"Don't be angry with Rhoda!" whispers Gwen, quite kindly like. "She's
as true as steel!"
My lads, them words were designed to play me like a fish with a bait;
but they sounded so soft and consoling as to make me feel ashamed for my
rudeness to this girl.
"Thank'ee, Gwen!" says I. "You're a good sort! I did hope to have told
Rhoda of my luck to-night. But 'tain't to be, and I must just wait till
to-morrow!"
"The news will do her a power of good," whispers Gwen, quite
confidential. "Yes, indeed. David wanted to have her, but she won't
wed aught but Hugh Anwyl; and when you've got your money, you know, her
father will give his consent."
Now, you'd say, any man Jack of you, that these were fair and, to use a
figure of speech, sisterly words. By George, lads! when I heard them, I
caught hold of her hand and shook it hearty. It seemed to me that she
was handling me better than I handled her.
"Gwen," says I, "I've plighted my troth to Rhoda Howell, so I won't
offer to kiss you; but I do thank you, as a true friend to us both."
Bless you, you should have heard her laugh. It wasn't a clear, merry,
innocent sort of laugh, like my poor Rhoda's, but a kind of a nasty
sneer. It made me thrill again.
"I don't bear malice, Hugh Anwyl," she cries. "Not I! You and I were
better friends before Rhoda came--that's all!"
I was just a little puzzled by her words. By now, however, she had
gathered up her music, and began to walk away.
"Dear, dear!" she cried, as we got into the road which leads from
Glanwern to Dolgelly; "why, I declare, it's quite dark indeed, and I've
got to go to Llanbrecht to fetch some butter from Farmer Jenkins, and
I'm deadly afeard to pass the Clwm Rock, because of Evan Dhu!"
You see, that we'd got a Davy Jones in them parts, a sort of a ghost.
The folks called it "Evan Dhu," or "Evan the Black."
Says I, quite quietly, "If you're afeard of Evan Dhu, why don't you ask
David to go along with you?"
"He's out in the fields by now," she answers, "taking care of the
calves."
"Wait till he's done with the calves, then," I observes, a-yawning.
Whereupon, dang me! if the girl didn't commence to whimper.
"Shiver my timbers, lass!" cries I, "if you're that frightened of the
ghost, dash me if I don't go with ye!"
This was just what this Jezebel wanted.
We walked together through the village of Glanwern, and I looked up
anxiously at the windows of Miller Howell's house, if perchance, indeed,
I might catch a glimpse of Rhoda. As we approached, I fancied I saw her
face in the top garret window. Perhaps I didn't. Anyhow, it wasn't
visible when we passed.
We trudged on slowly through the silence of that mountainous district,
our path lying through clefts and brushwood, till at length the black
Clwm Rock towered in front of us, like a hideous monster, in the
moonlight.
Suddenly I felt my arm gripped. The feeling, my lads--I give you the
word of honour of an old sailor,--was so strange, that I imagined Evan
Dhu had arrested me. Yes, indeed! It startled me. But I was in error.
It was not Evan Dhu. It was the false girl, Gwendoline Thomas.
"Ugh!" gasped she, as if she were terrified to hear the sound of her own
voice,--"ugh! I saw him, _dear_ Hugh! Yes, indeed."
"What?--who?" I asked.
"Hush--hush!" she whispered. "Speak not another word! We are in peril!
He will kill us!"
"Don't be a fool, Gwen!" says I, unceremonious-like, for she was
clinging to me quite desperate.
"Silence," she whispers, "or you'll provoke him! I tell you he is
watching me! There--there!"--a-pointing with her hand at the rock.
I'll own that at that particular moment I felt rum indeed--especially
when Gwen began to shake like an aspen, and seemed as if she'd fall
down. To save her, I clasped her resolutely round the waist; and thus,
with her head leaning on my shoulder, we passed the dreaded Clwm Rock,
the moon all the while shining full on us.
We had but just turned the corner toward Llanbrecht, when, I take my
solemn oath, I heard a deep-drawn sigh!
"Run!" whispered Gwen. "_That's him_!"
My lads, we did run every step of the way to Llanbrecht: and when Farmer
Jenkins heard our story, he had out his trap indeed, and drove us home,
four miles round by the road, so that Gwen should not be frightened a
second time.
