My name aboard ship is registered John Jones. Yes, indeed. Though, to
confess exactly, I was born the son of Hugh Anwyl, miner, of the parish
of Glanwern, in the county of Merioneth, and my father baptised me by
his own name; so that John is Hugh, and Jones is Anwyl, indeed. I
mention this at starting, to prevent my yarn being waterlogged before it
reaches mid-ocean.
Well, mates, a beautiful spot is the village of Glanwern. The broad
river Mawdach, which runs between the clefts of the mountains, d'ye see,
and is overhung with silver birch on either side, separates us--that is,
the Glanwernians, indeed--from the town of Barmouth.
It's a many year since these eyes beheld that familiar spot; yet, my
lads, I never got becalmed, or down with a fever, or otherwise on my
beam-ends, but what my thoughts turned to old Glanwern--for it's the
brightest place, with the darkest memories, I ever knew.
Yes, indeed, I think I see it now. And you won't go for to suppose,
because my eyes are all a-leak, like a brace of scuppers, that I've
therefore lost my trim. After all, 'tain't Glanwern. It's what
happened to me there, when I was a youth as gay as a poppy, with the
hand of a man and the face of a girl.
That's the mischief, messmates.
'Twould have been happier for Hugh Anwyl if he'd been as ugly in those
days as John Jones is at this moment; for, you see, my lads, when I was
quite young, I got rather to like a girl called Gwen--Gwendoline that
is; we, indeed, called her Gwen--Thomas. She was next-door neighbour to
my old dad's cottage, and she'd a deuce of a knack of fondling on you
without so much as touching a button of your coat.
Yes, Gwen was one of the sort that act like magnets to a seaman's lips.
I never loved her, d'ye see; but I was flattered by such a smart craft
coming alongside, and--well, indeed,--I played the fool. I kissed her,
because it seemed to do her good. And she--darn her cunning head!--she
meant it all! I know that she'd have done anything, indeed, if I'd but
have passed the word. But I didn't. I never so much as talked about
the parson.
It was about a year after this, that Rhoda Howell, the miller's
daughter, came home from the boarding-school at Dolgelly, full of music,
and English, and French, and all them things.
My stars! she was a picture, she was! I--that's to say, Hugh Anwyl, you
know--was taken all aback, and felt something or other dance the
double-shuffle under my waistcoat pocket.
Well, mates, we fell to what you may call flirting. I asked her to go
for a walk, and she, indeed, consented; and so it went on, as you might
say, from better to best.
Yes, indeed, I could not give those days a truer name than best; for I
am sure that they were the only real sunshine either of us ever felt in
our lifetimes.
Ye see, Rhoda loved me. Why, heaven only knows. And I--I could have
died for her.
There wasn't a bright lad in Glanwern that didn't envy the luck of Hugh
Anwyl; and, rightly enough, too; for I swear, though I've travelled
north, south, east, and west, and have met with women of all nations,
not once have I ever found the equal of Rhoda Howell. I almost shrink
from speaking her name. It seems--well, _sacred_! Poor Rhoda! like a
flower of spring, you died early! Yes, indeed, ours ain't one of them
love tales which comes all right at t'other end of the book. She's in
heaven; and Hugh Anwyl--he ain't just exactly in the other place; but
he's not so very far off neither, being afloat, and registered John
Jones, A.B.
To come back to my yarn, indeed.
One clear autumn evening, when the sun was lighting up the heather on
the sides of Cader Idris, you might, if you'd a-happened to be there,
have beheld a scene which the whole world don't show out of North Wales,
me and my girl, Rhoda, was walking, cosy-like, through a quiet bit of
wood, where none could hear, and I don't think I ever felt my heart so
swell with joy as I did that moment, when she says, says she, beating
her foot on the grass, "Shall I tell you a secret?"
"Yes," I answers, just glancing at her, and seeing her lips come over
pale.
"Will you promise me," she asks, "to keep it?"
"Promise!" I cries out; "I'll _swear_!" You see, I was getting
curious.
She looks at me serious--yes, indeed, very serious. Then she whispers,
quite confidential-like, "I've got a lover!"
"What!" I bellows, quite savage. It didn't take much to make me
jealous; and I felt as if I would have killed a rival ker-slap.
