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By Berwen Banks

by Allen Raine · English · Gutenberg #18758 · 493,128 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: By Berwen Banks

Author: Allen Raine


        
Release date: July 4, 2006 [eBook #18758]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18758

Credits: E-text prepared by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BY BERWEN BANKS ***


E-text prepared by Al Haines



BY BERWEN BANKS

a Novel

by

ALLEN RAINE

Author of "A Welsh Singer," "Torn Sails," etc.

111TH THOUSAND







London
Hutchinson & Co.
Paternoster Row




CONTENTS


     I.  BERWEN BANKS
    II.  THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF
   III.  THE SASSIWN
    IV.  THE STORM
     V.  GWYNNE ELLIS ARRIVES
    VI.  CORWEN AND VALMAI
   VII.  THE VICAR'S STORY
  VIII.  THE OLD REGISTER
    IX.  REUBEN STREET
     X.  THE WEB OF FATE
    XI.  THE "BLACK DOG"
   XII.  A CLIMAX
  XIII.  "THE BABIES' CORNER"
   XIV.  UNREST
    XV.  THE SISTERS
   XVI.  DISPERSING CLOUDS
  XVII.  HOME AGAIN
 XVIII.  THE VELVET WALK
   XIX.  THE MEREDITHS
    XX.  GWLADYS
   XXI.  INTO THE SUNSHINE




BY BERWEN BANKS.


CHAPTER I.

BERWEN BANKS.

Caer Madoc is a sleepy little Welsh town, lying two miles from the sea
coast.  Far removed from the busy centres of civilisation, where the
battle of life breeds keen wits and deep interests, it is still, in the
opinion of its inhabitants, next to London, the most important place in
the United Kingdom.  It has its church and three chapels, its mayor and
corporation, jail, town hall, and market-place; but, more especially,
it has its fairs, and awakes to spasmodic jollity on such occasions,
which come pretty often--quite ten times in the year.  In the interims
it resigns itself contentedly to its normal state of lethargy.

The day on which my story opens had seen the busiest and merriest fair
of the year, and the evening found the little town looking jaded and
disreputable after its few hours of dissipation, the dusty High Street
being littered with scraps of paper, orange-peel, and such like
_débris_.  The merry-go-rounds and the "shows" had departed, the last
donkey-cart had rattled out of the town, laden with empty gingerbread
boxes.

In the stable of the Red Dragon three men stooped in conclave over the
hind foot of a horse.  Deio, the ostler, and Roberts, the farrier,
agreed in their verdict for a wonder; and Caradoc Wynne, the owner of
the horse, straightened himself from his stooping posture with a nod of
decision.

"Yes, it's quite plain I mustn't ride him to-night," he said.  "Well,
I'll leave him under your care, Roberts, and will either come or send
for him to-morrow."

"Needn't do that, sir," said Roberts, "for I am going myself to
Abersethin on Friday; that will give him one day's complete rest, and
I'll bring him up gently with my nag."

"That will do better," said the young man.  "Take care of him, Deio,"
he added, in good, broad Welsh, "and I will pay you well for your
trouble," and, with a pat on Captain's flank and a douceur in Deio's
ready palm, he turned to leave the yard.  Looking back from under the
archway which opened into the street, with a parting injunction to
Roberts to "take care of him," he turned up the dusty High Street.

"Pagh!" he said, "it has been a jolly fair, but it hasn't sweetened the
air.  However, I shall soon have left it behind me," and he stepped out
briskly towards the straggling end of the street, which merged into a
wild moorland country.

"_There's_ a difference between him and his father," said Deio to his
companion, as they led Captain back to his stall.  "See the old 'Vicare
du' hunting between his coppers for a threepenny bit!  Jâr i man! you
would think it was a sovereign he was looking for."

"Yes," said Roberts, "the old Vicare is a keen man enough, but just;
always pays his bills regularly; he is not as black as they make him
out to be."

"No, I daresay!  They say the devil isn't, either," said Deio.

It was very evident the person in question was no favourite of his.

Meanwhile Caradoc, or Cardo as he was called all over the country side,
the "Vicare du's" only son, had begun his tramp homewards with a light
heart and a brisk step.  He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with
health and youthful energy expressed in every limb and feature, with
jet black hair and sparkling eyes to match.  His dark, almost swarthy
face, was lighted up by a pleasant smile, which seemed ever hovering
about the corners of his mouth, and which would make itself evident in
spite of the moustache which threatened to hide it.

The band of the local militia was practising in the open market hall as
he passed, and an old Welsh air struck familiarly on his ear.

"They'll wonder what's become of me at home," he thought, "or rather
Betto will.  I don't suppose my father would notice my absence, so long
as I was home to supper.  Poor old dad!" he added, and a grave look
came over his face.

In truth it was not a very cheerful home to which he was returning, but
it _was_ home, and had been his from childhood.  It had been the home
also of his ancestors for generations, which, to a Welshman, means a
great deal, for the ties of home are in the very roots of his being.
Home draws him from the furthermost ends of the earth, and leaving it,
adds bitterness even to death.

His mother had died at his birth, so that the sacred word "mother" had
never been more than a name to him, and he had taught himself to banish
the thought of her from his mind; in fact an indescribable uneasiness
always leapt up within his heart when her name was mentioned, and that
was very rarely, for his father never spoke of her, and old Betto, the
head servant, but seldom, and then with such evident sadness and
reticence, that an undefined, though none the less crushing fear, had
haunted him from childhood upwards.  As he stepped out so bravely this
soft spring evening, the look of disquietude did not remain long on his
face.  At twenty-four life has not lost its rosy tints; heart, mind,
and body are fresh and free to take a share in all its opening scenes,
more especially if, as in Cardo's case, love, the disturber, has not
yet put in an appearance.

As he reached the brow of the hill beyond the town, the white dusty
road stretched like a sinuous snake over the moor before him, while on
the left, the sea lay soft and grey in the twilight, and the moon rose
full and bright on his right.  The evening air was very still, but an
occasional strain of the band he had left behind him reached his ears,
and with a musical voice he hummed the old Welsh air which came
fitfully on the breeze:

  "By Berwen's banks my love hath strayed,
  For many a day in sun and shade;
  And while she carols loud and clear,
  The little birds fly down to hear.

  "By Berwen's banks the storm rose high,
  The swollen river rushing by!
  Beneath its waves my love was drowned
  And on its banks my love was found!"


Suddenly he was aware of a cloaked figure walking about a hundred yards
in front of him.  "Who's that, I wonder?" he thought, and then,
forgetting its existence, he continued his song:

  "I'll ne'er forget that leafy shade!
  I'll ne'er forget that winsome maid!
  But there no more she carols free,
  So Berwen's banks are sad to me!"


By and by, at a curve in the road, he again noticed the figure in front
of him, and quickened his steps; but it did the same, and the distance
between them was not lessened, so Cardo gave it up, and continued his
song.  When the strain came to a natural ending, he looked again with
some interest at the grey figure ever moving on, and still seeming to
keep at the same distance from him.  Once more he quickened his steps,
and again the figure did likewise.  "Diwss anwl!" he said.  "I am not
going to run after an old woman who evidently does not want my
company."  And he tramped steadily on under the fast darkening sky.
For quite three miles he had followed the vanishing form, and as he
reached the top of the moor, he began to feel irritated by the
persistent manner in which his fellow-traveller refused to shorten the
distance between them.  It roused within him the spirit of resistance,
and he could be very dogged sometimes in spite of his easy manner.
Having once determined, therefore, to come up with the mysterious
pedestrian, he rapidly covered the ground with his long strides, and
soon found himself abreast of a slim girl, who, after looking shyly
aside at him, continued her walk at the same steady pace.  The twilight
had darkened much since he had left the town, but the moonlight showed
him the graceful pose of the head, the light, springy tread, and the
mass of golden hair which escaped from the red hood covering her head.
Cardo took off his cap.

"Good-night to you," he said.  "I hope I have not frightened you by so
persistently trying to catch you."

"Good-night," said the girl.  "Yes, indeed, you have, whatever, because
I am not used to be out in the night.  The rabbits have frightened me
too, they are looking so large in this light."

"I am sorry.  It is very brave of you to walk all the way from Caer
Madoc alone."

"To Abersethin it is not so far," said the girl.

"Do you live at Abersethin?"

"Yes, not far off; round the edge of the cliffs, under Moel Hiraethog."

"Oh! I know," said Cardo; "the mill in the valley?"

"No, round the next shore, and up to the top of the cliff is our house."

"Traeth Berwen?  That is where _I_ live!"

"Well, indeed!"

"Yes, I am Caradoc Wynne, and I live at Brynderyn."

"Oh! are you Cardo Wynne?  I have heard plenty about you, and about
your father, the 'Vicare du.'"

"Ah! poor old dad!  I daresay you have not heard much good of him; the
people do not understand him."

"Well, indeed, the worst I have heard of him is that he is not very
kind to you; that he is making you to work on the farm, when you ought
to be a gentleman."

"That is not true," said Cardo, flushing in the darkness; "it is my
wish to be a farmer; I like it better than any other work; it is my own
free choice.  Besides, can I not be a farmer and a gentleman too?
Where could I be so happy as here at home, where my ancestors have
lived for generations?"

"Ancestors?" said the girl; "what is that?"

"Oh! my grandfather and great-grandfather, and all the long dead of my
family."

"Yes, indeed, I see.  Ancestors," she repeated, with a sort of
scheduling tone, as though making sure of the fresh information; "I do
not know much English, but there's good you are speaking it!  Can you
speak Welsh?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Cardo, and his voice woke the echoes from Moel
Hiraethog, the hill which they were nearing, and which they must
compass before reaching the valley of the Berwen.  "Ha! ha! ha!  Can I
speak Welsh?  Why, I am Welsh to the core, Cymro glan gloyw![1]  What
are you?"

"Oh! Welsh, of course.  You can hear that by my talk."

"Indeed no," said Cardo.  "I did not know anyone at Traeth Berwen could
speak English as well as you do."

He was longing to find out who his fellow-traveller was.  He saw in the
dim light she was slim and fair, and had a wealth of golden hair; he
saw her dress was grey and her hood was red.  So much the moonlight
revealed, but further than this he could not discover, and politeness
forbade his asking.  As if in answer to his thoughts, however, her next
words enlightened him.

"I am Valmai Powell, the niece of Essec Powell, the preacher."

A long, low whistle escaped from the young man's lips.

"By Jove!" he said.

The girl was silent, but could he have seen the hot blush which spread
over her face and neck, he would have known that he had roused the
quick Welsh temper.  He was unconscious of it, however, and strode on
in silence, until they reached a rough-built, moss-grown bridge, and
here they both stopped as if by mutual consent.  Leaning their elbows
on the mossy stone wall, they looked down to the depths below, where
the little river Berwen babbled and whispered on its way to the sea.

"There's a nice noise it is making down there," said Valmai.  "But why
do you say a bad word when I tell you my uncle's name?"

"A bad word?  In your presence?  Not for the world!  But I could not
help thinking how shocked my father and your uncle would be to see us
walking together."

"Yes, I think, indeed," said the girl, opening a little basket and
spreading its contents on the low wall.  "See!" she said, in almost
childish tones, and turning her face straight to the moonlight.

Cardo saw, as he looked down at her, that it was a beautiful face.

"See!" she said, "gingerbread that I bought in that old street they
call 'The Mwntroyd.'  Here is a silver ship, and here is a gold watch,
and a golden girl.  Which will you have?"

"Well, indeed, I am as hungry as a hunter," said Cardo.  "I will have
the lassie, if you are sure you have enough for two."

"Anwl! anwl!  I have a lamb and a sheep and some little pigs in my
basket."  And she proceeded to spread them out and divide them; and
they continued to chat as they ate their gilded gingerbread.

"Suppose your uncle and my father knew we were standing on the same
bridge and looking at the same moon," said Cardo, laughing.

"And eating the same gingerbread," added Valmai.

"My word!  There would be wrath."

"Wrath?" said the girl, looking thoughtfully up in her companion's
face; "what is that?"

"Oh, something no one could feel towards you.  'Wrath' is anger."

"My uncle is angry sometimes with me, and--too--with--with--"

"My father, I suppose?" said Cardo.

"Yes, indeed," said the girl; "that is true, whatever.  Every Wednesday
evening at the prayer-meeting he is praying for the 'Vicare du,' and
Betto told me last week that the Vicare is praying for my uncle on
Tuesday evenings."

"Oh, Lord! has it come to that?" said Cardo.  "Then I'm afraid we can
never hope for peace between them."

They both laughed, and the girl's rippling tones mingled musically in
Cardo's ears with the gurgle of the Berwen.

"It is getting late," she said, "we had better go on; but I must say
good-night here, because it is down by the side of the river is my way
to Dinas.  You will be nearer to keep on the road till you cross the
valley."

"No, indeed," said the young man, already preparing to help his
companion over the stone stile.  "I will go down by the Berwen too."

"Anwl," said Valmai, clasping her hands; "it will be a mile further for
you, whatever."

"A mile is nothing on such a night as this."

And down to the depths of the dark underwood they passed, by a steep,
narrow path, down through the tangled briers and bending ferns, until
they reached the banks of the stream.  The path was but little defined,
and evidently seldom trodden; the stream gurgled and lisped under the
brushwood; the moon looked down upon it and sparkled on its ripples;
and as Valmai led the way, chatting in her broken English, a strange
feeling of happy companionship awoke in Cardo Wynne's heart.

After threading the narrow pathway for half-a-mile or so, they reached
a sudden bend of the little river, where the valley broadened out
somewhat, until there was room for a grassy, velvet meadow, at the
further corner of which stood the ruins of the old parish church,
lately discarded for the new chapel of ease built on the hillside above
the shore.

"How black the ruins look in that corner," said Cardo.

"Yes, and what is that white thing in the window?" said Valmai, in a
frightened whisper, and shrinking a little nearer to her companion.

"Only a white owl.  Here she comes sailing out into the moonlight."

"Well, indeed, so it is.  From here we can hear the sea, and at the
beginning of the shore I shall be turning up to Dinas."

"And I suppose I must turn in the opposite direction to get to
Brynderyn," said Cardo.  "Well, I have never enjoyed a walk from Caer
Madoc so much before.  Will they be waiting for you at home, do you
think?"

"Waiting for me?" laughed the girl, and her laugh was not without a
little trace of bitterness; "who is there to wait for me?  No one,
indeed, since my mother is dead.  Perhaps to-morrow my uncle might say,
'Where is Valmai?  She has never brought me my book.'  Here it is,
though," she continued, "safe under the crumbs of the gingerbread.  I
bought it in the Mwntroyd.  'Tis a funny name whatever."

"Yes, a relic of the old Flemings, who settled in Caer Madoc long ago."

"Oh!  I would like to hear about that!  Will you tell me about it some
time again?"

"Indeed I will," said Cardo eagerly; "but when will that be?  I have
been wondering all the evening how it is I have never seen you before."

They had now reached the open beach, where the Berwen, after its
chequered career, subsided quietly through the sand and pebbles into
the sea.

"Here is my path, but I will tell you," and with the sound of the
gurgling river, and the plash of the waves in his ears, Cardo listened
to her simple story.  "You couldn't see me much before, because only
six weeks it is since I am here.  Before that I was living far, far
away.  Have you ever heard of Patagonia?   Well then, my father was a
missionary there, and he took me and my mother with him when I was only
a baby.  Since then I have always been living there, till this year I
came to Wales."

"Patagonia!" said Cardo.  "So far away?  No wonder you dropped upon me
so suddenly!  But how, then, did you grow up Welsh?"

Valmai laughed merrily.

"Grow up Welsh?  Well, indeed, I don't know what have I grown up!
Welsh, or English, or Spanish, or Patagonian!  I am mixed of them all,
I think.  Where we were living there was a large settlement of Welsh
people, and my father preached to them.  But there were, too, a great
many Spaniards, and many Spanish girls were my friends, and my nurse
was Spanish, so I learnt to speak Welsh and Spanish; but English, only
what I learnt from my father and from books.  I don't know it quite
easy yet, but I am coming better every day I think.  My father and
mother are dead, both of them--only a few days between them.  Another
kind missionary's wife brought me home, and since then I am living with
my uncle.  He is quite kind when he notices me, but he is always
reading--reading the old books about the Druids, and Owen Glendwr, and
those old times, and he is forgetting the present; only I must not go
near the church nor the church people, then he is quite kind."

"How curious!" said Cardo.  "You have almost described my father and my
home!  I think we ought to be friends with so much in common."

"Yes, perhaps," said the girl, looking pensively out to sea, where the
sea-horses were tossing up their white manes in the moonlight.  "Well,
good-bye," she added, holding out her hand.

"Good-bye," answered Cardo, taking the proffered hand in a firm, warm
grasp.  "Will we meet again soon?" he said, dropping it reluctantly.

"No, I think," said Valmai, as she began the steep path up the hill.

Cardo stood a moment looking after her, and as she turned to look back,
he called out:

"Yes, I hope."

She waved her hand, and disappeared behind a broom bush.

"Valmai!  Valmai!" he said, as he tramped off in the opposite
direction.  "Yes, she is _Valmai_!" [2]



[1] "A pure Welshman."  A favourite expression in Wales.

[2] "Like May."




CHAPTER II.

THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF.

The Rev. Meurig Wynne, "y Vicare du," or "the black Vicar," as he was
called by the country people, in allusion to his black hair and eyes,
and also to his black apparel, sat in his musty study, as he had done
every evening for the last twenty-five years, poring ever his old
books, and occasionally jotting down extracts therefrom.  He was a
broad-shouldered man, tall and straight, about sixty-five years of age.
His clean-shaven face was white as marble, its cold and lifeless
appearance accentuated by his jet-black hair, strongly-marked eyebrows
of the same dark hue, and his unusually black eyes; his nose was
slightly aquiline, and his mouth well shaped, though wide; but the
firm-set lips and broad nostrils, gave the whole face an expression of
coldness and hardness.  In fact he had a peculiarly dour and dark look,
and it was no wonder that when he walked through his parish the little
children left their games in the road, and hurried inside their garden
gates as he passed.

He was perfectly conscious of this, and it pained him, though no one
guessed it except his son, who felt a tender pity for the man who led
so isolated and solitary a life.

The cause of his cold reserve Cardo had never been able to discover;
but he somehow connected it with his mother's name, and therefore
shrank from inquiring into his father's past life, preferring to let
old memories sleep, rather than hear anything which might bring sorrow
and pain into his life.

The Vicar was evidently uneasy, as he looked up listening, with one
thin finger marking the place on the page he was reading.  Cardo was
later than usual, and not until he had heard his son's familiar firm
step and whistle did he drop once more into the deep interest of his
book.

As Cardo approached the house he saw the light in his father's window,
and pictured to himself the cold, pale face bending over the musty
books.  "Poor old dad!" he murmured.  Some sons would have tapped
playfully at the window, but Cardo did not, he turned round the corner
of the house, passing by the front door, which was closed, and did not
look inviting, to the other side, where the clatter of wooden shoes and
a stream of light from the open doorway made some show of cheerfulness.
And there was Betto, his old nurse and his father's housekeeper, in
loud, angry tones, reproving the shepherd boy who stood leaning against
the door-post.

"Hello! what's the matter, Betto?" said Cardo in Welsh; "what mischief
has Robin been up to now?"

"Machgen bach i (my dear boy!), is that you?" said Betto; "there's glad
I am!  You are late to-night, and I was beginning to puzzle."

"Has my father missed me?"

"Well, indeed, he hasn't said anything," said Betto, hunting for the
frying-pan, and beginning to prepare the ham and eggs for supper.  "But
where's that Robin?" she added; "a clout or two with the frying-pan
would not hurt his addle pate."

"He has been wise, and made himself scarce; but what has he done,
Betto?"

"What has he done? the villain!  Well, you know the sheep are grazing
in the churchyard this week, and that 'mwnki' is watching them there.
Well--he seated himself yesterday on a tombstone when we were in
church, and whit, whit, whitted 'Men of Harlech' on his flute! and the
Vicare praying so beautiful all the time, too! praying against the
wiles of the devil and of Essec Powell!"

"Essec Powell!  What has he been doing?"

"Well, machgen i, you will not believe!  the boldness of those
'Methots' is something beyond!  And the impidence of Essec Powell!
What do you think, Caradoc? he is _praying_ for your father--out loud,
mind you!--in the prayer-meeting every Wednesday evening!  But there!
the master is beforehand with him, for he is praying for Essec Powell
on Tuesdays!" and she tossed the frizzling ham and eggs on the dish.
"Come to supper, my boy," and Cardo followed her nothing loth into the
gloomy parlour, lighted by one home-made mould candle, for he was
hungry in spite of the ginger-bread.

"Ah, Caradoc! you have come," said the Vicar, as he entered the room
punctually at the stroke of ten, "what made you so late to-night?"

"Well," said Cardo, "when Deio, 'Red Dragon,' led Captain out of the
stable, I found the swelling on his leg had risen again, so I left him
with Roberts, the farrier.  He will bring him home on Friday."

"You have ridden him too soon after his sprain, as I told you, but
young men always know better than their elders."

"Well, you were right anyway this time, father."

"Yes," said his father; "as the old proverb says, 'Yr hên a wyr yr
ifanc a debyg." [1]

"Shouldn't wonder if it rained to-morrow, the wind has veered to the
south; it will be bad for the 'Sassiwn,' won't it?" said Cardo, after a
pause.

"The what?" said the Vicar, looking full at his son.

"The 'Sassiwn,' sir, as they call it; the Methodist Association, you
know, to be held here next week."

"I don't want to hear anything about it; I take no interest in the
subject."

