CHAPTER V.

TRAETH-Y-DARAN.

The business which called Ivor Parry to Aberython had proved more wearily slow in its progress than is usual, even in that land where to attend to a thing at once, and to compass its completion without delay, is considered not only unnecessarily flurrying, but also scarcely dignified; so a whole week went by before he returned to Mwntseison.

He had never been so long absent before, and was returning one evening in the following week with a fund of bright, fresh interest in his work in the old sail-shed. He was in good spirits, having finished the Mishteer's work satisfactorily, and was bringing with him an order for new sails for the Lapwing; and besides all this, did not his way lie down the hill past Gwladys' cottage? and had he not found an excuse for going in as he passed?

And then he fell to wondering what Hugh Morgan meant when he had said good-bye to him with the words, "I will have something to tell thee on thy return." What was it? Ivor wondered.

"Something pleasant, I know, by the twinkle in his eye; perhaps an order for the new schooner at Caer Madoc!" And as he trudged down the hill, his thumbs in his armholes, he began to sing lustily one of the old ballads always floating about in the country air:--

"In a garden of flowers I roamed one day, And I said, I will find me a posy gay; I passed the red roses and lilies so fair-- And a handful of nettles I gathered there!"

"Twt, twt!" he said, stopping suddenly; "there's a grumbling song I've got hold of this fine evening." And he began again in another key, and filled the summer air with melody:--

"Alone on the shore of the stormy bay A snow-white sea-gull stands; And she preens her feathers damp with spray On the wet and shining sands.

"Perhaps 'tis a maiden who stands to-day All wet in a rain of tears; And perhaps she will weep by that stormy bay, Through all the coming years!"

"Well, tan i marw! That's not much better," he said. "What's the matter with the man?" And reaching Nani Price's cottage, he stooped his head, and entered the low doorway. "Hello, Nani!" he called, and she rose from the dark chimney corner.

"Wel, wyr![1] Ivor, thy voice came in at the door before thee! I am glad to see thee back again. And what dost think of Aberython?"

"Oh, 'tis very well," answered Ivor. "There's a fine street going down to the quay, and shops all the way on both sides," and he thought joyfully of the pretty ribbon he had safe in his pocket for Gwladys. "But where's Gwladys?" he asked, looking round; "not come home from the sail-shed yet?"

"Well, she's not been there to-day; she's gone to Mari Vone's with patterns of wool for the weaving. Thou'st come to wish her joy, no doubt, like all the rest?"

"Wish her joy! of what?" said Ivor, sitting down on the end of the spinning-wheel bench. There was a curious darkening of the sunshine at the doorway and a confused rushing in his head which made him glad to sit down.

"Hast not heard the news, then?" said Nani. "Why, she's going to be married to the Mishteer!" And the good woman, for once forgetting everything but her own satisfaction, in the information she had to impart, was blind to the change in Ivor's face.

"To be married to the Mishteer! Gwladys, who had filled his thoughts and heart for so long--yes, ever since he could remember!" And the whole universe was shattered, as far as Ivor Parry was concerned; but he sat still and made no sign, for always the most agonising points of life are the most silent. When at last the bitter tale was all told he rose slowly.

"There's news I've given thee," said Nani, stopping for breath.

"News, indeed!" said Ivor; "but I must go. Well, 'wish her joy' for me, Nani," and out again to the June evening Ivor went, bruised, wounded, bleeding, but fighting bravely with his sorrow, and sustained by his pride. Not for worlds would he--Ivor Parry, the cheeriest and bravest bachgen in the village--let it be seen that he was sorely wounded; and he resumed his old attitude with his thumbs in his armholes, and struck up another verse of his disconnected ballad, though how he managed it he never afterwards could understand. With head erect, and with many improvised turns and grace notes, he sang, as he went his way down the road:

"O gwae fi, and woe is me! And my heart is full of pain; For the ship that sailed across the sea Will never come back again!"