"Don't talk about it," said Gwen; "folks will laugh."
"I'll tell Rhoda, and no one else," was my plain answer.
On the morrow I rose with the dawn, and ran round to the miller's door.
Every other day, for the past six months, Rhoda was out and about at
that hour, scrubbing the steps or feeding the chickens. There was no
Rhoda then; so I wended my way to "The Wynn Arms," Barmouth, where I
waited for upward of four long hours. Then at last Evan Evans lurches
up, a full three sheets in the wind, and as thick-headed as the thickest
landsman.
Well, messmates, it took me a sight of time to see about that there kit.
Ye see, I hadn't too many shots in the locker, and wanted to do the
thing cheap. But this lubber, Evan Evans, was more harm than good,
having lost every atom of his tongue except the part that's constructed
to do the swearing. That was lively enough, and woke up the
storekeepers.
It was quite dusk before I returned to Glanwern, and I had, as you
remember, to leave by daylight on the morrow. Now, indeed, thought I,
the time has come when I must speak to Rhoda; so I marches for the third
time boldly up to Miller Howell's door, and spies about for my poor
dove, who I loved more than life.
The door, my boys, was shut, and locked, too; which, by the bye, ain't
much of a custom in that part of North Wales, where "Taffy ain't a
thief," and we can trust our neighbours as ourselves.
"Rhoda!" I calls out, quite gently, yet so as she must hear, unless
she's out of the house, or gone deaf, indeed.
None answered. No, indeed, none. My dear boys, I felt desperate; so,
with a firm hand, I knocked at the door-handle.
In a jiffy, out comes Miller Howell, with a face like the mast of a
rakish yacht, long, and thin, and yallow.
"What d'ye want, Hugh Anwyl?"
The words was spoken harsh indeed, and angry. I started as if he had
struck me across the face, or ordered me into irons.
"Master," says I, "I'm going away for along journey, perhaps never to
come back again; and I wish to say good-by to your daughter Rhoda."
He looks at me from top to toe, and up again from toe to top. The man's
features were as hard and pitiless as if they had been cut out of a
block of Welsh granite. Then, without a word, he slams the door in my
face.
Friends and messmates, I'm a Welshman, with the hot blood of Caedmon in
my veins. I couldn't bear this, indeed; so I stood outside and cried,
at the top of my voice, "Rhoda--Rhoda Howell, I, Hugh Anwyl, beg and
pray you to come and wish me a farewell! Rhoda, answer me, for I am
going away!"
Silence! She would have come out, indeed, but was prevented. That I
heard afterward. So I left--I'm not ashamed to own the truth--with the
tears a-streaming down my cheeks and my heart breaking. I could have
gone straight and drownded myself, I was so distraught. Presently I
felt a finger on my sleeve.
"Hugh!" whispers a soft voice, "I'm downright grieved for you."
It was Gwen Thomas.
I didn't answer, mates--for why? Because I couldn't; my eyes was
leaking, and my timbers all of a shiver, and I seemed without so much as
a helm. But I suffered her to lead me into the back room of old
Thomas's cottage, not knowing for what port I was being steered. Then I
sat down, and she clasped my hand quite tender.
"Hugh Anwyl," she says, "whatever I am--and I know I'm not as
good-looking as others--I'm a true, sincere friend. Being so, I tell
ye, I am grieved to see ye thus wrecked within sight of land."
I couldn't talk to her; but, after a bit, she got me calmed down, and I
quite felt as if I must try to please her--in a sort of a tame-cat
fashion.
At last, she says, quite as if the thought had come into her false head
accidental indeed, "Write Rhoda a letter, and I'll promise you she shall
have it safe. I'll give it her myself."
I was that excited, I took the girl in my arms and embraced her. Then I
sat down and I wrote to Rhoda, telling her the whole tale, and how, for
her sake, I was going to risk my life on a whaling expedition; and
praying her to keep single for me till I came back again with money in
my hand so as to buy the consent of her father.
When I done that, my lads, I gave it, sealed careful, to Gwen Thomas;
and, kissing the girl, who cried, as I thought, uncommon unaccountably,
I lurched forth, and turned my back upon Glanwern.
