"You are perfection in my eyes, f'anwylyd—that is what makes the parting with you so cruel. Gwynne Ellis was quite right when he said that it would be much harder to part with a wife of a week than a sweetheart of a year."
During the next few weeks, Cardo Wynne was generally to be seen pacing the deck of theBurrawalla, playing with the children or chatting with some of the passengers. He walked up and down, with his hands sunk deep in his pockets, and cap tied firmly under his chin, for there was a pretty stiff breeze blowing, which developed later on in the voyage into the furious gales and storms which made that autumn so memorable for its numerous wrecks and casualties. Cardo was a great favourite on board, his frank and genial manner, the merry twinkle of his eye, and his tender politeness to the very old or the very young had won all hearts. With good-natured cheerfulness he entered into the plans and pastimes of the youthful part of the community, so that he had made a favourable impression upon all, from the cabin boy to the captain, and from the old general, who seldom left his berth, to the big black retriever, who was making his third voyage with his master to the Antipodes.
"Always a pleasant smile on his face when you speak to him," said one of the ladies to a friend one day; "but I think he has a rather sad look sometimes, when he is pacing up and down with his hands in his pockets."
"Yes," said the other, with a sentimental air, "I wonder what he is thinking of at those times! I'll make love to the captain, and see if I can find out something about him, they seem very intimate. We must try and cheer him up, dear."
"He doesn't seem to want much cheering up now," said her friend, as Cardo passed them with two other young men, who were enjoying a story told by one of them, Cardo's merry laugh being loudest and heartiest of the three. But—there was a sober, wistful look on his face sometimes which was not habitual to it, and as the days slipped on, he might often be seen, leaning over the side of the vessel with an anxious pucker on his forehead.
The parting with Valmai had, of course, been a trying ordeal. With the fervour of a first and passionate love, he recalled every word she had spoken, every passing shade of thought reflected on her face, and while these reveries occupied his mind, there was a tender look in the deep black eyes and a smile on his lips. But these pleasant memories were apparently often followed by more perplexing thoughts. One afternoon he had been standing for some time lost in a dream, while he looked with eyes that saw nothing over the heaving waters to the distant horizon, when the captain's voice at his elbow recalled him to his surroundings.
"You are looking at the very point of the wind, the very eye of the storm."
"The storm!" said Cardo, starting; "are we going to have one?"
The captain looked critically in the direction towards which they were sailing.
"Dirty weather coming, I think."
"Yes, I see," said Cardo; "I had not noticed it before, though. How inky black the sky is over there! And the sea as black, and that white streak on the line of the horizon!"
"We shall have a bit of a toss," said the captain. "Couldn't expect to get to Australia on a mill pond."
"Mill pond do you call the swells we have had the last few days?"
"Almost," replied the captain, leaving him unceremoniously, and shouting some orders to his crew.
Thus left, Cardo fell again into a deep reverie. Yes, it looked black before them! "But I have always wished to see a storm at sea, and if I only had Valmai with me, I should be joyous and exultant; but instead of that, I am alone, and have a strange foreboding of some evil to come. I can't be well, though I'm sure I don't know where I ail, for I feel alright, and I eat like a horse."
"Come, Mr. Wynne," said one of the ladies, who had marked his serious looks, "we must really call you to account! You have fallen into a brown study again. You must let us cheer you up. We can't have the very life of the party losing his spirits. Now if you had left your wife at home, as Mr. Dawson has!"
"I have done that," said Cardo, "but I am not at all likely to fall into low spirits. I have never in my life known what that means; but a man, more especially a married man, must have his moments of serious thought sometimes."
"Yes, of course," said the lady, with a considerable diminution of interest in "the handsome Mr. Wynne!" "You have left your little ones too, I suppose?"
"No," said Cardo, laughing, "I have none."
"Ah, indeed, that's a pity!" and she took the first opportunity of joining her friend, and telling her of her discovery.
Cardo continued to look out to sea. No, bad enough to leave Valmai, but "little ones"? Would that time ever come? and as he pondered, a fresh idea seemed to strike him. It was evidently a painful one, it stung him like the lash of a whip, and clenching his hands, and muttering something between his teeth, he roused himself hastily, and joined a party of young people, who were amusing themselves with the pranks of a little boy, who, delighted with the notice taken of him, strutted about and gave his orders, in imitation of the captain.
"Oh, here's Mr. Wynne," said the little urchin, and in a moment he was lifted on to Cardo's shoulder, whooping with delight, and for the next hour, the laugh was loudest and the fun most furious where Cardo and his little friend were located. Before long, however, the storm was upon them. Masts creaked and cordage rattled; the sails had been lowered, and everything made safe, and Captain Owen, standing on the bridge, looked energetic, and "fit" to fight with the storm-fiend. The ladies soon retired, and many of the gentlemen followed them below, some of the younger and hardier remaining on deck. Amongst them was Cardo, who watched the fury of the elements as the wind tore down upon them. Once, as the captain passed him, he asked, "Is there any danger?" "I see none," was the laconic reply. It satisfied Cardo, and he gave himself up to watch the grandeur of the storm. It was natural that the thought of Valmai should enter his mind, and that he should long for her presence; but it was not natural that he, a young and healthy man, in the first flush of his manhood, should feel this strange depression, this dark cloud hanging over him, whenever he thought of his young wife. It was unlike Cardo. If his life had been devoid of any special interest or excitement, it had at least been free from care. Not even his lonely childhood, or his dull, old home had dimmed the brightness and elasticity of his spirits. He had never had a cobweb in his brain, and this haunting shadow which followed every sweet memory of his wife was beginning to rouse his resentment, and while the storm raged around him, and the ship ploughed her way through the seething waters, Cardo Wynne, set himself with manful determination to face the "black dog" which had haunted him lately; and somewhat in this groove ran his thoughts.
