IV

I remained alone for some time. Then I told the servants that I was

going to walk along the cliffs to Dullingham Church, where there was

an evening service, and left the house. I hastened towards the

cliffs, and descended to the sands, in the hope that Winifred might

be roaming about there, but I walked all the way to Dullingham

without getting a glimpse of her. The church service did not interest

me that evening. I heard nothing and saw nothing. When the service

was over I returned along the sands, sauntering and lingering in the

hope that, late as it was now growing, the balmy evening might have

enticed her out.

The evening grew to night, and still I lingered. The moon was nearly

at the full, and exceedingly bright. The tide was down. The scene was

magical; I could not leave it. I said to myself, 'I will go and stand

on the very spot where Winifred stood when she lisped "certumly" to

the proposal of her little lover.'

It was not, after all, till this evening that I really knew how

entirely she was a portion of my life.

I went and stood by the black boulder where I had received the little

child's prompt reply. There was not a grain left, I knew, of that

same sand which had been hallowed by the little feet of Winifred, but

it served my mood just as well as though every grain had felt the

beloved pressure. For that the very sands had loved the child, I half

believed.

I said to myself, as I sat down upon the boulder, 'At this very

moment she is here, she is in Raxton. In a certain little cottage

there is a certain little room.' And then I longed to leave the

sands, to go and stand in front of Wynne's cottage and dream there.

But that would be too foolish. 'I must get home,' I thought. 'The

night will pass somehow, and in the morning I shall, as sure as fate,

see her flitting about the sands she loves, and then what I have

sworn to say to her I will say, and what I have sworn to do I will

do, come what will.'

Then came the puzzling question, how was I to greet her when we met?

Was I to run up and kiss her, and hear her say, 'Oh, I'm so pleased!'

as she would sometimes say when I kissed her of yore? No: her

deportment in the morning forbade _that_. Or was I to raise my hat

and walk up to her saying, 'How do you do, Miss Wynne? I'm glad to

see you back, Miss Wynne,' for she was now neither child nor young

woman, she was a 'girl.' Perhaps I had better rush up to her in a

bluff, hearty way, and say: 'How do you do, Miss Winifred? Delighted

to see you back to Raxton.' Finally, I decided that circumstance must

guide me entirely, and I sat upon the boulder meditating.

After a while I saw, or thought I saw, in the far distance, close to

the waves, a moving figure among the patches of rocks and stones

(some black and some white) that break the continuity of the sand on

that shore at low water.

When the figure got nearer I perceived it to be a woman, a girl, who,

every now and then, was stooping as if to pick up something from the

pools of water left by the ebbing tide imprisoned amid the encircling

rocks. At first I watched the figure, wondering in a lazy and dreamy

way what girl could be out there so late.

But all at once I began to catch my breath and gasp The sea-smells

had become laden with a kind of paradisal perfume, ineffably sweet,

but difficult to breathe all of a sudden. My heart too--what was

amiss with that? And why did the muscles of my body seem to melt like

wax?' The lonely wanderer by the sea could be none other than

Winifred.

'It is she!' I said. 'There is no beach-woman or shore-prowling girl

who, without raising an arm to balance her body, without a totter or

a slip, could step in that way upon stones some of which are as

slippery as ice with gelatinous weed and slime, while others are as

sharp as razors. To walk like that the eye must be my darling's, that

is to say, an eye as sure as a bird's the ball of the foot must be

the ball of a certain little foot I have often had in my hand wet

with sea-water and gritty with sand. For such work a mountaineer or a

cragsman, or Winifred, is needed.' Then I recalled her love of marine

creatures, her delight in seaweed, of which she would weave the most

astonishing chaplets and necklaces coloured like the rainbow.

'seawood boas' and seaweed turbans, calling herself the princess of

the sea (as indeed she was), and calling me her prince. 'Yes,' said

I, 'it is certainly she'; and when at last I espied a little dog by

her side, Tom Wynne's little dog Snap (a descendant of the original

Snap of our never-to-be-forgotten seaside adventures)--when I espied

all these things I said, 'Then the hour is come.'

