By Berwen Banks Part 19

"Yes, indeed; indeed, it is my only solace, and I am going to be brave and hopeful. My ring I must not wear on my finger; but see, I have brought a white satin ribbon to tie it round my neck; it shall always be there until you take it off, and place it on my finger again."

"And you will keep our secret until I return, darling?"

"Yes," said Valmai impressively, "_until you come back, Cardo, and give me leave to reveal it_."

"We must part, fanwylyd; my father must not miss me."

"No, no--go, I will not keep you back."

There was a long, pa.s.sionate embrace, during which the white owl flapped in again to her nest.

"Good-bye and good-bye, darling, and farewell until we meet again."

"Leave me here, Cardo. Good-bye, dearest husband!"

And so they parted, and, in the memory of both, for many a long year the sound of the Berwen held a place, and the flap of the white owl's wings brought back to Valmai memories of pain and happiness, mixed together in a strange tumult. Slowly she made her way up the path to Dinas, the scarlet cloak was taken out from the bush under which it had been hidden, and, enveloped in its folds, she entered the house. Going up to her own room, she took off the sacred wedding dress, and, folding it carefully, laid it away with its bunch of jessamine, while she donned another much like it, but of a warmer material, for she loved white, and seldom appeared in a coloured dress.

With Cardo the hours slipped by quickly. His father had many last directions to give him, and Betto had endless explanations to make.

"You will find your gloves in your pocket, Mr. Cardo, and your clean handkerchiefs are in the leather portmanteau; but only six are by themselves in the little black bag."

Gwynne Ellis had accompanied his friends to their lodgings at Abersethin, and after breakfast returned to Brynderyn; they had all been charmed with the bride's appearance.

"By Jove! Ellis," Chester had said, "I think I envy that Wynne in spite of the parting. I have never seen such a lovely bride!"

"Any more pearls of the sort to be found in this out-of-the-way place?"

asked Wilson.

"No, I have seen none," said Ellis; "and I doubt if you will find one anywhere," for he was an enthusiastic admirer of Valmai.

"I have quite enjoyed the part we have taken in this romantic little affair--eh, Wilson?"

"Ra--ther!" he replied.

"But don't forget it is to be a dead secret," said Ellis, as he left the door.

"Oh! honour bright!"

At two o'clock punctually Cardo and his father seated themselves in the light gig, which was the only carriage the Vicar affected, and when Betto had bid him a tearful good-bye, with all the farm-servants bobbing in the background, Gwynne Ellis, grasping his hand with a warm pressure, said:

"Good-bye, Wynne, and G.o.d bless you! I shall look forward with great pleasure to meeting you again when you return from Australia. I shall stay here a week or two at your father's invitation."

"Yes," said the Vicar, in a wonderfully softened tone, "it would be too trying to have the house emptied at one blow."

As they drove along the high road together and crossed the little bridge over the Berwen Valley, the Vicar, pointing with his whip, drew Cardo's attention to the stile beside the bridge.

"This is the stile which I saw Ellen Vaughan crossing the day I met your mother waiting for her. I met my brother afterwards, and oh! how blinded I was! But there, a man who is carried away by his pa.s.sions is like a runaway horse, which, they say, becomes blind in the eagerness of his flight."

It was needless to call Cardo's attention to the stile. His first meeting with Valmai was so intimately connected with it; and as he crossed the bridge, he called to mind how they had shared their gingerbread under the light of the moon.

"Perhaps you never noticed there was a stile there?" said the Vicar.

"Yes," said Cardo, turning round to take a last look at it and the bridge, and--was it fancy, or did he see something waving in the wind?

For a moment he laid his hand on the reins with the idea of running back to see, but "Jim" was fresh, and, resenting the check, swerved uncomfortably aside.

"Let him go," said the Vicar. "What do you want?"

"Nothing, sir. For a moment I thought I would go back and take a last look at the valley; but never mind, let us go on. How black it looks in front!"

"A storm rising, I think," said his father.

"Yes. There will be a gale from the north-west; we shall catch it on the _Burrawalla_, I expect. Well, I have often wished to see a storm at sea."

