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 32X 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
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 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
By Berwen Banks 
 
 H Hovel 
 
 BY 
 
 ALLEN KAINE 
 
 Author 0/ -A Welsh Smger," '^ Torn Su^'s " 
 
 ," etc. 
 
 CANADIAN COPYRIGHT EDITION. 
 
 TORONTO : 
 
 The W. J. GAGK CO., Limited. 
 
 1899. 
 

 
 
 Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the office of the 
 JLar it^ Agriculture, by The W. J. Gaoe Company. Limited, in the 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Hoe of the 
 ED, iu the 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. 
 II. 
 ill. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 
 BERWEN BANKS 
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF 
 
 THE SASSIWN 
 
 THE STORM 
 
 GWVNNE ELLIS ARRIVES - 
 
 COR WEN AND VALMAI 
 THE VICAR'S STORY 
 THE OLD REGISTER 
 REUBEN STREET 
 THE WEB OF FATE - 
 THE "BLACK DOG" 
 A CLIMAX - 
 
 "the BABIES' CORNER" . 
 
 UNREST 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 DISPERSING CLOUDS 
 
 HOME AGAIN 
 
 THE VELVET WALK- 
 
 THE MEREDITHS - 
 
 GWLADVS 
 
 INTO THE SUNSHiNE 
 
 PAoa 
 
 7 
 20 
 
 • 37 
 
 • 52 
 
 • 74 
 
 ■ 89 
 
 • los 
 
 132 
 ISO 
 165 
 
 184 
 199 
 217 
 227 
 240 
 
 253 
 
 267 
 
 288 
 302 
 
 313 
 
 325 
 
■i 
 
BY BERWEN BANKS. 
 
 -♦ — - 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BERWEN BANKS. 
 Caer Madoc is a sleepy little Wekh f^ i • 
 
 It has its church and th'ercSoel^"; '""^''°'"- 
 corporation, jail, town harand'ike T°' k"" 
 more especially, it has its Its atd »rt' "'' 
 spasmodic jollity on such occllns ^^.1 " '° 
 pretty often-quite ten times in the Ma m","!:' 
 
 evening found the Lu . , , ^^^'■' «"° 'he 
 
 disrepuuble aftef it "t hoTrs °of^"^-^'^'.'=' ="«^ 
 dusty High Street be^g ZLI ^fh""""' "'^ 
 paper, orange-peel, -nd ^u h hke i>"'T.°' 
 -rry-go-rounds and the ^shows" hadtpTrted.l^ 
 
Si? JBctvocn SanRs. 
 
 last donkey-cart had rattled out of the town, laden 
 with empty gingerbread boxes. 
 
 In the stable of the Red Dragon three men stooped 
 in conclave over the hind foot of a horse. Deio, the 
 ostler, and Roberts, the farrier, agreed in their verdict 
 for a wonder ; and Caradoc Wynne, the owner of the 
 horse, straightened himself from his stooping posture 
 with a nod of decision. 
 
 " Yes, it's quite plain I mustn't ride him to-night," 
 he said. " Well, I'll leave him under your care, 
 Roberts, and will either come or send for him 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Needn't do that, sir," said Roberts, " for I am 
 going myself to Abersethin on Friday ; that will give 
 him one day's complete rest, and I'll bring him up 
 gently with my nag." 
 
 " That will do better," said the young man. " Take 
 care of him, Deio," he added, in good, broad Welsh, 
 " and I will pay you well for your trouble," and, with 
 a pat on Captain's flank and a douceur in Deio's ready 
 palm, he turned to leave the yard. Looking back 
 from under the archway which opened into the street, 
 with a parting injunction to Roberts to "take care of 
 him," he turned up the dusty High Street. 
 
 " Pagh 1 " he said, " it has been a jolly fiir, but it 
 hasn't sweetened the air. However, I shall soon have 
 left it behind me," and he stepped out briskly towards 
 the straggling end of the street, which merged into a 
 wild moorland country. 
 
 " T/iere's a difference between him and his father," 
 said Deio to his companion, as they led Captain back 
 to his stall. " See the old * Vicare du * hunting 
 between his coppers for a threepenny bit! JUr i 
 
Serwen IBanfie. 
 
 man ! you would think it was a sovcrcifjn he was 
 looking for." 
 
 *• Yes," said Roberts, " the old Vicare is a keen 
 man enough, but just ; always pays his bills regu- 
 larly ; he is not as black as they make him out 
 to be." 
 
 " No, I daresay I They say the devil isn't, either," 
 said Deio. 
 
 It was very evident the person in question was no 
 favourite of his. 
 
 Meanwhile Caradoc, w Cardo as he was called 
 all over the country side, the "Vicare du's'' only 
 son, had begun his tr mp homc^v.irds with a light 
 heart and a brisk step. Ho- was a tall, broad- 
 shouldered man, with health and youthful energy 
 expressed in every limb and feature, with jet black 
 hair and sparkling eyes to match. Mis dark, almost 
 swarthy face, was lighted up by a pleasant smile, 
 which seemed ever hovering about the corners of 
 his mouth, and which would make itself evident 
 in spite of the moustache which threatened to 
 hide it. 
 
 The band of the local militia was practising in 
 the open market hall as he passed, and an old 
 Welsh air struck familiarly on his ear. 
 
 "They'll wonder what's become of me at home," 
 he thought, "or rather Betto will. I don't suppose 
 my father would notice my absence, so long as I was 
 home to supper. Poor old dad 1 " he added, and a 
 grave look came over his face. 
 
 In truth it was not a very cheerful home to which 
 he was returning, but it was home, and had been 
 his from childhood. It had been the home also of 
 
10 
 
 JS^ JSerwen JSanFis. 
 
 his ancestors for generations, which, to a Welshman, 
 means a great deal, for the ties of home are in the 
 very roots of his being. Home draws him from 
 the furthermost ends of the earth, and leavmg it, 
 adds bitterness even to death. 
 
 His mother had died at his birth, so that the 
 sacred word " mother " had never been more than a 
 name to him, and he had taught himself to banish 
 the thought of her from his mind ; in fact an in- 
 describable uneasiness always leapt up within his 
 heart when her name was mentioned, and that was 
 very rarely, for his father never spoke of her, and 
 old Betto, the head servant, but seldom, and then 
 with such evident sadness and reticence, that an 
 undefined, though none the less crushing fear, had 
 haunted him from childhood upwards. As he 
 stepped out so bravely this soft spring evening, the 
 look of disquietude did not remain long on his face. 
 At twenty-four life has not lost its rosy tints ; heart, 
 mind, and body are fresh and free to take a share 
 in all its opening scenes, more especially if, as in 
 Cardo's case, love, the disturber, has not yet put 
 in an appearance. 
 
 As he reached the brow of the hill beyond the 
 town, the white dusty road stretched like a sinuous 
 snake over the moor before him, while on the left, the 
 sea lay soft and grey in the twilight, and the moon 
 rose full and bright on his right. The evening air 
 was very still, but an occasional strain of the band he 
 had left behind him reached his ears, and with a musical 
 voice he hummed the old Welsh air which came 
 fitfully on the breeze : 
 
3Bcrwen JBanfts. n 
 
 " By Berwen's banks my love hath strayed, 
 For many a day in sun and shade ; 
 And while she carols loud and clear, 
 The little birds fly down to hear. 
 
 " By Berwen's banks the storm rose high, 
 The swollen river rushing by ! 
 Beneath its waves my love was drowned 
 And on its banks my love was found ! " 
 
 Suddenly he was aware of a cloaked figure walking 
 about a hundred yards in front of him. " Who's that 
 I wonder ? " he thought, and then, forgetting its exis- 
 tence, he continued his song : 
 
 " I'll ne'er forget that leafy shade ! 
 I'll ne'er forget that winsome maid 1 
 But there no more she carols free. 
 So Berwen's banks are sad to me ! " 
 
 By and by, at a curve in the road, he again noticed 
 
 the figure in front of him, and quickened his steps ; 
 
 but It did the same, and the distance between them' 
 
 was not lessened, so Cardo gave it up, and continued 
 
 his song. When the strain came to a natural ending, 
 
 he looked again with some interest at the grey figure 
 
 ever moving on, and still seeming to keep at the same 
 
 distance from him. Once more he quickened his 
 
 steps, and again the figure did likewise. " Diwss 
 
 anwl!" he said. "I am not going to run after 
 
 an old woman who evidently does not want my 
 
 company." And he tramped steadily on under the 
 
 fast darkening sky. For quite three miles he had 
 
 followed the vpnishing form, and as he reached the 
 
 top of the moor, he began to feel irritated by the 
 
12 
 
 JB^ 3Bcrwen 3Banfts 
 
 I! 
 
 persistent manner in which his fellow-traveller refused 
 to shorten the distance between them. It roused 
 within him the spirit of resistance, and he could be 
 very dogged sometimes in spite of his easy manner. 
 Having once determined, therefore, to come up with 
 the mysterious pedestrian, he rapidly covered the 
 ground with his long strides, and soon found himself 
 abreast of a slim girl, who, after looking shyly aside 
 at him, continued her walk at the same steady pace. 
 The twilight had darkened much since he had left 
 the town, but the moonlight showed him the graceful 
 pose of the head, the light, springy tread, and the 
 mass of golden hair which escaped from the red hood 
 covering her head. Cardo took off his cap. 
 
 " Good-night to you," he said. " I hope I have 
 not frightened you by so persistently trying to catch 
 you." 
 
 " Good-night," said the girl. " Yes, indeed, you 
 have, whatever, because I am not used to be out in 
 the night The rabbits have frightened me too, they 
 are looking so large in this light." 
 
 •* I am sorry. It is very brave of you to walk all 
 the way from Caer Madoc alone." 
 
 " To Abersethin it is not so far," said the girl. 
 
 * Do you live at Abersethin ? " 
 
 "Yes, not far off; round the edge of the cliffs, 
 under Moel Hiraethog." 
 
 " Oh ! I know," said Cardo ; " the mill in the 
 valley?" 
 
 " No, round the next shore, and up to the top of 
 the cliff is our house." 
 
 '* Traeth Berwen ? That is where / live ! " 
 
 "Well, indeed!" 
 
JBerwen JSanfts* 
 
 13 
 
 "Yes, I am Caradoc Wynne, and I live at 
 Brynderyn." 
 
 " Oh ! are you Cardo Wynne ? I have heard plenty 
 about you, and about your father, the * Vicare 
 du.'" 
 
 '' Ah I poor old dad ! I daresay you have not 
 heard much good of him ; the people do not under- 
 stand him." 
 
 "Well, indeed, the worst I have heard of him is 
 that he is not very kind to you ; that he is making 
 you to work on the farm, when you ought to be a 
 gentleman." 
 
 " That is not true," said Cardo, flushing in the 
 darkness ; " it is my wish to be a farmer ; 1 like it 
 better than any other work ; it is my own free choice. 
 Besides, can I not be a farmer and a gentleman too ? 
 Where could I be so happy as here at home, where 
 my ancestors have lived for generations ? " 
 
 " Ancestors ? " said the girl ; " what is that ? " 
 
 " Oh ! my grandfather and great-grandfather, and 
 all the long dead of my family." 
 
 '• Yes, indeed, I see. Ancestors," she repeated, with 
 a sort of scheduling tone, as though making sure of 
 the fresh information ; " I do not know much English, 
 but there's good you are speaking it ! Can you speak 
 Welsh ? " 
 
 '* Ha ! ha ! ha i " laughed Cardo, and his voice 
 woke the echoes from Moel Piraethog, the h'U which 
 they were nearing, and which they must compass 
 before reaching the valley of the Berwen. " Ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! Can I speak Welsh ? Why, I am Welsh to the 
 core, Cymro glan gloyw ! ^ What are you ? " 
 
 * " A pure Welshman." A favourite expression in Wales. 
 
u 
 
 Bp JSerwen JSanft9. 
 
 " Oh ! Welsh, of course. You can hear that by 
 my talk." 
 
 " Indeed no," said Cardo. " I did not know anyone 
 at Traeth Berwen could speak English as well as you 
 do." 
 
 He was longing to find out who his fellow-traveller 
 was. He saw in the dim light she was slim and fair, 
 and had a wealth of golden hair ; he saw her dress 
 was grey and her hood was red. So much the moon- 
 light revealed, but further than this he could not 
 discover, and politeness forbade his asking. As if in 
 answer to his thoughts, however, her next words 
 enlightened him. 
 
 " I am Valmai Powell, the niece of Essec Powell, 
 the preacher." 
 
 A long, low whistle escaped from the young man's 
 lips. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he said. 
 
 The girl was silent, but could he have seen the 
 hot blush which spread over her face and neck, he 
 would have known that he had roused the quick 
 Welsh temper. He was unconscious of it, however, 
 and strode on in silence, until they reached a rough- 
 built, moss-grown bridge, and here they both stopped 
 as if by mutual consent. Leaning their elbows on 
 the mossy stone wall, they looked down to the depths 
 below, where the little river Berwen babbled and 
 whispered on its way to the sea. 
 
 " There's a nice noise it is making down there," said 
 Valmai. " But why do you say a bad word when I 
 tell you my uncle's name ? " 
 
 " A bad word ? In your presence ? Not for the 
 world 1 But I could not help thinking how shocked 
 
 i I 
 
JBerwen £anf{0* 
 
 15 
 
 hat by 
 
 anyone 
 as you 
 
 raveller 
 ind fair, 
 er dress 
 e moon- 
 )uld not 
 As if in 
 t words 
 
 ; Powell, 
 
 ig man's 
 
 seen the 
 
 neck, he 
 e quick 
 
 Ihowever, 
 rough- 
 stopped 
 
 Ibows on 
 e depths 
 >led and 
 
 pre," said 
 when I 
 
 for the 
 [shocked 
 
 my father and your uncle would be to see us walking 
 together." 
 
 " Yes, I think, indeed," said the girl, opening a little 
 basket and spreading its contents on the low wall. 
 " See ! " she said, in almost childish tones, and turning 
 her face straight to the moonlight. 
 
 Cardo saw, as he looked down at her, that it was a 
 beautiful face. 
 
 " See ! " she said, " gingerbread that I bought in 
 that old street they call ' The Mwntroyd.* Here is a 
 silver ship, and here is a gold watch, and a golden 
 girl. Which will you have ? " 
 
 " Well, indeed, I am as hungry as a hunter," said 
 Cardo. " I will have the lassie, if you are sure you 
 have enough for two." 
 
 " Anwl ! anwl ! I have a lamb and a sheep and 
 some little pigs in my basket." And she proceeded 
 to spread them out and divide them ; and they 
 continued to chat as they ate their gilded ginger- 
 bread. 
 
 " Suppose your uncle and my father knew we were 
 standing on the same bridge and looking at the same 
 moon," said Cardo, laughing. 
 
 " And eating the same gingerbread," added Valmai. 
 
 " My word ! There would be wrath." 
 
 " Wrath ? " said the girl, looking thoughtfully up in 
 her companion's face ; " what is that ? " 
 
 •* Oh, something no one could feel towards you. 
 ' Wrath ' is anger." 
 
 " My uncle is angry sometimes with me, and — 
 too — with — with — " 
 
 " My father, I suppose ? " said Cardo. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said the girl ; *' that is true, what- 
 
'' , 
 
 16 
 
 3Bi? 3Bcrwcn 3Banfts. 
 
 : 
 
 li 'I 
 
 ever. Every Wednesday evening at the prayer- 
 meeting he is praying for the ' Vicare du/ and Betto 
 told me last week that the Vicare is praying for my 
 uncle on Tuesday evenings." 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! has it come to that ? " said Cardo. 
 "Then I'm afraid we can never hope for peace 
 between them." 
 
 They both laughed, and the girl's rippling tones 
 mingled musically in Cardo's ears with the gurgle 
 of the Berwen. 
 
 "It is getting late," she said, " we had better go on ; 
 but I must say good-night here, because it is down 
 by the side of the river is my way to Dinas. You 
 will be nearer to keep on the road till you cross the 
 valley." 
 
 " No, indeed," said the young man, already pre- 
 paring to help his companion over the stone stile. " I 
 will go down by the Berwen too." 
 
 " Anwl," said Valmai, clasping her hands ; " it will 
 be a mile further for you, whatever." 
 
 " A mile is nothing on such a night as this." 
 
 And down to the depths of the dark underwood 
 they passed, by a steep, narrow path, down through 
 the tangled briers and bending ferns, until they 
 reached the banks of the stream. The path was but 
 little defined, and evidently seldom trodden ; the 
 stream gurgled and lisped under the brushwood ; the 
 moon looked down upon it and sparkled on its 
 ripples ; and as Valmai led the way, chatting in her 
 broken English, a strange feeling of happy companion- 
 ship awoke in Cardo Wynne's heart. 
 
 After threading the narrow pathway for half-a-mile 
 or so, they reached a sudden bend of the little river, 
 
 I 
 
Berwen JSanfts. 
 
 n 
 
 where the valley broadened out somewhat, until there 
 was room for a grassy, velvet meadow, at the further 
 corner of which stood the ruins of the old parish 
 church, lately discarded for the new chapel of ease 
 built on the hillside above the shore. 
 
 " How black the ruins look in that corner." said 
 Cardo. 
 
 ;' Yes and what is that white thing in the window ? " 
 said Valmai, in a frightened whisper, and shrinking a 
 little nearer to her companion. 
 
 •' Only a white owl. Here she comes sailing out 
 into the moonlight." 
 
 " Well, indeed, so it is. From here we can hear the 
 sea, and at the beginning of the shore I shall be 
 turning up to Dinas." 
 
 "And I suppose I must turn in th ; opposite direc- 
 tion to get to Brynderyn," said Cardo. «' Well I have 
 never enjoyed a walk from Caer Madoc so much 
 before.^ Will they be waiting for you at home, do 
 you think ? " 
 
 "Waiting for me?" laughed the girl, and her 
 laugh was not without a little trace of bitterness • 
 " who is there to wait for me ? No one, indeed, since 
 my mother is dead. Perhaps to-morrow my uncle 
 might say, ' Where is Valmai ? She has never 
 brought me my book.' Here it is, though," she con- 
 tinued, " safe under the crumbs of the gingerbread I 
 bought it in the Mwntroyd. 'Tis a funny name 
 whatever." 
 
 " Yes, a relic of the old Flemings, who settled in 
 Caer Madoc long ago." 
 
 "Oh! I would like to hear about that! Will 
 you tell me about it some time again ? " 
 
 B 
 
18 
 
 J6^ JSerwen J3anF{0. 
 
 )i 
 
 "Indeed I will," said Cardo eagerly; "but when 
 will that be ? I have been wondering all the evening 
 how it is I have never seen you before." 
 
 They had now reached the open beach, where the 
 Berwen, after its chequered career, subsided quietly 
 through the sand and pebbles into the sea. 
 
 " Here is my path, but I will tell you," and with 
 the sound of the gurgling river, and the plash of the 
 waves in his ears, Cardo listened to her simple story. 
 'You couldn't see me much before, because only six 
 weeks it is since I am here. Before that I was 
 living far, far away. Have you ever heard of Pata- 
 gonia ? Well then, my father was a missionary 
 there, and he took me and my mother with him 
 when I was only a baby. Since then I have always 
 been living there, till this year I came to Wales." 
 
 " Patagonia ! " said Cardo. " So far away ? No 
 wonder you dropped upon me so suddenly! But 
 how, then, did you grow up Welsh ? " 
 
 Valmai laughed merrily. 
 
 " Grow up Welsh ? Well, indeed, I don't know 
 what have I grown up ! Welsh, or English, or 
 Spanish, or Patagonian ! I am mixed of them all, I 
 think. Where we were living there was a large 
 settlement of Welsh people, and my father preached 
 to them. But there were, too, a great many Spaniards, 
 and many Spanish girls were my friends, and my 
 nurse was Spanish, so I learnt to speak Welsh and 
 Spanish ; but English, only what I learnt from my 
 father and from books. I don't know it quite easy 
 yet, but I am coming better every day I think. My 
 father and mother are dead, both of them — only a 
 few days between them. Another kind missionary's 
 
 i: ! 
 
JScrwcn JSanfta* 
 
 19 
 
 'but when 
 he evening 
 
 where the 
 led quietly 
 
 ' and with 
 lash of the 
 nple story. 
 se only six 
 hat I was 
 d of Pata- 
 missionary 
 with him 
 ave always 
 Vales." 
 way ? No 
 snlv ! But 
 
 lon't know 
 English, or 
 them all, I 
 as a large 
 r preached 
 Spaniards, 
 s, and my 
 Welsh and 
 t from my 
 quite easy 
 :hink. My 
 jm — only a 
 lissionary's 
 
 wife brought me home, and since then I am living 
 with my uncle. He is quite kind when he notices 
 me, but he is always reading-reading the old books 
 about the Druids, and Owen Glendwr, and those old 
 times, and he is forgetting the present ; only I must 
 not go near the church nor the church people, then 
 he is quite kind." 
 
 " How curious ! " said Cardo. "You have almost 
 described my father and my home! I think we 
 ought to be friends with so much in common." 
 
 " Yes, perhaps," said the girl, looking pensively out 
 to sea, where the sea-horses were tossing up their 
 white manes in the moonlight. "Well, good-bye" 
 she added, holding out her hand. ' 
 
 " Good-bye," answered Cardo, taking the proffered 
 hand in a firm, warm grasp. « Will we meet again 
 soon ? " he said, dropping it reluctantly. 
 
 " No, I think," said Valmai, as she began the steeo 
 path up the hill. ^ 
 
 Cardo stood a moment looking after her, and as 
 she turned to look back, he called out • 
 "Yes, I hope." 
 
 She waved her hand, and disappeared behind a 
 broom bush. 
 
 "Valmai ! Valmai ! " he said, as he tramped off in 
 the opposite direction. " Yes, she is Va/mai ./ ' i 
 
 4 "Like May." 
 
Hi 
 
 
 I 
 
 1 1 
 
 ill! 
 
 (! 
 
 m 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 The Rev. Meurig Wynne, "yVicare du," or "the 
 black Vicar," as he was called by the country people, 
 in allusion to his black hair and eyes, and also to 
 his black apparel, sat in his musty study, as he had 
 done every evening for the last twenty-five years, 
 poring ever his old books, and occasionally jotting 
 down extracts therefrom. He was a broad-shouldered 
 man, tall and straight, about sixty-five years of age. 
 His clean-shaven face was white as marble, its cold 
 and lifeless appearance accentuated by his jet-black 
 hair, strongly-marked eyebrows of the same dark 
 hue, and his unusually black eyes ; his nose was 
 slightly aquiline, and his mouth well shaped, though 
 wide ; but the firm-set lips and broad nostrils, gave 
 the whole face an expression of coldness and hard- 
 ness. In fact he had a peculiarly dour and dark 
 look, and it was no wonder that when he walked 
 through his parish the little children left their games 
 in the road, and hurried inside their garden gates as 
 he passed. 
 
 He was perfectly conscious of this, and it pained 
 him, though no one guessed it except his son, who 
 felt a tender pity for the man who led so isolated 
 and solitary a life. 
 
 20 
 
Zlbe 1)ou0e on tbe CUfl* 
 
 21 
 
 du," or "the 
 mtry people, 
 and also to 
 y, as he had 
 ;y-five years, 
 nally jotting 
 d-shouldered 
 i^ears of age. 
 rble, its cold 
 lis jet-black 
 same dark 
 lis nose was 
 iped, though 
 ostrils, gave 
 ss and hard- 
 ur and dark 
 he walked 
 their games 
 den gates as 
 
 nd it pained 
 his son, who 
 1 so isolated 
 
 The cause of his cold reserve Cardo had never 
 been able to discover ; but he somehow connected 
 it with his mother's name, and therefore shrank from 
 inquiring into his father's past life, preferring to let 
 old memories sleep, rather than hear anything which 
 might bring sorrow a»id pain into his life. 
 
 The Vicar was evidently uneasy, as he looked up 
 listening, with one thin finger marking the place 
 on the page he was reading. Cardo was later than 
 usual, and not until he had heard his son's familiar 
 firm step and whistle did he drop once more 
 into the deep interest of his book. 
 
 As Cardo approached the house he saw the light 
 in his father's window, and pictured to himself the 
 cold, pale face bending over the musty books. 
 " Poor old dad ! " he murmured. Some sons would 
 have tapped playfully at the window, but Cardo did 
 not, he turned round the corner of the house, passing 
 by the front door, which was closed, and did not 
 look inviting, to the other side, where the clatter of 
 wooden shoes and a stream of light from the open 
 doorway made some show of cheerfulness. And 
 there was Betto, his old nurse and his father's house- 
 keeper, in loud, angry tones, reproving the shepherd 
 boy who stood leaning against the door-post. 
 
 " Hello ! what's the matter, Betto ? " said Cardo 
 in Welsh; "what mischief has Robin been up to 
 now ? " 
 
 " Machgen bach i (my dear boy !), is that you ? " 
 said Betto ; " there's glad I am ! You are late 
 to-night, and I was beginning to puzzle." 
 
 *' Has my father missed me ? " 
 
 " Well, indeed, he hasn't said anything," said Betto, 
 
MmewiMiMM 
 
 mm 
 
 "B^ JSerwen 3Banh0. 
 
 ill 
 
 H 
 
 hunting for the frying-pan, and beginning to prepare 
 the ham and eggs for supper. •* But wherc's that 
 Robin ? " she added ; " a clout or two v/ith the 
 frying-pan would not hurt his addle pate." 
 
 " He has been wise, and made himself scarce ; but 
 what has he done, Betto ? " 
 
 " What has he done ? the villain ! Well, you 
 know the sheep are grazing in the churchyard this 
 week, and that * mwnki ' is watching them there. 
 Well — he seated himself yesterday on a tombstone 
 when we were in church, and whit, whit, whitted 
 ' Men of Harlech ' on his flute ! and the Vicare 
 praying so beautiful all the time, too ! praying 
 against the wiles of the devil and of Essec Powell ! " 
 
 " Essec Powell ! What has he been doing ? " 
 
 " Well, machgen i, you will not believe ! the 
 boldness of those * Methots ' is something beyond ! 
 And the impidence of Essec Powell ! What do you 
 think, Caradoc ? he is praying for your father — out 
 loud, mind you ! — in the prayer-meeting every 
 Wednesday evening ! But there ! the master is 
 beforehand with him, for he is praying for Essec 
 Powell on Tuesdays ! " and she tossed the frizzling 
 ham and eggs on the dish. " Come to supper, my 
 boy," and Cardo followed her nothing loth into the 
 gloomy parlour, lighted by one home-made mould 
 candle, for he was hungry in spite of the ginger- 
 bread. 
 
 ** Ah, Caradoc I you have come," said the Vicar, as 
 he entered the room punctually at the stroke of ten, 
 " what made you so late to-night ? " 
 
 " Well," said Cardo, " when Deio, ' Red Dragon,' 
 led Captain out of the stable, I found the swelling 
 
Ube 'toouee on tbe CUff. 
 
 9S 
 
 prepare 
 jre's that 
 v/ith the 
 
 arce ; but 
 
 ^ell, you 
 lyard this 
 2m there, 
 ombstone 
 :, whitted 
 le Vicare 
 prayinjT 
 
 Powell I " 
 
 g?" 
 ieve ! the 
 
 beyond ! 
 it do you 
 ther — out 
 ig every 
 naster is 
 or Essec 
 5 frizzling 
 pper, my 
 into the 
 Je mould 
 e ginger- 
 Vicar, as 
 iG of ten, 
 
 Dragon,' 
 ; swelling 
 
 on his leg had risen again, so I left him with Roberts, 
 the farrier. He will bring him home on Friday." 
 
 " You have ridden him too soon after his sprain, 
 as I told you, but young men always know better 
 than their elders." 
 
 " Well, you were right anyway this time, father." 
 
 *' Yes," said his father ; " as the old proverb 
 says, ' Yr hen a wyr yr ifanc a debyg."^ 
 
 •* Shouldn't wonder if it rained to-morrow, the 
 wird has veered to the south; it will be bad for 
 tht, Sassiwn,* won't it ? " said Cardo, after a pause. 
 
 " The what ? " said the Vicar, looking full at his 
 son. 
 
 " The ' Sassiwn,' sir, as they call it ; the Methodist 
 Association, you know, to be held here next week." 
 
 " I don't want to hear anything about it ; I take 
 no interest in the subject." 
 
 " Won't you go then, father ? There will be 
 thousands of people there." 
 
 *' No, sir, I will not go ; neither will you, I hope," 
 answered the Vicar, and pushing his plate away, 
 he rose, and walked stiffly out at the door and along 
 the stone passage leading to his study. 
 
 His son listened to his retreating footsteps. 
 
 " As bigoted as ever, poor fellow ! " he said ; " but 
 what a fool I was to mention the subject." And 
 he continued his supper in silence. When Betto 
 came in to clear away he had flung himself down 
 on the hard horse-hair sofa. The mould candle 
 lighted up but a small space in the large, cold 
 room ; there was no fire in the grate, no books or 
 papers lying about, to beguile the tedious hour 
 ^ " The old know, the young appear to know." 
 
wm 
 
 mmm 
 
 IMIi 
 
 ■' 111 '■' 
 III ' 
 
 24 
 
 3Bt? 3Berwen JSanfts. 
 
 l:: n| 
 
 h' 
 
 Mil 
 
 before bedtime. Was it any wonder that his 
 thoughts should revert to the earlier hours of the 
 evening? that he should hear again in fancy the 
 soft voice that said, " I am Valmai Powell," and 
 that he should picture to himself the clustering curls 
 that escaped from the red hood ? 
 
 The old house, v/ith its long passages and large 
 rooms, was full of those nameless sounds which 
 fill the air in the quiet of night. He heard his 
 father's footsteps as he paced up and down in his 
 study, he heard the tick-tack of the old clock on 
 the stairs, the bureau creaked, the candle spluttered, 
 but there was no human voice to break the silence. 
 With a yawn he rose, stretching his long legs, and, 
 throwing back his broad shoulders, made his way 
 along the dark passage which led into the kitchen, 
 where the farm servants v/ere seated at supper. 
 Betto moved the beehive chair into a cosy corner 
 beside the fire for the young master, the men-servants 
 ail tugged their forelocks, and the women rose to 
 make a smiling bob-curtscy, 
 
 " Have some cawl,^ Ser ! " said Betto, selecting a 
 shining black bowl and spoon. 
 
 " Not to-night, after all that fried ham ; but 
 another night I want nothing better for supper." 
 
 " Well, there's nothing will beat cawl, that's 
 certain," said Ebben, the head servant, beginning 
 with long-drawn noisy sups to empty his own bowl. 
 
 " Finished the turnips to-day ? " asked Cardo. 
 
 *' Oh, yes," said Ebben, with a slight tone of 
 reproof in his voice; " the work goes on though you 
 may not be at home, Ser. I consider there is no 
 
 1 Leek broth. 
 
 4 
 
Ube Ibouse on tbe Cliff. 
 
 25 
 
 zr that his 
 hours of the 
 n fancy the 
 :*owell," and 
 stering curls 
 
 ;s and large 
 mnds which 
 e heard his 
 down in his 
 Id clock on 
 e spluttered, 
 
 the silence, 
 ig legs, and, 
 de his way 
 the kitchen, 
 
 at supper, 
 cosy corner 
 len-servants 
 len rose to 
 
 selecting a 
 
 ham ; but 
 pper." 
 awl, that's 
 beginning 
 wn bowl, 
 ardo. 
 
 tone of 
 hough you 
 here is no 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 piece of land on this earth, no, nor on any other 
 earth, better farmed than Brynderyn. Eh ? " and he 
 looked defiantly at Betto, between whom and himself 
 there was a continual war of words. 
 
 " Well, I suppose so, indeed," said Betto; "/<?« say 
 so often enough, whatever, and what you say must 
 be right." 
 
 There was such an insidious mixture of flattery 
 and sarcasm in her words that, for a moment Ebben 
 was at a loss what to answer, so Malen, the milk- 
 maid, took the opportunity of changing the subject. 
 
 " There's tons of bread will be baked on Monday," 
 she said, '* ready for the Sassiwn. Jini * bakkare ' has 
 two sacks of flour to bake, and there's seven other 
 women in Abersethin will bake the same quantity." 
 
 " At Morfa," said Shanw, '* they have killed a cow 
 and a sheep ; and the tongues, and fowls, anc. hams 
 will fill every oven in the parish." 
 
 Betto sniffed and tossed her head scornfully. 
 " They may well give them bread and meat," she said, 
 " for I don't see what else they have to give them." 
 
 " What else, indeed," said Shanw, ready for the 
 frequent fray. "They won't have your hum-drum 
 old church fregot^, perhaps, but yo : come and see, 
 and hear Hughes Bangor, Price Merthyr, Jones 
 Welshpool. Nothing to give them, indeed ! Why, 
 Price Merthyr would send your old red velvet 
 cushion at church flying into smithireens in five 
 minutes. Haven't I heard him. He begins soft 
 and low, like a cat purring on the hearth, and 
 then he gets louder and louder, till he ends like p 
 roaring Hon. And our own [preacher, Essec Powell, 
 
 ^ Rodomontade. 
 
I 'I 
 
 i. ! 
 
 1;' .'I 
 ; 't 
 
 ill 
 
 il'i ! 
 
 ■ I ' • 
 
 I ill I I 
 
 26 
 
 3Bi? 3Berwen JBanfts. 
 
 to begin and finish the meeting. There's busy 
 Valmai must be. Marged Hughes is there to help, 
 and she says — " 
 
 " Oh, be quiet," said Betto, *' and go along with 
 your Valmai, and your Price Merthyr, and your 
 hams, and lions, and things. Ach y fi ! I don't 
 want to hear about such things in a clergyman's 
 house." 
 
 "Valmai is a beauty, whatever," said Dye, the 
 plo'ighboy. *' I kiwkcd^ at her over the hedge this 
 morning when she was going to Caer Madoc ; she's 
 as pretty as an angel. Have you ever seen her, 
 Ser ? " 
 
 "Valmai," said Cardo, prevaricating, "surely that 
 is a new name in this neighbourhood ? " 
 
 " Yes, she is Essec Powell's niece come home from 
 over the sea. She is an orphan, and they say the old 
 man is keeping her reading and reading to him all 
 day till she is fair tired, poor thing." 
 
 " Well, it is getting late," said Cardo, " good-night." 
 And his rising was the signal for them all to disperse, 
 the men servants going to their beds over th*^ hay 
 loft or stable ; while the women, leaving their 
 wooden shoes at the bottom, followed each other with 
 soft tread up the creaking back stairs. 
 
 In the study the Vicar poured over his books, as 
 he translated from English into Welsh the passages 
 which interested him most. He was, like many of 
 the inhabitants of the South Wales coast, a 
 descendant of the Flemings, who had long ago 
 settled there, and who have left such strong and 
 enduring marks of their presence. 
 
 * Peeped. 
 
 I 
 
Ubc 1bou9e on tbe Clitf. 
 
 27 
 
 rhere's busy 
 here to help, 
 
 3 along with 
 
 T, and your 
 
 fi! I don't 
 
 L clergyman's 
 
 lid Dye, the 
 2 hedge this 
 Madoc ; she's 
 /er seen her, 
 
 "surely that 
 
 2 home from 
 y say the old 
 g to him all 
 
 good-night." 
 1 to disperse, 
 )ver thp hay 
 'ing their 
 h other with 
 
 lis books, as 
 
 le passages 
 
 ke many of 
 
 coast, a 
 
 long ago 
 
 strong and 
 
 Their language has long given place to a sort of 
 doggerel English, but they have never learned to 
 '; speak the language of the country except in some of 
 the straggling border villages. 
 
 Pembrokeshire, in particular, retains a complete 
 
 separateness, so to speak, from the rest of the 
 
 country, and is often called " Little England beyond 
 
 Wales." Thus it was that the English lai\guage 
 
 seemed always more natural to Mcurig Wynne than 
 
 the Welsh. His sermons were always thought out in 
 
 that language, and then translated into the vernacular, 
 
 and this, perhaps, accounted in some degree for their 
 
 stiffness and want of living interest. His descent 
 
 from the Flemings had the disadvantage of drawing a 
 
 line of distinction between him and his parishioners, 
 
 and thus added to his unpopularity. In spite of this, 
 
 Cardo was an immense favourite, his frank and 
 
 ■' genial manner — inherited from his mother, who was 
 
 thoroughly Welsh — making its way easily to the 
 
 warm Welsh hearts. There was a deep well of 
 
 tenderness, almost of pity, within him for his cold 
 
 stern father, a longing to break through his reserve, a 
 
 hankering after the loving ways of home life, which 
 
 ;hc missed though he had never known them. The 
 
 Icold Fleming had very little part in Cardo's nature, 
 
 land, with his enthusiastic Welsh sympathies, he was 
 
 if wont to regret and disclaim his connection with these 
 
 If ancient ancestors. His father's pedigree, however, 
 
 M made it very plain that the Gwynnes of Brynderyn 
 
 ^were descended from Gwayn, a Flemish wool 
 
 M merchant who had settled there in the reign of 
 
 1 Henry I. — these settlers being protected and en- 
 
 icouraged by the English king, who found their 
 
28 
 
 3Bs Berwen JBanftg* 
 
 1 
 
 I ! 
 
 ^i\s 
 
 1 1 
 
 I , 
 
 ! i 
 
 peaceable, industrious habits a great contrast to the 
 turbulence and restlessness of the Welsh under their 
 foreign yoke. Time has done but little to soften the 
 difference between the Welsh and Flemish 
 characters; they have never really amalgamated, 
 and to this day the descendants of the 
 Flemings remain a separate people in language, 
 disposition, and appearance. In Pembrokeshire, 
 Gower, and Radnorshire, we find them still 
 flourishing, and for some distance along the 
 coast northwards from Pembrokeshire there are still 
 families, and even whole hamlets, descended from 
 them, exhibiting traits of character and peculiarities 
 of manner easily discernible to an observant eye. 
 
 Before the Vicar retired to rest he took down from 
 a shelf an old Bible, from which he read a chapter, 
 and, closing the book, knelt down to pray. As he 
 rose from his knees, the last words on his lips were, 
 " Caradoc, my beloved son ! *' 
 
 For the next few days the turnips and mangolds 
 seemed even more interesting than usual to Cardo 
 Wynne. He was up with the lark, and striding from 
 furrow to furrow in company with Dye and Ebben, 
 returning to a hurried breakfast, and out again on the 
 breezy hillside before the blue smoke had begun to 
 curl up from the thatched chimneys which marked 
 the cluster of cottages called " Abersethin." 
 
 Down there, under the cliffs, the little village 
 slumbered, the rising sun just beginning to touch its 
 whitewashed walls with gold, while up above, on the 
 high lands, the " Vicare du's " fields were already 
 bathed in the morning sunlight. 
 
 As he crossed from ridge to ridge and from furrow 
 
Zbc fjouse on tbe Clitr. 
 
 29 
 
 :ontrast to the 
 h under their 
 
 to soften the 
 nd Flemish 
 amalgamated, 
 nts of the 
 
 in language, 
 embrokeshire, 
 them still 
 along the 
 there are still 
 scended from 
 1 peculiarities 
 vant eye. 
 >k down from 
 ad a chapter, 
 pray. As he 
 tiis lips were, 
 
 nd mangolds 
 ual to Cardo 
 triding from 
 and Ebben, 
 again on the 
 ad begun to 
 hich marked 
 1." 
 
 ittle village 
 to touch its 
 bove, on the 
 vere already 
 
 from furrow 
 
 to furrow Cardo's thoughts continually flew across 
 the valley to the rugged hill on the other side, and to 
 the old grey house on the cliff — the home of Essec 
 Powell, the preacher. In vain he sought for any sign 
 of the girl whose acquaintance he had made so unex- 
 pectedly, and he was almost tempted to believe that 
 she was no other than a creature of his own imagina- 
 tion, born of the witching moonlight hour, and 
 absorbed again into the passing shadows of night. 
 But could he have seen through the walls of that old 
 grey house, even now at that early hour, he would 
 have understood what kept the preacher's niece so 
 busily engaged that neither on the shore nor on the 
 banks of the Berwen was there a sign of her. 
 
 In the cool dairy at Dinas, and in and out of the 
 rambling old kitchen, she was busy with her prepara- 
 tions for the guests who would fill the house during 
 the Sassiwn. She bustled about, with Marged 
 Hughes in attendance, looking very different, but 
 every bit as charming, in her neat farm dress as she 
 had on her visit to Caer Madoc. The sleeves of her 
 pink cotton jacket, pushed up above the elbows, 
 showed her white, dimpled arms ; while her blue 
 skirt or petticoat was short enough to reveal the 
 neatly-shod feet, with their bows of black ribbon on 
 the instep. 
 
 Every house in the neighbourhood was busy with 
 preparations of some sort. At the farmhouses the 
 women had been engaged for days with their 
 cooking. Huge joints of beef and ham, boiled or 
 baked, stood ready in the cool pantries ; and in the 
 smallest cottages, where there was more than one 
 bed, it had been prepared for some guest. "John, 
 
till 
 
 I! 
 
 
 ( 
 
 
 '■\\\^ 
 
 I 
 
 30 
 
 Bk? JBerwen JSanfts* 
 
 my cousin, is coming from * the Works,'" ^ or " Mj 
 my sister, will be home with her baby." 
 
 Everywhere hearts and hands were full of wt 
 hospitality. Clergymen of the Church of Engh 
 though generally looking askance at the chapels 
 their swarming congregations, now, carried away 
 the enthusiasm of the people, consented to attc 
 the meetings, secretly looking forward, with 
 Welsh love of oratory, to the eloquent sermc 
 generally to be heard on such occasions. 
 
 Cardo, ruthlessly striding through the de 
 bespangled gossamer of the turnip field, heard w 
 pleasure from Dye that the adjoining field, whi 
 sloped down to the valley, had been fixed upon 
 the holding of the Sassiwn. On the flat at 
 bottom the carpenters were already at work at 
 large platform, upon which the preachers and mc 
 honoured guests were to be seated ; while the congr 
 gation would sit on the hillside, which reached up 
 the Vicar's land. At least three thousand, or eve 
 four, might be expected. 
 
 All day Cardo looked over the valley with inten; 
 interest, and when the day's work was over, unable 
 restrain his curiosity and impatience any longer, 1 
 determined to take a closer survey of the old hou 
 on the hill, which for so many years he had se( 
 with his outward eyes, though his inner percepti( 
 had never taken account of it. At last, crossing tl 
 beach, he took his way up the steep path that led 
 Dinas. As he rounded a little clump of stunted pii 
 trees he came in sight of the house, grey, gaunt, ar 
 bare, not old enough to be picturesque, but too old 
 
 ^ Glamorganshire. 
 
inliQ. 
 
 Ubc t)ouse on tbe Clltr. 
 
 31 
 
 iVorks,'"» or "Mary, 
 
 baby." 
 
 s were full of warm 
 
 Church of England, 
 
 e at the chapels and 
 
 ow, carried away by 
 
 consented to attend 
 
 : forward, with the 
 
 e eloquent sermons 
 
 :asions. 
 
 through the dew- 
 
 lip field, heard with 
 
 joining field, which 
 
 3een fixed upon for 
 
 On the flat at the 
 ^ady at work at a 
 Dreachers and most 
 1 ; while the congre- 
 hich reached up to 
 
 thousand, or even 
 
 valley with intense 
 was over, unable to 
 nee any longer, he 
 /■ of the old house 
 years he had seen j 
 s inner perception 
 t last, crossing the 
 D path that led to 
 up of stunted pine 
 ^» S^^Yy gaunt, and 
 que, but too old to 
 
 )ok neat and comfortable, on that wind-swept, storm- 
 beaten cliff. Its grey walls, marked with patches of 
 damp and lichen, looked like a tear-stained face, out 
 pf which the two upstairs windows stared like mourn- 
 ful eyes. Downstairs, in one room, there was a little 
 sign of comfort and adornment ; crimson curtains 
 hung at the window, inside which a few flowers grew 
 in pots. Keeping well under the hedge of elders 
 which surrounded the cwrt or front garden, Cardo 
 passed round to the side — the pine end, as it is called 
 4r\ Wales — and here a little lattice window stood 
 lopen. It faced th„ south, and away from the sea a 
 fvvhite rose tree had ventured to stretch out its 
 ^straggling branches. They had evidently lately been 
 fdrawn by some loving hand towards the little win- 
 dow. A muslin curtain fluttered in the evening 
 breeze, on which came the sound of a voice. Cardo 
 knew it at once. It was Valmai singing at her work, 
 'and he longed to break through the elder bushes and 
 icall her attention. He was so near that he could 
 (even hear the words of her song, softly as they were 
 sung. She was interrupted by a querulous voice. 
 
 "Valmai," it said in Welsh, "have you written 
 that?' 
 
 I " Oh ! long ago, uncle. I am waiting for the next 
 I line." 
 
 " Here it is then, child, and well worth waiting 
 for;" and, with outstretched arm marking the cadence 
 of its rhythm, he read aloud from a book of old poems. 
 " There's poetry for you, girl ! There's a description 
 of Nature ! Where will you find such real poetry 
 amongst modern bards? No, no! the bards are 
 dead, Valmai ! " 
 
83 
 
 3By 3Bcrwen JSanfts. 
 
 " Well, I don't know much about it, uncle ; but 
 isn't it a modern bard who writes : 
 
 " ' Come and sf.e the misty mountains 
 In their grey and purple sheen, 
 When they blush to see the sunrise 
 Like a maiden of thirteen I ' " 
 
 U ■ 
 
 ^j'li 
 
 
 ! - 
 
 That seems very pretty, whatever." 
 
 " Very pretty," growled the man's voice, " very 
 pretty ; of course it is — very pretty ! That's just it ; 
 but that's all, Valmai. Pwff ! you have put me out 
 with your * blushing maiden' and your * purple sheen.' 
 Let us shut up Taliesin and come to * Drych y Pryf 
 Oesoedd.' Now, you begin at the fifth chapter." 
 
 There was a little sigh, which Cardo heard dis- 
 tinctly, and then the sweet voice began and continued 
 to read until the sun sank low in the west. 
 
 " It's getting too dark, uncle. Will I go and see 
 if the cakes are done ? " 
 
 " No, no ! " said the old man, " Gwen will look 
 after the cakes ; you light the candle, and come on 
 with the book." 
 
 How Cardo longed to spring in through the lattice 
 window, to fling the old books away, and to draw the 
 reader out into the gold and purple sunset — out over 
 the breezy cliffs, and down to the golden sands ; but 
 the strong bonds of circumstances held him back. 
 
 The candle was lighted, and now he could see 
 into the room. Old Essec Powell sat beside the 
 table with one leg thrown over the other, hands 
 clasped, and chin in the air, lost in the deep interest 
 of the book which his niece was reading. 
 
XTbe tyowsc on tbc Cliff. 
 
 33 
 
 " He looks good for two hours longer," thought 
 Cardo, as he saw the old man's far-away look. 
 
 There was a little tone of weariness in her voice 
 as, seating herself at the table by the open window, 
 Valmai drew the candle nearer and continued to read. 
 
 Outside in the dusky twilight Cardo was gazing 
 his fill at the face which had haunted him ever since 
 he had seen it on the road from Caer Madoc. Yes, 
 it was a beautiful face ! even more lovely than he 
 imagined it to be in the dim evening light. He 
 took note of the golden wavy hair growing low on 
 her broad, white forehead, her darker eyebrows that 
 reminded him of the two arches of a beautiful bridge, 
 under which gleamed two clear pools, reflecting the 
 blue of the sky and the glint of the sunshine, the 
 straight, well-formed nose, the pensive, mobile mouth, 
 the complexion of a pale pink rose, and added to 
 this the indescribable charm of grace and manner 
 which spread through her personality. 
 
 The evening shadows darkened, the sunset glow 
 faded, and the moon rose in a cloudless sky. The 
 distant sound of the regular plash of the waves on 
 the beach reached Cardo's ears. He thought of the 
 long reaches of golden sand lying cool and grey in 
 the moonlight, and all the romantic dreams of youth 
 awoke within him. 
 
 Was it right that Valmai should be bending over 
 a musty book in a dimly-lit room ? wnile outside 
 were the velvet turf of the cliffs, the plashing waves, 
 and the silver moonlight. 
 
 But the reading still went on, the gentle voice 
 growing a little weary and monotonous, and the 
 white eyelids falling a little heavily over the blue eyes. 
 
1 
 
 84 
 
 JSk? 3Bcrwcn JSanfts. 
 
 nil 
 
 m 
 
 Long Cardo watched and gazed, and at last, turn- 
 ing away, he walked moodily home. He knew his 
 father would expect him to supper at ten o'clock 
 punctually, and hurried his steps as he approached 
 the house. Just in time, for Betto was placing on 
 the table an appetising supper of cawl and bread and 
 butter, which the two men were soon discussing 
 silently, for the Vicar was more pre-occupied than 
 usual, and Cardo, too, was busy with his own 
 thoughts. 
 
 Suddenly the former spoke 
 
 ' Is the long meadow finished ? " he said. 
 
 "Yes; Dye is a splendid fellow to work, and 
 Ebben and he together get through a good 
 deal." 
 
 •' To-morrow they can clear out the barn. The 
 next day is the market at Llanilwyn ; they must 
 go there and buy a cow which Jones Pant y rych is 
 going to sell. I have told Ebben he is not to give 
 more than ;^8 for her, and that is one pound more 
 than she is worth." 
 
 Cardo was silent. To clear out the barn next day 
 was easy enough, but to get Dye and Ebben to the 
 market on the following day would be impossible. It 
 was the opening of the Sassiwn, and he knew that 
 neither of the men would be absent on that occasion, 
 even though disobedience should cost them their place. 
 They were both Methodists, and it had gone hard 
 with the Vicar before he had taken them into his 
 service ; but the exigencies of farm life had compelled 
 him to do so, as there was absolutely not one young 
 man amoni^st his own congregation. 
 
 To do him justice, he had forgotten for the moment 
 
zrbe l^oude on tbc CUtr. 
 
 86 
 
 that the market day at Llanilwyn would also be the 
 Sassiwn day. 
 
 " Do you remember, father, the Sassiwn begins 
 the day after to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I had forgotten it, but I don't see what difference 
 that can make to my buying a cow." 
 
 " But Ebben and Dye will want to be at the 
 meetings." 
 
 A shadow crossed the old man's face. He made 
 no answer, but continued to eat his supper in silence, 
 and at last rose, and with a short ** Good-night, 
 Cardo," went into his study. He knew as well as his 
 son did that it would be useless to try and persuade 
 his servants to be absent from the meetings, and the 
 knowledge galled him bitterly, too bitterly for words, 
 so he was silent ; and Cardo, knowing his humour, 
 said nothing to Dye and Ebben of his father's wishes. 
 
 " Poor old dad!" he sighed, as he finished his supper, 
 " it is hard for him to see his congregation dwindled 
 away to a mere handful, while the chapels around him 
 are crowded to overflowing. By Jove ! there must 
 be something wrong somewhere." 
 
 As usual after supper he followed Betto into the 
 old kitchen, where the servants were assembled for 
 supper, and where Shanw was again holding forth, to 
 her own delight and Bctto's disgust, on the coming 
 glories of the Sassiwn. 
 
