THE STORM.
"Wild waves, where are you flowing
Out on the seething bay?
Wild wind, what are you doing
Tearing the sea and tossing the spray?
There the storm bells are pealing,
There the sea-gulls are wheeling,
And the cabin-boy kneeling,
Out on the seething bay."
The next day the storm, which had threatened Mwntseison for days, was
at its height. During the night the wind had increased into a
furious gale, lashing the foaming waves up the sides of the cliffs,
rushing up the narrow valley, and carrying huge lumps of foam into
the fields above the village. Lying awake, Gwladys listened,
dry-eyed, to the roar of the sea and the shriek of the wind. Every
hour since that critical moment when Hugh had looked into her eyes,
and they had quailed before his, seemed to bring but an access of
misery to her heart. Her husband's tenderness had not
failed--indeed, the tones of his voice were even more gentle than
before; but she was too conscious of a subtle change, the cause of
which she knew too well. Hugh no longer trusted her--no longer loved
her! He was as fully aware of the state of her feelings towards Ivor
as though she had told him in plain words, "I love him, and I have
never loved thee as I ought." Oh, the pity of it! that she could not
fling her arms about his neck and say, "Hugh, it is not true; it is a
foolish fancy of thine! I love thee with all my heart," and, as she
looked at Hugh's sleeping form beside her, she would have given
worlds to be able thus to reassure him--but she could not. He tossed
restlessly on his pillow, and she listened to his mutterings.
"What shall I do, Mari?" he murmured, in his sleep. And Gwladys knew
that in the bitterness of his heart he was seeking comfort from Mari
Vone.
When the morning broke, she rose, listless and weary, and, leaving
Hugh still sleeping, went downstairs and busied herself with the
preparations for breakfast. As she drew back the wooden bolt of the
house door, it was pushed open from without, and Gwen came into the
passage, as usual wrapped in her grey shawl. She looked pale and
haggard, and her eyes gleamed fiercely as she brushed roughly past
Gwladys, and preceded her into the kitchen. She seated herself on
the settle under the chimney, where Madlen was kindling the fire.
"Thou art up early to-day, Gwen," said Gwladys, a little trembling in
her voice, for a restless night had already shaken her nerves. "Wilt
stay for breakfast with us?"
"Why, no; of course not! I have breakfast at home, and want none of
thy charity. Where's the Mishteer?"
"He's still sleeping. Dost want to see him?"
"Oh, no, let him sleep," said Gwen; "he will awake some day." And
her eyes, small and glittering as a snake's, followed Gwladys as she
busied herself with her household duties.
She tried to throw off the fascination of Gwen's look, but wherever
she went she felt oppressed by that basilisk stare.
"What makes thee so pale and downcast?" Gwen said at last. "Everyone
thought that when thou wert the wife of Hugh Morgan thou wouldst be
the brightest and happiest in Mwntseison; but instead of that thou
look'st like a white storm-driven pigeon. Come out in the rain with
me; 'twill suit thee better than all these comforts. Has Hugh Morgan
begun to repent of his bargain yet?"
"What dost mean?" said Madlen, standing before her with arms akimbo,
"coming here, indeed, to insult the Mishtress before she's had a bit
or a sup inside her? Get thee out, Gwen, if thee hasn't pleasanter
words in thy tongue."
"Oh, I am going," said Gwen, standing up and backing gradually
towards the doorway, with her eyes still fixed on Gwladys, who felt
frightened and trembling, "out in the wind and rain. 'Tis a brâf
morning." And with one of her long uncanny peals of laughter, she
left the house, and Madlen bolted the door.
"There," she said, with satisfaction, "let her go to her wind and
rain. Tan i marw![1] I'm afraid of her."
When Hugh came down, he entered upon the subject of his intended
retirement from business.
"'Twill be better for thee, merch i," he said, "than being so much
alone. Perhaps I have been wrong to leave thee here all day to fret
thyself. I will try not to be in the way of the household work,
Gwladys."
