CHAPTER FIVE.
THE WELSH SAILOR'S YARN.
My name aboard ship is registered John Jones. Yes, indeed. Though, toconfess exactly, I was born the son of Hugh Anwyl, miner, of the parishof Glanwern, in the county of Merioneth, and my father baptised me byhis own name; so that John is Hugh, and Jones is Anwyl, indeed. Imention this at starting, to prevent my yarn being waterlogged before itreaches mid-ocean.
Well, mates, a beautiful spot is the village of Glanwern. The broadriver Mawdach, which runs between the clefts of the mountains, d'ye see,and is overhung with silver birch on either side, separates us--that is,the Glanwernians, indeed--from the town of Barmouth.
It's a many year since these eyes beheld that familiar spot; yet, mylads, I never got becalmed, or down with a fever, or otherwise on mybeam-ends, but what my thoughts turned to old Glanwern--for it's thebrightest place, with the darkest memories, I ever knew.
Yes, indeed, I think I see it now. And you won't go for to suppose,because my eyes are all a-leak, like a brace of scuppers, that I'vetherefore lost my trim. After all, 'tain't Glanwern. It's whathappened to me there, when I was a youth as gay as a poppy, with thehand of a man and the face of a girl.
That's the mischief, messmates.
'Twould have been happier for Hugh Anwyl if he'd been as ugly in thosedays as John Jones is at this moment; for, you see, my lads, when I wasquite young, I got rather to like a girl called Gwen--Gwendoline thatis; we, indeed, called her Gwen--Thomas. She was next-door neighbour tomy old dad's cottage, and she'd a deuce of a knack of fondling on youwithout so much as touching a button of your coat.
Yes, Gwen was one of the sort that act like magnets to a seaman's lips.I never loved her, d'ye see; but I was flattered by such a smart craftcoming alongside, and--well, indeed,--I played the fool. I kissed her,because it seemed to do her good. And she--darn her cunning head!--shemeant it all! I know that she'd have done anything, indeed, if I'd buthave passed the word. But I didn't. I never so much as talked aboutthe parson.
It was about a year after this, that Rhoda Howell, the miller'sdaughter, came home from the boarding-school at Dolgelly, full of music,and English, and French, and all them things.
My stars! she was a picture, she was! I--that's to say, Hugh Anwyl, youknow--was taken all aback, and felt something or other dance thedouble-shuffle under my waistcoat pocket.
Well, mates, we fell to what you may call flirting. I asked her to gofor a walk, and she, indeed, consented; and so it went on, as you mightsay, from better to best.
Yes, indeed, I could not give those days a truer name than best; for Iam sure that they were the only real sunshine either of us ever felt inour lifetimes.
Ye see, Rhoda loved me. Why, heaven only knows. And I--I could havedied for her.
There wasn't a bright lad in Glanwern that didn't envy the luck of HughAnwyl; and, rightly enough, too; for I swear, though I've travellednorth, south, east, and west, and have met with women of all nations,not once have I ever found the equal of Rhoda Howell. I almost shrinkfrom speaking her name. It seems--well, _sacred_! Poor Rhoda! like aflower of spring, you died early! Yes, indeed, ours ain't one of themlove tales which comes all right at t'other end of the book. She's inheaven; and Hugh Anwyl--he ain't just exactly in the other place; buthe's not so very far off neither, being afloat, and registered JohnJones, A.B.
To come back to my yarn, indeed.
One clear autumn evening, when the sun was lighting up the heather onthe sides of Cader Idris, you might, if you'd a-happened to be there,have beheld a scene which the whole world don't show out of North Wales,me and my girl, Rhoda, was walking, cosy-like, through a quiet bit ofwood, where none could hear, and I don't think I ever felt my heart soswell with joy as I did that moment, when she says, says she, beatingher foot on the grass, "Shall I tell you a secret?"
"Yes," I answers, just glancing at her, and seeing her lips come overpale.
"Will you promise me," she asks, "to keep it?"
"Promise!" I cries out; "I'll _swear_!" You see, I was gettingcurious.
She looks at me serious--yes, indeed, very serious. Then she whispers,quite confidential-like, "I've got a lover!"
"What!" I bellows, quite savage. It didn't take much to make mejealous; and I felt as if I would have killed a rival ker-slap.
She smiles, in a faint sort of a fashion. Then she mutters, just as ifthe trees were all a-listening to us with ears instead of leaves, "Ishan't say, unless you'll agree to be sensible."