 " To-morrow evening will be the first meeting." 
 
 " Will it be in the field ? " asked Cardo. 
 
 " Oh, no, Ser ; the first is in the chapel always, and 
 no strangers are there. Essec Powell will have to 
 shut up his old books for a few days now, and poor 
 Valmai will have rest. Marged Hughes says she is 
 
 ^^^ 
 
86 
 
 IB)} 3Bcrwcn 3Banh9^ 
 
 reacHrifj to him for hours every day, but once she can 
 fjct out of his sight he forgets all about her, and goes 
 on reading himself." 
 
 " When does he prepare his seri.ivjns ? " said Cardo. 
 
 '* Prepare his sermons ! " said Shanw indignantly. 
 *' Do you think Essec Powell would write his sermon 
 out like a clergyman and read it out like a boo)- ? 
 No, indeed I Straight from the ' brist * — that's how 
 Essec Powell preaches ! " 
 
 " What time is the first meeting next day ? " 
 
 •' Oh, early, Ser — eight o'clock. Are you coming? 
 Anwl ! there's glad they'd be. Yrm shall go on the 
 platform with Price Merthyr and Jones Abertawe and 
 all the rest." 
 
 " Saul among the prophets," said Cardo, laughing, 
 and picturing himself among the solemn-faced 
 preachers. " No, no ; that wouldn't do, Shanw. 
 What would my father say ? " 
 
 " Well, well I " said Shanw, clicking her tongue 
 against her teeth ; " 'ts, 'ts ! 'tis pity indeed. But, 
 there, everybody knows it is not your fault, Ser," 
 
 Cardo frowned, and fell into a brown study. It 
 wounded him to hear his father blamed, and yet in 
 his heart of hearts he wished he would so far temper 
 his zeal with C iiristian charity as to attend the 
 meetings whicli were moving the hearts of the people 
 so much. 
 
■ 
 
 ;mpcr 
 
 Id the 
 
 icople 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE SASSIWN. 
 
 The Sasshvn d.iv dauncd bri'dit and clear, and 
 as the time for the first service drew near, the 
 roads and lanes were thronged with pedestrians and 
 vehicles of every description. 
 
 The doors of the houses in all the surrounding 
 villages were closed for the day, except in a few 
 cases where illness made it impossible for the 
 inmates to leave their beds. Everybody — man, 
 woman, and child, including babies innumerable — 
 turned their faces towards the sloping field which 
 for the day was the centre of attraction. 
 
 Already the grass was getting hidden by the black 
 throng, and still the crowds arrived, seating them- 
 selves row behind row on the wild thyme and 
 heather. The topmost corner of the field merged 
 into a rocky wilderness of stunted heath and patches 
 of burnt grass, studded with harebells, and this un- 
 apportioned piece of ground stretched away into 
 the adjoining corner of the Vicar's long meadow. 
 In the afternoon Cardo, who had virtuously kept 
 away from the morning meetings, sauntered down 
 to chat with Dye, who had condescended to absent 
 himself from the third service, in order to attend 
 
 to his duties on the farm. 
 
 37 
 
•tmrmmmm. 
 
 38 
 
 3B^ 3Betwen 3Banfts» 
 
 ■ I; 
 
 " You sit here, Mr. Cardo," he said, with a con- 
 fidential wink, " on your own hedge ; the Vicar 
 can't be angry, and you will hear something worth 
 listening to." 
 
 Soon the sloping bank was crowded with its 
 rows of human beings, all listening with intense 
 interest to a pale, dark man, who stood on the 
 front of the platform at the bottom of the field, 
 and with sonorous voice delivered a short opening 
 prayer, followed by an impassioned address. In 
 the clear, pure air every word was distinctly heard 
 all over the field, the surging mulcitude keeping a 
 breathless silence, broken only by the singing of the 
 birds or the call of the seagulls. Sometimes a baby 
 would send up a little wail of fatigue ; but generally 
 the slumberous air soothed and quieted them into 
 sleep. 
 
 The prayer over, the preacher gave out the words 
 of a well-known hymn, and with one accord the 
 people stood up, and from those hundreds and 
 thousands arose the swelling tones of one of those 
 old hymns which lay hold of every Welshman's 
 heart, its strange reminiscences, its mysterious ^'n- 
 fluences swaying his whole being, and carrying him 
 away on the wings of its rising and falling melody. 
 His fathers and grandfathers sang it in their old 
 thatched cabins — and, farther back, the warriors 
 and bards of his past ancestry breathed the same 
 tones — and, farther back still, the wind swept its 
 first suggestions through the old oaks of the early 
 solitudes. 
 
 " Is it this, I wonder, this far-reaching into the 
 past, which gives such moving power to the tones 
 
 
tXbe Sasstwn* 
 
 39 
 
 old 
 iors 
 ime 
 its 
 arly 
 
 the 
 
 )nes 
 
 of an old Welsh nymn ? " Thus Cardo mused, as 
 he sat on the hedge in the spring sunshine, his 
 eyes roanrn'ng over the dense throng now settling 
 down to listen to the sermon, which the preacher 
 was beginning in low, slow sentences. Every ear 
 was strained to listen, every eye was fixed on the 
 preacher, but Cardo could not help wondering where 
 Valmai was. He saw Essec Powell with clasped 
 fingers and upturned chin listening in rapt attention ; 
 he saw in the rows nearest the platform many 
 of the wives and daughters of its occupants. Here 
 surely would be the place for the minister's niece ; 
 but no ! Valmai was nowhere to be seen. In truth, 
 she had been completely forgotten by her uncle, 
 who had wandered off with a knot of preachers 
 after the hospitable dinner, provided for them at his 
 house by Valmai's exertions and Marged Hughes' 
 help ; but he had never thought of introducing to 
 his guests the real genius of the feast. She had 
 snatched a hurried meai in the pantry, and, feeling 
 rather lost and bewildered amongst the crowd of 
 strangers, had retired to rest under the elder bushes, 
 until called upon by Marged Hughes to help at 
 the table, which she did at once, overcoming her 
 shyness, and keeping as much as possible in the 
 background. 
 
 The guests had been at first too intent upon their 
 dinners after their morning's exertions to notice the 
 slim white figure which slipped backwards and 
 forwards behind them, supplying every want with 
 quick and delicate intuition, aiding Marged Hughes' 
 clumsy attempts at waiting, so deftly, that Essec 
 Powell's dinner was a complete success. 
 
'W'xammar' 
 
 i ^ 
 
 40 
 
 JB^ JBerwen Banfts. 
 
 !i:'! 
 
 1 i fj 
 
 Towards the end of the meal a young and 
 susceptible preacher caught sight of the girl, and 
 without ceremony opened a conversation with her. 
 Turning to his host he asked : 
 
 " And who is this fair damsel ? " 
 
 " Who ? where ? " said Essec Powell, looking 
 surprised. *' Oh ! that's my niece Valmai ; she is 
 living with me since Robert my brother is dead." 
 
 " Well, indeed ! You will be coming to the 
 meetings, I suppose ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Valmai,"! have been there all day; 
 the singing was lovely ! " 
 
 " And what did you think of the preaching ? " 
 said a very fat man, in a startlingly bass voice. He 
 was carving a fowl. " That is the important point," 
 he said, and the wing came off unexpectedly. 
 " Young people are apt to think most of the sing- 
 ing," here he re-captured the wing and landed it safely 
 on his own plate. " Did you hear my sermon ? " 
 he asked, between the mouthfuls of the fast dis- 
 appearing wing, fixing his eyes upon poor Valmai, 
 who began to wish herself under the elder bushes 
 again. " My text was — " but fortunately here the 
 company rose. 
 
 After a long grace they dispersed, and turned 
 their faces once more towards the sloping field. 
 
 No one noticed Valmai — no one remembered her 
 in the hurry to return to the preaching field — no 
 one, she thought, would know or care whether she 
 was present or not ; and as she drew on her gloves 
 and tied on her broad-brimmed straw hat, there 
 was a little sadness in the curves of her mouth, a 
 little moisture in the deep blue eyes, as alone she 
 
 I 
 
Ubc SasBtwn. 
 
 41 
 
 and 
 , and 
 L her. 
 
 oking 
 ihe is 
 ead." 
 
 the 
 
 1 day; 
 
 nng? 
 2. He 
 point," 
 ictedly. 
 e sing- 
 t safely 
 mon ? " 
 St dis- 
 ^almai, 
 rushes 
 ere the 
 
 turned 
 ield. 
 red her 
 Id— no 
 ler she 
 r gloves 
 t, there 
 outh, a 
 one she 
 
 took her way after the preachers to the hillside. 
 As she went she recalled the last open-air meeting 
 she had attended, nearly two years ago, in that 
 far-off land, where her father and mother had 
 walked with her in loving companionship, when she 
 had been the centre of their joys and the light of 
 their home, and as she followed the winding path, 
 hymn-book in hand, her heart went back in long- 
 ing throbs to the father and mother and the old 
 home under the foreign sky, where love had folded 
 her in its warm embrace ; but now — she was alone ! 
 no one noticed whether she came or went, and as 
 groups and families passed her, wending their way 
 to the hillside, she answered their nods and 
 greetings with pleasant kindliness, but still found 
 herself alone ! 
 
 " It will always be like this now; I must learn to 
 go alone. What can I expect when my father and 
 mother are dead ? there is no one else to care for 
 me!" 
 
 She reached the crowded field, and ought to 
 have made her way into the front rows near the 
 platform where she might easily have found a seat, 
 but Valmai was shy and retiring, and seeing there 
 was no settled place for her, kept on the outskirts 
 of the crowd, and at last found herself on the piece 
 of uncultivated ground which bordered the corner of 
 the Vicar's long meadow. She seated herself on the 
 heather at the top of the bank, the sea wind blowing 
 round her, and tossing and tumbling the golden 
 curls which fell so luxuriantly under her hat. 
 
 All feeling of loneliness passed away as she sat 
 there among the harebells and heather, for Valmai 
 
•r- iMTWiiriiiliiiirnliinillMMIMWMWIIMWtii ■^- 
 
 ^W. 
 
 1 ) I '••'^ \^ rf• v *r• f - ^a tf BMmKaf 't 
 
 '^ 
 
 42 
 
 Bv? Berwen JBanfts. 
 
 l!l>li:i 
 
 was younj^, and life was all before her, with its sweet 
 hopes and imaginings. She was soon listening with 
 deep interest to the eloquent and burning words 
 which fell from the lips of the preacher ; and with 
 the harebells nodding at her, the golden coltsfoot 
 staring up into the sky, the laughing babies 
 sprawling about, was it any wonder that sadness 
 fled away, and joy and love sang a paean of thank- 
 fulness in her heart ? 
 
 It was at this moment that Cardo caught sight of 
 her. Unconsciously, he had been seeking her in 
 every square yard which his eye could reach, and 
 here she was close to him all the time. The 
 discovery awoke a throb of pleasure within him, and 
 with a flush upon his dark face he rose and made his 
 way towards her. She was absently turning over the 
 leaves of her little Welsh hymn-book as he 
 approached, and smiling unconsciously at a toddling 
 child who was making journeys of discovery around 
 the furze bushes. A quick, short *' Oh ! " escaped 
 her as she saw him approach, her face brightened up 
 — yes, certainly she was glad. Cardo saw it in the 
 mantling blush and the pleased smile as he found a 
 seat on the grass beside her. She placed her hand in 
 his with a whispered word of greeting, for it would 
 not do to speak aloud in that quiet concourse of 
 people. 
 
 ** Where have you been ? " he asked, at last. 
 " At home," she whispered. " Why ? " 
 " Because I hoped you would be out — " 
 Valmai shook her head as a farmer's wife looked 
 round at her reprovingly. Cardo attempted another 
 remark, but she only smiled with her finger on her lips. 
 
 ii 
 
Ube Sassiwn, 
 
 43 
 
 sweet 
 g with 
 words 
 d with 
 iltsfoot 
 babies 
 adness 
 thank- 
 
 ight of 
 her in 
 ch, and 
 . The 
 im, and 
 lade his 
 )ver the 
 
 as he 
 loddling 
 
 around 
 escaped 
 ened up 
 in the 
 
 bund a 
 
 hand in 
 it would 
 ourse of 
 
 t looked 
 another 
 her lips. 
 
 "This is unendurable," he thought; but he was 
 obhged to be satisfied with the pleasure of sittiuij 
 beside her until the loni^ sermon was over, and the 
 crowd rose en masse with ejaculations of delight at 
 the moving eloquence of the preacher. 
 
 " As good as ever he was ! " " Splendid ! " " Did 
 you hear that remark about the wrong key ? " " Oh ! 
 telling!" And amongst the murmer of approval 
 and enthusiasm Valmai and Cardo rose. For a 
 moment the former looked undecided, and he read 
 her thoughts. 
 
 " No — not horr^e with the crowd, but down over 
 the beach ; " and she fell in with the suggestion, 
 turning her face to the sea breeze and taking the path 
 to the shore. 
 
 Here the Berwen was running with its usual 
 babbling and gurgling through the stones into 
 the sea, the north-west wind was tossing the foam 
 into the air, and the waves came bounding and 
 racing up the yellow sand like children at play ; the 
 little sea-crows cawed noisily as they wheeled round 
 the cliffs, and the sea-gulls called to their fellows 
 as they floated over the waves or stood about the wet, 
 shining sands. 
 
 " There's beautiful, it is," said Valmai, pushing back 
 her hat and taking long breaths of the sea wind ; 
 " only six weeks I have been here and yet I seem to 
 have known it for ever — I suppose because from a 
 baby I used to hear my father talking of this place. 
 It was his old home, and he was always longing to 
 come back." 
 
 " Yes," said Cardo, " I can imagine that. I don't think 
 I could ever be thoroughly happy away from here." 
 
mmm 
 
 1 
 
 44 
 
 JBn JSerwcn 1Bm\\B. 
 
 % 
 
 m 
 
 " Nor I too, indeed," said Valrnai, " now that I 
 know it." 
 
 " I hope you will never leave the place — you seem 
 to belong to it somehow; and I hope I may never 
 leave it, at least — at all events — " and he hesitated as 
 he remembered his father's wishes — expressed many 
 times, though at long intervals — that he should go to 
 Australia and visit an uncle who had for many years 
 lived there. The prospect of a voyage to the 
 Antipodes had never been very attractive to Cardo, 
 and latterly the idea had faded from his mind. In 
 the P'lam'"ir of that golden afternoon in spring, in 
 Vahaai'j sweet companionship, the thought of 
 patting and leaving his native country was doubly 
 unpkasaii to xiim. She saw the sudden embarrass- 
 ment, and the flush that spread over his face. 
 
 *' You are going away ? " she said, looking up at 
 him. 
 
 There was only inquiry in the tone. Cardo 
 wondered if she would be sorry, and was tempted to 
 make the most of his possible departure. 
 
 " I may have to go away," he said, " though I 
 should hate it. I never liked the idea, but now I 
 perfectly dread it. And you," he added, " should you 
 miss me ? It is not very lively here, so perhaps 
 even 1 might be missed a little." 
 
 Valmai did not answer ; she looked out to the 
 horizon where the blue of the sky joined the blue 
 of the sea, and the white breakers glinted in the 
 sunshine. 
 
 " Yes," she said presently, " I will be sorry when 
 you go, and where are you going to? Far away? 
 To England, perhaps ? " 
 
 i 
 
xrbe Sasstwm 
 
 45 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 rou 
 
 ips 
 
 in 
 
 " To Australia," replied Cardo. 
 
 •* Australia ! Oh ! then you will never come back 
 to Traeth Bervven ! " 
 
 " Indeed, indeed I will. Miss Powell — you laugh 
 at that — well — may I say Valmai, then ? " 
 
 '* Yes ; why not ? Everyone is calling me Valmai, 
 even Shoni our servant." 
 
 " I may venture, then ; and will you call me 
 Cardo ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; Cardo Wynne. Cardo Wynne, 
 everybod)^ is calling you that, too — even the little 
 children in the village ; I have heard them say, 
 ' Here is Cardo Wynne coming I ' See, here is the 
 path to Dinas, I must say good-bye." 
 
 " Can't we have another walk along the beach ? 
 Remember, I, too, have no one to talk to ! " 
 
 " Oh, anwl, no ! I must hurry home and get the 
 tea for the preachers," 
 
 " And then back to the meeting on the hillside ? " 
 
 " No ; the meeting is in the chapel to-night." 
 
 " But when it is over you will come back along 
 the shore ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I don't know. Good-bye," she said, as 
 she began her way up the rugged homeward path. 
 
 When Cardo reached home, he found his father 
 sitting at the tea-table. The old parlour looked 
 gloomy and dark, the bright afternoon sun, shining 
 through the creepers which obscured the window, 
 threw a green light over the table and the rigid, pale 
 face of the Vicar. 
 
 " You are late Cardo ; where have you been ? " 
 
 " In the long meadow, sir, where I could hear 
 some of the preaching going on below, and after- 
 
46 
 
 JSi? Berwen Banfts. 
 
 wards on the beach ; it is a glorious afternoon. Oh I 
 father, I wish you would come out and breathe the 
 fresh air ; it cannot be good for you to be always 
 in your study poring over those musty old books." 
 
 " My books are not musty, and I like to spend 
 my time according to my own ideas of what is fit 
 and proper, and I should not think it either to be 
 craning my neck over a hedge to listen to a parcel 
 of Methodist preachers — " 
 
 "Well, I only heard one, Price Merthyr I think 
 they call him. He was — " 
 
 " Cardo ! " said his father severely, " when I want 
 any information on the subject I will ask for it ; I 
 want you to set Dye and Ebben on to the draining 
 of that field to-morrow — " 
 
 " Pare y waun ? " 
 
 " Yes ; Pare y waun." 
 
 " Right, father," said Cardo good-naturedly. He 
 was devotedly attached to his father, and credited 
 him with a depth of affection and tenderness lying 
 hidden behind his stern manner — a sentiment which 
 must have been revealed to him by intuition, for 
 he had never seen any outward sign of it. " It's 
 no use," he muttered, as his father rose and left 
 the room ; " it's no use trying to broach the subject 
 to him, poor fellow ! I must be more careful, and 
 keep my thoughts to myself." 
 
 Later on in the evening, Valmai sat in the hot, 
 crowded chapel, her elbows pressed tightly in to 
 her sides by the two fat women between whom she 
 sat, their broad-brimmed hats much impeding her 
 view of the preacher, who was pounding the red 
 velvet cushion in the old pulpit, between two dim 
 
 ii 
 
ZTbe Sassiwn, 
 
 47 
 
 mould candles which shed a faint light over his face. 
 Valmai listened with folded hands as he spoke of 
 the narrow way so difficult to tread, so wearisome 
 to follow — of the few who walked in it ' and the 
 people, listening with upturned faces and bated 
 breath, answered to his appeal with sighs and groans 
 and " amens." He then passed on to a still more 
 vivid description of the broad road, so smooth, so 
 easy, so charming to every sense, so thronged with 
 people all gaily dancing onwards to destruction, the 
 sudden end of the road, where it launched its 
 thronging crowds over a precipice into the foaming, 
 seething sea of everlasting woe and misery. 
 
 Valmai looked round her with awe and horror. 
 
 " Did these innocent-looking, simple people belong 
 to that thronging crowd who were hurrying on to 
 their own destruction ? was she herself one of them ? 
 Cardo ? — her uncle ? " 
 
 The thought was dreadful, her breath came and 
 went quickly, her eyes were full of tears, and she felt 
 as if she must rise suddenly and rush into the 
 open air , but as she looked round the chapel she 
 caught sight through one of the windows of the 
 dark blue sky of night, bespangled with stars, and 
 a glow of purer and healthier feeling came over her. 
 She would not believe it — outside was the fresh 
 night wind, outside was the silver moonlight, and 
 in the words of the poet of whom she had never 
 heard she said within herself. " No I God is in 
 Heaven, it's all right with the world ! " Her 
 joyous nature could not brook the saddening in- 
 fluences of the Methodist creed, and as she passed 
 out into the clear night air amongst the crowd of 
 
48 
 
 3B^ Bcrwcn Banhs. 
 
 ■I 
 
 listeners, and heard their mournful sighs and their 
 evident appreciation of the sermon, or rather 
 sermf)ns, for there had been two, her heart bounded 
 with a sense of relief; joy and happiness were its 
 natural elements, and she returned to them as an 
 innocent child rushes to its mother's arms. 
 
 Leaving the thronged road, she took the rugged 
 path down the hillside, alone under the stars, and 
 remembering Cardo's question, " Will you come 
 home by the shore ? " she wondered whether he 
 was anywhere near ! As she reached the bottom of 
 the cliff and trod on the firm, hard sand below, 
 she saw him standing in the shadow of a rock, and 
 gazing out at the sea over which the moon made a 
 pathway of silver. 
 
 The fishing boats from Ynysoer were out like 
 moths upon the water. They glided from the dark- 
 ness across that path of light and away again into 
 the unknown. On one a light was burning. 
 
 " That is the Buttcrflyl' thought Valmai, " I am 
 beginning to know them all ; and there is Cardo 
 Wynne ! " and with a spirit of mischief gleaming 
 in her eyes and dimpling her face, she approached 
 him quietly, her light footstep making no sound 
 on the sand. 
 
 She was close behind him and he had not turned 
 round, but still stood with folded arms looking out 
 over the moonlit scene. Having reached this 
 point, Valmai's fun suddenly deserted her. What 
 should she do next ? should she touch him ? No ! 
 Should she speak to him? Yes; but what should 
 she say ? Cardo ! No ! and a faint blush over- 
 spread her face. A mysterious newborn shyness 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
Ube Sasslwn. 
 
 49 
 
 ned 
 out 
 his 
 
 ^hat 
 
 came over her, and it was quite a nervous, trcmblinj,^ 
 voice tlr ■: at last said : 
 
 "Mr. Wynne? " 
 
 Cardo turned round quickly. 
 
 •' Valmai ! Miss Powell ! " he said, " how silently 
 you came upon me ! I was dreaming. Come and 
 stand here. Is not that scene one to make a poet 
 of the most prosaic man ? " 
 
 •* Yes, indeed," answered the girl, standing beside 
 him with a strangely beating heart, '* it is beautiful ! 
 I saw the sky through the chapel window, and I 
 was thinking it would be very nice down here. There's 
 bri^"ht and clear the moon is ! " 
 
 They were walking now across the beach, at the 
 edge of the surf. 
 
 " It reminds me of something I read out to uncle 
 last night. It was out of one of his old Welsh poets — 
 Taliesin, or Davydd ap Gvvilym, or somebody. It 
 was about the moon, but indeed I don't know if I can 
 put it into English." 
 
 « Try," said Cardo. 
 
 " ' She comes from out the fold 
 
 And leads her starry flock among the fields of night.' " 
 
 " Yes, that is beautiful," said Cardo. *' Indeed, I 
 am glad you find something interesting in those dog- 
 eared old books." 
 
 " Dog-eared ? But they are indeed," she - .id, 
 laughing. " But how do you know ? They may be 
 gold and leather, and spic and span from the book- 
 seller's, for all you know." 
 
 " No, I have seen them, and have seen you reading 
 them." 
 
50 
 
 By JBcrwcn JBanfta. 
 
 1 
 
 m 
 
 " Seen mc rcaditifj tlicin ? I low ? Where?" 
 
 " Last night I was under the elder bushes, and saw 
 you reading to your uncle. I watched you for a long 
 time." 
 
 Valmai was silent. 
 
 " You are not vexed with me for that ? " 
 
 She was still silent ; a tumult of happy thoughts 
 filled her mind. He had found his way to Dinas I 
 He had thought it worth while to stand under the 
 night sky and watch her ! It was a pleasant idea, 
 and, thinking of it, she did not speak. 
 
 " Tell me, Valmai, have I offended you ? " 
 
 " Offended me ? Oh, no ; why should you ? But 
 indeed it was very foolish of you, whatever. If you 
 had come in and listened to the reading it would be 
 better, perhaps," she said laughingly. 
 
 " If I had come in, what would your uncle h' 
 said ? He would have been very angry." 
 
 '* Well, indeed, yes ; I was forgetting that. He is 
 very hospitable, and glad to see anybody who comes 
 in to supper ; but I don't think," she added, with a 
 more serious air, " that he would be glad to see you. 
 He hates the Church and everything belonging to it." 
 
 " Yes. How wearisome all this bigotry is. My 
 father hates the chapels and all belonging to them." 
 
 " Perhaps you and I will begin to hate each other 
 soon," said Valmai, as they reached the boulders 
 through which the Berwen trickled. 
 
 It was absolutely necessary that Cardo should help 
 her over the slippery stones, and with her hand in his 
 she stepped carefully over the broad stream, sub- 
 siding into quietness as it reached the sea. At last 
 she was safely over, and as he reluctantly dropped 
 
 hu\ 
 
Ubc Sasstwn. 
 
 ftl 
 
 his 
 sub- 
 last 
 pped 
 
 her hand he returned to the subject of conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 •' Will we hate each other ? " 
 
 A^ain there was no answer, and again Cardo 
 looked down at Valmai as he pressed his question. 
 
 She had taken off her hat, and was walking with 
 her golden head exposed to the cool night breezes. 
 It drooped a little as she answered his persistent 
 questioning. 
 
 *' No, I think," she said, with her quaint Welsh 
 accent. 
 
 " No, I think, too," said Cardo ; *' why should we ? 
 Let us leave the hatred and malice and all uncharit- 
 ableness to our elders ; for you and me, down here 
 on the sands and by the banks of the Berwen, there 
 need be nothing but content and— and friendship." 
 
 • Yes, indeed, it is nice to have friends. I left all 
 mine behind me in my old home, and I did not think 
 I should ever have another ; but here we are across 
 the shore, and here is the path to Dinas." 
 
 " Oh, but the walk has been too short. You must 
 come back and let us have it over again." 
 
 " What ! back again ? " said Valmai, laughing so 
 merrily that she woke the echoes from the cliffs. 
 
 " Yes, back across those slippery stones and across 
 the shore, and then back again to this side. I can 
 help you, you know." 
 
 Cardo's voice was very low and tender. It seemed 
 ridiculous, but somehow he gained his point. 
 
 1 ^ 
 
•-rr:r;nr«-=ff«» 
 
 VSihWi, 
 
 Ji 
 
 1> 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 A DAY or two later on, the weather changed, the 
 
 wind blew up in angry soughs from the south-west, 
 
 and, meeting the strong flow of the spring tide, 
 
 curled the green wave-tops into those small feathers 
 
 of foam, always the fore-runners of rough weather. 
 
 The sea-gulls let themselves go before the wind 
 
 calling to each other excitedly, the little sea-crows 
 
 stayed quietly at home in the safe crannies of the 
 
 cliff. Old Dan Griffiths the fisherman hauled his 
 
 boat further up the strand, and everything betokened 
 
 the brewing of a storm, nevertheless Valmai was 
 
 out early. Her small household duties had been 
 
 attended to. She had skimmed the cream in the 
 
 d"iry, and fed the new calf; she had scattered the 
 
 grain before the flocks of fowls and pigeons in the 
 
 farm-yard ; had brushed her uncle's coat, and, while 
 
 helping him to shuffle into it, had asked him : 
 
 " Are you going from home to-day, uncle ? " 
 
 " Yes, merch i, didn't I tell you ? I am going to a 
 
 meeting at Pen Morien, and won't be back to-night." 
 
 " Are you going to walk ? " 
 
 " Why, no ! ride, of course. Where's Malen ? " 
 
 " I think Shoni was just putting her into the cart." 
 
 " Oh ! I forgot to tell him," said the absent-minded 
 
 52 
 
 i 
 
xrbe Storm* 
 
 53 
 
 man. " Tell him to saddle her, and bring her here 
 at once." 
 
 Valmai ran out, and picking her way daintily- 
 through the stubble of the farm-yard, caught sight 
 of Shoni fastening the last buckle of Malen's cart 
 harness. 
 
 " Wants her saddled ? " he said, looking hot and 
 flustered. " Dear, dear ! there never was such a man ! 
 Wasn't I settle with him yesterday to take the two 
 pigs to the fair to be sell ? There's what it is to live 
 in the clouds ! " and, grumbling, he unfastened the 
 buckles, and soon led Malen saddled and bridled to 
 the door. 
 
 " Didn't you tell me we was to sell the pigs 
 to-day ? " hvj said sulkily, as soon as his master was 
 seated safely on the saddle. 
 
 Essec Powell, who had for some time been hop- 
 ping about on one leg, finding it difficult to mount 
 the spirited Malen, now looked thoughtfully at 
 Shoni. 
 
 " Pigs," he said, " pigs ? Oh, of course ; yes, Shoni, 
 quite right, you shall take them to market to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " To-day is the fair ; you had forgotten that, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Well, well ! next week will do," and he trotted 
 away, Shoni looking after him with undisguised 
 contempt. 
 
 " There's a man, now," he said in English, for he 
 was proud of his proficiency in that language. 
 " Wass you ever see such a man ? I tell you, 
 Valmai, he would be ruined and put in gaol for debt 
 long ago if I wasn't keep him out of it." 
 
■Ags:fisai i ' vt ? »/f-WM ' u»J»i 
 
 5SS 
 
 54 
 
 3Bs JBerwen Banfts. 
 
 " Yes, I think — indeed, Shoni, I am sure of it ; 
 but where is the fair to-day ? " 
 
 " At Llanython, of course ; wasn't you hear of it? 
 Why ! you ought to be there, pranked out in your 
 ribbons and finery, talking and laughing with the 
 young men, and coming home in the evening with 
 your pocket-handkerchief full of gingerbread and 
 nuts," and he looked her over from top to toe. 
 
 It had Mover struck him before that t ic was any 
 charm in her appearance, but now he seemed to 
 realise that she was worthy to be seen at the fair. 
 
 " Yes," he said pensively, with his thumbs in the 
 armholes of his waistcoat ; " I wouldn't wonder a bit 
 now if you wass to pick up a sweet'arr amongst the 
 gentry, because you are beginning to spo.ik English 
 as good as the Vicare, and you are not quite like the 
 girls about here, Valmai." 
 
 " Am I not ? " she said laughingly. 
 
 '* No," he said seriously ; " and that's where you 
 will be failing. There's not a chap about here will 
 take a miladi like you for a wife. You must learn to 
 kom over the farm-yard without picking up your 
 skirts, and looking at your shoes to see if they are 
 dirty, if you want to marry a farmer." 
 
 '• Indeed, I don't wish to marry a farmer," said 
 Valmai, " nor anyone else who doesn't want me." 
 
 Shoni again shook his head solemnly. " Yes, yes," 
 he said, " I see how it is ; s'not only the pigs, and 
 the calves, and hens, but you too I must take to 
 markets and fairs, or we shall never marry you," and 
 he turned away pondering seriously over his self- 
 imposed duties. 
 
 Valmai looked after him a little wistfully. Where 
 
XTbe Storm» 
 
 55 
 
 should she go now? How should she spend the 
 long day? Gwen would see to the housework, and 
 would brook no interference with her management. 
 Nobody wanted her, and nobody thought of her, 
 except Shoni, and to him she seemed rather a 
 burden ; or was there one who thought of her 
 sometimes ? — who cared a little for her ? With 
 heightened colour and quick step she turned from 
 the farm-yard down the steep path which led to the 
 river's banks, and as she made her way through the 
 thick hazel and willow brushwood she could not 
 quite suppress the hope that she might meet Cardo. 
 But no, perfect solitude reigned over the Bervven. 
 
 Down in the valley she could not feel the wind, 
 but she heard its roar in the tree tops ; the birds 
 were silent, the sky was grey, and a little sadness 
 fell over her spirits as she continued to thread her 
 way under the tali bracken and brambles, onwards 
 and upwards, until she at length reached the stile by 
 the bridge upon which she and Cardo had eaten 
 their gingerbread on the first evening of their 
 acquaintance. The road which had that night been 
 so quiet and deserted was now full of busy life, and 
 as Valmai approached the stile and saw the many 
 pedestrians and vehicles she shrank back a little, 
 and, through the branches of a hazel bush, looked out 
 on the passers-by. realising that all these hurrying 
 footsteps, and faces full of interest, were turned 
 towards the Fair at Llanython 
 
 Presently she heard the rumbling of wheels, and 
 in a cloud of dust saw the Vicar of the next parish 
 drive by with his two pretty daughters. Just as they 
 reached the bridge they were overtaken by a young 
 
56 
 
 3B^ Berwen JSanhs* 
 
 1:11 
 
 man, who reined in his spirited, well-groomed horse 
 and addressed the party. At once Valmai recog- 
 nised the voice, and peeping through the greenery, 
 saw it was Cardo, stalwart and strong, with his rough 
 freize coat and buttoned gaiters, looking every inch a 
 gentleman-farmer. 
 
 There was a bluff and hearty greeting from the 
 clergyman as Cardo took off his hat to the two young 
 ladies, who simpered and blushed becomingly, for 
 Cardo Wynne was the catch of the neighbourhood ; 
 his good looks, his father's reputed wealth, and the 
 slight air of mystery hanging over the silent ** Vicare 
 du " making quite a halo of romance around his son's 
 personality. 
 
 "Good-bye," said Mr. Hughes; "we shall see you at 
 the fair, I suppose ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Cardo, "good-bye," and he reined in 
 his horse for a moment so as to avoid riding in the 
 cloud of dust raised by the Vicar's carriage wheels. 
 
 Valmai's heart thumped loudly, for Cardo was 
 looking at the stile, he was dismounting, and now he 
 was leaning on the bridge lost in thought, and look- 
 ing down into the green depths of the valley. There 
 was a pleased look on his face and a gleam in his 
 black eyes, which Valmai saw, and which made her 
 heart beat faster and her cheek flush a more rosy red, 
 but she shrank further back into the shade of the 
 hazel bush, and only peeped out again when she 
 heard by the horse's hoofs that his rider was re- 
 mounting ; then she ventured over the stile and 
 looked at the retreating figure, with his broad 
 slioulders, his firm seat, and his steady hand on his 
 bridle as he galloped out of sight. A flood of 
 
 
Ubc Stovnu 
 
 57 
 
 happiness filled her heart as she re-crossed the stile 
 and began her way again down the shady path. 
 
 What mattered it that at every moment the wind rose 
 higher, and the branches creaked and groaned above 
 her ? What mattered it that the birds were silent, 
 and that the roar of the sea reached further than 
 usual into the nut wood ? She would go home and 
 eat her frugal dinner of brown bread and bwdran,'^ 
 and then she would set off to Ynysoer to spend a few 
 hours with Nance Owen, who had nursed her as a 
 baby before her parents had left Wales. In spite of 
 the increasing storm she reached the beach, and 
 turned her face towards Ynysoer, a small island 
 or rather a promontory, which stretched out from 
 the shore. At low tide a reef of rocks, frenerally 
 known as the Rock Bridge, connected it with the 
 mainland, but at high tide the reef was completely 
 under water, the sea rushing in foaming breakers 
 over it as if chafing at the restraint to its wild 
 freedom. 
 
 Had Valmai been better acquainted with the 
 coast, she would not have dared to cross the bridge 
 in the face of the storm which was every moment 
 increasing in violence. The tide was down, and the 
 rocks were bare, and the high wind helped to hurry 
 her over the pools and craggy points. Gathering 
 her red cloak tightly around her she made her way 
 safely over to the island, which was a frequent resort 
 of hers, as here she found the warm love and 
 welcome for which her heart craved, and which was 
 so sorely missing in her uncle's house. 
 
 ^ Oatmeal and water kept until fermentation has commenced, 
 and then boiled into a thin porridge. 
 
68 
 
 3Bg Berwen Banfts. 
 
 Amongst the sandy dunes and tussocks were 
 scattered a few lonely cottages, in one of which 
 Nance lived her uneventful life ; its smoke-browned 
 thatch looked little different from the rushes and 
 coarse grass which surrounded it, for tufts of grass 
 and moss grew on the roof also, and Nance's goat 
 was frequently to be seen browsing on the house-to[). 
 At the open door stood Nance herself, looking out at 
 the storm. Suddenly she caught sight of Valmai, 
 who was making a difficult progress through the 
 soft uneven sand, and a look of surprise and pleasure 
 came over her face. 
 
 " Oh, dear heart, is it you, indeed, come to see old 
 Nance, and on such a day? Come in, sweetheart, 
 out of the storm.*' 
 
 "The storm indeed," said Valmai, in Welsh as 
 pure as Nance's own, as the old woman drew her in 
 to the cottage and closed the door. " Why, you 
 know nothing about it on this side of the island, 
 nothing of what it is in the village. The boats have 
 all been drawn up close to the road, and the waves 
 are dancing and prancing on the beach, I can tell 
 you." 
 
 Nance loosened her cloak and hat, and smoothed 
 her hair with her horny hands. 
 
 " There's glad I am to see you, merch fach-i, and 
 if you have no grand friends to keep you company 
 and no one to look after you, you have always got 
 old Nance to love you." 
 
 "Yes, I know that, Nance, indeed What do you 
 think of my new frock ? " said the girl, holding out 
 her skirt to the admiring gaze of the old woman, 
 who went into raptures of admiration. 
 
 I 
 
XTbe Storm. 
 
 59 
 
 " Oh, there's pretty. 'Tis fine and soft, but white, 
 always white you are wearing — " 
 
 " Yes, I like white," said Valmai. 
 
 " And didn't I dress you in your first little clothes? 
 Well I remember it." 
 
 "There's just what I wanted to ask you about, 
 Nance ; I love to hear the old story." 
 
 "Afier tea, then, merch i, for now I must go and 
 fetch water from the well, and I must milk the goat." 
 
 " I will fetch the water," said Valmai ; " you can 
 go and milk." 
 
 And taking the red stone pitcher from the bench 
 by the wall she went out, and, sheltered by the ridge 
 of rocks behind which the cottage stood, made her 
 way to the spring which dripped from a crack in the 
 cliffs. While she waited for the pitcher to fill, she 
 sang, in sheer lightness of heart, the old ballad 
 which not only floated on the air of Abersethin and 
 its neighbourhood, but which she had heard her 
 mother sing in the far-off land of her childhood. 
 
 ** By Berwen's banks my love has strayed 
 For many a day through sun and shade," 
 
 and she paused to peep into the pitcher, but finding 
 it only half full, continued : 
 
 " And as she carolled loud and clear 
 The little birds flew down to hear." 
 
 " By Berwen's banks the storm rose high," 
 
 but the pitcher was full, so, resting it on her side, 
 she carried it home, before Nance had caught 
 her goat. When she returned with her bowl of 
 
60 
 
 B\) Berwcn BanJ^s, 
 
 rich milk, Valmai was busy, with skirt and sleeves 
 tucked up, tidying and arranging the little room ; 
 the hearth had been swept and the tea-things laid 
 on the quaint little round table, whose black shin- 
 ing surface and curved legs would have delighted 
 the heart of a collector of antique furniture. 
 
 " Oh, calon fach ! ^ to think your little white hands 
 have been working for me ! Now I will cut the 
 bread and butter thin, thin — as befits a lady like 
 you ; and sorry I am that it is barley bread. I 
 don't forget the beautiful white cakes and the white 
 sugar you gave me at Dinas the other day ! And 
 your uncle, how is he ? " 
 
 " Quite well ; gone to Pen Moricn, and not coming 
 home till to-morrow ; but tell me now, Nance fach, 
 of all that happened so long ago — when I was 
 born." 
 
 " Not so long ago for me, dear heart, as for you. 
 It is a whole life-time for you, but for me — " and 
 the faded blue eyes filled with tears, and the 
 wrinkled lips trembled a little as she recalled the 
 past — " for me ! I had lived my life before you 
 were born. My husband was dead, my boy drowned, 
 and my little Mari, the last and brightest, had sud- 
 denly withered and died before my eyes — a fever 
 they say, perhaps it was indeed ; but the sun has 
 never shone so brightly, whatever, since then ; the 
 flowers are not so sweet — they remind me of my 
 child's grave; the sea does not look the same — it 
 remind's me of my boy ! " and she rocked herself 
 backwards and forwards for some time, while Valmai 
 stroked with tender white fingers the hard, wrinkled 
 
 * Dear heart. 
 
 I 
 % 
 
 ^ 
 
XTbe Storm. 
 
 61 
 
 hand which rested on her lap. " Well, indeed," 
 said the old woman at last, " there's enoui^h of my 
 sorrows ; let us get on to the hapjiy time when your 
 little life began, you and your twin sister. When 
 you were washed and dressed and laid sleeping 
 together in the same cradle, no one could tell which 
 was which ; but dir anwl ! who cared for that ? too 
 much joy was in our hearts that your dear mother 
 was safe. No one at least, except the grand English 
 lady who was lodging there at your grandfather's 
 house. Her husband was dead, and she was very 
 rich, but she had no children ; and when she heard 
 your mother had twins, she begged of us to let 
 her have one for her very own, and she was like 
 thorns to us because we could not tell for sure which 
 was the oldest." 
 
 " Well, go on, Nance," said Valrnai, as the old 
 woman stopped to rake the peat embers together. 
 
 " Well ! then, we all thought it was a very good 
 thing, and no doubt the Almighty had His plans 
 about it, for how could your poor mother take two 
 babies with her to that far-off land where your 
 father went a missionary ? Well ! there was a mes- 
 sage come to fetch the lady to the death-bed of her 
 mother, and she only waited at Dinas long enough 
 to see you both christened together, Valmai and 
 Gwladys. The next day she went away, and took 
 your little sister with her. Oh ! there's crying your 
 mother was at losing one of her little ones ; but 
 your father persuaded her it was for the best." 
 
 " And what was the English lady's name ? " asked 
 Valmai. 
 
 *• Oh ! my dear, ask it not ; the hardest word 
 
62 
 
 1B^ IScv^cn JSanlts. 
 
 you ever heard, and the lt)n^est ; I could never twist 
 my tongue round it. It is with me somewhere writ- 
 ten out on paper, and her (Hrections, and if she ever 
 moved to another place she would write and tell us, 
 she said ; but that was not likely to be, because she 
 went to her father's and grandfather's old home, 
 and she has never written to anyone since, as far 
 as I know." 
 
 " Well, indeed," said Valmai, looking thoughtfully 
 into the glowing embers, " I should like to see my 
 sister, whatever." 
 
 " Twt, twt," said the old woman, " there's no need 
 for you to trouble your head about her ; she has 
 never troubled to seek you." 
 
 " Does she know about me, do you think ? " 
 
 " That I can't tell, of course," said Nance, going to 
 the door to have another look at the storm. " Ach y 
 fi ! it's like a boiling pot," she said ; *' you can never 
 go home to-night, my child." 
 
 " Oh, yes, indeed I must ; I would not be away 
 from home in my uncle's absence for the world," said 
 Valmai, joining the old woman at the door, and look- 
 ing out rather anxiously at the angry sea. " Oh, 
 when the tide goes down at nine o'clock the moon 
 will be up, and perhaps the storm will be over." 
 
 They sat chatting over the fire until the evening 
 shadows fell, and the moon shone fitfully between the 
 scudding clouds. 
 
 Meanwhile Cardo had ridden in to Llanython. A 
 fair had generally much attraction for him — the 
 merry laughter, the sociable meetings, the sound of 
 music on the air, and the altogether festive character 
 of the day ; but on this occasion its pleasures seemed 
 
Ube Storm. 
 
 63 
 
 to pall, aiul quickly dispatching the business which 
 had brought him there, he returned to the inn, and, 
 mounting his horse, rode home early in the afternoon. 
 Why he thus hurried away he never could explain. 
 Ever since he had leant on the bridge over the 
 Berwen in the morning he had been haunted by a 
 feeling of Valmai's presence. Little had he guessed 
 that she had been so near him while he looked down 
 through the interlacing scenery which hid the river 
 from his sight. It was nearly four o'clock in the 
 afternoon as he reached that part of the high road 
 from which the beach was visible, and here he stopped 
 a moment to look and wonder at the storm, which 
 had so suddenly increased in violence. 
 
 " How far up the beach at Ynysoer those breakers 
 run ! And the Rock Bridge ! — I wouldn't like to 
 cross that to-night; but surely that was a woman's 
 figure crossing it now ! " A sudden fear darted 
 through his mind, and dismounting, he climbed to 
 the top of the turfy bank at the side of the road to 
 gain a better view of the coast. ** Yes, a woman — a 
 girl, surely, and a graceful girl, wearing a scarlet cloak. 
 She carried her hat in her hand — not on her head, at 
 all events. Surely it was n,ot Valmai in such a storm 
 going over by such a dangerous path ? Probably a 
 fisherman's wife or daughter ! " But he gazed long 
 and steadily before he once more resumed his ride. 
 In hot haste he rode the rest of the way to Bryn- 
 deryn. 
 
 " The storm is rising," said the " Vicare du," as he 
 joined his son at the tea-table. 
 
 " Yes," said the latter, pausing in his attack upon 
 the roast fowl to gaze at the clouds which scudded 
 
64 
 
 3Bp 3Bcrwcn IBanfte. 
 
 before the wind, " I expect it will be a furious gale 
 before midnight." 
 
 As soon as the meal was over he rose, and fixing 
 his hat firmly on his head, said : 
 
 " I am going down to the beach to see the waves, 
 father. If I am not back to supper you won't be 
 frightened ? " 
 
 The old man muttered something about ** folly to 
 go out in such weather," as Cardo disappeared into 
 the stone passage. Making his way down to the 
 beach, he found the storm raging fiercely, and, 
 gaining the shelter of a rock, he sat down to rest 
 and think. 
 
 The sullen south-west wind moaned and shrieked 
 as it rushed up the long beach; it lurked in the 
 hollows of the crags, and drove the sand and foam 
 before it. The Berwen looked yellow and muddy as 
 it washed over its stony bed. Above all came the 
 roar of the breakers as they dashed against the rocky 
 sides of the island, which lay, a black mass, in the 
 seething water a few hundred yards from the shore. 
 
 He looked across the blinding spray of the waves 
 and thought of his boat ; but no, no boat .would live 
 in such a sea ; besides, what ridiculous fear was this 
 that haunted him ? 
 
 At so great a distance as that between ^he oad 
 and the island it was impossible that he have 
 
 distinguished Valmai from any other gii aid what 
 more natural than that one of the women iivirr^ on 
 the island should be crossing the Rock Bridge. 
 
 " I must be a fool to have nervous fears like a silly 
 girl. I daresay I shall meet Valmai on the shore." 
 
 But he sought in vain for any sign of her, as she 
 
Ube Storm. 
 
 65 
 
 she 
 
 had sought him in the morning. Indeed it was not 
 likely that any tender girl would be out in such a 
 storm — and yet — "was it Valmai?" 
 
 The thought would come, the fear ivotild haunt 
 him. He was surprised to find himself overtaken by 
 a woman. 
 
 " Dir, dir, what a storm," she remarked as she 
 passed, hurried on her way by the driving wind. 
 
 One or two of Cardo's long steps brought him up 
 with her. 
 
 " Don't you come from Ynysoer ? " he said. " I 
 think I know your face." 
 
 " Yes, gwae fi ! ^ that I had got safe back again, but 
 my mother is ill," she shouted, as the wind carried 
 her words away, " and I must stay with her till to- 
 morrow, no one could go back over the Rock Bridge 
 to-night; though, indeed, 1 met a young girl 
 crossing — " 
 
 " Had she a red cloak ? " asked Cardo. 
 
 "Yes. She was Essec Powell's niece, and if she 
 tries to come back to-night I wouldn't give much 
 for her life." 
 
 " Here we part — good-bye," said Cardo. 
 
 " Nos da, Ser," said the woman, but her voice was 
 drowned by the roar of the wind. 
 
 " It was Valmai ! I knew it was ! Why did I not 
 take my boat at once ? Now it is too late ; and 
 >et," he thought, "she cannot come till the dde is 
 low. I may get there in time. Surely she would 
 not attempt to cross the bridge yet ? " 
 
 7or the rest of the evening Cardo paced restlessly 
 over the beach, buffeted by the strong wind, wetted 
 
 *Woe is rne, 
 
 *■!! 
 
BB 
 
 66 
 
 "B^ Bervveu 3Banh6. 
 
 by the spray, but still v atching narrowly the bridge 
 of rocks, which connected the island with the main- 
 land. He knew for a certainty that Valmai was 
 there, and he watched with intense interest the 
 darkening island, over which the storm gathered 
 with increasing fury. His plan was to wait until 
 the tide went down, and then to cross the bridL;e 
 himself, so as to help Valmai, or to prevent her 
 attempting to return. 
 
 After several hours' waiting in the shelter of the 
 cliff, he saw by his watch, which he was able to 
 decipher by occasional gleams of moonlight, that it 
 was near upon nine o'clock. The moon was hidden at 
 intervals by heavy storm-clouds, which were hurrying 
 before the wind ; but when her light shon'^ out 
 fitfully, it disclosed a scene of wild confusior : the 
 horizon was as black as ink, the seething sea beneath 
 was white as snow, and the sound of the wind and 
 waves was deafening. 
 
 Over the Rock Bridge the sea rushed like a mill 
 race one moment leaving it bare and black, the 
 next covering it again with svong rushing billows of 
 foam. 
 
 " She will not dare to return to-night," he thought, 
 as he watched a tossing, foaming tower of spray, 
 which rose in the rentre of the bridge, where two 
 streams of the seething waters met, and rose high in 
 the air together. 
 
 The moon had again hidden her face, and in the 
 darkness Cardc was seized with a trembling fear. 
 With bent and bare head (for he had long before lost 
 his hat) he made a blind rush over the bridge. For 
 the first few yards he got on safely, as each end was 
 
XTbe Storm. 
 
 67 
 
 )ray, 
 two 
 in 
 
 the 
 Ifear. 
 lost 
 For 
 was 
 
 
 sheltered by high rocks, which stood as sentinels 
 looking across at each other. 
 
 " So far, so good," thought Cardo, standing still a 
 moment for breath ; " and now to cross this mill 
 race ! 
 
 But he was too late. Already he saw that Valmai 
 had begun her way across. 
 
 On the island side the bridge was more sheltered 
 from the storm, and tiie girl was not only in a 
 measure orotected from the wind, but was also 
 hidden from the moonlight, and it was not until 
 she had left the shadow of the rocks and entered 
 upon the open and unprotected reef that Cardo in 
 a sudden absence of clouds saw in the moonlight 
 the delicate figure wrapped in its scarlet cloak. 
 For a moment she hesitated as she felt the full 
 force of the wind, and in her hesitation decided upon 
 the wrong course : she would run, she would reach 
 the opposite rocks, and be safe before the next 
 gust of wind came. 
 
 ** Good God ! " said Cardo, " she is lost ! " as he 
 saw her approach with flying hair and fluttering 
 garm.ents towards the centre of the bridge, which 
 was for a moment left bare, and in that moment 
 Cardo realised how completely this stranger girl, 
 who had seemed to drop from the clouds into his 
 quiet, uneventful life, had taken possession of his 
 heart. All this flashed through his mind and opened 
 his eyes to the true state of his feelings. 
 