"Oh, Hugh," said the girl, her voice trembling with emotion, "thou
hast not left me to fret. Thou hast filled my life with kindness;
thou hast been everything to me--husband, friend, brother,--and I
will try--oh, I will try!--to be all I can to thee. Have patience
with me, Hugh." And, with timid attempts at reconciliation, she
surrounded him with little nameless attentions, piling his plate with
the frizzled ham, cutting thin slices of bread and butter from the
long barley loaf, and stooping herself to tie his shoe strings; but
Hugh's thoughts were absent, and he took no notice of the little
tendernesses. The cloud was on his brow and the dark shadow of
suspicion in his heart, and, though his words were as kind, perhaps
more so than ever, there was an absence of the loving look and the
warm embrace, which cut his young wife to the quick. After he had
left the house, she flung herself down in the rush chair in the
chimney corner, and, with her hands clasped listlessly on her lap,
she mused long and sorrowfully, making no answer to Madlen's frequent
allusions to the storm.
"There's yellow the sea is," said the latter, peeping out through the
little side window, which looked down to the bay. "All the sand in
the bay is mixed with it, and oh, anwl! the waves are rising as high
as steeples! Wel wyr!"
Gwladys still sat on in a turmoil of miserable thought. What was to
become of her? How should she bear the long life before her, always
mistrusted by her husband, and always fighting with this terrible
dear love for Ivor, which haunted her sleeping or waking, in the
garden, on the shore, or at her household duties? and "I am so young!
If I were old there would be some hope of an end of it. But so
young--only twenty! It is impossible! I cannot bear it!" and in a
paroxysm of bitter trouble she started up, and, flinging an old grey
shawl over her head and shoulders, she went quickly out through the
back door and into the sandy garden. She would battle with the wind
and the storm! It would not be worse than the turmoil of thoughts
within, which made her heart ache and her head burn. Out in the
garden the wind almost took her breath away. The blackened broom
bushes in the low hedge which separated the garden from the cliffs
seemed to bend threateningly towards her; but she pushed her way
through them. The long grass, beaten down by the pelting rain,
obstructed her footsteps; but she hurried on persistently, almost
unconsciously, scarcely feeling the cruel stings of the driving rain
in her face, and struggling with the fierce wind, which clutched at
her dripping garments and dragged her backwards.
"But I will go!" cried the girl, as she fought her way over the
cliffs, sometimes stopping to take breath, but again resolutely
renewing her battle with the storm. Where was she going? She knew
not--cared not; but somewhere--anywhere--away from herself and the
pitiless circumstances which pressed upon her! Yes; Gwen was right.
The storm and the wind and the rain suited her better than the warm
hearth and the kind voice of her husband.
Could she reach Traeth-y-daran? There she would sit on the rock
where Ivor and she had spent their last hours together. Perhaps
there she would find peace, for in vain she had sought it in prayer
and supplication. She knew if she were once able to make her way
down the dangerous path to the shore, the last step, which would be
of necessity a leap of ten feet, would render a return impossible. A
dim perception of this ran through her mind; but the frenzy which had
taken possession of her sought only for its goal--oblivion, and a
termination of her sufferings.
In calmer moments she would not have dared to tread that dangerous
path in a high wind, but to-day she seemed possessed by some wild
spirit of unrest, which drove her forwards and impelled her flying
feet on--on--till the edge of the cliff was reached, and still on,
down the dangerous, zig-zag path, clinging to the stunted bushes.
Slipping, stumbling, and yet pursuing, she made her difficult
progress, and when the path ended abruptly at the top of a smooth,
perpendicular rock, she did not hesitate for a moment, but took the
leap with streaming hair and swirling garments, and alighting on the
beach below, sped onwards across the wet sands to where the low rocks
still lay uncovered by the in-coming tide. At last she had reached
her goal, and, flinging herself down, she gave way to the tears which
she had hitherto restrained. Every moment seemed to add to the fury
of the storm.
"Oh, wind, it is for me you are wailing and shrieking! Oh, rain,
'tis for me your tears are falling!" and she mingled her own
passionate sobs and cries with the stormy sounds around her. Here
she could cry aloud in her despair, for there was no one to hear--no
one but God. "Does he hear me?" and she paused for a moment and
looked out at the boiling, seething cauldron before her, and up to
the streaming sky; but her survey brought her no comfort. "No, He
does not! No! no! I am alone--alone!"
At that moment a huge wave broke with thundering force at a little
distance from the shore, and, helped by the wind and in-rushing tide,
it reached far up the beach, even to the rock on which Gwladys sat;
and for the first time she realised that, in taking that flying leap,
she had cut herself off from every chance of escape. As she watched
the huge, curling waves rushing one after another towards her, a
strange joy rose within her. She would be drowned!--and here would
end all the sorrow and all the sin which had made the last three
months of her life so intolerable to her.
