E-text prepared by Al Haines
A Story of a Welsh Homestead.
by
Author of "Torn Sails," "A Welsh Singer,"
"By Berwen Banks," Etc.
Sixty-Fifth Thousand
London
Hutchinson & Co.
Paternoster Row
I. A Turn of the Road
II. "Garthowen"
III. Morva of the Moor
IV. The Old Bible
V. The Sea Maiden
VI. Gethin's Presents
VII. The Broom Girl
VIII. Garthowen Slopes
IX. The North Star
X. The Cynos
XI. Unrest
XII. Sara's Vision
XIII. The Bird Flutters
XIV. Dr. Owen
XV. Gwenda's Prospects
XVI. Isderi
XVII. Gwenda at Garthowen
XVIII. Sara
XIX. The "Sciet"
XX. Love's Pilgrimage
XXI. The Mate of the "Gwenllian"
XXII. Gethin's Story
XXIII. Turned Out!
XXIV. A Dance on the Cliffs
It was a typical July day in a large seaport town of South Wales.There had been refreshing showers in the morning, giving place to amurky haze through which the late afternoon sun shone red and round.The small kitchen of No. 2 Bryn Street was insufferably hot, in spiteof the wide-open door and window. A good fire burnt in the grate,however, for it was near tea-time, and Mrs. Parry knew that some of herlodgers would soon be coming in for their tea. One had alreadyarrived, and, sitting on the settle in the chimney corner, was holdingan animated conversation with his landlady, who stood before him, onehand akimbo on her side, the other brandishing a toasting fork. Herbeady black eyes, her brick-red cheeks and hanks of coarse hair, werenot beautiful to look upon, though to-day they were at their best, forthe harsh voice was softened, and there was a humid gentleness in theeyes not habitual to them. Her companion was a young man abouttwenty-three years of age, dark, almost swarthy of hue, tanned by thesuns and storms of foreign seas and many lands, As he sat there in theshade of the settle one caught a glance of black eyes and a gleam ofwhite teeth, but the easy, lounging attitude did not show to advantagethe splendid build of Gethin Owens. One of his large brown fists,resting on the rough deal table, was covered with tattooedhieroglyphics, an anchor, a mermaid, and a heart, of course! Anyoneconversant with the Welsh language would have divined at once, by thelong-drawn intonation of the first words in every remark, that thesubject of conversation was one of sad or tender interest.
"Well, indeed," said Mrs. Parry, "the-r-e's missing you I'll be,Gethin! We are coming from the same place, you see, and you areknowing all about me, and I about you, and that I supp-o-s-e is makingme feel more like a mother to you than to the other lodgers."
"Well, you have been like a mother to me, mending my clothes andwatching me so sharp with the drink. Dei anwl! I don't think I evertook a glass with a friend without you finding me out, and calling menames. 'Drunken blackguard!' you called me one night, when as sure asI'm here I had only had a bottle of gingerpop in Jim Jones's shop," andhe laughed boisterously.
"Well, well," said Mrs. Parry, "if I wronged you then, be bound youdeserved the blame some other time, and 'twas for your own good I wastelling