"Hast had no company to-day, then?" said Hugh, with a searching glance. "Hast not been out?"
"Yes, as far as mother's; but I did not meet Gwen."
Hugh was silent, and Gwladys' spirits flagged a little. She was conscious of some brooding thought in his mind, and with her continued feeling of guilt and self-upbraiding, she became nervously silent too.
The next day, in the sail-shed, Hugh was gloomy and pre-occupied, and Ivor Parry observed it with sorrow. He, too, was full of troubled thoughts. To lose Gwladys was a bitter trial; but what a solace it would have been could he have kept Hugh's friendship—this man whom he had loved and almost worshipped. But now he realised the truth that, in the nature of things, such a solace was impossible. They must walk along the road of life apart, and it were well that the severance should be soon and complete. Even to-morrow he hoped to leave the sail-shed, with all its lingering associations of happiness and sorrow; and, when five o'clock came, he remained alone, making some final arrangements which would facilitate the winding up of the Mishteer's affairs. He had not noticed that Hugh had not left with his workmen as usual. In truth, the latter was now sitting before his desk in the little office, whose badly-fitting door let in between its gaping boards a full view of the shed.
The evening shades were fast darkening the old room, and Ivor Parry had lighted a lamp, whose glimmering beams showed up the rafters, the coils of rope, and the other impedimenta scattered about the floor. Hugh, sitting at his desk in the darkness, could see the whole scene through the chinks in the half-open door, and he gazed silently at Ivor's manly form now stooping to re-arrange something on the floor, now stretching to reach something from the rafters; and his heart ached with a dull longing for the time that was past, for the friendship which had filled his life more than he knew at the time, and, if the truth must be told, for the old days before his passion for Gwladys had enslaved him. Those days could never return. He had bowed his neck to the yoke, and henceforth she must be his first care and thought; and how easy and how sweet this would have been, if only—and he brooded there in the darkness with mournful eyes and a heavy heart.
Suddenly there was a step at the door of the sail-shed, a finger raised the latch, the door was pushed open, and Gwladys entered. Hugh trembled in every nerve, and watched eagerly what would happen.
For a moment, her only thought seemed to be to shut out the boisterous sea-wind, which was swirling outside the door; then she threw back the hood of her cloak, and looked in astonishment, while Ivor Parry, no less taken by surprise, lifted himself up from a bale of sail upon which he had been kneeling. Gwladys involuntarily clutched her hand to her side, while Ivor stood straight before her, with both arms hanging down beside him. Hugh's black eyes never swerved in their keen glance; it never struck him that he was acting dishonourably; his suspicious anxiety seemed to have smothered every other feeling, as he sat there peering at the unconscious actors in the scene before him. A crimson flush spread over Gwladys' face and neck and forehead; but Ivor was pale as death. Neither spoke for some time. Her breath came and went in little fluttering gasps. Ivor was the first to regain his self-possession, and Hugh strained every nerve to listen.
"Well, Mishtress, how art thou?"
"I only came," said Gwladys, ignoring his question, "to fetch Hugh's coat, and to look for him. He has not come home."
"They have all left," said Ivor, glancing into the darkness of the little office. "I have only stayed on a bit to make things more plain for the Mishteer—I am going to-morrow."