By Berwen Banks Part 24

"Well, what's it about, may dear? Anything to pa.s.s the taime! Ay'm getting very taired of lying abed."

"Well then, listen uncle; it's a true story."

"Oh, of course," said the old man. "'Is it true, mother?' Ay used to ask when she told us a story. 'Yes, of course,' she'd say, 'if it didn't happen in this world, it happened in some other,' so, go on, may dear."

"Well," said Valmai, laughing rather nervously, "this happened in this world, whatever! Once upon a time, there was a young girl who was living on a wild sea-coast. It was very beautiful, but she was very lonely sometimes, for she had no father nor mother, nor sister nor brother."

"Poor thing," said the old man.

"Yes, certainly, she was very lonely," continued Valmai; "but one day she met a young man, bright and brave and true."

"Handsome?"

"Yes, handsome, with sparkling black eyes, and--and--oh, very handsome!

and they loved each other truly, and--and--"

"Yes, yes! skip that. Ay know that. Go on."

"You can imagine that the poor lonely girl gave all her heart to her lover, as there was no one else who cared for it; and so the days were going by, and they were all in all to each other. But he had a stern, morose father, and she had a cold and selfish uncle; and these two men hated each other with a deadly hatred, just like a story book."

"Yes, Ay know," said the old man; "like Romeo and Juliet, you know."

"Perhaps, indeed," said Valmai; "but anyway, they dare not tell anyone of their love, for they knew that the old father would never agree to their being married, and the young man was very fond of his father, although he was so dark and dour. At last, suddenly, he told his son that he wanted him to go a long way off on business for him, and, wishing to please him, he agreed to go."

"More fool he!" said the captain. "Ay wouldn't 'a gone."

"But he promised, and he hoped that when he had given his father this proof of his love, he would give his consent to his marriage."

"Was he rich?"

"Yes, rather, I think."

"Well, why in the name of common sense didn't he defy his tarnished old father, and marry the girl he liked?"

"You'll see, uncle; wait a minute. The days pa.s.sed on, and their parting was drawing near, and the nearer it came the more miserable they were; and at last the lover begged his sweetheart to marry him, so that he might feel, when he was far away, that she was really his wife whatever might happen. Well, they were married the very morning on which he left; married in an old, deserted church by a young clergyman, who was a good and true friend to them."

"A jolly nice man he must have bin!"

"Yes, indeed, he was."

"You are making it all up in your head, Ay know. But what did they do next?"

"Well, as soon as they were married, they kissed and said good-bye with breaking hearts."

"Oh, dash it!" said the captain, "Ay'd have managed it better than that, anyhow."

"But they didn't. The bridegroom sailed away, for the country he was going to was miles and miles and miles over the sea, and the poor bride was left at home with her sorrow. But soon afterwards she went to live with another relation, a dear old man--the best, the kindest, the tenderest, the jolliest old man in the world. In fact, he had only one fault, and that was that he sometimes used a bad word."

"Poor old chap!" said the captain. "You mustn't be too hard upon him for that, Valmai, becos Ay dare say he couldn't help it. P'r'aps you wouldn't believe it now, but there was a taime when Ay swore like a trooper; and it grew upon me so much that Ay d--d everything!--even the milk for breakfast--and Ay'm dashed if Ay could stop it, Valmai. May poor mother was alive then, and she sez to me one day with tears in her eyes, 'Tray, may boy, to leave off swearing; it is killing me,' she sez, with her sweet, gentle voice. So Ay sez to mayself, 'John,' Ay sez, 'you are a d--d fool. You're killing your mother with your foolish swears. Pull up short,' sez Ay, 'and tray and faind some other word that'll do.' So Ay fixed upon 'tarnished,' and Ay'm dashed if may mother wasn't perfectly satisfayed. It's a grand word! Puts you in mind of tar and 'tarnal and tarpauling, and lots of shippy things.

'Twas hard to get used to it at first; but 'pon may word now, may dear, it comes as nat'ral as swearing. But there! go on with the story.

Where were we?"

Valmai was a little bewildered by the captain's reminiscences.

"Well, we had just come to where the girl, or rather the young wife, had gone to live with her other uncle. Here she would have been as happy as the day is long, had it not been for the continual sorrow for her lover."

The captain began to look a little suspicious, but Valmai hastened to prevent further interruptions.

"But now comes the wonderful part of the story, uncle. A dreadful storm arose, and a thick fog came on, and the ship in which the bridegroom sailed was so damaged that she had to put back for repairs.

The young man found lodgings in the town, and what house do you think he came to? but the very one where the bride lived with her dear old uncle, and they made up their minds to tell him everything, and to throw themselves on his generosity. Dear uncle, what do you think of my story?"

"Dashed if Ay didn't begin to think it was me you meant by the old man.

But child, child, you are not going to cheat that kind old uncle, and tell him a pack of lies, and laugh at him. You are not the bride?"

"Yes, uncle," said Valmai, with blushing face and drooping eyelids.

"And Mr. Gwyn is the bridegroom?"

"Yes. His name is Wynne, not Gwyn."

"And you knew nothing about it until he came here yesterday?"

"Nothing; but that he had sailed in the _Burrawalla_, and when I heard she had returned a wild hope came to me, and when I heard his voice in the pa.s.sage I could have fainted with joy."

"And you are both united under may roof? and are man and wife?"

"Yes. Oh, uncle, don't be angry! It was not our own doing. It was Providence who sent him back to me from the storm and fog. _Don't_ be angry."

"Angry, child!" said the old man, almost lifting himself up in his bed; "why Ay'm tarnished if anything so jolly ever happened in may laife before. And to think we have dodged the old father! and the old uncle!

Why, that must be Essec!" and this discovery was followed by a burst of rumbling laughter, which set Valmai more at her ease.

"But never mind who he is, here you are, and here you shall be happy.

Ay'll take your parts, may dears. Ay'll see that nothing comes between you any more."

"And you will keep our secret, uncle, until Cardo comes back?"

"Of course, child. We mustn't tell anyone, for fear it will get round to the old father's ears. Bay the bay, who is he?"

"Mr. Wynne, the Vicar of the parish, the 'Vicare du' they call him, from his black looks."

"The 'Vicare du!'" said the captain, "why! he is rolling in money!

You've done a tidy little job for yourself, may gel, and your old Uncle John will befriend you."

Here Mrs. Finch opened the door, and, with a sniff, said, "The gentleman's come back, and he wants to know can he see Miss Powell?"

The captain fell into another fit of laughter, while Mrs. Finch stared at him in astonishment.

"Tell him to come up," he said, at last, "you gaping old gudgeon, what you standing staring there for? Send Mr. Wynne up. Tell him the lady is here, and Ay want to see him."