“Gwen,” says I, “I’ve plighted my troth to Rhoda Howell, so I won’t offer to kiss you; but I do thank you, as a true friend to us both.”
Bless you, you should have heard her laugh. It wasn’t a clear, merry, innocent sort of laugh, like my poor Rhoda’s, but a kind of a nasty sneer. It made me thrill again.
“I don’t bear malice, Hugh Anwyl,” she cries. “Not I! You and I were better friends before Rhoda came—that’s all!”
I was just a little puzzled by her words. By now, however, she had gathered up her music, and began to walk away.
“Dear, dear!” she cried, as we got into the road which leads from Glanwern to Dolgelly; “why, I declare, it’s quite dark indeed, and I’ve got to go to Llanbrecht to fetch some butter from Farmer Jenkins, and I’m deadly afeard to pass the Clwm Rock, because of Evan Dhu!”
You see, that we’d got a Davy Jones in them parts, a sort of a ghost. The folks called it “Evan Dhu,” or “Evan the Black.”
Says I, quite quietly, “If you’re afeard of Evan Dhu, why don’t you ask David to go along with you?”
“He’s out in the fields by now,” she answers, “taking care of the calves.”
“Wait till he’s done with the calves, then,” I observes, a-yawning.
Whereupon, dang me! if the girl didn’t commence to whimper.