Inside that bolted door, a listening ear had caught every vibration of his footstep, every tone of his voice, and a tear-stained face was now raised in agonised prayer, over folded hands which held in their clasp a ring hung on a white satin ribbon.
The exclamations of disappointment and regret next morning, when Cardo's empty seat at the breakfast table disclosed their guest's absence, were loud as they were sincere.
"How unfortunate!" said Colonel Meredith. "I meant to have taken him out fishing to-day; there was a little rain in the night and the Ithon would have been perfect for trout to-day. Here's his note:—
"DEAR COLONEL MEREDITH—I am grieved to say that some unexpected circumstances necessitate my leaving your hospitable roof and returning home to Cardiganshire at once. I shall walk to the station and catch the 7.30 train. Please tender my heart-felt thanks to Mrs. Meredith, and all the other members of your family for their kindness and hospitality. I hope to call upon them at another time, and express my regrets and thanks in person.
"With many thanks to you also,
"I remain,
"Yours truly,
Colonel Meredith was reading the last words as Valmai entered and took her place at the breakfast table.
"Isn't it a shame, Beauty," said Gwen. "Just as I was beginning to make a favourable impression upon him, too! There must have been something in the letter Bob took up to him this morning."
"Oh, of course," said her father; "fine young fellow—very!"
"Awfully handsome, I call him," said Winifred; "such a sparkle in his eyes!"
"Beauty wasn't smitten," said Gwen.
"On the contrary, she was so smitten she fainted," said Winnie; "you are still rather pale, dear. Papa, wouldn't it be a jolly day for a picnic by the Ithon?"
"Yes," said the Colonel; "bring your lunch down in the brake, and we'll light a fire by the carn, and broil the fish, for I am sure we shall get a basketful to-day—eh! eh! Cecil?"
"Yes—and the drive will do Miss Powell good," said the lad, who was in good spirits from having so easily got rid of Cardo.
And after breakfast they all drove off to the picnic, and Cardo's arrival and his departure were forgotten by all save one.
The week that followed Gwynne Ellis's induction to his new living had been too full of business to allow him to call upon his near neighbours, the most influential member of his congregation, Mrs. Besborough Power of Carne Hall; but soon afterwards he began to look around him and make acquaintance with his parishioners.
The Vicarage was large and his ideas of furnishing were limited, so that after arranging and rearranging every room in the house he still looked at them with a dissatisfied air.
"I don't know how it is, father; in spite of all this handsome furniture you have given me, there seems something wanting, doesn't there?"
"Don't see it," said the old man, "unless it is that wonderful piece of furniture—a wife—you want."
"Perhaps, but that will have to wait," and as he drew his handkerchief over the shining face of the sideboard he thought within himself, "Where shall I find one? There are not two Valmai's in the world, and I declare she has spoiled me for every other woman. By the by, I must call on Mrs. Besborough Power, and see if I can't bring her visitor into a better frame of mind."
The next day saw him entering the pleasant drawing-room at Carne Hall, where Mrs. Power was as usual dozing in her arm-chair, with a piece of wool-work in her hand, upon which she sometimes worked a few stitches while she purred a little remark to Gwladys, who sat nearer the window, making believe to work also. She had already remarked, "Auntie, this is the new Vicar, I am sure," when the door opened and Gwynne Ellis entered.
Having shaken hands with Mrs. Power, he turned to Gwladys with a smile of greeting.
"Valmai!" he said, "I beg pardon—Mrs.—"
"No," said Gwladys, drawing herself up, "I am Gwladys Powell, Valmai's sister—but do you know her?"
"Know her? well!" said Gwynne Ellis; "but I have never seen such an extraordinary likeness."
"Yes," said Mrs. Power, "they are twins, and apart, it is almost impossible to distinguish one from the other."
"Where is she?" he asked, "is she here?"
"No," answered Gwladys, "she has been here, but is now staying with some friends of ours in Radnorshire."
