fire, and anxiously inquiring for news of the Mishteer's condition.

Suddenly there was a cry of horror from the children, for where the
flames had risen highest, and the fire had burnt the fiercest, they
pointed to a little heap of charred bones, which lay in the midst of
the debris.  They would scarcely have been recognisable as human
remains but for the iron buckles of Gwen's wooden shoes which lay
beside them.

"Dear God!" said the scared villagers, "who'd have thought of such a
thing!  'N'wncwl Jos was right after all!  Oh, vila'nes!
vila'nes!"[1]  And not even the gruesome sight before them could
quite restrain their expressions of horrified anger.  But a silence
fell upon them when Lallo appeared in their midst.

"Oh, is it true what I hear?" she cried; "that my Gwen is burnt? that
she did this dreadful deed?  Gwae fi[2] that I had taken the
Mishteer's advice before it was too late!  Oh, merch anwl i! my
beloved daughter!" and turning with imploring hands to the crowd of
bystanders, she pleaded for their forgiveness.  "Don't be too angry
with her.  Remember my beloved child was not wise; ever since she
lost her baby she wasn't wise.  Oh, my Gwen! don't judge her too
harshly!"

Even the strong men were touched by her sorrow, and gently led her
away, while all that remained of poor Gwen was reverently gathered
together.

Meanwhile, in the quiet room under the thatch, Gwladys still watched,
and Mari Vone crept silently in and out, carrying down scraps of
information to Ivor and 'n'wncwl Jos, who sat in the deserted
kitchen, hoping for some news of improvement.

Ivor's arm was tied in a sling, for it had been badly injured in his
frantic efforts to lift the heavy beam under which he had found Hugh.
The flesh had been lacerated almost from wrist to elbow, yet he had
felt nothing until Hugh had been carried home, and there was no more
for him to do.  The flames had caught his hands, too, and he was
suffering much, in spite of Dr. Hughes' soothing dressing; but he
heeded nothing--scarcely felt his pain, so intense was his anxiety.

Mari escaped without a burn.  The same extraordinary Providence that
had carried her through life unscathed and unmarred by the ravages of
time seemed to have preserved her unhurt through the terrible
experiences of the preceding night.

Ivor was struck afresh by the ethereal beauty of her appearance.  She
seemed lifted above the sorrow which he knew was pressing so heavily
upon her.  In the stress of her agony the night before he had
overheard the words: "Oh, Hugh fanwylyd!" and Ivor, so accustomed to
the continual haunting void in his own heart, required no word of
explanation.  He knew it all, and realised with a sudden intuition
the long years of crushed hopes and unselfish devotion of this woman.

At length there was a little movement on the boards above their
heads, and Mari once more crept half-way up the stairs and listened,
returning with a smile on her lips.

"He is better!  I hear them talking quietly.  Let us go and leave
them together."  And they went out, gently drawing the door on the
latch.

Ivor went home with them, for "Dear God!" he said, "I cannot go to
the mill till he is better; and, besides, I will be nearer Dr.
Hughes, and for thy kind nursing."

"B'tshwr, Ivor bâch.  'Twill save me the walk over the cliffs, for I
will not lose sight of thee until thy arm is well.  Thou hast risked
thy life for the Mishteer.  Come and stretch thyself on 'n'wncwl
Jos's bed."  And Ivor, worn out with his exertions, did as he was
bid, and lay quiet for some hours, suffering much in mind and body.

In the sick-room, while Gwladys watched, Hugh Morgan had opened his
eyes naturally and calmly, as one who awakes refreshed from a long
sleep.  Her heart leapt for joy, but she was learning to curb her
feelings.

"Art better, Hugh bâch?" she said gently.

"Yes, merch i," was the quiet answer, after which he relapsed again
into silence, while with observant eyes he looked around him, seeming
to ponder thoughtfully the condition of things, taking in and
arranging in his mind all he saw, and all that the scene suggested to
him.  This at least was Gwladys' impression, and she wisely waited a
few moments before speaking again.

"This has been poor Gwen's work.  Isn't it so, Gwladys?"

"Yes, Hugh bâch."

"Poor soul! poor soul!  Thou hast gone through a bad time, merch i.
Thou hast been called to bear much sorrow in thy young days."

Gwladys was crying silently.

"But thou art better now, Hugh, and the light is shining again!  Oh!
it will only be an ugly dream that passes away with the morning, now
that thou art better.  I cannot help crying; but it is for joy, Hugh
bâch, thou hast slept so long!  I feared thou wouldst never awake,
and now the joy is too great for me."

He smiled.  "Poor little thing! druan fâch!" and again the long
silence and the deep pondering.

"Now I will fetch a cup of tea, Hugh; it will refresh thee."  And she
called down the stairs with such joy and cheer in her voice, though
in hushed tones, that Madlen knew at once what had happened, and in
five minutes the news had spread through the village, "The Mishteer
was better!--was talking!--was going to have a cup of tea!"

But Hugh declined the proffered cup, and thus dashed Gwladys' hopes
to the ground.  To refuse a cup of tea after a long night's sickness
seemed to her to point to something very serious.

"No; let me be till the doctor comes," he said.  "I feel pretty easy
lying here; but something tells me not to move.  Sit by me,
f'anwylyd, and let me ask thee a few questions.  Who was it saved me
from that deadly furnace?  I awoke choking, and tried to stagger into
the shed; but at the door of the office a heavy beam fell on me.  Who
lifted it and carried me out?  Ivor Parry, I am sure! faithful friend
and true!  But I thought there were two?"