A kind of a sulky feeling come over me, my boys, at her teasing words;but I told her I'd always do exactly, indeed, as she wished.
"Then," says she, with a wry face, "it's David Thomas. He've been tofather this morning, and asked for me. Yes, indeed!"
"I--I'll fight the lubber!" I sings out, forgetful of my promise.
"Hush!" she whispers, as soft as a wind which don't so much as shake thecanvas; "I don't think I'm going to marry any one; but I'm certain sureI won't have David Thomas!"
Whereat she fell a-beating her little foot again upon the dead leaves.
Well, mates, I didn't quite like that prophecy of hers; but 'twas betterthan to hear her say she'd allow herself to be driven into wedlock withsuch a one as David. So I held my peace. Yes, indeed. Yet I felt asif a thunderbolt were placed aloft, right over my head, or as if avolcano were a-going to spring up under my feet. My brain began towobble like bilge-water in a ship's hold, when all of a sudden an ideastruck me. Yes, indeed! What's more, my bearings was right for once.
"It's that girl, Gwen," I says, "as is at the bottom of this rig. DavidThomas is a sawny landlubber. He'd never have the courage to speak ofhis own accord. Particular when he's received no encouragement fromyou."
But Rhoda didn't exactly see through Hugh Anwyl's glasses. She wasn't asort of girl to think Gwen a snake, being herself as innocent of wrongas the snow which falls straight from Paradise.
Says she, quite solemn, "You must not go to charge Gwen Thomas with themthings. Gwen's my dear friend, indeed."
Well, my lads, if I hadn't got narvous, I'd have told her that me andGwen had been just a trifle free with each other's lips. But, I tellye, I feared to say the words. She was chuck full of a sort of what youmay call a romance. Often and often she've said, that she felt so happyin having picked the first flower of my heart--whereby she meant thatshe'd got the whole of my love. And so she had. Yes, indeed. May I beshrivelled to a mummy if she hadn't. Only, ye see, if I'd gone to tellher that Gwen and I had been playing the fool, she'd mayhap have thoughtdifferent. So I kept my own counsel.
"Now," says she, in a wheedling, coaxing way no lubber ever couldresist, "it will all come right in the end, if you won't go to actfoolish. Yes, indeed. Father likes David, but father loves Rhoda. Andwhen David asks me, and I says, `no,' father ain't the kind of man tosay, `you must.'"
"Ay, ay!" I answered her; "but ain't he the boy to say `you mustn't,'in case a lubber of the name of Anwyl should put that there same curiousquestion?"
Well, my lads, Rhoda, at this, went off on the starboard tack, for fearI should make out the cut of her jib. She daren't face me; for shecouldn't deny that Miller Howell was a cranky lot, indeed. So she tookto picking blackberries, as if they was so many hot-house grapes,instead of being as red as currants, and as sour as verjuice.
"You can't deny it, Rhoda!" I sings out, feeling vexed indeed.
Then she turns round from her blackberrying, and I spied a tear in thecorner of her eye. So I knew what I said was the cause of her hidingher head, and I held my tongue, being ashamed.
As we was walking homeward, later on, the brace of us tongue-tied andmelancholy as an albatross before a cyclone comes on, Rhoda whispers inmy ear, "Can't you trust a girl's wit? I'm a match for any two of 'em!"
"Right, sweetheart!" says I, gripping her hand. For all that, a notion,indeed, crossed my brain, "that she who is better than two mayn't begood enough to tackle three." And so it prove
d.
Well, mates, it might have been two or three days later on that Ichanced to be in Barmouth, and there, in the porch of "The Wynn Arms," Icame into collision, as you might say, with one Evan Evans, an oldshipmate of mine, who worked on the Anna Maria Sett alongside of me, andcould handle a pick as cleverly as our boatswain the rope's-end. Evan,indeed, when he claps eyes on me, sings out, right cheerily, "A drain ofgrog, my boy!"
"With _you_," I answers, "Evan, yes, indeed!"
So we turns into the bar-parlour of "The Wynn Arms," and he orders twogoes of rum punch, hot.
When we was sat down comfortable, I began to twig, d'ye see, that hisrig was that of a seafaring man. His arms was tattooed, and his kitlooked smart.
"Avast!" I sings out,--"avast, Evan Evans! Surely, you've never joinedthe horse-marines?"
"Mate," he replies, giving me a slap on the shoulder, like a trueseaman, "there's a better mine, containing richer mineral than the oldAnna Maria, and that's the open sea!"
