CHAPTER XI.

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.