"Yes, Hugh, it was Mari Vone."

"God bless her, and thou, Gwladys!  Where wert thou?"

"Oh, Hugh, those terrible flames seemed to scorch my life away.  I
was in a faint in my mother's arms.  Thou know'st of old I am a
coward!"

"Poor little one, no wonder!"  After another pause, he asked, "Is
there anything left of the sail-shed?"

"Nothing, Hugh bâch! but don't thee speak another word, until the
doctor comes."

And so he once more lay silent and motionless, until Dr. Hughes' step
was heard on the stair.  Gwladys hastened to meet him with a smile of
gladness.

"Oh, doctor, he is much better!"

"Well, go down, Gwladys, while I look at him."  And she went,
wondering at the doctor's serious looks.

"Well," said Dr. Hughes, after an examination of his patient, "I am
glad to find you so easy, so free from pain; but we are old friends,
Hugh Morgan, and I will not deceive you.  You have been
seriously--h'm, h'm--caton pawb!  Why do women always pull the blinds
down!"  And he rose and fumbled awkwardly at the blinds to hide the
moisture which gathered in his eyes.  "You are a brave man, Hugh
Morgan, and I think I ought to tell you----"

"Don't trouble to tell me anything, doctor.  There is something
broken _here_, which not all your skill can mend," and he laid his
strong brown hand upon the region of his heart.

"Not there, my dear fellow--on this side and lower down."

"Perhaps indeed! it doesn't matter what--if it must end my life; only
tell me how long I shall live--minutes--or hours--or days?"

Dr. Hughes took the hand which still lay upon his heart, as if the
pain were there, and clasping it in both his own said gently:

"A few hours!  It grieves me to the heart to say this, Hugh Morgan,
but I will not deceive you.  I advise you not to move.  Lie perfectly
still and you may escape all pain."

Hugh's breast heaved with the panting breath, but he showed no other
signs of distress.

"When I am gone, will you send for Mr. Lloyd the lawyer from Caer
Madoc? he knows all my affairs.  There will be less than I thought
for Gwladys, owing to the fire; but still, thank God! there will be
enough to keep her comfortably.  I am sleepy."

"I will go, then," said Dr. Hughes, "and will come again."  And he
went softly down the stairs, to find Gwladys impatiently awaiting him.

"Oh, doctor, he will live, won't he? he is better, isn't he?"

"You must be brave, Gwladys," he answered gravely.  "There is a
terrible sorrow in store for you, and it depends upon how you bear it
whether you make your husband's last moments peaceful or unhappy.
May God strengthen you, merch i!  Where is Mari Vone? she will be a
comfort to you."  And leaving Gwladys standing in stony despair, he
drove to Mari's cottage, and in a few words told her of Hugh's
impending death.

She did not speak a word, but, turning a shade paler, she prepared at
once to leave the house to comfort Gwladys.

Ivor still lay in the heavy sleep which had fallen upon him, and Dr.
Hughes refused to awaken him.

"No, let him sleep while he can, and I will see him later on."

Then Mari took her way down the village road.  All the sorrow and
pain she had ever suffered seemed now to have reached their climax.
She entered the comfortable kitchen, where Madlen sat crying on the
settle.

"Oh, Mari fâch! what will we do? how can we live in this cold world
without the Mishteer?"

Mari's lips were white with suppressed sorrow.  She could not answer,
but passed quietly up the stairs.

In the sick-room Hugh still slept on, and Gwladys, white and rigid,
sat beside him.  There was a silent embrace between the two women,
but no sound broke the stillness except the heavy breathing of the
motionless figure before them, and so the long hours passed on.

In the afternoon Dr. Hughes once more came in, but only stood looking
sorrowfully down at the sleeper.

As the evening shadows drew on, for the November sun was near its
setting, and the little room grew darker, Hugh began to move
restlessly, while Gwladys and Mari watched anxiously.  Suddenly he
opened his eyes, and, in the first moment of awakening, made an
attempt to change his position slightly; but a look of anguish
overspread his face, and a sharp cry escaped his lips, as he fell
back once more into motionless silence.

Suddenly he called, "Ivor!  Ivor Parry!" and quickly Ivor, who was
now waiting below with Madlen, heard his own name, and hastened to
the bedside.

Evidently Hugh Morgan's life was fast ebbing away.

Ivor was so overcome by the sight of his dying friend that for a few
moments he could only stand speechless at the foot of the bed, until
he heard again the broken voice which called him by name.

Gwladys had flung herself down by the side of the bed, and with her
face buried in the bedclothes, tried to control the heavy sobs which
shook her frame.

"Here I am, Hugh bâch!" said Ivor, bending over Hugh's prostrate form.

"Art there, lad?  Give me thine hand.  Wilt forgive me, Ivor, for all
the pain I have caused thee?  'Twas done in ignorance; say thou wilt
forgive me, lad.  Let us part friends, as we have always lived."

"Oh, Hugh!  I have nothing--nothing to forgive thee; only to be
deeply grateful to thee.  Thou hast filled my life with kindnesses,
and above all, with thy friendship.  I have not been worthy of it,
but I have never wilfully done anything to betray it."

"No," said Hugh; "we can meet on the other side with open
brows--friends for ever, Ivor!  Gwladys--thine hand!  Lift my head a
little without moving my body."  And Mari, seeing that Gwladys was
too overcome to move, passed her arm gently under his head.

