Produced by Al Haines

  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