That’s the mischief, messmates.
’Twould have been happier for Hugh Anwyl if he’d been as ugly in those days as John Jones is at this moment; for, you see, my lads, when I was quite young, I got rather to like a girl called Gwen—Gwendoline that is; we, indeed, called her Gwen—Thomas. She was next-door neighbour to my old dad’s cottage, and she’d a deuce of a knack of fondling on you without so much as touching a button of your coat.
Yes, Gwen was one of the sort that act like magnets to a seaman’s lips. I never loved her, d’ye see; but I was flattered by such a smart craft coming alongside, and—well, indeed,—I played the fool. I kissed her, because it seemed to do her good. And she—darn her cunning head!—she meant it all! I know that she’d have done anything, indeed, if I’d but have passed the word. But I didn’t. I never so much as talked about the parson.
It was about a year after this, that Rhoda Howell, the miller’s daughter, came home from the boarding-school at Dolgelly, full of music, and English, and French, and all them things.
My stars! she was a picture, she was! I—that’s to say, Hugh Anwyl, you know—was taken all aback, and felt something or other dance the double-shuffle under my waistcoat pocket.
Well, mates, we fell to what you may call flirting. I asked her to go for a walk, and she, indeed, consented; and so it went on, as you might say, from better to best.
Yes, indeed, I could not give those days a truer name than best; for I am sure that they were the only real sunshine either of us ever felt in our lifetimes.
Ye see, Rhoda loved me. Why, heaven only knows. And I—I could have died for her.
There wasn’t a bright lad in Glanwern that didn’t envy the luck of Hugh Anwyl; and, rightly enough, too; for I swear, though I’ve travelled north, south, east, and west, and have met with women of all nations, not once have I ever found the equal of Rhoda Howell. I almost shrink from speaking her name. It seems—well, sacred! Poor Rhoda! like a flower of spring, you died early! Yes, indeed, ours ain’t one of them love tales which comes all right at t’other end of the book. She’s in heaven; and Hugh Anwyl—he ain’t just exactly in the other place; but he’s not so very far off neither, being afloat, and registered John Jones, A.B.
To come back to my yarn, indeed.