Faith, mates, when he spake them words, I mistook him for one of themland-lubbers who dresses up in seaman's rig, and takes nurses andbabbies out for a run in a pleasure-boat.
Yes, indeed. But Evan soon put matters straight.
"Hugh Anwyl," he says, pulling out a leather case, "this ere holds ahundred and fifty pounds, beside gold and silver."
"Take care of it, Evan, then," says I--for I knew he was a light-headedsort of craft; "or," says I, "your master will be pulling of you up onaccount of losing his moneys, indeed."
"Master!" he sings out, with a roar of laughter like afusillade--"master! I ain't got no master! Them's the property of EvanEvans."
"My lad," I cried, in a sort of a serious voice, "I'm sorry to hear it.I always took ye for a honest lubber."
Whereat, for a second, he looked mighty wrathful. Yes, indeed. Then,as he perceived that I was what ye may call all abroad, he burst outlaughing again as if his sides would burst.
"Evan," says I, "I've lost my bearings."
"So you have," he answers; "for the fact of the matter is, you don'tunderstand what you're a-talking about."
Well, my lads, with that he cooled down a bit, and forthwith commencedto relate how he'd been on a whaling expedition to Greenland, and hadmet with luck. The conditions was that all was to share and sharealike--skipper, crew, and all. They had a hard time of it. One of 'emlost a nose, another a finger or two, and some of 'em their toes. Yes,indeed; the cold in them latitudes is mighty thieving of prominent partsof the human frame.
But then, if the risk's considerable, the gain's even more so. Now, mylads, this shipmate's good fortune set me a-thinking--as, indeed, wasbut nat'ral. David Thomas didn't own so much as one hundred and fiftypounds--not he. His old father might be worth that sum, if hispossessions was all sold. But in the principality, where money'sscarce, a little goes a long way; and I calculated, on that account, ifI could draw anything approaching so heavy an amount of pay on a singleventure, Miller Howell would not stand in the way of my wedding hisdaughter Rhoda.
"So," says I, "Evan, my old shipmate, you and I have always been thebest of comrades. I'd like to enjoy a similar slice of good fortune.Not as though I'd be greedy, Evan. Give me my ship's biscuit and myshare of grog, and I'm content. But, Evan, there's a pretty craft thatwants to moor alongside of me, and her skipper won't agree, because Ihaven't got a shot in my locker. That's it, indeed!"
Evan, he looks at me steady; then he holds out his fist with all thegrace of a port-admiral, just as if he meant to serve double grog orgive leave to go ashore.
"Hugh," says he, "the day after to-morrow I sail again for the NorthSeas. For my mother, Hugh, she's old and she's sick, and this 'erepocket-book, with its contents, is for her. Join our crew, my hearty,and I'll promise ye fair play and a sailor's greeting. You'll bringback with ye enough to satisfy your lass's skipper, and I'll dance atyour wedding."
Up I springs to my feet, and, though I was short of money, I ordersanother grog. And then Evan and I struck our bargain; and, I tell ye, Ifelt another and a stronger man.
"Now, Evan," I sings out, "I'll be off home to tell my lass."
"Avast," says my shipmate, "you'll need to see about your kit. It'sdarned cool up in them latitudes!"
"Ay, ay," I replied--"to-morrow will do for that."
"Right," he answers; "we'll meet at this very spot to-morrow, by yourleave."
Well, mates, with a swelling heart, I crossed the Mawdach River, andbegan to trudge back to Glanwern. About a mile or so to the north ofthe village, I ran athwart Gwen Thomas, with a roll of music under herarm, and a broad grin on her deceitful face.
"You're quite a stranger, Hugh," she says, dropping a curtsey, as if Iwere the parson, or Sir Watkin himself. "Yes, indeed; now RhodaHowell's come back to Glanwern, you've lost your eyes for every oneelse. If I wasn't good-tempered, I'd take offence."
Now, my lads, I was a bit in the wrong about this girl Gwen. I don'tsay that she wasn't most to blame of the two, yet conscience made mefeel uncomfortable as regards the part I had played toward her. So Icouldn't be otherwise than civil, when she met me so pleasant like,instead of being out of temper, as I expected.
Says I, "Gwen, lass, mayhap I do care more for Rhoda than for mostothers; I'm not ashamed to own it. Anyhow, for her sake, I'm going on along voyage."
"What?" she cries, anxiously, her lips turning pale indeed.
So, when the girl passed the question to me, I up and told her the wholetale, and how that, in forty-eight hours, I should be afloat on thebriny ocean, with the ship's bows standing for the North Sea.