"Ah! I see, I am sorry; I should like to have seen her, but I can scarce say I miss her while you are present, for I certainly see no difference between you."
Gwladys was more talkative than usual. She and Mrs. Power were pleasantly impressed, and congratulated themselves upon having gained an agreeable addition to their very limited social circle in the person of their new Vicar.
"This is a charming neighbourhood. I saw by a little glint of sunshine, as I came up the drive, that you have a pond or lake in that firwood; and that is always tempting to an artist. Do you draw, Miss Powell?"
"Yes," said Gwladys. "My efforts are very humble, but I have one drawing of the lake." And she fetched it from a portfolio.
"Show him all your drawings, dear," said Mrs. Power; "or, better still, would you like to see the lake, Mr Ellis?"
"If it would not tire Miss Powell to show it me—"
"Oh, no! I can take you by it to the west gate, it will shorten your way home."
"But not yet, here is tea," said Mrs. Power; and they were soon chatting over all the parish news.
At last Ellis rose to go, and Gwladys, putting on a broad-brimmed straw hat, passed out before him through the window—Mrs. Power detaining them with endless directions as to where to stop, where to turn to look at the sun through the fir trees, where to look back for a view of the house, etc., etc.
"This walk is lovely," said Ellis, as he watched the graceful movements of his companion, who glided over the velvet carpet of moss with noiseless footsteps, reminding him of a guardian spirit who walked silently beside some hum-drum man of the world.
"I wonder Valmai never mentioned you to me," she said.
"Did she not?" he asked thoughtfully. "Did she never mentionAbersethin, Brynderyn, and the Berwen?"
"No, they are all strange names to me, except Abersethin; she lived there after her return from Patagonia."
Ellis was lost in thought again. "I should like to have seen her; I have something important to discuss with her."
"She is coming here the week after next, and then you can speak to her about this interesting subject," said Gwladys.
And Ellis thought he saw a look of displeasure on the lovely face. Certainly he had never seen that in Valmai; but then, on the contrary, there was a high-souled nobility of purpose in his present companion's looks which was absent in Valmai.
"I daresay when I have seen her she will tell you about all these places."
"My sister shall do as she pleases," said Gwladys, a sweet smile chasing away the momentary look of anger; "it will make no difference in our love for each other—she is part of me, and the best part; I am part of her, and the worst part."
When they reached the west gate, both were surprised to find that half-an-hour had slipped away.
"I will bring my portfolio," said Ellis, as he took his leave, "and you will help me to find the best view of the lake."
During the next fortnight, Mrs. Power received frequent calls from the new Vicar; she was delighted with her neighbour, and did everything in her power to make his visits as pleasant to him as they were to herself. His paintings were a never-ending source of interest and admiration to her, and when he proposed to make a sketch of the lake, with its background of fir trees, and glint of blue sky, she was charmed with the idea, and almost every day she and Gwladys accompanied him down the "Velvet Walk" and settled him to his painting, and Gwladys was sent on frequent journeys of inspection during the afternoon.
"Go and see how he is progressing, dear." And she would go and linger over the picture with comments and praise; but it must be confessed that the drawing progressed more rapidly during her absence than during these visits of inspection.
One afternoon she came running down the "Velvet Walk" with an open letter in her hand, and a distressed look in her eyes.
"Oh, Mr. Ellis! such a disappointment! Valmai is not coming this week. She has been feeling unwell lately, and the doctor advises a thorough change for her, so she and Mifanwy Meredith are thinking of going to Switzerland. Hear what she says:—'Mifanwy is longing for the Swiss lakes and mountains, and wishes me to accompany her. I suppose I may as well do so; but I must first make a hurried journey down to Abersethin, and to see you on my way back. I hear from Dr. Francis that dear old Nance is very ill, and it will depend upon how I find her whether I go to Switzerland or not."
