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.