My name aboard ship is registered John Jones. Yes, indeed. Though, to confess exactly, I was born the son of Hugh Anwyl, miner, of the parish of Glanwern, in the county of Merioneth, and my father baptised me by his own name; so that John is Hugh, and Jones is Anwyl, indeed. I mention this at starting, to prevent my yarn being waterlogged before it reaches mid-ocean.

Well, mates, a beautiful spot is the village of Glanwern. The broad river 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, my lads, I never got becalmed, or down with a fever, or otherwise on my beam-ends, but what my thoughts turned to old Glanwern – for it’s the brightest 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’ve therefore lost my trim. After all, ’tain’t Glanwern. It’s what happened to me there, when I was a youth as gay as a poppy, with the hand 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 those days as John Jones is at this moment; for, you see, my lads, when I was quite young, I got rather to like a girl called Gwen – Gwendoline that is; we, indeed, called her Gwen – Thomas. She was next-door neighbour to my old dad’s cottage, and she’d a deuce of a knack of fondling on you without 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 craft coming alongside, and – well, indeed, – I played the fool. I kissed her, because it seemed to do her good. And she – darn her cunning head! – she meant it all! I know that she’d have done anything, indeed, if I’d but have passed the word. But I didn’t. I never so much as talked about the parson.

It was about a year after this, that Rhoda Howell, the miller’s daughter, 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, you know – was taken all aback, and felt something or other dance the double-shuffle under my waistcoat pocket.

Well, mates, we fell to what you may call flirting. I asked her to go for a walk, and she, indeed, consented; and so it went on, as you might say, from better to best.

Yes, indeed, I could not give those days a truer name than best; for I am sure that they were the only real sunshine either of us ever felt in our lifetimes.

Ye see, Rhoda loved me. Why, heaven only knows. And I – I could have died for her.

There wasn’t a bright lad in Glanwern that didn’t envy the luck of Hugh Anwyl; and, rightly enough, too; for I swear, though I’ve travelled north, 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 shrink from speaking her name. It seems – well, sacred! Poor Rhoda! like a flower of spring, you died early! Yes, indeed, ours ain’t one of them love tales which comes all right at t’other end of the book. She’s in heaven; and Hugh Anwyl – he ain’t just exactly in the other place; but he’s not so very far off neither, being afloat, and registered John Jones, A.B.

To come back to my yarn, indeed.

One clear autumn evening, when the sun was lighting up the heather on the 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 of wood, where none could hear, and I don’t think I ever felt my heart so swell with joy as I did that moment, when she says, says she, beating her foot on the grass, “Shall I tell you a secret?”

“Yes,” I answers, just glancing at her, and seeing her lips come over pale.

“Will you promise me,” she asks, “to keep it?”

“Promise!” I cries out; “I’ll swear!” You see, I was getting curious.

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 me jealous; 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 if the trees were all a-listening to us with ears instead of leaves, “I shan’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 to father 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 the canvas; “I don’t think I’m going to marry any one; but I’m certain sure I 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 better than to hear her say she’d allow herself to be driven into wedlock with such a one as David. So I held my peace. Yes, indeed. Yet I felt as if a thunderbolt were placed aloft, right over my head, or as if a volcano were a-going to spring up under my feet. My brain began to wobble like bilge-water in a ship’s hold, when all of a sudden an idea struck 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. David Thomas is a sawny landlubber. He’d never have the courage to speak of his own accord. Particular when he’s received no encouragement from you.”

But Rhoda didn’t exactly see through Hugh Anwyl’s glasses. She wasn’t a sort of girl to think Gwen a snake, being herself as innocent of wrong as the snow which falls straight from Paradise.

Says she, quite solemn, “You must not go to charge Gwen Thomas with them things. Gwen’s my dear friend, indeed.”

Well, my lads, if I hadn’t got narvous, I’d have told her that me and Gwen had been just a trifle free with each other’s lips. But, I tell ye, I feared to say the words. She was chuck full of a sort of what you may call a romance. Often and often she’ve said, that she felt so happy in having picked the first flower of my heart – whereby she meant that she’d got the whole of my love. And so she had. Yes, indeed. May I be shrivelled to a mummy if she hadn’t. Only, ye see, if I’d gone to tell her that Gwen and I had been playing the fool, she’d mayhap have thought different. So I kept my own counsel.

“Now,” says she, in a wheedling, coaxing way no lubber ever could resist, “it will all come right in the end, if you won’t go to act foolish. Yes, indeed. Father likes David, but father loves Rhoda. And when David asks me, and I says, ‘no,’ father ain’t the kind of man to say, ‘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 curious question?”