She smiles, in a faint sort of a fashion. Then she mutters, just as if
the trees were all a-listening to us with ears instead of leaves, "I
shan't say, unless you'll agree to be sensible."
A kind of a sulky feeling come over me, my boys, at her teasing words;
but I told her I'd always do exactly, indeed, as she wished.
"Then," says she, with a wry face, "it's David Thomas. He've been to
father this morning, and asked for me. Yes, indeed!"
"I--I'll fight the lubber!" I sings out, forgetful of my promise.
"Hush!" she whispers, as soft as a wind which don't so much as shake the
canvas; "I don't think I'm going to marry any one; but I'm certain sure
I won't have David Thomas!"
Whereat she fell a-beating her little foot again upon the dead leaves.
Well, mates, I didn't quite like that prophecy of hers; but 'twas better
than to hear her say she'd allow herself to be driven into wedlock with
such a one as David. So I held my peace. Yes, indeed. Yet I felt as
if a thunderbolt were placed aloft, right over my head, or as if a
volcano were a-going to spring up under my feet. My brain began to
wobble like bilge-water in a ship's hold, when all of a sudden an idea
struck me. Yes, indeed! What's more, my bearings was right for once.
"It's that girl, Gwen," I says, "as is at the bottom of this rig. David
Thomas is a sawny landlubber. He'd never have the courage to speak of
his own accord. Particular when he's received no encouragement from
you."
But Rhoda didn't exactly see through Hugh Anwyl's glasses. She wasn't a
sort of girl to think Gwen a snake, being herself as innocent of wrong
as the snow which falls straight from Paradise.
Says she, quite solemn, "You must not go to charge Gwen Thomas with them
things. Gwen's my dear friend, indeed."
Well, my lads, if I hadn't got narvous, I'd have told her that me and
Gwen had been just a trifle free with each other's lips. But, I tell
ye, I feared to say the words. She was chuck full of a sort of what you
may call a romance. Often and often she've said, that she felt so happy
in having picked the first flower of my heart--whereby she meant that
she'd got the whole of my love. And so she had. Yes, indeed. May I be
shrivelled to a mummy if she hadn't. Only, ye see, if I'd gone to tell
her that Gwen and I had been playing the fool, she'd mayhap have thought
different. So I kept my own counsel.
"Now," says she, in a wheedling, coaxing way no lubber ever could
resist, "it will all come right in the end, if you won't go to act
foolish. Yes, indeed. Father likes David, but father loves Rhoda. And
when David asks me, and I says, `no,' father ain't the kind of man to
say, `you must.'"
"Ay, ay!" I answered her; "but ain't he the boy to say `you mustn't,'
in case a lubber of the name of Anwyl should put that there same curious
question?"
Well, my lads, Rhoda, at this, went off on the starboard tack, for fear
I should make out the cut of her jib. She daren't face me; for she
couldn't deny that Miller Howell was a cranky lot, indeed. So she took
to picking blackberries, as if they was so many hot-house grapes,
instead of being as red as currants, and as sour as verjuice.
"You can't deny it, Rhoda!" I sings out, feeling vexed indeed.
Then she turns round from her blackberrying, and I spied a tear in the
corner of her eye. So I knew what I said was the cause of her hiding
her head, and I held my tongue, being ashamed.
As we was walking homeward, later on, the brace of us tongue-tied and
melancholy as an albatross before a cyclone comes on, Rhoda whispers in
my ear, "Can't you trust a girl's wit? I'm a match for any two of 'em!"
"Right, sweetheart!" says I, gripping her hand. For all that, a notion,
indeed, crossed my brain, "that she who is better than two mayn't be
good enough to tackle three." And so it proved.
Well, mates, it might have been two or three days later on that I
chanced to be in Barmouth, and there, in the porch of "The Wynn Arms," I
came into collision, as you might say, with one Evan Evans, an old
shipmate of mine, who worked on the Anna Maria Sett alongside of me, and
could handle a pick as cleverly as our boatswain the rope's-end. Evan,
indeed, when he claps eyes on me, sings out, right cheerily, "A drain of
grog, my boy!"
"With _you_," I answers, "Evan, yes, indeed!"
So we turns into the bar-parlour of "The Wynn Arms," and he orders two
goes of rum punch, hot.