"Won't you go then, father?  There will be thousands of people there."

"No, sir, I will not go; neither will you, I hope," answered the Vicar,
and pushing his plate away, he rose, and walked stiffly out at the door
and along the stone passage leading to his study.

His son listened to his retreating footsteps.

"As bigoted as ever, poor fellow!" he said; "but what a fool I was to
mention the subject."  And he continued his supper in silence.  When
Betto came in to clear away he had flung himself down on the hard
horse-hair sofa.  The mould candle lighted up but a small space in the
large, cold room; there was no fire in the grate, no books or papers
lying about, to beguile the tedious hour before bedtime.  Was it any
wonder that his thoughts should revert to the earlier hours of the
evening?  that he should hear again in fancy the soft voice that said,
"I am Valmai Powell," and that he should picture to himself the
clustering curls that escaped from the red hood?

The old house, with its long passages and large rooms, was full of
those nameless sounds which fill the air in the quiet of night.  He
heard his father's footsteps as he paced up and down in his study, he
heard the tick-tack of the old clock on the stairs, the bureau creaked,
the candle spluttered, but there was no human voice to break the
silence, With a yawn he rose, stretching his long legs, and, throwing
back his broad shoulders, made his way along the dark passage which led
into the kitchen, where the farm servants were seated at supper.  Betto
moved the beehive chair into a cosy corner beside the fire for the
young master, the men-servants all tugged their forelocks, and the
women rose to make a smiling bob-curtsey.

"Have some cawl,[2] Ser!" said Betto, selecting a shining black bowl
and spoon.

"Not to-night, after all that fried ham; but another night I want
nothing better for supper."

"Well, there's nothing will beat cawl, that's certain," said Ebben, the
head servant, beginning with long-drawn noisy sups to empty his own
bowl.

"Finished the turnips to-day?" asked Cardo.

"Oh, yes," said Ebben, with a slight tone of reproof in his voice; "the
work goes on though you may not be at home, Ser.  I consider there is
no piece of land on this earth, no, nor on any other earth, better
farmed than Brynderyn.  Eh?" and he looked defiantly at Betto, between
whom and himself there was a continual war of words.

"Well, I suppose so, indeed," said Betto; "_you_ say so often enough,
whatever, and what you say must be right."

There was such an insidious mixture of flattery and sarcasm in her
words that, for a moment Ebben was at a loss what to answer, so Malen,
the milkmaid, took the opportunity of changing the subject.

"There's tons of bread will be baked on Monday," she said, "ready for
the Sassiwn.  Jini 'bakkare' has two sacks of flour to bake, and
there's seven other women in Abersethin will bake the same quantity."

"At Morfa," said Shanw, "they have killed a cow and a sheep; and the
tongues, and fowls, and hams will fill every oven in the parish."

Betto sniffed and tossed her head scornfully.  "They may well give them
bread and meat," she said, "for I don't see what else they have to give
them."

"What else, indeed," said Shanw, ready for the frequent fray.  "They
won't have your hum-drum old church fregot[3], perhaps, but you come
and see, and hear Hughes Bangor, Price Merthyr, Jones Welshpool.
Nothing to give them, indeed!  Why, Price Merthyr would send your old
red velvet cushion at church flying into smithireens in five minutes.
Haven't I heard him.  He begins soft and low, like a cat purring on the
hearth, and then he gets louder and louder, till he ends like a roaring
lion.  And our own preacher, Essec Powell, to begin and finish the
meeting.  There's busy Valmai must be.  Marged Hughes is there to help,
and she says--"

"Oh, be quiet," said Betto, "and go along with your Valmai, and your
Price Merthyr, and your hams, and lions, and things.  Ach y fi!  I
don't want to hear about such things in a clergyman's house."

"Valmai is a beauty, whatever," said Dye, the ploughboy.  "I kiwked[4]
at her over the hedge this morning when she was going to Caer Madoc;
she's as pretty as an angel.  Have you ever seen her, Ser?"

"Valmai," said Cardo, prevaricating, "surely that is a new name in this
neighbourhood?"

"Yes, she is Essec Powell's niece come home from over the sea.  She is
an orphan, and they say the old man is keeping her reading and reading
to him all day till she is fair tired, poor thing."

"Well, it is getting late," said Cardo, "good-night."  And his rising
was the signal for them all to disperse, the men servants going to
their beds over the hay loft or stable; while the women, leaving their
wooden shoes at the bottom, followed each other with soft tread up the
creaking back stairs.

In the study the Vicar poured over his books, as he translated from
English into Welsh the passages which interested him most.  He was,
like many of the inhabitants of the South Wales coast, a descendant of
the Flemings, who had long ago settled there, and who have left such
strong and enduring marks of their presence.

Their language has long given place to a sort of doggerel English, but
they have never learned to speak the language of the country except in
some of the straggling border villages.

Pembrokeshire, in particular, retains a complete separateness, so to
speak, from the rest of the country, and is often called "Little
England beyond Wales."  Thus it was that the English language seemed
always more natural to Meurig Wynne than the Welsh.  His sermons were
always thought out in that language, and then translated into the
vernacular, and this, perhaps, accounted in some degree for their
stiffness and want of living interest.  His descent from the Flemings
had the disadvantage of drawing a line of distinction between him and
his parishioners, and thus added to his unpopularity.  In spite of
this, Cardo was an immense favourite, his frank and genial
manner--inherited from his mother, who was thoroughly Welsh--making its
way easily to the warm Welsh hearts.  There was a deep well of
tenderness, almost of pity, within him for his cold stern father, a
longing to break through his reserve, a hankering after the loving ways
of home life, which he missed though he had never known them.  The cold
Fleming had very little part in Cardo's nature, and, with his
enthusiastic Welsh sympathies, he was wont to regret and disclaim his
connection with these ancient ancestors.  His father's pedigree,
however, made it very plain that the Gwynnes of Brynderyn were
descended from Gwayn, a Flemish wool merchant who had settled there in
the reign of Henry I.--these settlers being protected and encouraged by
the English king, who found their peaceable, industrious habits a great
contrast to the turbulence and restlessness of the Welsh under their
foreign yoke.  Time has done but little to soften the difference
between the Welsh and Flemish characters; they have never really
amalgamated, and to this day the descendants of the Flemings remain a
separate people in language, disposition, and appearance.  In
Pembrokeshire, Gower, and Radnorshire, we find them still flourishing,
and for some distance along the coast northwards from Pembrokeshire
there are still families, and even whole hamlets, descended from them,
exhibiting traits of character and peculiarities of manner easily
discernible to an observant eye.

Before the Vicar retired to rest he took down from a shelf an old
Bible, from which he read a chapter, and, closing the book, knelt down
to pray.  As he rose from his knees, the last words on his lips were,
"Caradoc, my beloved son!"

For the next few days the turnips and mangolds seemed even more
interesting than usual to Cardo Wynne.  He was up with the lark, and
striding from furrow to furrow in company with Dye and Ebben, returning
to a hurried breakfast, and out again on the breezy hillside before the
blue smoke had begun to curl up from the thatched chimneys which marked
the cluster of cottages called "Abersethin."

Down there, under the cliffs, the little village slumbered, the rising
sun just beginning to touch its whitewashed walls with gold, while up
above, on the high lands, the "Vicare du's" fields were already bathed
in the morning sunlight.

As he crossed from ridge to ridge and from furrow to furrow Cardo's
thoughts continually flew across the valley to the rugged hill on the
other side, and to the old grey house on the cliff--the home of Essec
Powell, the preacher.  In vain he sought for any sign of the girl whose
acquaintance he had made so unexpectedly, and he was almost tempted to
believe that she was no other than a creature of his own imagination,
born of the witching moonlight hour, and absorbed again into the
passing shadows of night.  But could he have seen through the walls of
that old grey house, even now at that early hour, he would have
understood what kept the preacher's niece so busily engaged that
neither on the shore nor on the banks of the Berwen was there a sign of
her.

In the cool dairy at Dinas, and in and out of the rambling old kitchen,
she was busy with her preparations for the guests who would fill the
house during the Sassiwn.  She bustled about, with Marged Hughes in
attendance, looking very different, but every bit as charming, in her
neat farm dress as she had on her visit to Caer Madoc.  The sleeves of
her pink cotton jacket, pushed up above the elbows, showed her white,
dimpled arms; while her blue skirt or petticoat was short enough to
reveal the neatly-shod feet, with their bows of black ribbon on the
instep.

Every house in the neighbourhood was busy with preparations of some
sort.  At the farmhouses the women had been engaged for days with their
cooking.  Huge joints of beef and ham, boiled or baked, stood ready in
the cool pantries; and in the smallest cottages, where there was more
than one bed, it had been prepared for some guest.  "John, my cousin,
is coming from 'the Works,'" [5] or "Mary, my sister, will be home with
her baby."

Everywhere hearts and hands were full of warm hospitality.  Clergymen
of the Church of England, though generally looking askance at the
chapels and their swarming congregations, now, carried away by the
enthusiasm of the people, consented to attend the meetings, secretly
looking forward, with the Welsh love of oratory, to the eloquent
sermons generally to be heard on such occasions.

Cardo, ruthlessly striding through the dew-bespangled gossamer of the
turnip field, heard with pleasure from Dye that the adjoining field,
which sloped down to the valley, had been fixed upon for the holding of
the Sassiwn.  On the flat at the bottom the carpenters were already at
work at a large platform, upon which the preachers and most honoured
guests were to be seated; while the congregation would sit on the
hillside, which reached up to the Vicar's land.  At least three
thousand, or even four, might be expected.

All day Cardo looked over the valley with intense interest, and when
the day's work was over, unable to restrain his curiosity and
impatience any longer, he determined to take a closer survey of the old
house on the hill, which for so many years he had seen with his outward
eyes, though his inner perception had never taken account of it.  At
last, crossing the beach, he took his way up the steep path that led to
Dinas.  As he rounded a little clump of stunted pine trees he came in
sight of the house, grey, gaunt, and bare, not old enough to be
picturesque, but too old to look neat and comfortable, on that
wind-swept, storm-beaten cliff.  Its grey walls, marked with patches of
damp and lichen, looked like a tear-stained face, out of which the two
upstairs windows stared like mournful eyes.  Downstairs, in one room,
there was a little sign of comfort and adornment; crimson curtains hung
at the window, inside which a few flowers grew in pots.  Keeping well
under the hedge of elders which surrounded the cwrt or front garden,
Cardo passed round to the side--the pine end, as it is called in
Wales--and here a little lattice window stood open.  It faced the
south, and away from the sea a white rose tree had ventured to stretch
out its straggling branches.  They had evidently lately been drawn by
some loving hand towards the little window.  A muslin curtain fluttered
in the evening breeze, on which came the sound of a voice.  Cardo knew
it at once.  It was Valmai singing at her work, and he longed to break
through the elder bushes and call her attention.  He was so near that
he could even hear the words of her song, softly as they were sung.
She was interrupted by a querulous voice.

"Valmai," it said in Welsh, "have you written that?"

"Oh! long ago, uncle.  I am waiting for the next line."

"Here it is then, child, and well worth waiting for;" and, with
outstretched arm marking the cadence of its rhythm, he read aloud from
a book of old poems.  "There's poetry for you, girl!  There's a
description of Nature!  Where will you find such real poetry amongst
modern bards?  No, no! the bards are dead, Valmai!"

"Well, I don't know much about it, uncle; but isn't it a modern bard
who writes:

  "'Come and see the misty mountains
    In their grey and purple sheen,
  When they blush to see the sunrise
    Like a maiden of thirteen!'"

That seems very pretty, whatever."

"Very pretty," growled the man's voice, "very pretty; of course it
is--very pretty!  That's just it; but that's all, Valmai.  Pwff! you
have put me out with your 'blushing maiden' and your 'purple sheen.'
Let us shut up Taliesin and come to 'Drych y Pryf Oesoedd.'  Now, you
begin at the fifth chapter."

There was a little sigh, which Cardo heard distinctly, and then the
sweet voice began and continued to read until the sun sank low in the
west.

"It's getting too dark, uncle.  Will I go and see if the cakes are
done?"

"No, no!" said the old man, "Gwen will look after the cakes; you light
the candle, and come on with the book."

How Cardo longed to spring in through the lattice window, to fling the
old books away, and to draw the reader out into the gold and purple
sunset--out over the breezy cliffs, and down to the golden sands; but
the strong bonds of circumstances held him back.

The candle was lighted, and now he could see into the room.  Old Essec
Powell sat beside the table with one leg thrown over the other, hands
clasped, and chin in the air, lost in the deep interest of the book
which his niece was reading.

"He looks good for two hours longer," thought Cardo, as he saw the old
man's far-away look.

There was a little tone of weariness in her voice as, seating herself
at the table by the open window, Valmai drew the candle nearer and
continued to read.

Outside in the dusky twilight Cardo was gazing his fill at the face
which had haunted him ever since he had seen it on the road from Caer
Madoc.  Yes, it was a beautiful face! even more lovely than he imagined
it to be in the dim evening light.  He took note of the golden wavy
hair growing low on her broad, white forehead, her darker eyebrows that
reminded him of the two arches of a beautiful bridge, under which
gleamed two clear pools, reflecting the blue of the sky and the glint
of the sunshine, the straight, well-formed nose, the pensive, mobile
mouth, the complexion of a pale pink rose, and added to this the
indescribable charm of grace and manner which spread through her
personality.

The evening shadows darkened, the sunset glow faded, and the moon rose
in a cloudless sky.  The distant sound of the regular plash of the
waves on the beach reached Cardo's ears.  He thought of the long
reaches of golden sand lying cool and grey in the moonlight, and all
the romantic dreams of youth awoke within him.

Was it right that Valmai should be bending over a musty book in a
dimly-lit room? while outside were the velvet turf of the cliffs, the
plashing waves, and the silver moonlight.

But the reading still went on, the gentle voice growing a little weary
and monotonous, and the white eyelids falling a little heavily over the
blue eyes.

Long Cardo watched and gazed, and at last, turning away, he walked
moodily home.  He knew his father would expect him to supper at ten
o'clock punctually, and hurried his steps as he approached the house.
Just in time, for Betto was placing on the table an appetising supper
of cawl and bread and butter, which the two men were soon discussing
silently, for the Vicar was more pre-occupied than usual, and Cardo,
too, was busy with his own thoughts.

Suddenly the former spoke.

"Is the long meadow finished?" he said.

"Yes; Dye is a splendid fellow to work, and Ebben and he together get
through a good deal."

"To-morrow they can clear out the barn.  The next day is the market at
Llanilwyn; they must go there and buy a cow which Jones Pant y rych is
going to sell.  I have told Ebben he is not to give more than 8 pounds
for her, and that is one pound more than she is worth."

Cardo was silent.  To clear out the barn next day was easy enough, but
to get Dye and Ebben to the market on the following day would be
impossible.  It was the opening of the Sassiwn, and he knew that
neither of the men would be absent on that occasion, even though
disobedience should cost them their place.  They were both Methodists,
and it had gone hard with the Vicar before he had taken them into his
service; but the exigencies of farm life had compelled him to do so, as
there was absolutely not one young man amongst his own congregation.

To do him justice, he had forgotten for the moment that the market day
at Llanilwyn would also be the Sassiwn day.

"Do you remember, father, the Sassiwn begins the day after to-morrow?"

"I had forgotten it, but I don't see what difference that can make to
my buying a cow."

"But Ebben and Dye will want to be at the meetings."

A shadow crossed the old man's face.  He made no answer, but continued
to eat his supper in silence, and at last rose, and with a short
"Good-night, Cardo," went into his study.  He knew as well as his son
did that it would be useless to try and persuade his servants to be
absent from the meetings, and the knowledge galled him bitterly, too
bitterly for words, so he was silent; and Cardo, knowing his humour,
said nothing to Dye and Ebben of his father's wishes.

"Poor old dad!" he sighed, as he finished his supper, "it is hard for
him to see his congregation dwindled away to a mere handful, while the
chapels around him arc crowded to overflowing.  By Jove! there must be
something wrong somewhere."

As usual after supper he followed Betto into the old kitchen, where the
servants were assembled for supper, and where Shanw was again holding
forth, to her own delight and Betto's disgust, on the coming glories of
the Sassiwn.

"To-morrow evening will be the first meeting."

"Will it be in the field?" asked Cardo.

"Oh, no, Ser; the first is in the chapel always, and no strangers are
there.  Essec Powell will have to shut up his old books for a few days
now, and poor Valmai will have rest.  Marged Hughes says she is reading
to him for hours every day, but once she can get out of his sight he
forgets all about her, and goes on reading himself."

"When does he prepare his sermons?" said Cardo.

"Prepare his sermons!" said Shanw indignantly.  "Do you think Essec
Powell would write his sermon out like a clergyman and read it out like
a book?  No, indeed!  Straight from the 'brist'--that's how Essec
Powell preaches!"

"What time is the first meeting next day?"

"Oh, early, Ser--eight o'clock.  Are you coming?  Anwl! there's glad
they'd be.  You shall go on the platform with Price Merthyr and Jones
Abertawe and all the rest."

"Saul among the prophets," said Cardo, laughing, and picturing himself
among the solemn-faced preachers.  "No, no; that wouldn't do, Shanw.
What would my father say?"

"Well, well!" said Shanw, clicking her tongue against her teeth; "'ts,
'ts! 'tis pity indeed.  But, there, everybody knows it is not your
fault, Ser."

Cardo frowned, and fell into a brown study.  It wounded him to hear his
father blamed, and yet in his heart of hearts he wished he would so far
temper his zeal with Christian charity as to attend the meetings which
were moving the hearts of the people so much.


[1] "The old know, the young appear to know."

[2] Leek broth.

[3] Rodomontade.

[4] Peeped.

[5] Glamorganshire.




CHAPTER III.

THE SASSIWN.

The Sassiwn day dawned bright and clear, and as the time for the first
service drew near, the roads and lanes were thronged with pedestrians
and vehicles of every description.

The doors of the houses in all the surrounding villages were closed for
the day, except in a few cases where illness made it impossible for the
inmates to leave their beds.  Everybody--man, woman, and child,
including babies innumerable--turned their faces towards the sloping
field which for the day was the centre of attraction.

Already the grass was getting hidden by the black throng, and still the
crowds arrived, seating themselves row behind row on the wild thyme and
heather.  The topmost corner of the field merged into a rocky
wilderness of stunted heath and patches of burnt grass, studded with
harebells, and this unapportioned piece of ground stretched away into
the adjoining corner of the Vicar's long meadow.  In the afternoon
Cardo, who had virtuously kept away from the morning meetings,
sauntered down to chat with Dye, who had condescended to absent himself
from the third service, in order to attend to his duties on the farm.

"You sit here, Mr. Cardo," he said, with a confidential wink, "on your
own hedge; the Vicar can't be angry, and you will hear something worth
listening to."

Soon the sloping bank was crowded with its rows of human beings, all
listening with intense interest to a pale, dark man, who stood on the
front of the platform at the bottom of the field, and with sonorous
voice delivered a short opening prayer, followed by an impassioned
address.  In the clear, pure air every word was distinctly heard all
over the field, the surging multitude keeping a breathless silence,
broken only by the singing of the birds or the call of the seagulls.
Sometimes a baby would send up a little wail of fatigue; but generally
the slumberous air soothed and quieted them into sleep.

The prayer over, the preacher gave out the words of a well-known hymn,
and with one accord the people stood up, and from those hundreds and
thousands arose the swelling tones of one of those old hymns which lay
hold of every Welshman's heart, its strange reminiscences, its
mysterious influences swaying his whole being, and carrying him away on
the wings of its rising and falling melody.  His fathers and
grandfathers sang it in their old thatched cabins--and, farther back,
the warriors and bards of his past ancestry breathed the same
tones--and, farther back still, the wind swept its first suggestions
through the old oaks of the early solitudes.

"Is it this, I wonder, this far-reaching into the past, which gives
such moving power to the tones of an old Welsh hymn?"  Thus Cardo
mused, as he sat on the hedge in the spring sunshine, his eyes roaming
over the dense throng now settling down to listen to the sermon, which
the preacher was beginning in low, slow sentences.  Every ear was
strained to listen, every eye was fixed on the preacher, but Cardo
could not help wondering where Valmai was.  He saw Essec Powell with
clasped fingers and upturned chin listening in rapt attention; he saw
in the rows nearest the platform many of the wives and daughters of its
occupants.  Here surely would be the place for the minister's niece;
but no!  Valmai was nowhere to be seen.  In truth, she had been
completely forgotten by her uncle, who had wandered off with a knot of
preachers after the hospitable dinner, provided for them at his house
by Valmai's exertions and Marged Hughes' help; but he had never thought
of introducing to his guests the real genius of the feast.  She had
snatched a hurried meal in the pantry, and, feeling rather lost and
bewildered amongst the crowd of strangers, had retired to rest under
the elder bushes, until called upon by Marged Hughes to help at the
table, which she did at once, overcoming her shyness, and keeping as
much as possible in the background.

The guests had been at first too intent upon their dinners after their
morning's exertions to notice the slim white figure which slipped
backwards and forwards behind them, supplying every want with quick and
delicate intuition, aiding Marged Hughes' clumsy attempts at waiting,
so deftly, that Essec Powell's dinner was a complete success.

Towards the end of the meal a young and susceptible preacher caught
sight of the girl, and without ceremony opened a conversation with her.
Turning to his host he asked:

"And who is this fair damsel?"

"Who? where?" said Essec Powell, looking surprised.  "Oh! that's my
niece Valmai; she is living with me since Robert my brother is dead."

"Well, indeed!  You will be coming to the meetings, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Valmai, "I have been there all day; the singing was lovely!"