On reaching his lodgings he was even more lively than usual, making his cousin laugh at his merry sallies, and hearing his own voice as if it had been a stranger's. He even made a show of enjoying his tea; but after it was over he went out, and, leaving the sail-shed behind him, turned his face towards the cliffs. Slipping down through the broom bushes, he made his way by an unfrequented sheep path to the beach below, and, crossing the shore, reached the south end of the harbour. The turmoil of thoughts within him seemed to urge him forwards, and every step he took strengthened the only determination he could evolve out of the chaos of misery in his heart. He must see Gwladys, must hear his doom from her own lips! The south end of the shore was less frequented than the other. The crags were higher and more frowning here, the shadows were deeper, the sands were seldom trodden, and the sea seldom ruffled by oar or sail; but here in the deep shadows the laver weed grew thickest, and here Gwladys might come to fill her creel as usual, "unless, indeed," thought Ivor, "she might to-night be roaming over the cliffs with Hugh Morgan, and so forget her creel and Nance Owen." The thought was so bitter that he groaned aloud.

Gwladys had returned home a few minutes after he had left the house, even soon enough to hear an echo of his voice as he trolled out the well-known ballad. Her mother met her with a happy, smiling face.

"Merch fâch i!" she said, as she drew the back of her fingers caressingly over the girl's cheek, where the rich colour had paled a little. Her heart was full of gratitude to the daughter whose marriage promised to bring so much comfort and freedom from care into her life. "Ivor Parry has been here to 'wish thee joy,'" she said; and Gwladys' heart throbbed painfully.

"There's a merry man he is," continued Nani, as she clattered the tea-cups on the little round table; "singing he was when he came in, and singing again when he went out."

In the gloom of the cottage she had not noticed the pallor that overspread his face upon receiving her news, neither did she now notice her daughter's preoccupied silence. It was very evident that her elation of spirits had for the time smothered Nani's usual tender thoughtfulness for others.

"Yes, I thought 'twas his voice," said Gwladys at last. "What did he say, mother?"

"Oh, well, he was very glad. 'There's good news, indeed!' sez he, and 'wish her joy for me, Nani.' Hast settled which stripe thee'lt have in thy petticoat, lass? What did Mari Vone say?"

"Oh, she liked best the blue. I don't care which; you can settle it, mother."

"Don't care!" said Nani, raising her hands in astonishment. "Well, in my deed, thou art an odd girl in some things! Going to be married to the Mishteer, and not care whether thy stripes are to be red or blue! If it had been to a common man like Dye Pentraeth or Ivor Parry, it would be no 'otts' perhaps--but to the Mishteer, the owner of half the village, so rich, and so handsome, and with his achan[2] going back I don't know where! A scarlet stripe it shall be, then; and I wish there was a brighter colour!" and she whisked the crock of "mash," which she was warming for her ailing cow, off its hook over the fire with such a swing of triumph that some of its contents was spilt on the hearth, and Gwladys looked after her with a smile, half-sad, half-amused.

"Mother fâch,[3] I have made her life happy, whatever!" she said, and standing there in the twilight, with the skeins of bright wool hanging from her unconscious fingers, she fell into a deep reverie. "Is this how every girl feels when she is going to be married?" and then a silence. "Wish her joy for me!" Well, what more could she expect from any man who heard of her approaching marriage? The curves of the mobile mouth fell, and the brown eyes became suffused with tears. Both signs of sadness, however, were chased away as she heard a manly footstep at the door, and Hugh Morgan entered the cottage. At the same moment Nani returned from the cowshed, so, according to Welsh custom, Hugh's manner was jovial and friendly only, nothing warmer being considered decorous in the presence of a third person, more especially that of a future mother-in-law.

"Well, are you here, little people? Coming in from the sunset, I can't see you yet."

"We are here all right, Mishteer, and glad to see you. Come in," said Nani, as she dusted a chair with her apron.

"I just came in to say I am going to Abersethin to-night on business, so I sha'n't be able to bring the new glee to show thee, Gwladys. How does the world go with thee to-night, Nani?"

"Right well, Mishteer. Sit down, sit down."

"I must not stay long," said Hugh, and Nani considerately made her sick cow an excuse for pottering in and out of the house. She remembered the old saying, "I had better go," said the crow, "when the dove begins to coo!" When she had left the house, Hugh's manner changed at once.