"Valmai, sweet Valmai, I have left her; it could not be helped. I will return to her on the wings of love as soon as I have fulfilled my father's wishes." But a year—had he provided fully and properly for her happiness during that time? Money, amply sufficient, he had left in her uncle's keeping for her, as she had firmly refused to accept it herself. "I shall not want it; I have plenty for myself. I have twenty gold sovereigns in my little seal purse at home, and I shall receive my next quarter's allowance soon. No, no, Cardo, no money until we set up house-keeping," and he had acceded to her wishes; but had, unknown to her, left a cheque in her uncle's keeping. "Why did I claim from her that promise of secrecy? What if circumstances might arise which would make it impossible for her to keep it?" He knew that having given her promise to him, she would rather die than break it. He had acted the part of a selfish man, who had no thought, but of his own passionate love; the possible consequences to her had not before occurred to his mind. But now, in the stress of the storm, while the thunder rolled above him, and the lightning flashed over the swirling waters, everything seemed clear and plain. He had done wrong, and he would now face the wrong. Their happy meeting at Fordsea, as blissful as it was unexpected, might be followed by times of trouble for Valmai—times when she would desire to make known her marriage; and he had left her with an embargo upon her only means of escape out of a difficulty. Yes, the path was plain, he would write to her and release her from her promise of secrecy. Better by far that his father should be angered than that Valmai should suffer. Yes, it was plain to him now; he had left the woman he loved in the anomalous position of a married woman without a husband. What trying scenes might she not pass through! What bitter fruits might not their brief happiness bear!
The next day they had cleared the storm, its fury having been as short-lived as it was sudden. The sea was gradually quieting down, and the sun shone out bravely. The sails were unfurled and theBurrawallaonce more went gaily on her way.
Cardo had spent all the morning in writing; he would send his letter by the first opportunity. It was full of all the tender expressions of love that might be expected under the circumstances. His pen could scarcely keep up with the flow of his thoughts. "I have done wrong in making you promise to keep our marriage a secret," he wrote, "and I repent bitterly of my thoughtlessness. Many things might happen which would make it absolutely necessary that you should disclose it. For instance, your uncle might die; what would then become of you? Certainly you would have your good old Uncle John to fall back upon, and he is a host in himself. If any circumstances should arise which would make it desirable for you to do so, remember, dearest, it is my express wish that you should make known to all the world that you are Valmai Wynne, the beloved wife of Caradoc Wynne." Page after page was written with the lavish fervour of a first love-letter, very interesting to the writer no doubt, but which we will leave to the privacy of the envelope which Cardo addressed and sealed with such care. He placed it in his desk, not expecting that the opportunity for sending it would so soon arrive. In the course of the afternoon, there was some excitement on board, for a large homeward bound ship was sighted, which had been a good deal damaged by the storm. She had been driven before the wind, and had borne the brunt of the gale before it had reached theBurrawalla, having sprung a leak which considerably impeded her course. She hove to within hailing distance, and received the aid which the better condition of Captain Owen's ship enabled him to confer. She wasThe Dundee(Captain Elliotson), bound for Liverpool. All letters were delivered to her keeping, and the ships went on their way, but to what different destinations.The Dundee, after a stormy passage, was wrecked off the coast of France. The captain and crew were saved, but the ship became a total wreck, sinking at last in deep water; and thus Cardo's letter never reached Valmai.
Its transmission, however, relieved him of much of the uneasiness which had hung over him, and his usual cheerfulness returned in a great measure.
Meanwhile, Valmai hoped and longed for the promised letter.
"Why does he not write, I wonder?" was the question continually uppermost in her thoughts.
The voyage of theBurrawallawas, on the whole, prosperous, although, towards the end, she was much delayed by adverse winds, so that Sydney harbour was not reached until the end of the fourth month. A further and unexpected delay arose from the illness of a passenger who occupied a berth in Cardo's cabin, and as they were nearing their destination he died of typhoid fever. Consequently theBurrawallawas put into quarantine, of course to the great annoyance and inconvenience of all on board.
"You are not looking well, Mr. Wynne," said the doctor one day.
"Oh, I'm alright," said Cardo, "only impatient to get on shore. I feel perfectly well. Why, my dear doctor, I have never had a day's illness in my life, as far as I can remember."
"I can believe that," said the doctor; "and what a splendid sailor you have been. But still, let me know if you are not feeling well."
It was quite true that Cardo had latterly experienced some sensations to which he had hitherto been a stranger—frequent headaches and loss of appetite; but, being of a very hardy temperament, he tried to ignore the unpleasant symptoms, and waited for the end of the quarantine with feverish impatience.
When at last they were allowed to land, he was amongst the liveliest and most energetic of the passengers.
He drove at once to the Wolfington Hotel, to which he had been recommended by Captain Owen. As he stepped out of the cab, the portico of the hotel seemed strangely at loggerheads with the rest of the building, He managed, however, to get safely inside the hall, and, after engaging a bedroom, followed his conductor up the stairs, though each step seemed to rise to meet his foot in an unaccountable manner.
"A long sea voyage doesn't suit me, that's certain," he soliloquised, as he entered the room and busied himself at once with his luggage. He took off the labels with the intention of substituting fresh ones addressed to his uncle's farm, deciding not to stay a day longer than was necessary in Sydney, but to make inquiries at once as to the best way of getting to Broadstone, Priory Valley. He still fought bravely against the feeling of lassitude and nausea which oppressed him, and went down to his lunch with a bold front, although the place seemed floating around him. But in vain did the odour of the Wallaby soup ascend to his nostrils; in vain was the roast fowl spread before him. He scarcely tasted the viands which the attentive waiter continued to press upon him; and at last, pushing his plate away, he rose from the table.
"I shall want writing materials and some labels on my return," he said, as he left the room with a somewhat unsteady step.
"On the razzle-dazzle last night, I expect," said the waiter, with a wink at his fellow.
The fresh air seemed to relieve Cardo, in some degree, of the weight which dragged him down; he was even well enough to notice that the uneven streets were more like those of an old-fashioned English town than anything he had expected to find in Australia. But this feeling of relief did not last long. In the street which led down to the quay he observed a chemist's shop, and, entering it, asked for a "draught or pick-me-up" of some kind.
"I feel awfully seedy," he said, sinking into a chair.
"Yes, you look it," said the chemist; "what's wrong?"
"I think I must give in," said Cardo, "for I believe I am sickening for typhoid fever."
The chemist looked grave.
"I advise you to go home at once, and to bed."