"And what did you think of the preaching?" said a very fat man, in a
startlingly bass voice.  He was carving a fowl.  "That is the important
point," he said, and the wing came off unexpectedly.  "Young people are
apt to think most of the singing," here he re-captured the wing and
landed it safely on his own plate.  "Did you hear my sermon?" he asked,
between the mouthfuls of the fast disappearing wing, fixing his eyes
upon poor Valmai, who began to wish herself under the elder bushes
again.  "My text was--" but fortunately here the company rose.

After a long grace they dispersed, and turned their faces once more
towards the sloping field.

No one noticed Valmai--no one remembered her in the hurry to return to
the preaching field--no one, she thought, would know or care whether
she was present or not; and as she drew on her gloves and tied on her
broad-brimmed straw hat, there was a little sadness in the curves of
her mouth, a little moisture in the deep blue eyes, as alone she took
her way after the preachers to the hillside.  As she went she recalled
the last open-air meeting she had attended, nearly two years ago, in
that far-off land, where her father and mother had walked with her in
loving companionship, when she had been the centre of their joys and
the light of their home, and as she followed the winding path,
hymn-book in hand, her heart went back in longing throbs to the father
and mother and the old home under the foreign sky, where love had
folded her in its warm embrace; but now--she was alone! no one noticed
whether she came or went, and as groups and families passed her,
wending their way to the hillside, she answered their nods and
greetings with pleasant kindliness, but still found herself alone!

"It will always be like this now; I must learn to go alone.  What can I
expect when my father and mother are dead? there is no one else to care
for me!"

She reached the crowded field, and ought to have made her way into the
front rows near the platform where she might easily have found a seat,
but Valmai was shy and retiring, and seeing there was no settled place
for her, kept on the outskirts of the crowd, and at last found herself
on the piece of uncultivated ground which bordered the corner of the
Vicar's long meadow.  She seated herself on the heather at the top of
the bank, the sea wind blowing round her, and tossing and tumbling the
golden curls which fell so luxuriantly under her hat.

All feeling of loneliness passed away as she sat there among the
harebells and heather, for Valmai was young, and life was all before
her, with its sweet hopes and imaginings.  She was soon listening with
deep interest to the eloquent and burning words which fell from the
lips of the preacher; and with the harebells nodding at her, the golden
coltsfoot staring up into the sky, the laughing babies sprawling about,
was it any wonder that sadness fled away, and joy and love sang a paean
of thankfulness in her heart?

It was at this moment that Cardo caught sight of her.  Unconsciously,
he had been seeking her in every square yard which his eye could reach,
and here she was close to him all the time.  The discovery awoke a
throb of pleasure within him, and with a flush upon his dark face he
rose and made his way towards her.  She was absently turning over the
leaves of her little Welsh hymn-book as he approached, and smiling
unconsciously at a toddling child who was making journeys of discovery
around the furze bushes.  A quick, short "Oh!" escaped her as she saw
him approach, her face brightened up--yes, certainly she was glad.
Cardo saw it in the mantling blush and the pleased smile as he found a
seat on the grass beside her.  She placed her hand in his with a
whispered word of greeting, for it would not do to speak aloud in that
quiet concourse of people.

"Where have you been?" he asked, at last.

"At home," she whispered.  "Why?"

"Because I hoped you would be out--"

Valmai shook her head as a farmer's wife looked round at her
reprovingly.  Cardo attempted another remark, but she only smiled with
her finger on her lips.

"This is unendurable," he thought; but he was obliged to be satisfied
with the pleasure of sitting beside her until the long sermon was over,
and the crowd rose _en masse_ with ejaculations of delight at the
moving eloquence of the preacher.

"As good as ever he was!"  "Splendid!"  "Did you hear that remark about
the wrong key?"  "Oh! telling!"  And amongst the murmer of approval and
enthusiasm Valmai and Cardo rose.  For a moment the former looked
undecided, and he read her thoughts.

"No--not home with the crowd, but down over the beach;" and she fell in
with the suggestion, turning her face to the sea breeze and taking the
path to the shore.

Here the Berwen was running with its usual babbling and gurgling
through the stones into the sea, the north-west wind was tossing the
foam into the air, and the waves came bounding and racing up the yellow
sand like children at play; the little sea-crows cawed noisily as they
wheeled round the cliffs, and the sea-gulls called to their fellows as
they floated over the waves or stood about the wet, shining sands.

"There's beautiful, it is," said Valmai, pushing back her hat and
taking long breaths of the sea wind; "only six weeks I have been here
and yet I seem to have known it for ever--I suppose because from a baby
I used to hear my father talking of this place.  It was his old home,
and he was always longing to come back."

"Yes," said Cardo, "I can imagine that.  I don't think I could ever be
thoroughly happy away from here."

"Nor I too, indeed," said Valmai, "now that I know it."

"I hope you will never leave the place--you seem to belong to it
somehow; and I hope I may never leave it, at least--at all events--"
and he hesitated as he remembered his father's wishes--expressed many
times, though at long intervals--that he should go to Australia and
visit an uncle who had for many years lived there.  The prospect of a
voyage to the Antipodes had never been very attractive to Cardo, and
latterly the idea had faded from his mind.  In the glamour of that
golden afternoon in spring, in Valmai's sweet companionship, the
thought of parting and leaving his native country was doubly unpleasant
to him.  She saw the sudden embarrassment, and the flush that spread
over his face.

"You are going away?" she said, looking up at him.

There was only inquiry in the tone.  Cardo wondered if she would be
sorry, and was tempted to make the most of his possible departure.

"I may have to go away," he said, "though I should hate it.  I never
liked the idea, but now I perfectly dread it.  And you," he added,
"should you miss me?  It is not very lively here, so perhaps even I
might be missed a little."

Valmai did not answer; she looked out to the horizon where the blue of
the sky joined the blue of the sea, and the white breakers glinted in
the sunshine.

"Yes," she said presently, "I will be sorry when you go, and where are
you going to?  Far away?  To England, perhaps?"

"To Australia," replied Cardo.

"Australia!  Oh! then you will never come back to Traeth Berwen!"

"Indeed, indeed I will, Miss Powell--you laugh at that--well--may I say
Valmai, then?"

"Yes; why not?  Everyone is calling me Valmai, even Shoni our servant."

"I may venture, then; and will you call me Cardo?"

"Yes, indeed; Cardo Wynne.  Cardo Wynne, everybody is calling you that,
too--even the little children in the village; I have heard them say,
'Here is Cardo Wynne coming!'  See, here is the path to Dinas, I must
say good-bye."

"Can't we have another walk along the beach?  Remember, I, too, have no
one to talk to!"

"Oh, anwl, no!  I must hurry home and get the tea for the preachers."

"And then back to the meeting on the hillside?"

"No; the meeting is in the chapel to-night."

"But when it is over you will come back along the shore?"

"Indeed, I don't know.  Good-bye," she said, as she began her way up
the rugged homeward path.

When Cardo reached home, he found his father sitting at the tea-table.
The old parlour looked gloomy and dark, the bright afternoon sun,
shining through the creepers which obscured the window, threw a green
light over the table and the rigid, pale face of the Vicar.

"You are late Cardo; where have you been?"

"In the long meadow, sir, where I could hear some of the preaching
going on below, and afterwards on the beach; it is a glorious
afternoon.  Oh! father, I wish you would come out and breathe the fresh
air; it cannot be good for you to be always in your study poring over
those musty old books."

"My books are not musty, and I like to spend my time according to my
own ideas of what is fit and proper, and I should not think it either
to be craning my neck over a hedge to listen to a parcel of Methodist
preachers--"

"Well, I only heard one, Price Merthyr I think they call him.  He was--"

"Cardo!" said his father severely, "when I want any information on the
subject I will ask for it; I want you to set Dye and Ebben on to the
draining of that field to-morrow--"

"Parc y waun?"

"Yes; Parc y waun."

"Right, father," said Cardo good-naturedly.  He was devotedly attached
to his father, and credited him with a depth of affection and
tenderness lying hidden behind his stern manner--a sentiment which must
have been revealed to him by intuition, for he had never seen any
outward sign of it.  "It's no use," he muttered, as his father rose and
left the room; "it's no use trying to broach the subject to him, poor
fellow!  I must be more careful, and keep my thoughts to myself."

Later on in the evening, Valmai sat in the hot, crowded chapel, her
elbows pressed tightly in to her sides by the two fat women between
whom she sat, their broad-brimmed hats much impeding her view of the
preacher, who was pounding the red velvet cushion in the old pulpit,
between two dim mould candles which shed a faint light over his face.
Valmai listened with folded hands as he spoke of the narrow way so
difficult to tread, so wearisome to follow--of the few who walked in it
and the people, listening with upturned faces and bated breath,
answered to his appeal with sighs and groans and "amens."  He then
passed on to a still more vivid description of the broad road, so
smooth, so easy, so charming to every sense, so thronged with people
all gaily dancing onwards to destruction, the sudden end of the road,
where it launched its thronging crowds over a precipice into the
foaming, seething sea of everlasting woe and misery.

Valmai looked round her with awe and horror.

"Did these innocent-looking, simple people belong to that thronging
crowd who were hurrying on to their own destruction? was she herself
one of them? Cardo?--her uncle?"

The thought was dreadful, her breath came and went quickly, her eyes
were full of tears, and she felt as if she must rise suddenly and rush
into the open air, but as she looked round the chapel she caught sight
through one of the windows of the dark blue sky of night, bespangled
with stars, and a glow of purer and healthier feeling came over her.
She would not believe it--outside was the fresh night wind, outside was
the silver moonlight, and in the words of the poet of whom she had
never heard she said within herself, "No!  God is in Heaven, it's all
right with the world!"  Her joyous nature could not brook the saddening
influences of the Methodist creed, and as she passed out into the clear
night air amongst the crowd of listeners, and heard their mournful
sighs and their evident appreciation of the sermon, or rather sermons,
for there had been two, her heart bounded with a sense of relief; joy
and happiness were its natural elements, and she returned to them as an
innocent child rushes to its mother's arms.

Leaving the thronged road, she took the rugged path down the hillside,
alone under the stars, and remembering Cardo's question, "Will you come
home by the shore?" she wondered whether he was anywhere near!  As she
reached the bottom of the cliff and trod on the firm, hard sand below,
she saw him standing in the shadow of a rock, and gazing out at the sea
over which the moon made a pathway of silver.

The fishing boats from Ynysoer were out like moths upon the water.
They glided from the darkness across that path of light and away again
into the unknown.  On one a light was burning.

"That is the _Butterfly_," thought Valmai, "I am beginning to know them
all; and there is Cardo Wynne!" and with a spirit of mischief gleaming
in her eyes and dimpling her face, she approached him quietly, her
light footstep making no sound on the sand.

She was close behind him and he had not turned round, but still stood
with folded arms looking out over the moonlit scene.  Having reached
this point, Valmai's fun suddenly deserted her.  What should she do
next? should she touch him?  No!  Should she speak to him?  Yes; but
what should she say?  Cardo!  No! and a faint blush overspread her
face.  A mysterious newborn shyness came over her, and it was quite a
nervous, trembling voice that at last said:

"Mr. Wynne?"

Cardo turned round quickly.

"Valmai!  Miss Powell!" he said, "how silently you came upon me!  I was
dreaming.  Come and stand here.  Is not that scene one to make a poet
of the most prosaic man?"

"Yes, indeed," answered the girl, standing beside him with a strangely
beating heart, "it is beautiful!  I saw the sky through the chapel
window, and I was thinking it would be very nice down here.  There's
bright and clear the moon is!"

They were walking now across the beach, at the edge of the surf.

"It reminds me of something I read out to uncle last night.  It was out
of one of his old Welsh poets--Taliesin, or Davydd ap Gwilym, or
somebody.  It was about the moon, but indeed I don't know if I can put
it into English."

"Try," said Cardo.

  "'She comes from out the fold
  And leads her starry flock among the fields of night.'"


"Yes, that is beautiful," said Cardo.  "Indeed, I am glad you find
something interesting in those dog-eared old books."

"Dog-eared?  But they are indeed," she said, laughing.  "But how do you
know?  They may be gold and leather, and spic and span from the
bookseller's, for all you know."

"No, I have seen them, and have seen you reading them."

"Seen me reading them?  How?  Where?"

"Last night I was under the elder bushes, and saw you reading to your
uncle.  I watched you for a long time."

Valmai was silent.

"You are not vexed with me for that?"

She was still silent; a tumult of happy thoughts filled her mind.  He
had found his way to Dinas!  He had thought it worth while to stand
under the night sky and watch her!  It was a pleasant idea, and,
thinking of it, she did not speak.

"Tell me, Valmai, have I offended you?"

"Offended me?  Oh, no; why should you?  But indeed it was very foolish
of you, whatever.  If you had come in and listened to the reading it
would be better, perhaps," she said laughingly.

"If I had come in, what would your uncle have said?  He would have been
very angry."

"Well, indeed, yes; I was forgetting that.  He is very hospitable, and
glad to see anybody who comes in to supper; but I don't think," she
added, with a more serious air, "that he would be glad to see you.  He
hates the Church and everything belonging to it."

"Yes.  How wearisome all this bigotry is.  My father hates the chapels
and all belonging to them."

"Perhaps you and I will begin to hate each other soon," said Valmai, as
they reached the boulders through which the Berwen trickled.

It was absolutely necessary that Cardo should help her over the
slippery stones, and with her hand in his she stepped carefully over
the broad stream, subsiding into quietness as it reached the sea.  At
last she was safely over, and as he reluctantly dropped her hand he
returned to the subject of conversation.

"Will we hate each other?"

Again there was no answer, and again Cardo looked down at Valmai as he
pressed his question.

She had taken off her hat, and was walking with her golden head exposed
to the cool night breezes.  It drooped a little as she answered his
persistent questioning.

"No, I think," she said, with her quaint Welsh accent.

"No, I think, too," said Cardo; "why should we?  Let us leave the
hatred and malice and all uncharitableness to our elders; for you and
me, down here on the sands and by the banks of the Berwen, there need
be nothing but content and--and friendship."

"Yes, indeed, it is nice to have friends.  I left all mine behind me in
my old home, and I did not think I should ever have another; but here
we are across the shore, and here is the path to Dinas."

"Oh, but the walk has been too short.  You must come back and let us
have it over again."

"What! back again?" said Valmai, laughing so merrily that she woke the
echoes from the cliffs.

"Yes, back across those slippery stones and across the shore, and then
back again to this side.  I can help you, you know."

Cardo's voice was very low and tender.  It seemed ridiculous, but
somehow he gained his point.




CHAPTER IV.

THE STORM.

A day or two later on, the weather changed, the wind blew up in angry
soughs from the south-west, and, meeting the strong flow of the spring
tide, curled the green wave-tops into those small feathers of foam,
always the fore-runners of rough weather.  The sea-gulls let themselves
go before the wind calling to each other excitedly, the little
sea-crows stayed quietly at home in the safe crannies of the cliff.
Old Dan Griffiths the fisherman hauled his boat further up the strand,
and everything betokened the brewing of a storm, nevertheless Valmai
was out early.  Her small household duties had been attended to.  She
had skimmed the cream in the dairy, and fed the new calf; she had
scattered the grain before the flocks of fowls and pigeons in the
farm-yard; had brushed her uncle's coat, and, while helping him to
shuffle into it, had asked him:

"Are you going from home to-day, uncle?"

"Yes, merch i, didn't I tell you?  I am going to a meeting at Pen
Morien, and won't be back to-night."

"Are you going to walk?"

"Why, no! ride, of course.  Where's Malen?"

"I think Shoni was just putting her into the cart."

"Oh!  I forgot to tell him," said the absent-minded man.  "Tell him to
saddle her, and bring her here at once."

Valmai ran out, and picking her way daintily through the stubble of the
farm-yard, caught sight of Shoni fastening the last buckle of Malen's
cart harness.

"Wants her saddled?" he said, looking hot and flustered.  "Dear, dear!
there never was such a man!  Wasn't I settle with him yesterday to take
the two pigs to the fair to be sell?  There's what it is to live in the
clouds!" and, grumbling, he unfastened the buckles, and soon led Malen
saddled and bridled to the door.

"Didn't you tell me we was to sell the pigs to-day?" he said sulkily,
as soon as his master was seated safely on the saddle.

Essec Powell, who had for some time been hopping about on one leg,
finding it difficult to mount the spirited Malen, now looked
thoughtfully at Shoni.

"Pigs," he said, "pigs?  Oh, of course; yes, Shoni, quite right, you
shall take them to market tomorrow."

"To-day is the fair; you had forgotten that, I suppose."

"Well, well! next week will do," and he trotted away, Shoni looking
after him with undisguised contempt.

"There's a man, now," he said in English, for he was proud of his
proficiency in that language.  "Wass you ever see such a man?  I tell
you, Valmai, he would be ruined and put in gaol for debt long ago if I
wasn't keep him out of it."

"Yes, I think--indeed, Shoni, I am sure of it; but where is the fair
to-day?"

"At Llanython, of course; wasn't you hear of it?  Why! you ought to be
there, pranked out in your ribbons and finery, talking and laughing
with the young men, and coming home in the evening with your
pocket-handkerchief full of gingerbread and nuts," and he looked her
over from top to toe.

It had never struck him before that there was any charm in her
appearance, but now he seemed to realise that she was worthy to be seen
at the fair.

"Yes," he said pensively, with his thumbs in the armholes of his
waistcoat; "I wouldn't wonder a bit now if you wass to pick up a
sweet'arr amongst the gentry, because you are beginning to speak
English as good as the Vicare, and you are not quite like the girls
about here, Valmai."

"Am I not?" she said laughingly.

"No," he said seriously; "and that's where you will be failing.
There's not a chap about here will take a miladi like you for a wife.
You must learn to kom over the farm-yard without picking up your
skirts, and looking at your shoes to see if they are dirty, if you want
to marry a farmer."

"Indeed, I don't wish to marry a farmer," said Valmai, "nor anyone else
who doesn't want me."

Shoni again shook his head solemnly.  "Yes, yes," he said, "I see how
it is; s'not only the pigs, and the calves, and hens, but you too I
must take to markets and fairs, or we shall never marry you," and he
turned away pondering seriously over his self-imposed duties.

Valmai looked after him a little wistfully.  Where should she go now?
How should she spend the long day?  Gwen would see to the housework,
and would brook no interference with her management.  Nobody wanted
her, and nobody thought of her, except Shoni, and to him she seemed
rather a burden; or was there one who thought of her sometimes?--who
cared a little for her?  With heightened colour and quick step she
turned from the farm-yard down the steep path which led to the river's
banks, and as she made her way through the thick hazel and willow
brushwood she could not quite suppress the hope that she might meet
Cardo.  But no, perfect solitude reigned over the Berwen.

Down in the valley she could not feel the wind, but she heard its roar
in the tree tops; the birds were silent, the sky was grey, and a little
sadness fell over her spirits as she continued to thread her way under
the tall bracken and brambles, onwards and upwards, until she at length
reached the stile by the bridge upon which she and Cardo had eaten
their gingerbread on the first evening of their acquaintance.  The road
which had that night been so quiet and deserted was now full of busy
life, and as Valmai approached the stile and saw the many pedestrians
and vehicles she shrank back a little, and, through the branches of a
hazel bush, looked out on the passers-by, realising that all these
hurrying footsteps, and faces full of interest, were turned towards the
Fair at Llanython.

Presently she heard the rumbling of wheels, and in a cloud of dust saw
the Vicar of the next parish drive by with his two pretty daughters.
Just as they reached the bridge they were overtaken by a young man, who
reined in his spirited, well-groomed horse and addressed the party.  At
once Valmai recognised the voice, and peeping through the greenery, saw
it was Cardo, stalwart and strong, with his rough freize coat and
buttoned gaiters, looking every inch a gentleman-farmer.

There was a bluff and hearty greeting from the clergyman as Cardo took
off his hat to the two young ladies, who simpered and blushed
becomingly, for Cardo Wynne was the catch of the neighbourhood; his
good looks, his father's reputed wealth, and the slight air of mystery
hanging over the silent "Vicare du" making quite a halo of romance
around his son's personality.

"Good-bye," said Mr. Hughes; "we shall see you at the fair, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Cardo, "good-bye," and he reined in his horse for a moment
so as to avoid riding in the cloud of dust raised by the Vicar's
carriage wheels.

Valmai's heart thumped loudly, for Cardo was looking at the stile, he
was dismounting, and now he was leaning on the bridge lost in thought,
and looking down into the green depths of the valley.  There was a
pleased look on his face and a gleam in his black eyes, which Valmai
saw, and which made her heart beat faster and her cheek flush a more
rosy red, but she shrank further back into the shade of the hazel bush,
and only peeped out again when she heard by the horse's hoofs that his
rider was remounting; then she ventured over the stile and looked at
the retreating figure, with his broad shoulders, his firm seat, and his
steady hand on his bridle as he galloped out of sight.  A flood of
happiness filled her heart as she re-crossed the stile and began her
way again down the shady path.

What mattered it that at every moment the wind rose higher, and the
branches creaked and groaned above her?  What mattered it that the
birds were silent, and that the roar of the sea reached further than
usual into the nut wood?  She would go home and eat her frugal dinner
of brown bread and bwdran,[1] and then she would set off to Ynysoer to
spend a few hours with Nance Owen, who had nursed her as a baby before
her parents had left Wales.  In spite of the increasing storm she
reached the beach, and turned her face towards Ynysoer, a small island
or rather a promontory, which stretched out from the shore.  At low
tide a reef of rocks, generally known as the Rock Bridge, connected it
with the mainland, but at high tide the reef was completely under
water, the sea rushing in foaming breakers over it as if chafing at the
restraint to its wild freedom.