 Instantly he was making his way t(jwards her, 
 with strong steps and sturdy shoulders fighting with 
 the wind, which seemed determined to baffle his 
 attempts to reach Valmai before the periodical 
 
68 
 
 3B^ JSetwen JSanfts^ 
 
 recurring inrush of opposite streams should once 
 more meet, and rise in towering strife together. 
 Thoroughly frightened and trembling, Valmai looked 
 in horror at the two opposing streams of water 
 approaciiing her on either side, and in her terror 
 losing htr self - command, was on the point of 
 giving herself up to the angry waters, which she 
 felt herself too weak to withstand. At this critical 
 moment a dark form dashed through the blinding 
 spray — a form which she instantly recognised, and 
 which as quickly restored courage to her sinking 
 heart. She felt the strong arms clasped round 
 her, but too late ! for the next moment the approach- 
 ing waves had met, and rising high in the air in 
 their furious contact, had fallen with terrific force, 
 sweeping her and her rescuer into the boiling surf. 
 Valmai became unconscious at once, but Cardo's 
 strong frame knew no sense of swooning nor faint- 
 ness. His whole being seemed concentrated in a 
 blind struggle to reach the land — to save Valmai, 
 though he was fighting under terrible disadvantage. 
 
 She had relaxed her grasp, and he had now to 
 hold her safe with one arm, thus having only one 
 with which to struggle against the suffocating, 
 swirling waters. In a very few minutes he realised 
 that the fight was dead against him ; in spite of 
 all his strength and his powerful frame, he was 
 lifted and tossed about like a straw. The only 
 thing in his favour was the fact that the tide had 
 turned, and was even now combining with the 
 strong wind to carry him towards a sheltered corner 
 on the mainland. With chokinpf breath and blinded 
 eyes he felt himself carried on the crest of a wave, 
 
Zbc Storim 
 
 69 
 
 which bore him landwards, but only to be drawn 
 back again by its receding swell. He felt he was 
 helpless, though, had he the use of his two arms, 
 he knew he would be able to breast the stormy 
 waters, and gain the land in safety ; but clutched 
 in the nervous grasp of his left arm he held what 
 was dearer to him than life itself, and felt that to 
 die with Valmai was better than to live without 
 her ! His strength was almost gone, and with 
 horror he felt that his grasp of the girl was more 
 difficult to retain, as a larger wave than usual came 
 racing towards him with foaming, curling crest. 
 He gave himself up for lost — he thought of his 
 old father even now poring over his books — he 
 thought of Valmai's young life so suddenly quenched 
 — and with one prayer for himself and her, he felt 
 himself carried onward, tossed, tumbled over and 
 over, but still keeping tight hold of his precious 
 burden. 
 
 He was suddenly struck by a stunning blow, 
 which for a moment seemed to take away his senses 
 — but only for a moment — for what v/as this calm ? 
 what was this quiet ; onse of rest ? was he sinking 
 out of life into some dim, unconscious state of being? 
 had he seen the last of the clouds ? the moon — the 
 stormy waters ? Had Valmai already slipped away 
 from him ? No ; he still felt her within his grasp, 
 and in a few moments he was able to realise the 
 meaning of the change in his feelings. He had been 
 carried like a shred of seaweed by that strong wave 
 far up the beach on the mainland, and in its receding 
 flow it had swirled him into a rrund cavity in the 
 rocks, where as a boy he had often played and bathed 
 
70 
 
 3B\? :©er\ven 3Banft9. 
 
 and fished ; he knew it well, and saw in a moment 
 that he was saved ! Clasping Valmai firmly, he ran 
 up the beach, another combing, foaming wave coming 
 dangerously near his hurrying footsteps ; but in spite 
 of the buffeting wind, he gained the shelter of the 
 cliffs, and at last laid his burden tenderly down on 
 the rocks. And now the nght for life was replaced 
 by the terrible dread that Valmai might already be 
 beyond recall. 
 
 The clear, cold moon looked down between the 
 scudding clouds upon her straightened form, the 
 wind roared above them, and the lashing fury of 
 the waves still filled the air ; but Valmai lay white 
 and still. Cardo looked round in vain for help ; 
 no one was near, even the fishermen had safely 
 bolted their doors, and shut out the wild stormy 
 night. A faint hope awoke in his heart as he re- 
 membered that Valmai had swooned before she 
 was engulfed with him in the sea, and he set to 
 work with renewed vigour to rub her cold hands, 
 and press the water out of her long, drenched hair ; 
 he was soon rewarded by signs of life in the rigid 
 form — a. little sigh came trembling from her lips, 
 her hand moved, and there was a tremor in her 
 eyelids. Cardo placed his arm under her shoulders 
 and, lifting her into a sitting posture, rested her head 
 upon his breast , the movement, the change of posi- 
 tion — somethmg awoke her from her long swoon ; 
 was it the sense of Cardo's presence ? did his earnest 
 longing call her spirit back ? for she had been 
 close upon the shadow land. She came back slowly, 
 dimly conscious of escaping from some deadly horror, 
 and awakening to something pleasant, something 
 
Ubc Storm, 
 
 71 
 
 happy. She slowly opened her eyes, and observin*^ 
 Cardo's strong right hand, which still held and chafed 
 her own, while his left arm upheld her drenched 
 form, she moved a little, and murmured : 
 
 •• Are you hurt ? " 
 
 " No," said Cardo, trembling in every limb with 
 the excitement which he had controlled until now, 
 and with the deli^^ht of seeing life and movement 
 return to her , " hurt ? no ! only thankful to find you 
 safe ; only anxious to get you home." 
 
 Valmai's voice was weak and low, and he had to 
 bend his head over her to catch the words : 
 
 "You have been near death for my sake — those 
 dreadful waves ! " 
 
 " Do not think of them ! I was in no danger. 
 But I have been nearer death since I have sat here 
 watching your slow recovery. Now, Valmai," he 
 said, realising that every moment of exposure in her 
 cold, drenched garments was danger to her, " be 
 brave ; give yourself up to me, and I will carry you 
 home." 
 
 But this adjuration was needless, for as he placed 
 her gently down while he rose to his feet he felt that 
 she was limp and powerless as a baby ; he lifted her 
 in his arms, and felt her weight no more than if he 
 had carried a storm-beaten bird. His own drenched 
 condition he did not consider — did not feel, while he 
 climbed with careful footsteps up the rugged path to 
 Dinas, lighted only by the moon, whose beams were 
 continually obscured by the flying clouds. Pushing 
 his way between the furze and broom bushes, he was 
 careful to let no stray branch catch Valmai's face 
 or hair, and as he reached the farm -yard in the 
 
 
ft 
 
 "B^s Bevwen JBanfia* 
 
 rear of the house, he was delighted to feel a strong 
 and swift motion in her frame. 
 
 " Put me down, please," she whispered, " on the 
 bench by the door." 
 
 Cardo did so, reluctantly loosing his grasp of the 
 tender form. 
 
 " Now knock." 
 
 And he obeyed, rapping loudly on the back door. 
 The sound seemed to rouse the inmates at once, for, 
 with considerable thumping and fumbling, somebody 
 shuffled down the stairs. 
 
 " Go now, I am safe," said Valmai, in a whisper. 
 
 And Cardo went, but not before he had stooped 
 down and pressed an impassioned kiss upon the little 
 listless hands. Neither spoke. Valmai felt too v/eak 
 and full of awakening happiness to trust her voice, 
 while Cardo felt the occasion was above the necessity 
 for any words. He waited behind the elder bushes 
 until Gwen's full-moon face appeared in the doorway, 
 and her ejaculations of reproachful astonishment (in 
 which the Welsh language is prolific) showed that she 
 had seen Valmai, and fully appreciated the urgency 
 of the situation. 
 
 " Mawredd anwl ! what is the meaning of this ? 
 Where have you been ? and I thinking you were in 
 your warm bed ! " 
 
 " I have been to see Nance, and coming back over 
 the Rock Bridge the sea washed me away." 
 
 *' Nance ! Nance ! all the time ! What you want 
 to go there so often ? It's no wonder if you are 
 drowned crossing that nasty place in such a storm. 
 You are like a wet sea-gull. If you were a baby you 
 wouldn't be more trouble," etc., etc. 
 
^be Storm, f$ 
 
 vl °V^"'1^"P''"'^ '°g' °" the culm fire, Gwen's 
 voice st.l reaching him in snappish, reproving tones 
 hrongh the closed door. Then he turned aw!y and 
 though he was bodily cold and saturated with thL sea 
 water, h.s heart was full of warmth and a new y- 
 awakened sense of the joy and fulness of life ^ 
 
 iilii 
 
1 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 GWYNNE ELLIS ARRIVES. 
 
 For a few days, Valmai, although she nad 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 Uiicle, 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." 
 
 74 
 
(Bw^nne leiUs Brrires. 
 
 75 
 
 "Well, to be sure! Now on tlic next pa^c you 
 will find a splendid description of such a storm ; 
 go on, my girl," and Valmai continued the read- 
 ing. 
 
 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 Esscc Powell's cows were 
 just awaking and clumsily rising from their night's 
 sleep under the quiet stars. The storm had dis- 
 appeared 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 " Corwcn " 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 : 
 
i 
 
 iHRW'ii 
 
 3Bv? JBerwen JBanfts. 
 
 •'You must have found the storm very interesting, 
 Cardo; what kept you out so hite?" 
 
 He did not add tliat 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 IJridge ! 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 T should 
 prefer my son's risking his life tor 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." 
 
6wsnne filUs arrives. 
 
 77 
 
 * 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," ht said, rising ; " but you know such 
 duckings are nothing to me ; I enjoy thcin ! " 
 
 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 comer, where the furze bushes and wild thyn •. 
 
78 
 
 3B^ 3Bcrwcn 36anhs. 
 
 and harebells still held their own against the plough 
 and harrow; and here, sitting in deep thought, and till 
 wiiistling in a low tone, he held a long consultation 
 with himself. 
 
 " No ! I will never try again I " 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 com- 
 panion to you. What do you say to it ? " 
 
 " As far as I am concerned, let him come by all 
 
Ow^unc J&lUd acvivcd* 
 
 79 
 
 means, if you wish it, father; it can make no differ- 
 ence 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 question- 
 ing your prudence in the matter." 
 
 The old man nervously fingered his papers. 
 
80 
 
 Bx> 3Berwen Baiifta. 
 
 w. 
 
 " 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 packets there. 
 I flatter myself I can do gor ] 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 
 trulh, 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 thuught seemed to strike 
 him, for his face flushed, and he gave a long, low 
 whistle. " Fhew ! 1 never thought of that ! Why ! 
 
Oyo^nnc Ellis Hrrives. 
 
 81 
 
 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 threw 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 vellow, as 
 she flung herself down under a towering rock, still 
 a little languid, but full of an inrushing tule of 
 happiness. The green waves came rolling in, their 
 foaming crests catching the rosy pink oi 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 lotg gazing at the crimson pathway 
 over the sea, both heart and soul filled to over- 
 flowing with the beauty ol 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 morn- 
 ing, 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 
 
82 
 
 3B^ Berwen JSanfts. 
 
 fell on her ear which brought the red blood mant- 
 ling 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 v^^as 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 yuu been washed away by 
 those cruel waves, ihere would have been no Cardo 
 Wynne here to-nignt ! 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 : 
 
Ow^nne iBIUb arrives* 
 
 83 
 
 Come, fanwylyd ;^ let us walk together — I cannot 
 
 rest. Vali 
 
 tell 
 
 I tht 
 
 ph 
 
 in 
 
 same 
 your neart tnat you nave ni mine? Place m 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 mc, 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 moon- 
 light, now I am happy though my lieart 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, v;hile 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, whimper- 
 ing 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 
 
 * Beloved. 
 
 ■M 
 
84 
 
 J5l? 3Bcrvven Banfts. 
 
 for the future, no dread of partings, no thought of 
 life's fiery trials, which were even now casting their 
 shadows before them. 
 
 Vaimai 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 ; for- 
 gotten even the wrangler who was coming to trouble 
 him ; and forgotten that nameless shadow of part- 
 ing and distance, which had hovered too near ever 
 since he had met Vaimai. 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 even- 
 ing. 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. 
 
6wpnne Bllis arrives. 
 
 85 
 
 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 with- 
 out 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 
 
KM 
 
 86 
 
 B^ Berwcn 3Banfts» 
 
 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, 
 
 t-l: 
 
 " ' A broad and ample road whose dust is gold, 
 Open, ye heavens ! your hving 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 ts 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 mc. 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, 
 
(Bwijnnc leuis arrives. 
 
 87 
 
 " 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 undemon- 
 strative manner, made the new-corier 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 for him, I shall keep him 
 till September fair." 
 
88 
 
 3B^ 3Betwen Banfts. 
 
 
 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 ! 
 
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 com- 
 panionship; 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 un- 
 interesting 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 
 
 89 
 
80 
 
 J5i? JScvvven Banhs. 
 
 acquaintance, begun accidentally, bid fair to become 
 a lifclon^^ 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 ? " 
 
Covwcii anD Dalmai. 
 
 01 
 
 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, unin- 
 teresting 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 
 \'ou 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 moon- 
 light 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, lor 
 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 
 
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 .IBs 3Berwen Banfts. 
 
 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 El- s was delighted when Cardo broached 
 the subject as tiiey 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 charm- 
 ing 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 
 
Corwen an^ IDahnai. 
 
 93 
 
 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 I My Welsh is rather rusty, 
 
94 
 
 3Bg JSerwen "^anfte. 
 
 ^19 
 
 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 tne 
 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. Pll 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. 
 
Corwen ant) Dalmai. 
 
 95 
 
 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 i " 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 ? " 
 
96 
 
 3Bi? 3Berwen 313anfts. 
 
 ^Hl 
 
 i 
 
 " Yes ; it is Valmai's red hood ; she wears it 
 sometimes, and sometimes a broad-brimmed white 
 hat." 
 
 Elh's 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 tlie 
 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 sug- 
 gestive 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 en- 
 gaged with Corwen, who had been ailing since the 
 previous evening. Ellis was instantly struck by the 
 [)icturesque 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. 
 
Cotwen anb IDalniat 
 
 97 
 
 " 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 in- 
 trusion ; 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 ncij^hbourhood, 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, turninij 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 a>k him ? " 
 
 *' Thank you very much ; but if you go, the picture 
 will be spoiled ! " 
 
 But Valmai, taking no notice of the implied com- 
 pliment, 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 
 
 %\ 
 
■f^p 
 
 98 
 
 35)^ JSetweit JSanlfts. 
 
 i; 
 
 :j4 
 
 in a picture." And she passed out into the sun- 
 shine. 
 
 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." 
 
 i'UM 
 
Cotwen an^ IDalmai. 
 
 90 
 
 " 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 magni- 
 ficent, that rushing water, those weird wailings, and 
 
100 
 
 3Bi? JSerwcn 3BanR0» 
 
 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 1 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 willinjjj 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, 
 
Corwcn ant) IDalmai* 
 
 101 
 
 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, 
 Caido, 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 apain, 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 
 
102 
 
 Si? JScrwen JBanfis. 
 
 retire, old fellow, aiui then I will tr)' ni)' luck. That 
 swL'ct mouth, thou^^h the delight of a 'over, is the 
 despair of an artist," 
 
 Cardo sighed. 
 
 " Well, she came back after you were gone, then, 
 and shook hands with mc, 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 con- 
 sent, 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 occa- 
 sion." 
 
 " 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 itruck anew 
 by the beauty and freshness of her appearance. 
 She wore a simple white frock, her fair, broad fore- 
 head 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 
 
 iljl'i 
 
Corwen an^ Dalmai. 
 
 103 
 
 among the buttercups, ignorant of the honour 
 awaiting her. 
 
 Valmai nodded playfully to Cardo and his friend 
 as they drew near, and, taking Corwcn's soft, white 
 ear, drew her towards them with many endearing 
 terms. 
 
 " Come then, my queen, dere di, come .ilong, 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, loo', d at her w'.h 
 amused surprise, not unmixed with reproof. 
 
 " Isb ^ou must excuse Valmai, genlleiaen," 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," s?\id 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. 
 
.? 
 
 104 
 
 :Bi? JSerwen JSanhs. 
 
 " Now you two can go," he said, " but T can't do 
 without Slioni. A Httlc 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 manage, 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 
 
 105 
 
If 
 
 I! V4 
 
 106 
 
 JS^ J5envcn 3Banft6. 
 
 for an hour sometimes, listcnincf to the plashing 
 waves and the call of the sea-biras ; he could sail in 
 his boat on the bay for many a sunny afternoon, 
 the sails flapping idly in the breeze, while ha with 
 folded hands leant against the mast, lost in thought, 
 his eyes narrowly scanning the cliffs and locks 
 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 pre- 
 paring 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." 
 
 |!» .- 
 
Ubc IDicar'B Stori?. 
 
 107 
 
 " 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 Gvvynne 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 congratu- 
 latory comments of the haymakers, who had after- 
 wards 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 Shfi,n 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 "^ 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 afford- 
 ing 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 
 
 * A blue mug containing a little over half a pint. 
 
Wf 
 
 108 
 
 3Bi? 3Benven 3Banft3. 
 
 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 trail- 
 ing honeysuckle swept her cheek, and as the sunset 
 faded and the clear moon ro^c 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 often t'mes 
 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. 
 
XTbe Dicars Qtovs* 
 
 109 
 
 " 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 iove never 
 existed. Look once more into my eyes, cariad 
 anwl,^ 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 play- 
 fully, 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 dicams 
 of the old bards and druids, and the Vicar counted 
 
 1 Dear sweetheart. 
 
110 
 
 .IB)? Berwen JSanfts. 
 
 his well-garnered hayricks, these two walked and 
 sang in the mazes of the greenwood, the soft evening 
 s*ky 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 
 
xrbc lDtcar'0 Stori?. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 awk- 
 wardly. 
 
 " 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 
 
"'■) 
 
 112 
 
 B^ JScrwen JSanhs. 
 
 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 po tion 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 th^n other poor vicars or farmers ; 
 but knowing that you have a ;^ioo 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 fin^^ers, and when he next spoke 
 there was a little shake in his voice and a little droop 
 in his straight back. 
 
 f: 
 
ZTbe lDicar'0 Stor^, 
 
 113 
 
 ** 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 concern- 
 ing 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 was speechless from astonishment, not so 
 much at the idea of banishment to the Antipodes — 
 for his father had sometimes, though at long intervals, 
 
 H 
 
114 
 
 3Bp JSerwcn JSanfis. 
 
 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 mc 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; 
 
Ube Dicar's Stori?, 
 
 115 
 
 but soon afterwards that Methodist Chajiel was built 
 on the moor, and tliat 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 tine 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 in- 
 
116 
 
 J3p JSerwen Sanfts. 
 
 formation 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 ac- 
 quainted 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 ? " 
 
Xlbe lDicar'0 Stors. 
 
 117 
 
 "But my mother, sir?" interrupted Cardo ; "tell 
 me something about her — was she i)retty ? " 
 
 *' 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, 
 wliich resented a suspicion like a blow," and the old 
 man sighed heavily. " My brother Lewis made his 
 home at ' r) nderyn, 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 
 
118 
 
 Bi? Berwcu Banfts. 
 
 M 
 
 1 
 
 so heinous when put into plain words and spread out 
 in the hght. 
 
 " 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 be- 
 tween 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 clo^e 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 re- 
 lationship 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 re- 
 quired 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 disposi- 
 tions 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. Al- 
 though I was anxious to hide my suspicions for a 
 time, I could not refrain from sneering taunts about 
 
 
XCbe lDicar'6 Stori?» 
 
 119 
 
 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 
 k -"': ; 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 corre- 
 sponding 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 th;.t 
 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 :!ian 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 school- 
 mates 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 ; 
 
mSBB 
 
 120 
 
 JS^ Betwen JSanf;^. 
 
 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 be- 
 tween me and your mother ; and as for my brother, 
 we scarcely spoke to each other at meals, and avoided 
 each other at all oth^r 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. 
 
 
 I 
 
 
 I 
 
Ubc IDicar's Story^ 
 
 121 
 
 
 " 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 woik 
 
*> 
 
 122 
 
 Bs JSerwen JSanfts. 
 
 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 ot 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. 
 
Ube IDicar's Stor^» 
 
 123 
 
 " The b'ood 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 nervousl)', 
 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 com- 
 plaint 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 condemna- 
 tion and the contempt vv^hich 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 
 
 
124 
 
 B^ Berwen 3Banft9. 
 
 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 reco<^nised 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 gent'y drew me into an adjoining bed- 
 
 x'.m, and, with a troubled face, implored me not to 
 
 ..ivc way to angry feelings. 'Be gentle to her,' she 
 
 ■ . .1 ; * poor thing, she's as frail as an eggshell. Wait 
 
XTbc Dicar's Storv. 
 
 125 
 
 till she is well, master, and then — I pray God may 
 brlni^ some light out of this darkness.' 
 
 *' 1 only nodded, and went gently into the sick- 
 room. 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 long- 
 ings 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 over- 
 whelmed 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 
 
126 
 
 By JSevwen 3Banft6» 
 
 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 1 
 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 
 'he 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 
 
 I 
 
XCbc IDlcac's Stoi\\ 
 
 12< 
 
 me unbearably. ' You bring a joung pjrl 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 thou[j;ht 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 
 
^■■p 
 
 ^ 
 
 128 
 
 asy Beiwcn JSaufts. 
 
 said, sir — because Miss Vaiighan is nowhere to be 
 found. Dir anvvl ! 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 ! bethnai!'^ 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 : 
 ^ " Oh, dear ! what shall I do ? " 
 
XTbe IDtcar's Stori?» 
 
 129 
 
 "'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 Vaugiian.' 
 
 " 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 I 
 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 
 
I 
 
 l:u) 
 
 36^ JScrwcn Banhs. 
 
 I 
 
 can only thank you for your, I fear, unwilling hos- 
 pitality, and pray that some day we may meet, when 
 this mysterious cloud, which I have deplored so n^uoh, 
 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 1 Why, sir, why ? * 
 
 *' ' Because I wonder she does not come down and 
 reproach us, for we have been wronging her from be- 
 ginning 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 c.in I forgive myself, 
 Cardo. /\s 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 
 
Zbc Dicar'B Stori\ 
 
 131 
 
 acknowledged my letter, and I thirst for his forgive- 
 ness — I cannot die without it. 
 
 " I have long rherished the thought that when you 
 came to man's Lblate 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 hia 
 father sitting by the flickering candle, which had 
 burnt down to its socket. 
 
 jn 
 
II u Jii iiiiwwwmwiiiiw 
 
 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 some- 
 thing 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 
 mo! th. 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 
 
 132 
 
Zhc ©T& IRegtster. 
 
 133 
 
 
 
 which we must bear enough to account for all 
 sorts of fears and depressing thoughts ? It is that 
 only which dim? 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 returnc^d, 
 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 wc 
 must take our own way and be married without his 
 consent. There is the thatch house just above the 
 mill already waiting fur us — it is my own, you know ; 
 and although old Sianco and hio 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 
 
134 
 
 3B^ JSerweii 3Banft0. 
 
 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 inter- 
 ference." 
 
 " How dreadful to have Shoni's red hair and 
 gaitered legs dogging our footsteps in this fairy dell." 
 
 'S^! 
 
XTbc ©It) WQistcv* 
 
 135 
 
 
 "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 over- 
 come 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 
 
■PH 
 
 136 
 
 3Bi? 3Bcrwen Banfts. 
 
 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 bitter- 
 ness 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 
 
 ■ 
 
 ill' 
 
XTbe ©lb IRcflister. 
 
 137 
 
 
 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 dcdi 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 un- 
 kindness 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 
 
138 
 
 Bl? IBevwen 36anfts, 
 
 to whom I marry her will owe me an eternal debt 
 of gratitude ! " 
 
 "True, indeed!" said Cardo, bcj^inning energetic- 
 ally 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 thft fourteenth ? " 
 
 " I will," said ^^^ilis. 
 
 Before that liU^rning arrived, Cardo had won from 
 Valmai a ^'^'-htened and half-reluctant consent. 
 
 She was no jUj^cr a child, but seemed to have 
 matured suddenly into a woman of calm and re- 
 flective 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 some- 
 times pictured for herself! Where was the long, 
 white veil ? Where were the white-robed brides- 
 maids ? Where were the smiling friends to look on 
 and to bless? There would lie none of these indeed, 
 but then — there would be Cardo I 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, 
 
 I iiit 
 
XTbe ®l& IRcGistcr. 
 
 139 
 
 Cardo" And well mi^ht 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 I 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 
 
'\ 
 
 140 
 
 36)? Bcrwen JSaiifts. 
 
 ■.■^ '•) 
 
 road from Abersethin, and down by the river-path 
 to the cluirch. 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 EHis 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 dot^^r/t come," he said, turn- 
 ing 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 
 
 'I 
 
Ube Qlt> 1ReQ(9ter. 
 
 141 
 
 of her life ! She almost failed as she walked up 
 with faltering step, but a glance at Cardo's sym- 
 pathetic, 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 con- 
 fidence and trust, and received the congratulations 
 of Gwynne Ellis and his two friends with a smiling 
 though blushing face. 
 
 The two strangers, never having seen her before, 
 were much struck by her beauty; and indeed she 
 had never looked more lovely. She wore one of 
 her simple white frocks, and the white hat which 
 had been her best during the summer, adorned only 
 with a wreath of freshly gathered jessamine, a bunch 
 of which was also fastened at her neck. With the 
 addition of a pair of white gloves which Cardo had 
 procured for her, she looked every inch a bride. 
 She wore no ornament save the wedding ring which 
 now glistened on her finger. 
 
 " Let us do everything in order," said Ellis. " Take 
 your wife down to the vestry." 
 
 Cardo drew her hand through his arm, and at the 
 word " wife," pressed it gently to his side, looking 
 smilingly down at the blushing face beside him. 
 When they reached the vestry, whose outer wall 
 in the old tower was lying crumbling on the grass 
 outside, while the two young men chatted freely 
 with the bride and bridegroom, they were joined by 
 Gwynne Ellis, carrying an old and time-worn book 
 under his arm. 
 

 : 
 
 142 
 
 3B^ Bcrwcn Banfts. 
 
 mil 
 
 Cardo j^asped. " I never thought of the register ; 
 it is kept in the new church ! Is it absolutely 
 necessary, Ellis ? What shall we do ? What have 
 you there ? " 
 
 " Why, the old register, of course ! I furraged 
 it out last night from that old iron chest inside the 
 altar rails. There is another there, going back to 
 the last century, I should think. I must have a 
 look at them ; they will be interesting." 
 
 " Ellis, you are a friend in need," said Cardo. " I 
 had never thought of this part of the ceremony." 
 
 " No, be thankful you had a cool and collected 
 head to guide you. See, here is a blank space at 
 the bottom of one of these musty pages. It won't 
 be at all en rkgle to insert your marriage here ; but 
 I dare not bring the new register out of the other 
 church ; moreover, there may be another wedding 
 soon, and then yours would be discovered." 
 
 " What a genius you are ! " said Cardo, while 
 Gwynne Ellis wrote out in bold, black characters, 
 under the faded old writing on the rest of the page, 
 the certificate of Cardo and Valmai's marriage. 
 
 " There, you have tied a knot with your tongue 
 that you can't untie with your teeth ! Here is 
 your marriage certificate, Mrs. Wynne. I need not 
 tell you to keep it safely." 
 
 Suddenly there was a rustling sound above them, 
 which startled them all, and Cardo grasped Valmai 
 hastily, to the great amusement of the young men. 
 
 It was the white owl, who had solemnly watched 
 the proceedings in the vestry, and now thought it 
 time to take her flight through the broken wall. 
 
 " There Cardo," said Valmai, " I said the white 
 
Hbe ©It) IRcoister. 
 
 143 
 
 owl would be at our wedding, and the sea breeze, 
 and the Berwen ; I heard them both while you were 
 writing your name." 
 
 " Well now," said Gwynne Ellis, " Wilson, Chester, 
 and I will leave you both, as I know what a short 
 time you will have togetner." 
 
 And with many congratulations and good wishes, 
 the three young men left the old church, leaving 
 Cardo and Valmai to their last words before parting. 
 
 There was a ricketty, worm-eaten bench in the 
 vistry, and here they sat down together. Cardo 
 trying to keep up a cheerful demeanour, as he saw 
 her face sadden and her eyes fill with tears. 
 
 " How lovely you look, my darling," he said. 
 *' How did you manage to escape Shoni's shrewd 
 eyes in such finery ? " 
 
 " I put my scarlet cloak on and drew the hood 
 over my head, and it tumbled my hair," she said, 
 with a little wan smile. Already the glamour of 
 the wedding was giving way to the sorrow of parting. 
 " I had my hat under my cloak. Oh, anwl ! I 
 am getting quite a deceitful girl ! " 
 
 Cardo winced ; was he sullying the pure soul ? 
 But there was no time for retrospection , the minutes 
 were fleeting rapidly by, he had to return to his 
 breakfast with his father, who would expect h's last 
 hours to be spent with him 
 
 *' When do you start from Brynderyn ? " she asked, 
 her voice growing lawer and more sorrowful 
 
 " At two o'clock, love, punctually ; the cart has 
 already gone with my luggage Valniai. how can I 
 part from you — how can I leave you, my beloved, 
 my wife ? " 
 
Ui 
 
 1B^ JSerwen 3BanIt0. 
 
 '1^ 
 
 'in < ' 
 
 ; ' m 
 
 V :(■ 
 
 
 w •'11 
 
 " Oh, Catclo, Cardo ! " was all her answer. She 
 buried her face in her hands, and the tears trickled 
 through her fingers. 
 
 Cardo drew them away tenderly 
 
 "There is a tear on your ring, dear," he said, 
 kissing it, " that must not be ; let that at all events 
 be the emblem of meeting and happiness and joy. 
 Think, Valmai, only a year, and I shall come and 
 claim you for my own ! Confess, dearest, that it is a 
 little solace that we are united before we are parted, 
 that, whatever happens, you are my wife and I am 
 your husband." 
 
 " 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 mc leave to reveal it!' 
 
 " We must part, f'anwylyd ; my father must not 
 miss me." 
 
 " No, no — go, I will not keep you back." 
 
 There was a long, passionate embrace, during 
 which the white owl flapped in again to her nest. 
 
 " Goud-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 
 
 t ': 
 
Ube Qltf 1Re0l0ter. 
 
 145 
 
 ;t 
 
 a 
 
 place, and the flap of the white owl's vvinps brought 
 back to Valmai memories of i)aiii 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 tdok 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 l.ist 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 them- 
 selves 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 ? " 
 
 K 
 
146 
 
 B^ JSerwen JSanfts. 
 
 
 f 
 f 
 
 '• 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 God 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 invita- 
 tion." 
 
 " 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, pcinting with his whip, drew Cardo's atten- 
 tion 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 
 passions is like a runaway horse, which, they say, be- 
 comes 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 inti- 
 mately 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. 
 
■f 
 
 Ubc ©l& IReoister. 
 
 147 
 
 
 " 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 con- 
 fession, 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 re- 
 sentment. 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 
 
148 
 
 3Bi? 3Berwen 3Banft0» 
 
 ii 
 
 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 retuiued 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 evi- 
 dently drawing Cardo's attention to it ; she had 
 shrunk back until they had passed, and then stand- 
 ing on the hedge, had waved a last good-bye, and 
 immediately afterwards slipped down in an abandon- 
 ment of grief. She remained for some time sobbing 
 and moaning on the grass, until at last her passion 
 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 ancl there between the 
 storm rifts, then she quietly put on her hat and 
 
XTbc Qlt> IReoister* 
 
 149 
 
 
 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 throuj;h every chink 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. 
 
B9 
 
 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 grassy 
 
 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 tjrepare her uncle's breakfast, she felt 
 
 beaten and weary, and looked so pale and hollow- 
 
 150 
 
IRcuben Street 
 
 151 
 
 eyed, that Shoni, who was fighting his way in at the 
 back door as she appeared, exclaimed in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " What's the matter with you, Valmai ? You bin 
 out in the storm all night ? " 
 
 " Almost as bad, indeed, Shoni ; there's a dreadful 
 wind it is." 
 
 " Oh, 'tis not come to the worst yet," said Shoni. 
 
 The doors continued to bang and the windows to 
 rattle all through that day and the greater part of the 
 next, and it was not till the evening of the third day 
 that Valmai ventured to put on her cloak and pay a 
 visit to Nance's cottage. The tide was low as she 
 crossed the Rock Bridge, and there was no danger 
 therefore, from the waves. On her return sn^ recalled 
 the events of the last storm, when Cardo's strong arm 
 had saved her from death. 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered a 
 h'ttle as she remembered that night ; but she set her- 
 self bravely to struggle with her sorrow, and to look 
 forward with hope and joy to the future. 
 
 When she entered the little parlour, which her neat 
 fingers had transformed into a nest of cosy comfort, 
 she found her uncle standing at the table, looking 
 dazed and helpless. 
 
 " Oh, Valmai ! " he said, " here's a letter from John, 
 my brother, and indeed I don't know what am I to 
 do." 
 
 " What is the matter, uncle ? Is he ill ? " 
 " Yes, he is very ill. He has broke his leg, and he 
 got no one to look after his house ; and he is asking 
 will you go down to take care of him. Will you go 
 Valmai ? He got lot of money. I will drive you' 
 
152 
 
 3B» Berwcn JSanfts. 
 
 down to Caer Madoc to the coach. That will take 
 you to the station to meet the train, and you will be 
 in Fordsea by four o'clock to-morrow." 
 
 Fordsea ! What visions crowded round the name. 
 Cardo had been there so lately, and now where was 
 he ? Out on that stormy sea, every moment increasing 
 the distance between them. 
 
 " I will go if you like, uncle, and nurse him until he 
 gets well." 
 
 " There's a good gel, indeed ; and you will kom 
 back to me again, 'cos I am used to you now, and 
 you are reading very nice to me, and saving a great 
 deal of my old eyes. He got a servant," he added, 
 " but she is only an ole ooman, coming in in the 
 morning and going home in the evening." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I will manage very well," said Valmai. 
 
 She grasped at the idea of change of scene and life, 
 hoping it would help her to regain her peace of mind. 
 So the next day saw her on her way to Caer Madoc, 
 driven by her uncle in the rickety old gig which had 
 carried him on his preaching expeditions for years. 
 Along the high road Malen bore them at a steady 
 trot, and when Valmai took her place in the coach, 
 and bid her uncle good-bye, she called to mind that 
 only two days ago Cardo had been its occupant, and 
 her heart was full of wistful longings. Yes, she felt 
 she was a foolish girl, but she was always intending 
 to grow into a sensible and useful ivife; and, with 
 this virtuous intention in her mind, she tried to banish 
 all vain regrets, and a serious, composed little look 
 came over her mouth. 
 
 Arrived at Fordsea, she sought for her uncle's 
 house ; it was in Reuben Street, she knew, and not 
 
IRcuben Street 
 
 153 
 
 far from the docks. Reaching the roadway, she 
 caught sight of the foaming white waves in the har- 
 bour, and wondered how far the Burrawalla had 
 already got on her way towards the Antipodes. 
 
 " Captain Powell of The Thishe ? " said a lounging 
 sailor who was passing, with his hands in his pockets 
 and his cap very much at the back of his head. " Yes, 
 miss, Aye knows him well. It's not far from here, 
 and Ay'll be passing his door. Will Aye carry your 
 bag ? " 
 
 And, not waiting for an answer, he hoisted it on 
 his shoulder, and signed to her to follow him. He 
 was right ; she had not far to go before she reached 
 the little, uneven row of houses called Reuben Street, 
 at one of which an old woman, with bucket and cloth, 
 was preparing to wash the doorstep. 
 
 " Here's the young leddy come," said the sailor, 
 pushing the portmanteau into the passage. 
 
 " Will I pay you something ? " said Valmai, 
 nervously fingering her purse. 
 
 " Aw naw, nawthin' at all," said the sailor, hurrying 
 away, with a flush on his face that showed her her 
 hesitation had not been unwarranted. 
 
 In fact, Jim Harris considered himself a " friend of 
 the family," and had gone to the station with the 
 express intention of meeting the ** young leddy." 
 Having for years sailed under Captain Powell, he still 
 haunted his house whenever he was on dry land. 
 Every morning he went in to shave him, and in the 
 evening he mixed his toddy for him and made him 
 comfortable for the night, expecting and receiving no 
 more than the friendship and grateful thanks of the 
 old man who had, not so long ago, been his captain. 
 
154 
 
 3Bs 3Berwen Banhs. 
 
 Having deposited the portmanteau, Valmai had 
 scarcely time to thank him before he had slouched 
 away with a polite touch of his cap. 
 
 " My uncle lives here ? Captain Powell." 
 
 " Yes, miss, and thank the Lord you've come, for 
 Ay've bin ewt on the road looking for you twenty 
 taimes to-day, though Ay towld him you couldn't 
 come afore the train. There he is, knocking again. 
 You go up to him, miss, that's all he wants. Ay'll 
 bring your bag up, honey. There's your room, 
 raight a-top of the stayurs ; and there's your uncle's 
 door on the first landing. Ye'll hear him grumb- 
 ling." And, following these instructions, Valmai 
 knocked at the first door she came to. 
 
 " Come in, and be tarnished to you," said an 
 extraordinarily gruff voice; and, almost before she 
 had time to enter the room, a heavy book came 
 flying at her. Fortunately, it missed its aim, and she 
 stood for a moment irresolute at the door, while her 
 uncle, without looking at her, continued to rail at his 
 much-enduring domestic, whom he was accustomed 
 to manage by swearing at and flattering in turns. 
 His voice was a guttural rumbling, which seemed to 
 come from some cavernous bronchial depths. 
 
 " Ain't the little gel come yet ? " 
 
 " Uncle, here I am," said Valmai, approaching the 
 bed with a frightened look, though she tried to put 
 on a placid smile. 
 
 The shaggy head turned on its pillow. 
 
 " Hello and so you are ; in spite of that old 
 witch saying for the last hour that you couldn't 'acome 
 yet. Come here, my beauty, and shake hands with 
 
IReubcn Street 
 
 155 
 
 your old uncle. Ay've got one hand, you see, to 
 shake with you." 
 
 " Yes, uncle, and to throw books at me when I 
 come in." 
 
 There was a low, gurgling laugh, which deepened 
 the colour in the old man's face so much that 
 Valmai, fearing he was going to have a fit, hastened 
 to say something quiet and calming. 
 
 " I came as soon as I could, uncle. We were so 
 sorry to hear of your accident. How did it happen?" 
 
 " The Lord knows, my dear, Ay don't, for Ay've 
 walked up that street four or five times every day the 
 last faive years, and never done such a thing afore. 
 But there — " and he began to gurgle again, to 
 Valmai's horror, " there must always be a beginning 
 to everything, so Ay slipped on a d — d stone, some- 
 how or other, and, being no light weight, broke my 
 leg, and sprained my wrist into the bargain. Take 
 off your things, may dear. Are you up for nursing an 
 old man till he's well again ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I'll do my best, whatever," said Valmai, 
 taking off her hat and cloak. " Uncle Essec said 1 
 was to stay until you were quite well." 
 
 " That's raight. Ay knew you'd come, my gel, 
 though that old devil wanted me to think that 
 perhaps you wouldn't. * She'll come,' ay sez, ' and if 
 she's like her father she'll come almost afore she's 
 asked.' So ready, he was ; and so kind And how's 
 old Essec? Got his nose buried in them mouldy 
 books same as ever ? " 
 
 "Just the same," said Valmai. "Shall I take my 
 things lo my own room ? " 
 
 " Yes, may dear. It's the little room a-top of this. 
 
„ m «>' 
 
 156 
 
 3Bg Bcrweu 3Banft0» 
 
 i#i 
 
 i 
 
 Where's that old hag now ? She ought to be here to 
 show you your room, ' and reaching a heavy stick, 
 which stood by his bedside, he knocked impatiently 
 on the bare boarded floor, calling Mrs. Finch ! Mrs. 
 Finch ! so loudly at the same time, that Valmai 
 seriously feared he would burst a blood vessel. 
 
 " Deaf as a post," he said, gasping. 
 
 "Leave it to me, uncle; don't tire yourself. She 
 has shown mc my room, and there she is taking my 
 bag up Now, see how quickly I'll be back, and 
 bring you a nice cup of tea, and one for myself in the 
 bargain, for I am famishing," and she left the room 
 with a cheerful nod towards the old man. 
 
 " Bless her purty face ! " said the rumbling voice 
 when the door was closed. " Ay don't want her cup 
 o' tea ! Never could bear the slosh , but Ay'm blest 
 if Ay won't drink it to the dregs to please her. * 
 
 In a very short time Valmai returned, carrying a 
 tray laid out neatly with tea-things for two , and, 
 drawing a little round table towards the bed, placed 
 the tray upon it, while Mrs Finch brought in some 
 slices of cold ham. 
 
 " There, you see," said Valmai, " I'm making 
 myself quite at home. I asked Mrs. Finch for that 
 ham." 
 
 *' Of course you did, may dear ! Didn't Ay tell 
 you, you old addlepate," he said, turning to poor Mrs. 
 Finch whose only desire seemed to be to find a 
 place for the ham and get out of the room — " didn't 
 Ay tell you the HI gel would come ? " 
 
 " Iss you did — many taimes to-day," said Mrs. 
 Finch, while the old man fumbled about for another 
 book to throw after her. 
 
IReuben Street. 
 
 157 
 
 Valmai laughed, but chidcci gently : 
 
 " Oh, poor old thing, uncle ! She flew about like 
 lightning to get the tea ready. Now, here's a lovely 
 cup of tea ! " 
 
 ••Ah! It do smell beautiful!" And he allowed 
 himself to be raised up on his pillow, while he drank 
 the tea down at a gulp. 
 
 " Bravo ! uncle," said Valmai; " ready for another ? " 
 
 " Another ! Oh, dash it, no ; one's enough, may 
 dear. 'Twas very naice and refreshing. Now you 
 have your tea, and let me look at you." 
 
 And as Valmai partook of her tea and bread and 
 butter and ham, even his hospitable feelings were 
 satisfied. 
 
 •• Now I'm going to ring for Mrs. Finch to take 
 these things away, uncle ; no more books, mind ! " 
 
 •• No, no," he said, laughing ; *' she's had four 
 to-day, and a pair of slippers, and that'll do for one 
 day. After all, she's a good ole sole ! though why 
 sole more than whiting or mackerel Ay never could 
 make ewt She knows me and my ways, may 
 dear, and Ay pay her well. Eight shillings a week 
 regular ! and she only comes at ten and leaves at 
 faive. Oh I bless you, she knows when she's well off, 
 or she wouldn't put up with the books and slippers. 
 Ay know 'em ! " he added, with a shrewd wink, 
 which set Valmai laughing again. When Mrs Finch 
 came in for the tray he was quite amiable. •• Well, 
 ole gel," he said, •• this is the night for your wages, 
 isn't it ? " 
 
 '• Iss, sir," said the woman, with a sniff and a bob 
 curtsey. 
 
 " There's my purse. Count it out to her, may 
 
^:f^ 
 
 1 
 
 158 
 
 3Bi? 3Benven JSanfts. 
 
 
 dear. iM'ght shillings, every pcnii)', and there's a 
 shilling overhead for good luck, Mrs. Finch, becos 
 the HI gel has come to manage the ship for us. 
 Now remember, she's capting now and you're the 
 mate." 
 
 *' Iss, sir, and thank you," said Mrs. Finch, disap- 
 pearing with practised celerity through the doorway. 
 
 And so Valmai took her place at once as " captain " 
 of her uncle's house, and, in spite cf his gruff ways 
 and his tremendous voice, she felt more at home with 
 him than with Essec Powell, for here her presence 
 was valued, and she felt sure that she had a place in 
 the old man's warm heart. 
 
 She slept heavily through the next night, and in 
 the morning awoke refreshed, and with a feeling of 
 brightness and cheerfulness which she had not ex- 
 pected to feel so soon. Her new life would give her 
 plenty to do, to fill up every hour and to drive out 
 all useless regrets and repinings. 
 
 Deep in her heart lay the one unsatisfied longing. 
 Nothing could alter that ; nothing could heal the 
 wound that Cardo's departure had made except the 
 anticipation of his return. Yes, that day would 
 come ! and until then she would bear her sorrow 
 with a brave heart and smiling face. The weather 
 continued rough and stormy, and, looking out ! -i 
 her bedroom window, the grey skies and win pt 
 streets made no cheerful impression upon her. The 
 people, the hurrying footsteps^ and the curious Pem- 
 brokeshire accent, gave her the impression of having 
 travelled to a foreign country, all was so different 
 to the peaceful seclusion of the Berwen banks. It 
 was a " horrid dull town," she thought and with the 
 
IReuben Street 
 
 159 
 
 consciousness of the angry white harbour which she 
 had caught sight of on her arrrival, her heart sank 
 within her ; but she bravely determined to put a 
 good face on her sorrow. On the second morning 
 after her arrival she was sitting on the window-seat 
 in her uncle's room, and reading to him out of the 
 newspaper, when the bang of the front door and a 
 quick step on the stair announced the doctor's 
 arrival. 
 
 " Well, captain," he said, " and how is the leg 
 getting on ? " 
 
 He was a bright, breezy-looking man, who gave 
 one the impression of being a great deal in the open 
 air, and mixing much with the " sailoring." Indeed, 
 he was rather nautical in his dress and appearance. 
 
 "You have a nurse, I see," he added, looking at 
 Valmai with a shrewd, pleasant glance. 
 
 " Yes," said the captain, " nurse and housekeeper in 
 one. She is may niece, poor Robert's daughter, you 
 know." 
 
 " Ah ! to be sure," said the doctor, shaking hands 
 with her. " He went out as a missionary, didn't 
 he?" 
 
 "Yes, to Patagonia, more fool he," said the captain. 
 " Leaving his country for the sake of them niggers, 
 as if there wasn't plenty of sinners in Wales for him 
 to preach to. But there, he was a good man, and 
 Ay'm a bad 'un," and he laughed, as the gh very 
 well satisfied with this state of affairs. 
 
 " Have you heard the news ? " said the doctor, 
 while he examined the splints of the broken leg. 
 
 " No, what is it?" rumbled the captain. 
 
 "Why, the Burrawalla has put back for repairs, 
 
'tt^^-^MMMMMiAN 
 
 ■Big 
 
 160 
 
 B? Berwen Banfts. 
 
 Just seen her tugged in — good deal damaged ; they 
 say, a collision with the steam-ship, Ariadne. 
 
 " By gosh ! that's bad. That's the first accident 
 that's ever happened to Captain Owen, and he's been 
 sailing the last thirty years to my knowledge. Well, 
 Ay'm tarnished, but Ay'm sorry." 
 
 " Always stops with you ? " inquired the doctor. 
 
 *' Yes, has all his life. There's the little back 
 parlour and the bedroom behind it always kept for 
 him." 
 
 " Well, you are going on very nicely. Now for the 
 wrist." 
 
 The captain winced a little and swore a good deal 
 while his wrist was under manipulation. It evidently 
 pained him more than the broken leg. 
 
 "What the blazes are your about, doctor ? Le: ve 
 it alone — do." 
 
 " Come, come, now that's all over. You must 
 mind and keep ft very quiet. No shying of books 
 and things, remember. Well, good-bye; come and 
 see you again to-morrow. I daresay you'll see 
 Captain Owen by and by. Good-bye, my dear," 
 turning to Valmai, "take care c ' your uncle." And 
 like a gust of wind he ran down the stairs, banged 
 the front door, and was gone. 
 
 Valmai had dropped her paper and listened 
 breathlessly to his communications, and she was 
 sitting, pale and silent, as a tumult of exciting 
 thoughts rushed into her mind. 
 
 "The Burraivalia come back! damaged! a collision! 
 And Cardo, where was he ? Was it possible that the 
 dull grey town contained her lover ? " 
 
 " Well, to be sure, here's a pretty kettle of fish," 
 
IReuben Street 
 
 161 
 
 said her uncle, using strong connpulsion to adapt his 
 words to the squeamishness of a " lil gel." " Here's 
 the Burrawalla, Valmai, put back for repairs, may 
 friend Captain Owen's ship, you know. Sech a thing 
 has never happened afore. You'll have to put his 
 rooms ready, may dear, and laight a fayer by 'm by, 
 for he's sure to be here to-night. You'll look after 
 him, won't you ? '' 
 
 " Yes, uncle, I'll do rny best, whatever. I had better 
 go and get his sheet*- aired at once." And she left 
 the room, glad to hide her pale face and trembling 
 hands from her uncle. 
 
 Once outside the bedroom door, she crossed her 
 hands on her bosom, as though to stop the tumultuous 
 beating of her heart. What was going to happen ? 
 Should she hear Cardo's name from Captain 
 Owen ? Could she find her way to the docks ? and 
 as a gleam of sunlight shone in through the little 
 window in the linen cupboard, she thought what a 
 bright and happy place Fordsea was after all. 
 
 She hurried through her domestic preparations, 
 and then, after a consultation with her uncle, made 
 an expedition into the market, ordering supplies for 
 the following days. When she returned, the front 
 door was open, and, entering the passage, she heard 
 loud voices in her uncle's room, and gent pushing 
 the door open, saw a rough-bearded, blue-eyed man 
 standing by the bedside. 
 
 " Well, that's all settled, then ; you'll let the young 
 man have my rooms? 'Twill only be for two or 
 three days. And this is your niece? Well, upon 
 my word, I begin to repent of my bargain. Hard 
 lines for me ! to be tied to the docks night and 
 
-i^w" 
 
 , '"ll'niW 
 
 If 
 
 162 
 
 'SS^ Berwcn 3Banh6« 
 
 iiit| 
 
 i 
 
 m 
 I'll i I 
 
 ^':i 
 
 day to watch those repairs, while my young friend 
 comes here to be taken care of and fussed about 
 by my old friend and such a pretty girl." 
 
 Valmai felt disappointed ; she had hoped to learn 
 something from their guest of Cardo and his 
 whereabouts. 
 
 '* I am sorry," she said, as he took his departure, 
 "that you can't stay here." 
 
 The gallant captain taking her hand, looked 
 admiringly at the blushing face. 
 
 " By Jove, and so am I ; but dooty is dooty, 
 my dear, especially your dooty to your ship. 
 Good-bye, come and see you again soon." And 
 once more Valmai was left to conflicting emotions. 
 
 The day passed quickly, while she divided her 
 attention between her uncle's wants and her pre- 
 parations for the guest who was to arrive about 
 six o'clock. Mrs. Finch would prepare the tea and 
 roast the fowl which was to accompany it, and 
 Valmai added little dainty touches of flowers and 
 lights for the table. 
 
 " We won't light the candles till he knocks at 
 the door ; and when he has once sat down to his 
 meal, I can manage about taking it out ; but I am 
 very nervous. I wonder what he will be like." 
 
 Her uncle knocked and called incessantly, giving 
 fresh directions and asking innumerable questions, 
 in his anxiety that his friend's friend should be made 
 comfortable under his roof At last everything was 
 ready, a bright fire burning in the grate threw its 
 glow through the open door of the adjoining bed- 
 room, and flickered on the prettily-arranged 
 dressing-table. All looked cosy and home-like, and 
 
 III 
 
IReuben Street, 
 
 163 
 
 s, 
 de 
 as 
 lits 
 d- 
 
 when everything was completed, Valmai retired to 
 put on a fresh frock of white serge. 
 
