"Sara Lloyd, Garthowen Moor, is writing to thee, Gethin Owens, to say she is here at Mrs. Jones's, No. 2 Bryn Street, with good news for thee. All the way from Garthowen to fetch thee, my boy, so come as soon as thou canst."

The writing was large and sprawly, it was addressed to "Gethin Owens, mate of the _Gwenllian_,--Captain Price," and when Tom had departed, with the letter safe in his jacket pocket, the two women set themselves to wait as patiently as they could; but the hours dragged on heavily until tea-time.

"Gethin was fond of his tea," said Mrs. Jones, "and I wouldn't wonder if he'd be here before long."

The tea table was laid, the cakes were toasted the tea brewing was delayed for some time. It was Mrs. Jones's turn now to be anxious, and even irritable; but Sara had quite regained her composure.

"He'll come," she said. "I know he'll come. I know my work is nearly over."

"There's missing you I'll be," said Mrs. Jones. "I wish my poor old mother was as easy to live with as you, Sara; but 'tis being alone so long has made her cranky. And the money--oh, she loves it dearly.

Indeed, if I can get Davy to agree, we will give up this house and go home and live near her; 'tis pity the old woman should grow harder in her old age."

"Yes," said Sara. "'Tis riper and softer we ought to be growing in our old age, more ready to be gathered. I will go and see her sometimes; oftener than I have."

Their conversation was interrupted by a shadow pa.s.sing the window, and a firm footstep in the pa.s.sage.

"Hoi, hoi!" said a loud, breezy voice, "Mrs. Jones!--how is she here?"

and Gethin Owens clasped her hand with a resounding clap.

"Much you care how I am, Gethin Owens. Never been to see me for so long."

"Well, you look all the better for my absence, I think. But what you want with me? Tom Jenkins said an old woman wanted to see me shocking, and I gave him a clatch on his ear, to teach him not to call a young woman like you an old woman. Why, you look ten years younger than when I saw you last."

"Go 'long, Gethin Owens," said Mrs. Jones. "Didn't you have the letter?"

"No. Tom said the boys in the streets had torn it in a scrimmage they had; but he gave me your message."

"Well, come in and look on the settle then."

In the shadow of the settle, Sara sat listening to the conversation, with a look of amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes.

Gethin looked a moment into the dark corner, and, recognising her, took two steps in advance, with extended hands and a smiling greeting on his lips; but suddenly the whole expression of his face changed to one of anxiety and distrust.

"What is it," he said, "has brought you so far, Sara? Is the old man dead?"

"Nonsense, no!" said Sara.

"Well, you wouldn't come so far to tell me Will was married."

"Indeed I would, then," she said, rising. "Come, thou foolish boy, didn't I say it was good news? Oh! but thou hasn't had my letter."

Gethin took both her hands between his own.

"Tis very kind of thee, Sara fach, but a letter would have brought me the news quite as safely. Well! I wish him joy. 'Tisn't Gethin Owens is going to turn against his brother, because he has been a fortunate man, while I have been unfortunate. Yes, I wish him joy, and sweet Morva every blessing under the sun."

"Twt, twt!" said Sara, "thee art all wrong, my boy. 'Tisn't Morva he has married at all! and that's how I thought a letter could not explain everything to thee as I could myself, and bring thee home to the old country again."

Gethin shook his head.

"No, no; I have said good-bye to Garthowen, I will never go there again."

"Well! why?" said Sara, still holding his hands, and looking into his face with those compelling eyes of hers.

"There is no need to tell thee, Sara," said the sailor, a dogged, defiant look coming into his eyes. "I have said good-bye to Garthowen, and will never darken its doors again."

"And yet thou hast been very happy there?"

"Ah! yes," said Gethin, a tender smile chasing away the angry look on his face. "I was very happy there indeed, when I whistled at my plough, with the song of the larks in my ears, and the smell of the furze filling the air. But now--no--no! I must never turn my face there again."

"Wilt not, indeed?" asked Sara. "Wait till I've told thee all, my lad.

And now I have a strange story to tell thee, 'tis of thy poor old father, Gethin."

"My father? what's the matter with him? Thou hast said he's alive, what then? Is he ill? Not ill? What then, Sara?" and his face took a frightened expression; "what evil has come upon the old man?"

His voice sank very low as he clutched the old woman's hand and wrung it unconsciously.

"What is it? not shame, Sara--say, woman, 'tis not shame that has come upon him in his old age!"

Sara was embarra.s.sed for the first time.

"Shame," she said, "in the eyes of men, is sometimes honour in the eyes of G.o.d! Listen, Gethin--Dost remember the night of thy going from Garthowen?"

He nodded with a serious look in his eyes.

"That night I had a dream; only, I was awake when I saw it. I was at Garthowen in my dream, and I saw a dark figure entering Gwilym Morris's room; he stooped down and opened a drawer, and took something out of it. I could not see the man's face, but it was not _thee_, Gethin, though thy sudden disappearance made them think at first, that thou wert the thief; only Morva and I knew better. She heard a footstep that night, and when she went out to the pa.s.sage, she saw thee coming out of that room. But she and I knew that it was not thou who took the money. What dreadful sight met thee in that room, Gethin bach, we did not know, but it was something that made thee reel out like a drunken man."

"It was, it was," he answered, shuddering and covering his eyes with his hands, as though he saw it still.

"'Twas a sight that shadowed the whole world to me, and has altered my life ever since. Dei anwl! 'twas a sight I would give my whole life not to have seen."

"I know it all now, my boy, and I know what thou must have suffered.

_'Twas thy father who took Gwilym Morris's money_. Sorrow and bitter repentance have been his companions by day, and have sat by his pillow at night, ever since he was tempted to commit that sin. He has become thin, and haggard, and old. He confessed it all at the Sciet. And think how hard it must have been for him to bring himself to tell it all before the men who had thought so highly of him. 'Twas for Will's sake, but 'twas you that he wronged, Gethin, and that is what is breaking his heart."

"Me!" said Gethin. "Me? He is not grieving for me, is he? Poor old man! he did me no wrong; 'twas I by going away, brought the dishonour upon myself. And he confessed it all!"

"Yes," said Sara, "and made it all as black as he could. Canst forgive him, Gethin?"

"Forgive him? Fancy Gethin Owens _forgiving_ anyone! as if he was such a good man himself! especially his own father! I have nothing to forgive; he did me no harm, poor old man. And if all the world is going to turn against him because his love for his son did prove stronger than his honesty, why! it's home to Garthowen I'll go, to cheer him and to love him, and to show the world that I for one will stick to him, weak or strong, upright or sinful!"

"Gethin bach! thou know'st what real love is! Love that no folly or weakness, or even sin, in the dear one can alter. That is what I have come to fetch; a son to support and comfort my old friend in his latter days. Gwilym Morris is good and kind to him, and Ann--thou know'st they are married these four years?"

"Yes, Jim Brown told me, and I was very glad."

"But 'tis his own son he is longing for. ''Tis my boy Gethin I want to see,' he says; 'he was so kind to me.'"

"Did he say that?"