Garthowen: A Story of a Welsh Homestead

E-text prepared by Al Haines
A Story of a Welsh Homestead.
Author of Torn Sails, A Welsh Singer, By Berwen Banks, Etc.
Sixty-Fifth Thousand London Hutchinson & Co. Paternoster Row
I. A Turn of the Road II. Garthowen III. Morva of the Moor IV. The Old Bible V. The Sea Maiden VI. Gethin's Presents VII. The Broom Girl VIII. Garthowen Slopes IX. The North Star X. The Cynos XI. Unrest XII. Sara's Vision XIII. The Bird Flutters XIV. Dr. Owen XV. Gwenda's Prospects XVI. Isderi XVII. Gwenda at Garthowen XVIII. Sara XIX. The Sciet XX. Love's Pilgrimage XXI. The Mate of the Gwenllian XXII. Gethin's Story XXIII. Turned Out! XXIV. A Dance on the Cliffs
It was a typical July day in a large seaport town of South Wales. There had been refreshing showers in the morning, giving place to a murky haze through which the late afternoon sun shone red and round. The small kitchen of No. 2 Bryn Street was insufferably hot, in spite of the wide-open door and window. A good fire burnt in the grate, however, for it was near tea-time, and Mrs. Parry knew that some of her lodgers would soon be coming in for their tea. One had already arrived, and, sitting on the settle in the chimney corner, was holding an animated conversation with his landlady, who stood before him, one hand akimbo on her side, the other brandishing a toasting fork. Her beady black eyes, her brick-red cheeks and hanks of coarse hair, were not beautiful to look upon, though to-day they were at their best, for the harsh voice was softened, and there was a humid gentleness in the eyes not habitual to them. Her companion was a young man about twenty-three years of age, dark, almost swarthy of hue, tanned by the suns and storms of foreign seas and many lands, As he sat there in the shade of the settle one caught a glance of black eyes and a gleam of white teeth, but the easy, lounging attitude did not show to advantage the splendid build of Gethin Owens. One of his large brown fists, resting on the rough deal table, was covered with tattooed hieroglyphics, an anchor, a mermaid, and a heart, of course! Anyone conversant with the Welsh language would have divined at once, by the long-drawn intonation of the first words in every remark, that the subject of conversation was one of sad or tender interest.