"Yes," replied Cardo, trying to rise to the emergency, and still manfully struggling against the disease which threatened him. "Yes, I will go home," he said again, walking out of the shop. He took the wrong turning however, going down towards the harbour, instead of returning to the hotel, and he was soon walking under a burning sun amongst the piled-up bales and packages on the edge of the quay. A heavy weight seemed to press on his head, and a red mist hung over everything as he walked blindly on. At a point which he had just reached, a heap of rough boxes obstructed his path, and at that moment a huge crank swung its iron arm over the edge of the dock, a heavy weight was hanging from it, and exactly as Cardo passed, it came with a horizontal movement against the back of his head with terrible force, throwing him forward insensible on the ground. The high pile of boxes had hidden the accident from the crowd of loungers and pedestrians who might otherwise have noticed the fall. The sudden lurch with which he was thrown forward jerked his pocket-book from the breast-pocket of his coat, and it fell to the ground a foot or two in front of him. It was instantly picked up by a loafer, who had been leaning against the pile of boxes, and who alone had witnessed the accident; he immediately stooped to help the prostrate man, and finding him pale and still, shouted for assistance, and was quickly joined by a knot of "larrikins," who dragged the unconscious man a little further from the edge of the quay.
It was not long before a small crowd had gathered round, the man who had first observed him making a safe escape in the confusion, Cardo's pocket-book carefully hidden under his tattered coat.
"Better take him up to Simkins the chemist," said a broad-shouldered sailor; and, procuring a stretcher, they carried their unconscious burden to the chemist's shop.
"Why, let me see," said Mr. Simkins; "surely this is the gentleman who called here a few minutes ago. I told him to go home, and he said he would; but I noticed he turned down towards the quay; poor fellow, bad case, I'm afraid. He said he thought he was sickening for typhoid fever, and he's about right, I think."
"What shall we do with him?" said the sailor. "See if you can find a card or letter in his pockets? Nothing," he added, as together they searched Cardo's pockets, "not a card, nor a letter, nothing but this bunch of keys, and some loose gold and silver."
There was no clue to the stranger's identity, except the marking on his clothing.
"Here's C. W. on his handkerchief—Charles Williams, perhaps; well, he ought to be attended to at once, if he ain't dead already," said another.
"Yes, a good thing the hospital is so near," said the chemist. "You had better leave his money here, and tell Dr. Belton that you have done so. My brother is his assistant. I daresay we shall hear more about him from him."
"Now, then, boys; heave up, gently, that's it," and Cardo was carried out of the shop to the hospital in an adjoining street. Here, placed on a bed in one of the long wards, doctors and nurses were soon around him; but Cardo lay white and still and unconscious.
One of the bearers had mentioned typhoid fever, and Dr. Belton looked grave and interested as he applied himself to the examination of the patient.
"My brother has been here," said his assistant; "this man had just been in to his shop, and said he believed he was sickening for typhoid, and it wasn't ten minutes before he was picked up on the quay."
"The heat of the sun, I expect, was too much for him under the circumstances," said Dr. Belton. "A plain case of sunstroke, I think."
"This money was found in his pocket," said Simkins, handing over five sovereigns and fifteen shillings in silver; "this bunch of keys, too, and his watch; but no card or letter to show who he is."
"Fine young fellow," said Dr. Belton; "splendid physique, but looks like a bad attack."
Restoratives were tried, but with no effect; Cardo still lay like a dead man.
"Very strange," said the doctor, when next day he found the patient in the same unconscious condition. "Few constitutions would be able to fight against two such serious diseases."
"Sunstroke as well as typhoid?" said Mr. Simkins.
"Yes, I have no doubt of it. Curious combination of evils."
"Poor chap!" said Simkins, "no constitution could survive that."
"Nothing is impossible," said the doctor, "very interesting case; keep up the strength, nurse."
Everything was done that was possible for poor Cardo; the nurses were unremitting in their care and attention, but nothing roused him from his trance-like stupor.
During the course of the day, the news of the finding of an unknown man on the quay reached the Wolfington Hotel, where the waiter, with another knowing wink and shake of the head, said, "On the razzle-dazzle again, I expect. Must be the same man." And he proceeded upstairs to examine the luggage, from which Cardo had removed the labels intending to redirect them to his uncles house. There was no letter or paper found to indicate the name of the owner, even the initials C. W. gave no clue.
"What was the man's name?" said the waiter to Mr. Simkins, who happened to call the following morning.
"Don't know. Charles Williams he is called at the hospital. There was no clue to his identity, but just the letters C. W. on his linen."
"Then, no doubt, his luggage is here," said the waiter. "All his things are marked C. W., and, from your description, it must be the same man."
"Well, my brother will speak to Dr. Belton about it, and he will arrange to have it taken care of; he already has his money and his watch."
And so Cardo Wynne slipped out of his place in the outside world and was soon forgotten by all except those connected with the hospital.
In three weeks the fever had run its course, and, to the astonishment of the nurses and doctors, Cardo still lived.
"Extraordinary vitality! Has he never spoken a word?"
"Never a sound or a word until he began moaning to-day."
"Good sign, this moaning. Mind, keep up his strength."
And gradually, under the constant care of Doctor Belton, who was much interested in the case, Cardo, or Charles Williams as he was now called, recovered strength of body; and, to a slight extent, restoration to consciousness; for though he lay inert and motionless, his lips moved incessantly in a low muttering or whispering, in which the nurses in vain endeavoured to find a clue to the mystery of his illness.
A bitter north wind, laden with sleet and rain, blew over Abersethin Bay, tearing the surface into streaks of foam. The fishing boats were drawn up on the grassy slope which bordered the sandy beach, and weighted with heavy stones. The cottage doors were all closed, and if a stray pedestrian was anywhere to be seen, he was hurrying on his way, his hands in his pockets and his cap tied firmly under his chin. On the cliffs above, the wind swirled and rushed, blowing the grass all one way and sweeping over the stunted thorn bushes. In the corners under the hedges, the cows and horses sheltered in little groups, and the few gaunt trees which grew on that exposed coast groaned and creaked as they bent away from the storm.
At Dinas the wind blew with bitter keenness through every chink and cranny, roaring and whistling round the bare gray house, rattling the doors and windows with every angry gust. In the little parlour at the back of the house it was not heard so plainly. A bright fire burned in the grate, and the crimson curtains gave it a look of warmth and comfort which Essec Powell unconsciously enjoyed. He was sitting in his arm-chair and in his favourite position, listening with great interest to Valmai, who was reading aloud in Welsh from the "Mabinogion." The tale was of love and chivalry, and it should have interested the girl more than it did the old man who listened with such attention, but her thoughts refused to follow the thread of the story. She stopped occasionally to listen to the wind as it howled in the chimney. All through the short, dark afternoon she read with untiring patience, until at last, when the light was fading, Gwen brought in the tea and put an end to the reading for a time.