Had Valmai been better acquainted with the coast, she would not have
dared to cross the bridge in the face of the storm which was every
moment increasing in violence.  The tide was down, and the rocks were
bare, and the high wind helped to hurry her over the pools and craggy
points.  Gathering her red cloak tightly around her she made her way
safely over to the island, which was a frequent resort of hers, as here
she found the warm love and welcome for which her heart craved, and
which was so sorely missing in her uncle's house.

Amongst the sandy dunes and tussocks were scattered a few lonely
cottages, in one of which Nance lived her uneventful life; its
smoke-browned thatch looked little different from the rushes and coarse
grass which surrounded it, for tufts of grass and moss grew on the roof
also, and Nance's goat was frequently to be seen browsing on the
house-top.  At the open door stood Nance herself, looking out at the
storm.  Suddenly she caught sight of Valmai, who was making a difficult
progress through the soft uneven sand, and a look of surprise and
pleasure came over her face.

"Oh, dear heart, is it you, indeed, come to see old Nance, and on such
a day?  Come in, sweetheart, out of the storm."

"The storm indeed," said Valmai, in Welsh as pure as Nance's own, as
the old woman drew her in to the cottage and closed the door.  "Why,
you know nothing about it on this side of the island, nothing of what
it is in the village.  The boats have all been drawn up close to the
road, and the waves are dancing and prancing on the beach, I can tell
you."

Nance loosened her cloak and hat, and smoothed her hair with her horny
hands.

"There's glad I am to see you, merch fach-i, and if you have no grand
friends to keep you company and no one to look after you, you have
always got old Nance to love you."

"Yes, I know that, Nance, indeed.  What do you think of my new frock?"
said the girl, holding out her skirt to the admiring gaze of the old
woman, who went into raptures of admiration.

"Oh, there's pretty.  'Tis fine and soft, but white, always white you
are wearing--"

"Yes, I like white," said Valmai.

"And didn't I dress you in your first little clothes?  Well I remember
it."

"There's just what I wanted to ask you about, Nance; I love to hear the
old story."

"After tea, then, merch i, for now I must go and fetch water from the
well, and I must milk the goat."

"I will fetch the water," said Valmai; "you can go and milk."

And taking the red stone pitcher from the bench by the wall she went
out, and, sheltered by the ridge of rocks behind which the cottage
stood, made her way to the spring which dripped from a crack in the
cliffs.  While she waited for the pitcher to fill, she sang, in sheer
lightness of heart, the old ballad which not only floated on the air of
Abersethin and its neighbourhood, but which she had heard her mother
sing in the far-off land of her childhood.

  "By Berwen's banks my love has strayed
  For many a day through sun and shade,"

and she paused to peep into the pitcher, but finding it only half full,
continued:

  "And as she carolled loud and clear
  The little birds flew down to hear."

  "By Berwen's banks the storm rose high,"

but the pitcher was full, so, resting it on her side, she carried it
home, before Nance had caught her goat.  When she returned with her
bowl of rich milk, Valmai was busy, with skirt and sleeves tucked up,
tidying and arranging the little room; the hearth had been swept and
the tea-things laid on the quaint little round table, whose black
shining surface and curved legs would have delighted the heart of a
collector of antique furniture.

"Oh, calon fâch![2] to think your little white hands have been working
for me!  Now I will cut the bread and butter thin, thin--as befits a
lady like you; and sorry I am that it is barley bread.  I don't forget
the beautiful white cakes and the white sugar you gave me at Dinas the
other day!  And your uncle, how is he?"

"Quite well; gone to Pen Morien, and not coming home till to-morrow;
but tell me now, Nance fâch, of all that happened so long ago--when I
was born."

"Not so long ago for me, dear heart, as for you.  It is a whole
life-time for you, but for me--" and the faded blue eyes filled with
tears, and the wrinkled lips trembled a little as she recalled the
past--"for me!  I had lived my life before you were born.  My husband
was dead, my boy drowned, and my little Mari, the last and brightest,
had suddenly withered and died before my eyes--a fever they say,
perhaps it was indeed; but the sun has never shone so brightly,
whatever, since then; the flowers are not so sweet--they remind me of
my child's grave; the sea does not look the same--it reminds me of my
boy!" and she rocked herself backwards and forwards for some time,
while Valmai stroked with tender white fingers the hard, wrinkled hand
which rested on her lap.  "Well, indeed," said the old woman at last,
"there's enough of my sorrows; let us get on to the happy time when
your little life began, you and your twin sister.  When you were washed
and dressed and laid sleeping together in the same cradle, no one could
tell which was which; but dir anwl! who cared for that? too much joy
was in our hearts that your dear mother was safe.  No one at least,
except the grand English lady who was lodging there at your
grandfather's house.  Her husband was dead, and she was very rich, but
she had no children; and when she heard your mother had twins, she
begged of us to let her have one for her very own, and she was like
thorns to us because we could not tell for sure which was the oldest."

"Well, go on, Nance," said Valmai, as the old woman stopped to rake the
peat embers together.

"Well! then, we all thought it was a very good thing, and no doubt the
Almighty had His plans about it, for how could your poor mother take
two babies with her to that far-off land where your father went a
missionary?  Well! there was a message come to fetch the lady to the
death-bed of her mother, and she only waited at Dinas long enough to
see you both christened together, Valmai and Gwladys.  The next day she
went away, and took your little sister with her.  Oh! there's crying
your mother was at losing one of her little ones; but your father
persuaded her it was for the best."

"And what was the English lady's name?" asked Valmai.

"Oh! my dear, ask it not; the hardest word you ever heard, and the
longest; I could never twist my tongue round it.  It is with me
somewhere written out on paper, and her directions, and if she ever
moved to another place she would write and tell us, she said; but that
was not likely to be, because she went to her father's and
grandfather's old home, and she has never written to anyone since, as
far as I know."

"Well, indeed," said Valmai, looking thoughtfully into the glowing
embers, "I should like to see my sister, whatever."

"Twt, twt," said the old woman, "there's no need for you to trouble
your head about her; she has never troubled to seek you."

"Does she know about me, do you think?"

"That I can't tell, of course," said Nance, going to the door to have
another look at the storm.  "Ach y fi! it's like a boiling pot," she
said; "you can never go home to-night, my child."

"Oh, yes, indeed I must; I would not be away from home in my uncle's
absence for the world," said Valmai, joining the old woman at the door,
and looking out rather anxiously at the angry sea.  "Oh, when the tide
goes down at nine o'clock the moon will be up, and perhaps the storm
will be over."

They sat chatting over the fire until the evening shadows fell, and the
moon shone fitfully between the scudding clouds.

Meanwhile Cardo had ridden in to Llanython.  A fair had generally much
attraction for him--the merry laughter, the sociable meetings, the
sound of music on the air, and the altogether festive character of the
day; but on this occasion its pleasures seemed to pall, and quickly
dispatching the business which had brought him there, he returned to
the inn, and, mounting his horse, rode home early in the afternoon.
Why he thus hurried away he never could explain.  Ever since he had
leant on the bridge over the Berwen in the morning he had been haunted
by a feeling of Valmai's presence.  Little had he guessed that she had
been so near him while he looked down through the interlacing scenery
which hid the river from his sight.  It was nearly four o'clock in the
afternoon as he reached that part of the high road from which the beach
was visible, and here he stopped a moment to look and wonder at the
storm, which had so suddenly increased in violence.

"How far up the beach at Ynysoer those breakers run!  And the Rock
Bridge!--I wouldn't like to cross that to-night; but surely that was a
woman's figure crossing it now!"  A sudden fear darted through his
mind, and dismounting, he climbed to the top of the turfy bank at the
side of the road to gain a better view of the coast.  "Yes, a woman--a
girl, surely, and a graceful girl, wearing a scarlet cloak.  She
carried her hat in her hand--not on her head, at all events.  Surely it
was not Valmai in such a storm going over by such a dangerous path?
Probably a fisherman's wife or daughter!"  But he gazed long and
steadily before he once more resumed his ride.  In hot haste he rode
the rest of the way to Brynderyn.

"The storm is rising," said the "Vicare du," as he joined his son at
the tea-table.

"Yes," said the latter, pausing in his attack upon the roast fowl to
gaze at the clouds which scudded before the wind, "I expect it will be
a furious gale before midnight."

As soon as the meal was over he rose, and fixing his hat firmly on his
head, said:

"I am going down to the beach to see the waves, father.  If I am not
back to supper you won't be frightened?"

The old man muttered something about "folly to go out in such weather,"
as Cardo disappeared into the stone passage.  Making his way down to
the beach, he found the storm raging fiercely, and, gaining the shelter
of a rock, he sat down to rest and think.

The sullen south-west wind moaned and shrieked as it rushed up the long
beach; it lurked in the hollows of the crags, and drove the sand and
foam before it.  The Berwen looked yellow and muddy as it washed over
its stony bed.  Above all came the roar of the breakers as they dashed
against the rocky sides of the island, which lay, a black mass, in the
seething water a few hundred yards from the shore.

He looked across the blinding spray of the waves and thought of his
boat; but no, no boat would live in such a sea; besides, what
ridiculous fear was this that haunted him?

At so great a distance as that between the road and the island it was
impossible that he could have distinguished Valmai from any other girl,
and what more natural than that one of the women living on the island
should be crossing the Rock Bridge.

"I must be a fool to have nervous fears like a silly girl.  I daresay I
shall meet Valmai on the shore."

But he sought in vain for any sign of her, as she had sought him in the
morning.  Indeed it was not likely that any tender girl would be out in
such a storm--and yet--"was it Valmai?"

The thought _would_ come, the fear would haunt him.  He was surprised
to find himself overtaken by a woman.

"Dir, dir, what a storm," she remarked as she passed, hurried on her
way by the driving wind.

One or two of Cardo's long steps brought him up with her.

"Don't you come from Ynysoer?" he said.  "I think I know your face."

"Yes, gwae fi![3] that I had got safe back again, but my mother is
ill," she shouted, as the wind carried her words away, "and I must stay
with her till tomorrow, no one could go back over the Rock Bridge
to-night; though, indeed, I met a young girl crossing--"

"Had she a red cloak?" asked Cardo.

"Yes.  She was Essec Powell's niece, and if she tries to come back
to-night I wouldn't give much for her life."

"Here we part--good-bye," said Cardo.

"Nos da, Ser," said the woman, but her voice was drowned by the roar of
the wind.

"It was Valmai!  I knew it was!  Why did I not take my boat at once?
Now it is too late; and yet," he thought, "she cannot come till the
tide is low.  I may get there in time.  Surely she would not attempt to
cross the bridge yet?"

For the rest of the evening Cardo paced restlessly over the beach,
buffeted by the strong wind, wetted by the spray, but still watching
narrowly the bridge of rocks, which connected the island with the
mainland.  He knew for a certainty that Valmai was there, and he
watched with intense interest the darkening island, over which the
storm gathered with increasing fury.  His plan was to wait until the
tide went down, and then to cross the bridge himself, so as to help
Valmai, or to prevent her attempting to return.

After several hours' waiting in the shelter of the cliff, he saw by his
watch, which he was able to decipher by occasional gleams of moonlight,
that it was near upon nine o'clock.  The moon was hidden at intervals
by heavy storm-clouds, which were hurrying before the wind; but when
her light shone out fitfully, it disclosed a scene of wild confusion;
the horizon was as black as ink, the seething sea beneath was white as
snow, and the sound of the wind and waves was deafening.

Over the Rock Bridge the sea rushed like a mill race one moment leaving
it bare and black, the next covering it again with strong rushing
billows of foam.

"She will not dare to return to-night," he thought, as he watched a
tossing, foaming tower of spray, which rose in the centre of the
bridge, where two streams of the seething waters met, and rose high in
the air together.

The moon had again hidden her face, and in the darkness Cardo was
seized with a trembling fear.  With bent and bare head (for he had long
before lost his hat) he made a blind rush over the bridge.  For the
first few yards he got on safely, as each end was sheltered by high
rocks, which stood as sentinels looking across at each other.

"So far, so good," thought Cardo, standing still a moment for breath;
"and now to cross this mill race!"

But he was too late.  Already he saw that Valmai had begun her way
across.

On the island side the bridge was more sheltered from the storm, and
the girl was not only in a measure protected from the wind, but was
also hidden from the moonlight, and it was not until she had left the
shadow of the rocks and entered upon the open and unprotected reef that
Cardo in a sudden absence of clouds saw in the moonlight the delicate
figure wrapped in its scarlet cloak.  For a moment she hesitated as she
felt the full force of the wind, and in her hesitation decided upon the
wrong course: she would run, she would reach the opposite rocks, and be
safe before the next gust of wind came.

"Good God!" said Cardo, "she is lost!" as he saw her approach with
flying hair and fluttering garments towards the centre of the bridge,
which was for a moment left bare, and in that moment Cardo realised how
completely this stranger girl, who had seemed to drop from the clouds
into his quiet, uneventful life, had taken possession of his heart.
All this flashed through his mind and opened his eyes to the true state
of his feelings.

Instantly he was making his way towards her, with strong steps and
sturdy shoulders fighting with the wind, which seemed determined to
baffle his attempts to reach Valmai before the periodical recurring
inrush of opposite streams should once more meet, and rise in towering
strife together.  Thoroughly frightened and trembling, Valmai looked in
horror at the two opposing streams of water approaching her on either
side, and in her terror losing her self-command, was on the point of
giving herself up to the angry waters, which she felt herself too weak
to withstand.  At this critical moment a dark form dashed through the
blinding spray--a form which she instantly recognised, and which as
quickly restored courage to her sinking heart.  She felt the strong
arms clasped round her, but too late! for the next moment the
approaching waves had met, and rising high in the air in their furious
contact, had fallen with terrific force, sweeping her and her rescuer
into the boiling surf.  Valmai became unconscious at once, but Cardo's
strong frame knew no sense of swooning nor faintness.  His whole being
seemed concentrated in a blind struggle to reach the land--to save
Valmai, though he was fighting under terrible disadvantage.

She had relaxed her grasp, and he had now to hold her safe with one
arm, thus having only one with which to struggle against the
suffocating, swirling waters.  In a very few minutes he realised that
the fight was dead against him; in spite of all his strength and his
powerful frame, he was lifted and tossed about like a straw.  The only
thing in his favour was the fact that the tide had turned, and was even
now combining with the strong wind to carry him towards a sheltered
corner on the mainland.  With choking breath and blinded eyes he felt
himself carried on the crest of a wave, which bore him landwards, but
only to be drawn back again by its receding swell.  He felt he was
helpless, though, had he the use of his two arms, he knew he would be
able to breast the stormy waters, and gain the land in safety; but
clutched in the nervous grasp of his left arm he held what was dearer
to him than life itself, and felt that to die with Valmai was better
than to live without her!  His strength was almost gone, and with
horror he felt that his grasp of the girl was more difficult to retain,
as a larger wave than usual came racing towards him with foaming,
curling crest.  He gave himself up for lost--he thought of his old
father even now poring over his books--he thought of Valmai's young
life so suddenly quenched--and with one prayer for himself and her, he
felt himself carried onward, tossed, tumbled over and over, but still
keeping tight hold of his precious burden.

He was suddenly struck by a stunning blow, which for a moment seemed to
take away his senses--but only for a moment--for what was this calm?
what was this quiet sense of rest? was he sinking out of life into some
dim, unconscious state of being? had he seen the last of the clouds?
the moon--the stormy waters?  Had Valmai already slipped away from him?
No; he still felt her within his grasp, and in a few moments he was
able to realise the meaning of the change in his feelings.  He had been
carried like a shred of seaweed by that strong wave far up the beach on
the mainland, and in its receding flow it had swirled him into a round
cavity in the rocks, where as a boy he had often played and bathed and
fished; he knew it well, and saw in a moment that he was saved!
Clasping Valmai firmly, he ran up the beach, another combing, foaming
wave coming dangerously near his hurrying footsteps; but in spite of
the buffeting wind, he gained the shelter of the cliffs, and at last
laid his burden tenderly down on the rocks.  And now the fight for life
was replaced by the terrible dread that Valmai might already be beyond
recall.

The clear, cold moon looked down between the scudding clouds upon her
straightened form, the wind roared above them, and the lashing fury of
the waves still filled the air; but Valmai lay white and still.  Cardo
looked round in vain for help; no one was near, even the fishermen had
safely bolted their doors, and shut out the wild stormy night.  A faint
hope awoke in his heart as he remembered that Valmai had swooned before
she was engulfed with him in the sea, and he set to work with renewed
vigour to rub her cold hands, and press the water out of her long,
drenched hair; he was soon rewarded by signs of life in the rigid
form--a little sigh came trembling from her lips, her hand moved, and
there was a tremor in her eyelids.  Cardo placed his arm under her
shoulders and, lifting her into a sitting posture, rested her head upon
his breast, the movement, the change of position--something awoke her
from her long swoon; was it the sense of Cardo's presence? did his
earnest longing call her spirit back? for she had been close upon the
shadow land.  She came back slowly, dimly conscious of escaping from
some deadly horror, and awakening to something pleasant, something
happy.  She slowly opened her eyes, and observing Cardo's strong right
hand, which still held and chafed her own, while his left arm upheld
her drenched form, she moved a little, and murmured:

"Are you hurt?"

"No," said Cardo, trembling in every limb with the excitement which he
had controlled until now, and with the delight of seeing life and
movement return to her, "hurt? no! only thankful to find you safe; only
anxious to get you home."

Valmai's voice was weak and low, and he had to bend his head over her
to catch the words:

"You have been near death for my sake--those dreadful waves!"

"Do not think of them!  I was in no danger.  But I have been nearer
death since I have sat here watching your slow recovery.  Now, Valmai,"
he said, realising that every moment of exposure in her cold, drenched
garments was danger to her, "be brave; give yourself up to me, and I
will carry you home."

But this adjuration was needless, for as he placed her gently down
while he rose to his feet he felt that she was limp and powerless as a
baby; he lifted her in his arms, and felt her weight no more than if he
had carried a storm-beaten bird.  His own drenched condition he did not
consider--did not feel, while he climbed with careful footsteps up the
rugged path to Dinas, lighted only by the moon, whose beams were
continually obscured by the flying clouds.  Pushing his way between the
furze and broom bushes, he was careful to let no stray branch catch
Valmai's face or hair, and as he reached the farm-yard in the rear of
the house, he was delighted to feel a strong and swift motion in her
frame.

"Put me down, please," she whispered, "on the bench by the door."

Cardo did so, reluctantly loosing his grasp of the tender form.

"Now knock."

And he obeyed, rapping loudly on the back door.  The sound seemed to
rouse the inmates at once, for, with considerable thumping and
fumbling, somebody shuffled down the stairs.

"Go now, I am safe," said Valmai, in a whisper.

And Cardo went, but not before he had stooped down and pressed an
impassioned kiss upon the little listless hands.  Neither spoke.
Valmai felt too weak and full of awakening happiness to trust her
voice, while Cardo felt the occasion was above the necessity for any
words.  He waited behind the elder bushes until Gwen's full-moon face
appeared in the doorway, and her ejaculations of reproachful
astonishment (in which the Welsh language is prolific) showed that she
had seen Valmai, and fully appreciated the urgency of the situation.

"Mawredd anwl! what is the meaning of this?  Where have you been? and I
thinking you were in your warm bed!"

"I have been to see Nance, and coming back over the Rock Bridge the sea
washed me away."

"Nance!  Nance! all the time!  What you want to go there so often?
It's no wonder if you are drowned crossing that nasty place in such a
storm, You are like a wet sea-gull.  If you were a baby you wouldn't be
more trouble," etc., etc.

Cardo still waited until he saw in the kitchen the blaze of
freshly-piled logs on the culm fire, Gwen's voice still reaching him in
snappish, reproving tones through the closed door.  Then he turned
away, and though he was bodily cold and saturated with the sea water,
his heart was full of warmth and a newly-awakened sense of the joy and
fulness of life.



[1] Oatmeal and water kept until fermentation has commenced, and then
boiled into a thin porridge.

[2] Dear heart.

[3] Woe is me.




CHAPTER V.

GWYNNE ELLIS ARRIVES.

For a few days, Valmai, although she had received no serious harm from
her watery adventure, still felt a little languor and indisposition,
which kept her a prisoner in the house.  As she lay on the old shabby
sofa, her time was fully occupied by reading to her uncle, books of
Welsh history or the effusions of the old bards, which interested him
so much.  Ever and anon, while he searched for a reference or took
notes of some special passage, she would fall into a dreamy reverie, a
happy smile on her lips and a light in her eyes which her uncle saw
not.  Yes, Cardo loved her!  She knew now that he did, and the world
was changed.  She would make haste to get well and find him again on
the shore, on the cliffs, or on the banks of the Berwen.  Her uncle had
heard from Gwen of her drenched condition on the night of the storm,
but had already forgotten the circumstance, and only recalled it when
he missed her active help in some arrangement of his heavy books.

"How did you get wet, merch i?"

"Coming over the Rock Bridge I was, uncle.  I had been to see Nance,
and the storm increased so much when I was there that when I returned
the waves washed right over the bridge."

"Well, to be sure!  Now on the next page you will find a splendid
description of such a storm; go on, my girl," and Valmai continued the
reading.