Well, my lads, Rhoda, at this, went off on the starboard tack, for fear I should make out the cut of her jib. She daren’t face me; for she couldn’t deny that Miller Howell was a cranky lot, indeed. So she took to 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 the corner of her eye. So I knew what I said was the cause of her hiding her head, and I held my tongue, being ashamed.

As we was walking homeward, later on, the brace of us tongue-tied and melancholy as an albatross before a cyclone comes on, Rhoda whispers in my 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 be good enough to tackle three.” And so it proved.

Well, mates, it might have been two or three days later on that I chanced to be in Barmouth, and there, in the porch of “The Wynn Arms,” I came into collision, as you might say, with one Evan Evans, an old shipmate of mine, who worked on the Anna Maria Sett alongside of me, and could 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 of grog, my boy!”

“With you,” I answers, “Evan, yes, indeed!”

So we turns into the bar-parlour of “The Wynn Arms,” and he orders two goes of rum punch, hot.

When we was sat down comfortable, I began to twig, d’ye see, that his rig was that of a seafaring man. His arms was tattooed, and his kit looked smart.

“Avast!” I sings out, – “avast, Evan Evans! Surely, you’ve never joined the horse-marines?”

“Mate,” he replies, giving me a slap on the shoulder, like a true seaman, “there’s a better mine, containing richer mineral than the old Anna Maria, and that’s the open sea!”

Faith, mates, when he spake them words, I mistook him for one of them land-lubbers who dresses up in seaman’s rig, and takes nurses and babbies 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 a hundred and fifty pounds, beside gold and silver.”

“Take care of it, Evan, then,” says I – for I knew he was a light-headed sort of craft; “or,” says I, “your master will be pulling of you up on account of losing his moneys, indeed.”

“Master!” he sings out, with a roar of laughter like a fusillade – “master! I ain’t got no master! Them’s the property of Evan Evans.”

“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 out laughing 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’t understand what you’re a-talking about.”

Well, my lads, with that he cooled down a bit, and forthwith commenced to relate how he’d been on a whaling expedition to Greenland, and had met with luck. The conditions was that all was to share and share alike – skipper, crew, and all. They had a hard time of it. One of ’em lost 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 parts of the human frame.

But then, if the risk’s considerable, the gain’s even more so. Now, my lads, this shipmate’s good fortune set me a-thinking – as, indeed, was but nat’ral. David Thomas didn’t own so much as one hundred and fifty pounds – not he. His old father might be worth that sum, if his possessions was all sold. But in the principality, where money’s scarce, a little goes a long way; and I calculated, on that account, if I could draw anything approaching so heavy an amount of pay on a single venture, Miller Howell would not stand in the way of my wedding his daughter Rhoda.

“So,” says I, “Evan, my old shipmate, you and I have always been the best 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 my share of grog, and I’m content. But, Evan, there’s a pretty craft that wants to moor alongside of me, and her skipper won’t agree, because I haven’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 the grace of a port-admiral, just as if he meant to serve double grog or give leave to go ashore.

“Hugh,” says he, “the day after to-morrow I sail again for the North Seas. For my mother, Hugh, she’s old and she’s sick, and this ’ere pocket-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 bring back with ye enough to satisfy your lass’s skipper, and I’ll dance at your wedding.”

Up I springs to my feet, and, though I was short of money, I orders another grog. And then Evan and I struck our bargain; and, I tell ye, I felt 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’s darned 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 your leave.”

Well, mates, with a swelling heart, I crossed the Mawdach River, and began to trudge back to Glanwern. About a mile or so to the north of the village, I ran athwart Gwen Thomas, with a roll of music under her arm, and a broad grin on her deceitful face.

“You’re quite a stranger, Hugh,” she says, dropping a curtsey, as if I were the parson, or Sir Watkin himself. “Yes, indeed; now Rhoda Howell’s come back to Glanwern, you’ve lost your eyes for every one else. 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’t say that she wasn’t most to blame of the two, yet conscience made me feel uncomfortable as regards the part I had played toward her. So I couldn’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 most others; I’m not ashamed to own it. Anyhow, for her sake, I’m going on a long 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 whole tale, and how that, in forty-eight hours, I should be afloat on the briny 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 very quiet, demure fashion, “You’ll come to the singing-class to-night, if it’s only to wish us all a farewell? Rhoda will be there, but she will walk with the miller; so, if you like to keep me company for the last time, you may.”