"That will do.  Now I must make haste," and placing Gwladys' hand in
Ivor's, he looked at him with serious but calm eyes.  "Ivor, I leave
her to thee; take care of her for my sake; thou know'st now my
wishes.  Fforwel, Ivor!  I feel my life is going.  Fforwel, Gwladys,
my beloved child!"

There was a long silence, only broken by the panting breath and
Gwladys' sobs.

Ivor had gently laid her hand on the coverlet, and retired once more
to the foot of the bed.

"Who is holding my head?"

"'Tis me, Hugh--Mari Vone.  Hast one word of fforwel for me?"

"No," he said; "lean forward that I may see thy face, lass."  Already
his words came broken and disjointed.  "Death is always a revealer,
and I see everything plainly now.  Mari, no fforwel to thee."

Another long silence, while the face bleached visibly, and the dark
eyelashes drooped on the waxen cheek.  The lips moved, and stooping
over him, Mari caught the words:

"Torn sails, broken mast!" and something about "in port at last!"

Breathlessly they waited for the end, when suddenly the eyes opened
wide, and in clear though low tones, Hugh Morgan's voice was heard
once more.

"Mari," he said.

"I am here; close to thee, Hugh anwl."

"Come soon," and with these words his spirit took its flight.

In a few days all that was mortal of Hugh Morgan was laid to rest in
the little churchyard on the hill.  Gwladys had completely succumbed
to her sorrow, and she lay unconscious in the delirium of fever,
while her husband's funeral left the house, thus escaping all the
heart-searching accessories of a Welsh burial--the muffled tread of
the crowd who assemble, the peculiar mournful monotone of the
prayers, and above all, the wailing, sorrowful tones of the funeral
hymn.  In her absence, Ivor and Mari followed as chief mourners, and
never in the memory of Mwntseison had there been so large a gathering.

All that remained of poor Gwen was buried in the same little
churchyard on the brow of the hill, where the sea winds swept over
her grave and Hugh's alike.  The seagulls flew over them both, and
the harebells nodded over them, and no stranger passing by would have
guessed the tragedy that connected the two graves.

Gwladys lay long under the grasp of the fierce fever; but a healthy
constitution and the vigour of youth at last conquered, and she came
slowly back to consciousness and health.

Meanwhile, life in Mwntseison had returned outwardly to its usual
routine, though the death of the Mishteer caused a blank in the lives
of his work-people which Time was slow to fill up.  But there is no
one who, leaving his place vacant, is irretrievably missed; another
is ready to step into his place, and the wheels of life go on with
unchangeable uniformity.

Joshua Howels rebuilt the sail-shed, and once more the inhabitants of
the village found their subsistence from their daily avocations there.

The loss occasioned by the fire fell upon Gwladys; but, in spite of
this, Mr. Lloyd, the lawyer, was able to announce to her the
possession of a small, but sufficient, competence for one in her
position in life.

"His kindness reaches me still," she said.  "Oh, mother, I wish I had
been more worthy of it."

"Everyone knows thou hast been a good wife," said Nani, but without
looking at her daughter.

She had an intuitive suspicion that the river of Gwladys and Hugh's
married life had not flowed on unruffled; but she was a wise woman,
and buried the knowledge, with many other secrets, in her tender
heart.

Gwladys had come home to live with her once more, and Joshua Howels
had married, and gone to live in the Mishteer's old house.


[1] Villain.

[2] Woe is me.



CHAPTER XVI.

PEACE.

Weeks and months slipped by, and when two years had passed away, the
events connected with Hugh Morgan's death had been almost forgotten;
only in some hearts their memory lived on, fresh and green, undimmed
by the lapse of time.

At Melin Berwen, Ivor Parry's life appeared to glide on in peaceful
monotony.  He was an industrious and honest miller, and business
flowed in apace, so that his days were fully occupied, and it was
only at night, when the mill wheel was silent, and he sat alone under
the big chimney, smoking or reading, that his musings led him into
sad memories of the past--of the close companionship and warm
friendship, which had been broken so suddenly for him and the
Mishteer.

In the queer old mill kitchen, the evenings were always cosy; and
Ivor Parry, like most of the peasantry, gathered much pleasure and
satisfaction from the hours spent on his lonely hearth.  There was
always the country gossip gathered by Acsa from every stray caller at
the mill, and retailed at night for his benefit, while she clattered
about her work.  Although they belonged to the same class, there was
a fine discrimination in her nature, generally possessed by the Welsh
peasant, which forbade her sitting down at the hearth with her
master, unless requested, and even ordered to do so; and then the
order would be obeyed in an awkward, shame-faced manner, and at the
first opportunity she would break away with some excuse of a
forgotten duty.

In the course of the evening, Ivor would open the old glass bookcase
which stood in the corner.  It had been found there by Robert Owen
when he entered the mill thirty years before, and left by him as
impedimenta when Ivor took his place there.  It was filled not only
with account books and musty papers, but also contained the old books
accumulated by two or three generations past: dog-eared, brown-leaved
books of travel, of history, of biography, all of old-world interest,
but which Ivor pored over with the thirst for knowledge which is so
strong an element in Welsh life; and if the knowledge he gained was
but crude and imperfect, still the pleasure he derived from his
hour's reading was great.

The only modern intelligence that reached the old mill came in the
weekly newspaper and the yearly almanac, the latter being studied in
Welsh cottages with great interest.