She heard me out, quite dazed like. Then she says, says she, in a veryquiet, demure fashion, "You'll come to the singing-class to-night, ifit's only to wish us all a farewell? Rhoda will be there, but she willwalk with the miller; so, if you like to keep me company for the lasttime, you may."
In those old days, Hugh Anwyl boasted a tenor voice. Yes, indeed. Andthis girl Gwen got the reputation of being a prime musician, and used totrain our class. They had her all the way off to Llangollen, to performat an Eistedfodd, as they call it in the principality, for she sang likea nightingale. Well, when she asked me to walk with her, I thought itchurlish to refuse. So, like a simpleton, I said, "Yes;" and away shetripped, with an odd laugh, as if she was mighty pleased.
I did not know it at the time, nor did I hear it until long after, butGwen's brother David, that same afternoon, had been to see my Rhoda.
He told her that Miller Howell expected that she would have him for ahusband, and had given him permission to ask her, and that Hugh Anwylcared for too many girls to love her.
However, in the evening I called for Gwen, and we two walked together tothe waterfall.
Nobody had arrived before us; so we sat down on the cromlech, and beganto sing what you may call a duet--that is, a stave for two voices.
But my heart was all with Rhoda Howell; and, as I sat singing alongsideof that artful craft, Gwen Thomas, I thought of nothing but the goodnews I had to tell, and how it would joy the girl I loved so dearly.
It might have been ten minutes or more--at last, however, I spied theold miller, and behind him his pretty daughter, arm-in-arm with DavidThomas.
Rhoda's face was unusual white, and her eyes didn't quite look straightahead, but seemed to tack about, as if the wind had shifted to a stormyquarter.
Not much was said by any one, and that little not worth remembering.After a bit, Gwen pulls out her pitch-pixie, and starts off with "Hail,smiling morn!"--a very proper ditty; then "Hop-a-derry-dando," "The Menof Harlech," and a lot more--we men singing tenor and bass to the girls'treble voices.
Ah, lads! I think I bear that harmony roll away with the waterfall.I've never forgotten it. The first storm in mid-ocean and the last songyour love sings--these, my boys, are sounds which stick to your earslike barnacles to the bottom of a hulk, or limpets to the rocks on theshore.
In the middle of this sing-song, as you may call it, I spie
d Rhoda--whowouldn't so much as look or smile at me--whisper to her father, the oldmiller; and presently they both left. I wish now that I'd given them astern chase, and boarded, like a bold buccaneer. But, you see, Icouldn't rightly make out Rhoda's looks. Something was amiss. That Iguessed. And I thought that the sky being so ugly and overcast, I'dbetter wait for the chance of clear weather on the morrow.
As soon as the singing was over, I saw that lubber David--who I couldhave kicked all the way to Dolgelly with pleasure, indeed--I saw himcatch Gwen by the buttonhole, and give her some sort of a tip. Shelooked earnestly at him, and smiled. Then she turned away, quitecomposed, indeed.
My lads, I can guess what it was that deceitful varmint said to his minxof a sister. They was laying a trap for me, the two of them. Ay! Yes,indeed! And they caught me, as clean as a shark a sailor's leg!
"Rhoda's got a bad headache," says Gwen, sidling up to me.
"How do you know?" asks I, none too civil, for I was downright savagewith myself and every one else all round.
"She told me so," answered Gwen, as glib as an eel.
"I didn't see her speak to you," says I; nor did I, indeed.
"She complained of it this afternoon," remarked Gwen.
I didn't say no more. I was out of temper and out of sorts.
"Don't be angry with Rhoda!" whispers Gwen, quite kindly like. "She'sas 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 myrudeness to this girl.
"Thank'ee, Gwen!" says I. "You're a good sort! I did hope to have toldRhoda of my luck to-night. But 'tain't to be, and I must just wait tillto-morrow!"
"The news will do her a power of good," whispers Gwen, quiteconfidential. "Yes, indeed. David wanted to have her, but she won'twed aught but Hugh Anwyl; and when you've got your money, you know, herfather will give his consent."
Now, you'd say, any man Jack of you, that these were fair and, to use afigure of speech, sisterly words. By George, lads! when I heard them, Icaught hold of her hand and shook it hearty. It seemed to me that shewas handling me better than I handled her.
"Gwen," says I, "I've plighted my troth to Rhoda Howell, so I won'toffer 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 nastysneer. It made me thrill again.
"I don't bear malice, Hugh Anwyl," she cries. "Not I! You and I werebetter friends before Rhoda came--that's all!"