 " Jiis name is Gwynn," said her uncle at last, while 
 she listened breathlessly to the opening of the front 
 door, and the entrance of the stranger. 
 
 " This is Captain Powell's house ? " said a voice 
 which set Valmai's pulses throbbing, and all the 
 blood in her body rushed to her face and head. 
 For a moment she felt dizzy, and she all but dropped 
 the tray which she was holding for her uncle. 
 
 " Don't you be afraid, may dear," said the captain 
 consolingly. " Captain Owen tells me he's a ra-al 
 gentleman, and they are always easily pleased. He 
 won't look at you, may dear ; but, by Jingo, if he 
 does, Ay'm not ashamed of you. Now, you go 
 down, and make a nice curtsey, may dear, not like 
 Mrs. Finch makes it, you know, but as. Ay bet, 
 you have larnt it at the dancing school ; a scrape 
 behind with one foot, you know, and hold your 
 frock with two hands, and then say, ' My uncle 
 hopes you will make yourself quite at home, 
 
 » » 
 
 sir. 
 
 " Oh, uncle ! " said Valmai, in despair, " he's not 
 come out yet froin his bedroom. Won't I wait 
 till he is seated down at his tea, and till Mrs. Finch 
 has gone ? " 
 
 '• Well, confound the ole 'ooman," said the captain, 
 knocking violently on the floor, " where is she 
 now ? Why don't she come and tell me how he's 
 getting on ? Roast fowl nicely browned, may dear ? 
 Egg sauce?" 
 
 " Yes, and sausages, uncle. There, he is come 
 out now, and Mrs. Finch is taking the fowl in ; he 
 
■MB 
 
 164 
 
 3B5 JSerwcn Banfts, 
 
 iir 
 
 'm§ 
 
 is saying something to her and laughing. Now he 
 is quite quiet," said the girl. 
 
 " Of course ; he's attending to business." And 
 for the next quarter of an hour, Valmai had the 
 greatest difficulty in restraining her uncle's im- 
 patience. 
 
 " Let him have time to finish, uncle ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; of course, may dear, we'll give him 
 time." 
 
 " I can now hear Mrs. Finch say, Is there anything 
 else, sir ? So she is going. Yes, there, she has shut 
 the front door. Oh, dear, dear ! Now if he rings, I 
 must go in." 
 
 "Oh, dear, dear," said the captain, in an irritable 
 voice, *' what is there to oh, dear, dear, about ? You 
 go down and do as Ay tell you, and you can just say, 
 as the ladies do, you know, * I hope your tea is to 
 your laiking, sir.' Go now, at once." And as she 
 went, with hesitating footsteps, he threw an encourag- 
 ing " Good gel " after her. 
 
 
: 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE WEB OF FATE. 
 
 Arrived on the door-mat of the h'ttie parlour, where 
 Cardo Wynne was coming to an end of a repast 
 which showed by its small remnants that it had been 
 thoroughly appreciated. Valmai fell into a tremor of 
 uncertainty. Was it Cardo? Yes, she could not be 
 mistaken in the voice ; but how would he take her 
 sudden appearance ? Would he be glad ? Would 
 he be sorry? And the result of her mental conflict 
 was a very meek, almost inaudible knock. 
 
 " Come in," shouted Cardo from within. Another 
 pause, during which Cardo said, '« Why the deuce 
 don't you come in ? " 
 
 The door was slowly opened, and there appeared 
 Valmai, blushing and trembling as if she had been 
 caught in some delinquency. 
 
 For a moment Cardo was speechless with astonish- 
 ment, but not for long, for, in answer to Valmai's 
 apologetic, "Oh! Cardo, it's me; it's only me, what- 
 ever! she was folded in his arms, and pressed so 
 close to his heart that her breath came and went in a 
 gasp half of fright and half of delight. 
 
 " Gracious heavens ! What does it mean ? " he 
 said, holdmg her at arms' length. "My own little 
 wild sea-bird ! My little white dove ! My darling 
 
.i»a,i. i 'uin iw 
 
 JUt'lSi 
 
 I li 
 
 1G6 
 
 B^ JSerwen iBanfts. 
 
 my wife ! Where have you flown from? How are 
 you here ? " 
 
 They were interrupted by a thundering knock on 
 the floor above them. Cardo started. "What is 
 that?" he said. 
 
 Valmai laughed as she somewhat regained her 
 composure. 
 
 " It is Uncle John," she said. " Wait while I run 
 up to him, and then I will come back and explain 
 everything." 
 
 " Uncle John ! " said Cardo in bewilderment, as he 
 saw through the doorway the graceful white figure 
 flit up the narrow stairs. "Uncle John! Can that 
 be Captain Tovvell? Of course, old Essec's brother, 
 no doubt. 1 have heard they are Pembrokeshire 
 people." 
 
 " Well, how is he getting on ? " said the old man, 
 as Valmai entered blushing. 
 
 " Oh, all right, uncle ! there isn't much of the fowl 
 left, so I'm sure he enjoyed it." 
 
 " That's raight, may gel, that's raight. Now make 
 him as comfortable as you can. May jar of tobacco 
 is down there somewhere, and there's a bottle of 
 whisky in the corner cupboard. Ay hear Jim Harris 
 coming to the door ; now don't disturb me any more, 
 and tell Mr. Gwyn Ay '11 be happy to see him to- 
 morrow. Now, mind, no larks." 
 
 '* No what ? " said Valmai, with puckered eye- 
 brows. 
 
 " Larks, larks ! Don't you know what ' larks ' are, 
 child ? Ay bet you do, with that pretty face of 
 yours." 
 
 Valmai still looked puzzled. 
 
 il 
 
XTbe mcb of jfate. 
 
 167 
 
 |re, 
 
 of 
 
 "Well, 'high jinks,' then; flirtation, then; will that 
 suit your ladyship ? " 
 
 " Oh, flirtation ! Very well, uncle, good-night." 
 And after a kiss and another "good gel," Valmai 
 passed Jim at the doorway, and went slowly down- 
 stairs. 
 
 Cardo stood at the bottom awaiting her with wide 
 open arms. 
 
 ** Come, come, Valmai ; how slow you are, 
 fanwylyd. I am waiting for you. What made you 
 step so slowly down the stairs ? " he said, as he drew 
 her towards him ; ** you should have flown, dearest." 
 
 " I was thinking," said Valmai. 
 
 " And of what ? " 
 
 "Thinking whether I had told uncle an untruth. 
 He said, * no flirtations,' 'larks,' he called it; and I 
 said, * Very well, uncle,' and I was wondering 
 whether husband and wife could flirt." 
 
 Cardo laughed heartily. 
 
 "Come and sit by me, Valmai," he said, "and let 
 us see. Come and explain to me how, in the name 
 of all that is wonderful and delightful, I find you 
 here, with your head nestled on my shoulder, instead 
 of being separated from me by wind and wave, as, 
 in the natural course of events, you should have 
 been ? " 
 
 " Well, you see, Cardo, when you passed the stile 
 on Thursday (oh, that sad Thursday !) " — Ccirdo 
 shared in the shiver which shook her — " I was there, 
 to catch a last glimpse of you ; but I was afraid to 
 show myself because of the * Vicare du,' so I shrank 
 down behind the hedge till you had passed, and 
 then I stood up and waved my handkerchief, and 
 
--asEsacs 
 
 J 
 
 ■' f. 
 
 168 
 
 1B^ :)Betwen JBanfis* 
 
 '' '"il 
 
 B 
 
 I.* 
 
 u 
 
 then you were gone ; and I fell down on the moss, 
 and cried dreadfully. Oh, Cardo, 1 did feel a big 
 rent in my heart. I never thought it was going to 
 be mended so soon ; and I roamed about all day, 
 and tried hard to keep my sorrow out of my 
 thoughts, but I couldn't ; it was like a heavy weight 
 here." And she crossed her hands on her bosom. 
 " All that day, and all the next, I went about from 
 place to place, but not to the Berwen, I could not 
 walk there without you ; and the next norning, 
 when I came back from Ynysoer, where I had been 
 to see Nance, I found my uncle reading a letter. 
 It was from Jim Harris, the sailor, who does every- 
 thing for Uncle John, to say he had broken his leg, 
 and would i come and nurse him ? And indeed, I 
 was very glad, whatever, to have something to do ; 
 so I came at once. Uncle Essec drove me to Caer 
 Madoc, and I thought what a dull, grey town Ford- 
 sea was, until this morning when the doctor came 
 and said the Burrawalla had come back for repairs ; 
 and then the sun seemed to shine out, and when I 
 went out marketing, I could not think how I had 
 made such a mistake about Fordsea. It is the 
 brightest, dearest place ! " 
 
 " It is Paradise," said Cardo. 
 
 "There's Jim Harris going! I must go and lock 
 the door " 
 
 " Everything is all raight, miss, and Ay wish you 
 good-night," said Jim, as he went out. He went 
 through the same formula every night. 
 
 " Now for my part of the story," said Cardo, when 
 she returned. 
 
 " First let me take the tea-things away, Cardo." 
 
J 
 
 XTbe Meb ot fate. 
 
 169 
 
 .# •' 
 
 -^ 
 
 :n 
 
 " No, no, bother the tea-things ; let them be for a 
 while, Valmai. I forbid your carrying them away at 
 present, and, you know, you have promised to obey." 
 
 *' Yes, indeed, and to love you, and no one ever 
 did love anybody as much as I love you. Oh, I am 
 sure of it. No, indeed, Cardo. Not more, what- 
 ever, but you know, you know," and her head 
 drooped low, so that he had to raise her chin to 
 look into her face. 
 
 " I know what ? I know you are my wife, and 
 no earthly power can separate us now. Where is 
 your ring, dearest? It should be on this little finger." 
 
 " No, it is here," and Valmai pressed her hand 
 on her neck ; " you know I was to wear it here 
 instead of on my finger until next year." 
 
 "Until I came back, darling; and until I took it 
 off myself and placed it on your finger. Come, wifie, 
 where is it ? " 
 
 Valmai allowed herself to be persuaded, and 
 Cardo, undoing the white satin ribbon, drew off the 
 ring, and placed it on her finger. She looked at it 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " Am I, then, really your wife, Cardo?" 
 
 " Really and truly, Valmai ; signed, sealed, and 
 delivered," he said , " and let me see the man who 
 dares to come between us ! " and his black eyes 
 flashed with a look of angry defiance which Valmai 
 had not seen there before. 
 
 " Oh, anwl ! I hope your eyes will never look like 
 that at me," she said. 
 
 " But they will," said Cardo, laughing, " if you are 
 the culprit who tries to divide us. You don't know 
 how fierce I can be." 
 
3= 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 15! 
 
 '■i 
 
 1: 
 
 
 f 
 
 I 
 
 il: 
 
 ■ li 
 
 V 
 
 
 b 
 
 ^* 
 
 170 
 
 3By> 3Bcrwcn JSanfts. 
 
 " Please, sir, can I take the tea-things now ? " 
 
 "On condition that you come back at once. No, 
 let me carry them out for you, dearest ; you shall not 
 begin by waiting upon me." 
 
 •* Oh, but I must, Cardo, for old Mrs. Finch goes 
 home when she has brought the tea in al- 
 ways." 
 
 And she laughed merrily at Cardo's clumsy efforts 
 at clearing away. As she opened the door into the 
 passage a tremendous roaring and snorting filled 
 the air. 
 
 " What on earth is that ? " said Cardo. 
 
 " It is my uncle snoring, and if you dropped that 
 tray (which I am afraid you will) the clatter wouldn't 
 awake him." 
 
 " Good old man ! let him rest, then. You are not 
 going to wash up those things ? " 
 
 " No, Mrs. Finch will do that in the morning. And 
 now, Cardo, I must do what my uncle told me to do," 
 she said, as they returned into the cosy parlour, 
 glowing with the light of the blazing fire ; and, 
 holding up her dress with her two fingers, she made a 
 prim little curtsey, and said : 
 
 " I hope your tea has been to your liking, sir ? 
 And now for the rest of my duty. Here is his jar of 
 tobacco, and here is the kettle on the hob, and here is 
 the bottle of whisky, and here are the slippers which 
 I had prepared for you." 
 
 ** Little did I think, Valmai, it was you who had 
 made everything look so cosy and sweet for me — 
 these flowers on the table and all those pretty fal-lals 
 on my dressing-table. Little did I think it was my 
 little wife who had prepared them all for me. But as 
 
Ubc mc\> of jfate. 
 
 171 
 
 I entered the front door a strange feeling ofliai)piness 
 and brightness came over me." 
 
 " And I knew the first tone of your voice, Cardo. 
 Oh, I would know it anywhere — among a thou- 
 sand." 
 
 There were innumerable questions for the one to 
 ask and the other to answer as they sat in the glow- 
 ing firelight. First, there was the description of the 
 repairs required by Captain Owen's ship — " Jilesscd 
 repairs, Valmai ! " — and the extraordinary special 
 Providence which had caused the ss. Ariadne to 
 collide at midships with the Burrawalla^ and, more- 
 over, so to damage her that Cardo's berth and those 
 of the three other inmates of his cabin would alone 
 be disturbed by the necessary repairs. 
 
 " Captain Owen thinks we shall be ready to sail in 
 three days, so it is not worth while writing to my 
 father," said Cardo. " The thick fog which looked so 
 dismal as I drove into Caer Madoc with him — how 
 little I guessed it would culminate in the darkness 
 which brought about the collision, and so unite me 
 with my beloved wife. Valmai, if Providence ever 
 arranged a marriage, it was yours and mine, dearest." 
 
 " But, Cardo—" 
 
 "'But me no buts,' my lovely white sea-bird. 
 Nothing can alter the fact that you are my own little 
 wife." 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Valmai, ** but if you love me 
 as much as you say you do, grant me one request, 
 Cardo." 
 
 " A hundred, dearest ; what is it ? " 
 
 " Well, we have had to be deceitful and secret — 
 more so than I have ever been in my life. We could 
 
iS 
 
 172 
 
 36\? Bcnven 36anh0. 
 
 ii 
 
 not help it ; but now, here, let us be open. Give me 
 leave to tell my uncle the truth." 
 
 " Valmai ! he will write at once to his brother, and 
 tiie news will reach my father, and it will break his 
 heart to find I have deceived him. No, let me be the 
 first to tell him. I shall have no hesitation in doin^ 
 so when I return this time next year." 
 
 '* But, Cardo, dear old Uncle John is quite a 
 different sort of man to my Uncle Essec or to your 
 father. I know he would never, never divulge our 
 secret ; he is kindness itself, and would, I know, feel 
 for us. And it would be such a comfort to me to 
 know that we had been open and above-board where 
 it was possible to be so. Cardo, say yes." 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes, dearest, I know, I feel you are 
 right, so tell him the whole truth. Oh, how proud 
 I should be to tell the whole world were it possible, 
 and how proud I s/ia/l be when I return, to publish 
 abroad my happiness. But until then, Valmai, you 
 will keep to your promise of perfect secrecy ? for I 
 would not for all the world that my father should 
 hear of my marriage from any lips but my own. 
 You promise, dearest ? " 
 
 " Cardo, I promise," and Valmai looked pensivel}' 
 into the fire. " A year is a long time," she said, 
 " but it will come to an end some time." 
 
 " Don't call it a year. I don't see why I should 
 not be back in eight or nine months." 
 
 The kettle sang and the bright fire gleamed, the 
 old captain snored upstairs, and thus began for 
 Valmai and Cardo that fortnight of blissful happi- 
 ness, which bore for both of them afterwards such 
 bitter fruits ; for upon overhauling the Burrawalla 
 
Xlbc Meb ot jfatc. 
 
 173 
 
 it was discovered that she had sustained more injury 
 than was at first suspected, and the two or three 
 days' delay predicted by Captain Owen were 
 lengthened out to a full fortnight, much to the 
 captain's chagrin and the unspeakable happiness of 
 Cardo and Valmai. 
 
 Next day at eleven A.M. Captain Powell was 
 lying in state, not with the trappings of mourning 
 around him, but decked out in a brilliant scarlet 
 dressing-gown, a yellow silk handkerchief bound 
 round his head for a night-cap. Jim Harris had 
 just shaved him, and as he left the room had said : 
 
 " There, capting, the Prince of Wales couldn't 
 look no better." 
 
 Valmai flitted about, putting the finishing touches 
 to her uncle's gorgeous toilet. 
 
 '* Do Ay look all raight, may dear ? " 
 
 " Oh, splendid, uncle, only I would like you better 
 in your plain white night shirt and my little gray 
 shawl pinned over you." 
 
 " Oh, go 'long ! with your shawls and your pins ! 
 You wait another month and Ay'U be kicking may 
 heels about on the quay free from all these old 
 women's shawls and dressing-gowns and things. 
 Now, you go and call the young man up." 
 
 And Valmai went and soon returned, bringing 
 Cardo with her. 
 
 *' Well, Mr. Gwyn, and how are you ? Very glad 
 to see you, sir, under may roof Hope you slept well, 
 and that the HI gel has given you a good breakfast." 
 
 *'0h, first rate, sir," said Cardo, shaking hands 
 and taking the chair which Valmai placed for him 
 beside the bed. 
 

 174 
 
 36>} Bcrwcn Banhs. 
 
 
 " Well, now, here's a quandary, the Ihirratvalla is 
 in ! but it's an ill wind that blows nobody any ^ood, 
 and sinc{^ you must be delayed, Ay'in very glad jt 
 has landed you here." 
 
 " The delay is of no consequence to me ; and it's 
 a wind I shall bless all my life." 
 
 " Well, Ay don't know what Captain Owen would 
 say to that nor the owners nayther. They wouldn't 
 join in your blessinjjjs, I expect." 
 
 Cardo felt he had made a mistake, and looked at 
 Valmai for inspiration. 
 
 "Mr. Wynne was rather hurried away, uncle, so 
 he was not sorry to come back." 
 
 Cardo nodded his thanks to Valmai, and the 
 captain and he \v'ere soon chatting unconstrainedly, 
 and when at last Cardo accepted a cigar from a 
 silver case which the captain drew from under his 
 pillow, his conquest of the old man's heart was 
 complete. 
 
 "If Ay am cooped up here in bed," he said, 
 " Ay'm not going to be denied may smoke, nor yet 
 may glass of toddy, though the doctor trayed hard 
 to stop it. * Shall Ay mix it a little weaker, sir?' sez 
 lim Harris. None of your tarnished nonsense. Ay 
 sez, you mix it as usual. Ay've stuck to my toddy 
 (just one glass or two at naight) for the last thirty 
 years, and it's not going to turn round on me, and 
 do me harm now. Eh, Mr. Gwyn ?" 
 
 Cardo lighted his cigar with an apology to Valmai. 
 
 •*0h, she's used to it," said the captain, "and if she 
 don't like it, she can go downstairs ; you'll want to 
 see about Mr. Gwyn's dmner, may dear." 
 
 "No, noj sir," said Cardo, "certainly not. I dine 
 
xrbe Meb ot ifatc. 
 
 175 
 
 every day with all the other passenj^jcrs oii bonrd the 
 Burrawaila. 1 shall come back to my tea, and I 
 hope your niece will always sit down to her tea and 
 breakfast with me." 
 
 *' Oh, well, if you laike. She's quaite fit to sit down 
 with any nobleman in the land." 
 
 Later on in the day, Valmai, sitting on the window- 
 seat reading out to her uncle from the daily [japer, 
 suddenly laid it aside. 
 
 "Rather a dull paper to-day, uncle!" 
 
 "Yes, rather, may dear ; but yc)U arc not reading as 
 well as usual ; " and she wasn't, for in truth she was 
 casting about in her mind for a good rjpcning for 
 her confession to her uncle. " Suppose you sing me 
 a song, may dear ! " 
 
 And she tried— 
 
 "By Herwen's banks my love hath strayed 
 For many a da\ iii sun and shade, 
 And as she < irolled loud and clear 
 The little birds flew down to lieaf ' 
 
 " That don't go as well as usual, too," said her uncle, 
 unceremoniously cutting short the ballad. " Haven't 
 you any more news to give me ? " 
 
 "vShall I tell you a story, uncle?" 
 
 'Well, what's it about, may dearr Anything to 
 pass the taime! Ay'm getting very taircd of lying 
 abed." 
 
 "Well then, listen uncle ; it's a true story." 
 
 "Oh, of course," said the old man. '"Is it true, 
 mother?' Ay i' ed 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." 
 
■JUIW... 
 
 \\Mmiimmmm 
 
 176 
 
 IB)) 3Berwen Banfts. 
 
 " 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, ?nd — 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 ti ese two men hated each other with a deadly 
 hatred, just like a story book." 
 
 " Yes, Ay know," said the old man ; " Hkc 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." 
 
 u 
 
XTbe mcb of fate. 
 
 177 
 
 " More fool he ! " said thv^ 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 
 passed on, and their parting was drawing near, and 
 the nearer it came the more miserable they were ; 
 and at last the lover begged his sweetheait 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 — th-.; 
 best, the kindest, the tenderest, the joUiest old man in 
 
 M 
 
':::''3^al0mmmm 
 
 m 
 
 PiiHI 
 
 I 
 
 ' 'I 
 
 178 
 
 J5p 3Bcrwen Banfts. 
 
 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 tar- 
 pauling, 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 Icng, 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, 
 
 
 am 
 
XTbe Meb of fate. 
 
 179 
 
 or 
 ner 
 
 as 
 lual 
 
 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 Burra- 
 walla, and when I heard she had returned a wild 
 hope came to me, and when I heard his voice in the 
 passage 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 any- 
 thing so jolly ever happened in may laife before. 
 And to think we have dodged the old father ! and 
 
 mma 
 
i li!' 
 
 180 
 
 3B5 JBcrwen Banfts. 
 
 the old uncle ! Why, that must be Elssec ! " and this 
 discovery was followed by a burst of rumbling 
 laughter, which set Valmai more at her case. 
 
 " 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 tr 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." 
 
 In a few moments Cardo bounded up, three steps 
 at a time, but not without fears as to the effect of 
 Valmai's revelation, for she had whispered to him as 
 she had let him out at the front door : 
 
 " I am going up to tell him now." 
 
 " Well Ay never ! " said the Captain, with pretended 
 
 ■ 
 
Ubc TOeb of jfate. 
 
 181 
 
 severity ; " how dare you show your face to me after 
 stcah'nq^ may lil gei from under may very nose? 
 Come here, you rascal, and shake hands over it ! 
 Wish you joy, may dear fellow ! And the lil one, 
 where is she ? Come here, you lil fool ! What are 
 you hiding there for ? Come and put your hand in 
 your husband's. There now ! that's something like 
 it. And God bless you. S'> you're husband and 
 wife, are ye ? " looking critically from one to the 
 other. "Well, ye're a jolly good-looking pair! And 
 so ye're married, are ye ? " 
 
 " With your permission, sir," said Cardo, laughing, 
 " and with your blessing upon us. I am so thankful 
 to feel I shall not be leaving Valmai without a friend 
 when I sail." 
 
 " No, no, not without a friend. Ay'll stick to her. 
 But, look here, keep it all dark from old Finch ! " 
 And he seemed bursting with the importance and 
 pleasure of his secret. " You go down to your tea, 
 may dears ; Ay ain't going to be a selfish old uncle. 
 No, no, go along with you, both of you, and send old 
 Finch up to me. But look here ! " he called after 
 them, in a hoarse whisper, " mum's the word ! " 
 
 The sun shone brilliantly, and the weather seemed 
 to repent of its late burst of temper. Never had 
 there been such a lovely September ! Never had the 
 harbour glistened so brightly in the sunshine, and 
 never since he had broken his leg had the captain 
 laughed so heartily or enjoyed himself so thoroughly 
 as he did during the fortnight which followed, when 
 Cardo read to him out of the newspaper and Valmai 
 sang at her work about the house. 
 
^p 
 
 f '■ 1. •- """.:~ Ji 
 
 I 
 
 182 
 
 3Bs Berwen JSanfts* 
 
 Captain Owen came in every day with news of the 
 repairs. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Wynne," he said one morning, " I am 
 happy to tell you we shall sail to-morrow afternoon." 
 
 Cardo's heart sank, and Valmai turned very pale. 
 
 " Your cabin is being refitted to-day, and I shall 
 be glad if you can come on board by four o'clock 
 to-morrow afternoon. There's every promise of 
 fine weather. No more fogs, no more collisions, I 
 hope." 
 
 " I'll take care to be on board in good time," Cardo 
 said. 
 
 " Tarnished if Ay won't be awful dull without 
 you ! " said Captain Powell. " He's been as jolly, 
 and as much at home here as you would yourself, 
 Owen ! He's read to me and he's brought me cigars, 
 and always with a smile on his face ; and Ay hope 
 he's bin comfortable here." 
 
 " Thoroughly, indeed," said Cardo. " I shall never 
 forget the fortnight I have passed under your roof." 
 
 ** The lil gel has done her best. Ay know," said his 
 host. 
 
 " A year I think you said you were going out for," 
 f^aid Captain Owen. 
 
 "Well, I hope to be away only eight or nine 
 months ; certainly not longer than a year," said 
 Cardo. 
 
 And while the two old sea captains bade their last 
 good-byes and good wishes to each other, Cardo 
 slipped out to find Valmai, who had quietly dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 She was sitting on the old red sofa in the little 
 back parlour in an abandonment of grief. 
 
 
 
TCbe Meb of fate. 
 
 183 
 
 " Oh ! Cardo, Cardo, it has come ! Now in reality 
 it has come ! " 
 
 Cardo drew her towards him. 
 
 " Cheer up, darh'ng," he said. " You'll be brave for 
 my sake, won't you ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said, trying to check her sobs, " this is 
 the last time I am going to be weak and childish. 
 To-morrow I will be strong and brave and womanly. 
 You will see, Cardo, a bright, courageous wife to 
 cheer her husband at parting, and to bid him look 
 forward with hope to meeting again. Oh! I know 
 quite well what I ought to be." 
 
 •' You are perfection in my eyes, f'anwylyd— that 
 is what makes the parting with you so cruel. Gwynne 
 Ellis was quite right when he said that it would be 
 much harder to part with a wife of a week than a 
 sweetheart of a year." 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE " BLACK DOG." 
 
 in!v 
 
 During the next few weeks, Cardo Wynne was 
 
 generally to be seen pacing the deck of the Burra- 
 
 ivalla, playing with the children or chatting with 
 
 some of the passengers. He walked up and down, 
 
 with his hands sunk deep in his pockets, and cap 
 
 tied firmly under his chin, for there was a pretty 
 
 stiff breeze blowing, which developed later on in 
 
 the voyage into the furious gales and storms which 
 
 made that autumn so memorable for its numerous 
 
 v\ recks and casualties. Cardo was a great favourite 
 
 on board, his frank and genial manner, the merry 
 
 twinkle of his eye, and his tender politeness to the 
 
 very old or the very young had won all hearts. 
 
 With good-natured cheerfulness he entered into 
 
 the plans and pastimes of the youthful part of the 
 
 community, so that he had made a favourable 
 
 impression upon all, from the cabin boy to the 
 
 captain, and from the old general, who seldom left 
 
 his berth, to the big black retriever, who was 
 
 making his third voyage with his master to the 
 
 Antipodes. 
 
 " Always a pleasant smile on his face when you 
 
 speak to him," said one of the ladies to a friend 
 
 one day ; " but 1 think he has a rather sad look 
 
 184 
 
 il 
 
ZIbc **3Blacf? Doo." 
 
 185 
 
 sometimes, when he is pacing up and down with 
 his hands in his pockets." 
 
 "Yes," said the other, with a sentimental air, " I 
 wonder what he is thinking of at those times ! I'll 
 make love to the captain, and see if I can find 
 out something about him , they seem very ultimate. 
 We must try and cheer him up, dear." 
 
 " He doesn't seem to want much cheering up 
 now," said her friend, as Cardo passed them with 
 two other young men, who were enjoying a story 
 told by one of them, Cardo's merry laugh being 
 loudest and heartiest of the three. But — there ztuis 
 a sober, wistful look on his face sometimes which 
 was not habitual to it, and as the days sli[)ped on, 
 he might often be seen, leaning over the side of 
 the vessel with an anxious pucker on his forehead. 
 
 The parting with Valmai had, of course, been a 
 trying ordeal. With the fervour of a first and 
 passionate love, he recalled every word she had 
 spoken, every passing shade of thought reflected on 
 her face, and while these reveries occupied his mind, 
 there was a tender look in the deep black eyes and 
 a smile on his lips. But these pleasant memories 
 were apparently often followed by more perplexing 
 thoughts, One afternoon he had been standing for 
 some time lost in a dream, while he locked with 
 eyes that saw nothing over the heaving waters to 
 the distant horizon, when the captain's voice at 
 his elbow recalled him to his surroundings. 
 
 " You are looking at the very point of the wind, 
 the very eye of the storm." 
 
 " The storm ! " said Cardo, starting ; " are we 
 going to have one ? " 
 
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 li 
 
 The captain looked critically in the direction 
 towards which they were sailing. 
 
 " Dirty weather coming, I think." 
 
 " Yes, I see," said Cardo ; " I had not noticed it 
 before, though. How inky black the sky is over 
 there ! And the sea as black, and that white streak 
 on the line of the horizon ! " 
 
 " We shall have a bit of a toss," said the captain. 
 "Couldn't expect to get to Australia on a mill pond." 
 
 " Mill pond do you call the swells we have had 
 the last few days ? " 
 
 " Almost," replied the captain, leaving him uncere- 
 moniously, and shouting some orders to his crew. 
 
 Thus left, Carcio fell again into a deep reverie. 
 Yes, it looked black before them ! " But I have 
 always wished to see a storm at sea, and if I only 
 had Valmai with me, J should be joyous and 
 exultant ; but instead of that, I am alone, and 
 have a strange foreboding of some evil to come. 
 I can't be well, though I'm sure I don't know where 
 I ail, for I feel alright, and I eat like a horse." 
 
 " Come, Mr. Wynne," said one of the ladies, 
 who had marked his serious looks, " we must really 
 call you to account ! You have fallen into a brown 
 study again. You must let us cheer you up. We 
 can't have the very life of the party losing his spirits. 
 Now if you had left your wife at home, as Mr. 
 Dawson has ! " 
 
 " I have done that," said Cardo, " but I am not 
 at all likely to fall into low spirits. I have never 
 in my life known what that means ; but a man, 
 more especially a married man, must have his 
 moments of serious thought sometimes." 
 
 ' fc 
 
XTbe **3Blacft Dog/* 
 
 187 
 
 "Yes, of course," said the lady, with a consider- 
 able diminution of interest in "the handsome Mr. 
 Wynne ! " " You have left your little ones too, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " No," said Cardo, laughing, " I have none." 
 
 " Ah, indeed, that's a pity ! " and she took the 
 first opportunity of joining her friend, and telling her 
 of her discovery. 
 
 Cardo continued to look out to sea. No, bad 
 enough to leave Valmai, but " little ones " ? Would 
 that time ever come ? and as he pondered, a fresh 
 idea seemed to strike him. It was evidently a pain- 
 ful one, it stung him like the lash of a whip, and 
 clenching his hands, and muttering something 
 between his teeth, he roused himself hastily, and 
 joined a party of young people, who were amusing 
 themselves with the pranks of a little boy, who, 
 delighted with the notice taken of him, strutted 
 about and gave his orders, in imitation of the 
 captain. 
 
 " Oh, here's Mr. Wynne," said the little urchin, and 
 in a moment he was lifted on to Cardo's shoulder, 
 whooping with delight, and for the next hour, the 
 laugh was loudest and the fun most furious where 
 Cardo and his little friend were located. Before 
 long, however, the storm was upon them. Masts 
 creaked and cordage rattled ; the sails had been 
 lowered, and everything made safe, and Captain 
 Owen, standing on the bridge, looked energetic, and 
 " fit " to fight with the storm-fiend. The ladies soon 
 retired, and many of the gentlemen followed them 
 below, some of the yoimf^cr and hardier remaining 
 on deck. Amongst them v*as Cardo, who watched 
 
188 
 
 3B5 JSerwen JSanfts, 
 
 30 
 
 the fury of the elements as the wind tore down upon 
 them. Once, as the captain passed him, he asked, 
 •* I J there any danger ? " "I see none," was the 
 laconic reply. It satisfied Cardo, and he gave him- 
 self up to watch the grandeur of the storm. It was 
 natural that the thought of Valmai should enter his 
 mind, and that he should long for her presence ; but 
 it was not natural that he, a young and healthy man, 
 in the first flush of his manhood, should feel this 
 strange depression, this dark cloud hanging over him, 
 whenever he thought of his young wife. It was 
 unlike Cardo. If his life had been devoid of any 
 special interest or excitement, it had at least been 
 free from care. Not even his lonely childhood, or 
 his dull, old home had dimmed the brightness and 
 elasticity of his spirits. He had never had a cobweb 
 in his brain, and this har.nting shadow which followed 
 every sweet memory of his wife was beginning to 
 rouse his resentment, and while the storm raged 
 around him, and the ship ploughed her way through 
 the seething waters, Cardo Wynne, set himself with 
 manful determination to face the " black dog " which 
 had haunted him lately ; and somewhat in this 
 groove ran his thoughts. 
 
 "Valmai, sweet Valmai, I have left her; it could 
 not be helped. I will return to her on the wings of 
 love as soon as I have fulfilled my father's wishes." 
 But a year — had he provided fully and properly for 
 her happiness during that time? Money, amply 
 sufficient, he had left in her uncle's keeping for her, 
 as she had firmly refused to accept it herself. " I 
 shall not want it ; I have plenty for myself I have 
 twenty gold sovereigns in my little seal purse at 
 
Ubc "Biacft H)O0/' 
 
 18U 
 
 home, and I shall receive my next quarter's allow- 
 ance soon. No, no, Cardo, no money until we set up 
 house-keeping," and he had acceded to her wishes ; 
 but had, unknown to her, left a cheque in her uncle's 
 keeping. " Why did I claim from her that promise 
 of secrecy? What if circumstances might arise 
 which would make it impossible for her to keep it ? " 
 He knew that having given her promise to him, she 
 would rather die than break it. He had acted the 
 part of a selfish man, who had no thought, but of his 
 own passionate love ; the possible consequences to 
 her had not before occurred to his mind. But now, 
 in the stress of the storm, while the thunder rolled 
 above him, and the lightning flashed over the 
 swirling waters, everything seemed clear and plain. 
 He had done wrong, and he would now face the 
 wrong. Their happy meeting at Fordsea, as blissful 
 as it was unexpected, might be followed by times of 
 trouble for Valmai — times when she would desire to 
 make known her marriage ; and he had left her with 
 an embargo upon her only means of escape out of a 
 difficulty. Yes, the path was plain, he would write 
 to her and release her from her promise of secrecy.' 
 Better by far that his father should be angered than 
 that Valmai should suffer. Yes, it was plain to him 
 now; he had left the woman he loved in the 
 anomalous position of a married woman without a 
 husband. What trying scenes might she not pass 
 through ! What bitter fruits might not their brief 
 happiness bear ! 
 
 The next day they had cleared the storm, its fury 
 having been as short-lived as it was sudden. The 
 sea was gradually quieting down, and the sun shone 
 
7"^ 
 
 
 190 
 
 JSp JSerwen jBanfts. 
 
 if 
 
 f ' 
 
 II 
 I 
 
 m 
 
 'I 
 
 out bravely. The sails were unfurled and the 
 Burrawalla once more went gaily on her way. 
 
 Cardo had spent all the morning in writing ; he 
 would send his letter by the first opportunity. It 
 was full of all the tender expressions of love that 
 might be expected under the circumstances. His 
 pen could scarcely keep up with the flow of his 
 thoughts. " I have done wrong in making you 
 promise to keep our marriage a secre*:," he wrote, 
 "and I repent b'.tterly of my thoughtlessness. Many 
 things might happen which would make it absolutely 
 necessary that you should disclose it. For instance, 
 your uncle might die; what would then become of you ? 
 Certainly you would have your good old Uncle John 
 to fall back upon, and he is a host in himself. If any 
 circumstances should arise which would make it 
 desirable for you to do so, remember, dearest, it is 
 my express wish that you should make known to all 
 the world that you are Valmai Wynne, the beloved 
 wife of Caradoc Wynne." Page after page was 
 written with the lavish fervour of a first love-letter, 
 very interesting to the writer no doubt, but which we 
 will leave to the privacy of the envelope which Cardo 
 addressed and sealed with such care. He placed it 
 in his desk, not expecting that the opportunity for 
 sending it would so soon arrive. In the course of 
 the afternoon, there was some excitement on board, 
 for a large homeward bound ship was sighted, which 
 had been a good deal damaged by the storm. She 
 had been driven before the wind, and had borne the 
 brunt of the gale beibre it had reached the Burrawalla, 
 having sprung a leak which considerably impeded 
 her course. She hove to within hailing distance, 
 
 \(h^;;. 
 
XTbe *• 3BIacft Boo." 
 
 191 
 
 the 
 
 was 
 letter, 
 ich we 
 ICardo 
 Lced it 
 ity for 
 irse of 
 I board, 
 which 
 She 
 Ine the 
 \walla, 
 ipeded 
 itance, 
 
 and received the aid whicl^ the better condition of 
 Captain Owen's ship enabled him to confer. She 
 was The Dundee (Captain Elliotson), bound for Liver- 
 pool. All letters were delivered to her keeping, and 
 the ships went on their way, but to what different 
 destinations. The Dundee^ after a stormy passage, 
 was wrecked off the coast of France. The captain and 
 crew were saved, but the ship became a total wreck, 
 sinking at last in deep water ; and thus Cardo's letter 
 never reached Valmai. 
 
 Its transmission, however, relieved him of much of 
 the uneasiness which had hung over him, and his 
 usual cheerfulness returned in a great measure. 
 
 Meanwhile, Valmai hoped and longed for the 
 promised letter. 
 
 " Why does he not write, I wonder ? " was the 
 question continually uppermost in her thoughts. 
 
 The voyage of the Burrawalla was, on the whole, 
 prosperous, although, towards the end, she was much 
 delayed by adverse "/inds, so that Sydney harbour 
 was not reached until the end of the fourth month. 
 A further and unexpected delay arose from the illness 
 of a passenger who occupied a berth in Cardo'? cabin, 
 and as they were nearing their destination he died of 
 typhoid fever. Consequently the Burrawalla was 
 put into quarantine, of course to the great annoyance 
 and inconvenience of all on board. 
 
 " You are not looking well, Mr. Wynne," said the 
 doctor one day. 
 
 " Oh, I'm alright," said Cardo, " only impatient to 
 get on shore. I feel perfectly well. Why, my dear 
 doctor, I have never had a day's illness in my life, as 
 far as I can remember." 
 

 192 
 
 3By 3Berwen X^anfts. 
 
 II 
 
 " I can believe that," said the doctor ; •' and what a 
 splendid sailor you have been. But still, let me know 
 if you are not feeling well." 
 
 It was quite truj that Cardo had latterly experi- 
 enced some sensations to which he had hitherto been 
 a stranger — frequent headaches and loss of appetite ; 
 but, being of a very hardy temperament, he tried to 
 ignore the unpleasant symptoms, and waited for the 
 end of the quarantine with feverish impatience. 
 
 When at last they were allowed to land, he was 
 amongst the liveliest and most energetic of the 
 passengers. 
 
 He drove at once to the Wolfington Hotel, to which 
 he had been recommended by Captain Owen. As he 
 stepped out of the cab, the portico of the hotel seemed 
 strangely at loggerheads with the rest of the building. 
 He managed, however, to get safely inside the hall, 
 and, after engaging a bedroom, followed his conductor 
 up the stairs, though each step seemed to rise to meet 
 his foot in an unaccountable manner. 
 
 " A long sea voyage doesn't suit me, that's certain," 
 he soliloquised, as he entered the room and busied 
 himself at once with his luggage. He took off the 
 labels with the intention of substituting fresh ones 
 addressed to his uncle's farm, deciding not to stay a 
 day longer than was necessary in Sydney, but to 
 make inquiries at once as to the best way of getting 
 to Broadstone, Priory Valley. He still fought bravely 
 against the feeling of lassitude and nausea which 
 oppressed him, and went down to his lunch with a 
 bold front, although the place seemed floating around 
 him. But in \ain did the odour of the Wallaby 
 soup ascend to his nostrils ; in vain was the roast 
 
 11; 
 
 ■•i I 
 
^w 
 
 > i 
 
 Zbc "JBlacft 2)00." 
 
 193 
 
 ain," 
 lusied 
 the 
 ones 
 
 fowl spread before him. He scarcely tasted the 
 viands which the attentive waiter continued to press 
 upon him ; and at last, pushing his plate away, he 
 rose from the table. 
 
 " I shall want writing materials and some labels on 
 my return," he said, as he left the room with a some- 
 what unsteady step. 
 
 " On the razzle-dazzle last night, I expect," said 
 the waiter, with a wink at his fellow. 
 
 The fresh air seemed to relieve Cardo, in some 
 degree, of the weight which dragged him down ; he 
 was even well enough to notice that the uneven 
 streets were more like those of an old-fashioned 
 English town than anything he had expected to find 
 in Australia. But this feeling of relief did not last 
 long. In the street which led down to the quay he 
 observed a chemist's shop, and, entering it, asked 
 for a "draught or pick-me-iip " of some kind. 
 
 *' I feel awfully seedy " he said, sinking into a 
 chair. 
 
 " Yes, you look it," said the chemist ; " what's 
 wrong ? " 
 
 " I think I must give in," said Cardo, " for I believe 
 I am sickening for typhoid fever." 
 
 The chemist looked grave. 
 
 " I advise you to go home at once, and to bed." 
 
 " Yes," replied Cardo, trying to rise to the emerg- 
 ency, and still manfully struggling against the disease 
 which threatened him. " Yes, I will go home," he 
 said again, walking out of the shop. He took the 
 wrong turning however, going down towards the 
 harbour, instead of returning to the hotel, and he was 
 soon walking under a burning sun amongst the piled- 
 
 N 
 
ft,. 
 
 ,# 
 
 
 ,1. <■•< 
 
 a 
 
 II- 
 
 194 
 
 By JSerwen 3Banf{0. 
 
 up bales and packages on the edge of the quay. A 
 heavy weight seemed to press on his head, and a red 
 mist hung over everything as he walked blindly on. 
 At a point which he had just reached, a heap of rough 
 boxes obstructed his path, and at that moment a 
 huge crank swung its iron arm over the edge of the 
 dock, a heavy weight was hanging from it, and 
 exactly as Cardo passed, it came with a horizontal 
 movement against the back of his head with terrible 
 force, throwing him forward insensible on the ground. 
 The high pile of boxes had hidden the accident from 
 the crowd of loungers and pedestrians who might 
 otherwise have noticed the fall. The sudden lurch 
 with which he was thrown forward jerked his pocket- 
 book from the breast-pocket of his coat, and it fell to 
 the ground a foot or two in front of him. It was 
 instantly picked up by a loafer, who had been leaning 
 against the pile of boxes, and who alone had 
 witnessed the accident ; he immediately stooped to 
 help the prostrate man, and finding him pale and 
 still, shouted for assistance, and was quickly joined 
 by a knot of " larrikins," who dragged the unconscious 
 man a little further from the edge of the quay. 
 
 It was not long before a small crowd had gathered 
 round, the man who had first observed him making a 
 safe escape in the confusion, Cardo's pocket-book 
 carefully hidden under his tattered coat. 
 
 " Better take him up to Simkins the chemist," said 
 a broad-shouldered sailor ; and, procuring a stretcher, 
 they carried their unconscious burden to the chemist's 
 shop. 
 
 *' Why, let me see," said Mr. Simkins ; " surely 
 this is the gentleman who called here a few minutes 
 
 m^- 
 
TTbc " Blacft H)0(j/* 
 
 195 
 
 ago. I told him to go home, and he said he would ; 
 but I noticed he turned down towards the quay; 
 poor fellow, bad case, I'm afraid. He said he thought 
 he was sickening for typhoid fever, and he's about 
 right, I think." 
 
 " What shall we do with him ? " said the sailor. 
 " See if you can find a card or letter in his pockets ? 
 Nothing," he addsd, as together they searched Cardo's 
 pockets, " not a card, nor a letter, nothing but this 
 bunch of keys, and some loose gold and silver." 
 
 There was no clue to the stranger's identity, except 
 the marking on his clothing. 
 
 " Here's C. W. on his handkerchief — Charles 
 Williams, perhaps ; well, he ought to be attended 
 to at once, if he ain't dead already," said another. 
 
 " Yes, a good thing the hospital is so near," said 
 the chemist. " You had better leave his money here, 
 and tell Dr. Belton that you have done so. My 
 brother is his assistant. I daresay we shall hear 
 more about him from him." 
 
 " Now, then, boys ; heave up, gently, that's it," and 
 Cardo was carried out of the shop to the hospital in 
 an adjoining street. Here, placed on a bed in one of 
 the long wards, doctors and nurses were soon around 
 him ; but Cardo lay white and still and unconscious. 
 
 One of the bearers had mentioned typhoid fever, 
 and Dr. Belton looked grave and interested as he 
 applied himself to the examination of the patient. 
 
 " My brother has been here," said his assistant ; 
 "this man had just been in to his shop, and said he 
 believed he was sickening for typhoid, and it wasn't 
 ten minutes before he was picked up on the quay." 
 
 " The heat of the sun, I expect, was too much for 
 
^1 
 
 196 
 
 Bi? JBcrwen Banhs. 
 
 ii>i 
 
 m 
 
 m ■% 
 
 1 
 
 II) 
 
 him under the circumstances," said Dr. Belton. " A 
 plain case of sunstroke, I think." 
 
 " This money was found in his pocket," said 
 Simkins, handing over five sovereigns and fifteen 
 shillings in silver ; " this bunch of keys, too, and his 
 watch ; but no card or letter to show who he is." 
 
 " Fine young fellow," said Dr. Belton ; '* splendid 
 physique, but looks like a bad attack." 
 
 Restoratives were tried, but with no effect ; Cardo 
 still lay like a dead man. 
 
 "Very strange," said the doctor, when next day 
 he found the patient in the same unconscious con- 
 dition. " Few constitutions would be able to fight 
 against two such serious diseases." 
 
 "Sunstroke as well as typhoid?" said Mr. Simkins. 
 
 " Yes, I have no doubt of it. Curious combination 
 of evils." 
 
 "Poor chap!" said Simkins, "no constitution 
 could survive that." 
 
 " Nothing is impossible," said the doctor, " very 
 interesting case ; keep up the strength, nurse." 
 
 Everything was done that was possible for poor 
 Cardo ; the nurses were unremitting in their care 
 and attention, but nothing roused him from his 
 trance-like stupor. 
 
 During the course of the day, the news of the 
 finding of an unknown man on the quay reached 
 the Wolfington Motel, where the waiter, with 
 another knowing wink and shake of the head, said, 
 "On the razzle-dazzle again, I expect. Must be 
 the same man." And he proceeded upstairs to 
 examine the luggage, from which Cardo had re- 
 moved the labels intending to redirect them to his 
 
Zbc ** JSlacft Doo." 
 
 19; 
 
 uncles house. There was no letter or paper found 
 to indicate the name of the owner, even the initials 
 C. W. gave no clue. 
 
 " What was the man's name ? " said the waiter to 
 Mr. Simkins, who happened to call the following 
 morning. 
 
 " Don't know. Charles Williams he is called at 
 the hospital. There was no clue to his identit)-, 
 but just the letters C. W. on his linen." 
 
 "Then, no doubt, his luggage is hce," said the 
 waiter. " All his things are marked C. W., and, 
 from your description, it must be the same m.i;- " 
 
 '* Well, my brother will speak to Dr. Helton about 
 it, and he will arrange to have it taken care of; he 
 already has his money and his watch." 
 
 And so C'*r'.\ ) Wynne slipped out of his plac<. in 
 the outside world and was soon forgotten by all 
 except those connected with the hospital. 
 
 In three weeks the fever had run its course, and, 
 to the astonishment of the nurses and doctors, Cardo 
 still lived. 
 
 " Extraordinary vitality I Has he never spoken 
 a word ? " 
 
 " Never a sound or a word until he began moan- 
 ing to-day." 
 
 " Good sign, this moaning. Mind, keep up his 
 strength." 
 
 And gradually, under the constant care of Doctor 
 Belton, who was much interested in the case, Cardo, 
 or Charles Williams as he was now called, recovered 
 strength of body, and, to a slight extent, restoration 
 to consciousness ; for though he lay inert and 
 motionless, his lips moved incessantly in a low 
 
198 
 
 
 : .; 1 |!( 
 
 .' '' 
 
 il 
 
 33? Serwen £anft0. 
 
 muttering or whispering, in which the nurses in 
 vain endeavoured to find a clue to the mystery of 
 his illness. 
 
 
 
 
 '1 
 
 > * 
 
 
 ,-r 
 
 .i.. : 
 
 
 
 ->:•• 
 
 
 1 
 
 ^y 
 
 M 
 
 /III 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A CLIMAX. 
 
 A BITTER north wind, laden with sleet and rain, 
 blew over Abersethin Bay, tearing the surface into 
 streaks of foam. The fishing boats were drawn up 
 on the grassy slope which bordered the sandy beach, 
 and weighted with heavy stones. The cottage doors 
 were all closed, and if a stray pedestrian was any- 
 where to be seen, he was hurrying on his way, his 
 hands in his pockets and his cap tied firmly under 
 his chin. On the cliffs above, the wind swirled and 
 rushed, blowing the grass all one way and sweeping 
 over the stunted thorn bushes. In the corners under 
 the hedges, the cows and horses sheltered in little 
 groups, and the few gaunt trees which grew on that 
 exposed coast groaned and creaked as they bent 
 away from the storm. 
 
 At Dinas the wind blew with bitter keenness 
 through every chink and cranny, roaring and 
 whistling round the bare gray house, rattling the 
 doors and windows with every angry gust. In the 
 little parlour at the back of the house it was not 
 heard so plainly. A bright fire burned in the grate, 
 and the crimson curtains gave it a look of warmth 
 and comfort which Essec Powell 'unconsciously en- 
 joyed. He was sitting in his arm-chair and in his 
 
 199 
 

 r I 
 
 I ■ t- 
 
 Ir 
 
 
 'l|: 
 
 liSr 
 
 If 
 
 200 
 
 »i? Jkrwen JSanfts. 
 
 favourite position, listening with great interest to 
 Valmai, who was reading aloud in Welsh from the 
 '• Mabinogion." The tale was of love and chivalry, 
 and it should have interested the girl more than it 
 did the old man who listened with such attention, 
 but her thoughts refused to follow the thread of the 
 story. She stopped occasionally to listen to the 
 wind as it howled in the chimney. All through the 
 short, dark afternoon she read with untiring patience, 
 until at last, when the light was fading^, Gwen 
 brought in the tea and put an end to the reading for 
 a time. 
 