Here I ought to pull up and rest a bit, for there's what you may call a
break in my yarn. I was far away from the girl I loved, toiling, as we
mariners only toil, for the cursed gold which should make two miserable
souls happy.
To cut my story short, however, I was gone, as near as may be, twelve
months. Our first venture failed. We met with nothing but bad luck,
and ran into Aberdeen harbour as empty-handed as we went. So, as I
wouldn't come home without the necessary money, I just slips a short
line into the post to let Rhoda know that Hugh Anwyl was alive, and to
beg her to be patient. Then, indeed, I joined a second expedition,
which was fortunate. We brought back with us a fine cargo of sealskins,
besides whalebone; and when I drew my share, it amounted, all told, to
nigh upon two hundred pounds, together with some furs, and a few
curiosities.
I ran down straight from Aberdeen, travelling night and day by the
railway, just such another autumn night as the one when I started. I
rolled, unsteady like, into Glanwern village, and the first soul I meets
was Gwen Thomas. My stars! you should have heard her give tongue. If
I'd been Evan Dhu himself in the guise of a seafaring man, she couldn't
have looked more terrified.
"Why, Gwen, lass!" cried I, "you ain't never afeard of Hugh Anwyl?"
She was afeard, though; and she'd good cause, too.
"How's Rhoda?" asks I. I ought to hae mentioned my father, but my mind
ran, like a ship in a whirlpool, to one centre.
"Oh," says Gwen, turning away her head, "she's still ill!"
"What d'ye mean?" I sings out, clutching her arm tight.
"Don't!" says she. "You sailors are so rough, indeed."
"You speak the truth, then!" cries I; for I guessed from her look and
the queer colour in her darned figurehead, that something was tarnation
wrong with my Rhoda.
She looks at me as steady as a gunner taking aim.
"Hugh," she says, "you'll have to hear what will hurt you sooner or
later. Rhoda is married to David!"
I didn't speak. Neither did a tear escape my eye. But I sat down on a
stone by the roadside, and I felt as if I'd been struck by a flash of
lightning.
Gwen went on talking; and at last, when she saw what was up, she ran and
fetched my father, and the old lubber hoisted me somehow indoors, and
shoved me into a hammock. I rather think I was what ye may call mad.
How long my mind remained so affected I can't rightly judge. My first
recollection is of seeing a pale face sitting by my side, and I heard a
sound which brought me to.
It was Rhoda. Although she'd been forced into a marriage with that
lubber David, she'd not forgotten me; and she'd come to tell me all.
Yes, indeed. And what's more, she'd come none to soon; for if Hugh
Anwyl was somewhere in the latitude of lunacy, Rhoda was in the
longitude of decline. She was dying! Yes, indeed!
She told me how they had hatched up a lie about my having made love to
Gwen. To prove this, David had plotted to make me walk that evil night
with his false sister to the Clwm Rock. Rhoda had at first refused to
believe their story. But when she saw us--for she lay concealed behind
the rock--pass by as if we were lovers, with Gwen's darned face resting
on my bosom, she was cheated into thinking me false. Still she would
have heard me, and learned the truth before I left Glanwern, but her old
father interfered; and when I was gone, and Gwen had never delivered my
letter, she consented to wed David--just, as you may say, for the sake
of peace--believing the yarn they invented, that I had run away to sea
and would never come back. It was not, indeed, until she received my
letter from Aberdeen that she learned how wickedly she had been
deceived. From that moment she fell ill, and nothing would please her
but to return to Miller Howell's house. As for David, indeed, she would
not look at him, or speak to him; and she did but sit still and wait for
death, hoping, as she told me, that Hugh Anwyl might return before the
end came.
My lads, her sweet voice somehow steadied my brain. I saw the whole
spider's web unfolded. Gwen and David had plotted to sink our craft,
and there we lay waterlogged.
"Shall I smash the pair of them?" I said.
"For my sake, no, indeed," she answered. "Let us forget them. It is
too late, Hugh Anwyl."
