CHAPTER XVII.

THE MILL IN THE MOONLIGHT.

"Little I know of life By worldly joys begot, But the rapture well I know That dwells in a mountain cot; The glory that comes at eve, As I sit 'neath the elder tree, And watch the crimson sun Sink down behind the sea." --Ceiriog.

Another year had passed over the simple village, whose history we have hitherto followed, unmarked by anything more than the ordinary events of daily life. A golden harvest had been gathered on the uplands, and the herring fishing had been unprecedentedly plentiful. The work at the sail-shed was once more in full swing, and Mwntseison was peaceful and contented.

Over the cottage fires in the evening, when the peat burnt brightly, and the "uwd" simmered in the iron crock, the events connected with the Mishteer's and Mari Vone's deaths were frequently the subjects of conversation; but Gwladys' connection with them seemed gradually forgotten. She was amongst them still, and had dropped so naturally into her old place of Nani Price's daughter that her marriage was seldom called to mind. She was well content that it should be so, for into the even flow of her innocent life it had only brought a sorrowful "troubling of the waters," from the memory of which she shrank with a self-upbraiding regret, and she never by word or deed alluded to the past.

Her simple, guileless nature was already throwing off the clouds that had darkened her life; a tide of youthful vigour and joy ran full in her veins; Nature asserted her right to be happy, and she seemed to grow in beauty as the days sped on. True, a pensive look often crossed her face, but it rather added to, than detracted from, the charm of her expression. She gradually took up all her old habits--tossing the hay in the hay-fields; binding the sheaves in the corn-fields; singing at her work in the garden; and still carrying her creel to the beds of laver, to the great relief of Nance Owen, who grew more infirm with advancing years.

"There's good she is to me, calon fâch!"[1] she would say. "As isel[2] as ever! You would never guess she had money in the bank."

Indeed, "the money in the bank" was little more than a myth to Gwladys. Mr. Lloyd, the lawyer, looked after her affairs with great interest, and the respect which every Welshman feels for those who will not touch their capital. He sent Gwladys her dividends regularly; but the blue envelope which brought them was always an anxious mystery to the simple girl, and its receipt was invariably followed by a journey to Caer Madoc in Peggi Pentraeth's donkey-cart, where, having deposited the money in the bank, she and her mother returned with lightened hearts, feeling very rich with a few sovereigns in their pockets. 'N'wncwl Jos generally drove them on these occasions, managing to receive his "pinshwn" on the same day. The journey was always kept a dead secret beforehand, for "who knew but that a donkey-cart bearing two such wealthy people as Gwladys and 'n'wncwl Jos might not be waylaid, and its occupants robbed on the road."

Not that any inhabitant of the village would do such a thing! but stray sailors from far-off ports _did_ sometimes find their way to Mwntseison, and English tramps often passed through in their wanderings.

'N'wncwl Jos had found a comfortable resting-place for his latter years, for Lallo had come forward with kindly offers of hospitality.

"Come and live with me and Siencyn," she had said, when on his return from Mari's funeral, the old man had begun to look mournfully around him. "Thou wilt be company for Siencyn when he comes home, and when he is away thou canst help me with that andras of a pig, for he wants a firm hand over him."

"Oh, he'll get that," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "if I come to live with you; and a firm leg, too, if he doesn't behave."

And so it was settled, and Lallo found something to occupy her time and thoughts; and the old man, though he lost much of his jocularity, regained by degrees his old cheerfulness, and spent much of his time with Nani Price and Gwladys. He was always a welcome guest, not only because of his connection with Mari, but that sometimes he rowed up to Traeth Berwen, and stumped up as far as the old mill to see Ivor Parry.

"Jâr-i! Ivor is getting on," he said one evening, while Gwladys, at her work, listened with fluttering heart. "He's getting a reg'lar jolly miller; and there's beautiful cwrw Acsa brews! without my secret, too. But his heart is at Mwntseison still, though so many friends are gone from here. There's questions he asks me. 'How is Josh Howels?' he sez. 'And how is Nani Price and her daughter?'

"'Oh, quite well,' sez I; 'and Gwladys is as ugly as ever.'"

Gwladys smiled pensively.

"'How is it you never come up to see us at Mwntseison?' sez I; and he didn't answer, but looked up after the smoke to the chimney."

A few evenings after this conversation Gwladys took her way over the cliffs which stretched at the back of the sail-shed towards the valley of the Berwen. She was bent on the same kindly errand that had frequently taken Mari Vone on this path, namely, to gather ferns for Peggi Pentraeth's donkey. She never went more than half-way to Traeth Berwen, partly shrinking from passing the grassy mound on which her friend had breathed her last, alone and unattended, and, moreover, a little proud reserve withheld her footsteps.