Valmai had stayed at Fordsea until her uncle had quite recovered from his accident; and the New Year was well on its way before he had wished her good-bye at the station. She left him with real sorrow, and the old feeling of loneliness and homelessness returned to her heart. He had received her with such warmth, and had so evidently taken her into his life, that the friendless girl had opened her heart wide to him; and as his rough, hairy hand rested on the window of the carriage in which she sat, she pressed her lips upon it in a loving good-bye. There were tears in the kind old eyes, as he stood waiting for the train to move.
"Won't you write, sometimes, uncle?" she asked.
"Well, Ay won't promise that, indeed, may dear; for there's nothing Ay hate more than wrayting a letter; but Ay'll come and see you as soon as you have a house of your own. And don't you forget to look out for a little cottage for me at Abersethin. Ay'm determined to end my days near you, andyou know who."
"Oh! there's lovely it will be, uncle, to have you to run to whenever anything vexes me, but nothing ever will vex me then."
"No, no; of course, may dear, we'll all be jolly together. Good-bay, good-bay." And the train moved out of the station.
Two months afterwards we find Valmai at Dinas, and reading to her Uncle Essec as usual. She busied herself with the preparations for tea, lighting the lamp and placing the buttered toast in front of the fire until he should awake from his dreams, and descend to real life. While the tea was "brewing," she sank back into her chair and fell into a deep reverie. She was as fair as ever, the golden hair drawn back from the white, broad brows, but the eyes were full of anxious thought, and there was a little wistful sadness about the lines of the mouth. She was paler, and did not move about her duties with the same lightness and grace which belonged to her when we last saw her. She seemed in no hurry to disturb her uncle's dozing dreams, until at last Gwen came hastily in.
"Well, indeed! What are you two doing here? There's quiet you are!"
Valmai started, rousing herself and her uncle.
"Yes. Come to tea, uncle. I was thinking, Gwen."
"Oh, yes; thinking, thinking," said Gwen, with an insolent sneer. "You may think and think—you are always thinking now; and what about, I should like to know?" and, with a shrewd shake of her head, she left the room.
A crimson tide overspread Valmai's face and neck, and, fading away, left her paler than before. She stood for a moment with her hands clasped, and pressed on her bosom, looking at the door through which Gwen had just passed, and then seating herself at the table, her eyes suffused with tears, she began to pour out her uncle's tea.
"That's a fine piece, Valmai," he said, "how Clwyn went away and never came back again, till the sea washed him one day at Riana's feet."
"Yes," said the girl, in a low voice. "Won't you eat your toast, uncle?"
"Oh, yes, to be sure," said the old man, beginning on the buttered toast which she placed before him.
When tea was over, the "Mabinogion" were brought out again and Valmai continued to read till her uncle fell asleep. Then leaving him to Gwen's care, she gladly retired for the night into her own little bedroom. Here she might think as much as she liked, and well she availed herself of that privilege. Here she would sit alone for hours every day, with her head bent over some bit of work, her busy fingers pleating and stitching, while her thoughts took wing over the leaden wintry sea before her. Away and away, in search of Cardo. Where was he? Why did he not write to her? Would he ever come? Would he ever write? And with weary reiteration she sought out every imaginary reason for his long silence.
New hopes, new fears had of late dawned in her heart, at first giving rise to a full tide of happiness and joy, the joy that comes with the hope of motherhood—woman's crowning glory; but the joy and happiness had gradually given place to anxiety and fear, and latterly, since it had become impossible for her to hide her condition from those around her, she was filled with trouble and distressing forebodings, Her sensitive nature received continual wounds. Suspicious looks and taunting sneers, innuendos and broad suggestions all came to her with exceeding bitterness. She knew that every day the cloud which hung over her grew blacker and heavier. Where should she turn when her uncle should discover her secret? In the solitude of her room she paced backwards and forwards, wringing her hands.
"What will I do? what will I do? He said he would return in seven or eight months—a year at furthest. Will he come? will he ever come?"
And, gazing out over the stormy sea, she would sob in utter prostration of grief. Every day she walked to Abersethin and haunted the post-office. The old postmaster had noticed her wistful looks of disappointment, and seemed to share her anxiety for the arrival of a letter—who from, he did not know for certain, but he made a very good guess, for Valmai's secret was not so much her own only as she imagined it to be.
Her frequent meetings with Cardo, though scarcely noticed at the time, were remembered against her; and her long stay at Fordsea, with the rumour of Cardo's return there, decided the feeling of suspicion which had for some time been floating about. There had been a whisper, then mysterious nods and smiles, and cruel gossip had spread abroad the evil tidings.
Valmai bore all in patient silence. Her longing for Cardo's return amounted almost to an agony, yet the thought of explaining her position, and clearing her name before the world, never entered her head, or, if it did, was instantly expelled. No; the whole world might spurn her; she might die; but to reveal a secret which Cardo had desired her to keep, seemed to her faithful and guileless nature an unpardonable breach of honour.
Gwen, who had not been immaculate herself, was her cruellest enemy, never losing an opportunity of inflicting a sting upon her helpless victim, whose presence in the household she had always resented.
The day following Gwen's sneering remark, Valmai took her daily walk toAbersethin post-office.
The old man beamed at her over his counter.
"Letter come at last, miss," he said.
And her heart stood still. She was white to the lips as she sat down on a convenient sack of maize.
"It is a long walk," said the postmaster, hunting about for the letter."Dear me, wherrs I put it?"
And he looked in a box of bloaters and a basket of eggs.
"Here it is. I 'member now; I put it safe with the cheese was to go toDinas."
Valmai took it with trembling fingers; it had a deep black edge.
"It is not for me," she said.
"Indeed! I was not notice that. I was only see 'Powell, Dinas.' I am sorry, miss, fâch; but you must cheer up," he added, seeing the gathering tears; "it's never so dark that the Lord can't clear it up."
"No," said Valmai, rising from her seat. "Thank you; good-bye."
And, blinded by her tears, she passed out into the driving wind and sleet. Perhaps the letter bore some news of Cardo! Perhaps bad news, for it had a black edge! She drew her red cloak tightly around her and once more bravely faced the buffeting wind which swept the path before her, and with fitful gusts threatened to lift her off her feet.