"How is my darling?" he said, taking the listless fingers which held the red and blue skeins; "and what are these pretty things? Aha! now I'll warrant they are for some new clothes for thy wedding," and he drew the blushing girl towards him. "The old sail-shed is dull without thee, lass. When will my wild sea-bird get over her shyness?"

"Well, I'm coming to-morrow, whatever, Mishteer," said Gwladys.

"Halt, halt!" said Hugh, laughing; "you must drop that word now. Mishteer, indeed! Remember I will fine thee a kiss for every time thou call'st me that!"

"I will try, indeed; but 'twill be hard at first."

"Oh, I won't be very angry if thou fail'st to remember sometimes," answered Hugh, and, as Nani's shadow darkened the door again, he returned to his less warm, but still cordial, manner, and soon rose to go.

"Nos da to you both!" he said, and, with a loving look towards Gwladys, which he was careful Nani should not see, he left the house.

Meanwhile Ivor had waited on the darkened shore until the sun had long set, and the moon, now at her full, looked down upon the shimmering bay.

The tide had turned, and still Gwladys had not come; and while he waited there in the shadow of the cliff, he pondered bitterly on Nani's words, and sought in vain for any loophole for hope that the news was not true, and that he should yet find Gwladys free and unfettered.

"Fool! fool!" he said; "to think I could safely loiter on the path of love! to see the answer to my own heart gradually coming into those brown eyes! That's what I waited for; but caton pawb! how could I expect such happiness? I have never seen a sign of that love in her which fills my heart. Sometimes, indeed,"--and his troubled face took a tender, faraway look--"sometimes I have seen her eyes droop, and her blushes come when I have spoken to her, and then I thought perhaps she cared a little for me, for she is not like some girls--Gwen or Ana, now. 'Twas not far to seek for their smiles--no, nor their kisses either! But Gwladys! I was afraid even to touch her, lest she should fly away like a bird!" and he groaned aloud in his trouble, and confessed to himself that the darkest and direst misfortune that could befall him was casting its shadow on his path--nay, had already caught and overwhelmed him. Had his rival been anyone else, he could have fought against his fate--yes, fought, and perhaps conquered! But the Mishteer! his friend! his master! the man whom, of all others, he held in such high esteem. No! the thought was unbearable. Life was not made to hold such bitterness for him! But, alas! life does hold out to us sometimes a cup of so much bitterness that imagination even would hesitate to picture it as a possible event in our experience. We drink it to the dregs, and we survive it.

A step on the pebbles, and Gwladys had at last appeared, and Ivor watched her as she picked her way between the boulders, unconscious of his presence. Oh, how lovely she looked, her brown hair tossed by the soft night breeze, the moon shining full upon the clear brown eyes, and the coral of her lips! and what the moonlight failed to reveal was only too plainly pictured on his memory. She held her two hands on her bosom, grasping the strap of her creel, and she rather bent her head over them as she drew near. She did not see Ivor until she was close upon him, and for a moment stood perfectly still.

"Gwladys!" was all he could say at first, and his voice was so altered, so hoarse, that she stood up straight before him, and looked in astonishment in his face, while she answered, in a startled tone:

"Ivor Parry! it is thee, indeed? Ach y fi! I was not expecting to see thee; but I'm not surprised, though, 'tis such a beautiful night."

Before she had finished speaking, Ivor had regained his composure.

"Yes, 'tis a fine night," he said; "but 'twas not that made me come out. I have been at thy mother's on my way home from Aberython, and I--I----" and he lifted his hat and pushed his fingers through his hair, which was damp and clammy.

"Yes, indeed," said Gwladys, beginning to lose her own calmness. "She gave me thy message. I was not long after thee, for I heard thee singing. I thank thee for thy good wishes."

"I thought, perhaps, it was not true," said Ivor, and his voice shook a little.