In those old days, Hugh Anwyl boasted a tenor voice. Yes, indeed. And this girl Gwen got the reputation of being a prime musician, and used to train our class. They had her all the way off to Llangollen, to perform at an Eistedfodd, as they call it in the principality, for she sang like a nightingale. Well, when she asked me to walk with her, I thought it churlish to refuse. So, like a simpleton, I said, “Yes;” and away she tripped, 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, but Gwen’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 a husband, and had given him permission to ask her, and that Hugh Anwyl cared for too many girls to love her.

However, in the evening I called for Gwen, and we two walked together to the waterfall.

Nobody had arrived before us; so we sat down on the cromlech, and began to 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 alongside of that artful craft, Gwen Thomas, I thought of nothing but the good news 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 the old miller, and behind him his pretty daughter, arm-in-arm with David Thomas.

Rhoda’s face was unusual white, and her eyes didn’t quite look straight ahead, but seemed to tack about, as if the wind had shifted to a stormy quarter.

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 Men of 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 song your love sings – these, my boys, are sounds which stick to your ears like barnacles to the bottom of a hulk, or limpets to the rocks on the shore.

In the middle of this sing-song, as you may call it, I spied Rhoda – who wouldn’t so much as look or smile at me – whisper to her father, the old miller; and presently they both left. I wish now that I’d given them a stern chase, and boarded, like a bold buccaneer. But, you see, I couldn’t rightly make out Rhoda’s looks. Something was amiss. That I guessed. And I thought that the sky being so ugly and overcast, I’d better wait for the chance of clear weather on the morrow.

As soon as the singing was over, I saw that lubber David – who I could have kicked all the way to Dolgelly with pleasure, indeed – I saw him catch Gwen by the buttonhole, and give her some sort of a tip. She looked earnestly at him, and smiled. Then she turned away, quite composed, indeed.

My lads, I can guess what it was that deceitful varmint said to his minx of 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 savage with 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’s as true as steel!”

My lads, them words were designed to play me like a fish with a bait; but they sounded so soft and consoling as to make me feel ashamed for my rudeness to this girl.

“Thank’ee, Gwen!” says I. “You’re a good sort! I did hope to have told Rhoda of my luck to-night. But ’tain’t to be, and I must just wait till to-morrow!”

“The news will do her a power of good,” whispers Gwen, quite confidential. “Yes, indeed. David wanted to have her, but she won’t wed aught but Hugh Anwyl; and when you’ve got your money, you know, her father will give his consent.”

Now, you’d say, any man Jack of you, that these were fair and, to use a figure of speech, sisterly words. By George, lads! when I heard them, I caught hold of her hand and shook it hearty. It seemed to me that she was handling me better than I handled her.

“Gwen,” says I, “I’ve plighted my troth to Rhoda Howell, so I won’t offer to kiss you; but I do thank you, as a true friend to us both.”

Bless you, you should have heard her laugh. It wasn’t a clear, merry, innocent sort of laugh, like my poor Rhoda’s, but a kind of a nasty sneer. It made me thrill again.

“I don’t bear malice, Hugh Anwyl,” she cries. “Not I! You and I were better friends before Rhoda came – that’s all!”

I was just a little puzzled by her words. By now, however, she had gathered up her music, and began to walk away.

“Dear, dear!” she cried, as we got into the road which leads from Glanwern to Dolgelly; “why, I declare, it’s quite dark indeed, and I’ve got to go to Llanbrecht to fetch some butter from Farmer Jenkins, and I’m deadly afeard to pass the Clwm Rock, because of Evan Dhu!”

You see, that we’d got a Davy Jones in them parts, a sort of a ghost. The folks called it “Evan Dhu,” or “Evan the Black.”

Says I, quite quietly, “If you’re afeard of Evan Dhu, why don’t you ask David to go along with you?”

“He’s out in the fields by now,” she answers, “taking care of the calves.”

“Wait till he’s done with the calves, then,” I observes, a-yawning.

Whereupon, dang me! if the girl didn’t commence to whimper.

“Shiver my timbers, lass!” cries I, “if you’re that frightened of the ghost, dash me if I don’t go with ye!”

This was just what this Jezebel wanted.

We walked together through the village of Glanwern, and I looked up anxiously at the windows of Miller Howell’s house, if perchance, indeed, I might catch a glimpse of Rhoda. As we approached, I fancied I saw her face in the top garret window. Perhaps I didn’t. Anyhow, it wasn’t visible when we passed.

We trudged on slowly through the silence of that mountainous district, our path lying through clefts and brushwood, till at length the black Clwm Rock towered in front of us, like a hideous monster, in the moonlight.