"Now, isn't that vexing! You would feel for me if you knew what Valmai is to me! I seem to love her with all the accumulation of love which had missed its object for so many long years before we met."
Gwynne Ellis was looking seriously into the distance.
"I do feel for you, Miss Powell; but don't think me a brute if I say I am not sorry she's gone—something good may come of it."
"I can't understand you," she said, seating herself on a log in front of him. "You have never told me how you became acquainted with her. Have you known her from childhood?"
"Oh, dear, no," said Ellis, laying aside his painting, and stretching himself on the mossy bank. "I will tell you all about it; it is very simple. Being rather out of health about two years ago, I went down to Abersethin to stay at the Vicar's house, he being an old friend of my father's. I found his son, Caradoc Wynne, a fine fellow—a splendid specimen of a Welsh country gentleman—and he and I became great friends during the three months that I spent there."
Gwladys's blue eyes opened in astonishment.
"Caradoc Wynne?" she said, in an anxious tone, which surprised her companion.
"Yes. Generally known as Cardo Wynne at Abersethin. I found him over head and ears in love with Valmai Powell—your sister, it seems, though I had no idea she had a sister. His rhapsodies about her amused me at first; but when I saw how deeply in earnest he was, I sympathised with him, and took a great interest in the progress of their courtship. His father and her uncle—one being the Vicar of the parish, and the other a Methodist preacher—hated each other with a deadly hatred—but you are looking pale," he said anxiously. "What is it? Am I saying anything to disturb you?"
"Oh, yes! but go on. Tell me about this Cardo Wynne."
"Well, it's a sad story. They were married; I married them without the knowledge of the two opinionated old men—I hope I sha'n't fall too low in your estimation, Miss Powell."
"Oh! no, no! go on, please. Every word you say is like water to a thirsty man. They were married?"
"Yes, safe enough; and straight from the church porch they separated, for he was leaving for Australia that afternoon at his father's earnest request, with the idea of making peace between him and a brother whom he had offended many years ago. Well, I heard no more of Cardo for nearly two years, when I received a letter from him from Australia, telling me of the series of misfortunes which had detained him there so long. First of all, a serious attack of typhoid fever, and a blow on the head which occasioned concussion of the brain. He was carried unconscious to a hospital, and remained there many months, utterly oblivious of all around him, as no operation had been attempted on his skull, nobody knowing of the blow he had received. One of the visiting doctors at the hospital took him home with him as an 'interesting case,' and then he discovered the indented bit of bone which was pressing upon the brain, and causing first the unconsciousness, and afterwards a complete lapse of memory. Poor old Cardo! the jolliest fellow in the world. What must he have felt when memory returned after a successful operation, and he realised that Valmai and his father were utterly ignorant of his whereabouts."
"Oh, stop, stop," said Gwladys, "oh! what shall I do? Mr. Ellis, I dread to hear the end, and yet I must; go on, please."
"Well, it's very sad. Poor old Cardo returned home at once, and finding Valmai gone from Abersethin made his way up here. Did you see him?"
Gwladys could scarcely gasp "Yes!"
"Then no doubt you know how she repulsed him, and taunted him with wilful desertion of her—desertion, indeed! that honest Cardo, whose very soul was bound up in her! Had I not heard it from his own lips, I could never have believed that Valmai would have used the words 'base and dishonourable' to Cardo Wynne. He is broken-hearted, and really, if she perseveres in this unwarranted indignation, I think it will kill him; and that is why I wanted to see her, for I still believe there must be some mistake."
"Mistake! yes, yes, a horrible mistake. She never saw him at all. It was I who spoke those cruel words to him!"
"Miss Powell! you! how can I believe such a thing?"
"Yes, yes, you must believe," she said, wringing her hands, "it is I who have broken my sister's heart—the sister whom I would die to save a moment's pain." And she rose to her feet, though her limbs trembled with excitement. "It is my turn now to tell my story, and when I have finished you will despise me, and you will have good reason."