When she reached Dinas, Gwen was already laying the dinner in the little parlour.
"You have been a long time," she said. "Where have you been? To the post again to-day? You never used to go to the post, Valmai."
The girl did not answer, but sat down breathless on the sofa.
"Where is uncle? I have a letter for him." And as she spoke her uncle entered.
"A letter for me? Well, indeed! What can it be?"
Essec Powell's correspondence was very limited; he hated writing, and never answered a letter which could possibly be ignored. He adjusted his spectacles, and after turning the envelope in every direction, opened it.
"Reuben Street, Fordsea," he began. "Oh, dear, dear! here's writing!Caton pawb! I could write better myself. Read it, Valmai."
And she obeyed.
"DEAR SIR,—I am grieve more than words can say to tell you this sad news, and I hope you will prepare for the worst. Becos your brother, Captain John Powell, No. 8 Reuben Street, Fordsea, was drownded yesterday in the harbour, and I have loast the best frind ever I had and ever I will have. Please to tell Miss Powell the sad news, and please to tell her that Captain Powell was oleways talking great deal about her, and was missing her very much. Oh, we shall never see nobody like him again. He went out in a small boat with two frinds to the steamer Penelope, Captain Parley, and coming back the boat was capsize and the three gentlemen was upset in the water. One was saved, but Captain Powell and Mr. Jones was drownded. Please to come and see about the funeral as soon as you can.
"I remain in great sorrow,
"Yours truly,
Valmai's trembling voice failed, and letting the letter drop, she covered her face with her hands and burst into a flood of tears, as she realised that her best friend had slipped away from her. In the trouble and anxiety which had latterly clouded her life, she had often been comforted by the thought that at all events there was one warm heart and home open to her, but now all was lost, and her loneliness and friendlessness pressed heavily upon her. Sob after sob shook her whole frame.
Essec Powell picked up the letter, and read it again.
"Well, well," he said, "to think that John, my brother, should go before me! Poor fellow, bâch! To be taken so suddenly and unprepared as he was."
"Oh, no, uncle," said Valmai, between her sobs, "he was not unprepared. There never was a kinder soul, a more unselfish man, nor a more generous. Oh, you don't know how good he was to the poor, how kind and gentle to every one who suffered! Oh, God has him in His safe keeping somewhere!"
"Well, well," said Essec Powell, sitting down to his dinner, "we won't argue about it now, but some day, Valmai, I would like to explain to you the difference between that natural goodness and the saving grace which is necessary for salvation. Come to dinner, Valmai. I wonder how much did he leave? When is the funeral?" he said, addressing Gwen.
"You've got to go down and settle that," she answered. "Will I tellShoni to put the gig ready?"
"Yes, yes. I better go. I will be back by Sunday."
"James Harris will help you in every way, uncle, and will settle everything for you."
"Oh! very well, very well. Tis a pity about the 'Mabinogion,' too; but we'll go on with them next week, Valmai."
Shoni and Gwen continued until bedtime to discuss with unction every item of information past, possible, or prospective, connected with the death of the old Captain, while Valmai lay on the old red sofa, and thought sadly of her loss.
"There's sudden," said Gwen, "but 'twill be a good thing for the master, whatever!"
Valmai lay awake far into the night recalling with tears the kindness and even tenderness of her old uncle.
On the following Saturday Essec Powell returned from the funeral, and as he stepped out of the gig at the door, his face wore an unusual expression which Valmai noticed at once. He seemed more alive to the world around him; there was a red spot on each cheek, and he did not answer his niece's low greeting, but walked into the parlour with a stamping tread very unlike his usual listless shuffle.
"Are you tired, uncle?" the girl asked gently.
"No, I am not tired; but I am hurt and offended with you, Valmai. You are a sly, ungrateful girl, and it is very hard on me, a poor, struggling preacher very badly paid, to find that my only brother has left all his worldly goods to you, who are already well provided for. What do you think yourself? Wasn't it a shame on you to turn him against his brother?"
"Oh, I never did," said Valmai; "I never thought of such a thing! Dear, dear Uncle John! I didn't want his money, I only wanted his love."
"What is the matter?" said Gwen, coming in.
"Matter enough," said her master, in angry, stammering tones. "John, my brother, has left all his money to this Judas of a girl! A hundred and fifty pounds a year, if you please! and only a paltry 100 pounds to me, and the same to Jim Harris, the sailor. Ach y fi! the greediness of people is enough to turn on me."
Between Gwen's exclamations and Essec Powell's angry harping on the same string, the evening was made miserable to Valmai, and she was glad enough to escape to her bedroom.
The next day she awoke with a throbbing headache.
"You are not going to chapel to-day, I suppose?" said Gwen.
"No, my head aches too badly. I have never missed before, but to-day I think I will rest at home."
"Yes, rest at home, certainly," said Gwen. "You ought to have stopped at home long ago; in my opinion, it would be more decent."
Her meaning was too plain, and Valmai's head drooped as she answered:
"Perhaps it would have been wiser, considering all things."
"Considering all things, indeed!" sneered Gwen. "Yes, they will turn you out of the 'Sciet, because when the calf won't go through the scibor door he has to be pushed out!" And with a toss of her head she carried the tray away.
It was a miserable day for Valmai, and not even after events of more bitterness were able to efface it from her memory.
She roamed about the house restlessly, and round the garden, which was beginning to show signs of the budding life which had slept through the storms and snows of winter. Already in a sheltered corner she detected the scent of violets, an early daffodil nodded at her, a bee hummed noisily, and a sweet spring breeze swept over the garden. What memories it awoke within her! How long ago it seemed since she and Cardo had roamed together by the Berwen! Years and years ago, surely! Her reverie was disturbed by Shoni, who, coming back early from chapel, had found his way into the garden.
"You wass quite right not to go to chapel this morning," he said."Don't go to-night again, neither!"
"No," said Valmai, "I won't. But why, Shoni?"
"Why?" he said, "because you better not. John Jones and William Hughes, the deacons, is bin speaking to master about you, and next week is the 'Sciet,[1] and you will be turn out."
Valmai turned a shade paler; she knew the disgrace this excommunication implied; but she only turned with a sigh towards the house, Shoni marching before her with the air of a man who felt he had performed a disagreeable duty. Essec Powell had stopped to dine with a farmer living near the chapel, and did not return home until near tea-time. Then burst upon the girl the storm she had so long dreaded; her uncle's anger had already been roused by his brother's "will," and his feelings of greed and spite had been augmented by the information imparted to him by his deacons.
