"Is this true indeed, then? Hast promised thyself away from me?" said Gethin, looking round as if dazed and stunned.

"Yes," she answered again, in a low voice. "Will asked me if I loved him, and I said 'Yes, I love thee with all my heart, and I love everyone at Garthowen the same, and would willingly give my life for them.'"

"And what did he say to that?" asked Gethin in a scornful tone.

"He said, 'twas right I should feel like that, for they had all been kind to me, ever since the sea cast me up here, a little helpless baby; and he said 'twould ill repay their kindness to break his heart."

Gethin s.n.a.t.c.hed at her hand hungrily.

"Will I tell thee, la.s.s, what I would have answered if I had been Will?

I would have said, 'Love me, Morva, _more_ than all the others at Garthowen; love me more than all the world beside; love me as I love thee, girl! Nothing less will satisfy me; no riches, no worldly goods, no joy, no happiness will be of any account to me if I have not all thy love.'"

"Stop, Gethin, stop," said Morva, turning away.

But Gethin continued, still detaining her hands in his, "That is what I would have said, Morva, if I were Will. Canst say nothing to me, la.s.s?"

Morva had turned her face to the broom bush, and was sobbing with her ap.r.o.n to her eyes.

"Why didst thou promise him?" Gethin said again, in a fierce tone.

"I promised him when I was a little girl, and ever since, whenever he has asked me, I have said, 'Oh, Will, there is no need to say more, for I have promised,'" and she turned slowly to move away; but Gethin drew her back.

"Thou shalt not go," he said; "I cannot live without thee; all through the long years I too have loved thee, Morva, ever since that day when I tore myself from thy clinging arms and heard thee crying after me; but because I was away, and could not tell thee of my love, I have lost thee."

"I have promised," was all her answer.

"Well, then, I suppose there is nothing else to be said, and I must live without thee; but 'twill be hard, very hard, la.s.s. I thought--I thought--but there; what's the use of thinking? I suppose I must say 'Good-bye.' Wilt give me one kiss before we part? No? Well, indeed, an unwilling kiss from Morva would kill me, so fforwel, la.s.s! At least shake hands."

Morva turned towards him, placing her hand in his, and by the bright moonlight he saw her face was very pale.

"Fforwel!" he said once more, and dropping her hand, he left her suddenly, standing alone under the night sky. She looked after him until he had pa.s.sed round the Cribserth, and then turned homewards with a heavier heart than she had ever borne before.

"'As the sparks fly upward!'" she whispered, as she reached the cottage door, "Yes, mother was right, 'as the sparks fly upward!'"

CHAPTER XI

UNREST

"Ach y fi!" said Ann one day as the autumn slipped by, "only a week before Will goes; there's dull it will be without him!"

"Twt, twt!" said Will, tossing his tawny mane, "'twill only be for three months. Christmas will be here directly, and I will be home then for the holidays--vacation, I mean."

"Vacation; is that what they call it? Dear! dear! we must mind our words now with a college man among us."

Gethin seldom came into the house; from morning to night he worked hard on the farm, and his father was obliged to confess that, after all his roving, he showed more apt.i.tude for steady work than Will did. When he did enter the house, it was only to take his meals hurriedly and silently, and if by chance he encountered Morva, as was unavoidable sometimes in the day's work, he was careful not to look at her. The girl, though conscious of his change of manner, showed no outward sign of the acute suffering she was undergoing. Her whole life seemed upturned, full of discordant elements and strained relations. To bear Will's apparent indifference was not difficult, for she had been accustomed to that all her life; but to know that she was bound to him--that he still loved her, and would carry with him his faith and trust in her, was a heavy burden. The change in Gethin's manner, the averted look, the avoidance of her, the formal question or request, were positively so many sharp thorns that pierced her like some tangible weapon, and added to this was a deep regret that she was so unworthy of Will's love. He did not ask her to meet him again behind the broom bushes, and only one night in the old beudy,[1] where she had carried a pail of grain to a sick cow, had he tried to speak to her alone. Gethin, who watched his brother with eager interest, was astonished at the indifference he showed towards her.

Surely they must meet somewhere secretly! Well, what was it to him?

What was anything to him? For Morva's love he would willingly have laid down his life; but now that that was denied him, nothing else was of any consequence; and in troubled thought he sauntered out to cross the farmyard on his way to Pont-y-fro. The moor beyond the Cribserth he avoided carefully, and when his work led him along the brow of the hill, he tried to avert his eyes as well as his thoughts from its undulating knolls, a background, against which memory would picture a winsome girl, red-cloaked and blue-kilted.

Will had preceded him about a quarter of an hour, and had found Morva pensively holding the empty pail before the cow, who had eaten up the grain, and was licking round in search of more; she did not see him until he was close upon her, and then she started from her dreams.

"Oh, Will!" she said, and nothing more.

"I wanted to see thee once more, la.s.s, to say good-bye, and to remind thee of thy promise."

"You will be back before Christmas, Will, and we will be together again."

"Yes," he answered, "and then we must manage to meet sometimes, for I find I cannot live without thee. I cannot break away from thee entirely; but we must be careful, very, very careful. I would not have anyone suspect our courtship for all the world. Thou wilt keep my secret, Morva?"

"Yes," she said wearily.

"Come, cheer up, la.s.s, 'twill soon be over. A year or two and I will have a home for thee--I know I will. And now good-bye, I hear footsteps. Good-bye, Morva."

He clasped her once to his heart, and whispered a word of endearment in her ear; but she stood like a statue, and only answered "Good-bye," and even that he did not hear, for he had already slipped away, and by a circuitous path reached the house.

Crossing the farmyard, Gethin's approaching footsteps made but little sound on the soft stubble; and Morva, thinking herself quite alone, stood leaning just within the doorway, crying softly in the darkness, for the flaring candle had gone out.

"Who is there?" said Gethin.

There was no answer, Morva checking her sobs, and standing perfectly still.

"Morva, is it thee crying here by thyself? What is it? Tell me, child."

"Oh! nothing," said the girl. "Only Will has been here."

"Oh! I see," said Gethin bitterly, "to bid thee fforwel, I suppose.

Well, it won't be for long; he will be back soon, and then thou wilt be happy, Morva."

"Gethin, thee must promise me one thing."

"And what is that?" he said.

"Never to tell anyone what I told thee over yonder beyond the Cribserth. Will wants it to be a secret."

"Fear nothing," said Gethin, "I will never tell tales. Gethin Owens has not many good qualities, but he has one, and that is, he would never betray a trust, so be easy, Morva. I am going to Pont-y-fro.

Good-night!"

"Good-night," echoed the girl, and, taking up her pail, she closed the beudy door, and as she crossed the yard under the bright starlight she recalled Gethin's parting words, "Be easy, Morva," and repeated them to herself with a sorrowful smile.

"'Tis Martinmas Fair to-morrow," said Ann, as Morva entered the best kitchen. "Are you going, father?"

"Yes," he said. "I have those yearlings to sell."

"I will come with you," said Gwilym Morris, for they seldom let the old man go alone. "I can see about Will's coat, and I want some books.