"Never!" he said, "I can never feel anything towards you but—but—whatI must not dare to tell you."
A vivid blush swept over Gwladys's face; but the troubled look returned, as Ellis, gently taking her hand, led her back to the log of wood, and sitting beside her, said:
"Now, tell me everything."
"I must go a long way back," she said, "and begin with my own uninteresting affairs. You know that Mrs. Power looks upon me as her own daughter, and has expressed her intention of leaving me all her money. Money! hateful money! the one thing I never cared about. I should be happier far in a little cottage than I am here surrounded by all these luxuries—it is true, Mr. Ellis, my tastes are simple."
"Certainly, you would grace a cottage or a palace alike," he said, almost under his breath; "but we must all accept the position in which we are placed, and do our best in that."
"Well," resumed Gwladys, "I have had three proposals of marriage, and on each occasion my aunt pressed me to accept the offer. I refused to do so, unless I were allowed time and opportunity to make the most exhaustive inquiries as to my disinterested lover's antecedents. My heart not being touched, I was able to do so dispassionately, and in each case I discovered something dishonourable in their characters. One I found was on the brink of pecuniary ruin, I therefore considered I had a right to think he loved my fortune and not myself. The next, though a man of honour and probity, I found had such an ungovernable temper that his own sisters failed to live with him. The third was a widower. He had broken his wife's heart by his cruelty, and since her death his life had been one long scene of dissipation. Was it any wonder that I rejected them all? and learnt to distrust and almost to hate every man?
"When Valmai came here I soon found out enough of her story to prove to me, as I thought, that she had been weak where I had been strong; that she had given her heart, with all its precious love, to one of the same type of manhood as it had been my ill-fortune to meet; and when, one evening as I walked here by the lake, a young man followed me and addressed me as Valmai, the only feeling that rushed into my mind and possessed my whole being might be expressed in these words—'Here is the murderer of my sister's happiness; at any risk I will keep him from her. She is happy and calm now; he shall never again disturb her peace of mind, if I can help it.'
"He was so completely under the illusion that I was Valmai that I had no occasion to tell a lie, and I only spoke the truth when I told him that I hated him, and that my greatest desire was never to see his face again. He was wounded to the quick. I saw it, I realised it all, and, oh, I felt for him, for there was something open and winsome about him—something that tempted me to trust him; but I hardened my heart, and I added him to my list of unworthy men. I left him here and went into the house, feeling utterly miserable; but I comforted myself with the thought that I had done Valmai good service. And now—oh, now!—I am more miserable than ever; for I see what harm I have done. I meant to do good, Mr. Ellis, believe me. I thought I was doing dear Valmai a real kindness, and now what shall I do? I have ruined her hopes of happiness, and I have lost your good opinion and friendship."
"Never!" said Ellis. "I see exactly how you felt, and can enter into your feelings thoroughly; it only grieves me to think what a low opinion you have formed of men in general."
"You see," said Gwladys, bending her head, "I have led such a retired life, and have known so few men—none intimately, except those three."
"Let me dare, then, to hope that in time you will come to believe that all men are not like the miserable specimens whom you have met. Will you believe thatI, at least, am onlysorryto hear you will be so rich? I cannot expect you to believe me, but it is the truth."
"Yes, I believe you," she said.
"Then let us see what we can do to retrieve your mistake. Will you take my word for it that Cardo Wynne is all that is honourable and true?"
"Yes, oh, yes; I am sure he would not be your friend if he were not so."
"Then the path is easy and plain before us. You will write to Valmai, and I will write to Cardo, and the cloud that has darkened their path lately will be swept away, and your hand and mine will be permitted to let in the light."
"I don't deserve such happiness," she said.
Ellis felt tempted to say, "Yes, your deep love for your sister made you do this, and it richly deserves this fulfilment of its endeavours," but he did not, and the omission was noticed by Gwladys, but it did not tell against him.