 Valmai had stayed at Fordsea until her uncle had 
 quite recovered from his accident ; and the New 
 Year was well on its way before he had wished her 
 good-bye at the station. She left him with real 
 sorrow, and the old feeling of loneliness and 
 homelessness returned to her heart. He had 
 received her with such warmth, and had so evidently 
 taken her into his life, that the friendless girl had 
 opened her heart wide to him ; and as his rough, 
 hairy hand rested on the window of the carriage in 
 which she sat, she pressc:d her lips upon it in a loving 
 good-bye. There were tears in the kind old eyes, as 
 he stood waiting for the train to move. 
 
 " Won't you write, sometimes, uncle ? " she asked. 
 
 " Well, Ay won't promise that, indeed, may dear ; 
 for there's nothing Ay hate more than wrayting a 
 letter ; but Ay'il come and see you as soon as you 
 have a house of your own. And don't you forget to 
 look out for a little cottage for me at Abersethin 
 Ay'm determined to end my days near you, and j^ou 
 know who'* 
 
 \ ■ V 
 
a CUmai:. 
 
 201 
 
 " Oh ! there's lovely it will be, uncle, to have you to 
 run to whenever anything vexes me, but nothing ever 
 will vex me then." 
 
 "No, no; of course, may dear, we'll all be jolly 
 together. Good-bay, good-bay." And the train 
 moved out of the station. 
 
 Two months afterwards we find Valmai at Dinas, 
 and reading to her Uncle Essec as usual. She 
 busied herself with the preparations for tea, lighting 
 the lamp and placing the buttered toast in front of 
 the fire until he should awake from his dreams, and 
 descend to real life. While the tea was " brewing," 
 she sank back into her chair and fell into a deep 
 reverie. She was as fair as ever, the golden hair drawn 
 back fr> -m the white, broad brows, but the eyes were 
 full of anxious thought, and there was a little wistful 
 sadness about the lines of the mouth. She was paler, 
 and did not move about her duties with the same 
 lightness and grace which belonged to her when we 
 last saw her. She seemed in no hurry to disturb her 
 uncle's dozing dreams, until at last Gwen came 
 hastily in. 
 
 " Well, indeed ! What are you two doing here ? 
 There's quiet you are ! " 
 
 Valmai started, rousing herself and her uncle. 
 
 "Yes. Come to tea, uncle. I A^as thinking, Gwen." 
 
 "Oh, yes ; thinking, thinking," said Gwen, wit-i an 
 insolent sneer. "You may think and think — you are 
 always thinking now ; and what about, I should like 
 to know ? " and, with a shrewd shake of her head, she 
 left the room, 
 
 A crimson tide overspread Valmai's face and neck, 
 and, fading away, left her paler than before. She 
 
'/«*■ 
 
 
 h'^- 
 
 T'l P 
 
 {iV- 
 
 
 il 
 
 i 
 
 riii 
 
 1 ( 
 
 i il 
 
 1 •' 
 
 1 i 
 
 >02 
 
 58)? 3Berwcn JSanfts. 
 
 stood for a moment with her hands clasped, and 
 pressed on her bosom, looking at the door through 
 which Gwen had just passed, and then seating herself 
 at the table, her eyes suffused with tears, she began 
 to pour out her uncle's tea. 
 
 " That's a fine piece, Valmai," he said, " how Clwyn 
 v/ent away and never came back again, till the sea 
 washed him one day at Riana's feet." 
 
 " Yes," said the girl, in a low voice. " Won't you 
 eat your toast, uncle ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, to be sure," said the old man, beginning 
 on the buttered toast which she placed before him. 
 
 When tea was over, the *' Mabinogion " were 
 brought out again, and Valmai contmued to read till 
 her uncle fell asleep. Then leaving him to Gwen's 
 care, she gladly retired for the night into her own 
 little bedroom. Here she might think as much as she 
 liked, and well she availed herself of that privilege. 
 Here she would sit alone for hours every day, v'lth 
 her head bent over some bit of work, her busy fingers 
 pleating and stitching, while her thoughts took wing 
 over the leaden wintry sea before her. Away and 
 away, in search of Cardo. Where was he ? Why 
 did he not write to her? Would he ever come? 
 Would he ever write ? And with weary reiteration 
 she sought out every imaginary reason for his long 
 silence. 
 
 New hopes, new fears had of late dawned in her 
 heart, at first giving rise to a full tide of happiness 
 and joy, the joy that comes with the hope of mother- 
 hood — woman's crowning glory ; but the joy and 
 happiness had gradually given place to anxiety and 
 fear, and latterly, since it had become impossible for 
 
B Cltma^ 
 
 203 
 
 rilege. 
 
 her to hide her condition from those around her, she 
 was filled with trouble and distressing fc)reb(Hlin<;s. 
 Her sensitive nature received continual woumls. 
 Suspicious looks and taunting sneers, innuendos and 
 broad suggestions all came to her with exceeding 
 bitterness. She knew that every day tlie cloud 
 which hung over her grew blacker and heavier. 
 Where should she turn when her uncle should dis- 
 cover her secret? In the solitude of her room she 
 paced backwards and forwards, wringing her hands, 
 
 "What will I do? what will I do ? He said he 
 would return in seven or eight months — a year at 
 furthest. Will he come ? will he ever come? " 
 
 And, gazing out over the stormy sea, she would 
 sob in utter prostration of grief. Every day she 
 walked to Abersethin and haunted the post-office. 
 The old postmaster had noticed her wistful looks of 
 disappointment, and seemed to share her anxiety for 
 the arriv'il of a letter — who from, he did not know for 
 certain, but he made a very good guess, for Valmai's 
 secret was not so much her own only as she imagined 
 it to be. 
 
 Her frequent meetings with Cardo, though scarcely 
 noticed at the time, were remembered against her ; 
 and her long stay at Fordsea, with the rumour of 
 Cardo's return there, decided the feeling of suspicion 
 which had for some time been floating about. There 
 had been a whisper, then mysterious nods and smiles, 
 and cruel gossip had spread abroad the evil tidings. 
 
 Valmai bore all in patient silence. Her longing for 
 Cardo's return amounted almost to an agony, yet 
 the thought of explaining her position, and clearing 
 her name before the world, never entered her head, 
 
« it fg g0 f 
 
 m 
 
 >::b 
 
 
 i 
 
 204 
 
 3B\? 3Bei\veii 3Banft9. 
 
 li: f'k 
 
 or, if ii (li-'l, was instantly expelled. No; the whole 
 world mi^ht spurn her ; she might die ; but to reveal 
 a secret which Cardo had desired her to keep^ seemed 
 to her faithful and guileless nature an unpardonable 
 breach of honour. 
 
 Gwen, who had not been immaculate herself, was 
 her cruellest enemy, never losing an opportunity of 
 inflicting a sting upon her helpless victim, whose 
 presence in the household she had always resented. 
 
 The day following Gwen's sneering remark, Valmai 
 took her daily walk to Abcrsethin post-office. 
 
 The old man beamed at her over his counter. 
 
 " Letter come at last, miss," he said. 
 
 And her heart stood still. She was white to the 
 lips as she sat down on a convenient sack of maize. 
 
 " It is a long walk," said the postmaster, hunting 
 about for the letter. " Dear me, wherrs I put it?" 
 
 And he looked in a box of bloaters and a ba'^ket of 
 
 I 'member now ; I put it safe with 
 
 ill .i.:;i'- 
 
 eggs. 
 
 " Here it is. 
 the cheese was to go to Dinas." 
 
 Valmai took it with trembling fingers; it had a 
 deep black edge. 
 
 " It is not for me," she said. 
 
 " Indeed I I was not notice that. I was only see 
 " Powell, Dinas.' I am sorry, miss, fach ; but you 
 must cheer up," he added, seeing the gathering tears ; 
 '* it's never so dark that the Lord can't clear it up." 
 
 " No," said Valmai, rising from her seat. " Thank 
 you ; good-bye." 
 
 And, blinded by her tears, she passed out into the 
 driving wind and sleet. Perhaps the letter bore some 
 news of Cardo I Perhaps bad news, for it had a black 
 
 li,*^^ M 
 
 J 1 1 
 
B (lUmaa:. 
 
 205 
 
 y see 
 you 
 tears ; 
 
 o the 
 some 
 black 
 
 edge ! She drew her red cloak tightly around her 
 and once more bravely faced the buffeting wind which 
 swept the path before her, and with fitful gusts 
 threatened to lift her off her feet. 
 
 When she reached Dinas, Gwcn was already 
 laying the dinner in the little parlour. 
 
 " You have been a long time," she said. " Where 
 have you been ? To the post a^jain to-day ? You 
 never used to go to the post, Valmai." 
 
 The girl did not answer, but sat down breathless 
 on the sofa. 
 
 " Where is uncle? I have a letter for him." And 
 as she spoke her uncle entered. 
 
 " A letter for me ? Well, indeed ! What can it 
 be?" 
 
 Essec Powell's correspondence was very limited ; 
 he hated writing, and never answered a letter which 
 could possibly be ignored. He adjusted his spec- 
 tacles, and after turning the envelope in every di- 
 rection, opened it. 
 
 " Reuben Street, Fordsea," he began. " Oh, dear, 
 dear ! here's writing ! Caton pawb ! I could write 
 better myself Read it, Valmai." 
 
 And she obeyed. 
 
 * Rev. Essec Powell, 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I am grieve more than words can 
 say to tell you this sad news, and I hope you will 
 prepare for the worst. Becos your brother, Captain 
 John Powell, No. 8 Reuben Street, Fordsea, was 
 (Irownded yesterday in the harbour, and I have 
 least the best frmd ever I had and ever I will have. 
 Please to tell Miss Powell the sad news, and please 
 

 206 
 
 3Sp 3Becwen Banfts* 
 
 h 
 
 to tell her that Captain Powell was oleways talking 
 great deal about her, and was missing her very 
 much. Oh, we shall never see nobody like him 
 again. He went out in a small boat with two 
 frinds to the steamer Penelope^ Captain Farley, and 
 coming back the boat was capsize and the three 
 gentlemen was upset in the water. One was saved, 
 but Captain Powell and Mr. Jones was drownded. 
 Please to come and see about the funeral as soon as 
 
 you can. 
 
 " I remain in great sorrow, 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " James Harris." 
 
 II 
 
 Valmai's trembling voice failed, and letting the 
 letter drop, she covered her face with her hands 
 and burst into a flood of tears, as she realised that 
 her best friend had slipped away from her. In the 
 trouble and anxiety which had latterly clouded her 
 life, she had often been comforted by the thought 
 that at all events there was one warm heart and 
 home open to her, but now all was lost, and her 
 loneliness and friend lessness pressed heavily upon 
 her. Sob after sob shook her whole frame. 
 
 Essec Powell picked up the letter, and read it 
 again. 
 
 '* Well, well," he said, " to think that John, my 
 brother, should go before me ! Poor fellow, bach I 
 To be taken so suddenly and unprepared as he was." 
 
 " Oh, no, uncle," said Valmai, between her sobs, 
 " he was not unprepared. There never was a kinder 
 soul, a more unselfish man, nor a more generous. 
 Oh, you don't know how good he was to the poor, 
 
 1 5? 
 
H Climas. 
 
 207 
 
 how kind and gentle to every one who suffered! 
 Oh, God has him in His safe keeping somewhere !" 
 
 " Well, well," said Essec Powell, sitting down to 
 his dinner, " we won't argue about it now, but some 
 day, Valmai, I would like to explain to you the 
 difference between that natural goodness and the 
 saving grace which is necessary for salvation. Come 
 to dinner, Valmai. I wonder how much did he 
 leave ? When is the funeral ? " he said, addressing 
 Gwen. 
 
 "You've got to go down and settle that," she 
 answered. *' Will I tell Shoni to put the gig ready ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes. I better go. I will be back by Sun- 
 day." 
 
 ** James Harris will help you in every way, uncle, 
 and will settle everything for you." 
 
 " Oh ! very well, very well. 'Tis a pity about the 
 * Mabinogion,' too ; but we'll go on with them next 
 week, Valmai." 
 
 Shoni and Gwen continued until bedtime to 
 discuss with unction every item of information past, 
 possible, or prospective, connected with the death of 
 the old Captain, while Valmai lay on the old red 
 sofa, and thought sadly of her loss. 
 
 " There's sudden," said Gwen, " but 'twill be a 
 good thing for the master, whatever ! " 
 
 Valmai lay awake far into the night recalling 
 with tears the kindness and even tenderness of her 
 old uncle. 
 
 On the following Saturday Essec Powell returned 
 from the funeral, and as he stepped out of the gig 
 at the door, his face wore an unusual expression 
 which Valmai noticed at once. He seemed more 
 
awrTTi nii 
 
 ^^ 
 
 208 
 
 3B^ Berwen JSanhs. 
 
 I (1; 
 
 alive to the world around him ; there was a red spot 
 on each cheek, and he did not answer his niece's 
 low greeting, but walked into the parlour v/ith a 
 stamping tread very unlike his usual listless shuffle. 
 
 •' Are you tired, uncle ? " the girl asked gently. 
 
 " No, I am not tired ; but I am hurt and offended 
 with you, Valmai. You are a sly, ungrateful girl, 
 and it is very hard on me, a poor, struggling 
 preacher very badly paid, to find that my only 
 brother has left all his worldly goods to you, who 
 are already well provided for. What do you 
 think yourself? Wasn't it a shame on you to turn 
 him against his brother ? " 
 
 " Oh, I never did," said Valmai ; " I never thought 
 of such a thing ! Dear, dear Uncle John I I didn't 
 want his money, I only wanted his love." 
 
 " What is the matter ? " said Gwen, coming in. 
 
 "Matter enough," said her master, in angry 
 stammering tones. " John, my brother, has left 
 all his money to this Judas of a girl I A hundred 
 and fifty pounds a year, if you please I and only a 
 paltry ;^ioo to me, and the same to Jim Harris, the 
 sailor. Ach y fi ! the greediness of people is enough 
 to turn on me." 
 
 Between G wen's exclamations and P2ssec Powell's 
 angry harping on the same string, the evening was 
 made miserable to Valmai, and she was glad enough 
 to escape to her bedroom. 
 
 The next day she awoke with a throbbing 
 headache. 
 
 "You are not going to chapel to-day, I suppose?" 
 said Gwen. 
 
 " No, my head aches too badly. I have nevef 
 
B Climar. 
 
 209 
 
 " You 
 in my 
 
 missed before, but to-day 1 think 1 will rest at 
 home." 
 
 " Yes, rest at home, certainly," said Gwen, 
 ought to have stopped at home long ago 
 opinion, it would be more decent." 
 
 Her meaning was too plain, and Valmai's head 
 drooped as she answered : 
 
 " Perhaps it would have been wiser, considering 
 all things." 
 
 " Considering all things, indeed !" sneered Gwen. 
 "Yes, they will turn you out of tl*.e 'Sciet, because 
 when the calf won't go through the scibor door he 
 has to be pushed out !" And with a toss of her 
 head she carried the tray away. 
 
 It was a miserable day for Valmai, and not even 
 after events of more bitterness were able to efface 
 it from her memory. 
 
 She roamed about the house restlessly, and 
 round the garden, which was beginning to show 
 signs of the budding life which had slept through 
 the storms and snows of winter. Already in a 
 sheltered corner she detected the scent of violets, 
 an early daffodil nodded at her, a bee hummed 
 noisily, and a sweet spring breeze swept over the 
 garden. What memories it awoke within her ! 
 How long ago it seemed since she and Cardo had 
 roamed together by the Berwen ! Years and years 
 ago, surely ! Her reverie was disturbed by Shoni, 
 who, coming back early from chapel, had found his 
 way into the garden. 
 
 *' You wass quite right not to go to chapel this 
 morning," he said. " Don't go to-night again, 
 neither !" 
 
■■■*ymm 
 
 
 si; 
 
 210 
 
 Xp JBerweii J3anft0, 
 
 il 
 
 
 
 'i •» 
 
 : 1 
 
 " No," said Valmai, " I won't. But why, Shoni ?" 
 
 " Why ? " he said, " because you better not. John 
 Jones and Wilh'am Hughes, the deacons, is bin speak- 
 ing to master about you, and next week is the 'Sciet,^ 
 and you will be turn out." 
 
 Valmai turned a shade paler ; she knew the dis- 
 grace this excommunication implied ; but she only 
 turned with a sigh towards the house, Shoni march- 
 ing before her with the air of a man who felt he had 
 performed a disagreeable duty. Essec Powell had 
 stopped to dine with a farmer living near the chapel, 
 and did not return home until near tea-time. Then 
 burst upon the girl the storm she had so long 
 dreaded ; her uncle's anger had already been roused 
 by his brother's " will," and his feelings of greed and 
 spite had been augmented by the information im- 
 parted to him by his deacons. 
 
 " How dare you ? " he said. His eyes flashed with 
 anger, and his voice trembled with the intensity of 
 his fury. 
 
 Valmai, who was arranging something on the tea- 
 table, sank down on a chair beside it ; and Gwen 
 carrying a slice of toast on a fork, came in to listen 
 To hear her master speak in such excited tones was 
 an event so unusual as to cause her not only astonish 
 ment but pleasure. 
 
 Shoni, too, was attracted by the loud tones, and 
 stood blocking up the doorway. 
 
 Valmai flung her arms on the table, and leant her 
 head upon them, sobbing quietly. 
 
 "Are you not ashamed of yourself?" thundered 
 the old man. " Sitting at my table, sleeping under 
 
 * Society meeting. 
 
B CUma^ 
 
 111 
 
 my roof, and attending my chapel — and all the time 
 to be the vile thin^^ thirt you are ! Dear Uncle John, 
 indeed ! what would your dear Uncle John say of 
 you now ? You fooled him as you have fooled me. 
 Do you think I can bear you any longer in the house 
 with me ? " 
 
 There was no answer from Valmai, and the old 
 man, angered by her silence, clutched her by the arm 
 and shook her violently, 
 
 " Stop there ! " said Shoni, taking a step forward, 
 and thrusting his brawny arm protectingly over the 
 girl's bent head. " Stop there ! Use as many bad 
 words as you like, Essec Powell, but if you dare to 
 touch her with a finger, I'll show you who is the real 
 master here." 
 
 '• She is a deceitful creature, and has brought shame 
 and dishonour on my name ! " stammered the old 
 man. •* Am I, a minister of religion, any longer to 
 harbour in my house such a huzzy ? No ; out you 
 go, madam 1 Not another night under my roof! " 
 
 " Will you send her out at this late hour ? " said 
 Shoni. " Where is she to go ? " 
 
 '* I don't care where she goes ! She has plenty of 
 money — money that ought to belong to me. Let 
 her go where she likes, and let her reap the harvest 
 that her conduct deserves. Remember, when I come 
 back from chapel to-night I will expect the house to 
 be cleared of you." 
 
 Valmai rose wearily from the table, and went up 
 the stairs to her own room, where she hastily gathered 
 a few things together into a light basket, her heavier 
 things she had packed some time before in readiness 
 for some such sudden departure as this. 
 
■« 1 ■ 
 
 219 
 
 3Bi? 3Berwcn 3Banft9. 
 
 I' 
 
 
 1 
 
 |H^^j 
 
 !l 
 
 Meanwhile, in the parlour below the sturdy Shoni 
 faced his irate master. 
 
 " Man," he said, " are you not ashamed of your- 
 self?" 
 
 " How dare you speak to me in that tone ? " said 
 the old man. " Because I owe you two or three 
 hundred pounds you forget your position here." 
 
 " No," said Shoni, " I don't forget, and I'll remind 
 you sooner than you think if you don't behave 
 yourself! Man! you haven't learnt the ABC 
 of religion, though you are a ' preacher.* Christ 
 never taught you that way of treating a fallen 
 woman. Shame upon you ! And your own brother's 
 child ! But I'll see she's taken care of, poor thing ! 
 And the villain who has brought this misery upon her 
 shall feel the weight of this fis^ if ever he returns to 
 this country ; but he won't ; he has got safe away, and 
 she has to bear the shame, poor thing I Wait till I 
 tell the 'Vicare du' what I think of his precious 
 son." 
 
 "The 'Vicare du'?" said the old man, turning 
 white with rage. " Do you mean to say that /ns son 
 has been the cause of this disgrace? I'll thrash her 
 within an inch of her life i " and he made a rush 
 towards the door, 
 
 •* Sit down,' said Shoni, taking him by the ^rm 
 and pushing him back into his easy-chair, " sit down, 
 and calm yourself, before you stand up and preach 
 and pray for other people. 'Tis for yourself you 
 ought to pray." 
 
 •' True, Shoni, true. I am a miserable sinner like 
 the rest, but don't let me see that girl again." 
 
 " Put her out of your thoughts," said Shoni ; " I'll 
 
H CUmai:* 
 
 213 
 
 see to her." And as Valmai came silently down 
 the stairs, he opened the front door for her, and 
 quietly took her basket from her. 
 
 "Well, howyr b^ch !" said Gwen, looking after 
 them, there's attentions ! We'd better all walk in 
 the wrong path ! " and she banged the door spite- 
 fully, and returned to the parlour to arrange her 
 master's tea. 
 
 "And, now, where are you going to, my dear?" 
 said Shoni kindly. "Will you come to Abersethin? 
 Jane, my siscer, will give you lodgings ; she is keeping 
 a shop there." 
 
 " No, no, Shoni," said the girl, " you are kind, 
 indeed, and I will never forget your kindness ; but I 
 will go to Nance, on the island ; she will take me 
 in, I know." 
 
 "Will she?" said Shoni. "Then you could not 
 go to a better place. 'Tis such lonesome place, the 
 pipple will forget you there." 
 
 " Oh, I hope so," said Valmai ; " that is all I desire." 
 
 " The tide will be down. We can get there easy, 
 only 'tis very cold for you." 
 
 " No, I like the fresh night-wind." 
 
 "Well, my dear," said Shoni, "I daresay youi 
 uncle will be shamed of himself to-morrow, and will 
 be wanting you to kom back. I will bring the gig 
 for you ; 'tis a long walk." 
 
 " No, never, Shoni ; I will never go back there 
 again, so don't bring the gig for me ; but if you will 
 kindly send my big box to the Rock Bridge, I will 
 send somebody across for it." 
 
 "'S' no need for you to do that. I will take it 
 down to the shore on the whilbare and row it over in 
 
T^ 
 
 ., w,V'iiiiyiWffiTP 
 
 ^^•mxfrvt^mnmmm -M-m 
 
 ^1 
 
 2U 
 
 3Bs Bcrwen Banfts. 
 
 Simon Lewis's boat. I will kom before dawn to- 
 morrow, then no one will know where you are. I'll 
 put it out on the rocks before Nance's house and 
 carry it up to her door." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, Shoni ; but wouldn't to- 
 night be better ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ; Sunday to-night," said Shoni, in quite 
 another tone. 
 
 He waited until he saw Nance's door opened 
 in response to Valmai's timid knock, and then 
 made his way back over the Rock Bridge at once 
 before the tide turned. 
 
 When Nance opened her door and saw the figure 
 of a woman standing there, she was at first surprised, 
 for the dress struck her at once as not being that of a 
 peasant. 
 
 "Nance, fach! it is I!" said Valmai. "You will 
 let me in ? " 
 
 " Let you in ! yes, indeed. Haven't I been long- 
 ing to see you all day ! Come in, my child, from this 
 bitter wind ; come in and get warm. I see you 
 have brought your basket, that means you are going 
 to stay the night. Right glad I am. You will have 
 the I'ttle bed in the corner. Keep your red cloak on, 
 dear little heart, because the wind is blowing in cold 
 here at nights, and you have been used to warm 
 rooms. I am well used to cold, and sickness, and 
 discomfort." 
 
 "But, Nance — " and then the terrible revelation 
 had to be made, the truth had to be told, and then 
 the loving arms were clasped round the sorrowful 
 girl, and words of comfort and hope were whispered 
 into her ear. No reproaches, no cruel taunts here ; 
 
H (TUmay. 
 
 215 
 
 nothing but the warmth of human sympathy, and the 
 lo^'ing forgiveness of a tender pure woman. 
 
 In the early dawn, while Valmai still slept, Shoni's 
 " yo-hoy ! " was heard from the rocks, through which 
 he was guiding his boat. Nance opened her door, 
 and, in the gray of the morning, the " big box " was 
 brought in and safely deposited in the tiny bedroom, 
 which it nearly filled. 
 
 " Good-bye," said Shoni. " Take care of her, and 
 if she wants anything get it for her, and remember 
 I will pay you." And he rowed away, and was busily 
 ploughing when Gwen went out to milk the cows in 
 the morning. 
 
 " Where is she gone ? " she asked. " That shameful 
 girl." 
 
 " Gone away," said Shoni shortly, and Gwen knew 
 it was useless trying to get anything more out of 
 him. 
 
 Thus Valmai slipped quietly out of her old life, 
 though for some time she was the subject of much 
 gossip in the neighbourhood. 
 
 It was not long before Shoni found an opportunity 
 of speaking to the Vicar, and as he saw the effect of 
 his tidings upon the cold, hard man, a feeling of pity 
 stirred within him. 
 
 " Is this all news to you ? " he said. " Didn't you 
 know that your son was haunting the footsteps of 
 this innocent girl, to bring her to ruin ? " 
 
 " Had I known," said the Vicar, in a stern voice, 
 "that my son held any communication with the 
 Methodist preacher's family, however innocent it 
 might be, I would have closed my doors against 
 him." 
 

 216 
 
 3B^ 3Berwen Banhs. 
 
 "Where is he ? " asked Shoni, clenching his fist. 
 " I don't know," said the Vicar, turning away. 
 Shoni called after him, " When he comes back he'll 
 feel the weight of this fist, if it's twenty years to 
 
 come. 
 
 ii 
 
 ill 
 
mmmm 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 "THE BABIES' CORNER," 
 
 A GLORIOUS summer was once more brooding over 
 sea and land, when one morning, in Nance's cottage, 
 a feeble wail was heard ; a sound which brought a 
 flood of happiness to Valmai, for nothing could 
 wholly crush the joyous welcome of a mother's heart. 
 For a little while the past months of sorrow and 
 weariness were forgotten. The bitter disappoint- 
 ment caused by Cardo's silence, lying deep below the 
 surface, was of so mysterious a nature that she 
 scarcely found words to express it even to herself 
 That he was false, that he had forgotten her, never 
 entered her mind. Some dire misfortune had 
 befallen him ; some cruel fate detained him. Was it 
 sickness? Was it death? There was nothing for 
 her but to boar and to wait; and God had sent this 
 tiny messenger of love to help and comfort her in her 
 weary waiting. She still believed that Cardo would 
 return ; he had promised, and if he were living he 
 would keep his promise— of this she felt certain. 
 Secure from the sneers and scornful glances of the 
 world, alone in Nance's cottage, her heart awoke 
 afresh to the interests of life. Her baby boy was 
 bright and strong, and she watched with dehght his 
 growing likeness to Cardo ; the black hair, the black 
 
 217 
 
218 
 
 3Bs 3Berwen JBanfta. 
 
 eyes, and the curve on the rosebud mouth, which 
 reminded her so much of his smile. Nance 
 wondered much at the girl's cheerfulness, and some- 
 times felt it her duty to remind her, by look or tone, 
 of the sorrow connected with her child's birth. 
 
 " Look at him, Nance. See these lovely little feet, 
 and there's strong he is ! " 
 
 *' Yes, druan bach,^ he is a beautiful boy inde'^d,'* 
 she would answer with a sigh, drawing her wrinkled 
 finger over the fresh soft cheek. 
 
 Valmai began to chafe at the want of brightness 
 which surrounded her little one's life. She was proud 
 of him, and wished to take him into the village. 
 
 "No, my child," said Nance gently, "you had 
 better not." 
 
 "Why not?" was on Valmai's lips, but she hesi- 
 tated. A deep blush crimsoned her face. ' My boy 
 has nothing to be ashamed of," she said, witjji a proud 
 toss of her head. 
 
 " When is he to be christened? '' was Nctnces next 
 question. 
 
 " September." 
 
 " September ! " gasped the old woman, *' he will be 
 three months old ; and what if anythiii}^ shouid 
 happen to him before then ? " 
 
 " Nothing s/ta// happen to him,"said Valmai, folding 
 him to her heart. " My life and my body are larger 
 than his, and they will both have to go before any 
 harm reaches him." 
 
 " There's a foolish thing to say," said Nance, " and 
 I wonder at you, merch i. You ought to know by 
 *^is time that we are clay in the hands of the Potter. 
 
 * Poor little fellow. 
 
 
 ■t!' 
 
** XTbe Babies' Corner.*' 
 
 219 
 
 next 
 
 )lding 
 [arger 
 any 
 
 '" and 
 [w by 
 [Otter. 
 
 Little heart, he ought to be christened, and have a 
 name of his own." 
 
 " He can be * Baby ' till September, and then he 
 will be christened." 
 
 " And why, September, child ? " 
 
 Here Valmai took refuge in that silence which had 
 been her only resource since Cardo's departure. She 
 would be perfectly silent. She would make no 
 answer to inquiries or taunts, but would wait patiently 
 until he returned. September ! What glowing 
 pictures of happiness the word brought before her 
 mind's eye. Once more to stroll with Cardo by 
 Bcrwen banks ! Once more to linger in the sunshine, 
 and rest in the shade ; to listen to the Berwen's 
 prattling, to the whispering of the sea-breeze. Such 
 happiness, she thought, was all ' .1 store for her when 
 Cardo came home in September; and the words, 
 " When Cardo comes home in September," rang in 
 her ears, and filled her heart and soul. Yes, the long 
 weary months of waiting, the sorrow and the pain, 
 tlic cruel words, and the sneering glances, were all 
 coming to an end. She had kept her promise, and 
 had never spoken a word to implicate Cardo, or to 
 suggest that the bond of marriage had united them, 
 lie would come home, at latest in a year, and remove 
 every sorrow ; and life would be one long shining 
 path of happmess from youth to age. 
 
 The light returned to her eyes, and the rose to her 
 cheek ; her step was once more light and springy, as 
 she paced the lonely shore, dressed in her favourite 
 white serge, and carrying her little white-robed baby 
 Ml her arms. She was an object of great interest to 
 the inhabitants of the fishing village on the other side 
 
■I*, 
 
 j:l'^ 
 
 i? 
 
 '!» 
 
 
 220 
 
 3B^ Bctwen JSanfts. 
 
 of the island, and they often found an excuse (more 
 especially the young sailor lads) to pass by the 
 cottage, and to stop at the open door for a drink of 
 water or a chat with Nance. They were as loud in 
 their condemnation of her faithless lover as in admira- 
 tion of her beauty and pleasant manners. 
 
 Once more life seemed full of promise and hope for 
 her, until one day when the bay was glistening in the 
 sunshine, and the sea-gulls, like flecks of snow, flew 
 about the rocks ; the soft waves plashing gently 
 between the boulders, a little cloud arose on her 
 horizon. Her baby was fretful and feverish, and 
 Nance had roused her fears. 
 
 " He is too fat, merch i," she said, " and if he had 
 any childish illness it would go hard with him." 
 
 Valmai had taken fright at once. 
 
 " Can you take care of him, Nance, while I go to 
 Abersethin and fetch Dr. Hughes ?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, but don't be frightened, cariad ; I daresay he 
 will laugh at us, and say there is nothing the matter 
 with the child." 
 
 "Being laughed at does not hurt one," said Valmai. 
 as she tied on her hat. " I will bring him back with 
 me if possible." 
 
 She took a long look at the baby, who lay with 
 fl isheJ face on Nance's knees, and ran with all 
 speed across the Rock- Bridge, from which the tide 
 was just receding, up the straggling street of 
 Abersethin, and through the shady lane, which led 
 to the doctor's house. 
 
 There was great peering and peeping from the 
 kitchen window, as Valmai made her progress be- 
 tween the heaps of straw in the farm-yard to the 
 
**Zbc Babies' Corner." 
 
 221 
 
 back door, which stood open. The doctor's wife, who 
 had her amis up to her elbows in curds and wliey, 
 looked up from her cheese-tub as she appeared at 
 the door. 
 
 " Dear me, Miss Powell ! Well, indeed, what's the 
 matter?" 
 
 " Oh, it's my baby, Mrs. Hughes ! Can Dr. Hughes 
 come with me at once ? " 
 
 "There's a pity, now," said Mrs. Hughes; "he is 
 gone to Brynderyn. Mr. Wynne is not well. 
 Grieving, they say, about his son." 
 
 Valmai blushed, and Mrs. Hughes was pleased 
 with her success. 
 
 " When will he be back, d' you think ? " 
 
 " Not till evening, I'm afraid. But there's Mr. 
 Francis, the assistant — shall I call him ? he is very 
 clever with childien. Here he is. Will you go with 
 Miss Powell, to see — h'm — a baby which she is tak- 
 ing a great interest in on Ynysoer ? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly," said the young assistant, colour- 
 ing, for he had heard Valmai's story, and never hav- 
 ing seen her, was now rather bewildered by her 
 beauty, and the awkwardness of the situation. 
 
 " Oh, thank you , can you come at once ? " said 
 Valmai. 
 
 " At once," said the young man. " Is the child 
 very ill ? " 
 
 "Indeed, I hope not," said Valmai; "he is very 
 flushed and restless." 
 
 " Whose child is it ? " 
 
 " Good-bye, Mrs. Hughes. It is mine," she added, 
 in a clear voice, as they left the kitchen door to- 
 gether. 
 
222 
 
 3Bp JBcrwen Banfts. 
 
 '• Wel, atiwl, anwl ! there's impiclencc," said one of 
 the servants, looking after them. " It is mine ! As 
 bold as brass. Well, indeed ! " 
 
 " Yes, I must say," said her mistress, with a sniff, 
 •* she might show a little more shamefacedness about 
 it" 
 
 " There's a beauty, she is," said Will the cowman, 
 coming in. 
 
 "Beauty, indeed!" said the girl. "A pink and 
 white face like a doll ! " 
 
 " Her beauty has not done her much good, what- 
 ever," said Mrs. Hughes, as she finished her curds and 
 dried her arms. 
 
 Meanwhile Valmai and the doctor were walking 
 rapidly down the lane to the shore. 
 
 " Dan, will you take us across ? " said Valmai to a 
 man who stood leaning against the corner of the 
 Ship Inn. 
 
 " With every pleasure, miss fach ; you've been out 
 early," he said, as he pushed out his boat, and, seeing 
 the doctor — " if you please, miss, I hope there's no- 
 body ill at Nance's ? " 
 
 '* Yes," said Valmai, hesitating, " the little one is 
 ill." 
 
 She did not say, " my baby," as she had done at 
 the doctor's. At the first contact with the world be- 
 yond Ynysoer, where she had been so long secluded 
 and sheltered, a feeling of nervous shyness began to 
 over-shadow her. 
 
 " Dear, dear ! " was all Dan's answer. 
 
 Once on the island, Mr. Francis found it difficult to 
 keep up with Valmai's hurrying steps. He was full 
 of pity for the beautiful girl beside him, so young 
 
 lii 
 
** Zbc 3BabtC0' Corner." 
 
 223 
 
 ind so friendless, and was anxious to serve her, and 
 to cure her child if possible. 
 
 As they entered the cottage to<;cther, Nance 
 endeavoured gently to prevent Valmai's approaching 
 the child. 
 
 "Not you. my dear, not you ; let the doctor see him." 
 
 Mr. Francis was already attending to the little 
 sufferer. 
 
 " No," he said, looking backwards, " not you, Miss 
 Powell ; let me manage him." 
 
 Valmai turned white to the lips, and, gently putting 
 the old woman aside, took lier place at the bedside, 
 where a pitiful sight met her eyes. Her little one lay 
 in the terrible throes of "convulsions," and again the 
 doctor tried to banish Valmai from the scene. 
 
 " Let me be," she said, in a quiet voice, which 
 astonished the young man. " Let me be ; I am used 
 to trouble." And passing her arm under the little 
 struggling frame, she supported it until the last gasp 
 put an end to its sufferings. 
 
 Mr. Francis took the child into his own arms and 
 laid it on the bed, turning his attention to Valmai, 
 who had fallen fainting on the floor. 
 
 " Poor thing ! poor thing ! " said the tender-hearted 
 y'oung man. " It is a pity she cannot remain uncon- 
 scious." 
 
 But he applied the usual restoratives, and she 
 soon opened her eyes, while Nance straightened the 
 'olds of the little night-gown with loving fingers, tears 
 .oursing each other down hei wrinkled face. 
 
 " Oh, dear heart ! how will she bear it ? " 
 
 Mr. Francis was silently bathing the girl's forehead. 
 
 " You are better now ? " he asked. 
 
ipi 
 
 ymm> 
 
 * I' 
 
 5 
 
 M M Y 
 
 JBv JScrwcii JBaiiliS. 
 
 i 
 
 " Vcs," she said ; " thank )'<)U. You have been 
 very kind, but do not trouble to stay lonyjer ; I 
 am quite well," and she slowly rose from the 
 settle. 
 
 "I will go now," said the young man. " You would 
 like to be alone, but I will call in the afternoon. You 
 will want someone to — to — make arrangements for 
 you." 
 
 "Arrangements? To have my little one buried? 
 Yes, yes, of course. I shaU be thankful, indeed." 
 
 " 1 1 ere, or at Penderin ? " 
 
 "Oh, here — in the 'rock ' churchyard." 
 
 *' I will go at once," and he went out, gently closing 
 the door upon the two women in their sorrow. 
 
 In the afternoon he came again, and, being a man 
 of very warm feelings, dreaded the scene of a woman's 
 tears and sobs, though he longed to soothe and com- 
 fort the girl who so much interested him. But there 
 'vere no tears or wailings awaiting him. 
 
 Valmai sat in the low rush chair in stony despair, 
 her hands clasped on her lap, her face white as her 
 dress, her blue eyes dry, and with a mute, inquiring 
 gaze in them, as though she looked around for an 
 explanation of this fresh misery. 
 
 He did not tell her more than was necessary of his 
 interview with the Vicar. The child was supposed to 
 be illegitimate as well as unbaptis'id, and could not, 
 therefore, be allowed to sleep hx^ last sleep in the 
 company of the baptised saint*^. 
 
 Old Shon, the sexton, was already digging the 
 little grave in a corner of the churchyard relegated to 
 such unconsidered and unwelcomed beings as this. 
 However, it was a sunny corner, sheltered from the 
 
 mm ' 
 
'-«■-- "Ti >:-|j*Tni 
 
 ** Ubc JBabics' Corner." 
 
 225 
 
 been 
 er ; I 
 
 n the 
 
 would 
 
 You 
 
 nts for 
 
 juried ? 
 d." 
 
 closing 
 
 ; a man 
 woman's 
 id com- 
 ut there 
 
 despair, 
 as her 
 Inquiring 
 for an 
 
 ry of his 
 [posed to 
 )uld not, 
 in the 
 
 Iging the 
 igaied to 
 as this. 
 Ifrom the 
 
 .<ea-\vind, and the docks and nettles grew luxuriantly 
 there 
 
 Such dry-cycd, quiet grief amongst the emotional 
 Welsh was new to the doctor, and he knew that if 
 tears did not come to her relief her health would 
 suffer, so he gently tried to make her talk of her little 
 one 
 
 *' I saw you had tried a hot bath, or I would have 
 recommended it," he said. 
 
 " Yes, Nance had." 
 
 "I truly sympathise with you ; he was a fine child.' 
 
 " Yes, he is a beautiful child," said Valmai 
 
 " I am sorry to wound your feelings, but what day 
 would you wish him to be buried ? " 
 
 '* Oh, any day ; it makes no difference now." 
 
 "To-day is Friday. Shall we say Monday, then?" 
 
 "Yes, Monday will do. At what time?" said 
 Valmai. 
 
 " At four o'clock " 
 
 Nance was crying silently 
 
 " Mrs. Hughes wants to know if you will come and 
 stay with her till after Monday. I have my ^ig at 
 Abersethin, and can row you over now." 
 
 Valmai smiled, and the sadness of that smile re- 
 mained in Mr. Francis' memory. 
 
 " No," she said, shaking her head slowly, " I will 
 not leave my baby until he is buried, but thank her 
 for me, and thank you, oh, so much. I did not know 
 there was so much kindness left in the world." 
 
 As she spoke the tears gathered in her eyes, and, 
 throwing her arms over the feet of the little dead 
 child, she rested her head upon them, and broke into 
 long, deep sobs. 
 
•»i |i iH> l 
 
 TTmm 
 
 226 
 
 3Ss Berwen JBanfts. 
 
 in 
 
 :in 
 
 iii. 
 
 :^l 
 
 Mr. Francis, more content, went quietly out of the 
 house, and did not see Valmai again until on Monday 
 he met the funeral in the churchyard. Valmai, to 
 the horror of Nance and her friends, wore her usual 
 white dress. She had a bunch of white jessamine in 
 her hand, and, as the little coffin disappeared from 
 sight, she showered the flowers upon it. Nance was 
 too infirm to accompany her, so that she stood alone 
 beside the grave, although surrounded by the fisher 
 folk of the island. She sobbed bitterly as she heard 
 the heavy clods fall on the coffin, and when at last 
 everything was over, and it was time to move away, 
 she looked round as if for a friend ; and Mr. Francis, 
 unable to resist the pleading look, pushed his 
 way towards her, and, quietly drawing her arm within 
 his own, led her homewards down the grassy slope to 
 the shore, over the rough, uneven sand, and in at the 
 humble cottage door. Nance received her with open 
 arms, into which Valmai sank with a passionate 
 burst of tears, during which Mr. Francis went out 
 unnoticed. 
 
 it| 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 UNREST. 
 
 had come and gone, and yet Cardo had not arrived 
 
 Valma. had trusted with such unswerving faith tha 
 
 .n September all her troubles would be over-tha 
 
 Cardo would come to clear her name, and to reinstate 
 
 her m the good opinion of all her acquaintances^ but 
 
 as the month drew to its close, and October's mdlow 
 
 tmts began to fall on all the country-side her hearT 
 
 sank within her, and she reahsed that she was alone 
 
 m the world with no friend but Nance to whom to 
 
 turn for advice or sympathy 
 
 A restless feeling awoke in her heart-a longing to 
 be away from the place where every scene reminded 
 her of her past happiness and her present sorrow 
 Every day she vs.ted the little grave in the church-' 
 yard and soon that corner of the burying-ground 
 which had once been the most neglected became the 
 neatest ana most carefully tended. For her own 
 
 ': ed To V ''' °":" "''"^'"^ S--^^^^ ^^-^ "-o™" 
 unt Uhe Jf • "^^ '"'"'"^ ""^ '""""«d them 
 unt,l the old sexton was proud of what he called the 
 
 bab.es' corner." A little white cress stood at the 
 head of the t.ny grave in which her child lay, with 
 the words engraved upon it, " In memory of Robert 
 
 J27 
 
wmm 
 
 228 
 
 3612 Berwen Banhs, 
 
 i 
 
 tM:B«^-!'' 
 
 Powell ," A space was left at the end of the 
 
 line for another name to be added when Cardo came 
 home, and the words, " Born June the 30th ; died 
 August the 30th," finished the sad and simple story. 
 Nance, too, who seemed to have revived a good deal 
 latterly, often brought her knitting to the sunny 
 corner, and Valmai felt she could safely leave her 
 grassy garden to the care of her old friend. 
 
 '* You are better, Nance," she said one day, when 
 she had been sitting long on the rocks gazing out to 
 sea, in one of those deep reveries so frequent with her 
 now, " and if I paid Peggi * Bullet ' for living with 
 you and attending to you, would you mind my going 
 away ? I feel I cannot rest any longer here ; I must 
 get something to do — something to fill my empty 
 hands and my empty heart." 
 
 " No, calon f^ch," said Nance the unselfish, " I will 
 not mind at all. I am thinking myself that it is not 
 good for you to stay here brooding over your sorrow. 
 Peggi ' Bullet * and I have been like sisters since the 
 time when we were girls, and harvested together, and 
 went together to gather wool on the sheep mountains. 
 You have made nie so rich, too, my dear, that I shall 
 be quite comfortable ; but you will come and see me 
 again before very long, if I live ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, Nance People who have asthma often 
 live to be very old. You know that, wherever I am, 
 I will be continually thinking of you, and of the little 
 green corner up there in the rock churchyard ; and 
 I will come back sometimes to see you." 
 
 " But where will you go, my dear ? " 
 
 " To my sister. Ever since this trouble has com<; 
 apon me I have longed for a sister's love, and now 
 
TUnrest. 
 
 229 
 
 I think I will ^^o to her I will tell her all my 
 troubles, and ask her to help me to find employ- 
 ment." 
 
 " Perhaps she has never heard of you — what do 
 I know ? — and perhaps she will spurn you when she 
 hears yv)ur story. If she does, come back to old 
 Nance, my dear ; her arms will always be open to 
 receive you. Yes, begin the world again. Caton 
 pawb ! you are only twenty now. You have your 
 life before you ; you may marry, child, in spite 
 of all that has happened." 
 
 ''Nance!" said Valmai, and the depth of reproach 
 and even injury in her voice made plain to Nance 
 that she must never suggest such a thing again. 
 
 " Don't be angry with me, my dear I " 
 
 " Angry with you ! No, I am only thinking how 
 little you know — how little you know. But where 
 shall I find my sister ? You said once you had her 
 address, where is it ? " 
 
 " Oh, anwl ! I don't know. Somewhere in the 
 loft — " and Nance looked up at the brown rafters. 
 " I haven't seen it for twenty years, but it's sure to 
 be there. I remember, then somebody wrote it out 
 for me, and I tied it up with a packet of other 
 papers. They are in an old teapot on the top of 
 the wall under the thatch, just there, my child, over 
 the door. You must get the ladder and go up. It 
 is many a long year since I have climbed up 
 there. " 
 
 But Valmai's agile limbs found no great difficulty 
 in reaching the brown boards which lay loosely 
 across the rafters. 
 
 " Now, straight along, my dear." 
 
,■.1 
 
 mmm 
 
 230 
 
 J5)? JSerwcn JBanfts. 
 
 Mm 
 
 ¥1 'li- 'i. 
 
 M ; 1 
 
 " It is very dark, but I have found it," and coming 
 down the ladder backwards, she placed the cracked 
 and dust-begrimed teapot on the table. '* Oh, how 
 brown and faded the papers are ! Nance, what 
 is this ? I do believe it is your marriage cer- 
 tificate ! " 
 
 " Very likely, my dear, and you will find the bill 
 for my husband's funeral, too ; and a pattern of my 
 scarlet ' mantell,' the one I nursed my children in ; 
 oh ! I thought a lot of that, and here it is still, you 
 see, folded over my shoulders." 
 
 " What is this ? You had bad ink, but I think 
 it must be the address. Let me see, here is ' Mrs 
 Besborough Power.' " 
 
 " I knew it was a hard, long name," said the old 
 woman. 
 
 " * Carne,' but the last word, oh, Nance, what is 
 it ? It begins with M o, and ends with r e — r e 
 is the end of the shire, of course. Merionithshire ? 
 No, it is M o, so must be Monmouthshire or Mont- 
 gomeryshire, stay, there is a t in the middle. Mrs. 
 Besborough Power, Carne — I will try Carne anyway," 
 and next day she wrote to her sister addressing the 
 letter : 
 
 Miss Gwladys Powell, 
 
 c/o Mrs. Besborough Power, 
 Carne, 
 Montgomeryshire. 
 
 In a few days her letter was returned. 
 " Not known," said Valmai ; " then we have not 
 read the address aright. I will go myself, Nance 
 
TUnrcst 
 
 231 
 
 d coming 
 I cracked 
 Oh, how 
 ce, what 
 age cer- 
 
 1 the bill 
 
 rn of my 
 
 Idren in ; 
 
 still, you 
 
 t I think 
 is 'Mrs 
 
 i the old 
 
 , what is 
 r e — r e 
 
 lithshire ? 
 
 or Mont- 
 
 ile. Mrs. 
 anyway," 
 
 sssing the 
 
 have not 
 If, Nance 
 
 I will go next week." And the following days w-.rc 
 xcupied with arrangements for her departure a.ic« 
 Nance's comfort during her absence. 
 
 On one of these latter days Mr. Francis came 
 in, 
 
 ** I am glad you have come to-day," said Valmai 
 holdmg out her hand. '< I wanted to thank y<., 
 before I left for all your kindness to me, and to ask 
 you to continue to see Nance sometimes " 
 
 "Are you going to leave us, then?" said tn^ 
 young man, in a disappointed tone. 
 
 He had felt deeply interested m the girl who bore 
 her desertion and sorrow with such patience, anc 
 had unconsciously been looking forward to a con- 
 tmuance of the friendship begun between them. 
 " You are not going away for long, I hope ? " 
 "Yes, for long; possibly for ever, except for a 
 hasty visit to Nance sometimes I shall trust her 
 to you, Mr. Francis, and I hope you will be as kind 
 to her as you have been to me." 
 
 "Certainly I will , but do not talk of kindness It 
 has been a great privilege to me, and a pleasure tu 
 know you and I hope in the future if I can be of 
 any service to you, you will let me know." 
 
 Valmai took out her purse nervously, she hesitated 
 to speak of remuneration to this kind friend 
 
 " You are not going to wound me," he said gently 
 laying his hand on her purse, "by offering 'to pay 
 
 " No, no, said Valmai ; " only for the future for 
 your care of Nance. ' 
 
 "There will be nothing much to do for her, 1 
 ^ink ; just a call in passing and a few cheer/ng 
 
232 
 
 3B\> JSetwen JSanfts. 
 
 
 words, and they don't cost much." And he rose 
 to go. 
 
 " Good-bye, then," said Valmai. " I shall never 
 forget your kindness." 
 
 " Good-bye," said Mr. Francis, holding her hand 
 for a moment. He seemed about to say something 
 more, but changed his mind, and abruptly Ifft the 
 house. 
 
 The next day was Valmai's last in Nance's cottage. 
 She rose early, and, after her simple breakfast, put on 
 her white hat, and, kissing the old woman tenderly, 
 said : 
 
 *' I am going out for a few hours ; there are one or 
 two people T w- •"'♦^^ to see — Peggi Bullet, and Shon, 
 the sexton. Ineu I am going to cross the Rock 
 Bridge." 
 
 She did not Li-Jl Nance that her chief object was to 
 pay a last visit to her old haunts by the Berwen. 
 After making all arrangements with Peggi Bullet 
 and Shon, she took her way across the bridge. The 
 year that had passed since Cardo had left her, with 
 its varied experiences and trials, the bitter sense of 
 loneliness and desertion, the pains and the delights of 
 motherhood, the desolation and sorrow of bereave- 
 ment, all had worked a change in the simple girl's 
 character, that now surprised even herself, and she 
 thankfully realised that her troubles had at all events 
 generated a strength which enabled her to act for 
 herself and attend to matters of business which had 
 before been unapproachable mysteries to her. She 
 shrank a little as she met the bold, admiring gaze of 
 a knot of sailors, who stood at the door of the Ship 
 Inn, where she explained to the buxom landlady 
 
TDinrcst. 
 
 233 
 
 that she wanted the car to meet her at the Rock 
 Bridge on the following morning at ten. 
 
 " Yes, miss fach, and Jackie will drive you safe ; 
 Dut, indeed, there's long time since we saw you ! 
 You never come to see us now, and there's many 
 warm hearts on this side the Rock Bridge as on the 
 island, I can tell you." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I know, and I thank you all," said 
 Valmai, as she went out again into the sunshine. 
 