His father did not answer, but looked gloomily on at the gathering darkness in front. He was full of fears for his son's safety, but it was not his nature to speak openly of any tender feelings. His late confession, although it had comforted and soothed him, was yet a mystery to himself, and he thought of it with a kind of awkward surprise and something like resentment. He was, however, unusually talkative and even gentle as they drove on together. When at last he had seen Cardo fairly off in the coach, with his luggage piled on the top, he turned homewards with a heavy foreboding at his heart.

Should he ever see his son again? Had he sent him from his native land to be lost to him for ever? And how willingly he had given in to his father's wishes! But, certainly there was nothing to attract him to his home--nothing but his love for a surly old father!

"A fine fellow!" he soliloquised, with a side jerk of his head. "A fine fellow! a son to be proud of!"

And when Gwynne Ellis joined him at tea, they vied with each other in their praises of Cardo's character.

If Cardo had followed his impulse and returned to look over the stile, he would have found on the mossy hedge inside a little white heap of misery. For Valmai, who had watched for an hour to catch a last glimpse of him, had been frightened when she saw the "Vicare du"

looking towards the stile, and evidently drawing Cardo's attention to it; she had shrunk back until they had pa.s.sed, and then standing on the hedge, had waved a last good-bye, and immediately afterwards slipped down in an abandonment of grief. She remained for some time sobbing and moaning on the gra.s.s, until at last her pa.s.sion of tears subsided.

Almost suddenly growing calmer, she stood up, and, not attempting to dry her eyes, let the tears roll slowly down her cheeks. She clasped her hands, and tried to steady her voice as, looking up at the flying clouds above her, she spoke words of encouragement to herself.

"Valmai," she said, "you must learn to bear your sorrow in silence; you are no longer a girl--you are a wife! and you must be a brave and good woman!"

For a moment she continued to look steadily up at the clouds and beyond them into the depths of blue sky which showed here and there between the storm rifts, then she quietly put on her hat and returned down the well-known path to the river, and with steady, set face and firm step made her way homeward.

When her uncle appeared at the tea-table, he carried two large books under his arm, and when the meal was over the lamp was lighted and the red curtains drawn. Up here on the cliffs the wind was already blowing furiously; it roared in the chimneys, and found its way in through every c.h.i.n.k in the badly-fitting windows.

"Now, let me see--chap. xii.--Valmai, have you found it? St. Antwn's sermon to the fishes," and he settled himself in his usual position, with legs crossed, head thrown back, listening with evident pleasure, while Valmai read and read, her thoughts defying control, and for ever following Cardo on his journey.

"Oh, how the wind is shrieking, uncle; it is like a human creature in pain!"

"Wind?" said the old man, looking with dreamy eyes at the girl so full of hopes and fears--"storm? Well, it does blow a little, but it's nothing. Go on, Valmai, you are not reading so good as usual," and once more she applied herself to the page, and endeavoured to keep her thoughts from roaming.

CHAPTER IX.

REUBEN STREET.

All night the storm increased in violence, blowing straight from the north-west with an incessant fury which tossed and tore the waters of the bay. Against the black cliffs the foaming waves hurled themselves like fierce animals leaping up to reach their prey, but the adamant rocks, which had defied their rage for centuries, still stood firm, and flung them back panting and foaming into the swirling depths below, to rise again with ever-increasing strength, until the showers of spray reached up even to the gra.s.sy slopes on which the sheep huddled together.

Valmai had lain with wide-open eyes through the long hours of the night, listening with a shrinking fear to every fresh gust which threatened to sweep the old house away. No raging storm or shrieking wind had ever before done more than rouse her for a moment from the sound sleep of youth, to turn on her pillow and fall asleep again; but to-night she could not rest, she was unnerved by the strain and excitement of the day, and felt like some wandering, shivering creature whose every nerve was exposed to the anger of the elements. When at last it was time to rise and prepare her uncle's breakfast, she felt beaten and weary, and looked so pale and hollow-eyed, that Shoni, who was fighting his way in at the back door as she appeared, exclaimed in astonishment.

"What's the matter with you, Valmai? You bin out in the storm all night?"