"Are you hearing what I am saying, master?" Acsa would ask sometimes,
when her rambling story had brought no response from Ivor; and he
would close his book with a bang, and return to his everyday
interests, and often to his sober musings and memories of the old
sail-shed, and of his careless, happy life before his ill-fated visit
to Aberython.  He rejoiced to think that at last Hugh knew him as he
was!  And then came the memory of that last scene, when Hugh had
placed Gwladys' hand in his, and the fierce strong desire of his life
rose unquenched within him, that "some day," when time had softened
her sorrow, she would remember her husband's dying wishes.  He
scarcely ever went to Mwntseison--it recalled too vividly to his mind
the painful scenes of Hugh's death; and when he did go, it was no
further than to Mari Vone's cottage.  To her he felt irresistibly
drawn, and though never a word passed between them on the subject of
his love for Gwladys, or of hers for Hugh, yet both felt that between
them existed the link of a mutual understanding.

When the winter was over, and the earth was beginning to swell and
burst with the throbbing of new life within her, even into the dusty
mill the spring breezes carried suggestions of green things, Ivor
began to walk in his sunny garden, which stretched along the side of
the hill even to the edge of the cliffs.  Here Acsa, in short
petticoats and wooden shoes, was already beginning to dig the
leek-bed, and in the corner, under the furze hedge, a clump of sweet
violets sent up a fragrant greeting.  Ivor paused and looked at them;
he remembered seeing a posy of them once in Gwladys' bodice.  Why
should he not take her these?  He had never seen her alone since
Hugh's death, had never happened to meet her on the cliff or in the
village, and even on Sundays he did not see her, for she and her
mother had taken to the new chapel which had lately been built on the
other side of the Gwendraeth.

He gathered the violets slowly, adding green leaves, and tying them
with a blade of long grass.

"Yes, spring is coming, and this is a sunny garden," observed Acsa.
"We shall have a fine bed of leeks here.  Caton pawb! what are you
going to do with those?"

"I think, perhaps, Mari Vone would like them."

"Shouldn't wonder, indeed," said Acsa.  "She's an odd woman; there's
pretty she is!  They say God's blessing is upon her that she never
grows old; and she's thirty-seven in May--that I know, because Mary,
my sister's daughter, is the same age.  She looks old enough to be
Mari Vone's mother; 'tis very strange."

Ivor pondered, as he went slowly over the cliffs, upon Mari Vone's
unfading beauty.  Latterly she had seemed to him fairer than ever,
and even to grow younger as the days passed on.  There was a light in
her eyes, a happy smile on her lips, and her coils of golden hair
looked more than ever like an angel's crown.

"She is beautiful, no doubt," he thought, "with a beauty that reminds
one more of heaven than earth.  Mari's troubles have been changed to
golden blessings, I think."

She was busily laying the simple supper on the table when Ivor
entered, 'n'wncwl Jos telling her one of his marvellous tales,
punctuated with stumps of his wooden leg.

"Hello, Ivor! come in; just in time for supper--cawl it is, too, my
boy."

"Oh, Ivor!" said Mari, coming to meet him, "there's sweet flowers.  I
always say it is such a shame there is no name for them--such a sweet
smell!--but never mind, I love them well without a name."

"In English they call them violets," said Ivor.

"Vayolet, vayolet!--oh, it suits them well.  I must share them with
Gwladys."  And placing them in a little mug of water, she made room
for Ivor at the table.

"How's all going on at Mwntseison?" he said at last.

"Oh, just as usual," said Mari, with a smile.  "Poor Lallo seems to
be coming back to her cheery ways a little, though she looks much
older; and Gwladys, too, is getting quite well and strong--she is
busy in the garden every day now, and often she comes down to me.  We
like to sit together, Ivor, though we don't talk about the past--some
things, thou know'st, are too sacred for words.  But we understand
each other, and love to sit silent, with our knitting and our
thoughts."

"Yes," was all his answer; but she knew he was grateful for her
reference to Gwladys.

"Wel wyr," said 'n'wncwl Jos, as she bolted the door after his
departure, "thee and Ivor are such friends, perhaps thee'lt make a
match of it after all."

Mari sat down to laugh.  "Oh, 'n'wncwl Jos!" she said, "will you
never remember my age?  I am ten years older than Ivor."

"So thou art, so thou art, merch i; but upon my dear little deed,
nobody would guess it."

As the spring advanced, and the days lengthened, Mari frequently
walked out over the cliffs to gather bracken for Peggi Pentraeth's
donkey, sometimes going as far as the brow of the hill, from which
she could look down at the old mill in the valley.  At these times,
Ivor, seeing her from below, would run up the sheep path to meet her,
just for a word of news from Mwntseison--just in the hopes of hearing
something of Gwladys.  And Mari, who knew well what drew him towards
her, and what lent wings to the vigorous steps with which he climbed
the hill, would always reward him with some scrap of information.

"Price Merthyr preached at Tan-y-groes Chapel last night, Ivor," she
said one evening, as they walked slowly over the cliff together.
"Gwladys and I went to hear him.  Her mother questioned us close when
we came home about the sermon; indeed, we remembered pretty well,
both of us.  There was the pwnc[1] after the sermon, and we stopped
for that" (Ivor listened eagerly), "but not for the singing class,
for, of course, Gwladys cannot join in that yet."