Gwladys was silent for a moment, during which a flood of new emotions surged through her whole being, so that her heart beat fast, her limbs trembled, and the whole world seemed to take a new shape before her. Ivor's altered manner, his hoarse voice, the nervous trembling of the hands which he held out towards her, all told the tale which he had withheld so long, and, with a sudden flash of intuition which comes in a great crisis, his love and misery were all revealed to her; and alas! her love for him! She could not do otherwise than place her hands in those which were stretched out so eagerly towards her; but while she did so, her head drooped, and her tears fell like rain.

"'Tis true," she said at last, "'tis true, Ivor."

"Didst not know, Gwladys, that I loved thee, that every hair of thine head was precious to me?"

Many years passed over Ivor's head after that night, but he never forgot the cry with which she heard his words.

"Oh, Ivor! what is this thou art telling me?" and sitting down on the upturned creel which had slipped from her shoulders, she swayed backwards and forwards, endeavouring to smother the sobs which shook her frame. In truth, it was only the bursting of the floodgates, which she had kept closed by a strong effort of will ever since she had made her final promise to Hugh Morgan. The discovery of Ivor's love had been too much for her overstrained nerves, and now, with the abandon of a child, she sat on her creel and cried bitterly. Ivor seated himself on a rock beside her, his worst fears confirmed, and at last, when the sobbing girl had a little regained composure, took her hand and said:

"Didst not know that for long years I have loved thee?--for ever, I think!"

"I did not know--no, indeed!" said the girl.

"If thou hadst known it, lass, what wouldst thou have done?"

She did not answer at once, but continued to rock herself backwards and forwards, and even to moan a little.

"Tell me, Gwladys," Ivor said again; and at last her answer came in clear, firm tones:

"Whatever thou wouldst, Ivor."

"Wouldst have married Hugh Morgan?"

"Oh, never, never! But now I must. Beth na'i? beth na'i?"[4]

"No, no, lass, it must not be--shall not be! I have hungered too much for thy love to let it slip from me now. 'Tis not too late! I will go to Hugh Morgan and tell him all. Thou know'st him, Gwladys--a man who never did a mean thing--a man who would tear out his heart sooner than injure his friend! I will go to him, and tell him, 'Gwladys' love is mine--not thine--and, by heaven! thou shalt not have her!'"

His voice was hoarse with eagerness, and the hand that held hers trembled with excitement.

But Gwladys only drew her hand away, and said:

"'Tis too late, Ivor. I have promised the Mishteer, and our banns have been called once!"

At the mention of the word "banns," Ivor made a gesture of despair. Here, indeed, was the downfall to all his reviving hopes--a bar across his path only one degree less insuperable than death itself--for though to a Welshman scarcely any obstacle seems insurmountable, scarcely any stratagem dishonourable in the course of his impetuous love-making, yet marriage and all connected with it holds the high place in his reverence, which it seems to have lost in many nations.

It is true that morality amongst the unmarried peasantry lays itself open to reproach; but a lapse from the paths of the strictest virtue after marriage is always looked upon as an unpardonable disgrace.

The knowledge, therefore, that Hugh Morgan's banns were published crushed every hope that had begun to spring up anew within Ivor's breast.

"Mawredd anwl![5] 'tis impossible!" he cried; "so soon! Gwladys, say it is not true, or thou wilt kill me--an' 'tis the best thing thou canst do for me, for now I see, indeed, that thou art gone from me for ever! Hugh Morgan has not loitered, whatever! Only one short week I was away, and in that time another man has won thee, and thy banns are out!"

She made no answer, but sat with her face buried in her hands.

"Thou art crying, lass; is it pity for me?"

"Yes," she sobbed, "and--and for me!"

"Didst love me, then, all the time, f'anwylyd? Tell me; I have a right to know."

He had drawn her close to his side, and she felt his breath on her hair as he continued to plead--

"Say it, Gwladys--only once--only to-night!"

Poor Gwladys! The glamour of the love she had thirsted for was upon her in all its fulness--was wrapping her in its folds. Its strength subdued her; she forgot her scruples, and stifled the whispers of her usually tender conscience, and, yielding to Ivor's pleadings and her own impulsive, passionate nature, let her lover draw from her the truth, which she had hitherto scarcely confessed to herself.

"Yes--yes; I have loved thee always."