Suddenly I felt my arm gripped. The feeling, my lads – I give you the word of honour of an old sailor, – was so strange, that I imagined Evan Dhu had arrested me. Yes, indeed! It startled me. But I was in error. It was not Evan Dhu. It was the false girl, Gwendoline Thomas.

“Ugh!” gasped she, as if she were terrified to hear the sound of her own voice, – “ugh! I saw him, dear Hugh! Yes, indeed.”

“What? – who?” I asked.

“Hush – hush!” she whispered. “Speak not another word! We are in peril! He will kill us!”

“Don’t be a fool, Gwen!” says I, unceremonious-like, for she was clinging to me quite desperate.

“Silence,” she whispers, “or you’ll provoke him! I tell you he is watching me! There – there!” – a-pointing with her hand at the rock.

I’ll own that at that particular moment I felt rum indeed – especially when Gwen began to shake like an aspen, and seemed as if she’d fall down. To save her, I clasped her resolutely round the waist; and thus, with her head leaning on my shoulder, we passed the dreaded Clwm Rock, the moon all the while shining full on us.

We had but just turned the corner toward Llanbrecht, when, I take my solemn oath, I heard a deep-drawn sigh!

“Run!” whispered Gwen. “That’s him!”

My lads, we did run every step of the way to Llanbrecht: and when Farmer Jenkins heard our story, he had out his trap indeed, and drove us home, four miles round by the road, so that Gwen should not be frightened a second time.

“Don’t talk about it,” said Gwen; “folks will laugh.”

“I’ll tell Rhoda, and no one else,” was my plain answer.

On the morrow I rose with the dawn, and ran round to the miller’s door. Every other day, for the past six months, Rhoda was out and about at that hour, scrubbing the steps or feeding the chickens. There was no Rhoda then; so I wended my way to “The Wynn Arms,” Barmouth, where I waited for upward of four long hours. Then at last Evan Evans lurches up, a full three sheets in the wind, and as thick-headed as the thickest landsman.

Well, messmates, it took me a sight of time to see about that there kit. Ye see, I hadn’t too many shots in the locker, and wanted to do the thing cheap. But this lubber, Evan Evans, was more harm than good, having lost every atom of his tongue except the part that’s constructed to do the swearing. That was lively enough, and woke up the storekeepers.

It was quite dusk before I returned to Glanwern, and I had, as you remember, to leave by daylight on the morrow. Now, indeed, thought I, the time has come when I must speak to Rhoda; so I marches for the third time boldly up to Miller Howell’s door, and spies about for my poor dove, who I loved more than life.

The door, my boys, was shut, and locked, too; which, by the bye, ain’t much of a custom in that part of North Wales, where “Taffy ain’t a thief,” and we can trust our neighbours as ourselves.

“Rhoda!” I calls out, quite gently, yet so as she must hear, unless she’s out of the house, or gone deaf, indeed.

None answered. No, indeed, none. My dear boys, I felt desperate; so, with a firm hand, I knocked at the door-handle.

In a jiffy, out comes Miller Howell, with a face like the mast of a rakish yacht, long, and thin, and yallow.

“What d’ye want, Hugh Anwyl?”

The words was spoken harsh indeed, and angry. I started as if he had struck me across the face, or ordered me into irons.

“Master,” says I, “I’m going away for along journey, perhaps never to come back again; and I wish to say good-by to your daughter Rhoda.”

He looks at me from top to toe, and up again from toe to top. The man’s features were as hard and pitiless as if they had been cut out of a block of Welsh granite. Then, without a word, he slams the door in my face.

Friends and messmates, I’m a Welshman, with the hot blood of Caedmon in my veins. I couldn’t bear this, indeed; so I stood outside and cried, at the top of my voice, “Rhoda – Rhoda Howell, I, Hugh Anwyl, beg and pray you to come and wish me a farewell! Rhoda, answer me, for I am going away!”

Silence! She would have come out, indeed, but was prevented. That I heard afterward. So I left – I’m not ashamed to own the truth – with the tears a-streaming down my cheeks and my heart breaking. I could have gone straight and drownded myself, I was so distraught. Presently I felt a finger on my sleeve.

“Hugh!” whispers a soft voice, “I’m downright grieved for you.”

It was Gwen Thomas.

I didn’t answer, mates – for why? Because I couldn’t; my eyes was leaking, and my timbers all of a shiver, and I seemed without so much as a helm. But I suffered her to lead me into the back room of old Thomas’s cottage, not knowing for what port I was being steered. Then I sat down, and she clasped my hand quite tender.