"B'd siwr!" said Ivor, with a shake of his head, for he knew, and
felt himself, that to join in the singing would look like disrespect
to the Mishteer's memory; "as far as that goes, 'twas a long time
before I could sing myself.  The first tones of my voice brought the
memory of Hugh Morgan to my mind, and the singing seemed to die away."

"I cannot tell how it is," said Mari, "but I can sing.  My heart
seems strangely happy.  It seems such a thin veil between us and
Hugh, and life is so short! so very short at the utmost, it is not
worth while mourning for anyone.  But I must go.  See those fishing
boats going in?  I must see if they have any fish for 'n'wncwl Jos's
supper.  Fforwel, Ivor!" and she waved her hand at parting.

He looked after her as her tall, graceful figure was lost to view
behind the broom bushes.

"Jâr-i! she is a beautiful creature!" he thought.  "How such a woman
came to be born at Mwntseison I can't think!"  And he trudged down
the hill, whistling as he went, his thumbs in his armholes.

At the mill door stood a small boy who had come up over the sands
from Mwntseison, the tide being low at the time.

"What is it?" said Ivor.

"'Tis Eynon Bryneithin is wanting to know, can he send his corn to be
ground to-morrow?  He was coming up to see you himself, but he got a
hurt on his foot coming over the rocks, and there he is now sitting
at 'The Ship,' and there he will be sitting till Catrine turns him
out to-night.  She sent me up to tell you."

"I will come back with thee and speak to him," said Ivor, "for I
cannot grind his corn till Monday.  There's Glasynys coming
to-morrow, and Peutre-du next day," and Ivor took his way once more
to the top of the cliff, accompanied by the boy.

The sun was setting in crimson and gold behind the sea; the silver
crescent moon rising above the upland fields; the sea-gulls were
flying homewards overhead; and the little sea-crows quarrelled and
cawed as they settled down to their nests on the sides of the cliff.
The sea shimmered and rippled in the gorgeous colours of the sunset,
and the soft evening air was laden with the scent of the furze, which
spread its golden mantle over every grassy knoll.  Even the boy was
struck by the beauty of the scene.

"'Tis a nice night," he said.

"Brâf!" said Ivor, drawing in a long breath of the perfumed air.

"What is that?" said the boy, pointing to something on the side of
the path, a few yards in front of them.

"'Tis a woman," said Ivor, "resting; tired, I suppose, poor thing!"
But as he approached nearer his eyes took a troubled, anxious look.
"Can it be Mari Vone? 'tis like her red petticoat."

The boy ran on.

"Yis, 'tis Mari Vone, asleep, I think."

And Ivor hastened up to see a sight which in all the coming years he
never forgot.

Yes; 'twas Mari Vone who lay there, half reclining against the grassy
hedge, her cheek resting upon her hand, her pillow a clump of
harebells and wild thyme.  Evidently she had thrown herself down to
rest, and rest was depicted upon every feature of her face, and every
curve of her figure; the white eyelids were closed, the waxen cheek
was scarcely paler than usual, and on the lips was a smile of
ineffable sweetness.

"There's nice she looks!" said the boy, in an awed whisper, "like an
angel!"

"Yes," said Ivor, chafing her hands, "like an angel as she is.  Go,
run to the village and bring somebody here, and a sail to carry her."

For there was no doubt about it, Mari Vone was dead.  The heart had
ceased to beat, and though she was still warm, and the fingers which
Ivor rubbed and pressed were pliant as his own, he never doubted the
fact; he knew that that gentle spirit had quitted the beautiful
tenement in which it had lived for thirty-seven years; he knew that
he should never more see it look out of those deep blue eyes, never
hear it speak with that tongue now silent, and a flood of sorrow
filled his heart.  He sat beside her while the sun sank below the
horizon; the grassy pillow upon which she lay shone with the
burnished gold of its last rays, which threw also with its last kiss
a rosy flush over Mari's face.  Ivor gazed at her with something of
the awe which the boy had felt.

"Was it possible that this was death?"

The sea sighed and whispered on the shore below, the evening breeze
lifted the little stray curls of her golden hair.  A thrush in a
thorn-bush near sang its last song to the sinking sun; the flowers
seemed to send up a stronger perfume as they bent and trembled in the
sea-breeze; the clouds of gold and copper speckled the pale blue sky;
everything in earth, sea, and sky seemed to speak of beauty and love,
and in the next silent half-hour Ivor realised more vividly the
nearness of things unseen than in his work-a-day life he had ever
done before.

When help came at last, he felt almost a pang of regret at being
robbed of that lovely form, in whose presence he had experienced such
a vision of peace and beauty.  With hushed voices and silent tread
the villagers approached, and with awe struck faces gazed at the
silent form on the green sward.

"There's beautiful--she's smiling!" said one.

"She has reason to smile, I expect," said Joshua Howels, preparing to
tenderly lift her, and place her in the improvised stretcher brought
from the sail-shed.  "'Tis the same sail that carried Hugh Morgan,"
he said; and solemnly and slowly they carried their light burden to
her home.

"There's pity! poor 'n'wncwl Jos and Gwladys Morgan are gone to Caer
Madoc!" whispered one.

"Wel, indeed, there's sad news for them, whatever!"

"I hope she will alter before the funeral," said a sturdy sailor, who
had helped to carry her in.  "We won't like to bury her looking like
that!"  And the villagers crowded round to look at the familiar face,
whose strange unearthly beauty struck even the children as something
unusual.

