"To be married to the Mishteer! Gwladys, who had filled his thoughts and heart for so long—yes, ever since he could remember!" And the whole universe was shattered, as far as Ivor Parry was concerned; but he sat still and made no sign, for always the most agonising points of life are the most silent. When at last the bitter tale was all told he rose slowly.
"There's news I've given thee," said Nani, stopping for breath.
"News, indeed!" said Ivor; "but I must go. Well, 'wish her joy' for me, Nani," and out again to the June evening Ivor went, bruised, wounded, bleeding, but fighting bravely with his sorrow, and sustained by his pride. Not for worlds would he—Ivor Parry, the cheeriest and bravest bachgen in the village—let it be seen that he was sorely wounded; and he resumed his old attitude with his thumbs in his armholes, and struck up another verse of his disconnected ballad, though how he managed it he never afterwards could understand. With head erect, and with many improvised turns and grace notes, he sang, as he went his way down the road:
"O gwae fi, and woe is me!
And my heart is full of pain;
For the ship that sailed across the sea
Will never come back again!"
On reaching his lodgings he was even more lively than usual, making his cousin laugh at his merry sallies, and hearing his own voice as if it had been a stranger's. He even made a show of enjoying his tea; but after it was over he went out, and, leaving the sail-shed behind him, turned his face towards the cliffs. Slipping down through the broom bushes, he made his way by an unfrequented sheep path to the beach below, and, crossing the shore, reached the south end of the harbour. The turmoil of thoughts within him seemed to urge him forwards, and every step he took strengthened the only determination he could evolve out of the chaos of misery in his heart. He must see Gwladys, must hear his doom from her own lips! The south end of the shore was less frequented than the other. The crags were higher and more frowning here, the shadows were deeper, the sands were seldom trodden, and the sea seldom ruffled by oar or sail; but here in the deep shadows the laver weed grew thickest, and here Gwladys might come to fill her creel as usual, "unless, indeed," thought Ivor, "she might to-night be roaming over the cliffs with Hugh Morgan, and so forget her creel and Nance Owen." The thought was so bitter that he groaned aloud.
Gwladys had returned home a few minutes after he had left the house, even soon enough to hear an echo of his voice as he trolled out the well-known ballad. Her mother met her with a happy, smiling face.
"Merch fâch i!" she said, as she drew the back of her fingers caressingly over the girl's cheek, where the rich colour had paled a little. Her heart was full of gratitude to the daughter whose marriage promised to bring so much comfort and freedom from care into her life. "Ivor Parry has been here to 'wish thee joy,'" she said; and Gwladys' heart throbbed painfully.
"There's a merry man he is," continued Nani, as she clattered the tea-cups on the little round table; "singing he was when he came in, and singing again when he went out."
In the gloom of the cottage she had not noticed the pallor that overspread his face upon receiving her news, neither did she now notice her daughter's preoccupied silence. It was very evident that her elation of spirits had for the time smothered Nani's usual tender thoughtfulness for others.
"Yes, I thought 'twas his voice," said Gwladys at last. "What did he say, mother?"