Mates, I rose from that hammock that very instant, a strong, hale seaman
once more. My life was wrecked, in so far as happiness goes. But the
strength remained to me. Not so, poor little Rhoda. Her cheek was
hollow, and the bright eyes shone like the evening stars in the southern
seas. So weak was she, that I had to support her back to Miller
Howell's house.
"Come in, Hugh Anwyl," says the old, greedy father, looking as if he
could drop down dead from shame and sorrow on the doorstep. "Come in.
This is stormy weather."
I couldn't speak to the man. I would not reproach him with having been
the cause of this wreck--for his features, indeed, displayed the
punishment he had received. But I came in, and I sat down by Rhoda's
side on the sofa.
In a minute or two, the door opens, and a figure intrudes itself.
Rhoda put her hands in front of her face, as if she was shamed beyond
all bearing, indeed. I started to my legs, for I could have killed the
man.
It was David Thomas!
Yes, mates, David Thomas, come to see his lawful wife, Rhoda Thomas, who
was married to him six months ago.
Rhoda put her finger on my arm, and I sat down like a lamb. It was
impossible to avenge her wrong.
"Be off out of this house, which you have brought ruin into!" says
Miller Howell, speaking to his son-in-law.
The lubber sheered off.
My mates, I can tell no more. We sat as we was, on that there sofa,
till sunset; and then--and then, poor Rhoda died in my arms!
Yes, mates, she dropped off to sleep; and, for all her miserable end,
she died happy indeed!
As for Hugh Anwyl, he went back to sea. But after every voyage he
returns to Glanwern churchyard, and he puts a bunch of flowers on a
grassy mound--for that is his only home.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Yes, that's all very pretty," cried the doctor, who had listened
attentively; "but in the name of Owen, Darwin, and Huxley; Hudson,
Franklin, Bellot, and Scoresby, how did you--Confound it! was ever
anything so provoking?"
"He ain't left so much as a tooth behind," said Binny Scudds, looking
down at the ice.
"But he had not discovered the Pole, my man. Here, search round; we may
find one who has been there; but I hope not. I believe, my lads, that
there is no Pole. That hollow there leads right into the centre of the
earth; or, through it, to the South Pole."
"Easily prove that ere, sir," said Binny Scudds.
"How, my man--how?" exclaimed the doctor, eagerly. "You unlettered men
sometimes strike upon rich veins."
"You go and stand by the mouth of the hole at the South Pole, while we
roll a big piece of ice down here. You could see, then, if it comed
through."
"Yes, we might try that, certainly," said the doctor, thoughtfully.
"But then I ought to be at the South Pole, and I'm here, you see. We
might roll that block down, though, and see the effect. Here,
altogether, my lads--heave!"
We all went up to a block about seven foot square; but it was too big
and heavy, and we could not make it budge an inch.
"Hold hard a minute," I said, and I scraped a hole beneath it, and
poured in a lot of powder.
"That's good," said the doctor. "That's scientific," and he stood
rubbing his hands while I made a slow match; connected it; lit it; and
then we all stood back, till, with a loud bang, the charge exploded,
lifting the block of ice up five or six feet, and then, in place of
splitting it in two as I meant, it came down whole, and literally fell
into powder.
"I say, don't do that!" said a thick voice, and there, to our utter
astonishment, sat among the broken ice, a heavy-looking, Dutch-built
sailor, staring round, and yawning. "I'd have got up, if you had called
me," he continued, "without all that row."
"How did you get there?" said the doctor.
"There? Where?" said the Dutchman.
"In that block of ice," said the doctor.
"Stuff about your block of ice," said the Dutchman. "I lay down to
sleep last night on the snow, while our lads were trying for seal, off
Greenland. But I'll tell you all about it. Haven't seen them, I
suppose?"
"No," said Bostock, winking at us, "we haven't."
"They'll be here directly, I dare say, when they miss me," said the
Dutchman.
"I say, matey," said Binny Scudds, "we've 'bout lost our reckoning.
What's to-day?"
"To-day," said the Dutchman; "to-day's the twenty-fourth of July,
eighteen hundred and forty-two."
"Thank you, my man," said the doctor. "But perhaps you'll tell us whom
you are."
"Certainly," said the Dutchman; "but keep a look-out for my mates," and
he began.