Lallo and Nani Price attended to the arrangements of the death
chamber, allowing themselves to be persuaded by Ivor to leave on the
body of his friend the clothes in which she died, instead of arraying
her in the grandeur of a Sunday gown and the best clothes which she
possessed.  They were rather scandalised, and gave way only upon
Ivor's pointing out to them how speckless and fresh they looked--how
snowy the kerchief crossed on her bosom!--how beautiful the crown of
golden hair!--how pretty the dainty, shiny shoes!  "You could never
make her look better!"

"That's true, indeed, whatever," said Nani Price; "and, after all,
Mari Vone was different to anybody else."

"Caton pawb! yes," said Lallo; "never a speck nor a smot upon her!
But _I_ would be sorry to be buried in anything but the clothes I go
to meeting in, or a decent shroud."

"Well," said Nani, closing the door softly, as they all left the room
together, "Mwntseison will be no better than any other village, now
that Mari Vone and Hugh Morgan have left it!  Ivor Parry, wilt go and
meet 'n'wncwl Jos and Gwladys and break the news to them?"

"No," he said.  "Go you, Nani fâch; it will come better from a tender
woman than a hard man like me.  I will go to Dr. Hughes.  There must
be a 'quest, I suppose."

In less than a week Mari Vone was laid to rest in the little
wind-swept churchyard on the hill; and none of the villagers seemed
surprised when Gwladys expressed a wish that her grave should be dug
close beside the Mishteer's.  Their hearts had been too deeply moved
for gossip, and they seemed to have been impressed with the reality
of something beyond and behind the fleeting scenes of life.

Later on, a simple white cross stood between their graves with the
words:

"In memory of Hugh Morgan (The Mishteer), who died November 18th,
18--, aged 45.  And of his friend, Mari Vaughan, who died May 1st,
18--, aged 37.

"They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death
they were not divided."


[1] A kind of catechism in which the preacher questions the people,
who all answer in monotone.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE MILL IN THE MOONLIGHT.

  "Little I know of life
  By worldly joys begot,
  But the rapture well I know
  That dwells in a mountain cot;
  The glory that comes at eve,
  As I sit 'neath the elder tree,
  And watch the crimson sun
  Sink down behind the sea."
                            --Ceiriog.


Another year had passed over the simple village, whose history we
have hitherto followed, unmarked by anything more than the ordinary
events of daily life.  A golden harvest had been gathered on the
uplands, and the herring fishing had been unprecedentedly plentiful.
The work at the sail-shed was once more in full swing, and Mwntseison
was peaceful and contented.

Over the cottage fires in the evening, when the peat burnt brightly,
and the "uwd" simmered in the iron crock, the events connected with
the Mishteer's and Mari Vone's deaths were frequently the subjects of
conversation; but Gwladys' connection with them seemed gradually
forgotten.  She was amongst them still, and had dropped so naturally
into her old place of Nani Price's daughter that her marriage was
seldom called to mind.  She was well content that it should be so,
for into the even flow of her innocent life it had only brought a
sorrowful "troubling of the waters," from the memory of which she
shrank with a self-upbraiding regret, and she never by word or deed
alluded to the past.

Her simple, guileless nature was already throwing off the clouds that
had darkened her life; a tide of youthful vigour and joy ran full in
her veins; Nature asserted her right to be happy, and she seemed to
grow in beauty as the days sped on.  True, a pensive look often
crossed her face, but it rather added to, than detracted from, the
charm of her expression.  She gradually took up all her old
habits--tossing the hay in the hay-fields; binding the sheaves in the
corn-fields; singing at her work in the garden; and still carrying
her creel to the beds of laver, to the great relief of Nance Owen,
who grew more infirm with advancing years.

"There's good she is to me, calon fâch!"[1] she would say.  "As
isel[2] as ever!  You would never guess she had money in the bank."

Indeed, "the money in the bank" was little more than a myth to
Gwladys.  Mr. Lloyd, the lawyer, looked after her affairs with great
interest, and the respect which every Welshman feels for those who
will not touch their capital.  He sent Gwladys her dividends
regularly; but the blue envelope which brought them was always an
anxious mystery to the simple girl, and its receipt was invariably
followed by a journey to Caer Madoc in Peggi Pentraeth's donkey-cart,
where, having deposited the money in the bank, she and her mother
returned with lightened hearts, feeling very rich with a few
sovereigns in their pockets.  'N'wncwl Jos generally drove them on
these occasions, managing to receive his "pinshwn" on the same day.
The journey was always kept a dead secret beforehand, for "who knew
but that a donkey-cart bearing two such wealthy people as Gwladys and
'n'wncwl Jos might not be waylaid, and its occupants robbed on the
road."

Not that any inhabitant of the village would do such a thing! but
stray sailors from far-off ports _did_ sometimes find their way to
Mwntseison, and English tramps often passed through in their
wanderings.

'N'wncwl Jos had found a comfortable resting-place for his latter
years, for Lallo had come forward with kindly offers of hospitality.

"Come and live with me and Siencyn," she had said, when on his return
from Mari's funeral, the old man had begun to look mournfully around
him.  "Thou wilt be company for Siencyn when he comes home, and when
he is away thou canst help me with that andras of a pig, for he wants
a firm hand over him."

"Oh, he'll get that," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "if I come to live with you;
and a firm leg, too, if he doesn't behave."

And so it was settled, and Lallo found something to occupy her time
and thoughts; and the old man, though he lost much of his jocularity,
regained by degrees his old cheerfulness, and spent much of his time
with Nani Price and Gwladys.  He was always a welcome guest, not only
because of his connection with Mari, but that sometimes he rowed up
to Traeth Berwen, and stumped up as far as the old mill to see Ivor
Parry.