When we was sat down comfortable, I began to twig, d'ye see, that his
rig was that of a seafaring man. His arms was tattooed, and his kit
looked smart.
"Avast!" I sings out,--"avast, Evan Evans! Surely, you've never joined
the horse-marines?"
"Mate," he replies, giving me a slap on the shoulder, like a true
seaman, "there's a better mine, containing richer mineral than the old
Anna Maria, and that's the open sea!"
Faith, mates, when he spake them words, I mistook him for one of them
land-lubbers who dresses up in seaman's rig, and takes nurses and
babbies out for a run in a pleasure-boat.
Yes, indeed. But Evan soon put matters straight.
"Hugh Anwyl," he says, pulling out a leather case, "this ere holds a
hundred and fifty pounds, beside gold and silver."
"Take care of it, Evan, then," says I--for I knew he was a light-headed
sort of craft; "or," says I, "your master will be pulling of you up on
account of losing his moneys, indeed."
"Master!" he sings out, with a roar of laughter like a
fusillade--"master! I ain't got no master! Them's the property of Evan
Evans."
"My lad," I cried, in a sort of a serious voice, "I'm sorry to hear it.
I always took ye for a honest lubber."
Whereat, for a second, he looked mighty wrathful. Yes, indeed. Then,
as he perceived that I was what ye may call all abroad, he burst out
laughing again as if his sides would burst.
"Evan," says I, "I've lost my bearings."
"So you have," he answers; "for the fact of the matter is, you don't
understand what you're a-talking about."
Well, my lads, with that he cooled down a bit, and forthwith commenced
to relate how he'd been on a whaling expedition to Greenland, and had
met with luck. The conditions was that all was to share and share
alike--skipper, crew, and all. They had a hard time of it. One of 'em
lost a nose, another a finger or two, and some of 'em their toes. Yes,
indeed; the cold in them latitudes is mighty thieving of prominent parts
of the human frame.
But then, if the risk's considerable, the gain's even more so. Now, my
lads, this shipmate's good fortune set me a-thinking--as, indeed, was
but nat'ral. David Thomas didn't own so much as one hundred and fifty
pounds--not he. His old father might be worth that sum, if his
possessions was all sold. But in the principality, where money's
scarce, a little goes a long way; and I calculated, on that account, if
I could draw anything approaching so heavy an amount of pay on a single
venture, Miller Howell would not stand in the way of my wedding his
daughter Rhoda.
"So," says I, "Evan, my old shipmate, you and I have always been the
best of comrades. I'd like to enjoy a similar slice of good fortune.
Not as though I'd be greedy, Evan. Give me my ship's biscuit and my
share of grog, and I'm content. But, Evan, there's a pretty craft that
wants to moor alongside of me, and her skipper won't agree, because I
haven't got a shot in my locker. That's it, indeed!"
Evan, he looks at me steady; then he holds out his fist with all the
grace of a port-admiral, just as if he meant to serve double grog or
give leave to go ashore.
"Hugh," says he, "the day after to-morrow I sail again for the North
Seas. For my mother, Hugh, she's old and she's sick, and this 'ere
pocket-book, with its contents, is for her. Join our crew, my hearty,
and I'll promise ye fair play and a sailor's greeting. You'll bring
back with ye enough to satisfy your lass's skipper, and I'll dance at
your wedding."
Up I springs to my feet, and, though I was short of money, I orders
another grog. And then Evan and I struck our bargain; and, I tell ye, I
felt another and a stronger man.
"Now, Evan," I sings out, "I'll be off home to tell my lass."
"Avast," says my shipmate, "you'll need to see about your kit. It's
darned cool up in them latitudes!"
"Ay, ay," I replied--"to-morrow will do for that."
"Right," he answers; "we'll meet at this very spot to-morrow, by your
leave."
Well, mates, with a swelling heart, I crossed the Mawdach River, and
began to trudge back to Glanwern. About a mile or so to the north of
the village, I ran athwart Gwen Thomas, with a roll of music under her
arm, and a broad grin on her deceitful face.
"You're quite a stranger, Hugh," she says, dropping a curtsey, as if I
were the parson, or Sir Watkin himself. "Yes, indeed; now Rhoda
Howell's come back to Glanwern, you've lost your eyes for every one
else. If I wasn't good-tempered, I'd take offence."