By this time my heart had settled down to a calmer throb, the

paradisal scent had become more supportable, and I grew master of

myself again. I was going towards her, when I stayed my steps, for

she was already making her way, entirely unconscious of my presence,

towards the boulder where I sat.

'I know what I will do.' I said; 'I will fling myself flat on the

sands behind the boulder and watch her. I will observe her without

being myself observed.'

I was in the mood when one tries sportfully to deceive one's self as

to the depth and intensity of the emotion within. Perhaps I would and

perhaps I would not speak to her at all that night; but if I did

speak, I would say and do what (on that day when I set out for

school) I had sworn to say and do.

So there I lay hidden by the boulder and watched her. She made the

circuit of each pool that lay across her path towards the

cliffs,--made it apparently for the childish enjoyment of balancing

herself on the stones and snapping her fingers at the dog, who looked

on with philosophic indifference at such a frivolous waste of force.

Yes, though a tall girl of seventeen, she was the same incomparable

child who had coloured my life and stirred the entire air of my

imagination with the breezes of a new heaven. The voice of the

tumbling sea in the distance, the caresses of the tender breeze, the

wistful gaze of the great moon overhead, were companionship enough

for her--for her whose loveliness would have enchanted a world. She

had no idea that there was at this moment stepping round those black

stones the loveliest woman then upon the earth. If she had had that

idea she would still have been the star of all womanhood, but she

would not have been Winifred. A charm superior to all other women's

charm she still would have had; but she would not have been Winifred.

When she left the rocks and came upon the clear sand, she stopped

and looked at her sweet shadow in the moonlight. Then, with the

self-pleasing playfulness of a kitten, she stood and put herself

into all kinds of postures to see what varying silhouettes they would

make on the hard and polished sand (that shone with a soft lustre

like satin); now throwing up one arm, now another, and at last making

a pirouette, twirling her shawl round, trying to keep it in a

horizontal position by the rapidity of her movements.

The interest of the philosophic Snap was aroused at last. He began

wheeling and barking round her, tearing up the sand as he went like a

little whirlwind. This induced Winifred to redouble her gymnastic

exertions. She twirled round with the velocity of an engine wheel. At

last, finding the enjoyment it gave to Snap, she changed the

performance by taking off her hat, flinging it high in the air,

catching it, flinging it up again and again, while the moving shadow

it made was hunted along the sand by Snap with a volley of deafening

barks. By this time she had got close to me, but she was too busy to

see me. Then she began to dance--the very same dance with which she

used to entertain me in those happy days. I advanced from my stone,

dodging and slipping behind her, unobserved even by Snap, so intent

were these two friends upon this entertainment, got up, one would

think, for whatsoever sylphs or gnomes or water sprites might be

looking on.

How could I address in the language of passion which alone would have

expressed my true feelings, a dancing fairy such as this?

'Bravo!' I said, as she stopped, panting and breathless. 'Why,

Winifred, you dance better than ever!'

She leaped away in alarm and confusion; while Snap, on the contrary,

welcomed me with much joy.

'Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,' she said, not looking at me with the

blunt frankness of childhood, as the little woman of the old days

used to do, but drooping her eyes. 'I didn't see you.'

'But _I_ saw _you_, Winifred; I have been watching you for the last

quarter of an hour.'

'Oh, you never have!' said she, in distress; 'what could you have

thought? I was only trying to cheer up poor Snap, who is out of

sorts. What a mad romp you must have thought me, sir!'

'Why, what's the matter with Snap?'

'I don't know. Poor Snap' (stooping down to fondle him, and at the

same time to hide her face from me, for she was talking against time

to conceal her great confusion and agitation at seeing me. _That_ was

perceptible enough.)

Then she remembered she was hatless.