I was just a little puzzled by her words. By now, however, she hadgathered up her music, and began to walk away.
"Dear, dear!" she cried, as we got into the road which leads fromGlanwern to Dolgelly; "why, I declare, it's quite dark indeed, and I'vegot to go to Llanbrecht to fetch some butter from Farmer Jenkins, andI'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 askDavid to go along with you?"
"He's out in the fields by now," she answers, "taking care of thecalves."
"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 theghost, 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 upanxiously 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 herface in the top garret window. Perhaps I didn't. Anyhow, it wasn'tvisible 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 blackClwm Rock towered in front of us, like a hideous monster, in themoonlight.
Suddenly I felt my arm gripped. The feeling, my lads--I give you theword of honour of an old sailor,--was so strange, that I imagined EvanDhu 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 ownvoice,--"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 wasclinging to me quite desperate.
"Silence," she whispers, "or you'll provoke him! I tell you he iswatching me! There--there!"--a-pointing with her hand at the rock.
I'll own that at that particular moment I felt rum indeed--especiallywhen Gwen began to shake like an aspen, and seemed as if she'd falldown. 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 mysolemn 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 FarmerJenkins 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 asecond 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 atthat hour, scrubbing the steps or feeding the chickens. There was noRhoda then; so I wended my way to "The Wynn Arms," Barmouth, where Iwaited for upward of four long hours. Then at last Evan Evans lurchesup, a full three sheets in the wind, and as thick-headed as the thickestlandsman.
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 thething cheap. But this lubber, Evan Evans, was more harm than good,having lost every atom of his tongue except the part that's constructedto do the swearing. That was lively enough, and woke up thestorekeepers.
It was quite dusk before I returned to Glanwern, and I had, as youremember, 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 thirdtime boldly up to Miller Howell's door, and spies about for my poordove, who I loved more than life.
The door, my boys, was shut, and locked, too; which, by the bye, ain'tmuch of a custom in that part of North Wales, where "Taffy ain't athief," and we can trust our neighbours as ourselves.
"Rhoda!" I calls out, quite gently, yet so as she must hear, unlessshe'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 arakish 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 hadstruck me across the face, or ordered me into irons.
"Master," says I, "I'm going away for along journey, perhaps never tocome 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'sfeatures were as hard and pitiless as if they had been cut out of ablock of Welsh granite. Then, without a word, he slams the door in myface.
Friends and messmates, I'm a Welshman, with the hot blood of Caedmon inmy 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 andpray you to come and wish me a farewell! Rhoda, an
swer me, for I amgoing away!"
Silence! She would have come out, indeed, but was prevented. That Iheard afterward. So I left--I'm not ashamed to own the truth--with thetears a-streaming down my cheeks and my heart breaking. I could havegone straight and drownded myself, I was so distraught. Presently Ifelt 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 wasleaking, and my timbers all of a shiver, and I seemed without so much asa helm. But I suffered her to lead me into the back room of oldThomas's cottage, not knowing for what port I was being steered. Then Isat down, and she clasped my hand quite tender.
"Hugh Anwyl," she says, "whatever I am--and I know I'm not asgood-looking as others--I'm a true, sincere friend. Being so, I tellye, 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 Iquite felt as if I must try to please her--in a sort of a tame-catfashion.
At last, she says, quite as if the thought had come into her false headaccidental indeed, "Write Rhoda a letter, and I'll promise you she shallhave it safe. I'll give it her myself."
I was that excited, I took the girl in my arms and embraced her. Then Isat down and I wrote to Rhoda, telling her the whole tale, and how, forher sake, I was going to risk my life on a whaling expedition; andpraying her to keep single for me till I came back again with money inmy 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 abreak in my yarn. I was far away from the girl I loved, toiling, as wemariners only toil, for the cursed gold which should make two miserablesouls happy.
To cut my story short, however, I was gone, as near as may be, twelvemonths. Our first venture failed. We met with nothing but bad luck,and ran into Aberdeen harbour as empty-handed as we went. So, as Iwouldn't come home without the necessary money, I just slips a shortline into the post to let Rhoda know that Hugh Anwyl was alive, and tobeg 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, tonigh upon two hundred pounds, together with some furs, and a fewcuriosities.
I ran down straight from Aberdeen, travelling night and day by therailway, just such another autumn night as the one when I started. Irolled, unsteady like, into Glanwern village, and the first soul I meetswas Gwen Thomas. My stars! you should have heard her give tongue. IfI'd been Evan Dhu himself in the guise of a seafaring man, she couldn'thave 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 mindran, 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 andthe queer colour in her darned figurehead, that something was tarnationwrong 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 orlater. Rhoda is married to David!"