"How dare you?" he said. His eyes flashed with anger, and his voice trembled with the intensity of his fury.
Valmai, who was arranging something on the tea-table, sank down on a chair beside it; and Gwen, carrying a slice of toast on a fork, came in to listen. To hear her master speak in such excited tones was an event so unusual as to cause her not only astonishment but pleasure.
Shoni, too, was attracted by the loud tones, and stood blocking up the doorway.
Valmai flung her arms on the table, and leant her head upon them, sobbing quietly.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself?" thundered the old man. "Sitting at my table, sleeping under my roof, and attending my chapel—and all the time to be the vile thing that you are! Dear Uncle John, indeed! what would your dear Uncle John say of you now? You fooled him as you have fooled me. Do you think I can bear you any longer in the house with me?"
There was no answer from Valmai, and the old man, angered by her silence, clutched her by the arm and shook her violently.
"Stop there!" said Shoni, taking a step forward, and thrusting his brawny arm protectingly over the girl's bent head. "Stop there! Use as many bad words as you like, Essec Powell, but if you dare to touch her with a finger, I'll show you who is the real master here."
"She is a deceitful creature, and has brought shame and dishonour on my name!" stammered the old man. "Am I, a minister of religion, any longer to harbour in my house such a huzzy?No; out you go, madam! Not another night under my roof!"
"Will you send her out at this late hour?" said Shoni. "Where is she to go?"
"I don't care where she goes! She has plenty of money—money that ought to belong to me. Let her go where she likes, and let her reap the harvest that her conduct deserves. Remember, when I come back from chapel to-night I will expect the house to be cleared of you."
Valmai rose wearily from the table, and went up the stairs to her own room, where she hastily gathered a few things together into a light basket, her heavier things she had packed some time before in readiness for some such sudden departure as this.
Meanwhile, in the parlour below the sturdy Shoni faced his irate master.
"Man," he said, "are you not ashamed of yourself?"
"How dare you speak to me in that tone?" said the old man. "Because I owe you two or three hundred pounds you forget your position here."
"No," said Shoni, "I don't forget, and I'll remind you sooner than you think if you don't behave yourself! Man! you haven't learnt the ABC of religion, though you are a 'preacher.' Christ never taught you that way of treating a fallen woman. Shame upon you! And your own brother's child! But I'll see she's taken care of, poor thing! And the villain who has brought this misery upon her shall feel the weight of this fist if ever he returns to this country; but he won't; he has got safe away, and she has to bear the shame, poor thing! Wait till I tell the 'Vicare du' what I think of his precious son."
"The 'Vicare du'?" said the old man, turning white with rage. "Do you mean to say that his son has been the cause of this disgrace? I'll thrash her within an inch of her life!" and he made a rush towards the door.
"Sit down," said Shoni, taking him by the arm and pushing him back into his easy-chair, "sit down, and calm yourself, before you stand up and preach and pray for other people. Tis for yourself you ought to pray."
"True, Shoni, true. I am a miserable sinner like the rest, but don't let me see that girl again."
"Put her out of your thoughts," said Shoni; "I'll see to her." And as Valmai came silently down the stairs, he opened the front door for her, and quietly took her basket from her.
"Well, howyr bâch!" said Gwen, looking after them, "there's attentions! We'd better all walk in the wrong path!" and she banged the door spitefully, and returned to the parlour to arrange her master's tea.
"And, now, where are you going to, my dear?" said Shoni kindly. "Will you come to Abersethin? Jane, my sister, will give you lodgings; she is keeping a shop there."
"No, no, Shoni," said the girl, "you are kind, indeed, and I will never forget your kindness; but I will go to Nance, on the island; she will take me in, I know."
"Will she?" said Shoni. "Then you could not go to a better place.'Tis such lonesome place, the pipple will forget you there."
"Oh, I hope so," said Valmai; "that is all I desire."
"The tide will be down. We can get there easy, only 'tis very cold for you."
"No, I like the fresh night-wind."
"Well, my dear," said Shoni, "I daresay your uncle will be shamed of himself to-morrow, and will be wanting you to kom back. I will bring the gig for you; 'tis a long walk."
"No, never, Shoni; I will never go back there again, so don't bring the gig for me; but if you will kindly send my big box to the Rock Bridge, I will send somebody across for it."
"'S' no need for you to do that. I will take it down to the shore on the whilbare and row it over in Simon Lewis's boat. I will kom before dawn tomorrow, then no one will know where you are. I'll put it out on the rocks before Nance's house and carry it up to her door."
"Thank you, thank you, Shoni; but wouldn't tonight be better?"
"Oh, no; Sunday to-night," said Shoni, in quite another tone.
He waited until he saw Nance's door opened in response to Valmai's timid knock, and then made his way back over the Rock Bridge at once before the tide turned.
When Nance opened her door and saw the figure of a woman standing there, she was at first surprised, for the dress struck her at once as not being that of a peasant.
"Nance, fâch! it is I!" said Valmai. "You will let me in?"
"Let you in! yes, indeed. Haven't I been longing to see you all day! Come in, my child, from this bitter wind; come in and get warm. I see you have brought your basket, that means you are going to stay the night. Right glad I am. You will have the little bed in the corner. Keep your red cloak on, dear little heart, because the wind is blowing in cold here at nights, and you have been used to warm rooms. I am well used to cold, and sickness, and discomfort."
"But, Nance—" and then the terrible revelation had to be made, the truth had to be told, and then the loving arms were clasped round the sorrowful girl, and words of comfort and hope were whispered into her ear. No reproaches, no cruel taunts here; nothing but the warmth of human sympathy, and the loving forgiveness of a tender pure woman.
In the early dawn, while Valmai still slept, Shoni's "yo-hoy!" was heard from the rocks, through which he was guiding his boat. Nance opened her door, and, in the gray of the morning, the "big box" was brought in and safely deposited in the tiny bedroom, which it nearly filled.
"Good-bye," said Shoni. "Take care of her, and if she wants anything get it for her, and remember I will pay you." And he rowed away, and was busily ploughing when Gwen went out to milk the cows in the morning.
"Where is she gone?" she asked. "That shameful girl."
