Welsh Journals

A BUMBLE-BEE AND DESTINY: A PSYCHOLOGICAL STUDY. A DELICIOUS feeling of languor stole over the limbs of Maelor Gruffydd. He lay outstretched on the blazing top of a Pembrokeshire cliff, and lazily defied the sun's efforts to remove him. To an observer in the sky, the long, slim figure clad in spotless flannels would have revealed in statuesque perfection the embodi- ment of ease and contentment. All the same Maelor Gruffydd was by temperament a chameleon among men his most intimate friends could not forecast his morrow's mood. From a glittering pinnacle of gaiety he would plunge into an abyss of depres- sion, and yet rise next day on the wings of a new en- thusiasm without warning he would disappear from his London club to the loneliness of a desert; but in every change he retained a charm of sincerity, a personal magnetism which made friends and kept them. The stimulus of poverty might have disciplined his nature, but as his bankers readily provided the means for the indulgence of every whim. it was pretty obvious that the filling of an empty purse would not be the road to his salvation,-if indeed he really wanted to be saved. For, after all, he seemed to thrive on restlessness, and from the writing of one big book and many serious articles had managed to extract a measure of contentment by calmly canonizing discontent and preaching that satisfaction was the death-knell of progress. Finally,-for it is useless to continue trying to under- stand a man, who cheerfully confessed his failure to understand himself,-he was wary of women. Not because he did not like their society he adored it but he honestly feared falling in love with one and marrying her, when he realised that, by all the laws of his unfortunate being, he was bound to regret his choice within a week. Of course his honour would forbid desertion but he would have to sacrifice the sweet inconsequence of celibate independence to a nightmare of marital monotony and the slow, secret torture of self-abnegation. It was this possessor of six feet and thirty years of delightful discontent, that now dozed contentedly on the parched herbage of the Pembrokeshire cliff, From the little cove below came the gentle wash of blue waves breaking in silvery spray on the strip of golden sand. Tiny creatures glittered like fire-flies in the atmosphere pulsating with heat; gorgeous butterflies sailed dreamily by but it was left to an obtrusive bumble-bee to dispel this illusion of heaven. It buzzed its love song into the ear of Maelor Gruffydd, and was about to explore the interior of the inviting orifice, when that startled individual sat up with a jerk, and sent the indignant insect to draw sympathy and refreshment from the prickly breast of a blackberry bush. Gruffydd rose leisurely to his feet, and after brushing the wisps of withered grass from his clothes, gingerly released a distressed grass-hopper from the entanglements of his hair. Scarcely had he removed these encumbrances, when a slight sound drew him to the edge of the cliff. He poised himself carefully and peeped over then with nice deliberation he seated himself on the perilous brink, and drawing his knees up to his chin assumed the con- templative look of a devout Oriental. The object of this interesting ritual was a girl, who sat on a little bank of shingle absorbed in a book. Her figure clad in a soft white dress of some silky material reclined with that supple grace that nature sometimes gives but never sells coils of rich brown hair crowned her shapely head; her complexion seemed an exquisite compound of cream and delicate rose and once, when she turned a page, he caught a glimpse of dark, lustrous eyes, that glowed with hidden fires of feeling and intelligence. Beautiful women had won his admiration before, but the proximity of none had so profoundly moved him. He felt as if the crust of some deeper, inner self had been broken, and its soul liberated, flooding his whole being with a new intense emotion. But though the feeling was dangerous he knew he was its master he should never seek her acquaintance sufficient for him this vision of matchless loveliness framed in the glories of sky and sea. Cupid, however, fitted an arrow to his bow, when he saw the rising tide, and laughed softly. Even the sun-lit waves seemed to ripple with amusement, as they swept into the cove and locked their fair prisoner like a jewel in its casket. Suddenly she realised her predicament and rose hastily but a slip on the treacherous seaweed wrung a little cry of pain from her lips. She collapsed on the shingle, and clutched the prettiest ankle that Gruffydd was fated to see. The diffident celibate flung caution to the winds. In a moment he was slithering and scrambling down the face of the cliff, and with a shower of tiny stones literally precipitated himself at her feet. "Hurt badly?" he blurted out, as soon as he had recovered his equilibrium. The girl looked into his face with perfect self-possession and smiled. Yes, it's a nasty wrench," she answered cheerfully. can put my foot to the ground and yet I feel too young to drown." I can appreciate your prejudice," he said with mock solemnity, for within an hour this bank of pebbles will be submerged. Let me suggest two ways of salvation, one prospective, the other immediate. When I was a boy I used to know an old hymn, Rescue the Perishing. We could sing that together, and wait for the life-boat. Or would you risk a more personal method ? Why not ? she asked, her eyes twinkling. Cripples can't be choosers." He picked her up like a child, and waded waist-deep into the cool water. Her arm rested lightly on his shoulder and as her warm breath fanned his cheek with the fragrant touch of a spice-laden breeze, sea, cliffs, and sky seemed to rock in a convulsion of colour. Grimly he set his teeth and safely rounding the headland laid his precious burden on the firm, dry sand of the outer bay.