How had she dared to think God had not heard her?--for here was the
answer to her prayers. He was going to take her to Himself--to calm
her troubled breast and to unloose the tangled skein of her life!
And leaning back, her head on a bed of brown sea-weed, she set
herself to wait for death--the great consoler. But when the cold
streams of water reached her, and, encircling the rock, began to
splash her face, already wetted by the rain, she moved a little
further up the beach.
"Not just yet," she thought; "I must have time to ask for pardon, and
to say good-bye to Ivor and dear Hugh!"
And again she threw herself back on the wet sea-weed--as wet and
sodden herself as was her cold bed.
Steadily the tide came up--not slowly and gracefully as in the quiet
summer mornings and evenings, but with rapid strides and
far-reaching, foaming arms, that seemed to stretch out hungrily
towards her. She closed her eyes as the drenching rain fell on her
face, and with clasped hands waited--but not for long. For soon the
roar became louder, the wind blew more fiercely, and once more she
moved further up the beach, until at last there was only a small
strip of sand under the cliffs left bare.
Gwladys rose, and wearily gained the narrow strand, and, seeing that
the swirling tide already swept over it, she took her stand, leaning
against the rocky wall, and once more prepared to wait her doom.
Suddenly there was a break in the leaden sky, and while the waves now
reached her ankles, the drift widened, and the sun peeped out and
cast a fitful gleam on the tossing waves. It was only a gleam, but
enough to waken in Gwladys the natural instincts of youth, which had
slept within her lately. After all, life was dear! It was better to
live miserable than to die miserable! After all, life might hold
some solution of her perplexities; God might lighten her burden--to
Him nothing was impossible. But it was too late! Already the water
reached her knees, and many a wave splashed even over her head.
Meanwhile, in the sail-shed, Hugh and Ivor worked each at his own
special work, avoiding each other as much as possible, but still
showing no other sign of disturbance.
"I see Captain Roberts at 'The Ship.' Will I go and tell him his
sail is done, Mishteer?" said Ivor at last, standing square and
straight at the door of the little office.
"Yes," answered Hugh, "if thou canst get there through the storm."
"Twt, twt," was all Ivor's answer as he tied the ears of his cap
under his chin. In a few minutes he had reached "The Ship" Inn, and
delivered his message, having done which he came out again into the
wind and rain. From the door of "The Ship" one could see over the
jutting point which hid Traeth-y-daran from the rest of the shore;
and Ivor, looking across the stormy waters, seemed struck by
something he saw there.
Surely that was a human figure standing up against the bare rock!
Yes, the grey form of a woman!--Gwen, no doubt--and she would be
drowned for certain, unless he could save her. A few moments he
stood uncertain, until, looking round him, he espied a man who
slouched up the road to meet him.
"Hello, Will! is that thee, lad? Wilt come with me to
Traeth-y-daran?"
"Ay, ay!" shouted the man in return, for the storm was too loud for
the ordinary voice to be heard. He was one of those unfortunate
creatures so common along the coast--a harmless idiot--a mental state
politely described in the neighbourhood as "not wise!" He was always
ready to risk his life, of whose value he was but dimly conscious.
Ivor knew it would be useless to ask anyone else to dare with him the
fury of that boiling sea, "unless, indeed, Hugh was here," he
thought, as he pushed out his boat, regardless of the entreaties of
the knot of idlers who had immediately gathered round him.
"Here's the Mishteer!" said somebody, and Hugh was hastily making his
way through the buffeting wind and spray.
"Come out, Will," he cried; "I will go." And laying hold of the
boat, he prepared to leap in, but was pushed back by Ivor.
"Not thee, Hugh. Will and I are enough to risk our lives on yon
boiling pot. Hast seen the woman?"
"Yes," said Hugh--"that mad Gwen in her grey shawl." And he still
kept his hand on the boat. "Let me be, lad--I am not going to let
thee go alone."