"And will love me for ever?--whisper it, fanwylyd," said Ivor.

"No, I must not say that; but thou knowst it all. Oh! beth na'i, beth na'i?"

A step on the shingle disturbed them.

"Only Sianco fetching his crab-pots; but here is my boat. Let us go to Traeth-y-daran, where the sand is never trodden; there we shall be alone, for I tell thee, Gwladys, this night is mine and thine--_nothing_ shall tear it from us!"

He drew the boat to the side of the rock and once again Gwladys and he were out together on the moonlit bay. It was so calm that nothing could be heard but the creaking of the oars in the rowlocks and the dripping of the water from the blades. Neither spoke until reaching Traeth-y-daran, the boat glided in between the rocks, and they landed on the shore which lay lonely and peaceful in a flood of moonlight.

"Here is a seat for thee, love, and one for me beside thee close. Oh, yes; I said this night was made for thee and me! For a few hours let us put everything else away from us, Gwladys, and talk and think and feel nothing--nothing but our love for each other. I will have it so!" he said almost fiercely. "To-night is for happiness--to-morrow is for--?. Tell me, lass, dost remember our last row on the bay?"

"Yes, I have had it in my thoughts often, and in my heart always," said Gwladys.

"Hast indeed?" said Ivor; "didst feel my kiss on thy hair?"

"I felt it," she answered, with head drooping and burning cheeks; "but I did not think it meant anything--indeed I didn't, Ivor!" and she looked up pleadingly into his face.

"No, a fool I was! I hid it all, thinking to win thy love gradually and then to tell thee! I thought I would guard thee so well that no other man could approach thee unknown to me, and then I would speak to thee at once. Oh, what a fool I was! and now----"

"And now?" repeated Gwladys tearfully; and a silence fell upon them as they both thought of "what might have been!" Into the girl's dream there came a shadow from the future--a picture of Hugh Morgan bending over her as she sat at work in his house on the hillside. It was a momentary glimpse and she shuddered as it crossed her mind.

"Art cold, f'anwylyd?"

"No, no," she answered; "on this May night who would be cold? I am warm, Ivor; 'tis the future makes me shiver----"

"Hush!" he said, "don't speak about that; there is no law in earth or heaven that can part us, if only thou wilt let me go to Hugh Morgan and ask him to free thee from thy promise----"

"But the banns, Ivor? Oh, no; 'tis impossible to bring this shame upon the Mishteer's name. And my mother--she would break her heart! No, no; 'tis too plain we must part. Will God give me strength, I wonder? Beth na'i? beth na'i?"

For some time Ivor, carried away by the new-born happiness of knowing he had her love, endeavoured to shake her determination; but here she was firm, in spite of the weakness with which she had allowed herself to be swayed by the strong tide of love, which had overwhelmed her on discovering Ivor's feelings towards her.

There were long pauses in their talk when the sea seemed to add its sweet whispers of entreaty to his pleading, until at last as the night wore on there came a little pleading into Gwladys' voice also--

"Oh! Ivor, do not tempt me; I have done wrong to come here, I ought to have said 'nos da' and passed straight home--I am like the seaweed, tossed hither and thither by the fierce waves, but still fastened to the rock, and so am I bound to the Mishteer. Only that one thing is certain in all this sea of trouble. O gwae fi! beth na'i? Let me go, lad! Thou wouldst always help me when I was a child; everywhere I was safe and strong, if thou wert there. And now, Ivor, help me, for the storm is upon me!"

"I cannot, Gwladys--I cannot, indeed! I seek for the strength within me, and I do not find it; but so far I can do, whatever--I will stand out of thy way and let thee pass on to--the Mishteer."

Gwladys, scarce knowing whether this made her more or less miserable, but taking his words somewhat in a literal meaning, began to move a little towards the boat.

"Stop, stop, fanwylyd!" said Ivor, "not to-night will I stand aside--not to-night will I part with thee! I have said, and I swear it again, to-night thou art mine! and my fine promises do not begin till to-morrow."

He drew her again closer to him--and again they fell into a long silence.