If she went further than half-way, Berwen mill would be in sight, and perhaps she might be seen from the mill. Not for worlds will a well-brought-up Welsh girl give her lover a shadow of reason to think that she is seeking him. She is not slow to respond to advances on his part, but will never make any of her own. So she turned down a cleft in the cliffs, and gathered her baich[3] of green and golden bracken, and, tying it into shape with a strong cord, sat down upon it for a moment to watch the setting sun before she slung it on her back.

Behind her the rounded hills rose brown and flushed in the sunset light; around her the rushes whispered in the evening breeze, the green sward glowed in the sun's last rays, and every nodding flower caught its crimson light. The sea murmured on the rocks below, the floating sea-gulls still rose and fell on the heaving waters, and though it was late autumn, a calm, serene beauty brooded over land and sea, as though summer had returned with a last lingering good-bye. Gwladys sat and watched the fading tints, filled with tender memories of the past, not unmixed with an awakening flood of hope in the future; not untinged, too, with a feeling of resentment against Ivor, who had been very chary of his visits to Mwntseison of late. She had been thankful to him at first for his avoidance of her; it spared her so much embarrassment. But latterly, the longing to see him again had grown upon her, and the old haunting hunger for his love was again rising within her--not that it had ever died, nor even slept, but that it had been repressed and buried under the sad events through which she had passed. But now she was evidently loosening the bonds which had kept it in check, for it rose again within her, and threatened once more to flow in upon her in waves of unrest. True, she had sometimes met her old lover on the way to and from chapel, or market, or fair, but never alone, and always Ivor had been calm and undemonstrative.

"Had he forgotten her?" she wondered. "Had the years brought him submission and indifference. She was still so young--only twenty-three. It was no wonder if that pensive curve of the lips and that moisture in the brown eyes betokened a little wistful rebelling against fate. Why! why should she not be happy? Why did Ivor so persistently avoid her?" and so lost was she in her own thoughts, that she did not hear a footstep which passed along the path above her.

It was Ivor Parry, sauntering up from the mill with the intention of paying one of his infrequent visits to Mwntseison. He had longed latterly more and more for a sight of Gwladys, and he chafed under the restraints which he had placed upon himself, and the proprieties of village life which kept them apart.

But surely here she was close beside him! every barrier removed from his path! no moral restraint to be fought with, as of old! nothing to prevent their intercourse! The suddenness and greatness of the thought took his breath away, and though, with a man's impetuosity, he never hesitated to grasp the opportunity, still the strong man trembled as he approached the unconscious girl.

"Gwladys!" he said at last, and in a moment she had started to her feet, the rich blood surging over neck, cheek, and brow.

"Ivor!" was all her answer.

And then, with the ridiculous combination of the commonplace and the romantic, their first embarrassed words were the usual remarks upon the weather.

"'Tis tewi brâf!" said Gwladys, who was the first to recover self-possession.

"Brâf, indeed!" said Ivor. "Wilt not sit down again?"

But she hesitated.

"Come!" he said, arranging the bundle of fern; "and will I sit by thy side?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Gwladys, looking round, as if for inspiration.

"Yes," said Ivor, laughing at her embarrassment; "look round at earth, sea, and sky, and see if thou canst find a reason why I should not sit on this bank beside thee?"

"Well, indeed, I suppose there isn't one whatever," she answered, laughing, and sitting down on the furze again, while Ivor stretched himself on the grass beside her.

Both felt the enchantment of the hour, and both endeavoured to relieve the tension by falling into a commonplace remark.

But what was the matter with the sea to-night? that in every pause of the conversation it sent up whisperings and murmurings, that bore in their tones such personal suggestions to both Ivor and Gwladys!

They could distinctly hear the dash of the waves on Traeth-y-daran, and in both their hearts arose the memory of the night they had spent together there.

A bright star followed in the wake of the sun, and though Ivor only said, "'Tis a fair sunset, and promises another fine day," to which she smilingly assented, yet in the hearts of both arose the memory of the star whose setting they had watched together.

Yes, though not a word of love was spoken between them, for Ivor still feared to startle his companion by a too sudden change of manner, still both felt that the barriers were down, that the cold wall of separation was broken, and that once more the tide of love was flowing full towards them.

At last, when the evening breeze grew colder, and warned them they must part, there came a louder swish from the waves below, and Gwladys, with drooping eyes, said:

"I don't forget what thou didst for me in the storm down there, Ivor. I have never thanked thee, oh, no! but it is all here," and she laid her hand on her heart.

"There is no need, lass. Between me and thee there is no need for words, we have gone through too many bitter things together not to understand each other now."