They sat some time in silent thought, Gwladys's little foot tossing up the moss.
"I have not told auntie, but I should like to do so now."
"I think you are right," said Ellis, gathering his painting paraphernalia together; "let us go and tell her at once."
There was something delightful even in the simple fact of "going together" to tell Mrs. Power the story of Valmai's sorrow and Gwladys's mistake, and when he left it was with the clear understanding that they should not let a day pass without enlightening Cardo and Valmai.
There was quite a chorus of regrets and good-byes in the quiet little country station from which Valmai started on her journey to Cardiganshire.
"Good-bye, Miss Powell," said Colonel Meredith, who had driven her down to meet the train, accompanied by his whole family. "No one will lament your absence or rejoice at your return more than I shall, not excepting this sentimental young man," and he pointed to Cecil, who was putting on an air of even greater dejection than usual.
He did not deign to answer his father except by a look of indignation that set Gwen and Winifred laughing; but when the train was absolutely moving, he managed to secure the last hand-clasp, and leave a bunch of forget-me-nots in Valmai's hand.
"Good-bye, Beauty, darling," shouted Gwen; while all the others joined in a chorus of "Write soon!"
Valmai placed the flowers in her waistband with an amused smile. "Poor boy," she thought. "What a good thing it rained last night; there will be splendid fishing to-day in the Ithon, and he will forget all about me if he gets his basket full." And she settled herself down comfortably in the corner of the carriage, and proceeded to open a letter which she had found on her plate at breakfast, but which she had hitherto found no time to read. It was from Gwladys, she knew, but she was somewhat astonished at its length, and turning over the leaves once or twice saw it was very closely written and had many words underlined. "What can it be about?" was her thought as she read the first words, "My own beloved sister—"
There was no one in the carriage to notice the varied expressions on her face as she read the closely-written pages; but had anyone been there to see the rapturous happiness which lightened up her features and brightened her eyes as she drew towards the conclusion, they would have wondered what joyful information could have so entranced and delighted the girl who entered the carriage, although with a serene and peaceful countenance, yet with a certain plaintive wistfulness in the shadows of her blue eyes, which betokened no exemption from the ordinary fate of mankind. But now! what unspeakable joy, what ecstatic delight seemed to infuse fresh life and vigour to the fragile, graceful form! For a few moments she crossed her hands on her bosom, and with closed eyes remained silent; then, starting up and pacing backwards and forwards in the limited space of a railway carriage, she gave the rein to her delight and let her thoughts drop out in words of uncontrolled expression.
"Cardo, oh, Cardo! what happiness for me at last, and for you, dearest—it shall be for you, too! Oh, I see it all. He sought me out and found Gwladys, and the strong, strange likeness between us deceived him, though I cannot think how that was possible. Did he not feel the difference? Let me see—what does she say?" And again she read Gwladys's repentant, beseeching words. "Can you ever forgive me, darling? I tried to look as like you as possible, and I tried to be as harsh as I could at the same time. 'If I ever loved you,' I said, 'I have ceased to do so, and my greatest wish is never to see you again.'"
"Oh! how dreadful," said Valmai, "how could he bear it? and how he must have suffered since then; but I will make it all up to him, and now I understand his conduct the other evening. Oh, you slow old puffing engine, make haste, and take me to Blaenos Station, then there will be a whole hour in that crawling coach, and then comes dear Caer Madoc! and oh! it is market day. Cardo always drives in with Dr. Hughes on that day, and walks home in the evening. I will walk! It will be like that dear, happy night when we first met!" And at last her excitement calming down, she settled herself again into her corner, and while she sat silent and immovable, she followed out from beginning to end the incidents of the last few weeks. Although Gwladys's mistaken interference had caused her such deep sorrow, and such a bitter experience as that of Cardo's avoidance of her at the Merediths, she felt nothing but pity for the sister whom she knew would have sacrificed life itself to save her from trouble.