Now, my lads, I was a bit in the wrong about this girl Gwen. I don't
say that she wasn't most to blame of the two, yet conscience made me
feel uncomfortable as regards the part I had played toward her. So I
couldn't be otherwise than civil, when she met me so pleasant like,
instead of being out of temper, as I expected.
Says I, "Gwen, lass, mayhap I do care more for Rhoda than for most
others; I'm not ashamed to own it. Anyhow, for her sake, I'm going on a
long voyage."
"What?" she cries, anxiously, her lips turning pale indeed.
So, when the girl passed the question to me, I up and told her the whole
tale, and how that, in forty-eight hours, I should be afloat on the
briny ocean, with the ship's bows standing for the North Sea.
She heard me out, quite dazed like. Then she says, says she, in a very
quiet, demure fashion, "You'll come to the singing-class to-night, if
it's only to wish us all a farewell? Rhoda will be there, but she will
walk with the miller; so, if you like to keep me company for the last
time, you may."
In those old days, Hugh Anwyl boasted a tenor voice. Yes, indeed. And
this girl Gwen got the reputation of being a prime musician, and used to
train our class. They had her all the way off to Llangollen, to perform
at an Eistedfodd, as they call it in the principality, for she sang like
a nightingale. Well, when she asked me to walk with her, I thought it
churlish to refuse. So, like a simpleton, I said, "Yes;" and away she
tripped, with an odd laugh, as if she was mighty pleased.
I did not know it at the time, nor did I hear it until long after, but
Gwen's brother David, that same afternoon, had been to see my Rhoda.
He told her that Miller Howell expected that she would have him for a
husband, and had given him permission to ask her, and that Hugh Anwyl
cared for too many girls to love her.
However, in the evening I called for Gwen, and we two walked together to
the waterfall.
Nobody had arrived before us; so we sat down on the cromlech, and began
to sing what you may call a duet--that is, a stave for two voices.
But my heart was all with Rhoda Howell; and, as I sat singing alongside
of that artful craft, Gwen Thomas, I thought of nothing but the good
news I had to tell, and how it would joy the girl I loved so dearly.
It might have been ten minutes or more--at last, however, I spied the
old miller, and behind him his pretty daughter, arm-in-arm with David
Thomas.
Rhoda's face was unusual white, and her eyes didn't quite look straight
ahead, but seemed to tack about, as if the wind had shifted to a stormy
quarter.
Not much was said by any one, and that little not worth remembering.
After a bit, Gwen pulls out her pitch-pixie, and starts off with "Hail,
smiling morn!"--a very proper ditty; then "Hop-a-derry-dando," "The Men
of Harlech," and a lot more--we men singing tenor and bass to the girls'
treble voices.
Ah, lads! I think I bear that harmony roll away with the waterfall.
I've never forgotten it. The first storm in mid-ocean and the last song
your love sings--these, my boys, are sounds which stick to your ears
like barnacles to the bottom of a hulk, or limpets to the rocks on the
shore.
In the middle of this sing-song, as you may call it, I spied Rhoda--who
wouldn't so much as look or smile at me--whisper to her father, the old
miller; and presently they both left. I wish now that I'd given them a
stern chase, and boarded, like a bold buccaneer. But, you see, I
couldn't rightly make out Rhoda's looks. Something was amiss. That I
guessed. And I thought that the sky being so ugly and overcast, I'd
better wait for the chance of clear weather on the morrow.
As soon as the singing was over, I saw that lubber David--who I could
have kicked all the way to Dolgelly with pleasure, indeed--I saw him
catch Gwen by the buttonhole, and give her some sort of a tip. She
looked earnestly at him, and smiled. Then she turned away, quite
composed, indeed.
My lads, I can guess what it was that deceitful varmint said to his minx
of a sister. They was laying a trap for me, the two of them. Ay! Yes,
indeed! And they caught me, as clean as a shark a sailor's leg!
"Rhoda's got a bad headache," says Gwen, sidling up to me.
"How do you know?" asks I, none too civil, for I was downright savage
with myself and every one else all round.
"She told me so," answered Gwen, as glib as an eel.
"I didn't see her speak to you," says I; nor did I, indeed.
"She complained of it this afternoon," remarked Gwen.