"Gwladys," said Ivor at last, "wilt tell me what have thy thoughts been?"

"The same as thine, I do believe, Ivor," said the girl, in a broken voice. "Our happiness would be to be together, but our duty bids us part. I cannot break my promise to the Mishteer. Our banns are called! I am half married to him! I ought not to be here; I am a wicked girl. Why, why has he set his love upon me? I have promised to marry him, and I will keep my word though my heart should break."

Ivor did not speak, he was struggling with a trial which had come upon him unexpectedly and unprepared for. Every fibre of his being was shaken by the shattering of his fondest dreams--the love which he had cherished for years, and for which he had built such fair palaces of hope! Was it now to be stifled and put out of sight for ever? to be cast under the feet of another man, who would walk over it with joy and happiness on his face, unconscious of the sacrifice which his friend was making for him!

For some time they sat thus suffering together, both brooding on the untoward events which had separated them, and on the bitter trial which lay before them.

It was Gwladys who spoke first.

"See how the moon has travelled, Ivor; she is near her setting; the dawn is not far off. Let us go. What will my mother think?"

"She will think thou art staying with Nance Owen, as thou often hast before. Dost see that bright star? We will wait until it sets! So short a time for happiness out of all our long lives, Gwladys!"

"The good God will not grudge it us!" she whispered.

"When that star sinks down behind the sea I will loosen my hold of thee, fanwylyd; but until then thou art mine--and mine only! We are alone in the world--two ships which have sailed together half-way across the ocean, and now must separate for ever!"

Gwladys' long-drawn sobs had subsided, and left only a little catch in her breath, which Ivor heard with yearning tenderness.

"'Tis hard for us both, love; but God grant thee comfort as the years go by. Thou wilt, perhaps, gain peace, and learn to forget the past."

"Never, never!" said the girl. "Calm and peace! where are they coming from, Ivor? Oh, never, never!"

"'Tis a cruel thing, this life which is before us, lass. If I had known that Hugh had set his love on thee, I might have strangled mine at its birth, even though I had killed myself in doing so; but now, 'tis too late, indeed!"

"God knows about it, whatever," said Gwladys between her sobs.

"Dost think, indeed!" was all Ivor's answer.

Both had their eyes fixed upon the star, which hung like a jewel in the sky; it was already losing some of its brilliancy in the haze which bordered the horizon.

"See, Ivor, it is going!" And she shuddered.

"Not yet, fanwylyd!" he replied; and for a few minutes they watched in silence as one watches at a death-bed.

"Our happiness draws near its last moment," he said at last; and they both stood up together, with their eyes fixed on the star, which now drew close to the horizon.

"Repeat those words, Gwladys, 'I love thee, I love thee, Ivor!'"

And with whispering, trembling breath she obeyed.

The star had reached the line of the sea; and, with a simultaneous impulse, they turned to each other, and their lips met in a long, passionate kiss, and it was with a sudden gasp that Ivor opened his arms, leaving Gwladys standing alone on the edge of the wave. He said not another word, but drawing his boat higher up the strand, he lifted her gently over the surf. She felt the nervous trembling of his strong arms as he longed to press her to his heart; but he resisted the impulse, and in another minute they were both rowing silently away from the Traeth-y-daran.

Before they reached Mwntseison Ivor spoke.

"Wilt land here?" he said, pointing to a narrow creek between the cliffs, where a little stream came trickling down from the hills above.

"Yes," was all she could say in reply; and once more Ivor lifted her over the surf, and placed her on the tiny beach. He sprang back into his boat as if afraid to trust himself near her.

"Fforwel!" he said, in a hard, dry voice.

"Fforwel!" answered Gwladys. And with eyes fixed upon each other they separated, every wave of the ebbing tide increasing the distance between them.