'Oh dear, where's my hat?' said she, looking round. I had picked up

the hat before accosting her, and it was now dangling behind me. I,

too, began talking against time, for the beating of my heart began

again at the thought of what I was going to say and do. 'Hat!' I

said; 'do _you_ wear hats, Winifred? I should as soon have thought of

hearing the Queen of the Tylwyth Teg ask for her hat as you, after

such goings-on as those I have just been witnessing. You see I have

not forgotten the Welsh you taught me.'

'Oh, but my hat--where is it?' cried she, vexed and sorely ashamed.

So different from the unblenching child who loved to stand hatless

and feel the rain-drops on her bare head!

'Well, Winifred, I've found a hat on the sand,' I said; 'here it is.'

'Thank you, sir,' said she, and stretched out her hand for it.

'No,' said I, 'I don't for one moment believe in its belonging to

you, any more than it belongs to the Queen of the "Fair People." But

if you'll let me put it on your head I'll give you the hat I've

found,' and with a rapid movement I advanced and put it on her head.

I had meant to seize that moment for saying what I had to say, but

was obliged to wait.

An expression of such genuine distress overspread her face, that I

regretted having taken the liberty with her. Her bearing altogether

was puzzling me. She seemed instinctively to feel as I felt, that

raillery was the only possible attitude to take up in a situation so

extremely romantic--a meeting on the sands at night between me and

her who was neither child nor woman--and yet she seemed distressed at

the raillery.

Embarrassment was rapidly coming between us.

There was a brief silence, during which Winifred seemed trying to

move away from me.

'Did you--did you see me from the cliffs, sir, am; come down?' said

Winifred.

'Winifred,' said I, 'the polite thing to say would be "Yes"; but you

know "Fighting Hal" never was remarkable for politeness, so I will

say frankly that did not come down from the cliff's on seeing you.

But when I did see you, I wasn't very likely to return without

speaking to you.'

'I am locked out,' said Winifred, in explanation of her moonlight

ramble. 'My father went off to Dullingham with the key in his pocket

while I and Snap were in the garden, so we have to wait till his

return. Good-night, sir,' and she gave me her hand. I seemed to feel

the fingers around my heart, and knew that I was turning very pale.

'The same little sunburnt fingers.' I said, as I retained them in

mine 'just the same, Winifred! But it's not "good-night" yet. No, no,

it's not good-night yet; and, Winifred if you dare to call me "sir"

again, I declare I'll kiss you where you stand. I will, Winifred.

I'll put my arms right round that slender waist and kiss you under

that moon, as sure as you stand on these sands.'

'Then I will not call you "sir."' said Winifred laughingly.

'Certainly I will not call you "sir," if that is to be the penalty.'

'Winifred,' said I, 'the last time that I remember to have heard you

say "certainly" was on this very spot. You then pronounced it

"certumly," and that was when I asked you if I might be your lover.

You said "certumly" on that occasion without the least hesitation.'

Winifred, as I could see, even by the moonlight, was blushing. 'Ah,

those childish days!' she said. 'How delightful they were, sir!'

'"Sir" again!' said I. 'Now, Winifred, I am going to execute my

threat--I am indeed.'

She put up her hands before her face and said,

'Oh, don't! please don't.'

The action no doubt might seem coquettish, but the tone of her voice

was so genuine, so serious--so agitated even--that I paused:--I

paused in bewilderment and perplexity concerning us both. I observed

that her fingers shook as she held them before her face. That she

should be agitated at seeing me after so long a separation did not

surprise me, I being deeply agitated myself. It was the _nature_ of

her emotion that puzzled me, until suddenly I remembered my mother's

words.

I perceived then that, child of Nature as she still was, some one had

given her a careful training which had transfigured my little Welsh

rustic into a lady. She had not failed to apprehend the anomaly of

her present position--on the moonlit sands with me. Though could not

break free from the old equal relations between us. Winifred had been

able to do so.