“Hugh Anwyl,” she says, “whatever I am – and I know I’m not as good-looking as others – I’m a true, sincere friend. Being so, I tell ye, I am grieved to see ye thus wrecked within sight of land.”

I couldn’t talk to her; but, after a bit, she got me calmed down, and I quite felt as if I must try to please her – in a sort of a tame-cat fashion.

At last, she says, quite as if the thought had come into her false head accidental indeed, “Write Rhoda a letter, and I’ll promise you she shall have it safe. I’ll give it her myself.”

I was that excited, I took the girl in my arms and embraced her. Then I sat down and I wrote to Rhoda, telling her the whole tale, and how, for her sake, I was going to risk my life on a whaling expedition; and praying her to keep single for me till I came back again with money in my hand so as to buy the consent of her father.

When I done that, my lads, I gave it, sealed careful, to Gwen Thomas; and, kissing the girl, who cried, as I thought, uncommon unaccountably, I lurched forth, and turned my back upon Glanwern.

Here I ought to pull up and rest a bit, for there’s what you may call a break in my yarn. I was far away from the girl I loved, toiling, as we mariners only toil, for the cursed gold which should make two miserable souls happy.

To cut my story short, however, I was gone, as near as may be, twelve months. Our first venture failed. We met with nothing but bad luck, and ran into Aberdeen harbour as empty-handed as we went. So, as I wouldn’t come home without the necessary money, I just slips a short line into the post to let Rhoda know that Hugh Anwyl was alive, and to beg her to be patient. Then, indeed, I joined a second expedition, which was fortunate. We brought back with us a fine cargo of sealskins, besides whalebone; and when I drew my share, it amounted, all told, to nigh upon two hundred pounds, together with some furs, and a few curiosities.

I ran down straight from Aberdeen, travelling night and day by the railway, just such another autumn night as the one when I started. I rolled, unsteady like, into Glanwern village, and the first soul I meets was Gwen Thomas. My stars! you should have heard her give tongue. If I’d been Evan Dhu himself in the guise of a seafaring man, she couldn’t have looked more terrified.

“Why, Gwen, lass!” cried I, “you ain’t never afeard of Hugh Anwyl?”

She was afeard, though; and she’d good cause, too.

“How’s Rhoda?” asks I. I ought to hae mentioned my father, but my mind ran, like a ship in a whirlpool, to one centre.

“Oh,” says Gwen, turning away her head, “she’s still ill!”

“What d’ye mean?” I sings out, clutching her arm tight.

“Don’t!” says she. “You sailors are so rough, indeed.”

“You speak the truth, then!” cries I; for I guessed from her look and the queer colour in her darned figurehead, that something was tarnation wrong with my Rhoda.

She looks at me as steady as a gunner taking aim.

“Hugh,” she says, “you’ll have to hear what will hurt you sooner or later. Rhoda is married to David!”

I didn’t speak. Neither did a tear escape my eye. But I sat down on a stone by the roadside, and I felt as if I’d been struck by a flash of lightning.

Gwen went on talking; and at last, when she saw what was up, she ran and fetched my father, and the old lubber hoisted me somehow indoors, and shoved me into a hammock. I rather think I was what ye may call mad.

How long my mind remained so affected I can’t rightly judge. My first recollection is of seeing a pale face sitting by my side, and I heard a sound which brought me to.

It was Rhoda. Although she’d been forced into a marriage with that lubber David, she’d not forgotten me; and she’d come to tell me all. Yes, indeed. And what’s more, she’d come none to soon; for if Hugh Anwyl was somewhere in the latitude of lunacy, Rhoda was in the longitude of decline. She was dying! Yes, indeed!

She told me how they had hatched up a lie about my having made love to Gwen. To prove this, David had plotted to make me walk that evil night with his false sister to the Clwm Rock. Rhoda had at first refused to believe their story. But when she saw us – for she lay concealed behind the rock – pass by as if we were lovers, with Gwen’s darned face resting on my bosom, she was cheated into thinking me false. Still she would have heard me, and learned the truth before I left Glanwern, but her old father interfered; and when I was gone, and Gwen had never delivered my letter, she consented to wed David – just, as you may say, for the sake of peace – believing the yarn they invented, that I had run away to sea and would never come back. It was not, indeed, until she received my letter from Aberdeen that she learned how wickedly she had been deceived. From that moment she fell ill, and nothing would please her but to return to Miller Howell’s house. As for David, indeed, she would not look at him, or speak to him; and she did but sit still and wait for death, hoping, as she told me, that Hugh Anwyl might return before the end came.