Hugh slowly drew away his hands with a heavy sigh, without waiting for an answer.
All next day the storm gradually increased, with a sullen persistency which seemed to threaten a more furious outburst for its tardy consummation. The wind soughed up the valley in fitful gusts; the sea seemed swelling with repressed anger. There was a heavy stillness in the air, in strange contrast with the flying clouds which passed at a high altitude from the north-west. Every cottage door was closed, the boats were safely moored, and the geese on the upland farms flew with loud cackling in flocks from one stubble field to another.
At the door of the sail-shed Hugh Morgan stood, lost in thought; the stormy atmosphere around him accorded well with the deep unrest which had taken possession of him. The dark suspicion which had darted into his mind on the previous evening had, with the suddenness of a flash of lightning, disclosed to him a truth, which, if it had ever before dawned upon his mind, had lain dormant, soothed to sleep by Gwladys' gentle ways and his own mad infatuation.
He and Ivor had met at intervals as usual in the course of the day's work, and each had felt that an undefined shadow had fallen between them; and of the two, Ivor had suffered most. He was conscious that in Hugh's mind had awoke a suspicion that he could never allay without a lie, for deep in his own heart he knew that his love for Gwladys was unquenchable and eternal. It was so with him, and nothing could alter the unhappy truth; he knew it, and he knew now that his friend knew it; but there was another thing that Hugh did not know, and Ivor writhed under the impossibility of making clear to him the depth and reality of his own unswerving devotion to his friend. As he had tramped home the night before, he had evolved out of the turmoil of his thoughts one idea, which he clung to with some gleam of comfort; he must leave Mwntseison; he must part from Hugh Morgan; he must escape from the sight of Gwladys. He would close with the offer made him by Robert Rees, the miller. At Traeth-Berwen the old mill was to be let, as Robert had become wealthy and portly and lazy, and had offered to sell his business on very generous terms to Ivor Parry. Yes! he would take the old mill, and pass the rest of his days in the dreamy little valley. True, it was only a mile away, and he would still see Gwladys and Hugh on Sunday at Brynseion Chapel; and, moreover, perhaps she would come to the mill sometimes with the corn to be ground; but that would be better than seeing her every day. A sudden sharp stab is better than a continual probing! and he had seized a moment of respite from work to rush down to "The Ship," to catch Robert, and to settle the bargain with a slap of the hand and a blue of ale, and for the rest of the day he had felt somewhat less perturbed.
To Hugh, on the contrary, life seemed to hold out no loophole of escape from the miserable dread which had dawned upon him. At first he had been filled with a dull aching anger that another man should dare to love his wife; and that man his friend, whom he had trusted—whom he had loved as a brother; and that he, Hugh Morgan, who had always been considered, and who thought himself, too calm and deliberate to be deceived, should thus have made a mistake in the most important step in his life! There was no anger against Gwladys.
"Poor child! poor child!" he was thinking, as he stood there at the door, with his hands clasped behind him; "it was not her fault; I see it all now. She never loved me—she loved Ivor; and I, fool that I was, thought my own love was enough, and would arouse the same feelings in her; but—thou hast been a fool, Hugh Morgan, and thou must open thine eyes now to thy folly, and make the best of a bad bargain. Well, this will help me to make up my mind on one point. I will leave the sail-shed, I will give up my business; I have enough and to spare, and poor Gwladys shall not be left so much alone." And he looked down the village road with gloomy forebodings in his dark eyes.
At this moment a large bunch of greenery came round the corner of the shed, and stooping under it, and looking through the golden and green leaves came Mari Vone, her shapely arms, crossed over her bosom, held the restraining cords which bound her bundle of bracken on her shoulders. Her brick-red petticoat made a spot of brightness in the gloomy landscape, and as she approached Hugh, her blue eyes looking out between the overshadowing ferns like harebells in the grass, even his sad face lightened as he met the sunny smile in the eyes, and marked the perfect lips and the dimpled cleft in the chin.
"Caton pawb! Mari, where'st been through the storm?" he asked, leaving the shed door, and accompanying her up the village road.
"Wel wyr! Now, thou'st never guess, Hugh. 'N'wncwl Jos had to go to Caer Madoc to-day to receive his pension, storm or no storm, so he borrowed Peggi Pentraeth's donkey-cart, and he does whip the poor donkey so. I hid the whip in the big furze bush by our house; but, oh, dir anwl! I couldn't hide his wooden leg, so I'm afraid he will use that instead. No, no! I will not loosen my bundle, so let it be. 'Tis a bed for the poor donkey to-night; I gathered it above Traeth-y-daran, for I knew the poor creature would be tired. Here's Peggi's donkey shed; wilt wait while I spread his bed for him?"
"Nay, I will come and help thee, lass." And in the little shed they spread the sweet fresh litter in readiness for the weary beast.