As the train sped onwards, between the blue hills and by the silver streams, her thoughts outran its speed, and in fancy she saw Cardo hurrying along the high road to meet her at Caer Madoc. And he as he drove along beside Dr. Hughes, was full of tender longings and thoughts of her. She seemed to fill the air around him, she seemed to press upon his inner consciousness with such vividness, that he felt it difficult to restrain his voice, and prevent himself from calling her name aloud.
At last, the evening shadows began to fall over sleepy Caer Madoc, and Valmai, alighting from the coach in the "Red Dragon" yard, looked round hurriedly. With her, too, the impression of Cardo's presence had been so vivid, that she almost expected to see him waiting for her; but no Cardo was to be seen! After leaving her luggage in the ostler's charge, she hastened out through the old archway which opened into the High Street.
"No, I prefer walking, thank you; you can send my luggage on to-morrow," she said to the kindly officious man, who followed her to offer his services as driver, and she turned up the street with a heart full of exultant hopes. Here were the last straggling houses that reached up the hilly street, leading to the moor. Her steps were light and springy, as she followed the familiar road, now almost deserted by the last pedestrians returning from the market. The sun had set behind the sea, which she already saw stretching away to the west, a soft grey haze enfolded the hills which rose before her, and the moon was rising to her right and blending her silver light with that of the departed sun, which still left a golden glow over the west. Valmai walked on steadily until she reached the first milestone, and sitting down beside it, she rested awhile, almost hidden by its shadow. It was not one of the modern insignificant, square-cut, stiff stones, but a solid boulder of granite, one of the many strewn about the moor. She listened breathlessly to the different sounds that reached her ears, sounds which seemed to awake in the stillness, as she listened. There was a faint and distant rumbling of wheels in the town behind her, and surely some strains of music, which carried her back in memory to another evening in the past! Down below the cliffs on her left she heard the mysterious whispering of the sea; in the little coppice across the road a wood-pigeon cooed her soft "good-night"; and away in the hay-fields, stretching inland, she heard the corncrakes' grating call; but no human footstep broke the silence of night. Surely Cardo would have gone to market on such a lovely day! or, who knows? perhaps he was too sad to care for town or market? But hark! a footstep on the hard, dry road. She listened breathlessly as it drew nearer in the gathering grey of the twilight. Steadily it tramped, tramped on, and peeping round the milestone, Valmai at last saw a grey figure emerge from the haze. It was Cardo, she felt sure, and rising at once, she hurried some distance on the road in a sudden feeling of nervousness. The steady tramp, tramp came ever nearer, and, looking through the increasing shadows, she saw distinctly the well-remembered form, the broad shoulders, the firmly-knit frame, and in a fresh access of nervousness she hurried on again—putting off the moment of recognition which she longed for, and endeavouring to reach a hollow in the high bank, where she might lie hidden until she had regained courage and calmness.
Meanwhile Cardo, who had driven in to the market with Dr. Hughes in the morning, had started on his homeward journey just as Valmai was leaving the town behind her. It had been a lovely day, he had had pleasant company, and had transacted his business satisfactorily; but a deep and settled gloom seemed to have fallen upon him, which he was powerless to shake off. Through the whole tenor of his life ran the distracting memory of Valmai's unrelenting anger in the Velvet Walk, and of the bitterness of the subsequent meeting at Colonel Meredith's. As he stepped along through the summer twilight, and saw the silver moon which hung above him, his thoughts flew back to the first evening of his acquaintance with her. Ah! how long ago it seemed, and yet how everything pertaining to that evening seemed to repeat itself. There were the strains of the militia band throbbing on the quiet evening air, just as they did on that eventful evening; and there was even a grey female figure hurrying before him as before, and Cardo smiled bitterly as he thought how different everything was, in spite of the curious "harking back" of all the small circumstances. Awaking from a reverie, he missed the grey figure; but forgetting her at once, and again absorbed in thought, he had passed the hollow in the bank, when a soft voice followed him on the breeze.