"Back!" shouted Ivor, endeavouring to spring past Hugh, who clutched
at him and struggled to leap in. There was a moment's wrestling
between the two men, each heated by his own passionate will and the
new-born spirit of antagonism between them, until at length,
"Remember thy wife!" cried Ivor; "I have no one to leave
behind--back, man!" And with a violent thrust, he flung Hugh
splashing prone in the shallow tide, and, springing into the boat, he
pushed it from the shore, while Hugh rose angrily from his
undignified position.
"Fool!" he cried, looking at the receding boat; "he will be drowned,
as sure as he's there!"
"That's what he knows, Mishteer," cried a man in the crowd. "That's
why he won't let you go with him. Tan i marw! I think you must both
be tired of your lives!"
"As for me," said another, "I should say if Gwen put herself into
that pickle, let her come out of it!"
"Why, man," said a third, "how can she get out of it? That wild sea
before her, and a straight rock as smooth as a wall behind her!"
"Twt, twt!" said the first speaker, "Peggi Shân would come and help
her! There he goes round the point, now he will be in the strame of
the storm! Poor fellow--druan bâch!"
"Druan a Gwen, too!" said the women. "I hope he will reach her."
"He will reach her safe enough," said Hugh; "now that he has turned
the point the tide will be with him; but coming back will be the
difficulty!"
And with straining eyes they watched for the reappearance of the tiny
craft.
"Where was the woman, Mishteer?"
"At the further end of the shore, standing straight against the rock.
You can see her from 'The Ship' door; the tide must already have been
up to her knees, poor soul! What frenzy made her go to
Traeth-y-daran of all places? for she knew there was no returning
from there!"
The rift in the clouds had grown larger, there was a streak of blue
sky and a stream of sunlight shining through upon the troubled sea,
and suddenly round the point and in a patch of light the boat
appeared, labouring and tossing like a cockle shell upon the stormy
waters. The sight was greeted by a loud shout from the crowd, which
the roaring wind seemed to drive back into their throats.
Hugh's relief was intense, as deep as had been his terror, lest he
might never see his friend again.
"God bless him!" he murmured, straining his eyes eagerly, while the
little boat rose and fell between the billows; "there is Gwen in a
grey heap at his feet."
And shout after shout from the people welcomed each appearance of the
frail boat as it rose from the trough of the sea.
Will and Ivor rowed bravely; but skill was of little avail in such a
storm. They had reached Traeth-y-daran in a lull of the wind, and,
sheltered a little by the encircling rocks, had not found much
difficulty in reaching the woman, who stood apparently calmly waiting
her doom like a martyr at the stake.
Gwladys saw the boat approaching, and quickly recognised Ivor as her
rescuer; and her blood, which had seemed frozen in her veins, began
once more to circulate; the heart which had beaten so faintly bounded
up, and fluttered back to life; and the eyes, which had closed in a
last prayer, became suffused with warm tears.
As for Ivor, when, reaching the strand, he became aware that it was
Gwladys, and not Gwen, whom he had come to deliver, he almost dropped
his oar in speechless horror.
"Gwladys' tender form to be beaten by the pelting rain and dashing
spray! Gwladys to be there alone in peril! What did it mean?" And
sodden and wet as he was, a burning tide of heat rushed through his
frame, as a dim intuition of the cause flashed into his mind; but
there was no time to ask, for he saw that upon recognising him the
strained courage was giving way. A huge wave rolled in and washed
over her, and in its backward flow bore the frail figure away with it.
Ivor sprang into the tide as she was carried past him, and, catching
her in his arms, lifted her safely into the boat, where she fell in a
crouching heap at his feet.
"Safe so far, thank God!" he said, and only waiting to lift aside the
dark brown hair which covered her face, and to rest her head on a
coil of ropes, he bent at once to his oar, and turning the prow of
the boat round, he and Will strained every nerve to reach the point,
where they knew their greatest danger lay, and where the tide and
wind together played havoc with the seething waters.
The tide of life was already returning to Gwladys' chilled body, for
she was young, and accustomed to Nature's various moods. Not a word
passed between her and Ivor; his eyes were fixed upon the sea, whose
dangers he was endeavouring to battle with--not for dear life for
himself, but for her who was dearer than life itself. Once only he
looked at her.
"Art recovering, Mishtress?"
"Yes," she answered faintly.
"Thank God!"
They relapsed into silence, for, even to hear her faint answer, he
had been obliged to stoop close to her, so loud was the roar of the
wind and sea. As they neared the point, even Will became conscious
of his danger.