"Jâr-i!  Ivor is getting on," he said one evening, while Gwladys, at
her work, listened with fluttering heart.  "He's getting a reg'lar
jolly miller; and there's beautiful cwrw Acsa brews! without my
secret, too.  But his heart is at Mwntseison still, though so many
friends are gone from here.  There's questions he asks me.  'How is
Josh Howels?' he sez.  'And how is Nani Price and her daughter?'

"'Oh, quite well,' sez I; 'and Gwladys is as ugly as ever.'"

Gwladys smiled pensively.

"'How is it you never come up to see us at Mwntseison?' sez I; and he
didn't answer, but looked up after the smoke to the chimney."

A few evenings after this conversation Gwladys took her way over the
cliffs which stretched at the back of the sail-shed towards the
valley of the Berwen.  She was bent on the same kindly errand that
had frequently taken Mari Vone on this path, namely, to gather ferns
for Peggi Pentraeth's donkey.  She never went more than half-way to
Traeth Berwen, partly shrinking from passing the grassy mound on
which her friend had breathed her last, alone and unattended, and,
moreover, a little proud reserve withheld her footsteps.

If she went further than half-way, Berwen mill would be in sight, and
perhaps she might be seen from the mill.  Not for worlds will a
well-brought-up Welsh girl give her lover a shadow of reason to think
that she is seeking him.  She is not slow to respond to advances on
his part, but will never make any of her own.  So she turned down a
cleft in the cliffs, and gathered her baich[3] of green and golden
bracken, and, tying it into shape with a strong cord, sat down upon
it for a moment to watch the setting sun before she slung it on her
back.

Behind her the rounded hills rose brown and flushed in the sunset
light; around her the rushes whispered in the evening breeze, the
green sward glowed in the sun's last rays, and every nodding flower
caught its crimson light.  The sea murmured on the rocks below, the
floating sea-gulls still rose and fell on the heaving waters, and
though it was late autumn, a calm, serene beauty brooded over land
and sea, as though summer had returned with a last lingering
good-bye.  Gwladys sat and watched the fading tints, filled with
tender memories of the past, not unmixed with an awakening flood of
hope in the future; not untinged, too, with a feeling of resentment
against Ivor, who had been very chary of his visits to Mwntseison of
late.  She had been thankful to him at first for his avoidance of
her; it spared her so much embarrassment.  But latterly, the longing
to see him again had grown upon her, and the old haunting hunger for
his love was again rising within her--not that it had ever died, nor
even slept, but that it had been repressed and buried under the sad
events through which she had passed.  But now she was evidently
loosening the bonds which had kept it in check, for it rose again
within her, and threatened once more to flow in upon her in waves of
unrest.  True, she had sometimes met her old lover on the way to and
from chapel, or market, or fair, but never alone, and always Ivor had
been calm and undemonstrative.

"Had he forgotten her?" she wondered.  "Had the years brought him
submission and indifference.  She was still so young--only
twenty-three.  It was no wonder if that pensive curve of the lips and
that moisture in the brown eyes betokened a little wistful rebelling
against fate.  Why! why should she not be happy?  Why did Ivor so
persistently avoid her?" and so lost was she in her own thoughts,
that she did not hear a footstep which passed along the path above
her.

It was Ivor Parry, sauntering up from the mill with the intention of
paying one of his infrequent visits to Mwntseison.  He had longed
latterly more and more for a sight of Gwladys, and he chafed under
the restraints which he had placed upon himself, and the proprieties
of village life which kept them apart.

But surely here she was close beside him! every barrier removed from
his path! no moral restraint to be fought with, as of old! nothing to
prevent their intercourse!  The suddenness and greatness of the
thought took his breath away, and though, with a man's impetuosity,
he never hesitated to grasp the opportunity, still the strong man
trembled as he approached the unconscious girl.

"Gwladys!" he said at last, and in a moment she had started to her
feet, the rich blood surging over neck, cheek, and brow.

"Ivor!" was all her answer.

And then, with the ridiculous combination of the commonplace and the
romantic, their first embarrassed words were the usual remarks upon
the weather.

"'Tis tewi brâf!" said Gwladys, who was the first to recover
self-possession.

"Brâf, indeed!" said Ivor.  "Wilt not sit down again?"

But she hesitated.

"Come!" he said, arranging the bundle of fern; "and will I sit by thy
side?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Gwladys, looking round, as if for
inspiration.

"Yes," said Ivor, laughing at her embarrassment; "look round at
earth, sea, and sky, and see if thou canst find a reason why I should
not sit on this bank beside thee?"

"Well, indeed, I suppose there isn't one whatever," she answered,
laughing, and sitting down on the furze again, while Ivor stretched
himself on the grass beside her.

Both felt the enchantment of the hour, and both endeavoured to
relieve the tension by falling into a commonplace remark.

But what was the matter with the sea to-night? that in every pause of
the conversation it sent up whisperings and murmurings, that bore in
their tones such personal suggestions to both Ivor and Gwladys!

They could distinctly hear the dash of the waves on Traeth-y-daran,
and in both their hearts arose the memory of the night they had spent
together there.

A bright star followed in the wake of the sun, and though Ivor only
said, "'Tis a fair sunset, and promises another fine day," to which
she smilingly assented, yet in the hearts of both arose the memory of
the star whose setting they had watched together.