"Cardo!"
Instantly he turned, and standing still as a statue, watched with eagerness a grey form which seemed to rise from the hedge. He heard his own heart beat loudly, and in the still night air he heard the sough of the sea, and the harsh call of the corncrake. Again the voice said, "Cardo!" very low and trembling. With one bound he was beside the speaker, and in the light of the moon Valmai stood plainly revealed. The sweet eyes glistened as of old, and the night breeze played with the little curls of gold which escaped from their restraining coiffure. She held out her hands, and in a moment Cardo's strong arms were around her.
"My wild sea-bird," he said, in a passionate whisper, "have you flown back to me? Valmai, my darling, what does it mean? Have you forgiven me? Have you repented of those cruel words, dearest? Oh, say it was not my Valmai who called me 'base and dishonourable.' Speak dearest," he said, while he showered kisses upon the uncovered head which leant upon his breast.
"It was not your Valmai, Cardo. How could you think it possible? It was not I whom you saw in the Moss Walk. I did not know till to-day, this very day, that those cruel words were spoken."
"Let us sit here, my beloved; give me your hand; let me try to realise this bewildering joy." And hand in hand they sat on the grassy bank, while the corn-crake called, and the sea heaved and whispered behind them.
There, under the golden moon, with endless questions and reiteration of answers, Valmai told her story and Cardo told his, until the moon rode high in the sky. Again and again Cardo pressed her to his heart, and again and again she took his brown hands in her own and laid her cheek upon them.
"Oh, Cardo! is it true? or is it all a dream? So suddenly to leave my sadness and sorrow behind, and to awake to this blessed reality!" And as they rose to pursue their walk together, Cardo drew her arm through his, as if afraid for a moment to loosen his hold of her.
"But your sister, dearest, isnotlike you! How could I have been deceived? How could I, for one moment, have thought my gentle darling would say such cruel things? No, no! you are utterly unlike each other, though so strangely alike."
"Well, indeed, Cardo bâch! when you know her you will see how sweet and beautiful she is! how much wiser and more noble than I! It was her great love for me, and her desire that I should be happy, that made her act as she did; and to-morrow you must read her penitent letter, and learn to forgive her, and to love her for my sake."
"I will—I will, love; I will forgive anybody, anything, and will love the whole world now that I have you back again. But oh, Valmai, my beloved, how shall I ever make up to you for all you have gone through? I know now you never received my letter written on theBurrawalla, and sent byThe Dundee, for I have heard of her sad fate. In that, dearest, I retracted my request that you should keep our marriage a secret, and you would have been saved all the sorrow you have borne had you received it. But I will make up to you, dearest, if the devotion of a lifetime can do so."
"This is happiness enough to make up for anything," said Valmai; "and I am glad I was able to keep my promise."
"Faithful friend, and trustful wife!" answered Cardo.
"Ah! no," continued Valmai; "I shall never regret having kept my promise! Indeed, I never felt tempted to break it, except one day, when, in the old church, I met your father face to face. Never shall I forget the agonising longing I felt to throw myself at his feet and tell him all, and mingle my tears with his."
"He has told me all about it, love, and how he thought it was an angel, when he first saw you standing there. But let us leave all tales of sorrow for another day; to-night is for love only, for rapturous joy! Are we not together, love? and what does anything else matter?"
"Nothing, nothing," answered Valmai, in words which lost none of their depth of feeling from being spoken in soft, low tones.
In silence, which was more eloquent than words, they pursued their way till they reached the bridge over the Berwen; and as they leant over its side, and looked into the depths of the woods beneath them, they recalled all the circumstances of their first meeting.
"I wish I had bought some gingerbread in the Mwntroyd, Cardo, so that we might eat it here together. Ah! how it all comes back to me!"
