"Will at home and all," she said, "and everything going on so well--except, of course, 'tis dreadful about Gethin; but we have been used to his absence, father; and you never seemed to grieve about him."

"No, no," said her father, "I have never grieved about him much, but lately I had got so fond of him; he was so kind to me, so merry he was, and so handsome, and always ready to help!" and again he would relapse into silence.

On market day he was very anxious to drive Will into Castell On.

"Come on, 'machgen i; I will give you a new waistcoat. Come and show yourself to Mr. Price and to all the young ladies. Be bound, if they were to see you in your cap and gown, not the highest among them but would be proud to shake hands with you!"

But Will declined the offer. Later in the day, however, he walked in alone, and only that sad angel, who surely records the bitter wounds inflicted by children upon the tender parent hearts, knew how sharp a stab entered the old man's soul; but next day he had "got over it," as the phrase is.

With a slow, dragging step Morva walked home on the evening of Will's arrival. He had nodded at her in a nonchalant manner, with a kindly, "Well, Morva!" in pa.s.sing, just as he had done to Magw and Shan, but further than that had not spoken to her again, though his eyes followed her everywhere as she moved about her household duties.

"Prettier than ever!" he thought. "My word! there is not one of the Llaniago young ladies fit to tie her shoe!"

As soon as the cows were milked and the short frosty day had ended, the moon rose clear and bright over the Cribserth.

"I am going to see Sara," said Will, taking his hat off the peg in the blue painted pa.s.sage.

No one was surprised at that, for both Will and Gethin, ever since their mother's death, had been accustomed to run to Sara for sympathy with every pleasure or misfortune, and after being two months away it was quite natural that he should want to see her; so Morva had scarcely rounded the bend of the Cribserth before Will had caught her up. A little shiver ran through her as she recognised the step and the whistle which called her attention. It was Will, whom she once thought she had loved so truly, and the coldness which she had felt towards him of late was strangely mingled with remorse and tender memories as she turned and walked a few steps back to meet him.

"Stop, Morva; let me speak to thee. Give me thy hand, la.s.s. After so long a parting thou canst not deny me a kiss too."

Ah, how sweet it was to return to the dear old Welsh, and the homely "thee" and "thou"!

"Art well, Will? But I need not ask. Indeed, there is life and health in thy very face."

"Yes, I am well," said Will, drawing her towards him. "I am coming with thee to see Sara."

"Yes, come," said Morva.

"Art glad to see me, la.s.s?"

"Yes, indeed, I am very glad, whatever. Garthowen will be full again; it has been very empty lately."

She was thinking of Gethin, unconsciously, perhaps, and hung her head a little guiltily when Will said:

"Thou didst miss me, then?"

"Of course we all missed thee--thy father especially."

"More than thee, Morva?"

She sighed. "'Tis this way, Will. I am tired of this secrecy. We grew up like brother and sister. Can't we remain like that? Don't ask me for more, and then thou canst rise as high as thou pleasest, and I will be always glad to see thee, and so proud to hear of thy getting on. Will, it will never do for a clergyman to marry his father's milkmaid!"

"Twt, twt," said Will, "let us not think of the future, la.s.s--the present is enough for me; and I promise thee not to allude to our marriage if thou wilt only meet me like this whenever I come home, and let me feel thee close to my heart as thou hast to-night."

"But I will not," said the girl suddenly, withdrawing herself from the arm which he had pa.s.sed round her waist.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because," said Morva, "'tis only my promise to marry thee that makes me meet thee as I do, and deceive them all at Garthowen. Let me tell them how it is between us, Will."

"What! Morva talk about her sweetheart as the English girls do! No, thou art too modest, la.s.s."

"That is quite different," said Morva. "I do not want to talk about my--my--"

"Lover," said Will.

"Yes, but I don't want any longer to deceive my best friends. Let me go, Will, or let us be married soon. I am willing for either."

"Indeed, la.s.s," said Will, beginning to hedge, "I would almost think thou hadst found another sweetheart, only I know how seldom any other man comes across thy path, unless indeed Gethin the thief has stolen thy love from me. Morva, dost love any other man?"

"Gethin is no thief," she answered hotly, "and thou knowest it as well as I do. Thou knowest his nature; 'twould be impossible for him to do a mean thing."

"Thou hast a high opinion of him," said Will scornfully. "Is it he, then, who hast stolen thine heart?"

Morva walked with bent head, pulling at her ap.r.o.n-strings.

"I am not saying that," she answered, in a very low tone, "but I wish to be free, or marry thee soon."

It was now Will's turn to be anxious. The possibility of Morva's loving any other man had never before disturbed him, but now her words, her att.i.tude, all impressed him with a strong suspicion, and a flame of anger and jealousy rushed through his veins.

"Free!" he said, "after all thy promises to me--free to marry another man! Is it that, Morva?" and as he spoke his hot temper gathered strength. "Never!" he said, "I will never free thee from thy promise.

Thou canst break it an thou wishest, and break my heart at the same time; 'twill be a fine return for all our kindness to thee, 'twill be a grand ending to all thy faithful vows!"

"I am willing to marry thee, Will," she said, "if thou wilt let it be soon."

"Marry thee soon! How can that be, Morva?--a student without home or money, and a girl without a penny in the world! What madness thou art talking. I only ask thee to have patience for a year or two, and I will have a home for thee. And who is thy new sweetheart?"

"I have no sweetheart; but, Will, I want to be free."

"And I will never give thee back thy freedom. Take it if thou lik'st.

The absent are always forgotten. How could I expect thee to be true?"

Morva began to cry silently.

"I see I have set my heart upon a fickle, cruel woman, one who, after years of faithful promises, forgets me, and wishes to take back her vows. I have but to leave her for two months, and she at once breaks her promises and forgets the past, while I," said Will, with growing indignation and self-pity, "have found all my studies blurred by thine image, and the memory of thee woven with all my thoughts. Oh, Morva!

had I known when we were boy and girl together that thou couldst be so false, I would never have treasured thee in my heart, but would have turned and fled as Gethin did, instead of clinging to thee, and for thy sake stopping in the dull old home when the world was all before me.

And now to come home and find that thou art tired of me--art cold to me, and hast forgotten me! 'Tis a hard fate, indeed!"

"Oh, Will, no, no!" sobbed the girl, "'tis not so; indeed. G.o.d knows I love thee still as much as ever I did. 'Tis only that I have grown older, and wiser, and sadder perhaps, because it seems that knowing much brings sorrow with it. I was so young when I made all those promises."

"Two months younger than thou art now!" scoffed Will.

"Two months is a long time," she said, "when you begin to think, and I have thought and thought out here at night when the stars are glittering overhead, when the sea is sighing so sad down below, and after all my thinking only one thing is plain to me, Will; let there be no promises between us."

"Never!" said Will, a vindictive feeling rising within him, "never will I set thee free to marry another man, whoever he is!"

"He is no one," interpolated Morva, in a low voice.