'To her,' I thought with shame, 'my offering to kiss her at such a

place and time must have seemed an insult. The very fact of my

attempting to do so must have seemed to indicate an offensive

consciousness of the difference of our social positions. It must

have, seemed to show that I recognised a distinction between the

drunken organist's daughter and a lady.'

I saw now, indeed, that she felt this keenly; and I knew that it was

nothing but the sweetness of her nature, coupled with the fond

recollection of the old happy days, that restrained that high spirit

of hers, and prevented her from giving expression to her indignation

and disgust.

All this was shown by the appealing look on her sweet, fond face, and

I was touched to the heart.

'Winifred--Miss Wynne,' I said, 'I beg your pardon most sincerely.

The shadow-dance has been mainly answerable for my folly. You did

look so exactly the little Winifred, my heart's sister, that I felt

it impossible to treat you otherwise than as that dear child-friend

of years ago.'

A look of delight broke over her face.

'I felt sure it was so,' she said. 'But it is a relief that you have

said it.' And the tears came to her eyes.

'Thank you, Winifred, for having pardoned me. I feel that you would

have forgiven no one else as you have forgiven me. I feel that you

would not have forgiven any one else than your old child-companion,

whom on a memorable occasion you threatened to hit, and then had not

the heart to do so.'

'I don't think I _could_ hit _you_,' said she, in a meditative tone

of perfect unconsciousness as to the bewitching import of her speech.

'Don't you think you could?' I said, drawing nearer, but governing my

passion.

'No,' said she, looking now for the first time with those wide-open

confiding eyes which, as a child, were the chief characteristic of

her face. 'I don't think I could hit you, whatever you did.'

'Couldn't you, Winifred?' I said, coming still nearer, in order to

drink to the full the wonder of her beauty, the thrill at my heart

bringing, as I felt, a pallor to my cheek. 'Don't you think you could

hit your old playfellow, Winifred?'

'No,' she said, still gazing in the same dreamy, reminiscent way

straight into my eyes as of yore. 'As a child you were so delightful.

And then you were so kind to me!'

At that word 'kind' from _her_ to _me_ I could restrain myself no

longer; I shouted with a wild laughter of uncontrollable passion as I

gazed at her through tears of love and admiration and deep

gratitude--gazed till I was blind. My throat throbbed till it ached:

I Could get out no more words; I could only gaze. At my shout

Winifred stood bewildered and confused. She did not understand a mood

like that. Having got myself under control, I said,

'Winifred, it is not my doing; it is Fate's doing that we meet here

on this night, and that I am driven to say here what I had as a

schoolboy sworn should be said whenever we should meet again.'

'I think,' said Winifred, pulling herself up with the dignity of a

queen, 'that if you have anything important to say to me it had

better be at a more seasonable time than at this hour of night, and

at a more seasonable place than on these sands.'

'No, Winifred,' said I, 'the time is _now_, and the place is

here--here on this very spot where, once on a time, you said

"certumly" when a little lover asked your hand. It is now and here,

Winifred, that I will say what I have to say.'

'And what is that, sir?' said Winifred, much perplexed and disturbed.

'I have to say, Winifred, that the man does not live and never _has_

lived,' said I, with suppressed vehemence, who loved a woman as I

love you.'

Oh, sir! oh, Henry!' returned Winifred, trembling, then standing

still and whiter than the moon. 'And the reason why no man has ever

loved a woman as I love you, Winifred, is because your match, or

anything like your match, has never trod the earth before.'

'Oh, Henry, my dear Henry! you _must_ not say such things to me, your

poor Winifred.'

'But that isn't all that I swore I'd say to you, Winifred.'

'Don't say any more--not to-night, not to-night.'

'What I swore I would ask you, Winifred, is this: Will you be Henry's

wife?'

She gave one hysterical sob, and swayed till she nearly fell on the

sand, and said, while her face shone like a pearl,

'Henry's wife!'

