“Rhoda!” I calls out, quite gently, yet so as she must hear, unless she’s out of the house, or gone deaf, indeed.
None answered. No, indeed, none. My dear boys, I felt desperate; so, with a firm hand, I knocked at the door-handle.
In a jiffy, out comes Miller Howell, with a face like the mast of a rakish yacht, long, and thin, and yallow.
“What d’ye want, Hugh Anwyl?”
The words was spoken harsh indeed, and angry. I started as if he had struck me across the face, or ordered me into irons.
“Master,” says I, “I’m going away for along journey, perhaps never to come back again; and I wish to say good-by to your daughter Rhoda.”
He looks at me from top to toe, and up again from toe to top. The man’s features were as hard and pitiless as if they had been cut out of a block of Welsh granite. Then, without a word, he slams the door in my face.
Friends and messmates, I’m a Welshman, with the hot blood of Caedmon in my veins. I couldn’t bear this, indeed; so I stood outside and cried, at the top of my voice, “Rhoda—Rhoda Howell, I, Hugh Anwyl, beg and pray you to come and wish me a farewell! Rhoda, answer me, for I am going away!”
Silence! She would have come out, indeed, but was prevented. That I heard afterward. So I left—I’m not ashamed to own the truth—with the tears a-streaming down my cheeks and my heart breaking. I could have gone straight and drownded myself, I was so distraught. Presently I felt a finger on my sleeve.
“Hugh!” whispers a soft voice, “I’m downright grieved for you.”