"Gone away," said Shoni shortly, and Gwen knew it was useless trying to get anything more out of him.
Thus Valmai slipped quietly out of her old life, though for some time she was the subject of much gossip in the neighbourhood.
It was not long before Shoni found an opportunity of speaking to the Vicar, and as he saw the effect of his tidings upon the cold, hard man, a feeling of pity stirred within him.
"Is this all news to you?" he said. "Didn't you know that your son was haunting the footsteps of this innocent girl, to bring her to ruin?"
"Had I known," said the Vicar, in a stern voice, "that my son held any communication with the Methodist preacher's family, however innocent it might be, I would have closed my doors against him."
"Where is he?" asked Shoni, clenching his fist.
"I don't know," said the Vicar, turning away.
Shoni called after him, "When he comes back he'll feel the weight of this fist, if it's twenty years to come."
[1] Society meeting.
A glorious summer was once more brooding over sea and land, when one morning, in Nance's cottage, a feeble wail was heard; a sound which brought a flood of happiness to Valmai, for nothing could wholly crush the joyous welcome of a mother's heart. For a little while the past months of sorrow and weariness were forgotten. The bitter disappointment caused by Cardo's silence, lying deep below the surface, was of so mysterious a nature that she scarcely found words to express it even to herself. That he was false, that he had forgotten her, never entered her mind. Some dire misfortune had befallen him; some cruel fate detained him. Was it sickness? Was it death? There was nothing for her but to bear and to wait; and God had sent this tiny messenger of love to help and comfort her in her weary waiting. She still believed that Cardo would return; he had promised, and if he were living he would keep his promise—of this she felt certain. Secure from the sneers and scornful glances of the world, alone in Nance's cottage, her heart awoke afresh to the interests of life. Her baby boy was bright and strong, and she watched with delight his growing likeness to Cardo; the black hair, the black eyes, and the curve on the rosebud mouth, which reminded her so much of his smile. Nance wondered much at the girl's cheerfulness, and sometimes felt it her duty to remind her, by look or tone, of the sorrow connected with her child's birth.
"Look at him, Nance. See these lovely little feet, and there's strong he is!"
"Yes, druan bâch,[1] he is a beautiful boy, indeed," she would answer with a sigh, drawing her wrinkled finger over the fresh soft cheek.
Valmai began to chafe at the want of brightness which surrounded her little one's life. She was proud of him, and wished to take him into the village.
"No, my child," said Nance gently, "you had better not."
"Why not?" was on Valmai's lips, but she hesitated. A deep blush crimsoned her face. "My boy has nothing to be ashamed of," she said, with a proud toss of her head.
"When is he to be christened?" was Nance's next question.
"September."
"September!" gasped the old woman, "he will be three months old; and what if anything should happen to him before then?"
"Nothingshallhappen to him," said Valmai, folding him to her heart. "My life and my body are larger than his, and they will both have to go before any harm reaches him."
"There's a foolish thing to say," said Nance, "and I wonder at you, merch i. You ought to know by this time that we are clay in the hands of the Potter. Little heart, he ought to be christened, and have a name of his own."
"He can be 'Baby' till September, and then he will be christened."
"And why, September, child?"
Here Valmai took refuge in that silence which had been her only resource since Cardo's departure. She would be perfectly silent. She would make no answer to inquiries or taunts, but would wait patiently until he returned. September! What glowing pictures of happiness the word brought before her mind's eye. Once more to stroll with Cardo by Berwen banks! Once more to linger in the sunshine, and rest in the shade; to listen to the Berwen's prattling, to the whispering of the sea-breeze. Such happiness, she thought, was all in store for her when Cardo came home in September; and the words, "When Cardo comes home in September," rang in her ears, and filled her heart and soul. Yes, the long weary months of waiting, the sorrow and the pain, the cruel words, and the sneering glances, were all coming to an end. She had kept her promise, and had never spoken a word to implicate Cardo, or to suggest that the bond of marriage had united them. He would come home, at latest in a year, and remove every sorrow; and life would be one long shining path of happiness from youth to age.
The light returned to her eyes, and the rose to her cheek; her step was once more light and springy, as she paced the lonely shore, dressed in her favourite white serge, and carrying her little white-robed baby in her arms. She was an object of great interest to the inhabitants of the fishing village on the other side of the island, and they often found an excuse (more especially the young sailor lads) to pass by the cottage, and to stop at the open door for a drink of water or a chat with Nance. They were as loud in their condemnation of her faithless lover as in admiration of her beauty and pleasant manners.
Once more life seemed full of promise and hope for her, until one day when the bay was glistening in the sunshine, and the sea-gulls, like flecks of snow, flew about the rocks; the soft waves plashing gently between the boulders, a little cloud arose on her horizon. Her baby was fretful and feverish, and Nance had roused her fears.
"He is too fat, merch i," she said, "and if he had any childish illness it would go hard with him."
Valmai had taken fright at once.
"Can you take care of him, Nance, while I go to Abersethin and fetchDr. Hughes?" she asked.
"Yes, but don't be frightened, cariad; I daresay he will laugh at us, and say there is nothing the matter with the child."
"Being laughed at does not hurt one," said Valmai, as she tied on her hat. "I will bring him back with me if possible."
She took a long look at the baby, who lay with flushed face on Nance's knees, and ran with all speed across the Rock-Bridge, from which the tide was just receding, up the straggling street of Abersethin, and through the shady lane, which led to the doctor's house.
There was great peering and peeping from the kitchen window, as Valmai made her progress between the heaps of straw in the farm-yard to the back door, which stood open. The doctor's wife, who had her arms up to her elbows in curds and whey, looked up from her cheese-tub as she appeared at the door.
"Dear me, Miss Powell! Well, indeed, what's the matter?"
"Oh, it's my baby, Mrs. Hughes! Can Dr. Hughes come with me at once?"
"There's a pity, now," said Mrs. Hughes; "he is gone to Brynderyn. Mr.Wynne is not well. Grieving, they say, about his son."
Valmai blushed, and Mrs. Hughes was pleased with her success.
"When will he be back, d' you think?"
"Not till evening, I'm afraid. But there's Mr. Francis, the assistant—shall I call him? he is very clever with children. Here he is. Will you go with Miss Powell, to see—h'm—a baby which she is taking a great interest in on Ynysoer?"