 The sailors were gone now, and she was free to 
 make her way over the golden sands so often trodden 
 by her and Cardo. 
 
 Every boulder, every sandy nook, every wave that 
 broke, brought its own sad memories. 
 
 She turned up the path by the Berwen, which led 
 to the old church, carefully avoiding even a glance at 
 the tangled path on the other side of the river, which 
 she and Cardo had made their own. 
 
 Pale and dry-eyed, she pressed her hands on her 
 bosom as if to still the aching throbbing within. 
 Every step that brought her nearer to the old church 
 increased the dull aching that weighed her down ; 
 but still she pressed on, longing, yet dreading, to see 
 the spot on which she and Cardo had made their 
 vows together on that sunny morning which seemed 
 so long ago. 
 
 As she entered the porch, she disturbed the white 
 owl, who emerged from the ivy with a flap of her 
 g'-eat wings, and sailed across the Berwen. 
 
 The worm-eaten door of the church stood wide 
 open. Entering the aisle with light footsteps, she 
 approached the altar rails. The light was very dim 
 in the chancel, as every year the ivy grew thicker 
 
mmm 
 
 234 
 
 3B^ 3Benven 3Banfts. 
 
 :,M 
 
 ii 
 
 : 
 
 "i 
 
 
 •i| 
 
 
 over the windows. Surely in that dark corner within 
 the rails some black object stood, something blacker 
 and darker than the shadow itself, and she stood still 
 for a moment, startled. Yes, there was a sound of 
 heavy breathing and the rustling of paper. She 
 drew nearer, even close to the altar rails, and, as her 
 eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she saw a 
 man, who stooped over a musty, tattered book. 
 
 The sound of her footstep attracted his attention, 
 and as he rose from his stooping position, Valmai 
 recognised the marble face and the black eyebrows 
 ofthe"Vicaredu." 
 
 He was looking at one of the leaves in the old 
 ipegistry book, and for a moment as he raised his 
 eyes to the silent, white figure before the altar, he 
 'iook her for a ghostly visitant ; but Valmai, with a 
 sudden inrush of recognition, clasped her hands, a 
 faint exclamation escaped her lips, and the " Vicare 
 du " knew it was no spirit who stood trembling 
 before him. For a moment both were speechless — 
 then pointing to the page before him, he asked in a 
 husky voice, " What is the meaning of this ? " and 
 from beginning to end he read, with this strange 
 hoarseness in his voice, the entry of his son's mar- 
 riage to Valmai. Not a word escaped him, not even 
 the date, nor the names of the witnesses Then he 
 turned his black eyes upon her once more, and 
 repeated ins question. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ? I have heard of 
 your shame, of your dishonour — of the disgraceful 
 way in which you have entrapped my poor boy 
 But what is this farce enacted here? How dare you 
 enter the House of God and forge this ridiculous 
 
 i!i i 
 
Tllnreet* 
 
 235 
 
 statement? Where is my son, whom you have 
 lured to destruction ? " 
 
 Valmai was shaken like a reed by this sudden 
 and unexpected meeting, and the outburst of feeling 
 exhibited by the " Vicare du " awoke in her own 
 neart such a tumult of doubt and suspense, that she 
 could no longer restrain the tears which for days 
 she had kept in check ; long, silent sobs heaved her 
 bosom, she covered her face with her hands, and the 
 tears trickled through her fingers, but she made no 
 answer. 
 
 " Speak, girl," said the Vicar, *• Jiave you nothing 
 to say for yourself? no excuse to make for your 
 conduct ? My son and I lived in perfect happiness 
 together until you came to this neighbourhood ; 
 now you have led a young man on to his ruin and 
 broken the heart of an old man — for this," he said, 
 tapping the register with a trembling finger, " this 
 is a lie — a forgery — a foolish piece of deceit, not 
 worth the paper on which it is written ! " 
 
 Still Valmai spoke not a word. Oh, what happi- 
 ness it would have been to throw herself at the old 
 man's feet, and to confess everything, here, where 
 Cardo and she had plighted their troth — to have 
 told him of her ignorance of his fate, of her dis- 
 tracted longing for his return. Surely, surely he 
 would have forgiven her ! She was torn with 
 conflicting feelings. But, no ! Had she borne the 
 contempt and scorn of all her acquaintances and 
 friends to break down now, and disclose her secret 
 to the man of all others from whom Cardo desired 
 to keep the knowledge of it } No, she would die 
 rather than divulge it — and with an earnest prayer 
 
236 
 
 B» JSerwen JSanfts. 
 
 for stren^'th she remained silent, U)V in silence alone, 
 she had taken refuge since her troubles had come 
 U[)on her. 
 
 " Speak, girl, I imjilorc you ! Tell me, is this 
 true?" His voice trembled, and he came a step 
 nearer to her. " Tell me that it is true, and I will 
 forgive you and him, for I shall then have a hope 
 that his love for you will bring him home, though 
 he has no love for me." And completely overcome 
 by his feelings he dropped on his knees by the table, 
 and, leaning his head on his arms, broke into a 
 torrent of tears. *' Oh, Cardo, Cardo, my boy ! " he 
 cried. " Come back to me." 
 
 There was no answer from Valmai, and when he 
 raised his head again she was gone. At the words, 
 "Oh! Cardo, Cardo," she had fled down the aisle, 
 out into the golden sunshine, down the rugged path 
 to the shore, where behind a huge boulder she flung 
 herself down on the sands, crying out in a long pent- 
 up agony of tears, "Oh Cardo, Cardo, come back! " 
 
 The morning hours passed on, and noontide 
 drew near. 
 
 The " Vicare du " emerged from the church porch, 
 pale and calm as usual. He looked at his watch as 
 he came out into the sunshine, and followed the 
 same path over which Valmai naa sped an hour 
 before. He had replaced the old registry book 
 in the rusty, iron chest, had closed the door methodi- 
 cally, and when he had disapper ed through tb-' 
 trees the white owl had flapped back into the tower, 
 and the dimly-lighted church which had been th* 
 scene of such stormy human feelings was once more 
 silent and deserted. 
 
TUnrest 
 
 237 
 
 At noontide, too, Valmai had regained her com- 
 posure, and had risen from her attitude of despair 
 with a pale face and eyes which still showed traces of 
 their storm oi tears. 
 
 Next day she bade her faithful Nance good-bye, 
 leaving with her a promise to write as soon as she 
 was settled in some place that she could call '* home," 
 and to return for a few days in the spring. 
 
 Arrived at Caer Madoc, she *ook her place in the 
 coach in which she had journeyed a year before ; and 
 reaching the station at Blaennos, soon arrived at 
 Fordsea Leaving her luggage at the station, she 
 made her way into the well-remembered town. There 
 was the white-flashing harbour, here was the crooked 
 Reuben Street, and here the dear little house once 
 occupied by her uncle, where she and Cardo had 
 spent their happy honeymoon. Yes, she remembered 
 it all ; but she held her head up bravely, and crushed 
 down every tender memory, hardening her heart, and 
 setting herself to attend to the business of the hour. 
 
 In the broad High Street she easily found the 
 shining brass plate which bore the words, " Mr. 
 William Lloyd, Solicitor," and she entered the office 
 with as business-like an air as she could assume. 
 
 •' Can I see Mr. William Lloyd himself? " 
 
 * You see him, madam ; I am he," said a middle- 
 aged, pleasant-faced man, who met her in the door- 
 way. " I was just going out, but if your business is 
 not likely to keep us long — " 
 
 " I don't think so," said Valmai. " I am the mere. 
 of Captain Powell, who used to live in Reuben Street. 
 He once told me you were his lawyer, and I have 
 heard that in his will he has left me some money." 
 
238 
 
 3B\? 3Berwen 3Batih0. 
 
 " Bless me ! You are his neice Valmai ! Of 
 course. I have been wondering when you would 
 turn up, and was really beginning to think I must 
 advertise for you. I have written to your uncle at 
 Abersethin, but have had no reply." 
 
 " He never writes if he can help it. I am very 
 ignorant of money matters and business ways," said 
 Valmai, as Mr. Lloyd handed her a chair, " but would 
 like to know in plain words how much my dear uncle 
 has left me, as I am leaving this part of the country 
 to-morrow " 
 
 " Not going out of England, I suppose ? " said the 
 lawyer. 
 
 " No, oh no ; not even out of Wales " 
 
 " Well, I have your uncle's will here, and I can 
 read it to you at once" 
 
 '•No, indeed," said Valmai, "I don't think I 
 want to hear it read. I know from dear Uncle John's 
 perfect faith in you that I can trust you. If you will 
 only tell me plainly how much money I can have 
 now, and how I am to receive it in the future, I shall 
 be quite satisfied ; and if I owe you anything you can 
 deduct it, please." 
 
 Mr. Lloyd smiled and shook his head at this 
 unbusiness-like proposal. 
 
 " Well," he said, " young ladies can't be expected 
 to know much of business ways, but I should certainly 
 like to go into the accounts with you at the first 
 opportunity. He has left you the bulk of his pro- 
 perty, the income of which is about ;^I50 a year; 
 and, after deducting the legacies and my costs and all 
 expenses, I shall have in hand about ;^300 for 
 you." 
 
TUnrcst. 
 
 239 
 
 "Three hundred pounds," said Valmai, "what a lot 
 of money! Could you take care of it for me M- 
 Lloyd ? and let me send to you for it when I want t*' 
 she added nervously. * 
 
 "Certainly, my dear young lady, and I will send 
 you a statement of accounts as soon as possible." 
 
 1 c^^!u' V'^."''"'^ business arrangements Valmai 
 left the office, feeling she had quite acted up to her 
 new rS/e of an independent woman of business 
 
 Making her way to a quiet hotel, the landlord of 
 which she remembered had been an intimate ac- 
 quamtance of her uncle's, she procured a bed there 
 for the night, and in the morning arose with the 
 feelmg that the dear old past was dead, and that a 
 new and unlovely life lay before her. 
 
*'*mtm 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 ii;!!i 
 
 In the spacious, handsomely-furnished drawing-room 
 of a large country-house, two ladies sat on a quiet 
 evening in autumn. The large bay wiiulow looked 
 out over extensive grounds to the blue inils beyond. 
 In the pale evening sky the crescent moon hung like 
 a silver boat, the trees in the quiet air V )oked black 
 as if drawn in ink In the grate a large wood fire 
 crackled, which the elder lady seemed much to enjoy 
 as she rubbed her hands one over another on her 
 knee, and spoke in a low, purring tone. The younger 
 occupant of the room was a girl about twenty years 
 of age ; she was fair and fragile- looking compared 
 with her portly companion, who was rather florid in 
 complexion. 
 
 "Put ycjr work away, my dear," said the elder 
 lady ; " it is getting too dark for you to see." 
 
 "This is the last petal, auntie," said the girl, still 
 bending her head with its wealth of golden hair over 
 her work. At last with a satisfied " There ! " she laid 
 it on the table and turned towards the bay window, 
 through which might be seen a fair view of the park, 
 with its undulating knolls and clumps of trees, be- 
 tween which wound in flowing curves the well-kept 
 
 drive leading to the high road. 
 
 240 
 
XTbe Sisters. 
 
 241 
 
 " You had better ring for the lights, Gwladys," said 
 the elder lady, as she settled herself to what she 
 called "five minutes' snooze," a slumber which 
 generally lasted till dinner-time. 
 
 " There is a carriage coming down the drive ; what 
 can it be, auntie ? " But auntie was already in dream- 
 land, and Gwladys stood still at the window watch- 
 ing with curiosity the vehicle which drew nearer and 
 nearer. 
 
 "The fly from the Red Dragon at Monmouth! 
 who can it be?" and her blue eyes opened wide as 
 she saw alighting from it a girl in a quiet black 
 travelling dress. '* She's young and has golden hair 
 like mine — a dressmaker, probably, for one of the 
 servants, but she would scarcely come to the front 
 door." 
 
 Before she had time to conjecture further, the door 
 was opened by a servant man, who seemed rather 
 flustered as the visitor entered quickly, unannounced. 
 She had merely asked him, " Miss Gwladys Powell 
 lives here ? " and, receiving an answer in the affirma- 
 tive, had walked into the hall and followed the 
 puzzled man to the drawing-room door. 
 
 As she entered the room in the dim twilight, 
 Gwladys stood still with astonishment, while William 
 so far forgot himself as to stand open-mouthed with 
 his hand on the door-handle, until Gwladys said, 
 "The lamps, William," when he disappeared suddenly. 
 
 The visitor stood for one moment frightened and 
 doubtful. 
 
 " I am Valmai," she said, approaching Gwladys 
 with her hands extended. 
 
 " Valmai ? " said Gwladys, taking both the offered 
 
 Q 
 
242 
 
 JSp Berwcn JSanfts. 
 
 >li^ 
 
 hand.' 
 
 I don't know the name — but — surely 
 
 m 
 
 4^ 
 
 surely, we are sisters ! You are my twin-sister. Oh 
 I have heard the old story, and have longed for and 
 dreamt of this meeting all my life," and in a moment 
 the two girls were clasped to each other's hearts. 
 
 Gwladys seemed more unnerved by the meeting 
 than Valmai, for she trembled with eagerness as she 
 drew the new-comer nearer to the window, where the 
 evening light shone upon the fresh pure face, so 
 completely the image of her own, that both ,^re 
 impelled over and over again to renew their embraces 
 and to cling closely together. 
 
 When William entered with the lights, they wer<; 
 seated on the sofa with clasped hands, and arms 
 thrown round each other's necks. 
 
 " Please, m'm, is the carriage to go or to stay ? " 
 
 " Oh, to go — to go, of course," said Gwladys, 
 rising to her feet. 
 
 " I have paid him," said Valmai ; '* but I couldn't 
 be sure, you know, whether — whether — " 
 
 " No, darling, of course. Auntie, auntie, awake 
 and see who has come." 
 
 Mrs. Besborough Power blinked lazily. 
 
 '* Dinner ? " she said. 
 
 *' No, no, auntie, not for another hour, it is only 
 seven o'clock ; but do wake up and see who has come." 
 
 But the sight of the strange girl had already 
 recalled her aunt to her senses ; her beady black eyes 
 were fixed upon her, and her high-bridged nose 
 seemed to be aiding them in their inquiries, as she 
 pressed her lips together, and snified in astonishment. 
 
 " Gwladys," she said, " is it possible that I have 
 invited anyone to dinner, and then forgotten it?" 
 
XTbe Sisters^ 
 
 24J) 
 
 Gwladys had removed her sister's liat, and as she 
 stood now before Mrs. Power, in the full light of the 
 lamp and the fire, that poor lady was smitten by the 
 same bewilderment which had taken possession of 
 William at the front door. She could only ejacu- 
 late : 
 
 " Gracious goodness, Gwladys ! What is the mean- 
 ing of this ? Who is it, child ? and which are you ? 
 Are you this one or that one? For heaven's sake 
 say something, or I shall be quite confused." 
 
 " It's Valmai, auntie, my twin-sister, though you 
 could not remember her name, but of whom I have 
 thought often and often. Auntie, you will welcome 
 her for my sake ? Is she not the very image of me ? 
 alike — nay, not so, but the same, the very same, only 
 in two bodies. Oh, Valmai ! Valmai ! why have we 
 been separated so long ? " and. sinking into a chair, 
 she trembled with agitation. 
 
 Mrs. Power held her hands out, though not very 
 cordially. She was beginning to arrange her 
 ideas. 
 
 " Welcome her ! Why, of course, of course. How 
 do you do, my dear ? Very glad to see you, I am 
 sure, though I can't think where you have dropped 
 from. Gwladys, calm yourself; I am surprised at 
 you. I thought you were in Figi, or Panama, or 
 Macedonia, or some place of that kind." 
 
 " Patagonia," said Valmai, smiling. " My parents 
 both died there, and I have come home to live in 
 Wales arain — " 
 
 " Well, to be sure," said Mrs. Power, rubbing one 
 hand over another, her favourite action. " Come, 
 Gwladys, don't cry — don't be silly ; as your sister is 
 
ii 
 
 244 
 
 £p :iBetwen JSanf{0. 
 
 here, she will stay with us a week or so. Can you 
 my dear ? " 
 
 ** Yes," said Valmai, whose clear mind quickly drew 
 its own conclusions and formed its own plans. " Yes, 
 indeed, I hoped you would ask me to stay a week 
 or so ; but do not think I am come to be dependent 
 on you. No, I am well off, but I had an intense 
 longing to see my sister ; and having no ties or 
 claims upon me, I made up my mind to find her out 
 before I settled down into some new life." 
 
 Alas, poor human nature ! The few words, " I am 
 well off," influenced Mrs. Besborough Power at once 
 in her reception of the friendless girl. 
 
 " Of course, my dear, stay as long as you like. Go 
 upstairs now and take your things off, and after 
 dinner you shall tell us all your story." 
 
 And arm-in-arm the two girls left the room, " like 
 twin cherries on a stalk." The resemblance between 
 them was bewildering ; every line of feature, every 
 tone of colouring was the same. 
 
 " Let us stand together before this cheval glass,' 
 said Gwladys, " and have a good look at each other. 
 Oh, Valmai, my beloved sister, I feel as if I had 
 known you all my life, and could never bear to part 
 with you." 
 
 And as they stood side by side before the. glass, 
 they were themselves astonished, puzzled and 
 amused at the exact likeness of one to the other. 
 The same broad forehead, in which, at the temples, 
 the blue veins showed so plainly, the same depth of 
 tenderness in the blue eyes, the same slender neck, 
 and the same small hands ; the only difference lay 
 in the expression, for over Gwladys's upper lip and 
 
XTbc Ststcvs. 
 
 245 
 
 half-drooped eyelids hovered a shade of pride and 
 haughtiness which was absent from Valmai's 
 countenance 
 
 " Oh, see," she said playfully, " there is a difference 
 — that little pink mole on my arm. Valmai, you 
 haven't got it " 
 
 " No," said Valmai, critically examining her 
 wrist, with rather a dissatisfied look, " I haven't got 
 that ; but in everything else we are just alike. How 
 lovely you are, Gwladys." 
 
 " And you, Valmai, how sweet." And again 
 they embraced each other 
 
 " I have no dress to change for dinner, dear. Do 
 you dress ? " 
 
 "Oh, only just a little, and I won't at all this 
 evening. How strange we should both be in mour*" 
 ing, too ! Mine is for Mrs. Power's sister. Who 
 are you wearing black for ? " 
 
 A hot blush suffused Valmai's face and neck as 
 she answered slowly : 
 
 " I am not in mourning, but thought black would 
 be nice to travel in. I generally wear white." 
 
 "How strange! so do I," said Gwladys; "white 
 or something very light. Shall we go down, dearp 
 Would you like a bedroom to yourself, or shall we 
 sleep together ? " 
 
 " Oh, let us sleep together ! " 
 
 And with arms thrown over each other's shoulders, 
 they descended the broad staircase, just as Mrs. 
 Pow«r, in answer to William's summons, was cross- 
 ing the hall to the dining-room. 
 
 " Here we are, auntie ; or here I am and here 
 is she." 
 

 mtmmmm 
 
 246 
 
 3Bs JBcrwen JSanfts, 
 
 ue,' 
 
 « 
 
 ii| 
 
 " Come along, then, my dears." 
 
 " Well, indeed, I never did," said William, when he 
 entered the kitchen ; " no, I never, never did see 
 such a likeness between two young leddies. They 
 are the same picture as each other ! And missus 
 says to me, * William,' she says, * this is Miss 
 Gwladys's sister, her twin-sister,' she says, * Miss 
 Valmai Powell.' And I couldn't say nothing, if 
 you believe me, with my eyes as big as saucers. 
 Ach y fi 1 there's an odd thing ! " 
 
 In the drawing-room after dinner there were 
 endless questions and answers, each one seeming to 
 find in the other's history a subject of the deepest 
 interest. Mrs. Besborough Power, especially, with 
 her nose in the air, sometimes looking over her 
 spectacles, and sometimes under them, sometimes 
 through them, did not hesitate to question Valmai 
 on the minutest particulars of her life hitherto — 
 questions which the latter found it rather difficult to 
 answer without referring to the last eighteen months. 
 
 " H'm ! " said Mrs Power, for the twentieth time, 
 "and ever since your father's death you have been 
 living with your uncle? " 
 
 " With my uncles, first one and then the other ; and 
 the last few months with dear Nance, my old nurse." 
 
 "What ! Nance Owen ? Is she alive still ? " 
 
 " Yes ; she is, indeed." 
 
 " She must be very old now ? " 
 
 " Yes, and frail ; but as loving and tender as ever." 
 
 And so on, and so on, until bed-time ; and the two 
 girls were once more together in their bedroom. 
 
 The maid, who was deeply interested in . the 
 strange visitor, lingered about the toilet-table a little 
 
TTbc Si6ter9. 
 
 247 
 
 unnecessarily, until Gwladys, in a voice which, 
 though not unkind, showed she was more accustomed 
 to command than Valmai, said : 
 
 "That will do, thank you, I will do my own hair 
 to-night. My sister and I wish to talk." And, 
 having dismissed Maria, she drew two cosy chairs 
 round the wood fire. 
 
 "Come along, Valmai, now we can chat to our 
 heart's content." And soon, with feet on fender and 
 hair unloosed, the sisters talked and talked, as if 
 making up for the long years of silence which had 
 divided them. 
 
 " And how happy that neither of us is married," 
 said Gwladys. "We might never have met then, 
 dear." 
 
 " Possibly," said Valmai 
 
 " And what a good thing we haven't the same lover 
 to quarrel about." 
 
 " Yes," said Valmai, rather absently. She was 
 struggling hard with the tumult of feelings which she 
 had hitherto restrained, endeavouring to smile and 
 laugh as the occasion required; but now the tide of 
 emotions, which had been pent up all day, threatened 
 to burst its bonds. 
 
 " What is it, dear ? " said Gwladys. " What makes 
 your voice tremble so? There is something you are 
 hiding from me ? " and, flinging herself down on the 
 hearth-rug at Valmai's feet, she clasped her arms 
 around her knees, and leant her head on her lap, 
 while Valmai, giving way to the torrent of tears 
 which had overpowered her, bent her own head over 
 her sister's until their long unbound hair was mingled 
 together. 
 
^^■''r;; 
 
 ■ •l^ 
 
 ■ ' 
 
 1 
 
 >l 
 
 '1 
 
 i 
 
 .J 
 
 iiw!^ 
 
 II '^'' 
 
 ■IL: 
 
 248 
 
 1B^ Berwen JSanhs. 
 
 "Oh, Gwladys! Gwladys!" she said, between her 
 sobs, " yes, I have hidden something from you. 
 Something, oh, everything — the very point and 
 meaning of my life. And I must still hide it from 
 you. Gwladys, can you trust me? Can you believe 
 your sister is pure and good when she tells you that 
 the last eighteen months of her life must be hidden 
 from you? Not because they contain anything 
 shameful, but because circumstances compel her to 
 silence." 
 
 The effect of these words upon Gwladys was, at 
 first, to make her rigid and cold as stone. She drew 
 herself away from her sister, gently but firmly, and, 
 standing before her with blanched face and parched 
 lips, said : 
 
 " I tJiought it was too good to be true ; that I, who 
 have so longed for a sister's love, should have my 
 desire so fully satisfied seemed too good for earth, 
 and now I see it was. There is a secret between us, 
 a shadow, Valmai ; tell me something more, for pity's 
 sake ! " 
 
 "I will tell you all I can, Gwladys, the rest I must 
 keep to myself, even though you should spurn me and 
 cast me from you to-morrow, for I have promised one 
 who is dearer to me than life itself, and nothing shall 
 make me break that promise. Gwladys, I have 
 loved, but — but I have lost." 
 
 " I know very little of the world," said Gwladys 
 speaking in cold tones, " and still less of men ; but 
 the little I know of them has made me despise them. 
 Three times I have been sought in marriage, and 
 three times I have found something dishonourable in 
 the men who said they loved me. Love ! What do 
 
XCbe Sisters. 
 
 249 
 
 men know of love ? Fortunately my heart was 
 untouched ; but you, Valmai, have been weaker. 
 I see it all — oh I to my sorrow I see it all ! You 
 h&ve believed and trusted, and you have been be- 
 trayed ? Am I right ? " 
 
 " Yes, and no ; I have loved and I have trusted, 
 but I have not been betrayed. He will come back to 
 me, Gwladys — I know he will, some time or other — 
 and will explain the meaning of this long silence. 
 Meanwhile I must go on bearing and waiting." 
 
 " Look into my eyes, Valmai," said Gwladys, 
 kneeling once more before her sister. 
 
 And Valmai looked full into the blue orbs, the 
 counterpart of her own, with fearless, open gaze. 
 
 " Now speak," said Gwladys, taking her sister's 
 hand, and holding it on her own fast-beating heart ; 
 " now tell me, here as we kneel together before the 
 All-seeing God and His holy angels, do you know 
 of any reason why we two, when we have dropped 
 these bodies, should not stand in equal purity before 
 the Throne of God ? " 
 
 " Before God there is none ! Of course, Gwladys, 
 my heart is full of the frailties and sin belonging to 
 our human nature ; but I understand what you 
 mean ; and again I say, there is none ! " 
 
 " I will believe you, darling," said her sister, throw- 
 ing her arms around her, " I will believe you, dearest; 
 I will take you into my warm heart, and I will cling 
 to you for ever ! " 
 
 " But I must go, Gwladys ; I want to find some 
 home where I can make myself useful, and where 
 I can fill my mind and hands with work until — 
 until—" 
 
I* 
 
 250 
 
 B^ JSerwen JSanf^s. 
 
 i 
 
 ** Until when, dear ? " said Gwladys. 
 
 Valmai rose with a troubled face and tearful eyes 
 and, stretching out her hands, she gazed over them 
 into the far distance, with a dreamy look which 
 gradually changed into a brightening smile. 
 
 " Until the happy future comes ! It will come 
 some day, Gwladys, and then you will be glad you 
 trusted your sister." 
 
 " Then to-night, dear," said Gwladys, " we will 
 bury the last eighteen months. I will never think of 
 them or allude to them until you choose to enlighten 
 me. One thing only, Valmai," she added, " forget 
 that man — learn to despise him as I do ; here is the 
 fourth on my list ! Let us go to bed, dear ; we are 
 both tired." 
 
 And the two sisters were soon sleeping side by 
 side, so much alike in every feature and limb, that no 
 one looking at them would have been able to dis- 
 tinguish one from the other. 
 
 " What a strange thing," said Mrs. Power, a few 
 days afterwards, as they roamed about the grounds 
 together, " that the Merediths should have written to 
 me just the day before you came ! My dear, I think 
 it will be a delightful home for you. True, Mifanwy 
 is an invalid, and you will be her companion ; but 
 then they are advised to amuse her as much as 
 possible, and she sees a good deal of life, often going 
 about from one place to another, Let me see ! they 
 will get my letter to-morrow, and I have no doubt 
 they will write by return of post ; but we can't spare 
 you for a month, dear. You know you promised us 
 that ! " And the old lady purred on, walking between 
 the twins, and much interested in her plans. 
 
XTbc Sisters. 
 
 ibi 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said V.ilmai, "I shall be thankful 
 for such a situation ; it is just what I would have 
 chosen for myself, whatever." 
 
 " ' Whatever ' and * indeed' so often is very Welshy, 
 my love," said Mrs. Power, with a sniff of disapproval. 
 
 '* Yes, I am afraid, indeed," said the girl ; " but you 
 should have heard me two years ago. 1 could scarcely 
 speak any English then ! " 
 
 " Well, my dear, I hope Gwladys won't catch your 
 Welsh accent; but the Merediths have it very 
 strongly themselves." 
 
 " Oh ! I hope they will like me," said Valm.\i. ** I 
 must not count my chickens before they are hatched!" 
 
 But they were hatched, and in this matter every- 
 thing turned out well for Valmai. 
 
 The Merediths, who lived in an adjoining county, 
 had for some time been looking out for a companion 
 for their eldest and invalid daughter. They were 
 delighted, therefore, when Mrs. Besborough Power's 
 letter arrived telling them of Gwladys's meeting with 
 her twin-sister, and of the latter's desire to find some 
 situation of usefulness; and in less than a month 
 Valmai was domiciled amongst them, and already 
 holding a warm place in their regard. 
 
 Mifanwy opened her heart to her at once, and 
 seemed every day to revive under the influence of her 
 bright companionship ; and her parents, delighted 
 with the change which they began to perceive in their 
 daughter, heaped kindnesses and attention upon 
 Valmai, who was soon looked upon as one of the 
 family ; even Gwen and Winifred, the two younger 
 girls, taking to her in a wonderful ii^.anner. 
 
 Yes I Valmai was outwardly happy and fortunate. 
 
252 
 
 JS)? JSerwen Saiikd* 
 
 She hid from every eye the sorrow which lay at the 
 bottom of her heart like a leaden weight, and little 
 did those around her guess that every night, in the 
 privacy of her own room, she drew from her bosom a 
 plain gold ring, and, laying it on the bed before her, 
 prayed over it with clasped hands and streaming 
 eyes. 
 
 Gwladys and she corresponded very regularly, and 
 she frequently went to Came for a few days' changr 
 when Mifanwy was well enough to spare her ; always 
 regretted by the whole family when she left, and 
 warmly welcomed when she returned. 
 
 1^ 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 DISPERSING CLOUDS. 
 
 Two months had slipped away, and still Charles 
 Williams remained a patient in the Westlake Hospital 
 at Sydney. At length, after a consultation of the 
 doctors, it was proposed that he should be consigned 
 to the workhouse infirmary. 
 
 "We can't keep him here for ever," said Dr. Emerton ; 
 "and as all the beds will be wanted with this out- 
 break of diphtheria, I see nothing else to be done." 
 
 " Well," said Dr. Belton, " I am deeply interested 
 in his case, and if you agree, I will take him under 
 my own particular charge. You know I have a few 
 rooms set apart for such cases in my house at Brook- 
 •^cre. I will take him there, and see what I can do 
 for him." 
 
 •' Very kind of you, I am sure," said Dr. Emerton. 
 "You can afford that sort of thing — I can't. I should 
 have sent nim to the infirmary, where he would be 
 under Dr. Hutchinson's care ; but, of course, he will 
 be better off in your private hospital." 
 
 And one day in the following week. Dr. Belton 
 
 took home with him the invalid, whose case he had 
 
 already described to his wife and children, so that 
 
 when the stooping figure emerged from the carriage 
 
 leaning heavily on the arm of the nurse who accom- 
 
 253 
 
t i^yww:. 
 
 ustta 
 
 
 mm 
 
 254 
 
 3Bi? JScrwen 3Banft9. 
 
 pani'ed him, he was received with Idndness and 
 warmth, Mrs. Belton herself rr,eeting him with out- 
 stretched hands of welcome. 
 
 "Very glad to see you, Mr. Williams. Yov will 
 soon get better here, I think.' 
 
 Cardo looked at her v'tb no intelligence in h'i 
 eyes. " Yes, thank you," w as all he said, as he pa.^^sed 
 with his nurse into the bright, cosy room relegated to 
 the use of the patients, who were so fortunate, or so 
 unfortunate as to arouse more than usual interest 
 in Dr. Belton's mind. 
 
 " Now, nurse," said the doctor, " give him a good 
 tea, and a little of that cold quail, and after tea I 
 will •'ome and have a chat with him." 
 
 Later on in the evening he kept his word ana 
 found Cardo sunk in the depths of an arm-chair, 
 watching with lack-lustre eyes, while the Dr.'s two 
 boys tried their skill at a game of bagat-^lle. 
 
 " Well, Williams, and how are you r^xv r tired, 
 eh ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes," said Cardo, turning hi« eyes upon the 
 doctor with a look of bewilderment, x^hich reminded 
 him of the look of dumb inquiry in the eyes of a 
 troubled dog. 
 
 " You will like this better than the hospital I am 
 sure. Do you love children ? " 
 
 "No," was Cardo's laconic reply, at which the 
 doctor smiled. 
 
 He tried many subjects but failed to e:et any 
 further answer than "yes" or "no." Most men 
 would have been discouraged when several weeks 
 passed over, and slill his patient showed very 
 little signs of improvement. It is true, now 
 
 
Dlapersfnd Clou^9. 
 
 255 
 
 rue, now 
 
 ne would answer more at length, but he was 
 never heard to volunteer a remark, though he sat for 
 hours in what looked like a " brown study," in which 
 probably only indistinct forms and fantastic shapes 
 passed before his mind's eye. And latterly the 
 doctor too had frequently been observed to fall into 
 a reverie, while his eyes were fixed on Charles 
 Williams's motionless attitude. After much thought, 
 he would sit beside his pa'ient and try to interest 
 him 'u\ something going on around him. 
 
 Indeed, Cardo's gentle ways, together with his 
 handsome person, had endeared him to all who came 
 in contact with him, and there was not one in the 
 house, from the cook in the kitchen to Dr Belton's 
 youngest child, who would not have rejoiced to see 
 health restored to the invalid. 
 
 One evening, when Jack, a boy of twelve, returned 
 from school, he came bounding into the room in 
 which Cardo sat with his eyes fixed on a newspaper, 
 which he had not turned nor moved for an hour, 
 Sister Vera sitting at the window with her work. 
 
 " See, Mr. Williams," said the boy, " what Meta 
 Wright gave me, some gilded gingerbread ! isn't it 
 pretty ? I have eaten a pig and a lamb — now there 
 is a ship for you." 
 
 Cardo put down the paper, and taking the ginger- 
 bread in his thin fingers, looked at it with eyes that 
 gradually filled w'th tears. 
 
 " Gingerbread ? '^ he said, looking next at the 
 boy, " gilded gingerbread in the moonlight ! " 
 
 Sister Vera's eyes and ears were instantly on the 
 alert, while she made a sign of silence to the boy. 
 
 Cardo continued to lock at the gingerbread. Sud- 
 
256 
 
 Bt> JBerwen Banfts. 
 
 # 
 
 denly he held up his finger and seemed to listen 
 intently. 
 
 " Hush 'i " he whispered, " do you hear the Ber- 
 wen ? " and he ate his gingerbread slowly, sighing 
 heavily when it was finished. 
 
 This was good news for Dr. Belton, told garru- 
 lously at tea by his young son, and more circum- 
 stantially by Sister Vera; but for long afterwards 
 there was no further sign of improvement in Cardo. 
 
 It was not until three more months had passed 
 that another sign of reviving memory was seen in 
 him, and again it was Jack who awoken the sleep- 
 ing chord- 
 
 " Isn't it a shame?" he said, excitedly running into 
 the room one day; "mother is cutting" Ethel's hair, 
 says she's getting headaches from tne weight of it. 
 Rot, I call it ! See what a lovely curl I stole," and 
 he handed it to Cardo, who first of all looked at it 
 with indifference, but suddenly clutching it, curled 
 it round his finger, and became very excited. 
 
 "Whose is it?" said Sister Vera, standing over him. 
 
 His lips trembled and with a husky voice he said. 
 
 " Valmai — " The sound of the name seemed to 
 charm his ear, for he continued to speak it in all 
 sorts of varying tones — sometimes in whispering 
 tones of love — at others in loud and imploring 
 accents. " Oh, Valmai, Valmai ! " he called, and 
 when Dr. Belton entered the room, he held out his 
 hands towards him, and in a beseeching voice cried, 
 "Valmai! Valmai!" 
 
 There was no rest for anyone in the hospital that 
 night, for all night long the house echoed with the 
 cry of " Valmai! Vahnai I " 
 
©ispcrsing Cloubs* 
 
 26? 
 
 On the following morning, endeavouring to create 
 some distraction from this ever-recnrring cry, Dr. 
 Belton drove his patient with him fo some miles 
 into the bush ; the fresh air and motion seemed to 
 quiet his brain, and he fell into the silent stupor 
 so constantly hanging over him. 
 
 " Come, Williams," said the doctor at lasl, as they 
 emerged into a well-kept road leading up to a hand- 
 some house which stood on a rising ground before 
 them, surrounded by its broad acres of well-cultivated 
 land. "You must brighten up now, for I am going to 
 lake you to see an old friend of mine. Why, here he 
 is!" and they were greeted by a jovial shout as a 
 portly, pleasant-faced man caught them up. 
 
 " Hello ! doctor, glad to see you ; you havent 
 honoured us with a visit for some time." 
 
 " I have been so busy lately, and even now you 
 !.ee I have brought a patient with me. I thought 
 a little change would do him good." 
 
 "Of course, of course! the more the merrier. I'll 
 ride on and prepare Nellie for your coming," and off 
 he galloped on his well-kept, spirited horse, looking 
 as he felt, perfectly at home in the saddle. 
 
 "Nellie," a sweet-looking lady with a brunette's 
 face, which retained much -f the beauty of youth, 
 although she had now attained to middle age, was as 
 hearty as her husband in her greeting. 
 
 "So glad to see you — you are just in time for 
 dinner ; for a wonder Lewis is punctual to- 
 day." 
 
 She shook hands with Cardo, atid placed a chair for 
 him at the well-filled table. He took his seat with a 
 pleasant smile, but soon foil into his usual dreamy 
 
 R 
 
m 
 
 258 
 
 Bi> Bervveii Banfts. 
 
 ii 
 
 %- 
 
 mirW' ' 
 
 state, which the company at a sign from Dr. Belton 
 took no notice of. 
 
 " I do believe, Williams," said Dr. Belton at last, 
 '* that I have never introduced you to my friends. 
 These are Mr. and Mrs. Wynne." 
 
 Cardo looked up almost eagerly. 
 
 " Cardo Wynne ? " he said. 
 
 ** No," said the doctor ; '* Mr. Lewis Wynne. But do 
 you know that name ? " 
 
 "Yes, Cardo Wynne." 
 
 ** Is that your name ? " asked the shrewd doctor. 
 
 '* Yes, Cardo Wynne." 
 
 " Merciful goodness ! " said the host, in excited 
 astonishment, which his wife seemed in a great 
 measure to share, ** that is the name of my brother's 
 son, Caradoc, commonly called Cardo Wynne ; that is 
 what Dr. Hughes told us, Nellie, didn't he ? " 
 
 "Yes, I have often thought of the name, and 
 wondered what he was like. How sad," she said, 
 •* and such a handsome fellow, too." 
 
 '* Caradoc ! " Dr. Belton called suddenly. 
 
 ** Yes," said Cardo, with one of his pleasant smiles, 
 "Cardo Wynne, Brynderyn." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " said Mr. Wynne, " there can be 
 no doubt about it ; that is my brother's home." 
 
 And both he and Dr. Belton, aided by Mrs. 
 Wynne's gentle suggestions, made every endea'^our 
 to elicit further information from Cardo, but in vain. 
 He had fallen again into an apparently unconscious 
 and deadened stupor. 
 
 " Sunstroke, did you say? are you sure of that, 
 Belton ? " 
 
 " Not at all," said the doctor, " in fact, I have had 
 
S>isper6ln(i Clo\xt>3. 
 
 9tn 
 
 Dr. Belton 
 
 nne. But do 
 
 serious doubts of it lately, and to-day's experience 
 decides me. I will have a thorough examination of 
 his skull." 
 
 " I will ride in to-morrow, to hear what further dis- 
 coveries you have made," said Mr. Wynne. And Dr 
 Belton returned home early, leaving his host and 
 hostess deeply interested. 
 Calling Sister Vera to him he told her of his plans 
 '* I have long thought it possible that poor fellow 
 might have had a blow of some kind on his heac 
 and that he is still suffering from the effects of it. I 
 shall at once administer an anaesthetic and have a 
 thorough examination of his head. The idea of sun- 
 stroke was so confirmed by the symptoms when he 
 was brought to the hospital that no one thought of 
 anything else." 
 " How soon ? " asked the nurse. 
 " To-morrow— three o'clock." 
 
 And the next afternoon, Cardo's head was 
 thoroughly examined, with the result that Dr Belton 
 Foon found at the back of the skull near the top a 
 small but undoubted indentation. 
 
 •' Of course," he said, " we must have been blind 
 not to guess it before ; but we are blind sometimes- 
 very blind and very stupid." 
 
 Cardo was kept under the influence of a sedative 
 «iat night, and next day Dr. Belton, with the 
 promptness of action which he now regretted he 
 had not sooner exercised, procured the help of one 
 of the most noted specialists in Sydney, and an 
 operation was successfully performed. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Wynne's visits of inquiry and 
 sympathy were of almost daily occurrence during 
 
k-' 
 
 mSSSSS 
 
 260 
 
 3v. 3Ber\vcn l^anfte. 
 
 I ' n t l' ' 
 
 1l : 
 
 lit 
 
 :' i: 
 
 the next month, while Cardo in the darkened, quiet 
 room, siowly regained his powers of mind and body. 
 It was a very slow progress, though it did not seem 
 to be wholly unsatisfactory to Dr. Belton. That 
 good man, after weeks, nay months, of anxious 
 interest, was, howev^•r, at last rewarded by tl' i 
 pleasant spectacle of a young and ardent tempera- 
 ment gradually re-awakening to the joys of life. 
 
 The mind which had been darkened for so lonj^ 
 could not be expected to regain its elasticity and 
 spring at once, in an hour, or a day. But it was evi- 
 dent to the doctor that the healing process which had 
 begun would continue, unless retarded by some 
 unforeseen accident. Gradually the children were 
 admitted into his presence, and while they played 
 with Cardo, Mrs. Belton came and chatted with 
 Sister Vera. 
 
 A few days later on Mr. and Mrs. Wynne entered 
 through the verandah with Dr. Belton, and although 
 Cardo looked a little flustered and puzzled, the 
 pleasant smile and warm clasp of the hand with 
 which he greeted them showed there was no great 
 depth of distrust or fear in his mind. His uncle and 
 aunt possessed much good sense and judgment 
 and did not hurriedly thrust the recognition of 
 themselves upon their nephew, but waited patiently, 
 and let it dawn gradually upon him. 
 
 One afternoon, while Cardo, accompanied by his, 
 uncle and aunt, were walking up and down the 
 verandah conversing on things in general, in a 
 friendly and unconstrained manner, he suddenly 
 stopped, and looking full into his uncle's face, 
 said: 
 
Disperstno Cloubs. 
 
 261 
 
 Uncle Lewis, I cannot imagine how you and I 
 have come here tog-ether ; some things seem so very 
 clear to me, and others so dim and indistinct." 
 '' But every day they grow clearer, do they not ?' 
 " Yes, I think so. Have I been ill ? " 
 "Ves, my dear fellow," said his uncle, gently 
 laying his hand on his arm, -you have been very 
 »11, and your recovery depends entirely upon your 
 keepmg your mind calm and restful. Do not 
 attempt to remember anything that does not come 
 clearly ,nto your mind; in fact, live in the present 
 as much as you can, and the past will come back to 
 you gradually." 
 
 At this moment Dr. Belton appeared on the 
 verandah, having just returned from a visit to one 
 of the Sydney hospitals. After greeting his friends, 
 he sat down on a rustic chair, and with a stretch and 
 a yawn brought out from his coat pocket a leather 
 pocket-book, which he flung across to Cardo. 
 
 "There, Cardo, is that yours?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, carelessly taking the pocket- 
 book and placing it in his pocket. 
 
 " Come, you have disposed of it quickly ; look at it 
 again. " 
 
 Cardo drew it out once more, and, looking at it 
 more carefully, said ; 
 
 " I do not remember where I dropped it ; but I do 
 remember being in a hot, scorching atmosphere, and 
 feehng a terrific blow on my head, and then— nothing 
 more but cloud and darkness, until I awoke here to 
 iig-ht and memory, thou-h that sometimes fails me, 
 for I cannot remember exactly what happened before 
 that day of burnit/g heat." 
 
iiTTTrmTMBarjMfcii* 
 
 1' 
 
 m 
 
 W* 
 
 262 
 
 B^ JSerwen 3Banft0, 
 
 " Well ! the blow on your head and the loss of 
 your pocket-book I can explain, for to-day in the 
 Eastlake Flospltal, I was with a dying man, who 
 confessed that about a year and a half ago he was 
 standing idly on the docks, when he saw a gentleman 
 suddenly struck on the back of his head by the 
 swinging arm of a huge crane, used for lifting heavy 
 weights to and from the shipping. The young man 
 fell forward, his pocket-book — that one I have just 
 given you — fell out of his pocket, and was pounced 
 upon by the man who died to-day. That was you, 
 Cardo Wynne ; you were struck down insensible by 
 the iron bar, and while you were quickly surrounded 
 by a crowd and carried to the hospital, the man 
 escaped with your pocket-book. He returned it to me 
 with great penitence, having spent all your money, I 
 am afraid; but your papers, I think, are intact, and' 
 I see y i have in it a letter of credit upon the Bank 
 of Australasia." 
 
 ** Why, yes," said Cardo, '* I remember coming to 
 the harbour in a ship. What was it called ? The 
 Burraiaalla!''^ and as he fingered the papers in the 
 pocket-book, and came upon his father's signature, 
 Meurig Wynne, he became much excited, and 
 hunted eagerly until he found a folded paper, out 
 of which he drew a long curl of golden hair. 
 
 ** Valmai ! '* he said, " oh, Valmai, Valmai ! " and 
 dropping on to a seat, he covered his face with his 
 hands, and througii his fingers trickled some silent 
 tears. 
 
 *' I must forbid any more excitement for the 
 present," said the doctor ; "let UJ go in to dinner." 
 And as they gathered round ihe table, Cardo 
 
Btsperstno (^lou^s. 
 
 203 
 
 he loss of 
 ay in the 
 man, who 
 go he was 
 gentleman 
 ad by the 
 fting heavy 
 young man 
 [ have just 
 as pounced 
 it was you, 
 isensible by 
 surrounded 
 .1, the man 
 •ned it to me 
 )ur money, I 
 5 intact, and' 
 on the Bank 
 
 tr coming to 
 :alled? The 
 >apers in the 
 rs signature, 
 ixcitcd, and 
 paper, out 
 lair, 
 ilmai ! " and 
 ^ace with his 
 some silent 
 
 lent for the 
 Ito dinner." 
 Itable, Cardo 
 
 took his seat next to his uncle, with more cheerfulness 
 and alacrity than usual. 
 
 The thread of memory, once awakened, never 
 wholly slept again. Daily and almost hourly mem- 
 ories of the past returned to him, and as he gained 
 bodily and mental strength, he gradually unfolded to 
 his uncle the incidents which had preceded his coming 
 to Australia. 
 
 When Lewis Wynne became fully aware of his 
 brother's deep-seated affection for him, and of the 
 penitence and remorse which had darkened his life, 
 he was filled with an impatient anxiety to return to 
 the land of his birth and the brother whom he had 
 loved so much. Indeed, before his acquaintance 
 with his nephew, he had already begun to arrange 
 his affairs with the intention of disposing of his prop- 
 erty in Australia, for he had prospered in all his 
 undertakings, and was now a wealthy man. 
 
 It was delightful news therefore to Cardo when his 
 uncle one day appeared at Dr. Belton's, with the 
 information that he had concluded a satisfactory sale 
 of his property. 
 
 *' So we'll go back together, old boy," he said, 
 slapping Cardo on the back in his usual jovial manner; 
 "you can write to your father, and tell him to look out 
 for a house for Nellie and me." 
 
 I will write to him to-day," said Cardo, "poor 
 old dad, poor old dad ! What he must have suf- 
 fered ! I only hope the suspense has not killed 
 him !" 
 
 "Well, if he is alive," said his uncle, " your good 
 news will make up to him for all the past ! We'll 
 have some happy days in the old country yet. 
 
264 
 
 3Bp 3Berwen JSanfts. 
 
 You must get married, Cardo, and settle down near 
 us!" 
 
 " I am married," said Cardo, with a wholehearted 
 laugh at Dr. Helton's look ot astonishment. 
 
 "Married!" said the doctor, "I never suspected 
 that ! I did think that long golden curl pointed to 
 some love-affair. " 
 
 '* It did, indeed," said Cardo, " it is one of my sweet 
 wife Valmai's curls !" 
 
 ** Where is she now ?" said Mr. Wynne, *' with your 
 father?" 
 
 "No," he said, with a more serious look, "living 
 with her uncle. The truth is, my father knows noth- 
 ing about our marriage, and I have only yesterday 
 written to tell him the whole truth ; and now that I 
 am able to add the delightful news that you are return- 
 ing with me, I think it will soften his heart, and he 
 will forgive our secrecy." 
 
 " What objection has he to the lady?" 
 " She is the Methodist minister's niece." 
 At this remark Louis Wynne burst into an uncon- 
 trollable fit of laughter. 
 
 "The richest thing I ever heard of. Ha, ha, ha! 
 Meurig Wynne's son married to a Methodist preacher's 
 niece. My dear boy, he'll never give his cor»<?ent. 
 Why, he hated them like the very devil himself, and 
 now you expect him to agree to your marrying a 
 Methodist." 
 
 "He'll have to," said Cardo, "and I think he 
 will." 
 
 " Never, my boy, never," said Lewis, rubbing his 
 hands gleefully. " I expect we shall have some excit- 
 ing times down there, Nellie ?" 
 
Bispersino Clou&s. 
 
 265 
 
 3wn near 
 
 an uncoil- 
 
 " Yes ; there will be one thing missing, and that will 
 be dear Agnes." 
 
 " It will always be a mystery to me," said Lewis 
 Wynne, "how I missed your father's letter, although 
 certainly I was roaming about a good deal at the 
 time, and afterwards never hearing my brother's name 
 from Dr. Hughes, who wrote occasionally, I naturally 
 thought he was still keeping up his unaccountable 
 anger against me ; and the busy life of an Australian 
 station soon occupied my life entirely ; but, hurrah ! 
 for old Cymry now. We'll go back and make it all 
 right, Cardo." 
 
 And in less than a month from this time, a very 
 bright and cheerful party went on board the fast 
 sailing steamer Wellingtonia. Mr. and Mrs. Wynne 
 especially were full of life and spirits. 
 
 Dr. Belton went on board with them, and when the 
 last good-byes were said, he declared that Cardo's 
 leaving would cause a great blank in his life, as 
 not only had he been greatly interested in the 
 young man as " a case," but he had also grown much 
 attached to him as a friend. 
 
 The bell rang, the gangway was raised, and the 
 Wellingtonia moved from the side of the quay ; and 
 when at last they had fairly bid good-bye to Australia, 
 they turned to look at each other, and to realise that 
 another leaf in the book of life had been turned over. 
 
 Cardo was full of the brightest hopes, but shaded 
 by anxiety, for he knew now that two whole years 
 had passed away since he bade good-bye to Valmai 
 on the quay at Fordsea. What had been her fate 
 since then ? How had she borne his long and 
 unexplained absence and silence ? And as he paced 
 

 ?66 
 
 J5)? Bcrwcn 3Banft!j. 
 
 up and down the deck he was full of troubled thoughlt, 
 as well as of oriyht hopes and anticipations. 
 
 '• She must think me dead, but she will soon hear ; 
 in another week she will receive my letter, and, oh ! 
 I will make up to her in the future for all she may 
 have suffered. Valmai, my darling! I am coming 
 back to you, to kiss away your tears, and to shield 
 you from every ?:rojble in the future!" 
 