Meanwhile, Cardo, after a good night's rest, was no whit the worse for
his battle with the storm; but he was full of fears lest Valmai's more
delicate frame should suffer.  He rose with the dawn and made his way
over the dewy grass across the valley, and into the field where Essec
Powell's cows were just awaking and clumsily rising from their night's
sleep under the quiet stars.  The storm had disappeared as suddenly as
it had arisen, and all nature was rejoicing in the birth of a new day.
Gwen was already approaching with pail and milking stool as he crossed
the field through which a path led to Abersethin.  She dropped a bob
curtsey and proceeded to settle her pail under "Corwen" and to seat
herself on her low stool.

"Your young mistress got very wet last night?" said Cardo, in an
inquiring tone.

"Yes, Ser, did you see her?"

"Yes--I was crossing the bridge at the same time.  Is she any the worse
for her wetting?"

"Not much the matter with her," said Gwen; "'tis lying down she is, a
good deal,--miladi is a bit lazy, I think," and with this scant
information he had perforce to be content.

When he returned to Brynderyn to breakfast, he found his father looking
somewhat discomposed as he read and re-read a letter which he had just
received.  He made no comment upon its contents, however, but looking
up said:

"You must have found the storm very interesting, Cardo; what kept you
out so late?"

He did not add that he had paced up and down for an hour in his bedroom
after retiring for the night, peering out into the darkness in great
anxiety for his son's safety.

"Very interesting, father; nothing less than a ducking on the Rock
Bridge!  The storm was raging furiously there, and a girl was crossing
in the midst of it; she was in some danger, and I was able to help her
to cross in safety."

"One of our congregation?" asked the old man.

"By Jove! no, father; there isn't one girl under seventy in our
congregation!"

"A Methodist, then, I suppose--one of Essec Powell's lot?"

"Yes," said Cardo, beginning to redden; "but surely you wouldn't let a
woman be drowned without making an effort to save her because she was a
Methodist?"

"I did not say so, Cardo; but certainly I should prefer my son's
risking his life for a member of the church."

Cardo made a gesture of impatience which his father saw and felt.  It
irritated him, and, fixing his eyes steadily on his son's face, he said:

"I don't know how it is, but of late that subject has frequently been
on your tongue.  I have no cause to love the Methodists, and I hope
they are not now going to add to my reasons for disliking them by
coming between me and my son.  I simply wish you not to mention them to
me, Cardo--that is not much to ask."

"I will not, father," said Cardo, pushing his plate away; "I will never
mention them to you again--"

"Good!" replied his father.  "I have a letter here which I would like
to read to you, but not this morning, as I am very busy."

"All right, father--in the afternoon," said Cardo; and when Betto
appeared to clear away the breakfast things he was lost in a profound
reverie, his long legs stretched out before him and his hands buried
deep in his pocket.

Betto tried in vain to recall him to outward surroundings by clattering
her china and by sundry "h'ms" and coughs, but Cardo still remained
buried in thought and jingling his money in his pocket.  At last she
_accidentally_ jerked his head with her elbow.

"Hello, Betto! what is the matter?"

"My dear boy," said Betto, "did I hurt you?  Where were you so late
last night?"

"Oh, out in the storm.  Have you seen my wet clothes?  I flung them out
through my bedroom window; you will find them in a heap on the garden
wall."

"Wet clothes?  Caton pawb! did you get in the sea then?"

"Oh, yes! tumbled over and over like a pebble on the beach," he said,
rising; "but you know such duckings are nothing to me; I enjoy them!"

Betto looked after him with uplifted hands and eyes.

"Well, indeed! there never was such a boy! always in some mischief; but
that's how boys are!"

Cardo went out whistling, up the long meadow to the barren corner,
where the furze bushes and wild thyme and harebells still held their
own against the plough and harrow; and here, sitting in deep thought,
and still whistling in a low tone, he held a long consultation with
himself.

"No!  I will never try again!" he said at last, as he rose and took his
way to another part of the farm.

In the afternoon he entered his father's study, looking, in his manly
strength, and with his bright, keen eyes, out of keeping with this
dusty, faded room.  His very clothes were redolent of the breezy
mountain-side.

Meurig Wynne still pored over apparently the self-same books which he
was studying when we first saw him.

"Sit down, Cardo," he said, as his son entered; "I have a good deal to
say to you.  First, this letter," and he hunted about amongst his
papers.  "It is from an old friend of mine, Rowland Ellis of Plas
Gwynant.  You know I hear from him occasionally--quite often enough.
It is waste of stamps, waste of energy, and waste of time to write when
you have nothing special to say.  But he has something to say to-day.
He has a son, a poor, weak fellow I have heard, as far as outward
appearance and bodily health go--a contrast to you, Cardo--but a clever
fellow, a senior wrangler, and an M.A. of his college.  He has just
been ordained, and wants to recruit his health before he settles down
to a living which is in the gift of his uncle, and which will be vacant
in a short time; and as he offers very good remuneration, I don't see
why he shouldn't come here.  He would be a companion to you.  What do
you say to it?"

"As far as I am concerned, let him come by all means, if you wish it,
father; it can make no difference to me."

"Indeed it will, though!  You will have to show him about the
neighbourhood, and lay yourself out to make his stay here as pleasant
as possible, for he will pay well."

"Pay!" said Cardo, with a frown, his sense of hospitality chafing under
the idea.  "Pay! that spoils it all.  If you take my advice in the
matter, you will write to your friend, and tell him to send his son
here by all means, but decline to take any remuneration."

"Cardo, you are a fool!  Do you think I would take a stranger into my
house, to have him always at my table, upsetting all my domestic
arrangements, for nothing?  You ought to know me better.  Fortunately
for you, with your pride and extravagant ideas, I am here to look after
affairs, and hitherto, thank God, I have been quite capable of doing
so!  I only consulted you on the matter because I wanted to know what
chance there was of your making yourself agreeable to the young man, as
I cannot be bothered with him."

"Oh, well, that is settled," said Cardo.  "I shall be glad of a
companion, and will do my best to make him happy.  I hope he'll be a
jolly fellow."

"Jolly fellow?  I hope he will be a steady young man, and a fit
companion for you.  You don't seem to think of the necessity of that!"

"I leave that to you, sir," said Cardo, with a humorous smile.  "I
should never dream of questioning your prudence in the matter."

The old man nervously fingered his papers.

"Well, that is settled.  I will not keep you longer from your fishing
or your rowing--which is it to-day, Cardo?" and he raised his black
eyebrows, and spoke with a slight sneer.

Cardo laughed good-naturedly.

"Neither fishing nor boating to-day, sir.  No! it's that field of
swedes this afternoon," and he turned away with his hands dug deep in
his pockets.

"A bad habit, Cardo!  An industrious man never walks about with his
hands in his pockets."

"All right, father! here goes for the swedes; and you bet I won't have
my hands in my pockets there.  I flatter myself I can do good work as
well as any man."

His father looked after him with a curious wistfulness.

"A fine fellow!" he said to himself, as Cardo's steps receded along the
passage.  "Not much fault to be found with him!  How can I spare him?
But he must go--he must go."

Meanwhile Cardo, no longer with his hands in his pockets, stood in the
swede field directing Shoni and Dye, and not only directing, but often
taking his share in the weeding or hoeing.  He was full of interest in
the farming operations, which, in truth, were thoroughly congenial to
his tastes.

"Bless the turnips and mangolds," he would often say; "at least they
take you out under the blue sky, and into the fresh air."  He pondered
upon the proposed addition to his father's household.  Suddenly an
unpleasant thought seemed to strike him, for his face flushed, and he
gave a long, low whistle.  "Phew!  I never thought of that!  Why! I
shall never have an hour with Valmai with this confounded wrangler at
my heels!  Deuce anwl! how shall I manage it? one thing only I know, no
power on earth--not even an 'M.A.'--shall keep me from her."

But neither that day nor the next was Valmai to be seen.  It was two or
three days before she was able to throw off entirely the languor which
followed her immersion in the sea; but on the evening of the third day,
as the sun drew near its setting, she once more roamed down the path to
the beach, a new light in her eyes and a warmer glow on her cheek.

The long shadows of evening stretched over the shore, and the sun sank
low in the western sky, all flooded with crimson, and purple, and pale
yellow, as she flung herself down under a towering rock, still a little
languid, but full of an inrushing tide of happiness.  The green waves
came rolling in, their foaming crests catching the rosy pink of the
sunset; the sea-gulls sailed lazily home from their day's fishing.  The
sheep on the hillside were folded, and the clap clap of the mill in the
valley came on the breeze.

Valmai sat long gazing at the crimson pathway over the sea, both heart
and soul filled to over-flowing with the beauty of the sunset hour.
Not even Cardo's presence was missed by her, for she knew now that he
loved her; she knew that sooner or later she should meet him, should
see him coming, through the golden sunlight of the morning, or in the
crimson glory of the evening, with buoyant steps and greeting hands
towards her; and almost as the thought crossed her mind, a sound fell
on her ear which brought the red blood mantling to her cheek.  Thud,
thud on the sands; it was surely his footsteps, and in another moment
Cardo was beside her.

"At last, Valmai!" he said, stretching out both hands to clasp her own
as she rose to meet him, "at last!  Where have you been the last three
years? do not say they have been days! are you well and none the worse
for your wetting?" and still holding her hands in his, he made her sit
again on the rock, while he stretched himself on the dry sand at her
feet.

A little silence fell upon them both--a strange constraint which was
new to them, and which Valmai was the first to break.

"I ought to be thanking you for saving my life, Cardo Wynne; but indeed
I have no words to speak my thanks.  I know I owe my life to you.  What
will I say?"

"Nothing," he said, leaning on his elbows and looking up into her face,
"nothing; there is no need for thanks, for I could not help myself.  It
was the simplest thing; seeing you in danger I helped you out of it,
for, Valmai," and here his voice sank low and trembled a little, "it is
like this with me, and you must know it; had you been washed away by
those cruel waves, there would have been no Cardo Wynne here to-night!
I could not live without you!  And you--Valmai, how is it with you?"

Her head drooped very low.  Cardo, lying on the sands, looked up into
the blushing face; but still she made no answer.  Starting to his feet,
he stretched out both hands to her, and said:

"Come, fanwylyd;[1] let us walk together--I cannot rest.  Valmai, tell
me, have I the same place in your heart that you have in mine?  Place
in my heart!  Good heavens!  There is no room there for anything else.
You own it all, Valmai; you sway my very being!  Have you no comfort to
give me?  Speak to me, dearest."

"Cardo," said Valmai, "can I give you what you have already stolen from
me?  I was alone and friendless when I met you that night in the
moonlight, now I am happy though my heart has gone from me.  What shall
I say more? my English is not very good."

"But you can say, 'Cardo, I love you.'  Say that again."

"Yes, I can say that, whatever."

"Say it, then, Valmai."

"Oh, well, indeed!  You know quite well that I love you.  Cardo, I love
you."  And to the sound of the plashing waves the old, old story was
told again.

He had asked, while he held her face between both hands, gazing
earnestly into the blue eyes, "Does this golden sky look down to-night
upon any happier than we two?" and with her answer even he was
satisfied.

An hour later the moon added her silver glory to the scene, and under
her beams they continued long walking up and down, lingering by the
surf, whispering though there was no one to hear.  They parted at last
under the elder bushes at Dinas.

Cardo was right.  In all Wales there were not that night two happier
hearts than theirs.  No fears for the future, no dread of partings, no
thought of life's fiery trials, which were even now casting their
shadows before them.

Valmai lay long awake that night, thinking of her happiness and
blushing, even in the darkness, as she remembered Cardo's burning words
of love; and he went home whistling and even singing in sheer
exuberance of joy.  Forgotten his father's coldness; forgotten his
bare, loveless home; forgotten even the wrangler who was coming to
trouble him; and forgotten that nameless shadow of parting and
distance, which had hovered too near ever since he had met Valmai.  She
loved him, so a fig for all trouble!  They had pledged their troth on
the edge of the waves, and they thought not of the mysterious, untried
sea of life which stretched before them.

Early in the following week Cardo drove to Caer Madoc to meet the
mail-coach, which entered the town with many blasts of the horn, and
with much flourishing of whip, at five o'clock every evening.  In the
yard of the Red Dragon he waited for the arrival of his father's guest.
At the appointed time the coach came rattling round the corner, and, as
it drew up on the noisy cobble stones, a pale, thin face emerged from
the coach window and looked inquiringly round.

"Mr. Gwynne Ellis, I suppose?" said Cardo, approaching and helping to
tug open the door.

"Yes," said a high but pleasant voice, "and I suppose you are Mr.
Wynne's son," and the two young men shook hands.

They were a complete contrast to each other.  Cardo, tall and
square--the new-comer, rather short and thin, but with a frank smile
and genial manner which gave a generally pleasant impression.  He wore
gold spectacles, and carried a portfolio with all an artist's
paraphernalia strapped together.

"Too precious to be trusted amongst the luggage, I suppose," said Cardo.

"You are right!  As long as I have my painting materials safe, I can
get along anywhere; but without them I am lost."  And he busied himself
in finding and dragging down his luggage.

In less than ten minutes the two young men had left Caer Madoc behind,
and were fast lessening the distance between them and Brynderyn.

"Very kind of you to meet me; and what a splendid horse," said Gwynne
Ellis.  "Carries his head well, and a good stepper."

"Fond of horses?" asked Cardo.

"Oh! very," said the high-toned voice; "riding and painting are the
chief delights of my life--"

"We can give you plenty of riding--'Jim,' here, is always at your
service; and as for the painting--well, I know nothing about it myself,
but I think I can show you as pretty bits of scenery as you ever saw
within the four sides of a gilt frame."  And as they drew near the top
of the moor, where they caught sight of the long stretch of coast, with
its bays and cliffs and purple shadows, the new-comer was lost in
admiration.

Cardo, who had been accustomed all his life to the beauties of the
coast, was amused at his friend's somewhat extravagant exclamations.

"Oh, charming!" he said taking off his glasses and readjusting them on
his well-shaped nose; "see those magnificent rocks--sepia and cobalt;
and that cleft in the hills running down to the shore--ultra marine;
and what a flood of crimson glory on the sea--carmine, rose
madder--and--er--er--"

"By Jove! it will be a wonderful paint box that can imitate those
colours," said Cardo, with a nod at the sunset.

"Ah, true!" said Gwynne Ellis, "one would need a spirit brush dipped in
ethereal fire,

  "'A broad and ample road whose dust is gold,
  Open, ye heavens! your living doors--'"


"That is very pretty," said Cardo, "but I am not much acquainted with
English poetry--a farmer's life, you know, is too busy for that sort of
thing."

"I suppose so; but a farmer's life _is_ poetry itself, in its idyllic
freshness and purity."

Cardo shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know so much about that, but it is a life that suits me.  I
was meant for a farmer, I am sure--couldn't soar much above turnips and
hay, you know.  See here, now, there's a crop of hay to gladden a
farmer's heart!  In a week or two we shall have it tossed about in the
sun, and carried down through the lanes into the haggard, and the lads
and lasses will have a jolly supper in the evening, and will give us
some singing that will wake the echoes from Moel Hiraethog yonder.
Then the lanes are at their best, with the long wisps of sweet hay
caught on the wild rose bushes."

"Aha! my friend, I see I am right," said Ellis, "and a farmer is a
poet, whether he knows it or not."

Cardo laughed heartily, as they alighted at the front door.

"Tell my father that--do.  Cardo Wynne a poet! that is something new,
indeed!"

Here Mr. Wynne, followed by Betto, joined the group.  The former,
though in his usual undemonstrative manner, made the new-comer welcome,
and Betto in her excitement was so lavish with her bob curtseys, that
Cardo came in for a few, until he recalled her to her senses by gravely
taking off his hat to her, at which she winked and nudged him with her
elbow, as she flew about in the exuberance of her hospitality.

Seated at the tea-table, the three men soon became quite at their ease.

"We are plain people," said Mr. Wynne; "I hope you will not find us too
primitive in our ways."

"Nothing can be too simple for me, sir," said the visitor, in his
high-pitched voice, and speaking a little through his nose.  "What can
be more idyllic than to drive through the glowing sunset, and find such
a meal as this waiting for me--broiled fish, cream, honey?"

Meurig Wynne reflected with satisfaction that none of these luxuries
were expensive.

"I hope you will get strong here," he said; "the air is pure and
bracing, and you can roam about where you please.  If you prefer
riding, you can always have 'Captain' or 'Jim.'  I want to sell 'Jim,'
but if I don't get 40 pounds for him, I shall keep him till September
fair."

Gwynne Ellis put down his knife and fork, and sat gazing silently at
the fair scene which lay stretched before him.

"What's the matter?  said Cardo.

"Oh! exquisite charming!  That view alone is worth coming down for!
See those purple shadows!  see that golden light on the gorse bushes!"

"Well," said Mr. Wynne, rising, "I must return to my study, and leave
you young men to finish your meal together."

Cardo, though amused at, and somewhat despising his friend's
sentimental enthusiasm, yet on the whole did not dislike him.

"Oh!  I believe the fellow is all right," he thought, when they had
parted for the night; "in fact, I rather like him; and, by Jove!  I had
forgotten all about his being a wrangler!  There's no conceit about him
anyway; if there had been, I should have had to pitch him out of the
dogcart--upset him into the sea or something--but I think he is all
right."  And he went satisfied to his bed, and slept the sleep of the
just, or, at all events--of the busy farmer!



[1] Beloved.




CHAPTER VI.

CORWEN AND VALMAI.

Gwynne Ellis soon found himself quite at home at Brynderyn, and enjoyed
the freedom and variety of his life in its picturesque neighbourhood.

To Cardo, who had hitherto been so much alone, his presence was a very
pleasant change, and though Ellis was a complete contrast to himself in
every way, he liked him, and felt the advantage of companionship; more
especially in the evenings, when, his father shut up in his study, and
the old parlour but dimly lighted, he had always found the time hang
rather heavily.  He was wont to relieve the tedium of the evening hour
by strolling into the kitchen, sitting in the rush chair, always looked
upon as the young master's, and freely entering into the games or
gossip of the farm-servants.  He was much amused at the enthusiasm and
romance of his new-found friend, who, coming from a populous and
uninteresting border country, was charmed by the unconventional ways of
the Welsh coast.  He threw a glamour of poetry and romance over the
most commonplace incidents; and Cardo, to tease him, would often assume
a stolid and unimpressionable manner that he was far from feeling.

On the whole, they pulled well together, and the acquaintance, begun
accidentally, bid fair to become a lifelong friendship.

Immediately after breakfast every morning, Gwynne Ellis, armed with
brushes, palettes, and divers other encumbrances, would ramble away
over shore or cliff, bringing with him in the evening the most
beautiful scenes and views of the neighbourhood, which his deft brush
had transferred to the pages of his portfolio.  He was a true artist,
and, moreover, possessed one admirable trait, generally lacking in
inferior artists, namely, humility!  And as he held up for Cardo's
inspection an exquisite sketch of sea and sky and tawny beach, he
waited anxiously for his criticisms, having found out that though his
friend was no artist himself, his remarks were always regulated by good
taste and common sense.

"_That_ Nance's cottage?" Cardo was saying to-night as he sat in the
rush chair by the fire in the farm kitchen--Ellis on a bench beside
him, the little round table supporting the portfolio before them, "that
cosy, picturesque-looking cottage Nance's! those opal tints over sea
and sky--that blue smoke curling from the chimney, and that crescent
moon rising behind the hill!  Come, Ellis, you have given us a dose
this time!"

"Dose of what?" said Ellis, putting on his gold-rimmed glasses.

"Why! of romance--of poetry--of imagination of course!"

"Give you my word, my dear fellow, that's how it appears to me.  You
are blind, dead to the beauties which surround you.  Now, what would
that scene appear like to you?"

Cardo laughed.  "Why, exactly what it appeared to you, Ellis, only I
like to tease you.  I see all these beauties, old chap, though I lack
the power to pourtray them as you do."

"I believe you, Cardo, though I doubt if you realise the blessing you
enjoy in living amongst such picturesque scenes.  To me, coming from a
flat, uninteresting country, it seems a privilege to thank God for on
your knees."

"Perhaps I feel it as much as you do, Ellis, though I couldn't put it
into words, all I know is, I had rather live here on five shillings a
week than I would on five pounds elsewhere."

"You are a matter-of-fact fellow.  Five shillings a week indeed! and
five pounds--worse!  If you were not so much bigger and stronger than
me I'd knock you down, Cardo.  Come, let us have a stroll in the
moonlight."

And they went out, the one to rhapsodise and to quote poetry; the other
to shock his friend with his plain, unvarnished remarks, while his eyes
and thoughts crossed the valley, and followed the moonlight which
lightened up the old grey house looking down from the opposite hill.

"Where was Valmai?"  He had caught a glimpse of her in the afternoon as
he returned from Abersethin, the path to which led him through Essec
Powell's fields.  Caught a glimpse of her only, for as ill luck would
have it, as he crossed one corner of the field she was reaching the
gate at the further corner.  Other maidens wore white frocks and straw
hats, but his heart told him that this was no other than Valmai.  He
could hear her singing as she went, a long wreath of ox-eyed daisies
trailing behind her, the gate open and she was gone; but surely here
were signs of her recent presence, for round the horns of Corwen, the
queen of the herd of cows, was wreathed the rest of the daisy chain.
She was a beautiful white heifer, with curly forehead and velvet ears.
As Cardo approached and patted her neck, she looked softly at him out
of her liquid brown eyes shaded with long black lashes.

"She is a beauty!" said Cardo, looking at her with the critical eye of
a farmer, "and worthy to be Valmai's pet.  What a picture for Ellis to
paint!  Valmai and Corwen.  By Jove, I'll try to manage it."

Gwynne Ellis was delighted when Cardo broached the subject as they
roamed over the cliff in the moonlight.

"Can you paint animals and--er--er--human beings as well as you can
scenery, Ellis?"

