"There's yellow the sea is," said the latter, peeping out through the little side window, which looked down to the bay. "All the sand in the bay is mixed with it, and oh, anwl! the waves are rising as high as steeples! Wel wyr!"
Gwladys still sat on in a turmoil of miserable thought. What was to become of her? How should she bear the long life before her, always mistrusted by her husband, and always fighting with this terrible dear love for Ivor, which haunted her sleeping or waking, in the garden, on the shore, or at her household duties? and "I am so young! If I were old there would be some hope of an end of it. But so young—only twenty! It is impossible! I cannot bear it!" and in a paroxysm of bitter trouble she started up, and, flinging an old grey shawl over her head and shoulders, she went quickly out through the back door and into the sandy garden. She would battle with the wind and the storm! It would not be worse than the turmoil of thoughts within, which made her heart ache and her head burn. Out in the garden the wind almost took her breath away. The blackened broom bushes in the low hedge which separated the garden from the cliffs seemed to bend threateningly towards her; but she pushed her way through them. The long grass, beaten down by the pelting rain, obstructed her footsteps; but she hurried on persistently, almost unconsciously, scarcely feeling the cruel stings of the driving rain in her face, and struggling with the fierce wind, which clutched at her dripping garments and dragged her backwards.
"But I will go!" cried the girl, as she fought her way over the cliffs, sometimes stopping to take breath, but again resolutely renewing her battle with the storm. Where was she going? She knew not—cared not; but somewhere—anywhere—away from herself and the pitiless circumstances which pressed upon her! Yes; Gwen was right. The storm and the wind and the rain suited her better than the warm hearth and the kind voice of her husband.
Could she reach Traeth-y-daran? There she would sit on the rock where Ivor and she had spent their last hours together. Perhaps there she would find peace, for in vain she had sought it in prayer and supplication. She knew if she were once able to make her way down the dangerous path to the shore, the last step, which would be of necessity a leap of ten feet, would render a return impossible. A dim perception of this ran through her mind; but the frenzy which had taken possession of her sought only for its goal—oblivion, and a termination of her sufferings.
In calmer moments she would not have dared to tread that dangerous path in a high wind, but to-day she seemed possessed by some wild spirit of unrest, which drove her forwards and impelled her flying feet on—on—till the edge of the cliff was reached, and still on, down the dangerous, zig-zag path, clinging to the stunted bushes. Slipping, stumbling, and yet pursuing, she made her difficult progress, and when the path ended abruptly at the top of a smooth, perpendicular rock, she did not hesitate for a moment, but took the leap with streaming hair and swirling garments, and alighting on the beach below, sped onwards across the wet sands to where the low rocks still lay uncovered by the in-coming tide. At last she had reached her goal, and, flinging herself down, she gave way to the tears which she had hitherto restrained. Every moment seemed to add to the fury of the storm.
"Oh, wind, it is for me you are wailing and shrieking! Oh, rain, 'tis for me your tears are falling!" and she mingled her own passionate sobs and cries with the stormy sounds around her. Here she could cry aloud in her despair, for there was no one to hear—no one but God. "Does he hear me?" and she paused for a moment and looked out at the boiling, seething cauldron before her, and up to the streaming sky; but her survey brought her no comfort. "No, He does not! No! no! I am alone—alone!"
At that moment a huge wave broke with thundering force at a little distance from the shore, and, helped by the wind and in-rushing tide, it reached far up the beach, even to the rock on which Gwladys sat; and for the first time she realised that, in taking that flying leap, she had cut herself off from every chance of escape. As she watched the huge, curling waves rushing one after another towards her, a strange joy rose within her. She would be drowned!—and here would end all the sorrow and all the sin which had made the last three months of her life so intolerable to her.
How had she dared to think God had not heard her?—for here was the answer to her prayers. He was going to take her to Himself—to calm her troubled breast and to unloose the tangled skein of her life! And leaning back, her head on a bed of brown sea-weed, she set herself to wait for death—the great consoler. But when the cold streams of water reached her, and, encircling the rock, began to splash her face, already wetted by the rain, she moved a little further up the beach.
"Not just yet," she thought; "I must have time to ask for pardon, and to say good-bye to Ivor and dear Hugh!"
And again she threw herself back on the wet sea-weed—as wet and sodden herself as was her cold bed.