 1 
 
 *l 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 .'i 
 
 
 
 ■1 
 
 1 
 
CHAPTKR XVII. 
 
 HOME AGAIN. 
 
 A COLD, biting, north wind blew over Abersethlr. 
 one morning in November, the sea tossed and 
 tumoled its sand -stained waves in the bay, the wind 
 carrying large lumps of yellow foam far up over the 
 beach, and even to the village street, where the 
 " Vicare du " was making a difficult progress towards 
 the post-office, his hat tied firmly on, his hands buried 
 deep in his pockets, and his long, black cloak flapping 
 behind him. He walked on bravely. Every day he 
 tramped over the sandy beach, under the cliffs, and 
 down the village street to the post-office ; this' was 
 quite a change in his habits, which drew many com- 
 ments from the gcssiping villagers. 
 
 " Well, well ; he might have been kinder to his son 
 when he had hfm with him; he'll never have the 
 ohance again," said Peggi " bakkare," peering through 
 her tiny, foam-flecked window. 
 
 •' No," said Madlen, who had come in for a loaf ; 
 " having got safe away 'tisn't likely the young man 
 will turn up here again, and small blame to him 
 considering everything." 
 
 " No, indeed, Madlen fach ; serve the old Vicare 
 fight; but 'tis a pity for the poor girJ, whatever." 
 
 267 
 
'yf —^- "-r^ XT—' 
 
 iil^l 
 
 208 
 
 X\? Bciwcn Ban!?t\ 
 
 
 "And where is she, I wonder?" 
 
 "Well, now," said Madlen, "Mary, my sister, was 
 coming home from Cacr Madoc last week, and on 
 the roadside there was a tent of gypshvviis ; it was 
 dark and they had a fire, and there, sitting by the 
 fire, was a girl the very picture of Valmai." 
 
 " Dir anwl ! I daresay it was her, indeed ; but yet, 
 I t nought she was too much of a lady to join the 
 gypshwns. Well, well ; strange things do happen." 
 
 And the story of Valmai having been seen in the 
 tent of the gypshwns was spread abroad in the 
 village, not that any one believed it, but it was, at all 
 events, better than no news, anu v/as a little spicy 
 condiment in the daily fare of gossip. 
 
 " My papers," said the " Vicare du " laconically to 
 the postmaster. " Is your wife better? " 
 
 " Iss thank you, sir, and here is a letter for you — 
 from Australia, I think." 
 
 The Vicar took it without any show of feeling, 
 though his heart had given a sudden bound at the 
 postman's news. 
 
 " Stormy day," he said, as he passed out of the 
 narrow doorway. 
 
 He was longing to get home, but he would not 
 hurry his step. He stopped and looked impatiently 
 as he heard the postman call after him. 
 
 "There is another letter from Australia, sir, but I 
 dunno where v/as I to send it. Here it is, sir." And 
 he touched his hat apologetically as he handed a 
 second letter to him. 
 
 " Yes ; my son's handwriting, 1 see. I wiil take 
 charge of it." 
 
 He gasped for breathy thougii trie postman saw no 
 
Iboine Boaln. 
 
 209 
 
 sign of emotion, and, as he bent his head against thiJ 
 wind, he read the address on the .second letter. 
 " Mrs. Caradoc Wynne, 
 
 "c/o Rev. Mcurig Wynne, 
 " J3rynderyn, 
 "Abersethin, 
 
 "Cardiganshire, Wales." 
 "Oh, my God, I thank Thee," were tlie only words 
 that escaped the Vicar's h'ps wliile he hurried home 
 through the brewing storm, the letters clutched in his 
 hand and pressed against his breast ; but thc.e words 
 were repeated several times. 
 
 At last, in the quiet of his study, he opened his 
 son's letter and hungrily devoured every word of its 
 contents twice over. After its perusal he took up the 
 second letter, and, with visible emotion, poured over 
 every line of the address, turning the envelope over 
 and over, and pondering in deep but silent thought, 
 from which Betto's knock, announcing diuiier, startled 
 him. 
 
 ^ As he stood for a moment tr) say grarf, before 
 sitting down to his meal, l^etto raised hor eyes to his 
 face, and was so startled by the changed and 
 softened look that, with round eye , of surprise, she 
 asked : 
 
 •* Mishtir bach ! what is it ? ** 
 
 "Mr. Cardo is coming home." 
 
 And Betto, quite overcome, plumped herself down 
 on the sofa, throwing her apron ovor her head and 
 shedding some surreptitious tears of sympathy; 
 while the Vicar, forgetting his dinner, recounted to 
 her the chief incidents of his son's absence his long 
 illness, and subsequent loss uf m.emory— Betto follow*^ 
 
270 
 
 JSs JSerwen 3Banft5. 
 
 ing the tale with a running accompaniment of 
 ejaculations. 
 
 "And this, Bctto," said her master, slowly laying 
 the other letter on the table before her, " look at it — 
 but I forgot you can't read English.'' 
 
 " Howyer bach ! not I." 
 
 " Well, it is addressed to ' Mrs. Caradoc Wynne.* 
 Did you know anything of this ? " 
 
 Betto's face exhibited a succession of expressions 
 which followed each other like dissolving views, 
 astonishment, indignation, fear of her master's dis- 
 pleasure, determination to champion Cardo in any 
 course of combat, all ending in a broad grin of 
 delight as she saw an unaccustomed curve on the 
 Vicar's lips. 
 
 " Did I know it ? No ; if I had, I wouldn't have 
 had words with so many people in the village. Oh ! 
 my boy, bdch ! didn't I always say he was a gentle- 
 man ! " And her varied emotions culminated in a 
 rain of tears. 
 
 " Twt, twt ! " said the Vicar, clearing his throat, 
 "no nonsense, Bctto; bring me the potatoes." 
 
 And tht.t meal was finished with more cheerfulness 
 than had lightened up that dark old room for many 
 a long year. 
 
 From that day forth the Vicar seemed to gain 
 strength and gia^ Iness with every hour. He took long 
 walks in his parish, and showed more tender sympathy 
 with the ailments and troubles of his ancient congre- 
 gation. The wonderful change in the " Vicare du " 
 was the subject of remark at many a cottage hearth, 
 and in many a roadside conversation. 
 
 " Oh ! it's his son's coming home that has brightened 
 
Dome Hoatn. 
 
 271 
 
 him up so much ; and John Jones, postmaster, says 
 he took the other letter as meek as a lamb. But 
 what has he done with it nobody knows. John Jones 
 is saying that it has never been posted again, so he 
 must have got it still." 
 
 " Well, well ! how can he post it when nobody 
 knows where Mrs. Caradoc Wynne is ? " 
 
 *' Mrs. Caradoc Wynne, indeed ! Phrutt ! " 
 
 Early in the New Year, when the bare, brown hills 
 had thrown off their mantle of snow, and the blue 
 waters of the bay were glinting in the sunshine, and 
 the starry, golden celandines looked up fearlessly 
 frc 1 every bank and hedge, a heavily-laden carriage, 
 drawn by a pair of strong horses, rolled along the 
 dry, hard road from Caer Madoc towards Abersethin. 
 Its occupants looked at every scene with interest, 
 recalling reminiscences of former days at every turn 
 of the road, and looking out eagerly for the chimneys 
 of the village, which lay at the bottom of the valley. 
 
 The travellers were Cardo and Mr. and Mrs. Lewis 
 Wynne. As the carriage left the firm, high road, and 
 began to descend one of the stony lanes which led to 
 the shores below, Cardo became silent and thoughtful ; 
 he had hitherto been the life of the party. Returning 
 home in perfect health and spirits, he had given the 
 rein to his fancy, and was full of buoyant hopes and 
 joyful anticipation.' 
 
 The Vicar, apprised of their coming, was watchin[^ 
 at the gate— indeed, had been there more or less 
 since breakfast, and it was now nearly noon. 
 
 Betto flew about with amazing agility, considering 
 her size and weight, dusting a chair, smoothing her 
 
272 
 
 iM« 
 
 3Bs JSerwen JSanRs. 
 
 m 
 
 apron, shading her eyes with her hand, and peering 
 towards the brow of the hill for some signs of their 
 coming. 
 
 At last they arrived, and it would be useless to try 
 to describe that happy meeting. The Vicar seemed 
 overwhelmed with joy, not only to receive once more 
 his beloved son, but also to clasp the hand of the 
 brother whom he thought had been estranged from 
 him for ever ! 
 
 It was quite an hour or two before they had all 
 calmed down. 
 
 " We sha'n't keep this fellow long with us," said 
 Lewis Wynne, indicating Cardo with a jerk of his 
 thumb ; " he can scarcely take his eyes off that 
 ramshackle old house up there on the cliff; naturally 
 he is longing to sec his wife. You must make no 
 objection, Meurig." 
 
 " None. I have no wish to do so." 
 
 "Nellie and I," continued his brother, "are quite 
 looking forward to see our niece — of course we make 
 all allowance for the rhapsodies of a lover ; but dis- 
 counting i\\ that, I really think, Meurig, he has 
 found a pearl in that old, rough oyster-shell of a 
 house." 
 
 " Wait a moment, Cardo," said his father, as he saw 
 his son hunting about for his hat. ** I am afraid I 
 have a disappointment in store for you," and from 
 his breast-pocket he drew out, and handed to Cardo, 
 his own letter to Valmai. 
 
 Cardo's face blanched, as with trembling fingers 
 he turned the envelope round and round. 
 
 ** What is the meaning of this, father? " he asked 
 ^t last an angry flush rising to his pale face. " Did 
 
fe«:T..'r ..r^v.-.iJL.ijtz^isrtL:^ 
 
 •fcome Boatn. 
 
 273 
 
 I count too much upon y^our forgiveness when I 
 asked you to give this to Valmai ? " 
 
 " No, my dear boy, I would gladly have given it 
 to her, and I grieve for your disappointment, but 
 she has left this neighbourhood many, many months, 
 and nobody knows where she has gone." 
 
 " Gone ! " was all Cardo could exclaim, as he flung 
 himself into a chair and hid his face in his hands. 
 
 " Yes. Much has happened since you left, and 
 you may as well know it now. There is nothing to 
 hide from your uncle and aunt ? " 
 
 " No, no, tell me at once." 
 
 " Well, much had happened before she left." 
 
 Here Cardo started up excitedly. 
 
 " Why, she has gone to her Uncle John, of course. 
 Where else should she go, dear innocent, without 
 another friend in the world ? " 
 
 The Vicar shook his head. 
 
 " She is not there, Cardo, for he died some months 
 ago and left all his money to his niece." 
 
 But Cardo heard not the latter information. He 
 was stunned by the news of old Captain Powell's 
 death ; he had never thought of this possibility, and 
 was thrown into despair by the blow. Valmai 
 wandering about the world friendless and alone! 
 The thought was distracting, and in desperation he 
 rushed out of the house. 
 
 •' Poor fellow," said Lewis Wynne, " this is a 
 terrible blow to him." 
 
 '* Yes, yes, indeed ! Perhaps he will be able to 
 get some clue in the village." 
 
 Cardo flew over the beach and up the well-known 
 path to Dinas. Shoni was standing in the farm-yard. 
 
 8 
 
274 
 
 B^ ffierwen iBanfts. 
 
 *' Caton pawb ! vvass it you, Cardo Wynne r' he 
 said. " Well, I was swear to make you feel the 
 weight of my fist ; but if the news is true that 
 Valmai is marry to you, I will shake hands instead." 
 
 Cardo wrung his hand. 
 
 " Yes, yes, man, she is my wife, safe and sound — 
 but where is she ? Tell me for heaven's sake where 
 has she gone ? " 
 
 " Well, indeed, that I donno — Essec Powell donno 
 — an' nobody know. You look here now," said 
 Shoni, ** an' if you listen to me you will see every- 
 thing quite plain. After you gone away Valmai 
 wass go down to Fordsea to take care on her uncle, 
 John Powell. He wass broke his leg, and when he 
 cum better Valmai cum back to Dinas." 
 
 " Well," said Cardo, " what then ? Tell me in 
 Welsh, you'll get on quicker." 
 
 But Shoni indignantly declined to give up the 
 language which he considered he had so completely 
 mastered. 
 
 " What then !" he continued severely, "you know 
 very well what then. It wass three or four months 
 before she cum back from Fordsea, and she wass look 
 pale and thin and every day more like a spirit angel. 
 Well, everybody see very soon what wass the matter 
 with her, and at last somebody told Essec Powell. 
 It was just the same time Captain Powell died, and 
 when Essec Powell cum home from the funeral and 
 find out his brother leave all his money to Valmai he 
 go to chapel and somebody tell him about Valmai — " 
 
 " What about Valmai ? " said Cardo. 
 
 "That she was gone, like many another, over 
 the side of the path." 
 
1)ome UQnin, 
 
 275 
 
 ne r ' he 
 feel the 
 rue that 
 [istead." 
 
 sound — 
 ke where 
 
 ell donno 
 )W," said 
 ee every- 
 ^r Valmai 
 her uncle, 
 I when he 
 
 ;U me in 
 
 ^e up the 
 ompletely 
 
 you know 
 Lir months 
 wass look 
 Dirit angel, 
 le matter 
 ec Powell, 
 died, and 
 uneral and 
 Valmai he 
 Valmai — " 
 
 )ther, over 
 
 " For heaven's sake, tell me what are you 
 driving at ? " 
 
 " I am telling you if you wass quiet and let me 
 alone. That night Essec Powell cum home from 
 chapel in a devil of temper, and he call Valmai a 
 thief to steal his brother's money from him, and 
 worse names than that, an' he turn her out of the 
 house that night, pwr thing, pwr thing ! " 
 
 Cardo groaned and clenched his fists, 
 
 " Well ! the wind wass blowing, and the snow 
 wass fallin' shockin', and I could not :et her carry 
 her big bundle of clothes and she in ihe condition 
 she wass — " 
 
 " Condition ? * gasped Carclo, " what do yon 
 mean ? " 
 
 Shoni looked at him with keen, searcliinq; c\es. 
 
 " Cardo Wynne," he said, " I wass usscd to think 
 you an honest, straightforward man, though you wass 
 a churchman, and are you mean to tell me now that 
 you donno that Valmai Powell have a small child on 
 the 30th June last year? " 
 
 ** As God is my witness, Shoni, this is the first 
 breath I have heard of such a thing ; but she was 
 my wife, why then should her uncle have turned her 
 out?" 
 
 " But she nevare tell us that, see you, she nevare 
 speak a word about that, and only now lately Betto 
 liave told that the Vicare wass tell her she was 
 marry to you ! and everybody is wonder why she 
 didn't tell before, instead of bear the nasty looks and 
 words of the women. Oh ! I can tell you Gwen here 
 look pretty flat when she hear the news she wass 
 married, and I did laugh in the corner of my mouth, 
 
slaeaiiajaem 
 
 276 
 
 JSs JSerwen JSanfts. 
 
 #|i|^ 
 
 'cos she bin so nasty to Valmai. Well ! I went with 
 her over the Rock Bridge, and we go to Nance's 
 cottage, and she cry, and Nance cry, and there I 
 leave them, and the next morning before the sun is 
 thinking to get up, I take her box and the rest of 
 her clothes over in a boat, and she and Nance kom 
 out early to meet me — and for long time nobody 
 knew she wass there — and there her small child wass 
 born. Here, sit down, sir, on my wheelbarrow ; this 
 news is shake you very much, I see." 
 
 Cardo felt compelled to take the proffered seat on 
 the wheelbarrow, so completely overcome was he by 
 Shoni's information. 
 
 " Go on, Shoni," he said, " make haste." 
 
 " Well ! she wass walk up and down the shore, 
 and always looking out over the sea ; the sailors wass 
 often watch her. ' She may look and look,' the)' 
 say, ' but he will nevare kom back ! ' And at last 
 her child die." 
 
 " Oh, God," said Cardo, " Valmai to suffer all this 
 and I not with her ! " 
 
 " Where wass you, then ? " said Shoni, " and why 
 you not kom back } " 
 
 " Because I was ill in hospital. I caught typhoid 
 fever, and I had concussion of the brain, and I lay 
 unconscious for many long weeks, nay, months. As 
 soon as I came to myself, Shoni, I came home, and I 
 often wished I had the wings of the birds which 
 flew over the ship, and would reach land before 
 us ! " 
 
 " Well, well, well," said Shoni, " I dunno what 
 wass that illness you had, but it must be very bad by 
 the name of it ; but whatever, my advice to you is, 
 
Ibome Bnaiit. 
 
 277 
 
 go to Nance, perhaps she will tell you something, 
 thon^^h she won't tell nobody else." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I am going at once. Thank you, 
 Shoni ; you have been kind to her, and I can never 
 forget it." And he jumped up and unceremoniously 
 left his companion staring after him. 
 
 " Diwx anwl ! " said Shoni, returning to his Welsh, 
 " he goes like a greyhound ; good thing I didn't offer 
 to go with him ! " 
 
 Cardo made short work of the green slopes which 
 led down to the valley, and shorter still of the beach 
 below. He jumped into a boat with a scant apology 
 to Jack Harris, the owner, who with a delighted 
 smile of recognition, and a polite tug at his cap, took 
 the oar and sculled him across. 
 
 '* I am looking for my wife, Jack, so don't expect 
 me to talk." 
 
 " No, indeed, sir, I have heard the strange story, 
 and I hope you will find her, and bring the pretty 
 young lady back with you, sir ; she was disappear 
 from here like the sea mist." 
 
 Nance was perfectly bewildered when Cardo ap- 
 pealed to her for information, and her delight at his 
 return to clear her darling's name knew no bounds. 
 She brought out her best teacups, settled the little 
 black teapot in the embers, and gradually drew her 
 visitor into a calmer frame o' niind, 
 
 His questions were endless. Every word that 
 Valmai had said, every dress she had worn, every 
 flower she had planted in the little garden were 
 subjects of interest which he was never tired of 
 discussing. 
 
 But of deeper interest than flowers or dresses was 
 
lpp«'« 
 
 1^78 
 
 36^ IBcrwen 36anl?s. 
 
 Nance's account of the tiny angel, who came for a 
 short time to h'ghten the path of the weary girl, and 
 to add to her difficulties. 
 
 " And she gave it up so meekly, so humbly, as if 
 she could see the beautiful angels who came to fetch 
 it. It laid there on the settle in its little white night- 
 gown, and she was sitting by it without crying, but 
 just looking at it, sometimes kissing the little blue 
 lips. Dr. Francis was very kind, and did everything 
 about the funeral for her. It is buried up here in the 
 rock churchyard, in the corner where they bury all 
 the nameless ones, for we thought he had no father, 
 you see, sir, and we knew it was unbaptiscd. She 
 would not have it christened. She was waiting for 
 you to come home, for she would not tell its name, 
 saying, * Baby will do for him till his father comes 
 home,' and * Baby ' he was, pertws bach." 
 
 Cardo sat listening, with his hands shading h\z 
 eyes. 
 
 " And now, here's the directions, sir," she said, as 
 Peggi Bullet returned from the well. " Here you, 
 Peggi fach, you are so nimble, you climb up the 
 ladder and bring the old teapot down." 
 
 And the nimble woman of seventy soon laid before 
 them the old cracked teapot, out of which Nance 
 drew the same faded address which she had once 
 shown to Valmai. 
 
 " It is horribly faint," said Cardo, a fresh tremor 
 rising in his heart. 
 
 " Here it is now," said Nance, placing her shrivelled 
 finger on the paper. " This is where she went from 
 here, when all this trouble came upon her, and every- 
 body pointed the finger of scorn at her ; and when 
 
•fcome Boain. 
 
 270 
 
 she had given up the hope that you would ever come 
 back, sir, slie turticd to her sister, dear child ! " 
 
 " I never knew she had a sister ! " 
 
 " No, nor she didn't know much about her ; but I 
 knew, and I told her. Born the same time they were, 
 and a grand lady, who was lodging at Essec Powell's 
 at the time, took the sister away with her, and 
 brought her up as her own daughter, and we have 
 never heard of her since. ' But I will find her, Nance,' 
 she said. * I ivill find her ! I know I will ! ' " 
 
 " But have you never heard from her ? " 
 
 "Well, indeed, there was a letter," said Nance, 
 " came soon after she left. Dr. Francis read it to me, 
 and I think I put it in that teapot, but I am not sure; 
 indeed, perhaps Peggie has tiirown it away." 
 
 " And what did she say ? " 
 
 " ' Oh ! ' she said, ' I have found my sister, Nance, 
 and you must not be unhappy about me, everybody is 
 so kind to me. If anyone comes to ask for me, say I 
 am here,' but she didn't say where ! " 
 
 " But the address was at the top of the letter," said 
 Cardo. 
 
 '* Oh, anwl 1 I daresay it was. I never thought of 
 that 1 There's a pity now ; but try again to read 
 that — she rcitd it." 
 
 "Well, let me see," said Cardo, taking the faded 
 paper to the window. 
 
 " Mrs. Besborough Power ? " 
 
 "That's it!" said Nance. 
 
 "Carew?" 
 
 " No ; that's not right." 
 
 " Carne ? " 
 
 " Yes ; that's what she called it" 
 
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 " Montgomeryshire ? " 
 
 " No ; she wrote there and the letter was sent 
 back." 
 
 " Then it must be Monmouthshire ! ** 
 
 And with this scant information, and a very heavy 
 heart, Cardo left the cottage, and, telling Jack Harris 
 to meet him at the other side of the island, he made 
 his way up the path which led to the little burying- 
 ground behind the Rock Church. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " said Peggi Bullet, looking after 
 him, " you can't measure sorrow by the length of a 
 
 man. 
 
 » 
 
 He stepped over the low wall which divided it 
 from the cr>arse grass of the cliffs, and immediately 
 found himself in a sunny corner. The little grassy 
 mounds were numerous, few had headstones ; but 
 one, marked by a little white cross, had evidently re- 
 ceived much care and attention. The grass was soft 
 and fiue as velvet. Cardo approached it with sorrow- 
 ful reverence; he stooped to read the inscription. 
 
 "In memory of Robert Powell . Born, June 
 
 30th. Died, August 30th." 
 
 The blank space puzzled him for a moment, but, as 
 he stood with folded arms looking down at the little 
 mound, a sudden revelation seemed to flood his mind 
 and enlighten him more thoroughly than all that he 
 had hitherto heard and done. She had kept faith- 
 fully — ah, too faithfully — her promise to hide the 
 secret of their marriage until he should come himself 
 to reveal it. How selfish, how thoughtless he had 
 been. Was it possible that his first letter to her, as 
 well as his last, might have miscarried ? What had 
 she not suffered ? Alone, friendless, disgraced in the 
 
1)ome Baatn. 
 
 281 
 
 eyes of the world. Motherhood, death, the bitter- 
 ness of feeling herself deserted — all — all had been 
 tasted by her for whom he would willingly have laid 
 down his life ; and he registered a solemn vow that 
 the devotion and love of his whole life should hence- 
 forth shield her and guard her from every sorrow as 
 far as in him lay. 
 
 He turned away from the little grave with a 
 curious yearning in his heart His own and Valmai's 
 child ! Strange and new feelings awoke within him 
 as he crossed the rocky ridge running through the 
 island, and began his way down to the other side to 
 the scattered fishing village, where Jack Harris met 
 him and quickly rowed him across to Abersethin. 
 
 Here his first visit was to the stone-cutter's. 
 
 Morris Jones received him with the usual exclama- 
 tions. 
 
 " HowjT b&ch ! well, well ! there's glad I am to see 
 you, sir ! " And he shook Cardo's hand vigorously. 
 " And, oh, dear, dear ; there's sorry I am you didn't 
 come sooner, sir, before the poor young leddy went 
 away. She was broke her heart too much to stop 
 after her small child was buried — and a beautiful boy 
 he was too, '>ir, the very picture of you." 
 
 "You cut that inscription on the little cross, Morris?" 
 
 " Iss, sir, I did ; with my own hands, and I don't 
 think you get it better done — no, not in Paddington 
 itself." 
 
 " No — it is excellent. But the gap after ' Robert 
 Powell ' ; you must add ' Wynne ' to it at once." 
 
 " That's it, sir, that's it ! before next Sunday it 
 shall be done. I hope you will find the young leddy, 
 
 sir. 
 
 11 
 
^ff-i/sa. 
 
 f 
 
 282 
 
 'B^ 3Betwen JBanFis. 
 
 i; 
 
 
 
 " My wife, Morris." 
 
 " Iss, iss, sir ; there's glad I was to hear that." 
 
 And, as Cardo left, and passed through the rest of 
 the village, the same warm wish followed him from 
 many a cottage window, and from every group of 
 fishermen whom he passed on the way. 
 
 " He has not forgotten his pleasant manners, what- 
 ever," said the men, as he greeted them all with his 
 usual frank and genial smile. 
 
 " No ; nor he hasn't lost his good looks," said the 
 women. " Though, indeed, his heart must be heavy 
 now, druan bach."^ 
 
 "Well," said the Vicar next morning, as Cardo 
 drove off to Caer Madoc to catch the train at the 
 nearest station, " I mustn't grumble at losing him so 
 soon ; he is doing the right thing, poor fellow, and 
 I hope in my heart he may find his wife and bring 
 her home. What a happy party we shall be ! The 
 only thorn in my flesh will be Essec Powell ; I don't 
 think I can ever get over my dislike to that man." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense," said his brother, " let us all tiiree 
 go up there to-day, and take the bull by the horns, 
 and make friends with him." 
 
 And after breakfast, the Vicar, though with a bad 
 grace, buttoned up his long black coat, and took his 
 way, accompanied by his brother and his wife, up the 
 steep path to Dinas. 
 
 It was an early hour certainly, not yet eleven 
 o'clock; but " calling " was unknown at Abersethin, 
 and it was not the unseasonableness of the hour 
 which made Shoni stare as the three visitors entered 
 the " clos " or farm-yard. 
 
 ^ Poor fellow. 
 
 -t 
 
1)onte Bgain. 
 
 283 
 
 "Well, diwedd anwl ! " he said, barely escaping 
 an oath, " here's the * Vicare du ' ! I know him by his 
 coat tails, and his tallow face, and no doubt that is 
 Lewis Wynne and his wife with him ; " (for village 
 gossip had already spread abroad the news of the 
 arrivals at Brynderyn). " Well, indeed," he con- 
 tinued, " the preacher on Sunday night told us the 
 end of the world was coming, and now I believe it ! " 
 and he put down his wheel-barrow, and stood stock 
 still while the visitors approached. 
 
 "Borau-dal"^ said the Vicare, in a constrained 
 voice. 
 
 " Borau-da," was all Shoni's answer, and seeing a 
 dogged look come into his face, Lewis Wynne took 
 the lead in the conversation. 
 
 " How are you, Shoni ? Do you remember the 
 jolly day we had, you and I, out fishing when we 
 ought to have been at school ? " 
 
 "Yes, I do indeed, sir, and the lot of fish we 
 caught.'* 
 
 " Yes, and the thrashing we got for it afterwards ! 
 But we want to see your master, Shoni." 
 
 " Essec Powell ? " 
 
 "Yes — Ess'jc Powell, is he too busy?" 
 
 Shoni hid his face behind his sleeve, while he 
 indulged in a cackle. 
 
 " Has he company, then ? " 
 
 " Oh, \ery good company — plenty of company ! he 
 got Taliesin — Owen Glyndwr — lolo Morganwg and 
 all the rest of them ! and he's quite happy in their 
 company. But once he comes down to live with us he's 
 as rough and prickly as a birch-broom. Indeed he 
 
 * Good-morning. 
 
284 
 
 JSy JSecwen JSanfts. 
 
 1 ^' 
 
 .y 
 
 
 fl 
 
 ii 
 
 wass newer used to be like this whatever ; 'tis ever 
 since his brother John die, and leave all his money to 
 Valmai." 
 
 " You must try to call her Mrs. Caradoc Wynne 
 now, Shoni," said the Vicar, with a smile. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, sir," said Shoni, quickly thawing ; 
 " there's nobody in Abersethin but won't be glad to 
 see Val — Mrs. Wynne home again ; it bin very dull 
 here without her, ever since she gone away." 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Wynne had knocked at the door 
 and had been confronted by Essec Powell himself, 
 who presented such an extraordinary appearance 
 that she had some difficulty in composing her face to 
 a proper degree of gravity. His trousers of brown 
 cloth, burnt at the knees into a green hue, were 
 turned up above each ankle, exhibiting his blue 
 woollen stockings and a tattered pair of black cloth 
 shoes, his coat was of black cloth, very much frayed 
 at the collar and cuffs, his white hair flew about in all 
 directions, as the draught from the back door swirled 
 in when the front door was opened. He had his 
 finger in the leaves of an old book, and with a far- 
 away look in his blue eyes, all he could say was a 
 bewildered, " Eh ! " 
 
 " The Vicar is coming to see you, Mr. Powell — " 
 
 " What Vicar ? What, the ' Vicare du ' ? " and at 
 this moment the Vicar appeared, and held out his 
 hand. 
 
 Essec Powell stared in astonishment, and carefully 
 exchanging his book from his right to his left hand, 
 and glancing to see that his finger was on the right 
 passage, he rather ungraciously shook hands with his 
 visitor. 
 
f)ome Bgain. 
 
 285 
 
 "Well," he said, "there's a thing I never thought 1 
 would do in this world." 
 
 " Oh, well, come," said Lewis Wynne's jovial voice. 
 " You meant to do it in the next world evidently, so 
 we may as well begin here." 
 
 " Will you come in ? " and the old man awkwardly 
 ushered them into the little back parlour, which 
 Valmai's busy fingers had transformed from its 
 original bareness into a cosy home-room. 
 
 " Oh, what a dear little room," said Mrs. Wynne as 
 she entered. 
 
 The table was littered with books and papers, a 
 gleam of sunlight shining through the crimson 
 curtains giving a warm glow to the whole room. 
 
 " Yes," said Essec Powell, looking round with the 
 air of a stranger, " :t has nice bookshelves, and a nice 
 light for reading ; but I miss that girl shocking, 
 shocking," he repeated ; " got to look out for every 
 passage now, and i was used to her somehow, you 
 see ; and I haven't got anybody else, and I wish in my 
 heart she would come back again." 
 
 " That, I am afraid," said the Vicar, " can never be ; 
 perhaps both you and I, Mr. Powell, have forgotten 
 too much that, while we are going down the stream 
 of life, the young people are going up, and are build- 
 ing their own hopes and interests ; and I called to-day 
 to see whether we could not agree — you and I — to 
 think more of the young people's happiness for the 
 future, and less of our own ease or our own 
 sorrows." 
 
 " It's very well for you to talk," said Essec Powell. 
 " You are a rich man — I am poor ; everything you see 
 here belongs to Shoni, and it is very hard that 
 
286 
 
 Ss Xerwen 3Banits. 
 
 
 Valmai should have all my brother's money, and I 
 be left with none." 
 
 " I think it is hard," said Mr. Lewis Wynne, " and 
 as my nephew will be a very wealthy man, I am 
 certain that he and his wife will be willinfj to pay 
 you every year the amount which you lost by your 
 brother's will." 
 
 "You think that?" said Essec Powell; ";^I50 a 
 year — you think they would give me that ? " 
 
 " I am sure they would ; in fact, I can give you my 
 word for it." 
 
 " Well, indeed," he said, laying his book upside 
 down carefully on the table, " that will make me a 
 happy man. I can soon pay off Shonl, and then I 
 can sleep at night without feeling that my servant is 
 my master ; and, more than all, I can give all my 
 time to my book that I am writing." 
 
 " What is it ? " said the Vicar, no longer able to 
 restrain his interest in the old books which littered 
 the table. 
 
 " Well, it is the history of our own county from as 
 far back as I can trace it ; and, oh ! you wouldn't 
 believe," he said, " how many interesting facts I have 
 gathered together. I was not meant for a preacher, 
 and I am getting too old and worn-out to travel 
 about the country. I would like to give up preaching 
 and spend all my time with my books. And with 
 ;^I50 a year ! Why, I would be a prince indeed ! " 
 
 " Well, you may tell your congregation next 
 Sunday," said Lewis Wynne, " that they had better 
 take heed to their own ways now, for that you are 
 going to retire from the ministry." 
 
 " And thank God for that," said Essec Powell ; " it 
 
fjome Hoain. 
 
 287 
 
 will be enough for me to look after my own wicked 
 ways. Indeed, I feel I am not fit to teach others ever 
 since I turned Valmai out of the house." 
 
 " I see you have here ' Mona Antiqua,' " said the 
 Vicar. " I have a copy in veiy guod preservation, 
 and I am sure I might be able to give you a good 
 many interesting facts for your book gathered from 
 some old MSS. which I found stowed away in the 
 old church tower." 
 
 " Can you, now ? can you, indeed ? " 
 
 And the two antiquarians bent with deep interest 
 over the musty books on the table. 
 
 Two hours slipped away very pleasantly to the two 
 old men before the visitors took their departure. 
 
 At the door Essec Powell held Lewis Wynne's 
 hand for a moment. 
 
 *' Do you think the little gel will forgive me ? and 
 do you think the young fellow will find her ? " 
 
 *' Yes, I think he will ; and if all he says of her be 
 true, I am sure she will forget and forgive the past. 
 Of course, you had some excuse, in the mystery and 
 doubt surrounding her at the time." 
 
 " Two hours you bin there," said Shoni, as they 
 passed him in the yard. " I wass just kom in to see 
 if you wass all asleep. Good-bye, sir." 
 
 He touched his hat respectfully to the Vicar ; 
 and as he returned to the house to dinner he muttered 
 to himself several times : 
 
 ** End of the world 1 I am sure of it ! End of the 
 world 1" 
 
m 
 
 m 
 
 li, ■' 
 
 1 "' Vv 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE VELVET WALK. 
 
 m 
 
 " Are you going out so late, dear ? " said Mrs. Power, 
 as she crossed the hall, where Gwladys was reaching 
 a wrap from some hooks on the wall. 
 
 *• Yes, auntie, such a lovely evening — quite like 
 spring ; I can't resist it. I will put on the cloak 
 Valmai left, and I shall be quite warm." 
 
 " Yes, and the very image of her," said Mrs. Power, 
 looking after her through the glass of the front door. 
 
 It was one of those tender evenings that visit us 
 sometimes at the beginning of the year to remind us 
 that spring is not far distant, and to make us forget 
 that the cold March winds are yet in store for us. 
 Gwladys drew the red hood over her head and walked 
 briskly in the direction of the lake, which lay buried 
 in the fir wood behind the house. 
 
 The path which led towards it was called "The 
 Velvet Walk," being overgrown with a carpet of 
 moss. The sun had just set, and the pale blue sky 
 was cloudless and serene as on a summer evening ; 
 but here, in the shadow of the trees, the darkness was 
 falling fast. 
 
 Over the fir tree tops one golden star hung like a 
 
 jewel in the sky. Gwladys walked with face upturned 
 
 and eyes fixed upon its sparkling brilliancy, and so 
 
 288 
 
XTbe IDelvet tPQlall;. 
 
 289 
 
 lost was she in ad miration of its beauty, that she was 
 quite unconscious of a hurrying figure who followed 
 close upon her steps. 
 
 It was Cardo, who, as he walked alonf,' the drive 
 towards the house, had caught sight of a gleam of 
 scarlet between the fir trees. 
 
 " Valmai ! " he said, with a bound of the heart, and 
 a flood of lov^ and happiness taking the place of the 
 anxious doubts which had filled him since his return 
 home. 
 
 He hastened past the front of the house and entered 
 " The Velvet Walk " to find the scarlet cloak but a 
 little way in front of him, and Valmai, as he thought, 
 walking with gaze upturned to the brilliant evening 
 star. 
 
 " At last, my darling ! " he said, but softly, for he 
 would surprise her. He would approach nearer and 
 call her name, and then she would turn, and he would 
 see the love-light in those starry eyes, of which he had 
 dreamed at night and longed for by day. He was 
 close upon her, but his footsteps made no sound on 
 the velvet carpet. 
 
 " Valmai ! " he said at last, and stood with wide- 
 open arms and a rapturous smile on his lips. 
 
 But at the sound of his voice the girl darted forward 
 a few steps before she turned round and faced the 
 stranger. Her first look was of astonishment and 
 fright, immediately followed by one of indignation. 
 
 "Valmai, my darling, I have frightened you," he 
 said, but dropping his arms and the smile dying out 
 of his face ; for before the girl had opened her lips to 
 speak, he saw the flush of indignation and the haughty 
 look which passed over her face. 
 
290 
 
 3B^ JSerwen JSanfts, 
 
 " Back ! " she said, holding up her hand as if to 
 keep him away ; " not a step nearer. And what if I 
 am Valmai ? What is she to you after all these 
 months of cruel neglect ? " 
 
 Cardo stood still. Was this the meeting he had 
 pictured to himself a thousand times ? Had her 
 troubles unhinged her minu ? Was she distraught? 
 
 " What is it, Valmai, my darling, that has changed 
 you so ? What is that cold, haughty look on your 
 face ? I am Cardo, dearest — your own Cardo ! come 
 back to explain everything to you, and to clasp you 
 in his loving arms," and again he approached as if to 
 embrace her. 
 
 " Stand back," said Gwladys once more. "If you 
 come a step nearer, I will call for help from the 
 house." 
 
 " No, no," said Cardo, " do not do that. I will 
 obey you, dearest ; but tell me what is the meaning 
 of this change in you? Oh, Valmai! has your love 
 indeed perished ? Have you forgotten the happy 
 past, the walks by the Berwen, the fortnight at Ford- 
 sea ? I have been ill, dearest — have lain unconscious 
 for months in a hospital ; but I swear that, from the 
 moment I left you until now, every conscious thought, 
 every fibre of my being, every chord of memory has 
 been faithful to you, and to you alone ! Come and 
 sit on this bench. Five minutes will explain all to 
 you, and I will not believe that my Valmai can have 
 become the cold and heartless girl you seem to be " 
 
 But Gwladys continued standing, and looking at 
 him with eyes in which scorn and contempt were but 
 too plainly visible. 
 
 "Good heavens, Valmai!" said Cardo, with clenched 
 
Tlbe IDelpet Malft* 
 
 201 
 
 hands, the cold sweat breaking out on his face ; " do 
 you remember it is a man's very soul you arc trifling 
 with ? Do you know what a man's heart is ? what 
 his love means — such love as mine ? " 
 
 ** Such love as yours!" said Gwladys coldly. " Such 
 love, indeed ! that could lead an innocent girl into the 
 path of deceit and dishonour ; that could leave her 
 then to bear desertion and the cold scorn of the 
 world, alone and friendless ; and now to return, and 
 expect to find her unchanged and still blinded to the 
 truth I " 
 
 " Valmai ! " said Cardo, his hot Welsh blood 
 suffusing his dark face with passion, "yr.i conld nevji 
 have loved me. Do the strong bonds mat vnitod us 
 count f'^r nothing ? Does that little green n.uund in 
 the churchyard count for nothing ? No ! you never 
 couid have loved me ; and yet — you did ! " 
 
 "If I ever did," said Gwladys, "the love is dead. 
 I feel no more interest in you now than I do in yonder 
 ploughman." 
 
 " Girl, you are my wife," said Cardo, who was 
 trembling with a mixture of anger and wounded love. 
 *' You are mine by every law of God and man, and I 
 will not let you go." Then suddenly changing into a 
 tone of excited entreaty, he said, " Come, darling, 
 trust me once more, and I will bring back the light of 
 love into those frozen eyes, and I will kiss back 
 warmth into those haughty lips." 
 
 " Away ! " said Gwladys. 
 
 " Do you wish, then, never to see me again ? " 
 
 '* Never ! " she said. " My greatest wish is never 
 to see you or hear of you again ! " 
 
 Cardo sank on the garden seat, feeling himself more 
 

 292 
 
 3B)? Berwen JSanfts. 
 
 ,1 '• 
 
 
 -fl^' 
 
 s -ft 
 
 Itti 
 
 Mini j 
 
 .1 
 
 perfectly unmanned than he had ever been before. 
 He had built such fair castles of hope, the ruin was so 
 great ; he had dreamt such dreams of happiness — 
 and the awakening was so bitter ! 
 
 Gwladys saw the storm of feeling which had over- 
 whelmed him, and for i moment her voice softened. 
 
 ** I am sorry for you," she said ; " but I have given 
 you my answer." 
 
 The slight tone of tenderness in her voice seemed 
 to restore Cardo to life. He crossed the velvet path, 
 and, laying hold of her hands, which she in vain tried 
 to wrest from his grasp, 
 
 " You are mine ! " he said, ** and I challenge heaven 
 and earth to take you from me ! " 
 
 " It is base and dishonourable," said Gwladys, still 
 struggling in his grasp, " to frighten a friendless girl 
 and force your presence upon her." 
 
 But Cardo's grasp was suddenly relaxed. Dropping 
 his arms at his sides, and going back a step or two, 
 he stood aside to let her pass. His long-tried temper 
 had over-mastered him, as with a scornful voice he 
 spoke for the last time. 
 
 " One word before 3, ou go — dishonourable ! not 
 even you shall call me that twice. Some strange 
 cloud is over you — you are not the same Valmai that 
 walked with me beside the Bcrwen. You cannot 
 kill my love, but you have turned it to-night into 
 gall and bitterness. 1 will uever intrude my presence 
 upon you again. Go through life if you can, for- 
 getting the past ; I will never disturb the even tenor 
 of your way. And if, in the course of time, we may 
 cross each other's paths, do not fear that I, by word 
 or sing, will ever show that we have met before." 
 
Ube IDelvct Malft, 
 
 293 
 
 " I hold you to that promise," said Gvvladys 
 haughtily. And she passed on in the deepening 
 twilight, under the fir trees, Cardo looking after her 
 with an aching heart. 
 
 She met Mrs. Power on the stairs. 
 
 "You have been a long time, dear; I hope you 
 haven't taken cold." 
 
 " Oh ! no, I will be down directly ; it must be near 
 dinner-time." 
 
 She walked steadily up the broad staircase, and 
 into her own room ; but once there, she threw herself 
 on the couch, and buried her face in the cushions. 
 
 " Oh ! Valmai, my sister ! " she sobbed, " what 
 have I not borne for you to-night ! I have kept 
 to my determination ; but oh ! I did not know it 
 would be 3o hard ! You shall never more be troubled 
 with this man ; you are beginning to find peace and 
 joy in life, and you shall never again be exposed to 
 his cruel wiles. But oh ! Valmai, having seen him I 
 forgive you ; he can pretend to be passionately and 
 truly in love with you ! but he is false, like every 
 other man ! He left you in despair and disgrace ; or 
 what did he mean by ' the little mound in the church- 
 yard ' ? Oh ! Valmai, what have you suffered ? But 
 now I have saved you, darling, from further tempta- 
 tion from him. God grant m)^ cruel deception may 
 bear good fruit for you, my sister ! " 
 
 It was late on the evening of the next day when 
 Cardo reached Caer Madoc, and, hiring a carriage 
 from there, was driven over the old familiar road to 
 Abersethin. The wind blue keenly over the brown, 
 bare hills, the grey clouds hur.,ed from the north 
 over the pale evening sky, one brilliant star shone 
 
1 ; ;«?■;( 
 ' I it'" 
 
 294 
 
 3B^ JBerwen 3Banft0» 
 
 out like a golden gem before him. Once he would 
 have admired its beauty, now the sight of it only 
 awoke more poignantly the memory of his meeting 
 with Valmai in the " Velvet Walk," and with a frown 
 he withdrew his gaze from it. Here was the spot 
 vv^here he had first seen her ! here was the bridge 
 upon which they had shared their ginger-bread ! and 
 oh ! cruellest of all sounds, there was the B^rwen 
 gurgli.'g and lisping below, as though there were no 
 breaking hearts in the world ! 
 
 On the brow of the hill they saw the lights of 
 Brynderyn. 
 
 " I will get out here," he said ; " you need not 
 drive down these rough roads ; I shall enjoy the 
 walk." And as he paid his fare, the driver wondered 
 " what had come to Mr. Cardo Wynne, who was used 
 to be such a jolly young man ! That voyage to 
 Owstrallia done him no good whatever ! " And as 
 he turned his carriage round, he muttered to himself, 
 with a shake of his head, " I heard some odd story 
 about him and that purty young niece of Essec 
 Powell's the preacher." 
 
 Arrived at Brynderyn, Cardo found his father and 
 uncle and aunt seated round a blazing fire in the old 
 parlour, which had not looked so cheerful for years. 
 They had been recalling old memories and events of 
 the past, and when Cardo's footsteps were heard in 
 the passage, they turned with expectant eyes to- 
 wards the door. When he entered the room, pushing 
 his fingers through his hair as was his habit, he was 
 silent and <^rave. 
 
 " Well, well I " said the whole party at once, " have 
 you found Valmai ? " 
 
 uJ 
 
Ubc IDelvet TOalft. 
 
 295 
 
 " Yes, father, 1 have found my wife," he answered, 
 in measured and serious tones ; ** but she is unfor- 
 giving, and refuses to have anything more to say to 
 me. In fact, I have heard from her own lips that 
 she no longer loves me ! There is nothing more to 
 be said. I have come back to my old home, to work 
 again on the farm, to try to pick up the threads of 
 my past life, and to make your life happier for my 
 presence." 
 
 " Cardo, my dear boy," said the old man, rising as 
 if in reverence for his son's grief, " is this possible ? 
 I do indeed feel for you." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense," said Lewis Wynne, it is only a 
 lover's quarrel ; you will make it up before long. I 
 will go to the girl, and make it all right for you." 
 
 " If you wish to do me a kindness, uncle, and you, 
 too, dear aunt, you will never mention the subject to 
 me or to anyone else. It is a thing of the past ; let 
 us bury it out of sight and hearing." 
 
 " We will do what you wish, my dear boy ; but I 
 am afraid, amongst these gossiping villagers, you 
 will often hear the subject alluded to in joke or in 
 earnest." 
 
 " Oh ! I quite expect that," said Cardo, with an 
 attempt at a laugh, but it was a sorry attempt. " I 
 am not going to play the role of a love-sick swain, 
 my grief will be buried too deep for a careless touch 
 to reach it, and I hope I shall not forget I am a man. 
 I have also the comfort of knowing that my sorrow 
 is the consequence of my misfortunes and not of my 
 faults." 
 
 Soon things seemed to fall into the old groove at 
 Brynderyn, as far as Cardo and his father were 
 
-1 
 
 296 
 
 J5i? 3Bcrwcn 3Banft0. 
 
 concerned, except that that which had been wanting 
 before, namely, a warm and loving understanding 
 between them, now reigned in both their hearts, and 
 sweetened their daily intercourse. The west parlour 
 and all the rooms on that side of the house, which 
 had been unused for so many years, were opened up 
 again, and delivered over to the care of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Lewis Wynne, who kept their own establish- 
 ment there, thus avoiding the necessity of interfering 
 with Meurig Wynne's eccentric habits, and still 
 enabling them to meet round the cheerful hearth in 
 the evening, or whenever they chose. 
 
 As for Cardo, he threw all his energies into the 
 busy work of the farm — the earliest in the field in 
 the morning, the latest to leave it at night, nothing 
 was too small for his supervision, no work was too 
 hard for him to undertake ; and though he declared 
 he was well, quite well, still, it was evident to those 
 around him that he was overtaxing his strength. 
 The flashing light had gone out of those black eyes, 
 the spring from his gait, the softness from his voice. 
 He paid frequent visits to Nance's cottage, always 
 returning across the corner of the churchyard. The 
 stone-cutter had kept his promise, and had added 
 the surname of " Wynne " on the little cross, and 
 Cardo read it over and over again, with a sort of 
 pleasurable sorrow. The banks of the Berwen he 
 avoided entirely, the thought of wandering there 
 alone was intolerable to him. Every bird which 
 sang, every flower that nodded at him, the whisper- 
 ing river, everything would ask him, " Where is 
 Valmai ? " And what answer could he give to his 
 own aching heart which echoed the question, " Where 
 
Ubc Delvet Malft* 
 
 297 
 
 is Valmai ? Gone — worse than gone ! changed, she 
 whom I thought was the counterpart of my own 
 unchangeable nature. No, no, anywhere but by the 
 banks of the Berwen ! " And he plodded on at his 
 work, doing his best to regain the placid calmness, 
 though not the bright joyousness of his life, before he 
 met Valmai. But in vain ; the summer found him 
 languid and depressed in spirits. It was Shoni who 
 first suggested to him the idea of a change of scene 
 and companionship. A strange friendship had 
 grown up between these two men. iShoni had been 
 kind and tender to Valmai in her sorrow, and seemed 
 to belong to the bright, happy past which was gone 
 for ever. 
 
 ** Where that Mr. Gwynne Ellis wass ussed to be 
 with you at Brynderyn ? Very good sort, indeed ! 
 Why you not go and stop with him a bit, and bring 
 him back here with you ? " 
 
 Cardo thought the matter over silently, while 
 Shoni whittled a stake for a hay band. 
 
 " I think I will Shoni; I feel I must go away from 
 here for a time " 
 
 " Yes, you so rich there's no need for you to work 
 like you do." 
 
 " No — that's the worst of it," said Cardo ; " I feel 
 my hard work is benefiting nobody," 
 
 *' Iss, benefit you, cos it help to fill your mind." 
 
 "Yes, but I am tired of myself," and Cardo heaved 
 a deep sigh. " Well, it's no use grumbling and 
 grunting, Shoni, and if you don't see me about next 
 week you will know where I am gone to." 
 
 "Yes — but, indeed, I am thinking Essec Powell 
 will miss you. He think now s'no one like you in the 
 
298 
 
 IB^ JSerwen JBanfts. 
 
 
 ■:.iS 
 
 world, ' he help me a lot, Shoni,' he say, ' with his 
 Latin and his Greek,' and the Vicarc, he says, *it 
 wass wonderful how many books he got on his 
 shelfs ! ' and indeed I think," continued Shoni, *' the 
 two old men will live much longer now they got 
 their noses over the same old book so often ! " 
 
 " I hope so," said Cardo, " and I am glad to think 
 that the provision we have made for him has taken 
 the sting out of his brother's * will.' " And he went 
 homewards as broad-shouldered and as handsome as 
 ever, but not whistling or humming as was his wont. 
 
 His father, who saw how utterly his son was fail- 
 ing in his endeavour to regain his peace of mind, 
 fell in with his proposal of a visit to Gwynne Ellis 
 with great willingness. 
 
 " The very thing, Cardo, and bring him back with 
 you if you can ; he was a nice fellow on the whole in 
 spite of his radical ideas." 
 
 Once more Cardo took his way from Caer Madoc 
 to the little wayside station which connected that 
 secluded neighbourhood with the busy, outside 
 world. He had written to Gwynne Ellis to inform 
 him of his coming, and had received a warm and 
 welcoming answer to his letter. 
 
 " Come, my dear fellow ; I shall be delighted to 
 receive you in my diggings, and bring some of the 
 poetry and charm of your lovely neighbourhood 
 with you if you can, for this place is flat, and dull, 
 and gray. But, by the by, I haven't told you I 
 am likely to be removed very soon to a good, fat 
 living, old boy, near Monmouth — but I will tell you 
 all about it when we meet." 
 