"Not quite, perhaps, but still pretty well.  You liked that sketch of
'The priest and the girl at the confessional,' didn't you?"

"Yes--very much.  Well, now, what do you say to a pretty white cow and
her mistress?"

"Oh! 'a pretty girl milking her cow'--a charming subject.  Show it me,
Cardo--not Betto, now--you don't mean Betto? though, 'pon my word, I
have seen her look very picturesque on the milking stool."

"No, no, no!  Caton pawb! man, I'll show you a prettier picture than
that.  She's a lovely creature!  with brown velvet eyes, her forehead
all covered with little round curls."

"What! a friz?"

"Well, if you like to call it so.  Lovely ears and a little soft nose,
the whole surmounted by a pair of short brown horns."

"Good heavens! the woman?"

"Why, no! the cow, of course!"

"Oh, I see; the friz and the brown eyes belong to a cow then,--but what
of her mistress?  My dear fellow, don't waste all your poetry on the
cow."

"As I haven't much to spare, you think.  Well, her mistress
is--Valmai!" and Cardo lifted his hat as he spoke.

Gwynne Ellis took two or three long puffs at his pipe, and looked
curiously at Cardo, who stood looking over at the glimmering light in
one of the windows at Dinas.

"Cardo Wynne, I am beginning to understand you; I have mistaken the
whole situation.  Here have I been thinking myself the only man in the
place capable of appreciating its beauties properly--the only poetic
and artistic temperament amongst you all--and I gradually awake to find
myself but a humdrum, commonplace man of the world, who has dropped
into a nest of sweet things: earth, sea, and sky combining to form
pictures of beauty; picturesque rural life; an interesting and
mysterious host; an idyllic cow; a friend who, though unable, or
perhaps unwilling, to express his enthusiasm, yet thoroughly feels the
poetry of life; and, better than all, I find myself in close touch with
a real romantic love affair!  Now, don't deny it, my dear fellow; I see
it all--I read it in your eyes--I know all about it.  The pretty cow's
lovely mistress; and her name is--Valmai!  How tender!  My Welsh is
rather rusty, but I know that means 'sweet as May.'  Oh, Cardo Wynne,
what a lucky dog you are!"

Cardo was still silent, and his friend continued, pointing to Dinas:

"And there she dwells (haven't I seen your eyes attracted there
continually?  Of course, there's the glimmer of her lamp!) high on the
breezy cliff, with the pure sea wind blowing around her, the light and
joy of her father's home, and soon to fly across the valley and lighten
up another home."

"Oh, stop, stop, for mercy's sake!" said Cardo.  "Your Pegasus is
flying away with you to-night, Ellis.  Your imagination is weaving a
picture which is far beside the truth.  You have not guessed badly.  I
do love Valmai, Corwen's mistress, and I wish to God the rest of the
picture were true."

"Pooh! my dear fellow, 'the course of true love,' you know, etc., etc.
It will all come right in time, of course; these things always do.
I'll manage it all for you.  I delight in a love affair, especially one
that's got a little entangled, you know."

"Here it is, then," said Cardo.  "Valmai has neither father nor mother,
and lives up there with an old uncle, who takes no more notice of her
than he does of his cows or his sheep, but who would be quite capable
of shutting her up and feeding her on bread and water if he knew that
she ever exchanged greetings with a Churchman, for he is a Methodist
preacher and her guardian to boot."

A long-drawn whistle was Gwynne Ellis's only answer, but he rubbed his
hands gleefully.

"Then," continued Cardo, "on this side of the valley there is my
father, shut up with his books, taking no interest in anything much
except his church and his farm, but with a bigoted, bitter hatred of
all dissenters, especially Methodists, and most especially of the
Methodist preacher.  Why, Ellis, they convene public meetings on
purpose to pray for each other, and I believe if my father knew that I
loved Essec Powell's niece he would _break his heart_.  Therefore, I
cannot tell him--it is impossible; but it is equally impossible for me,
as long as I have any being, to cease to love Valmai.  Now, there! what
way do you see out of that maze?"

"Many ways," said Ellis, rubbing his hands with delight.  "My dear
fellow, you have pitched upon the right person.  I'll help you out of
your difficulties, but you must let me see her."

"All right!--to-morrow!" said Cardo, as they neared Brynderyn.

When their voices reached the Vicar's ears, he paused in his reading,
and a look of pleasure softened his white face, but only for an
instant, for as the young men passed the window a dark and mournful
look chased away the momentary softness.

"Soon!" he said, "soon I will tell him he ought to be prepared--I
_will_ tell him!"

It was no easy matter next day to find Valmai, though Cardo and Gwynne
Ellis sought for her over shore and cliff and by the brawling Berwen.
They were returning disconsolate through the turnip fields at noon,
when Cardo caught sight of a red spot in the middle of a corn-field.

"There she is, Ellis," he said, turning round; "have we time to go
back?"

"What! that little scarlet poppy in the corn?"

"Yes; it is Valmai's red hood; she wears it sometimes, and sometimes a
broad-brimmed white hat."

Ellis looked at his watch.

"Too late to go back now; it is close upon one o'clock."

"Deucedly provoking!" said Cardo; "we will try again after dinner."

But after dinner they seemed to be no more successful, although they
found their way into the very field where they had seen the red hood.

"Let us follow the path," said Ellis stoutly; "it seems to lead
straight by the back of the house, and that old ivy-covered barn looks
tempting, and suggestive of a beautiful sketch."

Cardo hesitated.

"Come along, Cardo; not all the Methodist preachers in the world can
frighten me back when I am on the track of a pretty picture."

In the old ivy-covered barn they found Valmai.  The big door was open,
and in the dim, blue light of the shady interior, Shoni and she were
busily engaged with Corwen, who had been ailing since the previous
evening.  Ellis was instantly struck by the picturesque beauty of the
group before him.  Corwen, standing with drooping head, and rather
enjoying her extra petting; Shoni, with his brawny limbs and red hair,
patting her soft, white flanks, and trying, with cheerful chirrups, to
make her believe she was quite well again.  Valmai stood at her head,
with one arm thrown round her favourite's neck, while she kissed the
curly, white forehead, and cooed words of endearment into the soft,
velvet ears.

"Darling beauty!  Corwen fâch!"

Here Gwynne Ellis, irresistibly attracted by the scene before him,
boldly entered the barn.

The girl looked up surprised as he approached, hat in hand.

"A thousand apologies," he said, "for this intrusion; but my friend and
I were roaming about in search of something to paint, and my good
fortune led me here; and again I can only beg a hundred pardons."

"One is enough," said Shoni sulkily.  "What you want?"

The painting paraphernalia strapped on Gwynne Ellis's back had not made
a favourable impression upon Shoni.  He took him for one of the
"walking tramps" who infested the neighbourhood, and made an easy
living out of the hospitable Welsh farmers.

Valmai saw Shoni's mistake, and rebuked him in Welsh.

"There is nothing to pardon," she said, turning to Mr. Ellis, "and if
there is anything here that you would like to paint, I am sure my uncle
would be quite willing.  Will I go and ask him?"

"Thank you very much; but if you go, the picture will be spoiled!"

But Valmai, taking no notice of the implied compliment, began her way
to the big door.

"This lovely white cow! do you think your uncle would allow me to paint
her?"

"Oh! yes, I am sure, indeed!" said Valmai, turning round; "but not
to-day, she has been ill--to-morrow she will be out in the field, and
then I will make a daisy chain for her, and she will look lovely in a
picture."  And she passed out into the sunshine.

Gwynne Ellis heard a long-drawn "Oh!" of pleased surprise as she
discovered Cardo hovering about the door, and he considerately entered
into conversation with Shoni, endeavouring to express himself in his
mother-tongue, but with that hesitation and indistinctness common to
the dwellers in the counties bordering upon England, and to the
"would-be genteel" of too many other parts of Wales, who, perfectly
unconscious of the beauty of their own language, and ignorant of its
literature, affect English manners and customs, and often pretend that
English is more familiar to them than Welsh, a fatuous course of
conduct which brings upon them only the sarcasm of the lower classes,
and the contempt of the more educated.

"What you is clabbering about, man?" said Shoni indignantly.  "Keep to
the English if that is your language, 'coss me is spoke English as well
as Welsh."

"Yes, I see you do," said Ellis, "and I am thankful to meet with a man
so learned.  To know two languages means to look at everything from two
points of view--from two sides, I mean.  A man who knows two languages
knows half as much again of everything as a man who can only speak one."

Shoni scratched his head; he was mollified by the stranger's evident
appreciation of his learning, but thought it necessary to keep his wits
about him.

"With these foreigns, you know, you never know wherr they arr--these
English, you know," he was wont to say, "nor wherr they arr leading you
to."

"What wass you walk about the country for?" was his next remark.

"Ah, that's it now!  You are a sensible man; you come to the point at
once.  Well, I am very fond of making pictures."

"Sell them?"

"Oh no, just for my own pleasure; every man has his--"

"Crack!" said Shoni.

"Yes, crack, if you like," said Ellis, laughing, and opening his
portfolio; "here are some of my cracks."

And they drew near the doorway, leaving Corwen much dissatisfied at the
cessation of attentions.

Cardo and Valmai had disappeared.  Shoni was fast losing his head to
this fellow with the high nose and high voice, who evidently knew a
sensible man when he saw him.

"There is Nance Owen's cottage," said the artist, "at the back of the
island; do you recognise it?"

Shoni was lost in admiration, but did not think it wise to show it, so
he stood silent for some time, with his hands under his coat tails and
his red-bearded chin first turned to one side and then to the other, as
he looked with critical eyes at the pictures.

"It's the very spit of the place," he said at last; "let's see another."

And Ellis picked out his masterpiece.

"That's Ogo Wylofen," he said.

"Ach y fi!" said Shoni, with a shudder, "wherr you bin when you painted
that?"

"At the mouth of the cave in a boat.  It is magnificent, that rushing
water, those weird wailings, and the mysterious figures of spray which
pass up into the dark fissures."

But this was far above Shoni's head.

"Caton pawb, man!" he said, "not me would go in a boat to that hole for
the world.  It is a split in the earth, and those are ghosts or witches
or something that walk in and out there; but anwl! anwl! you must be a
witch yourself, I think, to put those things on paper.  Oh, see that
red sun, now, and the sea all red and yellow!  Well, indeed!"

"Well, now," said Ellis, "I want to have a picture of Corwen."

"Yes, to-morrow, in the field, and me standing by her.  I will put on
my new gaiters."

"The young lady has gone to ask your master's consent."

"The master!" said Shoni, locking the barn door; "pooh! 'sno need to
ask him.  You kom to-morrow and make a picksher on Corwen and me.
Wherr you stop?"

"At Brynderyn."

"With the Vicare du?  Oh, jâr i!" said Shoni, taking off his hat to
scratch his head, "there's a pity now.  Essec Powell will nevare be
willing for that; but nevare you mind, you kom.  Here's Valmai."

Cardo was nowhere to be seen.

"I asked my uncle, sir," she said, "but I am sorry to say when he heard
you were the Vicar's friend he was not willing, but he did not say no."

"Twt, twt," said Shoni, interrupting, "you wass no need to ask Essec
Powell.  The gentleman is kom to-morrow to make a picksher on Corwen
and me."

Valmai could not resist a smile at Shoni's English, which broke the ice
between her and Gwynne Ellis; and as Shoni disappeared round the corner
of the barn, she gave him her hand, frankly saying:

"Good-bye, Mr. Ellis; I must go in to tea."

"Good-bye," he said, "I will venture to bring my paints to-morrow to
Corwen's field.  And you--you will keep your promise to come and make
the daisy chain?"

"Well, indeed, I can't promise, but I will try, whatever."

"And then you will honour me by looking over my portfolio."

"And the Vicar objects to that girl," he exclaimed to himself, as he
proceeded down the path to the shore.  "What a sweet, sensitive mouth!
Oh, Cardo, Cardo Wynne, I can only say, as I said before, you are a
lucky dog!"

He had wondered what had become of Cardo, but with his full
appreciation of a secret love-affair, had had too much tact to ask
Valmai, and was not much surprised to find him lying at full length on
the sandy beach.

"Well, Wynne," he said, pretending to sulk a little, "you _did_ leave
me in the lurch."

"Leave you in the lurch! my dear fellow, do forgive me.  To tell the
truth I forgot all about you until Valmai went indoors to find her
uncle.  I waited to see if she would come out again, but she never did.
I believe she was waiting until I had gone; she's dreadfully chary of
her company."

"Another charm," said Ellis; "one would get tired of an angel who was
always _en evidence_.  She is an ideal girl.  Tell me when you are
going to retire, old fellow, and then I will try my luck.  That sweet
mouth, though the delight of a lover, is the despair of an artist."

Cardo sighed.

"Well, she came back after you were gone, then, and shook hands with
me, but said her uncle did not seem delighted to hear I was the Vicar's
friend."

"Of course not."

"But I made love to Shoni and gained his consent, and he is the real
master there, I fancy."

"You did?" said Cardo, lost in admiration of his friend's shrewdness.

"I did," said Ellis.  "To-morrow I am to go to the field and paint
Corwen and Valmai has promised to come and make a daisy chain for the
occasion."

"Has she indeed?" said Cardo, with great interest.  "She would not
promise me.  I believe she loves to see me miserable."

"Well, cheer up," said Ellis, "for I shall be a precious long time at
those curls of Corwen's and those expressive brown eyes.  Shoni, I
know, will stick to me like a leech, but you and Valmai, I expect, will
meanly desert me again."

Next day Valmai was as good as her word, for, as the young men entered
the field at one corner, she appeared at the gate in the other, and as
she came towards them, Gwynne Ellis was struck anew by the beauty and
freshness of her appearance.  She wore a simple white frock, her fair,
broad forehead was shaded by a white sun-bonnet, and she carried a
wreath of moon daisies, which she flung over Corwen's neck who was
grazing peacefully among the buttercups, ignorant of the honour
awaiting her.

Valmai nodded playfully to Cardo and his friend as they drew near, and,
taking Corwen's soft, white ear, drew her towards them with many
endearing terms.

"Come then, my queen, dere di, come along, then, and show your
beautiful brown eyes, and your pretty white curls.  Here we are, Mr.
Ellis; will we do?" and, holding up her white frock, she made a demure
little curtsey to the two young men, while Shoni, also arriving on the
scene, looked at her with amused surprise, not unmixed with reproof.

"Iss you must excuse Valmai, gentlemen," he said, tugging his red
forelock; "she iss partly a foreign, and not know our manners about
here."

"Oh, we'll excuse her," said Gwynne Ellis, while Cardo clasped her hand
and gazed rapturously at the blushing face under the white bonnet.

"I wass want her," said Shoni, with a jerk of his thumb towards Valmai,
"to put on her best frock, but no!" and he clicked his tongue against
the roof of his mouth, "there's odd things woman are! 'ts 'ts!"

"Well, indeed," said Valmai, "I did not think a smart gown would suit
the fields, whatever!"

"Couldn't be better, Miss Powell," said Ellis, arranging his group, and
introducing Shoni as a shadowy background.  With a few deft touches of
his brush he had drawn the outlines of his picture, with good-natured
artfulness devoting much time to finishing off Corwen and dismissing
Valmai and Cardo.

"Now you two can go," he said, "but I can't do without Shoni.  A little
black spot at the back of that ear?"

"No, no--brown," said Shoni, delighted to be of such importance, "and
the same brown smot on the nother ear, and that's the only smot upon
her!"

He watched with intense interest the progress of the picture, calling
the artist's attention to all Corwen's good points as though he were
appraising her at a cattle sale, and an hour passed away quickly both
to the artist and Shoni; but to Cardo and Valmai, what a golden hour!
to stroll away together over the soft grass studded with buttercups,
down to the edge of the cliffs, where they sat among the gorze bushes
looking out at the rippling blue bay, silent from sheer happiness, but
taking in unconsciously the whole beauty of the scene, for it was
engraved upon their minds and often recalled in after years.

"There!" said Gwynne Ellis at length, closing his portfolio with a
snap, "I can finish the rest at home--"

"Iss, iss," said Shoni, "iss not so much otts about Valmai."

"And to-morrow I will finish your gaiters, Shoni."

"Very well, sir; pliss you remember, seven buttons on both of the two
legs."




CHAPTER VII.

THE VICAR'S STORY.

The spring had gone; summer had taken her place and was spreading all
her wealth of beauty over the scene.  The sea lay shimmering in the
golden sunshine, the little fishing-boats flitted about the bay like
white-winged butterflies.  On the yellow sands the waves splashed
lazily; up on the cliffs the sea crows cawed noisily, and the sea-gulls
sailed high in the air, and day after day Gwynne Ellis sought and found
some new scene of beauty to transfer to his portfolio.  Every day he
trudged away in the morning and returned late in the evening, fast
gaining strength and health, and bidding fair soon to rival Cardo in
his burly breadth of chest.

And where was Cardo through all this summer weather?  The duties of his
farm were never very onerous, as, under Ebben's practical management
and his father's careful eye all the work was carried on regularly, and
he well knew that with every year, and with their inexpensive menage,
his father's riches were increasing, and that there was no real reason
why he should work at all; but he was one of those to whom idleness was
intolerable.  True! he could lie on the sands with his hat over his
face for an hour sometimes, listening to the plashing waves and the
call of the sea-birds; he could sail in his boat on the bay for many a
sunny afternoon, the sails flapping idly in the breeze, while he with
folded hands leant against the mast, lost in thought, his eyes narrowly
scanning the cliffs and rocks around for some sign of Valmai, and
sometimes rewarded by a glimpse of her red hood or a wave of her
handkerchief; but for the lounging laziness which shirks work, and
shrinks from any active exertion, he had nothing but contempt.  Dye
always averred "that the work never went so well as when the young
master helped at it."

"Twt, twt, he is like the rest of the world these days," said Ebben,
"works when he likes, and is idle when he likes.  When I was young--"
etc. etc.

When the haymaking began he was everywhere in request, and entered with
much energy into the work of the harvest.  Early and late he was out
with the mowers, and, at a push, with his strong shoulders and brawny
arms could use the scythe as well as any of the men.  The Vicar paid
occasional visits to the hayfields, and Betto was busy from morning to
night filling the baskets with the lunch of porridge and milk, or the
afternoon tea for the haymakers, or preparing the more substantial
dinner and supper.

"What's Dinas thinking of?" said Ebben, drying his heated face; "not
begun to mow yet?"

"Begin to-morrow," answered Dye.  "Essec Powell forgot it was hay
harvest, until Valmai pulled him out by the coat, and made him look
over the gate."

"Hast seen the picture," said Ebben, "Mr. Ellis has made of her and
Corwen?  Splendid!"

"No," said Dye; "has he?  What will the Vicare say?  Jâr-i! there'll be
black looks!"

But Gwynne Ellis had been wiser than to show his sketch to the Vicar;
he was learning like Cardo that if there was to be peace at Brynderyn,
neither Essec Powell nor his flock nor his family must be mentioned.

The last full wain of sweet scented hay had been carted into the
haggard, amidst the usual congratulatory comments of the haymakers, who
had afterwards trooped into the farm-yard, where, under the pale
evening sky, with the sunset glow behind them, and the moon rising full
before them, they seated themselves at the long supper table prepared
by Betto and Shan in the open yard.

First the bowls were filled with the steaming cawl, and then the wooden
platters were heaped with the pink slices of home-cured bacon, and
mashed up cabbages.  Last of all came the hunches of solid rice
pudding, washed down by "blues" [1] of home-brewed ale; and the talk
and the laughter waxed louder and merrier, as they proceeded with their
meal.

Gwynne Ellis sat perched on the wall under the elder tree sketching the
group, and evidently affording them much amusement.  The Vicar looked
at them through his study window, but Cardo, who had worked hard all
day in the field, was absent.

Down in the shady path by the Berwen, he and Valmai walked and sang
together.  Of course she could sing, with the clear, sweet voice and
the correct ear common to most Welshwomen, and Cardo sharing also in
the national gift, their voices frequently blended together in song,
and the sylvan valley often echoed to the tones of their voices, more
especially in the old ballad, which tradition said had been composed by
a luckless shepherd who had lived in this valley,

  "By Berwen's banks my love hath strayed," etc.

The June roses bent down towards them, the trailing honeysuckle swept
her cheek, and as the sunset faded and the clear moon rose in the sky
their voices were low and tender.

"I have seen so little of you lately, Valmai."

"So little!" said the girl, in feigned astonishment.  "Indeed you are a
greedy man.  How oftentimes has Gwen called me and I have been absent,
and even my uncle asked me yesterday, 'Where dost spend thy time,
child; on the shore?' and I said, 'Yes, uncle, and by the Berwen.'"

"How strange it is," said Cardo, "that no one seems to come here but
you and me, and how fortunate."

"Well, indeed," returned the girl, "there was scarcely any path here
till I came, the ferns and nut trees had quite shut it up."

"Yes," said Cardo, "I always thought it was a thicket, though I often
roamed the other side of the stream.  And now the dear little dell is
haunted by a sweet fairy, who weaves her spells and draws me here.  Oh,
Valmai, what a summer it is!"

"Yes," she said, bending her head over a moon-daisy, from which she
drew the petals one by one.  "Loves me not," she said, as she held the
last up for Cardo's inspection with a mischievous smile.

"It's a false daisy, love," he said, drawing her nearer to him, "for if
my heart is not wholly and entirely yours, then such a thing as _love_
never existed.  Look once more into my eyes, cariad anwl,[2] and tell
me you too feel the same."

"Oh, Cardo, what for will I say the same thing many times?"

"Because I love to hear you."