I didn't speak. Neither did a tear escape my eye. But I sat down on astone by the roadside, and I felt as if I'd been struck by a flash oflightning.
Gwen went on talking; and at last, when she saw what was up, she ran andfetched my father, and the old lubber hoisted me somehow indoors, andshoved 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 firstrecollection is of seeing a pale face sitting by my side, and I heard asound which brought me to.
It was Rhoda. Although she'd been forced into a marriage with thatlubber 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 HughAnwyl was somewhere in the latitude of lunacy, Rhoda was in thelongitude of decline. She was dying! Yes, indeed!
She told me how they had hatched up a lie about my having made love toGwen. To prove this, David had plotted to make me walk that evil nightwith his false sister to the Clwm Rock. Rhoda had at first refused tobelieve their story. But when she saw us--for she lay concealed behindthe rock--pass by as if we were lovers, with Gwen's darned face restingon my bosom, she was cheated into thinking me false. Still she wouldhave heard me, and learned the truth before I left Glanwern, but her oldfather interfered; and when I was gone, and Gwen had never delivered myletter, she consented to wed David--just, as you may say, for the sakeof peace--believing the yarn they invented, that I had run away to seaand would never come back. It was not, indeed, until she received myletter from Aberdeen that she learned how wickedly she had beendeceived. From that moment she fell ill, and nothing would please herbut to return to Miller Howell's house. As for David, indeed, she wouldnot look at him, or speak to him; and she did but sit still and wait fordeath, hoping, as she told me, that Hugh Anwyl might return before theend came.
My lads, her sweet voice somehow steadied my brain. I saw the wholespider'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 istoo late, Hugh Anwyl."
Mates, I rose from that hammock that very instant, a strong, hale seamanonce more. My life was wrecked, in so far as happiness goes. But thestrength remained to me. Not so, poor little Rhoda. Her cheek washollow, and the bright eyes shone like the evening stars in the southernseas. So weak was she, that I had to support her back to MillerHowell's house.
"Come in, Hugh Anwyl," says the old, greedy father, looking as if hecould 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 beenthe cause of this wreck--for his features, indeed, displayed thepunishment he had received. But I came in, and I sat down by Rhoda'sside 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 beyondall bearing, indeed. I started to my legs, for I could have killed theman.
It was David Thomas!
Yes, mates, David Thomas, come to see his lawful wife, Rhoda Thomas, whowas married to him six months ago.
Rhoda put her finger on my arm, and I sat down like a lamb. It wasimpossible to avenge her wrong.
"Be off out of this house, which you have brought ruin into!" saysMiller 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 hereturns to Glanwern churchyard, and he puts a bunch of flowers on agrassy mound--for that is his only home.
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"Yes, that's all very pretty," cried the doctor, who had listenedattentively; "but in the name of Owen, Darwin, and Huxley; Hudson,Franklin, Bellot, and Scoresby, how did you--Confound it! was everanything so provoking?"
"He ain't left so much as a tooth behind," said Binny Scudds, lookingdown at the ice.
"But he had not di
scovered the Pole, my man. Here, search round; we mayfind one who has been there; but I hope not. I believe, my lads, thatthere is no Pole. That hollow there leads right into the centre of theearth; 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 mensometimes strike upon rich veins."
"You go and stand by the mouth of the hole at the South Pole, while weroll a big piece of ice down here. You could see, then, if it comedthrough."
"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. Wemight 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 bigand heavy, and we could not make it budge an inch.
"Hold hard a minute," I said, and I scraped a hole beneath it, andpoured in a lot of powder.
"That's good," said the doctor. "That's scientific," and he stoodrubbing his hands while I made a slow match; connected it; lit it; andthen 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 ofsplitting it in two as I meant, it came down whole, and literally fellinto powder.
"I say, don't do that!" said a thick voice, and there, to our utterastonishment, sat among the broken ice, a heavy-looking, Dutch-builtsailor, staring round, and yawning. "I'd have got up, if you had calledme," 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 tosleep last night on the snow, while our lads were trying for seal, offGreenland. But I'll tell you all about it. Haven't seen them, Isuppose?"
"No," said Bostock, winking at us, "we haven't."
"They'll be here directly, I dare say, when they miss me," said theDutchman.
"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 whomyou are."
"Certainly," said the Dutchman; "but keep a look-out for my mates," andhe began.
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