As soon as Ivor had passed the point of rocks which enclosed the little creek, he set to with hard rowing to reach the further end of the harbour, passing by Mwntseison still asleep. His face was white and hard set, his hair hung in damp clumps on his forehead, and as he rowed his pale face wore an expression of sullen anger,--in truth, an expression very foreign to his general disposition. Having reached the southern side where the cliffs towered higher and more frowning from the sea, where the fishing boats never came, he was as much alone as if he had been off some far desert island. With an angry motion he flung both the oars from him, rattling noisily as they fell, and sitting moodily in the stern he gave himself up to his bitter reflections. He did not feel the cool morning breezes on his damp face, nor hear the lapping of the water under the keel of his boat as it rose and fell on the gentle swells; all so calm and peaceful around him, and he so full of tumult within! It was just the hour between the dark and the dawn; the sea was of the rough grey of a herring's back, melting into the soft white of the horizon. The gurgle of the fish coming up to the surface for a breath of air was distinctly audible in the silence, and as the flush of the dawn rose higher behind the hills, all sorts of mysterious sounds awoke round the little boat. The hoarse cry of an invisible puffin came over the waters--a soft whispering of the morning breeze filled the air, the strangely human cries of the young seals which still haunt the caves in the cliffs of Mwntseison, all fell unheeded on Ivor's ear. He was fighting with an emotion which he had never known before--jealousy of Hugh Morgan! a blind, unreasoning anger; and underlying it, a desperate conviction that in the end he should submit to his fate--for to fight against the Mishteer was as impossible to him--as contrary to his nature--as it would have been to commit a crime! And it was rebellion against this iron destiny which filled his heart with impotent anger. From the moment when he had caught the last glimpse of Gwladys standing solitary on the shore of the creek, he had known how it would be with him--how strong and unbending were the bonds which compelled him to give his best to his friend.

"As for her," he thought, "she would forget him, would soon learn to be content with her lot--yes, more than content--for no woman could be loved by Hugh and not love him in return! That he never doubted; but for himself?" Self-sacrifice as an abstract idea had never dawned upon him. He was but an untaught man, whose only education had been what a tender nature and a simple country life had brought him; but one thing was plain to him, he must efface himself, and Hugh Morgan must have his way!

Meanwhile Gwladys remained motionless, watching the little boat, until, a mere speck, it rounded a ridge of rocks which jutted out into the bay, and behind which lay Mwntseison; then she dragged her weary steps up the steep cliff from the shore, following a shepherd's path through the broom and heather bushes, till she reached the top of the hill, where she sat down to watch the rising sun. Behind her lay the sea, with its soft sighings and tender whisperings, the old world of her happiness and her youth--and Ivor! before her lay the cold east, from whose mysterious bosom the dawn was breaking, and as she watched, the sun rose and tipped each little blade and leaf with gold. Here, kneeling between the broom bushes, while the morning breeze ruffled her hair, alone on the hillside, she struggled in an agony of tears and supplications to put away from her the memory of the past night, with its golden moon of love and its bitter waves of sorrow--and to turn her face towards that path of duty which lay before her. At another time how she would have delighted in the sounds and sights around her! the dewdrops glistening on the sea-pinks, the gossamer webs stretched like frosted silver from bush to bush, the rabbits peeping out of their burrows, the shepherd awakening his flock, the sea-gulls sailing high above the hill top, where the little sea-crows were beginning the day with a squabble; but it was all lost upon Gwladys, who reached her mother's house while the village was still sleeping under the early morning sun. There was only the wooden bolt to push back, and she knew the simple trick by which it was reached from the outside.

"Why! thou hast risen early," said her mother, as she saw her enter. "What! is Nance Owen up so early?"

"I have not been there!"

There was something in the girl's voice which startled her mother.

"Where, then?" she cried, sitting up in bed.

"With Ivor Parry out on the bay! Mother, it will never happen again--we had something to say to each other--it is passed--you must forget it, mother, as I shall--but I wanted to tell you----"

Her mother, breathless and frightened, stared at the girl, who, pale and dry-eyed, began to set about her household duties. Whether she understood what that "something" had been which had been spoken at Traeth-y-daran, she never disclosed; but she opened her arms and drew Gwladys towards her, "Calon fâch!"[6] was all she said as she pressed the girl to her heart.

[1] Well, indeed.

[2] Pedigree.

[3] Little mother.

[4] "What shall I do?"

[5] Good God!

[6] Dear heart.