"Yes, certainly," said the young assistant, colouring, for he had heard Valmai's story, and never having seen her, was now rather bewildered by her beauty, and the awkwardness of the situation.
"Oh, thank you; can you come at once?" said Valmai.
"At once," said the young man. "Is the child very ill?"
"Indeed, I hope not," said Valmai; "he is very flushed and restless."
"Whose child is it?"
"Good-bye, Mrs. Hughes. It is mine," she added, in a clear voice, as they left the kitchen door together.
"Wel, anwl, anwl! there's impidence," said one of the servants, looking after them. "It is mine! As bold as brass. Well, indeed!"
"Yes, I must say," said her mistress, with a sniff, "she might show a little more shamefacedness about it."
"There's a beauty, she is," said Will the cowman, coming in.
"Beauty, indeed!" said the girl. "A pink and white face like a doll!"
"Her beauty has not done her much good, whatever," said Mrs. Hughes, as she finished her curds and dried her arms.
Meanwhile Valmai and the doctor were walking rapidly down the lane to the shore.
"Dan, will you take us across?" said Valmai to a man who stood leaning against the corner of the Ship Inn.
"With every pleasure, miss fâch; you've been out early," he said, as he pushed out his boat, and, seeing the doctor—"if you please, miss, I hope there's nobody ill at Nance's?"
"Yes," said Valmai, hesitating, "the little one is ill."
She did not say, "my baby," as she had done at the doctor's. At the first contact with the world beyond Ynysoer, where she had been so long secluded and sheltered, a feeling of nervous shyness began to over-shadow her.
"Dear, dear!" was all Dan's answer,
Once on the island, Mr. Francis found it difficult to keep up with Valmai's hurrying steps. He was full of pity for the beautiful girl beside him, so young and so friendless, and was anxious to serve her, and to cure her child if possible.
As they entered the cottage together, Nance endeavoured gently to prevent Valmai's approaching the child.
"Not you, my dear, not you; let the doctor see him."
Mr. Francis was already attending to the little sufferer.
"No," he said, looking backwards, "not you, Miss Powell; let me manage him."
Valmai turned white to the lips, and, gently putting the old woman aside, took her place at the bedside, where a pitiful sight met her eyes. Her little one lay in the terrible throes of "convulsions," and again the doctor tried to banish Valmai from the scene.
"Let me be," she said, in a quiet voice, which astonished the young man. "Let me be; I am used to trouble." And passing her arm under the little struggling frame, she supported it until the last gasp put an end to its sufferings.
Mr. Francis took the child into his own arms and laid it on the bed, turning his attention to Valmai, who had fallen fainting on the floor.
"Poor thing! poor thing!" said the tender-hearted young man. "It is a pity she cannot remain unconscious."
But he applied the usual restoratives, and she soon opened her eyes, while Nance straightened the folds of the little night-gown with loving fingers, tears coursing each other down her wrinkled face.
"Oh, dear heart! how will she bear it?"
Mr. Francis was silently bathing the girl's forehead.
"You are better now?" he asked.
"Yes," she said; "thank you. You have been very kind, but do not trouble to stay longer; I am quite well," and she slowly rose from the settle.
"I will go now," said the young man. "You would like to be alone, but I will call in the afternoon. You will want someone to—to—make arrangements for you."
"Arrangements? To have my little one buried? Yes, yes, of course. I shall be thankful, indeed."
"Here, or at Penderin?"
"Oh, here—in the 'rock' churchyard."
"I will go at once," and he went out, gently closing the door upon the two women in their sorrow.
In the afternoon he came again, and, being a man of very warm feelings, dreaded the scene of a woman's tears and sobs, though he longed to soothe and comfort the girl who so much interested him. But there were no tears or wailings awaiting him.
Valmai sat in the low rush chair in stony despair, her hands clasped on her lap, her face white as her dress, her blue eyes dry, and with a mute, inquiring gaze in them, as though she looked around for an explanation of this fresh misery.
He did not tell her more than was necessary of his interview with the Vicar. The child was supposed to be illegitimate as well as unbaptised, and could not, therefore, be allowed to sleep his last sleep in the company of the baptised saints.
Old Shôn, the sexton, was already digging the little grave in a corner of the churchyard relegated to such unconsidered and unwelcomed beings as this. However, it was a sunny corner, sheltered from the sea-wind, and the docks and nettles grew luxuriantly there.
Such dry-eyed, quiet grief amongst the emotional Welsh was new to the doctor, and he knew that if tears did not come to her relief her health would suffer, so he gently tried to make her talk of her little one.
"I saw you had tried a hot bath, or I would have recommended it," he said.
"Yes, Nance had."
"I truly sympathise with you; he was a fine child."
"Yes, he is a beautiful child," said Valmai.
"I am sorry to wound your feelings, but what day would you wish him to be buried?"
"Oh, any day; it makes no difference now."
"To-day is Friday. Shall we say Monday, then?"
"Yes, Monday will do. At what time?" said Valmai.
"At four o'clock."
Nance was crying silently.
"Mrs. Hughes wants to know if you will come and stay with her till after Monday. I have my gig at Abersethin, and can row you over now."
Valmai smiled, and the sadness of that smile remained in Mr. Francis' memory.
"No," she said, shaking her head slowly, "I will not leave my baby until he is buried, but thank her for me, and thank you, oh, so much. I did not know there was so much kindness left in the world."
As she spoke the tears gathered in her eyes, and, throwing her arms over the feet of the little dead child, she rested her head upon them, and broke into long, deep sobs.
Mr. Francis, more content, went quietly out of the house, and did not see Valmai again until on Monday he met the funeral in the churchyard. Valmai, to the horror of Nance and her friends, wore her usual white dress. She had a bunch of white jessamine in her hand, and, as the little coffin disappeared from sight, she showered the flowers upon it. Nance was too infirm to accompany her, so that she stood alone beside the grave, although surrounded by the fisher folk of the island. She sobbed bitterly as she heard the heavy clods fall on the coffin, and when at last everything was over, and it was time to move away, she looked round as if for a friend; and Mr. Francis, unable to resist the pleading look, pushed his way towards her, and, quietly drawing her arm within his own, led her homewards down the grassy slope to the shore, over the rough, uneven sand, and in at the humble cottage door. Nance received her with open arms, into which Valmai sank with a passionate burst of tears, during which Mr. Francis went out unnoticed.
[1] Poor little fellow.