"We'll drown, I think!" he shouted.
"But don't stop rowing," cried Ivor.
Indeed, it seemed impossible that such a tiny craft should ever make
its way in safety over that rough sea. The waves ran mountains high,
and each one, as it rolled in upon them, threatened to engulf them.
Gwladys rose upon her knees sometimes, but sank down again in terror
at the sight which met her gaze.
They had now reached the patch of sunlight on the water, and the tide
and wind helped them onwards towards the beach.
Hugh watched them eagerly from the shore.
"Brave lad," he cried, "he will do it, I believe!"
At this moment somebody touched his arm, and, turning, he
beheld--Gwen, her grey shawl over her head, and held over her mouth,
her small eyes gleaming fiercely at him. She asked:
"What is this fuss about?"
Hugh gasped.
"Gwen!" he said. "Mawredd anwl![2] what is the meaning of this?
Another of thy witch ways! Tell me, woman--art thou in that boat, or
here? No more of thy mad tricks!"
"Mad tricks?" said Gwen fiercely. "What dost mean, Hugh Morgan?"
"Yes, mad tricks," said Hugh angrily. "Didn't I see thee half an
hour ago on Traeth-y-daran, with the waves dashing round thee? and
hasn't Ivor Parry ventured his life in that cockle shell to save
thee?"
"Mad, indeed!" replied Gwen, bringing her white face close to his.
"Who is maddest--thee or me, Hugh Morgan? Dost think Ivor Parry
would risk his life to save me? It was not me who ran so wildly over
the cliffs through the wind and rain to-day. I am not the only one,
I am glad to say, whose heart is burning and aching. Look nearer
home, man. If I am mad, _I_ never left the girl who loved me all her
life to marry a croten[3] of a girl who did not love me, and who
loved somebody else. 'Tis thou art mad, Hugh Morgan, and 'twas thy
wife Gwladys who ran through the storm to Traeth-y-daran this
morning," and she burst into one of the long shrieking fits of
laughter which had latterly become the terror of Mwntseison.
Hugh looked at her in horrified amazement. His mind was a chaos of
troubled thoughts, and, as a shout from the crowd caught his ear, he
turned again to watch the boat, but it was gone.
There had been a slight lull in the storm, during which Will and Ivor
had striven hard to reach the shore; but the wind rose again, and the
sea, as if regretting its momentary gentleness, suddenly increased in
violence. A monstrous wave, towering higher than any that had
hitherto assailed them, came rolling with foaming crest towards the
boat. Ivor and Gwladys realised at the same moment that to escape
its powerful mass was impossible. With one impulse they stood up.
"'Tis death!" cried Gwladys.
"But together!" answered Ivor, as he clasped her in his arms; and
together they were washed out of the boat, and carried away by the
rushing wave.
Will struggled for a while to keep afloat but soon sank, never to
appear again. The excitement on the beach was intense. They were
now aware that it was not Gwen for whom Ivor had risked his life, for
she was amongst them, and they looked round to see who was missing.
In the seething, foaming inrush of waters, the tossed and struggling
figures clasped in each other's arms were sometimes visible, rolling
over and over, but ever carried nearer to land.
"Where are they?" shouted Hugh Morgan. "Show me, for heaven's sake,
for I am blind and mad, I think!"
"There, there, Mishteer," explained several voices at once; "out
there where the floating buoy is fastened."
And Hugh, catching sight of the rolling figures for a moment, dashed
headlong into the waves, in spite of the restraining hands of his
workmen, who thought he was going to certain death.
"Mishteer, Mishteer! come back!" cried 'n'wncwl Jos; but Hugh did not
hear. Already he was caught in the swirling waters, and the old man,
forgetting everything but his frenzied fear for the Mishteer's life,
dashed in after him, but only to be caught on the crest of a
thundering wave, and to be rolled over and over like a cork on the
foaming waters. The sea would have none of them that day, the strong
tide and the fierce wind both setting landwards.
'N'wncwl Jos was quickly carried in far enough for Dye Pentraeth to
grasp him and drag him into safety.
"Come up, thou old fool!" he said. "Dost think we can do without
thee and thy wooden leg?"