"Yes, indeed!" was all her answer; and, with great relief, from that hour she put away from her all that was bitter in the memory of the past, and began to make room in her soul for the flowers of hope that were springing up within her.

"Well, good-night, lass. I have had a happy hour--and thou?"

"Well, yes, I suppose indeed," was all she answered; but it was accompanied with such a happy smile that Ivor seemed quite content, and astonished Acsa by entering the mill yard with a merry song on his lips.

This night's meeting was the prelude to many more on the cliffs, on the shore, or on the bay, and when the winter came in real earnest, Ivor's visits to Mwntseison were of very frequent occurrence.

One evening in the early spring he walked again in the mill garden, and sought and found under the furze hedge a bunch of sweet violets, which he gathered before he took his way up the side of the hill to meet Gwladys.

"Vayolettes! vayolettes!" he thought. "Mari Vone was right, the name does suit them." And as Gwladys pinned them into her bodice, he was reminded of the sea-pinks which he had snatched from the table while 'n'wncwl Jos lay ill in his bed, and which he still treasured between the pages of one of the old brown books in the mill bookcase.

He would have told her of the incident had not a tender regard for Hugh's memory made him hesitate to speak of anything which should contrast their present freedom with the restraint of their former meetings.

Backwards and forwards over the velvet turf at the top of the cliffs they roamed together, the hours passing by unheeded, until, as they reached the green mound, now lying bathed in the silver moonlight, which they had named "Mari's pillow," Gwladys said:

"I must not go further, or my mother will be bolting the door."

"Wilt not come to the brow of the hill, 'tis only a little further, and I have something to show thee there."

And she made no demur, but continued her walk to the edge of the hill, which sloped down to the valley of the Berwen. The little river gurgled and whispered in the moonlight, as it ran below them on its way to the sea.

"We can hear the Berwen from here," said Gwladys; "but what hast to show me, Ivor?"

"Only the mill!" said he, pointing across the valley to where the old mill stood by the noisy little stream.

It was a picture of rural beauty as it stood there, like a grey sentinel at the opening of the valley. Landwards, the cwm gradually closed in, where the thick woods grew down to the water's edge; between them the old church, the home of the white owls, which made the glen their hunting ground, was dimly visible through the haze, the mill itself showing clear and sharp, with its silvered points and dark shadows, its ivy-covered gables well defined in the moonlight. There was a firelight glow in the broad kitchen window, and the smoke curled up from the grey stone chimney.

"Only the mill!" said Ivor again.

"Yes, there's pretty it is in the moonlight! and there's nice things the river is saying down there!"

"Yes, 'tis a pretty home; but lonely, lass--lonely for me; wilt not come and brighten it, Gwladys? Think how long I have waited; think how much I have suffered--and thee, too! Come, Gwladys, come to the mill with me! Come, f'anwylyd, I have not hurried thee; but every week has seemed a month lately and every month a year! Is there any reason in earth or heaven why we should not be married now? Why art so silent, Gwladys?"

"Only, Ivor, I am wondering can it be that there is so much happiness in store for me and thee?"

"Yes," said Ivor, in a loud, determined tone, "there is love and happiness in store for us, if thou wilt only give thyself to me. Come and be the mistress of the old mill, f'anwylyd; come and be the queen and idol of my heart, as thou hast always been! When will we be married? To-morrow?"

"Caton pawb, Ivor, thou art taking my breath away."

"Next week, then?"

"Well, indeed, it will only be on one condition," and she held up her finger playfully.

"Oh, listen to her," said Ivor delightedly, "she's beginning to lay down the law already; and what conditions does my queen enforce?" and taking off his hat he made her a sweeping bow.

"Well, 'tis this," said Gwladys; "there must be no wedding--I mean--only thee and me, Ivor."

"What! not the parson?"

"Oh, of course, fwlcyn dwl; but no one else."

"Agreed!" said Ivor.

"And no one at Mwntseison must know about it, only mother."

"Agreed!" said Ivor again. "And why must we have no one at our wedding, fanwylyd?"

"There will be two there indeed, I think," she said, the merry dimples giving place to a more serious, though happy smile.

Ivor looked at her for a moment inquiringly.

"Dost mean Hugh and Mari Vone?"

She nodded.

"'Tis a beautiful thought indeed, lass; and why not? and thou art right, Gwladys, 'twould be hard indeed to find fit company for them."

And so it was settled between them; and in the old mill by the Berwen, Ivor and Gwladys found in the long years to come that happiness, so long delayed and waited for, is sometimes found even on earth!

[1] Dear heart.

[2] Without pride.

[3] Bundle.

THE END