The girl leant her cheek confidingly on his breast, but when he
endeavoured to draw her closer and press a kiss upon the sweet mouth,
she slipped away from his arms, and, shaking her finger at him
playfully, said, "No, no, one kiss is enough in a week,
whatever--indeed, indeed, you shan't have more," and she eluded his
grasp by slipping into the hazel copse, and looking laughingly at him
through its branches.  "Oh, the cross man," she said, "and the
dissatisfied.  Smile, then, or I won't come out again."

"Come, Valmai, darling, you tantalise me, and I begin to think you are
after all a fairy or a wood nymph, or something intangible of that
kind."

"Intangible, what is that?" she said, returning to his side with a
little pucker on her brow.  "Oh, if you begin to call me names, I must
come back; but you must be good," as Cardo grasped her hand, "do you
hear, and not ask for kisses and things."

"Well, I won't ask for kisses and things," said Cardo, laughing,
"until--next time."

And thus, while Essec Powell was lost in dreams of the old bards and
druids, and the Vicar counted his well-garnered hayricks, these two
walked and sang in the mazes of the greenwood, the soft evening sky
above them, the sweet sea-breezes around them, and talked the old
foolish delicious words of love and happiness.

What wonder was it that, as alone under the stars, they returned to the
haunts of men, the links of the love that bound them to each other grew
stronger and stronger; and that to Valmai, as they parted on the shore,
all of earthly delight seemed bound up in Cardo; and to him, as he
watched the lithe, graceful figure climbing up the rugged path to the
cliffs, all the charm and beauty of life seemed to go with her.

After supper, at which the Vicar had been more silent than usual, he
rose, and for a moment stood still, and, looking at his son, seemed
about to speak, but appearing to change his mind, after a curt
good-night, he walked away through the long stone passage with his
usual firm step.  He was so regular and fixed in his habits that even
this little hesitation in his manner surprised Cardo, but he had not
much time for conjecture, as his father's voice was heard at the study
door.

"Caradoc," he called, "I want to speak to you."

Cardo cast an involuntary glance of astonishment at Gwynne Ellis as he
rose from the table and put his pipe back on its bracket.

"I think I shall go to bed," said Ellis, leaning back with a yawn and a
stretch.  "I have been on my legs all day, and a jolly day it has been!"

The Vicar was standing at the study door holding it a little ajar; he
opened it wide for his son's entrance, and closed it carefully before
he seated himself in his usual place by the writing-table.

"Shall I light your candles, father?"

"Yes--one will do."

And, while Cardo busied himself with the candle and matches, and drew
down the blinds, his father fumbled amongst his papers and coughed
awkwardly.

"Sit down, Cardo.  I have something to say to you which I have been
wanting to say for some time, and which I hope will give you pleasure."

Cardo said nothing, his attention being rivetted upon his father's
countenance; the marble face seemed whiter than usual, the deep shadows
round the eyes darker and--was it fancy?--or were the lips whiter?

"What is it, father?" said Cardo, at last pitying the old man's evident
nervousness; "no bad news, I hope?"

"Bad news!" said the Vicar, with a forced smile, which disclosed a row
of large and rather yellow teeth.  "Didn't I say I hoped it would
please you?"

"Yes, I forgot, sir."

"Well, it is this: you live a very quiet, monotonous life here, and
though it has many advantages, perhaps to a young man it would also
appear to have many drawbacks.  You have lately had Mr. Gwynne Ellis's
company, which I am glad to see you have thoroughly appreciated.  I
should have been annoyed, had it been otherwise, considering that it
was not without some change of my usual domestic ways that I was able
to arrange this little matter for you.  I own I should not like you to
imbibe all his ideas, which I consider very loose and unconstitutional;
but on the whole, I have liked the young man, and shall be sorry when
he leaves, more particularly as he pays well."

Cardo winced.  "I am very happy working on the farm, and if I have
appeared discontented, my looks have belied me."

"No, no," said his father, tapping with his finger on the open page
before him.  "No! you seem to have a fund of animal spirits; but I am
quite aware that your life is uneventful and dull, and I think a young
man of your er--er--" (he was going to say "prospects," but thought
that would not be politic), "well, a young man of your position should
see a little of the world."

"My position is that of a farmer, sir, and few farmers can afford to
travel about and see the world."

"Certainly not, certainly not; and for heaven's sake don't run away
with the idea that I can afford it any better than other poor vicars or
farmers; but knowing that you have a 100 pounds a year of your own,
Cardo, which, by the by, you never spend much of, and which I am glad
to hear you are already beginning to save up, I thought it well to
suggest to you a little holiday, a little break in your occupation."

"Once for all, sir, I have no wish to travel, so do not trouble your
head about me; I am perfectly contented and happy."

There was a moment's silence, except for the Vicar's tapping fingers,
and when he next spoke there was a little shake in his voice and a
little droop in his straight back.

"Well," he said at length, "if that is the case, I need not expect you
to accede to my proposals.  When a young man is contented and happy, it
is not to be expected he will alter his mode of life to please an old
man."

"And that man his father!  Indeed it is," said Cardo, standing up and
taking his favourite attitude, with his elbow on the mantelpiece.  "Why
do you keep me at arm's length?  Why do you not tell me plainly what I
can do for you, father?  There is nothing I would not do, nothing I
would not sacrifice, that is--" and he made a mental reservation
concerning Valmai.

"That is--nothing except what I am about to ask you, I suppose?" said
the old man.

The words were not amiable.  They might have angered another man; but
Cardo detected a tremor in the voice and an anxious look in the eyes
which softened their asperity.

"What do you want me to do, sir?"

"In plain words, I want you to go to Australia."

"Australia!" gasped Cardo.  "In heaven's name, what for, sir?"

"I have often told you that some day I would wish you to go to
Australia, Cardo.  If you cannot afford your own expenses, I will help
you  In fact--er--er--I will place funds at your disposal which shall
enable you to travel like a gentleman, and to reap every advantage
which is supposed to accrue from travel and seeing the world."

Cardo way speechless from astonishment, not so much at the idea of
banishment to the Antipodes--for his father had sometimes, though at
long intervals, hinted at this idea--but at the unusual coolness with
which he had alluded to such a lavish expenditure of money; and as he
looked at his father with an earnest, inquiring gaze, the old man
seemed to shrink under the scrutiny.

At last, turning away from the table, and placing both hands on his
knees, he continued in an altered tone:

"Sit down again, Cardo, and I will tell you the story of my life, and
then you shall tell me whether you will go to Australia or not."

His son sat down again and listened eagerly.  He had always longed to
hear something of his father's early life; he had always rebelled
against the cold barrier of mystery which seemed to enshroud him and
separate him from his only son.

"Well, to begin at the beginning," said the Vicar, fixing his eyes on
one spot on the carpet, "there was a time when I was young--perhaps you
can hardly realise that," he said suddenly, looking up; "but strange as
it may seem to you, it is a fact.  I once was young, and though never
so gay and light-hearted as you still I was happy in my own way, and
fool enough to expect that life had for me a store of joys and
pleasures, just as you do now.  I was doomed, of course, to bitter
disappointment, just as you will be.  Well, I had one trouble, and that
was the fear that I might be appointed to a curacy which would take me
away from my old home, and I was greatly relieved when I was appointed
to this living through the influence of an old friend of my father's.
When I entered upon my new duties, I found the old church filled with a
hearty and friendly congregation; but soon afterwards that Methodist
Chapel was built on the moor, and that rascal Essec Powell became its
minister, and from that day to this he has been a thorn in the flesh to
me.  My father died about a year after I was ordained, and I found the
old house rather lonely with only Betto, who was then young, to look
after my domestic affairs.  My farm I found a great solace.  About this
time I met your mother, Agnes Powell.  Her uncle and aunt had lately
come to live in the neighbourhood, accompanied by their daughter Ellen
and their niece--your mother.  The two girls were said to be wealthy,
and seemed to be as much attached to each other as though they had been
sisters.  I don't remember much about Ellen Vaughan's appearance, in
fact I scarcely noticed her, for I had fallen passionately in love with
Agnes Powell.  Are you listening, Caradoc?"

"Yes, indeed, sir," he said breathlessly, "I have thirsted for this
knowledge so long."

"You have! well, then, listen.  I loved your mother with a frantic mad
devotion, though I killed her."

Cardo started.

"Yes, I killed her; not by a cruel blow, or murderous attack, but quite
as surely and as cruelly.  I told you I had not your gay and lively
disposition.  I might have added that I was sensitive and suspicious to
an intense degree, and from my first acquaintance with your mother
until the day I married her, I was always restless and uneasy, hating
and fearing every man who approached her."

He reached a glass of water which stood on the table, and, having drunk
some, looked again at his son.

"You see, Caradoc, if I have withheld this information from you long, I
am telling you everything now.  Just about this time my brother Lewis,
who had for some years been settled in Scotland to learn farming, came
home to Brynderyn, although I, being the elder son, was the owner of
the place.  Lewis had a small annuity settled upon him.  As I was on
the eve of being married, he was much interested in my affairs, and
spoke of his admiration of Agnes in such glowing terms, that I felt,
and, I fear, showed some resentment.  However, as he was well
acquainted with my suspicious nature, he was not offended, but laughed
me out of my doubts for the time--for the time," he repeated, again
fixing his eyes on the spot on the carpet.  "Bear in mind, Cardo,
through every word of this history, that the suspicion and mistrust of
my nature amounted almost to insanity.  I see it now, and, thank God,
have conquered it in some measure.  Well, we were married.  Lewis was
my groomsman, and Ellen Vaughan was the bridesmaid.  It was a very
quiet wedding, as Mrs. Vaughan was in very bad health--in fact, she
died soon after our marriage, and Agnes seemed to feel the loss of her
aunt so acutely that I was jealous and angry, and she saw that I was
so, and endeavoured to hide her tears, poor child! poor child!  I don't
think her uncle ever liked me, or approved of our marriage.  Happily he
had no control over Agnes's fortune, or I believe she would never have
had a penny of it; but I think he might have trusted me there, for I
have nursed it--yes and doubled it," he mumbled, as though forgetting
he was speaking to anyone but the carpet.  "Well, let me see--where was
I?"

"But my mother, sir?" interrupted Cardo; "tell me something about
her--was she pretty?"

"Yes, she was beautiful, very lovely, with a foreign Spanish look in
her eyes--you have the same, I think, Cardo.  There was a tradition of
Spanish blood in the family."

"And had she a Spanish temper, sir? quick and hasty, I mean."

"No, no, quite the contrary; a sweet and amiable temper, but certainly
with a good deal of pride, which resented a suspicion like a blow," and
the old man sighed heavily.  "My brother Lewis made his home at
Brynderyn, while he was looking about for some suitable opening for his
farming operations, and here in the midst of my newly-found happiness,
with hope and love shedding their beams around me, I allowed the first
insidious entrance of the serpent of distrust and jealousy of my wife
into my heart.  My brother Lewis was very unlike me in appearance and
disposition, being of a frank and genial manner, and trustful to a
fault.  I think you inherit that trait from him; be careful of it,
Caradoc, or you will be cheated by every man you meet.  Not that I
would have you follow my example--God forbid! but there is a happy
mean, a safe path between these two traits of character."

The Vicar was beginning to enjoy the recital of his long past troubles,
and the thought flashed through his mind that he would have lightened
his burden had he sooner confided in his son.  The conduct which seemed
so black and stained, when brooded over alone in his study, did not
seem quite so heinous when put into plain words and spread out in the
light.

"Well," he continued, "in spite of my jealous temper, the first few
months of our wedded life were very happy, and it was not until I had
begun to notice that a very intimate friendship existed between my
young wife and my brother, that my suspicions were aroused with regard
to them; but once alive to this idea, every moment of my life was
poisoned by it.  I kept a close but secret watch upon their actions,
and soon saw what I considered a certain proof that the love they felt
for each other was more than, and different to, that which the
relationship of brother and sister-in-law warranted.  Betto noticed it,
too, for she has ever been faithful and true to me.  She came to me one
day, and seriously advised me to get rid of my brother Lewis, refusing
to give any reason for her advice; but I required no explanation.  You
say nothing, Caradoc, but sit there with a blacker look on your face
than I have ever seen before."

"I am listening, father, and waiting for some excuse for your jealous
suspicions."

"I have very little to give but you shall have the story in its naked
truth.  I was devotedly attached to my brother; from childhood we had
been all in all to each other, and the difference in our dispositions
seemed only to cement more closely the bond of union between us; but
now my love seemed turned to hatred, and I only waited to make my fears
a certainty to turn him out of my house.  Although I was anxious to
hide my suspicions for a time, I could not refrain from sneering taunts
about men who spent a life of idleness while others worked.  Lewis
opened his blue eyes in astonishment, and his frank, open countenance
wore a hurt and puzzled look; but he did not go.  He bore my insults,
and yet haunted the house, and lingered round the west parlour, now
shut up, but where your mother always sat.  I found it impossible to
hide entirely from Agnes my doubts of her love, and I soon saw that my
involuntarily altered manner had made a corresponding change in hers.
The proud spirit within her was roused, and instead of endeavouring to
soothe my suspicions, and show me my mistake, she went on her way
apparently unheeding, holding her head high, and letting me form my own
opinion of her actions.  I ought to have told you that her uncle had
been so annoyed at her marriage with me that he had forbidden her to
enter his doors again; and of this I was not sorry, though it roused my
anger so much that I added my injunctions to the effect that if she
wished to please me she would break off all acquaintance with her
cousin, Ellen Vaughan.  This, however, she would not promise to do, and
it was the first beginning of the rift, which afterwards widened into a
chasm between us.  Her cousin also was too much attached to her to be
easily alienated from her, and the two girls met more frequently than
either her uncle or I were aware of.  There was another girl, too--I
forget her name--but she was a sister of Essec Powell's.  Agnes and she
had been schoolmates and bosom friends, and they were delighted to meet
here by accident, and I soon found that my wife continually resorted to
Essec Powell's house to pour out her sorrows into the bosom of her
friend; but this I could not allow.  To visit the house of my bitterest
enemy--to make a friend of his sister, was a glaring impropriety in a
clergyman's wife, and I cannot even now feel any compunction at having
put a stop to their intercourse--if, indeed, I succeeded in doing so.
A cold cloud seemed to have fallen between me and your mother; and as
for my brother, we scarcely spoke to each other at meals, and avoided
each other at all other times.  Still Lewis stayed on, with that
puzzled look on his face, and still Agnes went through her daily duties
with a proud look and a constrained manner.

"Poor Betto looked anxiously from one to the other of us, and I kept my
still and silent watch.  My heart was breaking with distrust of my
wife, and hatred of my brother; but I never spoke of my failing trust
in them both.  I brooded upon it night and day, and my life became a
hell upon earth.

"One day in the early spring, about a month before you were born,
Caradoc, I had been to a funeral at the old church; and hearing of the
serious illness of a parishioner who lived on the high road to
Abersethin, I followed the path on the left side of the Berwen, and as
I neared the bridge which crosses the valley on the top, I suddenly
came upon Agnes, who was sitting on a boulder by the side of the brook,
and as I approached I saw her dry her eyes hurriedly.  She rose from
her seat, and her colour came and went as she looked at me.  I longed
to take her in my arms and press her to my heart, for she looked pale
and sorrowful."

An exclamation from Cardo interrupted him.

"It pains you, Caradoc--it pains me--it pained me then--it will pain me
as long as I have any being.  I may be forgiven hereafter, but it
cannot cease to pain me.

"'Agnes,' I said, 'are you not straying very far from home?'

"'I came for a walk,' she answered; 'it is a lovely day!'

"'I did not know you could walk so far,' I said.  'Last evening when I
asked you to come down to the shore with me, you said it was too far!'

"'Yesterday, Meurig, I was feeling very ill; to-day I am better.'

"Her lip quivered a little, and she looked round uneasily, I thought.

"I said, 'I am going to see old Shôn Gweydd, or I would walk back with
you; but perhaps you don't mind going alone.'

"'Oh, no, not at all,' she said, as she began her way back by the
Berwen.

"I went my way with a heavy heart, and as I entered Shôn Gweydd's house
(it was a little way down the road) I looked back at the bridge, and
saw a girl cross the stile and go down into the valley.  It was Ellen
Vaughan, and no doubt Agnes had been waiting for her; but when in
returning I met my brother Lewis coming over the same stile into the
high road, my whole soul was filled with anger, and I passed the
brother whom I had loved so tenderly with a short, cold remark about
the weather, and I reached Brynderyn consumed with jealousy and bitter
hatred.

"The same evening, Agnes was sitting at her work at the bay window of
the west parlour, while I was busily writing in the old farm parlour
which we now use.  Lewis entered with the strained and saddened look
which he had worn in my presence latterly; he reached a book from the
bookshelf, and sauntered in through the stone passage into the west
parlour.  In a moment I had risen and followed him, and, walking
carefully on the carpet which covered it, then, reached the door of the
sitting-room without being heard, and through the chink of the
half-open door I saw my brother stoop down and whisper something
confidentially in my wife's ear.

"I entered the room immediately afterwards, and Lewis made some casual
remark about the sunset, while Agnes went on quietly sewing.  How to
endure my agony of mind I knew not, for I now felt convinced that my
doubts were warranted; but I was determined to control my feelings and
restrain any expression of anger until after the birth of her child,
which was fast approaching, as I still loved her too much to endanger
her health, and I knew that if once the floodgates of my anger were
opened the storm of passion would be beyond my control.

"On the following Sunday Agnes came to church for the last time, and
after the service I went into the vestry to take off my gown; and as I
followed the stream of worshippers leaving the porch, I saw her joined
by Lewis, who walked with her towards the lych gate, and before I
reached them I distinctly saw him place a note in her hand.  She
quickly put it in her pocket, and, with a friendly and satisfied nod,
he turned round to speak to a neighbouring farmer.

"The blood surged through my veins"--and the old man rose from his
chair and stood before his son, who sat with his elbow on the table.
Unconsciously the Vicar seemed to take the position of a prisoner
before his judge; his hands were clenched nervously, and as he spoke he
drew his handkerchief over his damp face.

"Yes," he said, "my blood surged through my veins, but even then I did
not speak a word of complaint or anger.  Had I done so, I might have
been spared the years of anguish and remorse which have been my share
since then.

"I walked home silently by my wife's side, forcing myself to make some
casual remark.  She answered as coldly.  And thus passed away our only
chance of explanation and reconciliation.  You are silent, Caradoc; you
do not like to speak the condemnation and the contempt which you feel
for your father."

"Father," said Cardo, "I feel nothing but pity for you and pity for my
poor mother.  As for my uncle--"

"Wait, wait, Cardo; let me finish my story.  That was the last time
your mother came to church.  In a short time afterwards you were born,
and during the intervening time I struggled harder than ever, not to
forgive, but to drop my wife entirely out of my life.  I tried to
ignore her presence, to forget that she had ever been dear to me; but I
give you my word, Cardo, I _never_ spoke a harsh or accusing word to
her.  I simply dropped her as far as possible out of my life; and she,
though growing paler and thinner each day, still held her head up
proudly; and while I seemed to ignore her presence--though, God knows,
not a look nor a movement escaped me--Lewis was incessant in his tender
attention to her.

"I had loved my brother passionately, fondly, and the feeling of bitter
hatred which now took possession of me tore my very heart-strings, for,
in spite of my suspicious and jealous nature, I loved these two--my
wife and my brother--with an intensity few would have believed me
capable of.  Have I made this plain to you, Cardo?  At last one
evening, just at this time of the year, and at this hour of the day,
Betto brought you to me in her arms.  She had tears on her face, and as
she looked down at her little white bundle, I noticed that a tear fell
on your little hand.  I did not like it, Cardo; though I thought I was
perfectly indifferent to my child, I shrank from the sight of the tear
on your hand, and hoped it did not prognosticate evil for you.

"Agnes was too ill to see me until the next day, when Betto said she
was calling for me.  I rose and went at once; but on the stairs, coming
down to meet me, was a girl, whose face I recognised at once as that of
Essec Powell's sister.  I felt great indignation at the sight, as Agnes
knew my intense dislike to the Methodist preacher, and, drawing back
for her to pass, I said, 'I did not expect to meet a stranger in my own
house at such a time, and I must beg that it may not happen again.'

"The girl passed on, with an angry flush upon her face.  Betto gently
drew me into an adjoining bedroom, and, with a troubled face, implored
me not to give way to angry feelings.  'Be gentle to her,' she said;
'poor thing, she's as frail as an eggshell.  Wait till she is well,
master, and then--I pray God may bring some light out of this darkness.'

"I only nodded, and went gently into the sickroom.  Agnes was lying
propped up by pillows, her face almost as white as they.  Her eyes were
closed, as she had not heard my careful footsteps.  I looked at her
intently, while all sorts of thoughts and longings passed through my
mind.  At last the intensity of my gaze seemed to awaken her, for she
opened her eyes, and for a moment there was a tremor on her lips.

"'Meurig,' she said, and she put out her hand, which I took in mine.
Even while I held her hand I noticed on her bed a bunch of sweet
violets which I had seen Lewis gather in the morning.--'Meurig, why
have you been cold to me?' she asked, while her hand still lay in mine.
'If I have ever done anything to displease you, will you not forgive
me, and kiss your little child?' and she looked down at your little
head lying on her arm beside her.  Oh, Caradoc, God alone knows the
tumult of feelings which overwhelmed me.  I cannot describe them!  I
stooped and kissed your little black head, and more, I stooped and
kissed her pale forehead.

"'I forgive you,' I said.

"'Is that all?' she said.

"And as I hesitated, the old haughty flush rose to her forehead, and
turning her head on her pillow, she said, 'I am tired now, and want to
sleep.'