Yes, though not a word of love was spoken between them, for Ivor
still feared to startle his companion by a too sudden change of
manner, still both felt that the barriers were down, that the cold
wall of separation was broken, and that once more the tide of love
was flowing full towards them.

At last, when the evening breeze grew colder, and warned them they
must part, there came a louder swish from the waves below, and
Gwladys, with drooping eyes, said:

"I don't forget what thou didst for me in the storm down there, Ivor.
I have never thanked thee, oh, no! but it is all here," and she laid
her hand on her heart.

"There is no need, lass.  Between me and thee there is no need for
words, we have gone through too many bitter things together not to
understand each other now."

"Yes, indeed!" was all her answer; and, with great relief, from that
hour she put away from her all that was bitter in the memory of the
past, and began to make room in her soul for the flowers of hope that
were springing up within her.

"Well, good-night, lass.  I have had a happy hour--and thou?"

"Well, yes, I suppose indeed," was all she answered; but it was
accompanied with such a happy smile that Ivor seemed quite content,
and astonished Acsa by entering the mill yard with a merry song on
his lips.

This night's meeting was the prelude to many more on the cliffs, on
the shore, or on the bay, and when the winter came in real earnest,
Ivor's visits to Mwntseison were of very frequent occurrence.

One evening in the early spring he walked again in the mill garden,
and sought and found under the furze hedge a bunch of sweet violets,
which he gathered before he took his way up the side of the hill to
meet Gwladys.

"Vayolettes! vayolettes!" he thought.  "Mari Vone was right, the name
does suit them."  And as Gwladys pinned them into her bodice, he was
reminded of the sea-pinks which he had snatched from the table while
'n'wncwl Jos lay ill in his bed, and which he still treasured between
the pages of one of the old brown books in the mill bookcase.

He would have told her of the incident had not a tender regard for
Hugh's memory made him hesitate to speak of anything which should
contrast their present freedom with the restraint of their former
meetings.

Backwards and forwards over the velvet turf at the top of the cliffs
they roamed together, the hours passing by unheeded, until, as they
reached the green mound, now lying bathed in the silver moonlight,
which they had named "Mari's pillow," Gwladys said:

"I must not go further, or my mother will be bolting the door."

"Wilt not come to the brow of the hill, 'tis only a little further,
and I have something to show thee there."

And she made no demur, but continued her walk to the edge of the
hill, which sloped down to the valley of the Berwen.  The little
river gurgled and whispered in the moonlight, as it ran below them on
its way to the sea.

"We can hear the Berwen from here," said Gwladys; "but what hast to
show me, Ivor?"

"Only the mill!" said he, pointing across the valley to where the old
mill stood by the noisy little stream.

It was a picture of rural beauty as it stood there, like a grey
sentinel at the opening of the valley.  Landwards, the cwm gradually
closed in, where the thick woods grew down to the water's edge;
between them the old church, the home of the white owls, which made
the glen their hunting ground, was dimly visible through the haze,
the mill itself showing clear and sharp, with its silvered points and
dark shadows, its ivy-covered gables well defined in the moonlight.
There was a firelight glow in the broad kitchen window, and the smoke
curled up from the grey stone chimney.

"Only the mill!" said Ivor again.

"Yes, there's pretty it is in the moonlight! and there's nice things
the river is saying down there!"

"Yes, 'tis a pretty home; but lonely, lass--lonely for me; wilt not
come and brighten it, Gwladys?  Think how long I have waited; think
how much I have suffered--and thee, too!  Come, Gwladys, come to the
mill with me!  Come, f'anwylyd, I have not hurried thee; but every
week has seemed a month lately and every month a year!  Is there any
reason in earth or heaven why we should not be married now?  Why art
so silent, Gwladys?"

"Only, Ivor, I am wondering can it be that there is so much happiness
in store for me and thee?"

"Yes," said Ivor, in a loud, determined tone, "there is love and
happiness in store for us, if thou wilt only give thyself to me.
Come and be the mistress of the old mill, f'anwylyd; come and be the
queen and idol of my heart, as thou hast always been!  When will we
be married?  To-morrow?"

"Caton pawb, Ivor, thou art taking my breath away."

"Next week, then?"

"Well, indeed, it will only be on one condition," and she held up her
finger playfully.

"Oh, listen to her," said Ivor delightedly, "she's beginning to lay
down the law already; and what conditions does my queen enforce?" and
taking off his hat he made her a sweeping bow.

"Well, 'tis this," said Gwladys; "there must be no wedding--I
mean--only thee and me, Ivor."

"What! not the parson?"

"Oh, of course, fwlcyn dwl; but no one else."

"Agreed!" said Ivor.

"And no one at Mwntseison must know about it, only mother."

"Agreed!" said Ivor again.  "And why must we have no one at our
wedding, fanwylyd?"

"There will be two there indeed, I think," she said, the merry
dimples giving place to a more serious, though happy smile.

Ivor looked at her for a moment inquiringly.

"Dost mean Hugh and Mari Vone?"

She nodded.

"'Tis a beautiful thought indeed, lass; and why not? and thou art
right, Gwladys, 'twould be hard indeed to find fit company for them."

And so it was settled between them; and in the old mill by the
Berwen, Ivor and Gwladys found in the long years to come that
happiness, so long delayed and waited for, is sometimes found even on
earth!


[1] Dear heart.

[2] Without pride.

[3] Bundle.



THE END





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