She recovered herself and stood and looked at me; her lips moved, but

I waited in vain--waited in a fever of expectation--for her answer.

None came. I gazed into her eyes, but they now seemed rilled with

visions--visions of the great race to which she belonged--visions in

which her English lover had no place. Suddenly, and for the first

time, I felt that she who had inspired within me this all-conquering

passion, though the penniless child of a drunken organist, was a

daughter of Snowdon--a representative of the Cymric race that was

once so mighty, and is still more romantic in its associations than

all others. Already in the little talk I had had with her I began to

guess what I realised before the evening was over, that owing to the

influence of the English lady, Miss Dalrymple, who had lodged at the

cottage with her, she was more than my own equal in culture, and

could have held her own with almost any girl of her own age in

England. It was only in her subjection to Cymric superstitions that

she was benighted.

'Winnie,' I murmured, 'what have you to say?'

After a while her eyes seemed to clear of the visions, and she said,

'What changes have come upon us both, Henry. since that childish

betrothal on the sands!'

'Happy changes for one of the child-lovers,' I said--'happy changes

for the one who was then a lonely cripple shut out from all sympathy

save that which the other child-lover could give.'

'And yet you then seemed happy, Henry--happy with Winnie to help you

up the gangways. And how happy Winnie was! But now the child-lover is

a cripple no longer: he is very, very strong--he is so strong that he

could carry Winnie up the gangways in his arms, I think.'

The thrill of natural pride which such recognition of my physical

powers would otherwise have given me was quelled by a something in

the tone in which she spoke.

'And he is powerful in every way,' she went on, as if talking to

herself. 'He is a great rich Englishman to whom (as auntie was never

tired of saying) that childish betrothal must needs seem a dream--a

quaint and pretty dream.'

'And so your aunt said that, Winnie. How far from the truth she was

you see to-night.'

'Yes, she thought you would forget all about me; and yet she could

not have felt quite confident about it, for she made me promise that

if you should not forget me--if you should ever ask me what you have

just asked--she made me promise--'

'What, Winnie? what? She did not make promise that you would refuse

me?'

'That is what she asked me to promise.'

'But you did not.'

'I did not.'

'No, no! you did not, Winnie. My darling refused to make any such

cruel, monstrous promise as that.'

'But I promised her that I would in such an event wait a year--at

least a year--before betrothing myself to you.'

'Shame! shame! What made her do this cruel thing? A year! wait for a

year!'

'She brought forward many reasons, Henry, but upon two of them she

was constantly dwelling.'

'And what were these?'

'Well, the news of the death of your brother Frank of course reached

us in Shire-Carnarvon, and how well I remember hearing my aunt say,

"Henry Aylwin will be one of the wealthiest landowners in England."

And I remember how my heart sank at her words, for I was always

thinking of the dear little lame boy with the language of suffering

in his eyes and the deep music of sorrow in his voice.'

'Your heart sank, Winnie, and why?'

'I felt as if a breath of icy air had blown between us, dividing us

for ever. And then my aunt began to talk about you and your future.'

After some trouble I persuaded Winnie to tell me what was the homily

that this aunt of hers preached _à propos_ of Frank's death. And as

she talked I could not help observing what, as a child, I had only

observed in a dim, semi-conscious way--a strange kind of double

personality in Winnie. At one moment she seemed to me nothing but the

dancing fairy of the sands, objective and unconscious as a young

animal playing to itself, at another she seemed the mouthpiece of the

narrow world-wisdom of this Welsh aunt. No sooner had she spoken of

herself as a friendless, homeless girl, than her brow began to shine

with the pride of the Cymry.

'My aunt,' said she, 'used to tell me that until disaster came upon

my uncle, and they were reduced to living upon a very narrow income,

he and she never really knew what love was--they never really knew

how rich their hearts were in the capacity of loving.'

'Ah, I thought so,' I said bitterly. 'I thought the text was,