"So I turned away and closed the door gently, and I never saw her alive
again, for that night she died suddenly.  Swiftly the Angel of Death
came, _at her call_.  I believe it, Caradoc, for Dr. Hughes who was
sent for hurriedly, declared he knew of no reason why she should not
have lived.

"'I think she would have recovered, Wynne,' he said, 'had she wished
to; but where there is no wish to live sometimes the powers of life
fail, and the patient dies.  Why she did not wish to live _I_ do not
know--perhaps _you_ do,' and my old friend turned from me with a
coldness in his manner, which has remained there ever since."

The Vicar sank into his chair again, as if the memory of his early
trials had fatigued him, and Cardo, rising and approaching him, drew
his hand gently over his black hair besprinkled with white.  His son's
tenderness seemed to reach the old man's heart.

Burying his face in his hands he gulped down a sob before he continued:

"Wait a minute, Cardo, you will not pity me when you have heard all my
story.  With the earliest dawn I rushed out of the house, which seemed
to stifle me.  I longed for the cool morning breezes, and God forgive
me, if I thought too with longing of the cool sandy reaches that lay
under the rippling waters of the bay!  On the brow of the hill I met
Essec Powell, who was out early to see a sick cow, and there, while my
heart was sore to agony, and my brain was tortured to distraction, that
man reproached me and insolently dared to call me to account for 'my
inhuman conduct to my wife!'

"'Ach y fi!  What are you? he said, with his strong Welsh accent, 'are
you man or devil?' and he tore open the wounds which were already
galling me unbearably.  'You bring a young girl from a happy home,
where she was indulged and petted, and in a year's time you have broken
her spirit, and you will break her heart.  Because her brute of an
uncle forbids his own daughter to go near her--my sister, her old
schoolfellow, goes to see her in her trouble, and you turn her out of
your house.  I have longed for the opportunity of telling you what I
thought of you, and of what all the world thinks of you.'

"I was a strong man, and he was a weak and shrivelled creature; I could
have tossed him over the rocks into the sea below.  It required a very
strong effort to control my fury, but I did do so, and I turned away
without answering him, except by a cold, haughty look.  I hated him,
Caradoc, and I have hated him ever since.  He had not then heard of
Agnes's death, but the news flew fast through the neighbourhood, and I
knew I was everywhere looked upon as her murderer!

"As I returned to my miserable home, I saw a man on horseback come out
at the back gate.  It was one of Colonel Vaughan's servants.  I
wondered what brought him there so early, but went in at the front gate
to avoid meeting him.  The house was very silent with its drawn blinds.

"When Betto came in with pale, tearful face, I asked her what had
brought Colonel Vaughan's servant there so early.

"'A very strange thing, sir,' she said.  'He came to ask if Miss
Vaughan was here?  Colonel Vaughan was in great distress--if you call
tearing about and swearing being in great distress--that was what Sam
said, sir--because Miss Vaughan is nowhere to be found.  Dir anwl! a
strange thing, indeed, sir!'

"I was too miserable to pay much attention to her gossip, and began my
breakfast alone, for Lewis had not appeared, and I dreaded to see him.
I had thought it strange that in the turmoil of the night before, with
the hurried footsteps and the arrival of the doctor's gig, my brother
had not been disturbed, and he was apparently still sleeping.  I shall
never forget that long, long day.  I thought my misery was beyond human
endurance; little did I think that ere night it would be increased
tenfold.

"I had refused to leave this room, though Betto had done her best to
persuade me to eat the dinner which she had prepared  She was always
quick to read my thoughts and understand my feelings.

"'You would be quite as much alone in the parlour, sir, as you are
here;' she said, 'for I can see nothing of Mr. Lewis.  Indeed, I have
been into his room, and I see he has not slept there last night,' and
she flung her apron over her head, and swayed backwards and forwards
crying 'Oh, anwl! beth na i!'[3] and she slowly and tremblingly drew a
note out of her pocket and handed it to me.  'Perhaps that will tell
you something, sir.'

"'Where did you find this?' I said,

"I found it on her bed after she died.  Mr. Lewis had sent it by Madlen
the nurse.'

"I tore the note open--I never dreamt it was dishonourable, neither do
I now--and read the words which began the awakening that was to come
with such force and bitterness.  They were these:

"'MY DEAR AGNES,--My warmest congratulations upon the birth of your
little one, and my deepest thanks for all your kindness to me and dear
Nellie.  Without your help we should never have been united.  Good-bye,
and may God grant us all a happy meeting at some future time.

"'Your ever grateful and devoted friends,

"'LEWIS WYNNE and ELLEN VAUGHAN.'


"I stared at the letter in a maze of troubled thought, the feeling
uppermost in my mind being 'too late! too late! gone for ever, my
beloved wife!  and alienated from me for ever my little less loved
brother!'

"'And this, sir,' said Betto, drawing another letter from her pocket,
'I found on Mr. Lewis's table.  I think it is directed to you.'

"I hastily tore that open also, and read words that I cannot even now
bring myself to repeat.  They were too bitter in their tender
upbraiding, in their innocent ignorance of my suspicions.  They spoke
of a love whose existence I had not guessed; of his devotion to Ellen
Vaughan, my wife's cousin; of his deep gratitude to Agnes for her
unfailing kindness to him and to his beloved Ellen; of his deep
distress at my evident dislike of him.

"'What has come between us, Meurig?' he said.  'What has become of the
faithful love of so many years?  Is it possible you have grudged me the
shelter of your roof and the food that I have eaten?  I can scarcely
believe it, and yet I fear it is true.  Enclosed I leave you a cheque
which will pay for anything I may have cost you; further than that I
can only thank you for your, I fear, unwilling hospitality, and pray
that some day we may meet, when this mysterious cloud, which I have
deplored so much, may have cleared away.

"'When you read this, Ellen and I will have been married at St.
Jorwerth's Church at Caer Madoc, and shall, I hope, have sailed for
Australia, where you know I have long wished to go.'

"'Betto,' I said, 'is she lying dead and still upstairs?'

"'Yes, master, poor angel! still enough and white enough in her coffin!
Why, sir, why?'

"'Because I wonder she does not come down and reproach us, for we have
been wronging her from beginning to end, Betto!  These letters prove to
me that my brother--my beloved, innocent brother--was deeply in love
with her cousin, Ellen Vaughan, and she, in the tenderness of her
heart, helped to bring about their union, and was the means of
delivering the letters which they wrote to each other.  They were
married this morning at Caer Madoc Church, and have probably already
sailed for Australia.'

"Betto left me, sobbing bitterly.  I think she has never forgiven
herself; neither can I forgive myself, Cardo.  As the years went on, my
sorrow only deepened, and an intense longing arose in my heart for the
friendship of the brother who had been so much to me for so many years.
I wrote to him, Caradoc--a humble, penitent letter, beseeching his
forgiveness even as a man begs for his life.  He has never answered my
letter.  I know he is alive and thriving, as he writes sometimes to Dr.
Hughes; but to me he has never sent a message or even acknowledged my
letter, and I thirst for his forgiveness--I cannot die without it.

"I have long cherished the thought that when you came to man's estate I
would send you to him.  I would send the best of earthly treasure that
I possess--my only son--to plead for me, to explain for me, and to
bring back his love and forgiveness.  Now, Cardo, will you go?"

"I will, father," said Cardo, rising and placing his hand in his
father's.

"And can you think over what I have told you and still retain a little
love and pity for your old father?"

"Father, I feel nothing but the deepest sorrow and pity for you
both--father and mother.  I don't know which is to be pitied most.
Thank you for telling me all this, it explains so much that has puzzled
me--it accounts for your sadness and gloom--and--and your apparent
coldness.  I will go to Australia, and, please God, I will bring back
my uncle's love and forgiveness to you."

"God bless you, my boy, and good-night."

There was a warm hand-clasp, and Cardo left his father sitting by the
flickering candle, which had burnt down to its socket.



[1] A blue mug containing a little over half a pint.

[2] Dear sweetheart.

[3] "Oh, dear! what shall I do?"




CHAPTER VIII.

THE OLD REGISTER.

The summer had passed, with all its charms of June roses and soft July
showers, with its sweet, long days of sunshine, and its soft, west
winds brine-laden, its flights of happy birds, and its full promise in
orchard and corn-field.

Cardo and Valmai still haunted the woods by the Berwen, and walked
along its banks, or sat listening to its trickling music as it hastened
down to the sea; but there was a sadder look on both their faces.
Cardo had new lines about his mouth, and Valmai had a wistful look in
her blue eyes; both had an unaccountable premonition of something
sorrowful to come.

"Oh, I am afraid of something," the girl had said one day, as she sat
beside her lover, throwing pebbles into the brook, "something worse
even than this terrible parting, which must come next month.  What is
it, Cardo?  What is hanging over us?  Something that darkens the
sunlight and dims the moonlight to me?  Are we parting for ever, do you
think?"

"Nonsense, dearest," said Cardo cheerfully, though the little pucker
between his eyes seemed to speak of the same anxiety and fear.  "Isn't
the separation which we must bear enough to account for all sorts of
fears and depressing thoughts?  It is that only which dims the sunshine
to me, and makes me feel as if I were losing all the light and
happiness out of my life; but let us cast our fears to the wind,
Valmai, for a year will see all our troubles over; in a year's time I
shall have returned, bringing, I hope, reconciliation and love to my
dear old father--peace for his last days, Valmai.  It is worth trying
for, is it not?"

"Yes, yes; no doubt your presence will be more effectual than a letter."

"He thinks, too," said Cardo, "that a little travel by land and sea
will brighten my life which he imagines must be so monotonous on this
lonely west coast.  He doesn't know of the happy hours we spend here on
the banks of the Berwen, but when I return with loving greetings from
his brother, and, who knows, perhaps bringing that brother with me in
person, then, Valmai, while his heart is softened and tender, I will
tell him of our love, I will ask his consent to our marriage, and if he
refuses, then we must take our own way and be married without his
consent.  There is the thatch house just above the mill already waiting
for us--it is my own, you know; and although old Sianco and his wife
don't make much of it, think how lovely you and I would make it.  Think
of me sitting in the thatched porch behind those roses smoking, and you
looking out through those pretty little lattice windows under the
eaves."

Valmai sighed and blushed.  "Oh, what dreams, Cardo; I cannot reach so
far.  My thoughts stop short at the long winter, when that glistening
sea will be tossing and frothing under the fierce north-west wind.  Oh,
I know how it looks in the winter; and then to think that all that lies
between me and you.  What a trouble has come upon us when all seemed so
bright and glorious."

"Yes, I have brought sorrow and unrest into your peaceful life.  Will
you give me up; will you break the bonds that are between us; and once
more be free and happy?"

"Cardo," was all her answer, in a pained tone, as she placed her hand
in his, "what are you talking about?"

"Nonsense, love, foolish nonsense.  I know too well that nothing on
earth or heaven can break the bonds that bind us to each other.  And
this terrible parting.  I could bear it far more easily if you were
mine, my very own, my wife, Valmai.  Then I should feel that nothing
could really part us.  Can it not be?  Can we not be married here
quietly in the old church, with none but the sea-breezes and the
brawling Berwen for company?"

"And the old white owl to marry us, I suppose.  Oh, Cardo, another
dream.  No, no; wait until you return from that dreadful Australia, and
then--"

"And then," said Cardo, "you will not say no."

"No," said the girl, looking frankly into his eager face, "I will not
say no.  But I must go; I am late.  Shoni begins to ask me
suspiciously, 'Wherr you going again, Valmai?'  I am sure we could not
go on much longer meeting here without his interference."

"How dreadful to have Shoni's red hair and gaitered legs dogging our
footsteps in this fairy dell."

"To whom does this sweet valley belong, Cardo?  To you?"

"To my father.  If it ever comes into my possession, it will be so
guarded that no stray foot shall desecrate its paths."

Cardo was not without hope of being able to overcome Valmai's
reluctance to be married before he left the country, and as he and
Gwynne Ellis returned one day from a sail he broached the subject to
his friend.

"To-morrow will be the first of September," he said, as he watched the
bulging sail and the fluttering pennon against the blue sky.

"Yes," answered Ellis, "I am sorry my holiday is coming to a close."

"I don't see why you should leave, although I am obliged to go."

"Oh, it will be quite time for me; everything jolly comes to an end
some time or other."

"True," said Cardo, with a sigh.

"Well, you heave a sigh, and you look as grave and solemn as any of
Essec Powell's congregation, and, upon my word, I don't see what you've
got to look so glum about.  Here you are, engaged to the prettiest girl
in Wales; just going out for a year's travel and enjoyment before you
settle down as a married man in that idyllic thatched cottage up the
valley--a year to see the world in--and a devoted father (for he is
that, Cardo, in spite of his cold ways) waiting to greet you when you
come back.  And Valmai Powell following every step you take with her
loving and longing thoughts.  No, no, Cardo; you have nothing to pull
such a long face about.  On the contrary, as I have said before, you
are a lucky dog."  (Cardo grunted.)  "Besides, you are not obliged to
go.  It seems to me rather a quixotic affair altogether, and yet, by
Jove! there is something in it that appeals to the poetic side of my
nature.  You will earn your father's undying gratitude, and in the
first gush of his happiness you will gain his consent to your marriage
with Valmai.  Not a bad--rather a clever little programme."

"Oh, it is all very well for you to talk like that, Ellis; but nothing
you say can lessen the bitterness of parting from Valmai.  It is my own
wish to go, and nothing shall prevent me; but I could bear the
separation with much more fortitude if only--"

And he stopped and looked landwards, where the indistinct grey blur was
beginning to take the pattern of fields and cliffs and beach.

"If what?" said Ellis, shifting the sail a little.

"If only I were married to Valmai."

"Phew! what next?" said Ellis, "married!  Cardo Wynne, you are bringing
things to a climax.  My dear fellow, it would be far harder to part
from a wife of a week than from a sweetheart of a year.  That's my idea
of wedded bliss, you see."

"Nonsense; it would not!" said Cardo.  "It would give me a sense of
security--a feeling that, come fair or come foul, nothing could really
come between me and Valmai; and besides, I should not want her to be
the wife of a week--I should be satisfied to be married even on the
morning of my departure.  Come, Ellis, be my friend in this matter.
You promised when I first told you of my love for Valmai that you would
help us out of our difficulties.  You are an ordained priest; can you
not marry us in the old church on the morning of the 14th?  You know
the _Burrawalla_ sails on the 15th, and I go down to Fordsea the day
before, but not till noon.  Can you not marry us in the morning?"

"Has Valmai consented?" asked Ellis, sinking down in the prow of the
boat and looking seriously at his companion.

"I--I--have not pressed the question, but if she agrees, will you do
it?"

"Do it?  My dear fellow, you talk as if it were a very simple affair.
Do it, indeed!  Where are the banns?"

"I would buy a license."

"And the ring?"

"At Caer Madoc."  And Cardo began to look in deadly earnest.

"And what about the witnesses?"

"I have even thought of that.  Are not your two friends, Wilson and
Chester, coming to Abersethin next week?"

"So they are," said Ellis, "to stay until I leave.  The very thing.
They will be delighted with such a romantic little affair.  But, Cardo,
how about my duty to your father, who has been a very kind friend to
me?"

"Well," said Cardo, "shall you be doing me an unkindness or the reverse
when you make Valmai my wife?  Is she not all that a woman can be? has
she not every virtue and grace--"

"Oh, stop, my dear fellow! don't trouble to go through the inventory.
I'll allow you at once she is perfect in mind, body, and soul--and the
man to whom I marry her will owe me an eternal debt of gratitude!"

"True, indeed!" said Cardo, beginning energetically to lower the sails,
and guide the boat safely to shore.

He said no more, until, after a tramp over the beach, both buried in
their own thoughts, they drew near the path to Brynderyn.

"You will help me, then, at the old church on the morning of the
fourteenth?"

"I will," said Ellis.

Before that morning arrived, Cardo had won from Valmai a frightened and
half-reluctant consent.

She was no longer a child, but seemed to have matured suddenly into a
woman of calm and reflective character, as well as of deep and tender
feeling.

To be married thus hurriedly and secretly!  How different to the
beautiful event which she had sometimes pictured for herself!  Where
was the long, white veil?  Where were the white-robed bridesmaids?
Where were the smiling friends to look on and to bless?  There would be
none of these indeed, but then--there would be Cardo! to encourage and
sustain her--to call her wife! and to entrust his happiness to her.
Yes, she would marry him; she would be true to him--neither life nor
death should shake her constancy--no power should draw from her lips
the sweet secret of their marriage, for Cardo had said, "It must be a
secret between us, love, until I return and tell my father myself--can
you promise that, Valmai?" and with simple earnestness she had placed
her hand in his, saying, "I promise, Cardo."  And well might he put his
trust in her, for, having given that word of promise, no one who knew
her (they were very few) could doubt that she would keep it both in the
letter and in the spirit.

The morning of the fourteenth dawned bright and clear, but as Cardo
threw up his window and looked over the shining waters of the bay he
saw that on the horizon gray streaky clouds were rising, and spreading
fan-like upwards from one point, denoting to his long-accustomed eye
that a storm was brewing.

"Well! it is September," he thought, "and we must expect gales."

He dressed hurriedly though carefully, and was soon walking with
springy step across the beach, and up the valley to the old church.  He
cast a nervous glance towards Dinas, wondering whether Valmai would
remember her promise--fearing lest she might have overslept
herself--that Essec Powell or Shoni might have discovered her
intentions and prevented their fulfilment; perhaps even she might be
shut up in one of the rooms in that gaunt, grey house!  Nothing was too
unreasonable or unlikely for his fears, and as he approached the church
he was firmly convinced that something had happened to frustrate his
hopes; nobody was in sight, the Berwen brawled on its way, the birds
sang the ivy on the old church tower glistened in the sunshine, and the
sea-gulls sailed overhead as usual.

It had been decided the night before that Gwynne Ellis should leave the
house alone at his usual early hour, and that his friends should come
by the high road from Abersethin, and down by the river-path to the
church.  They were not to stand outside, but to enter the church at
once, to avoid any possible observation; but in spite of this prior
arrangement Cardo wondered why no one appeared.

"Can Gwynne Ellis be late? or those confounded fellows from Abersethin
have forgotten all about it, probably?  It's the way of the world!"

As he crossed the stepping-stones to the church he felt sure there
would be no wedding, and that he would have to depart at midday still a
bachelor, leaving Valmai to all sorts of dangers and trials!

When he entered the porch, however, and pushed open the door of the
church, in the cool green light inside, he found his three friends
waiting for him.

"I wonder why she doesn't come," he said, turning back to look up the
winding path through the wood; "it's quite time."

"Yes, it is quite time," said Ellis.  "I will go and put on my
surplice.  You three can sit in that ricketty front pew, or range
yourselves at the altar rail, in fact--there she is coming down the
path, you won't be kept long in suspense."

And as the three young men stood waiting with their eyes fixed upon the
doorway, Valmai appeared, looking very pale and nervous.  Gwynne Ellis
had already walked up the church, and was standing inside the broken
altar rails.  Valmai had never felt so lonely and deserted.  Alone
amongst these strangers, father! mother! old friends all crowded into
her mind; but the memory of them only seemed to accentuate their
absence at this important time of her life!  She almost failed as she
walked up with faltering step, but a glance at Cardo's sympathetic,
beaming face restored her courage, and as she took her place by his
side she regained her composure.  Before the simple, impressive service
was over she was quite herself again, and when Cardo took her hand in
his in a warm clasp, she returned the pressure with a loving smile of
confidence and trust, and received the congratulations of Gwynne Ellis
and his two friends with a smiling though blushing face.

The two strangers, never having seen her before, were much struck by
her beauty; and indeed she had never looked more lovely.  She wore one
of her simple white frocks, and the white hat which had been her best
during the summer, adorned only with a wreath of freshly gathered
jessamine, a bunch of which was also fastened at her neck.  With the
addition of a pair of white gloves which Cardo had procured for her,
she looked every inch a bride.  She wore no ornament save the wedding
ring which now glistened on her finger.

"Let us do everything in order," said Ellis.  "Take your wife down to
the vestry."

Cardo drew her hand through his arm, and at the word "wife," pressed it
gently to his side, looking smilingly down at the blushing face beside
him.  When they reached the vestry, whose outer wall in the old tower
was lying crumbling on the grass outside, while the two young men
chatted freely with the bride and bridegroom, they were joined by
Gwynne Ellis, carrying an old and time-worn book under his arm.

Cardo gasped, "I never thought of the register; it is kept in the new
church!  Is it absolutely necessary, Ellis?  What shall we do?  What
have you there?"

"Why, the old register, of course!  I furraged it out last night from
that old iron chest inside the altar rails.  There is another there,
going back to the last century, I should think.  I must have a look at
them; they will be interesting."

"Ellis, you are a friend in need," said Cardo.  "I had never thought of
this part of the ceremony."

"No, be thankful you had a cool and collected head to guide you.  See,
here is a blank space at the bottom of one of these musty pages.  It
won't be at all _en règle_ to insert your marriage here; but I dare not
bring the new register out of the other church; moreover, there may be
another wedding soon, and then yours would be discovered."

"What a genius you are!" said Cardo, while Gwynne Ellis wrote out in
bold, black characters, under the faded old writing on the rest of the
page, the certificate of Cardo and Valmai'a marriage.

"There, you have tied a knot with your tongue that you can't untie with
your teeth!  Here is your marriage certificate, Mrs. Wynne.  I need not
tell you to keep it safely."

Suddenly there was a rustling sound above them, which startled them
all, and Cardo grasped Valmai hastily, to the gre

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