'N'wncwl Jos shook himself like a wet dog, and would have rushed in
again had he not seen Hugh at that moment flung like a broken spar on
the beach. He rose in a minute, and as he rose he saw the forms of
Ivor and Gwladys borne in on a crest of a wave, and left upon the
sands almost at his feet. They were at a little distance from the
small crowd, Gwen alone stooping with Hugh over the sodden figures.
"Who is mad now? Gwen or Hugh Morgan?" she asked, in biting,
sneering tones. "Let them alone, Mishteer,"--and she laid her hand
on his fingers, which were already endeavouring to loosen the strong
grip of the half-drowned Ivor and Gwladys--"let them alone; 'tis as
it should be!" she added.
"Away, you devil!" cried Hugh, battling with his bitter agony. And
Gwen left him with one of her usual fits of laughter.
Hugh's fingers trembled visibly as he loosened the coils of Gwladys'
brown hair, which had twisted round and round Ivor's face.
"The water is cold," he said apologetically, and his trembling voice
and chattering teeth were accounted for; but when the long hair was
disentangled, and the clutching fingers loosened from their frantic
grasp, there were ejaculations of horror and astonishment from the
sympathising onlookers.
"The Mishtress! howyr bâch! how did she get there? Druan fâch!
there's white she is! And Ivor, too! Surely there will be no
awakening for him. So still, so white! but with a smile on his face.
Dost see it, Mari fâch?"
But Mari was busy with Gwladys. Tenderly the fragile form was
carried up the road and into her own home, while Ivor was borne with
no less loving care to his lodgings, where the proper means of
restoration were, before long, successful in bringing him back to
life, and the crowd waiting outside turned up the road towards the
Mishteer's house.
"How did the Mishtress get there?" was now their eager question.
This seemed likely to remain an unsolved mystery, for as Mari Vone
came gently down the stairs to answer their frequent inquiries, her
reassuring accounts of Gwladys' awakening and recovery stopped short
at this interesting point.
"Mari fâch," said Sara Pentraeth, in a voice made hoarse by the
excitement of the morning, "tell us, Mari fâch, how did the Mishtress
get there?" and in her eagerness she ran up two or three stairs, and
reached with clawing fingers towards Mari's skirts.
"She is better," said Mari, coming down the stairs; "the Mishteer is
with her, and begs you all to go home quietly. The Mishtress will be
well in a day or two; but she is too frightened to answer any
questions yet."
And, reluctantly, they were compelled to control their curiosity for
the present, satisfying themselves by turning again towards Ivor's
lodgings, where they lingered about all day until relieved by the
information that his strong frame was battling bravely for life, and
that probably after a night's sleep he would be himself again.
Gwladys had opened her eyes and returned to consciousness with a
quiet calmness which was absent from Ivor's recovery. The return of
life and warmth to the body which has so nearly severed its
connection with the soul is often a painful experience, and
especially in the case of partial drowning. He had returned to
consciousness with much struggling and groaning, and when he realised
that the old life of thwarted hopes and bruised feelings had once
more to be encountered, the groans, which those around him attributed
to bodily pain, were caused by the fresh awakening to mental anguish.
"Gwladys! where is she?" were his first words.
"Safe at home, and getting right rapidly."
He said no more, but quietly seconded the efforts of those around him
to restore him.
Meanwhile, Hugh Morgan sat silent and thoughtful beside his young
wife's bed, holding her hand in one of his, while with the other he
occasionally smoothed away the brown locks, which, in drying, resumed
their tendency to curl and wave about the snowy forehead, while Mari
Vone came and went with gentle words and tender smiles.
"There's a good girl!" she said, as Gwladys returned an empty cup of
some steaming concoction which she had swallowed in quiet obedience.
The brown eyes looked up gratefully, but there was no answering smile
on the red lips. Only when Mari had retired for a moment, she raised
Hugh's hand and pressed a silent kiss upon it, and as she let it drop
again, a tear rolled down her cheek. It caught Hugh's glance at
once, and, with almost womanly tenderness, he wiped it away. She
opened her lips to speak, but Hugh placed his finger playfully upon
them, saying:
"Not a word, merch i, until thou art well. To-day and to-night thou
must be quiet, Dr. Hughes says, and to-morrow thou may'st talk to
thine heart's content."
[1] If I die!--A common exclamation.
[2] Merciful God.
[3] Slip of a girl.