And as they leant over the bridge he held her hand in his, and with eyes which sought each other's in the moonlight, they let the time slip by unheeded. The only sound that rose upon the still night air was the babbling of the Berwen.
When at last both had told their story, and every question and answer had again and again been renewed, and all its side bearings and suggestions had been satisfactorily explained, the sweet, lisping sounds of the river flooded their souls with its music.
"Oh, Cardo! to think we can once more sing together. How different to that miserable evening at Colonel Meredith's, when you stood aloof, and Gwen sang the dear old song. I thought it would kill me."
"And I, darling, when I carried you up in my arms, what did I feel?"
"Well, indeed, I don't know; but we have had a dreadful experience, whatever." And presently Valmai began to hum "By Berwen Banks," Cardo irresistibly joining in with his musical bass, and once again the old ballad floated down the valley and filled the night with melody.
"We ought to be going now, or we shall be shut out. I know Nance will be gone to bed already, but, certainly, there is not much distance between her bed and the door."
"Nance!" said Cardo. "No, indeed, my wild sea-bird. I have caught you now, and never again will I part with you. Home to Brynderyn, dearest, with me, where my father is longing to fold you in his arms."
"Anywhere with you, Cardo." And down by the Berwen they took their way, by the old church, where the white owl hooted at them as they passed, and down to the shore, where the waves whispered their happy greetings.
The "Vicare du," as he sat by his study fire that night, was lost in thought. A wonderful change had come over his countenance, the gloom and sternness had disappeared, and a softened and even gentle look had taken their place. A smile of eager interest crossed his face as he heard the crunching of the gravel, which announced his son's return. Betto was already opening the door, and a cry of surprise and gladness woke an echo in the old man's heart as he hurried along the stone passage into the parlour. Cardo came in to meet him, leading Valmai, who hung back a little timidly, looking nervously into the Vicar's pale face. But the look she saw there banished all her fears, and in another moment she was clasped in his arms, and in all Wales no happier family drew round their evening meal that night than the Wynnes of Brynderyn.
There is nothing more to be said, except that Gwynne Ellis's letter awaited Cardo's home-coming, and it shall speak for itself.
"DEAR WYNNE,—I write with such mixed feelings, and at the same time in such a hurry to catch the first possible post, that probably you will think my letter is a little 'mixed' too. You will guess what was my astonishment, when calling upon Mrs. Power, to find—not Valmai, but her twin-sister, Miss Gwladys Powell! My dear Wynne, I was struck dumb by the likeness between them. I waited eagerly for Valmai's arrival, which they were daily expecting, and it was not until I heard she was going to Cardiganshire instead that I mentioned to Gwladys your marriage to her sister, and the cruel manner in which she had received you after your long absence. Then came the explanation, which, no doubt, ere this you have received from Valmai's own lips, for I know that to-morrow she will see you, having received her sister's letter in the morning; and the veil will be lifted, and all your sorrow will disperse like the baseless fabric of a dream. You will see already how Gwladys, dreading your influence upon the sister whom she thought you had deceived and deserted, was tempted, by your mistaking her for Valmai, to impersonate her, and to drive you away from her presence. Her sorrow and repentance are greater than the occasion demands, I think, for, after all, it was her deep love for her sister which made her act in this way; and I am sure that, when you and Valmai have been reunited and all your joys return, you will have no room in your hearts for anger against Gwladys. She is the most lovely girl I have ever seen, except your wife, and her mind and heart are quite worthy of her beautiful face; indeed, my dear Cardo, she is what I once thought was not to be found—a second Valmai! In fact I love her, and I am not without a faint hope that my love is returned. Remember me to Shoni, and tell him I hope to see him again next spring. And what if I bring Gwladys down, and we all roam by the Berwen together?—not Shoni! What can I add more, except that I hope this delicious programme may be carried out?
"Yours as of old,