[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 fach!"

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, jar 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? Jar-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 Shon 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 Shon 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.