 Gwynne Ellis's present abode was on the borders 
 
XTbe lt)elx>et XKIlalR. 
 
 299 
 
 le borders 
 
 of Gloucestershire, and here Cardo found him waiting 
 for him at the station. 
 
 " It's only a mile, and I thought you would like a 
 walk, so I have told the boy to fetch your luggage 
 in the donkey cart." 
 
 " A walk will be very acceptable after sitting all 
 day cooped up in a railway-carriage." 
 
 " Well, now, tell me all about your wife. You 
 know I have heard nothing since that one letter you 
 wrote after you turned up again. What adventures 
 you have had, my dear fellow ! and wasn't Valmai 
 overjoyed to see you back again ? " 
 
 •' No, Ellis, and that is all I can say to you now. 
 It is a long story, and I would rather wait until later 
 in the evening." 
 
 " All right, old fellow, in the smoking-room 
 to-night." 
 
 And in the smoking-room that night they sat late, 
 Cardo opening his heart to his friend, recounting to 
 him the tale of his unfortunate illness in Australia, 
 his return home, and the unexpected blow of 
 Valmai's unrelenting anger and changed feelings to- 
 wards him, culminating in her utter rejection of him, 
 and refusal to live with him. 
 
 *' Astounding ! " said Gwynne Ellis, " I will not 
 believe it. It is a moral impossibility that that 
 loving nature and candid mind, could ever so change 
 in their characteristics, as to refuse to listen to reason, 
 and that from the lips of one whom she loved so 
 passionately, as she did you " 
 
 "That is my feeling," said Cardo, ''but alas! I 
 have her own words to assure me of the bitter truth. 
 ' If I ever loved you," she said, ' I have ceased to do 
 
300 
 
 JSv? JSetwen Banlte. 
 
 ■ 
 
 so, and I feel no more love for you now, than I do for 
 yonder ploughman.' In fact, Ellis, I could not realise 
 while I was speaking to her that she was the same 
 girl. It was Valmai's lovely outward form, indeed, 
 but the spirit within her seemed changed. Are such 
 things possible ? " 
 
 Ellis puffed away in silence for some seconds be- 
 fore he replied : 
 
 "Anything — everything is possible now-a-days ; 
 there is such a thing as hypnotism, thought trans- 
 ference — obsession — what will you ? And any of 
 these things I will believe sooner, than that Valmai 
 Wynne can have changed. Cheer up, old fellow ! I 
 was born to pilot you through your love affairs, and 
 now here's a step towards it." And from a drawer in 
 his escritoire he drew out an ordnance map of the 
 county )f Monmouth. 
 
 " Now, let me see, where lies this wonderful place. 
 Carne Hall, did you call it ? I thought so ; here it is 
 within two miles of my new church. In a month I 
 shall be installed into that ' living,' and my first duty 
 when I get there shall be to find out your wife, Cardo, 
 and to set you right in her estimation." 
 
 " Never," said Cardo ; " she has encased herself in 
 armour of cold and haughty reserve, which not even 
 your persuasive and cordial manners will break 
 through." 
 
 " Time will show ; I have a firm conviction, that I 
 shall set things straight for you, so cheer up my 
 friend, and await what the wonderful Gwynne Ellis 
 can do for you. But you look very tired." 
 
 " Yes, I will go to bed," said Cardo. 
 
 "And to-morrow we'll have a tramp round the 
 
Ubc Wclvct TOalft. 
 
 301 
 
 parish, and visit some of the old fogies in their 
 cottage. A mongrel sort, neither Welsh nor English ; 
 not so interesting as your queer-looking old people 
 down at Abersethin. Good-night." 
 
:;J^ 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE MEREDITHS. 
 
 There is no part of WMes more rural and unspoilt 
 
 by the inroads of what is called " civilisation " than 
 
 some of the secluded valleys lying between the 
 
 Radnorshire hills. Here Nature still holds her own, 
 
 and spreads her pure and simple charms before us. 
 
 Large tracts of moor and rushy fen are interspersed 
 
 with craggy hills, rising one behind another in lovely 
 
 shades of purple and blue ; and far from the haunts 
 
 of men, or at all events of town men, many acres of 
 
 uncultivated land are still tenanted by the wild 
 
 mountain pony and the picturesque gipsy. On the 
 
 edge of one of these moors stood a quaint old family 
 
 mansion, surrounded by extensive grounds and woods. 
 
 In front lay a descending plain of varied beauty, 
 
 green meadows, winding streams, and placid lakelets ; 
 
 behind it, the wild vales and moor stretched up to the 
 
 brown and blue hills. 
 
 Colonel Meredith had lived there all his life, his 
 
 ancestors before him, and here it was that Valmai 
 
 had found a home as companion to the delicate eldest 
 
 daughter of the family, who was delighted to find in her 
 
 so congenial a friend. Her beauty had made a great 
 
 impression upon the whole amiable family, as good 
 
 looks often do upon people who cannot boast of the 
 
 303 
 
XTbe /DeteMtb0« 
 
 303 
 
 same advantages. It was a good thing that the girl 
 had no vanity in her character, for her charms were 
 continually brought before her in the household. 
 Her pet name was " Beauty," and Colonel Meredith 
 was fond of dilating upon her attractions of person 
 wherever he went Cecil, a boy of sixteen, was com- 
 pletely her slave, and considercv^ himself the victim 
 of a hopeless passion ; while the girls vied with each 
 other in their love and adulation of their friend, so 
 Valmai led at least an outwardly calm and happy 
 life. Her character had developed rapidly during the 
 last two years, and she found herself, to her own 
 surprise, possessed of a power of repression and a 
 control over her emotions which she would have 
 thought impossible a few years earlier. The memory 
 of Cardo, the glamour of their rural courtship, the 
 bliss of their honeymoon, his departure and her 
 subsequent sorrows, we'e kept locked in the deepest 
 recesses of her soul, and only recalled during the 
 silent hours of the night. She had become less 
 impatient of the stripes of sorrow ; she had taken the 
 '* angel of suffering " to her heart with meek resigna- 
 tion, endeavouring to make of her a friend instead of 
 an enemy, and she reaped the harvest always garnered 
 by patience and humility. But forgotten ? No, not a 
 tender word — not a longing wish — not a bitter regret 
 was forgotten ! She seemed to lead two separate 
 lives — one, that of the petted and admired friend of 
 the Merediths • the other, that of the lonely, friend- 
 less girl who had lost all that made life dear to her. 
 Gwladys's love alone comforted her, and the frequent 
 visits which they paid to each other were a source of 
 great happiness to both. Her invalid charge sno;> 
 
304 
 
 1B^ JSerwen JSanfis. 
 
 m 
 
 benefited much by her presence, and was really so 
 far recovered that there was scarcely any further need 
 for Valmai's companionship, but she was glad to stay 
 on as a visitor and friend of the family. She was 
 reading to Miss Meredith one evening in the verandah, 
 when Gwen and Winifred came bounding up the 
 steps from the lawn, hatless and excited. 
 
 " Oh, fancy, Beauty ; we are going to have a visitor 
 — a young man, too! a friend of Dr. Belton's in 
 Australia ; he is travelling about somewhere, and will 
 come here to-morrow. Won't it be jolly ? He writes 
 to say he is bringin^^ a note of introduction from Dr. 
 Belton, who wished him to call and give us a personal 
 account of him. I don't tell you, Mifanwy, anything 
 about it, because you are quite above these things ; 
 but Winnie and I are looking forward to see Cecil's 
 black looks when the stranger falls in love with 
 Beauty, which he will do, of course I " 
 
 " When you stop to take breath I will ask a ques- 
 tion," said the more sober Mifanwy. " What is the 
 young man's name ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," said Gwen. " Papa stuffed 
 the letter in his pocket, and he has driven off to 
 Radnor, and won't be back till dinner to-morrow 
 evening. Probably he will drive the young man with 
 him from the station. Larks, isn't it? I hope he 
 will be a good tennis player." 
 
 And she waltzed down the verandah as she went. 
 
 " What a girl ! " said Mifanwy. 
 
 Valmai smiled pensively. The word " Australia " 
 had wakened sad memories, which had to be con- 
 trolled and driven back at once. 
 
 " Let us go in ; it is getting late for you," she said. 
 
 -^^ 
 
XTbe /I^crc^itb9. 
 
 30A 
 
 And they passed through a French wiiulow into 
 the unlighted drawing-room. 
 
 The next evening Colonel Meredith returned, and, 
 as Gwen had foretold, brought with him the expected 
 visitor. The girl ran excitedly into Valmai's room. 
 
 " He is awfully handsome, dear, I have just taken 
 a peep at him through the hall window as he alighted. 
 He'll be seated opposite to you at dinner, but nexi to 
 nte, and I mean to make the best of my opportunity. 
 You'll see how charming I can be in spite of my 
 plain face." 
 
 And off she went, singing as usual, to return in 
 another mc ■ iPt and ask : 
 
 " What dress are you going to wear, Beauty ? That 
 soft white cashmere ? Oh, you look sweet in that ; 
 but I bet you a button that I'll cut you out to-night." 
 
 As Valmai sat down at the dinner-table she was 
 conscious that the stran<jer sat opposite to her, and, 
 looking across at him, met the eyes of Cardo Wynne! 
 
 A sharp spasm darted through her heart, for at the 
 moment in which she had met his gaze she had seen 
 his look averted from her ; and the long-cherished 
 hopes of months and faith in his constancy, held to 
 through so many discouraging circumstances, gave 
 way at a glance, for well she knew that Cardo had 
 recognised her, and at the same moment had avoided 
 her eyes, and had turned to make a remark to his 
 neighbour Gwen. She bent her head over some 
 trifling adjustment of her waistband, while the hot 
 flush of wounded love and pride rose to her face, to 
 give place to a deathly pallor as she realised that this 
 was the outcome of all her hopes and longings. 
 
 Fortunately the pink tints of the lamp shade hid 
 
 u 
 
306 
 
 jB)? :iBerwen 3Sanlt0. 
 
 
 her face, and equally it befriended Cardo, for, on 
 seeing before him Valmai in all the beauty with 
 which his imagination and his memory had endowed 
 her, he had felt his heart stand still and his face 
 blanch to the lips. How he gained sufficient self- 
 control to make a casual remark to his neighbour he 
 never could understand, but he did ; and while he 
 was recalling the scene in " The Velvet Walk," and 
 his promise to Valmai " that should he ever meet her 
 again she need fear no sign of recognition from him," 
 Gwen chattered on with volubility. All he heard 
 was : 
 
 " Oh, you positively must fish, you know, for there 
 is nothing else to be done here. One day you must 
 fish, next day 5^ou ride or drive, next day you fish 
 again ; and that's all, except tennis. Winnie and I 
 do nothing else. In the evening Beauty sings to us, 
 and there's beautifully she sing' You'll be charmed 
 with her voice — sweet, old Welsh airs, you know — " 
 
 " Hush, Gwen ; stop that chatter. I want to ask 
 Mr. Wynne something about Dr. Belton." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! all the way from the station, and you 
 didn't ask him about Dr. Belton ! " 
 
 Cardo was thankful to have to talk to Colonel 
 Meredith, for it enabled him to turn his head aside, 
 though still he was conscious of that white figure 
 opposite him, with the golden head and the deep 
 blue eyes. 
 
 She had regained her composure, and was talking 
 calmly to the curate, who was laying before her his 
 plans for a Sunday school treat. It is one of the 
 bitter trials of humanity that it has to converse about 
 trifles while the heart is breaking. If only the tortured 
 
Ube /ftcrcMtbs, 
 
 307 
 
 one could rush away to some lonely moor, there to 
 weep and wail to his heart's content, the pain would 
 not be so insufferable ; but in life that cannot be, and 
 Val.iiai smiled and talked platitudes with a martyr's 
 patience. 
 
 In the drawing-room, after dinner, she buried her- 
 self in the old, red arm-chair, setting herself to endure 
 her misery to the bitter end. When Cardo entered 
 with Colonel Meredith, Cecil, and the curate, she 
 had passed from agonised suffering to the cold in- 
 sensibility of a stone. She knew she would wake 
 again when the evening was over, and she was alone 
 with her sorrow ; but now she had but to bear and 
 wait. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe Cardo's feelings ; 
 indeed, he felt, as he entered the room, and saw that 
 white figure in the crimsoi; chair, that he had already 
 passed through the bitterness of death. 
 
 " Nothing more can hurt me," he thought ; " after 
 this I can defy every evil power to do me harm ! " 
 And he stood in his old attitude with his elbow 
 leaning on the mantelpiece, while he answered 
 Gwen's frivolous, and Winifred's sentimental, ques- 
 tions. 
 
 " Are you fond of music ? " one of them said at 
 last. " Yes ? Oh ! Beauty, dear, do come and sing 
 to us — that sweet ballad you sing so often, you 
 know — *By Berwen Banks.'" 
 
 " Not to-night," said a soft voice from the arm- 
 chair. " I am tired, Gwen. You sing, dear." 
 
 "Well, ril sing that, if you won't." 
 
 And she sang it ; and Valmai and Cardo, " so near 
 and yet so far," estranged and miserable, listened to 
 
3B^ JSecwen 3Banf{d* 
 
 every word, which fell on their memories like searing 
 drops of molten lead. 
 
 
 " By Berwen's banks my love has strayed 
 For many a day in sun and shade ; 
 And when she carolled loud and clear 
 The little birds flew down to hear. 
 
 " By Berwen's banks the storm rode high, 
 The swollen river rushing by ; 
 And in its waves my love was drowned. 
 And on its banks my love was found. 
 
 " I'll ne'er forget that leafy shade, 
 I'll ne'er forget that winsome maid ; 
 But there no more she carols free, 
 So Berwen's banks are sad to me 1 " 
 
 At the last words, during the acclamations of the 
 family, Valmai rose, unable to bear more. There 
 was a little cry and a soft fall by the side of the red 
 chair, and she lay in a white, unconscious heap on 
 the floor. 
 
 ** Oh 1 Beauty, darling ! " cried Gwen and Wini- 
 fred, in a breath, while they flew towards her. 
 
 Cardo, too, had instinctively rushed towards the 
 fallen figure. He lifted her in his strong arms as 
 though she had been a feather-weight. 
 
 " Oh ! thank you, Mr. Wynne," said Mrs. Meredith ; 
 " this way, please, to her own room at once, where we 
 can lay her on the couch." 
 
 And with the whole family forming a qiieue behind 
 ♦hem, even the curate standing on the mat at the 
 bottom, Cardo bore her up the staircase and mto the 
 room which Mrs. Meredith indicated. 
 
Zbc /IDereMtbs^ 
 
 309 
 
 During a little distraction, caused by Gwen's 
 pommelling of the sofa cushions, Cardo for a moment 
 lost control over his feelings, and he pressed Valmai's 
 form convulsively to his breast as he stooped to lay 
 her down on the couch. He was quickly edged away 
 by the fluttering womenkind who pressed round, each 
 with her own restorative ; a little sigh from Valmai 
 told him that she was already recovering, and 
 casting one lingering look of love on the white 
 figure, he made his way downstairs, and joined the 
 other gentlemen, vho had straggled back into the 
 drawing-room. He listened absently to the different 
 conjectures as to what had caused Valmai's faint. 
 
 " Never knew her do such a thing before ! " said 
 Colonel Meredith. " Can't think what it was ; but I 
 do remember once she burst into tears when she was 
 singing some old Welsh ballad — that very one, I 
 think — yes — * By Berwen Banks ' — strange coinci- 
 dence ! " 
 
 In a little while the ladies returned also. " She is 
 all right now," they said, " and quite ashamed of her- 
 self; she has had a glass of wine and a biscuit, and 
 insisted upon our leaving her — in fact, she turned us 
 all out of the room and bolted the door." 
 
 " Isn't she a lovely girl, Mr. Jones ? " 
 
 " Oh ' yes, indeed — yes — very, indeed ! " and Mrs. 
 Meredith was delighted to have an excuse for dilat- 
 ing on her visitor's charms of person and character ; 
 while Cardo set himself to work to deliver himself of 
 every message which Dr. Belton had entrusted to 
 him. 
 
 He bore Colonel Meredith's cross-examination 
 with unflinching patience, and even suggested fresh 
 
310 
 
 3B^ JSerwen JSanfts* 
 
 
 topics of inquiry, for, while he had carried Valmai up 
 the stairs he had come to the determination to leave 
 the house before he saw her again. The strain of 
 the situation was more than he could bear. To live 
 under the same roof with her, and not to claim 
 her for his own was impossible — to adhere to the 
 terms of his promise, never to allude to his former 
 acquaintance with her was utterly beyond his power. 
 " Base — dishonourable ! " Could it have been Valmai 
 who spoke to him in these terms? or was he the 
 victim of some strange hallucination ? 
 
 When at last the evening came to an end, he 
 thankfully lighted his candle at the hall table, the 
 whole family hovering round with various hopes that 
 "he would sleep well," "that he didn't mind a 
 feather-bed," " that he didn't mind the sun shining in 
 in the morning." " You can close the shutters, you 
 know. Good-night." 
 
 "What time does the post come in the morn- 
 ing ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh ! at seven o'clock ; you can have your letters 
 brought up if you wish ; but we always like to have 
 them on our plates at breakfast. Bob will bring 
 yours up." 
 
 *' If it's no trouble," said Cardo. 
 
 There was a whole chorus of " certainly not ! " " of 
 course not ! " under cover of which he made his way 
 safely round the turning on the stair-case. He stepped 
 wearily up the second flight of stairs ; there was her 
 room ! and he groaned almost audibly as he turned 
 into his own. 
 
 Inside that bolted door, a listening ear had caught 
 every vibration of his footstep, every tone of his voice, 
 
Ube /RereMtbs. 
 
 311 
 
 and a tear-stained face was now raised in agonised 
 prayer, over folded hands which held in their clasp a 
 ring hung on a white satin ribbon. 
 
 The exclamations of disappointment and regret 
 next morning, when Cardo's empty seat at the break- 
 fast table disclosed their guest's absence, were loud 
 as they were sincere. 
 
 " How unfortunate 1 " said Colonel Meredith. " I 
 meant to have taken him out fishing to-day ; there 
 was a little rain in the night and the Ithon would 
 have been perfect for trout to-day. Here's his note : — 
 
 " Dear Colonel Meredith— I am grieved to say 
 that some unexpected circumstances necessitate my 
 leaving your hospitable roof and returning home to 
 Cardiganshire at once. I shall walk to the station 
 and catch the 7.30 train. Please tender my heart-felt 
 thanks to Mrs. Meredith, and all the other members 
 of your family for their kindness and hospitality. I 
 hope to call upon them at another time, and express 
 my regrets and thanks in person. 
 " With many thanks to you also, 
 " I remain, 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 "Caradoc Wynne." 
 
 Colonel Meredith was reading the last words as 
 Valmai entered and took her place at the breakfast 
 table. 
 
 " Isn't it a shame, Beauty," said Gwen. " Just as 
 I was beginning to make a favourable impression 
 upon him, too ! There must have been something 
 in the letter Bob took up to him this morning." 
 
EEsas 
 
 w 
 
 I f1 
 
 3t2 
 
 3Bp Berwen Banfts. 
 
 " Oh, of course," said her father ; " fine young 
 fellow — very ! " 
 
 " Awfully handsome, I call him," said Winifred ; 
 "such a sparkle in his eyes ! " 
 
 " Beauty wasn't smitten," said Gwen. 
 
 " On the contrary, she was so smitten she fainted," 
 said Winnie ; " you are still rather pale, dear. Papa, 
 wouldn't it be a jolly day for a picnic by the 
 Ithon ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the Colonel ; "bring your lunch down 
 in the brake, and we'll light a fire by the earn, and 
 broil the fish, for I am sure we shall get a basketful 
 to-day— eh! eh! Cecil?" 
 
 " Yes — and the drive will do Miss Powell good," 
 said the lad, who was in good spirits from having so 
 easily got rid of Cardo. 
 
 And after breakfast they all drove off to the 
 picnic, and Cardo's arrival and his departure were 
 forgotten by all save one. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 GWLADYS. 
 
 The week that followed Gvvynne Ellis's Induction 
 to his new living had been too full of business to 
 allow him to call upon his near neighbours, the most 
 influential member of his congregation, Mrs. Bes- 
 borough Power of Carne Hall ; but soon afterwards 
 he began to look arounu him and make acquaint- 
 ance with his parishioners. 
 
 The Vicarage was large and his ideas of furnish- 
 ing were limited, so ^hat after arranging and re- 
 arranging every room in the house he still looked at 
 them with a dissatisfied air. 
 
 "I don't know how it is, father ; in spite of all this 
 handsome furniture you have given me, there seems 
 something wanting, doesn't there ? " 
 
 " Don't see it," said the old man, " unless it is that 
 wonderful piece of furniture — a wife— you want." 
 
 •' Perhaps, but that will have to wait," and as he 
 drew his handkerchief over the shining face of the 
 sideboard he thought within himself, "Where shall 
 I find one? There are not two Valmai's in the 
 world, and I declare she has spoiled me for every 
 other woman. By the by, I must call on Mrs. 
 Besborough Power, and see i( I can't bring her visi- 
 tor into a better frame of mind." 
 
 313 
 
'mmm 
 
 
 314 
 
 £)? 3Berwen JBanfts* 
 
 The next day saw him entering the pleasant 
 drawing-room at Carne Hall, where Mrs. Power was 
 as usual dozing in her arm-chair, with a piece of 
 wool-work in her hand, upon which she sometimes 
 worked a few stitches while she purred a little 
 remark to Gwladys, who sat nearer the window, 
 making believe to work also. She had already re- 
 marked, " Auntie, this is the new Vicar, I am sure," 
 when the door opened and Gwynne Ellis entered. 
 
 Having shaken hands with Mrs. Power, he turned 
 to Gwladys with a smile of greeting. 
 
 " Valmai ! " he said, " I beg pardon— Mrs. — " 
 
 " No," said Gwladys, drawing herself up, " I am 
 Gwladys Powell, Valmai's sister — but do you know 
 her ? " 
 
 " Know her ? well ! " said Gwynne Ellis ; *' but I 
 have never seen such an extraordinary likeness." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Power, "they are twins, and 
 apart, it is almost impossible to distinguish one from 
 the other." 
 
 " Where is she ? " he asked, " is she here ? " 
 
 " No," answered Gwladys, '* she has been here, but 
 is now staying with some friends of ours in 
 Radnorshire." 
 
 " Ah ! I see, I am sorry ; I should like to have seen 
 her, but I can scarce say I miss her while you are 
 present, for I certainly see no difference between 
 you." 
 
 Gwladys was more talkative than usual. She and 
 Mrs. Power were pleasantly impressed, and con- 
 gratulated themselves upon having gained an agree- 
 able addition to their very limited social circle in the 
 person of their new Vicar. 
 
 ifi 
 
(Bwla&s0. 
 
 815 
 
 " This is a charming neighbourhood. I saw by a 
 little glint of sunshine, as I came up the drive, that 
 you have a pond or lake in that firwood ; and that is 
 always tempting to an artist. Do you draw, Miss 
 Powell ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Gwladys. *' My efiforts are very 
 humble, but I have one drawing of the lake." And 
 she fetched it from a portfolio. 
 
 " Show him all your drawings, dear," said Mrs. 
 Power ; " or, better still, would you like to see the 
 lake, Mr Ellis?" 
 
 " If it would not tire Miss Powell to show it me — " 
 
 " Oh, no ! I can take you by it to the west gate, it 
 will shorten your way home.' 
 
 " But not yet, here is tea," said Mrs. Power ; and 
 they were soon chatting over all the parish news. 
 
 At last Ellis rose to go, and Gwladys, putting on a 
 broad-brimmed straw hat, passed out before him 
 through the window — Mrs. Power detaining them 
 with endless directions as to where to stop, where to 
 turn to look at the sun through the fir trees, where to 
 look back for a view of the house, etc., etc. 
 
 " This walk is lovely," said Ellis, as he watched the 
 graceful movements of his companion, who glided 
 over the velvet carpet of moss with noiseless foot- 
 steps, reminding him of a guardian spirit who walked 
 silently beside some hum-drum man of the world. 
 
 " I wonder Valmai never mentioned you to me," 
 she said. 
 
 " Did she not ? " he asked thoughtfully. " Did she 
 never mention Abeisethin, Brynderyn, and the 
 Berwen ? " 
 
 *' No, they are all strange names to me, except 
 
^mnm^-^ 
 
 "!!PnBBi 
 
 mi 
 
 316 
 
 3Bs 3Berwcn JSanfts. 
 
 ■!• 
 
 Abersethin; she lived there after her return from 
 Patagonia.'' 
 
 Ellis was lost in thought again. " I should like to 
 have seen her; I have something important to discuss 
 with her." 
 
 " She is coming here the week after next, and then 
 you can speak to her about this interesting subject," 
 said Gwladys. 
 
 And Ellis thought he saw a look of displeasure 
 on the lovely face. Certainly he had never 
 seen that in Valmai ; but then, on the contrary, 
 there was a high-souled nobility of purpose in his 
 present companion's looks which was absent in 
 Valmai. 
 
 " I daresay when I have seen her she will tell you 
 about all these places." 
 
 " My sister shall do as she pleases," said Gwladys, 
 a sweet smile chasing away the momentary look of 
 anger ; ** it will make no difference in our love for 
 each other — she is part of me, and the best part ; I 
 am part of her, and the worst part." 
 
 When they reached the west gate, both were sur- 
 prised to find that half-an-hour had slipped away. 
 
 " I will bring my portfolio," said Ellis, as he took 
 his leave, " and you will help me to find the best 
 view of the lake." 
 
 During the next fortnight, Mrs Power received 
 frequent calls from the new Vicar ; she was delighted 
 with her neighbour, and did everything in her power 
 to make his visits as pleasant to him as they were to 
 herself. His paintings were a never-ending source of 
 interest and admiration to her, and when he proposed 
 to make a sketch of the lake, with its background of 
 
(3wIa^l?^• 
 
 317 
 
 were sur- 
 
 fir trees, and glint of blue sky, she was charmed with 
 the idea, and almost every day she and Gwladys 
 accompanied him down the " Velvet Walk " and 
 settled him to his painting, and Gwladys was sent on 
 frequent journeys of inspection during the afternoon. 
 
 " Go and see how he is progressing, dear." And 
 she would go and linger over the picture with com- 
 ments and praise ; but it must be confessed that the 
 drawing progressed more rapidly during her absence 
 than during these visits of inspection. 
 
 One afternoon she came running down the ** Velvt t 
 Walk " with an open letter in her hand, and a dis- 
 tressed look in her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Ellis ! such a disappointment ! Valmai 
 is not coming this week. She has been feeling un- 
 well lately, and the doctor advises a thorough change 
 for her, so she and Mifanwy Meredith are thinking of 
 going to Switzerland. Hear what she says : — 
 * Mifanwy is longing for the Swiss lakes and 
 mountains, and wishes me to accompany her. I 
 suppose I may as well do so ; but I must first make 
 a hurried journey down to Abersethin, and to see you 
 on my way back. I hear from Dr. Francis that dear 
 old Nance is very ill, and it will depend upon how I 
 find her whether I go to Switzerland or not.' 
 
 " Now, isn't that vexing ! You would feel for me 
 if you knew what Valmai is to me ! I seem to love 
 her with all the accumulation of love which had 
 missed its object for so many long years before we 
 met." 
 
 Gwynne Ellis was looking seriously into the 
 distance. 
 
 " I do feel for you, Miss Powell ; but don't think 
 
r 
 
 i^MI 
 
 318 
 
 3Bv? »crwcn 3Banft0. 
 
 me a brute if I s.iy I am not sorry she's ^one — some- 
 thing good may come of !♦" " 
 
 " I can't understand you," she said, seating herself 
 on a log in front of him. '* You have never told me 
 how you became acquainted with her. H«.c you 
 known her from childhood ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear, no," said Ellis, laying aside his painting, 
 and stretching himself on the mossy bank. '* I will 
 tell you all about it ; it is very simple, lieing rather 
 out of health about two years ago, I went down to 
 Abcrsethin to stay at the Vicar's house, he being an 
 old friend of my father's. I found his son, Caradoc 
 Wynne, a fine fellow — a splendid specimen of a Welsh 
 country gentleman — and he and I became great 
 friends during the three months that I spent there." 
 
 Gwladys's blue eyes opened in astonishment. 
 
 " Caradoc Wynne ? " she said, in an anxious tone, 
 which surprised her companion. 
 
 " Yes. Generally known as Cardo Wynne at Aber- 
 sethin. I found him over head and ears in love with 
 Valmai Powell — your sister, it seems, though I had 
 no idea she had a sister. His rhapsodies about her 
 amused me at first ; but when I saw how deeply in 
 earnest he was, I sympathised with him, and took a 
 great interest in the progress of their courtship. His 
 father and her uncle — one bcmg the Vicar of the 
 parish, and the other a Methodist preacher — hated 
 each other with a deadly hatred — but you are looking 
 pale," he said anxiously. " What is it ? Am I say- 
 ing anything to disturb you ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! but go on. Tell me about this Cardo 
 Wynne." 
 
 " Well, it's a sad story. They were married ; I 
 
Owla^1(?0. 
 
 319 
 
 married them without the knowledge of the two 
 opinionated old men — I hope I sha'n't fall too low in 
 your estimation, Miss Powell." 
 
 " Oh ! no, no ! go on, please. Every word you say 
 is like water to a thir ty man. They were married ? " 
 
 "Yes, safe enough, and straight from the church 
 porch they separated, for he was leaving for Australia 
 that afternoon at his father's earnest request, with the 
 idea of making peace between him and a brother 
 whom he had tjffended many years ago. Well, I 
 heard no more of Cardo for nearly two years, when I 
 received a letter from him from Australia, telling me 
 of the series of misfortunes which had detained him 
 there so long. First of all, a serious attack of typhoid 
 fever, and a blow on the head which occasioned con- 
 cussion of the brain. He was carried unconscious to 
 a hospitalj and remained there many months, utterly 
 oblivious of all arouna him, as no operation had been 
 attempted on his skull, nobody knowing of the blow 
 he had received. One of the visiting doctors at the 
 hospital took him home with him as an 'interesting 
 case,' and then he discovered the indented bit of bone 
 which was pressing upon the brain, and causing first 
 the unconsciousness, and afterwards a complete lapse 
 of memory. Poor old Cardo ! the jolliest fellow in 
 the world. What must he have felt when memory 
 returned after a successful operation, and he realised 
 that Valmai and his father were utterly ignorant of 
 his whereabouts." 
 
 *' Oh, stop, stop," said Gwladys, " oh ! what shall I 
 do ? Mr. Ellis, I dread to hear the end, and yet I 
 must ; go on, please." 
 
 " Well, it's very sad. Poor old Cardo returned 
 
'■■■U.UJ.J nwwy-i 
 
 mmmmmmm^ 
 
 awBiiwiiia 
 
 ■f 
 
 320 
 
 36^ JBerwen JSanfts. 
 
 I 
 
 home at once, and finding Valmai gone from Aber- 
 sethin made his way up here. Did you see him ? " 
 
 Gwladys could scarcely gasp *' Yes ! " 
 
 " Then no doubt you know how she repulsed him, 
 and taunted him with wilful desertion of her — de- 
 sertion, indeed ! that honest Cardo, whose very soul 
 was bound up in her ! Had I not heard it from his 
 own lips, I could never have believed that Valmai 
 would have used the words * base and dishonour- 
 able ' to Cardo Wynne. He is broken-hearted, and 
 really, if she perseveres in this unwarranted indigna- 
 tion, I think it will kill him ; and that is why I 
 wanted to see her, for I still believe there must be 
 some mistake." 
 
 " Mistake ! yes, yes, a horrible mistake. She 
 never saw him at all. It was I who spoke those 
 cruel words to him ! " 
 
 " Miss Powell ! you ! how can I believe such a 
 thing ? " 
 
 '* Yes, yes, you must believe," she said, wringing 
 her hands, " it is I who have broken my sister's 
 heart — the sister whom I would die to save a 
 moment's pain." And she rose to her feet, though 
 her limbs trembled with excitement. " It is my turn 
 now to tell my story, and when I have finished you 
 will despise me, and you will have good reason." 
 
 " Never ! " he said, " I can never feel anything 
 towards you but — but — what I must not dare to tell 
 you." 
 
 A vivid blush swept over Gwladys's face ; but the 
 troubled look returned, as Ellis, gently taking her 
 hand, led her back to the log of wood, and sitting 
 beside her, said : 
 
(Bwlar^i^s. 
 
 321 
 
 " Now, tell me everything." 
 
 "I must go a long way back," she said, "and 
 begin with my own uninteresting affairs. You know 
 that Mrs. Power looks upon me as her own daughter, 
 and has expressed her intention of leaving me all her 
 money. Money ! hateiul money ! the one thing I 
 never cared about. I should be happier far in a little 
 cottage than I am here surrounded by all these 
 luxuries — it is true, Mr. Ellis, my tastes ar^^ 
 simple." 
 
 " Certainly, you would grace a cottage or a palace 
 alike," he said, almost under his breath ; *' but we 
 must all accept the position in which we are placed, 
 and do our best in that." 
 
 ** Well," resumed Gwladys, " I have had three 
 proposals of marriage, and on each occasion my aunt 
 pressed me to accept the offer. I refused to do so, 
 unless I were allowed time and opportunity to make 
 the most exhaustive inquiries as to my disinterested 
 lover's antecedents. My heart not being touched, I 
 was able to do so dispassionately, and in each case I 
 discovered something dishonourable in their charac- 
 ters. One I found was on the brink of pecuniary 
 ruin, I therefore considered I had a right lo think 
 he loved my fortune and not myself The next, 
 though a man of honour and probity, I found had 
 such an ungovernable temper that his own sisters 
 failed to live with him. The third was a widower. 
 He had broken his wife's heart by his cruelty, and 
 since her death his life had been one long scene of 
 dissipation. Was it any wonder that I rejected them 
 all ? and learnt to distrust and almost to hate every 
 manf 
 
^^mm-mtmrmmi^ 
 
 322 
 
 38$ J3erwen JSanfis. 
 
 " When Valmai came here I soon found out enough 
 of her story to prove to me, as I thought, that she had 
 been weak where I had been strong ; that she had 
 given her heart, with all its precious love, to one of 
 the same type of manhood as it had been my ill- 
 fortune to meet ; and when, one evening as I walked 
 here by the lake, a young man followed me and 
 addressed me as Valmai, the only feeling that rushed 
 into my mind and possessed my whole being might 
 be expressed in these words — ' Here is the murderer 
 of my sister's happiness ; at any risk I will keep him 
 from her. She is happy and calm now; he shall 
 never again disturb her peace of mind, if I can 
 help it.' 
 
 " He was so completely under the illusion that I 
 was Valmai that I had no occasion to tell a lie, and I 
 only spoke the truth when I told him that I hated 
 him, and that my greatest desire was never to see his 
 face again. He was wounded to the quick. I saw it, 
 I realised it all, and, oh, I felt for him, for there was 
 something open and winsome about him — something 
 that tempted me to trust him ; but I hardened my 
 heart, and I added him to my list of unworthy men. 
 I left him here and went into the house, feeling 
 utterly miserable ; but I comforted myself with the 
 thought that I had done Valmai good service. And 
 now — oh, now ! — I am more miserable than ever ; for 
 I see what harm I have done. I meant to do good, 
 Mr. Ellis, believe me. I thought I was doing dear 
 Valmai a real kindness, and now what shall I do ? I 
 have ruined her hopes of happiness, and I have lost 
 your good opinion and friendship." 
 
 " Never ! " said Ellis. " I see exactly how you felt, 
 
 
6wla^p0. 
 
 323 
 
 and can enter into your feelings thoroughly ; it only 
 grieves me to think what a low opinion you have 
 formed of men in general." 
 
 " You see," said Gwladys, bending her head, " I 
 have led such a retired life, and have known so few 
 men — none intimately, except those three." 
 
 " Let me dare, then, to hope that in time you will 
 come to believe that all men are not like the miser- 
 able specimens whom you have met. Will you 
 believe that /, at least, am only sorry to hear you will 
 be so rich ? I cannot expect you to believe me, but 
 it is the truth." 
 
 " Yes, I believe you," she said. 
 
 " Then let us see what we can do to retrieve your 
 mistake. Will you take my word for it that Cardo 
 Wynne is all that is honourable and true ? " 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes ; I dm sure he would not be your 
 friend if he were not so." 
 
 " Then the path is easy and plain before us. You 
 will write to Valmai, and I will write to Cardo, and 
 the cloud that has darkened their path lately will be 
 swept away, and your hand and mine will be 
 permitted to let in the light." 
 
 " I don't deserve such happiness," she said. 
 
 Ellis felt tempted to say, " Yes, your deep love for 
 your sister made you do this, and it richly deserves 
 this fulfilment of its endeavours," but he did not, and 
 the omission was noticed by Gwladys, but it did not 
 tell against him. 
 
 They sat some time in silent thought, Gwladys's 
 little foot tossing up the moss. 
 
 " I have not told auntie, but I should like to do so 
 
 now. 
 
 11 
 

 
 324 
 
 JSi? Berwen JSanfis* 
 
 " I think you are right," said Ellis, gathering his 
 painting paraphernalia together; "let us go and tell 
 her at once." 
 
 There was something delightful even in the simple 
 fact of " going together " to tell Mrs. Power the story 
 of Valmai's sorrow and Gwladys's mistake, and when 
 he left it was with the clear understanding that they 
 should not let a day pass without enlightening Cardo 
 and Valmai. 
 
 m 
 
;hering his 
 ;o and tell 
 
 the simple 
 
 • the story 
 
 and when 
 
 that they 
 
 ing Cardo 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 INTO THE SUNSHINE. 
 
 THERE was quite a chorus of regrets and good-byes 
 m the qu>et httle country station from whL 
 Varna, started on her journey to Cardiganshire. 
 
 who h.H h"'- ^'=\I"'^^-«"." said Colonel Meredith, 
 who had driven her down to meet the train 
 accompanied by his whole family, •' No one wHI 
 
 ~ Zn 'T*^ "'."''"''^ at'yourreturnU 
 ^1" =. , 1^ "ot.excepting this sentimental young 
 man. and he pointed to Cecil, who was putting on 
 an air of even greater dejection than usual ^ 
 
 a Ioo\ If "°'J^'S" '° ^"^"e'- his father except by 
 a look of indignation that set Gwen and Winifred 
 laughing; but when the train was absolutely mov ng 
 
 Le aZl 1r """ ''' '"'' '^-'^-^'P. and 
 leave a bunch of forget-me-nots in Valmai's hand 
 
 Good-bye, Beauty, darling," shouted Gwen 
 
 whde all the others joined in a chorus of "Wrf^L' 
 
 Valmai placed the flowers in her waistband with an 
 amused smile. " Poor boy," she thought. "What" 
 good thing it rained last night ; there fill be splendid 
 
 me f \e°;T '^"1 '^"' '"" ""' "'" '^'^et all aboit 
 me If he gets h,s basket full." And she settled her- 
 self down comfortably in the corner of the carriage 
 
 3^5 
 
^ 
 
 ...iiiiiiiwiiiiBmii 
 
 32G 
 
 JS)? Senven JBanfts. 
 
 and proceeded to open a letter which she had found 
 on her plate at breakfast, but which she had 
 hitherto found no time to read. It was from 
 Gwladys, she knew, but she was somewhat astonished 
 at its length, and turning over the leaves once or 
 twice saw it was very closely written and had many 
 words underlined. " What can it be about ? " was 
 her thought as she read the first words, " My own 
 beloved sister — " 
 
 There was no one in the carriage to notice the 
 varied expressions on her face as she read the 
 closely-written pages ; but had anyone been there 
 to see ti>/ rapturous happiness which lightened 
 up her features and brightened her eyes as she drew 
 towarc^G the conclusion, they would have wondered 
 what joyibi iuxormation could have so entranced 
 and delighted the girl who entered the carriage, 
 although with a serene and peaceful countenance, 
 yet with a certain plaintive wistfulness in the 
 shadows of her blue eyes, which betokened no 
 exemption from the ordinary fate of mankind. 
 But now ! what unspeakable joy, what ecstatic 
 delight seemed to infuse fresh life and vigour to 
 the fragile, graceful form ! For a few moments she 
 crossed her hands on her bosom, and with closed 
 eyes remained silent ; then, starting up and pacing 
 backwards and forwards in the limited space of a 
 railway carriage, she gave the rein to her delight 
 and let her thoughts drop out in words of 
 uncontrolled expression. 
 
 '* Cardo, oh, Cardo ! what happiness for me at last, 
 and for you, dearest — it shall be for you, too ! Oh, 
 I see it all. He sought me out and found Gwladys, 
 
 m 
 
5nto tbc Sunsbine. 
 
 827 
 
 and the strong, strange likeness between us deceived 
 him, though I cannot think how that was possible. 
 Did he not feel the difference? Let me see — what 
 does she say?" And again she read Gwladys's 
 repentant, beseeching words. " Can you ever for- 
 give me, darling? I tried to look as like you as 
 possible, and I tried to be as harsh as I could at, 
 the same time. ' If I ever loved you,* I said, ' I 
 have ceased to do so, and my greatest wish is never 
 to see you again.' " 
 
 " Oh ! how dreadful," said Valmai, " how could he 
 bear it ? and how he must have suffered since then ; 
 but I will make it all up to him, and now I under- 
 stand his conduct the other evening. Oh, you slow 
 old puffing engine, make haste, and take me to 
 Blaenos Station, then there will be a whole hour in 
 that crawling coach, and then comes dear Caer 
 Madoc ! and oh ! it is market day Cardo always 
 drives in with Dr. Hughes on that day, and walks 
 home in the evening I will walk ! It will be like 
 that dear, happy night when we first met ! " And at 
 last her excitement calming down, she settled herself 
 again into her corner, and while she sat silent and 
 immovable, she followed out from begmning to end 
 the incidents of the last few weeks. Although 
 Gwladys's mistaken interference had caused her such 
 deep sorrow, and such a bitter experience as that of 
 Cardo's avoidance of her at the Merediths she felt 
 nothing but pity for the sister whom she knew would 
 have sacrificed life itself to save her from trouble. 
 
 As the train sped onwards, between the blue hills 
 and by the silver streams, her thoughts outran its 
 speed, and in fancy she saw Cardo hurrying along 
 
WT. 
 
 mmmmm 
 
 328 
 
 33^ JSerwcu 3Banf{0. 
 
 the high road to meet her at Caer Madoc. And he, 
 as he drove along beside Dr. Hughes, was full of 
 tender longings and thoughts of her. She seemed to 
 fill the air around him, she seemed to press upon his 
 inner consciousness with such vividness, that he felt 
 it difficult to restrain his voice, and prevent himself 
 from calling her name aloud. 
 
 At last, the evening shadows began to fall over 
 sleepy Caer Madoc, and Valmai, alighting from the 
 coach in the " Red Dragon " yard, looked round 
 hurriedly. With her, too, the impression of Cardo's 
 presence had been so vivid, that she almost expected 
 to see him waiting for her ; but no Cardo was to be 
 seen ! After leaving her luggage in the ostler's 
 charge, she hastened out through the old archway 
 which opened into the High Street. 
 
 " No, I prefer walking, thank you ; you can send 
 my luggage on to-morrow," she said to the kindly 
 officious man, who followed her to offer his services 
 as driver, and she turned up the street with a heart 
 full of exultant hopes. Here were the last straggling 
 houses that reached up the hilly street, leading to 
 the moor. Her steps were light and springy, as she 
 followed the familiar road, now almost deserted by 
 the last pedestrians returning from the market. The 
 sun had set behind the sea, which she already saw 
 stretching away to the west, a soft grey haze 
 enfolded the hills which rose before her, and the 
 moon was rising to her right and blending her silver 
 light with that of the departed sun, which still left 
 a golden glow over the west. Valmai walked on 
 steadily until she reached the first milestone, and 
 sitting down beside it, she rested awhile, almost 
 
^itto tbc Sunsbtne. 
 
 329 
 
 hidden by its siiadow. It was not one of the modern 
 insignificant, square-cut, stiff stones, but a solid 
 boulder of granite, one of the nnany strewn about the 
 moor. She listened breathlessly to the different 
 sounds that reached her ears, sounds which seemed 
 to awake in the stillness, as she listened. There was 
 a faint and distant rumbling of wheels in the town 
 behind her, and surely some strains of music, which 
 carried her back in memory to another evening in the 
 past ! Down below the cliffs on her left she heard 
 the mysterious whispering of the sea ; in the little 
 coppice across the road a wood-pigeon cooed her 
 soft •* good-night " ; and away in the hay-fields, 
 stretching inland, she heard the corncrakes' grating 
 call ; but no human footstep broke the silence of 
 night. Surely Cardo would have gone to market on 
 such a lovely day ! or, who knows ? perhaps he was 
 too sad to care for town or market ? But hark ! a 
 footstep on the hard, dry road. She listened breath- 
 lessly as it drew nearer in the gathering grey of the 
 twilight. Steadily it tramped, tramped on, and peep- 
 ing round the milestone, Valmai at last saw a grey 
 figure emerge from the haze. It was Cardo, she felt 
 sure, and rising at once, she hurried some distance 
 on the road in a sudden feeling of nervousness. 
 The steady tramp, tramp came ever nearer, and, 
 looking through the increasing shadows, she saw 
 distinctly the well-remembered form, the broad 
 shoulders, the firmly- knit frame, and in a fresh 
 access of nervousness she hurried on again — putting 
 off the moment of recognition which she longed for, 
 and endeavouring to reach a hollow in the high bank, 
 
u i-: 
 
 330 
 
 JSp JSerwen Sanfid, 
 
 where she might h*e hidden until she had regained 
 courage and calmness. 
 
 Meanwhile Cardo, who had driven m to the market 
 with Dr. Hughes in the morning, had started on his 
 homeward journey just as Valmai was leaving the 
 town behind her. It had been a lovely day, he had 
 had pleasant company, and had transacted his busi- 
 ness satisfactorily; but a deep and settled gloom 
 seemed to have fallen upon him, which he was power- 
 less to shake off. Through the whole tenor of his 
 life ran the distracting memory of Valmai's unrelent- 
 ing anger in the Velvet Walk, and of the bitterness of 
 the subsequent meeting at Colonel Meredith's. As 
 he stepped along through the summer twilight, and 
 saw the silver moon which hung above him, his 
 thoughts flew back to the first evening of his acquaint- 
 ance with her. Ah! how long ago it seemed, and 
 yet how everything pertaining to that evening seemed 
 to repeat itself. There were the strains of the militia 
 band throbbing on the quiet evening air, just as they 
 did on that eventful evening ; and there was even a 
 grey female figure hurrying before him as before, and 
 Cardo smiled bitterly as he thought how different 
 everything was, in spite of the curious "harking 
 back " of all the small circumstances. Awaking from 
 a reverie, he missed the grey figure; but forgetting 
 her at once, and again absorbed in thought, he had 
 passed the hollow in the bank, when a soft voice 
 followed him on the breeze. 
 
 " Cardo ! " 
 
 Instantly he turned, and standing still as a statue, 
 ivatched with eagerness a grey form which seemed to 
 rise from the hedge. He heard his own heart beat 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
5nto tbc Sunsbine. 
 
 331 
 
 loudly, and in the still night air he heard the sough 
 of the se ., and the harsh call of the corncrake. 
 Again the voice said, " Cardo ! " very low and trem- 
 ' bling. With one bound he was beside the speaker, and 
 in the light of the moon Valmai stood plainly re- 
 vealed. The sweet eyes glistened as of old, and the 
 night breeze played with the little curls of gold which 
 , escaped from their restraining coiffure. She held out 
 - her hands, and in a moment Cardo's strong arms 
 were around her. 
 
 " My wild sea-bird," he said, in a passionate whisper, 
 '• have you flown back to me ? Valmai, my darling, 
 whai does it mean ? Have you forgiven mc ? Have 
 you repented of those cruel words, dearest ? Oh, say 
 it was not my Valmai who called me ' base and 
 dishonourable.' Speak dearest," he said, while he 
 showered kisses upon the uncovered head which leant 
 upon his breast. 
 
 " It was not your Valmai, Cardo. How could you 
 think it possible ? It was not I whom you saw in the 
 Moss Walk. I did not know till to-day, this very day, 
 that those cruel words were spoken." 
 
 " Let us sit here, my beloved ; give me your hand ; 
 let me try to realise this bewildering joy." And hand 
 in hand they sat on the grassy bank, while the corn- 
 crake called, and the sea heaved and whispered 
 behind them. 
 
 There,under the golden moon, with endless que'^^ions 
 and reiteration of answers, Valmai told her stOi> .-^nd 
 Cardo told his, until the moon rode high in the sky. 
 Again and again Cardo pressed her to his heart, and 
 again and again she took his brown hands in her own 
 and laid her cheek upon them. 
 
332 
 
 3Bi? jBetwen Xanltd. 
 
 "Oh, Cardo ! is it true? or is it all a dream? So 
 suddenly to leave my sadness and sorrow behind, and 
 to awake to this blessed reality ! " And as they rose 
 to pursue their walk together, Cardo drew her arm 
 through his, as if afraid for a moment to loosen his 
 hold of her. 
 
 •' liut your sister, dearest, is 7iot like you ! How 
 could I have been deceived? How could I, for one 
 moment, have thought my gentle darling would say 
 such cruel things? No, no! you are utterly unlike 
 each other, though so strangely alike." 
 
 " Well, indeed, Cardo bach ! when you know her 
 you will see how sweet and beautiful she is ! how 
 much wiser and more noble than I ! It was her great 
 love for me, and her desire that I should be hap^py, 
 that made her act as she did ; and to-morrow you 
 must read her penitent letter, and learn to forgive her, 
 and to love her for my sake." 
 
 " I will — I will, love ; I will forgive anybody, any- 
 thing, and will love the whole world now that I have 
 you back again. But oh, Valrnai, my beloved, how 
 shall I ever make up to you for all you have gone 
 through ? I know now you never received my letter 
 written on the Burrawalla, and sent by The Dundee, 
 for I have heard of her sad fate. In that, dearest, I 
 retracted my request that you should keep our 
 marriage a secret, and you would have been saved all 
 the sorrow you have borne had you received it. But 
 I will make up to you, dearest, if the devotion of a 
 lifetime can do so." 
 
 "This is happiness enough to make up for any- 
 thing," said Valmai ; " and I am glad I was able 
 to keep my promise." 
 
^nto tbc Sunsbinc. 
 
 883 
 
 " Faithful friend, and trustful wife ! " answered 
 Cardo. 
 
 " Ah ! no," continued Vahnai ; " I shall never 
 regret having kept my promise ! Iiulccd, I never 
 felt tempted to break it, except one day, when, in 
 the old church, I met your father face to face. Never 
 shall I forget the agonising longing I felt to throw 
 myself at his feet and tell him all, and mingle my 
 tears with his." 
 
 " He has told me all about it, love, and how he 
 thought it was an angel, when he first saw you 
 stat\ding there But let us leave all tales of sorrow 
 for another day ; to-night is for love only, for 
 rapturous joy! Are we not together, love? and 
 what does anything else matter ? " 
 
 "Nothing, nothing," answered V?1mai, in words 
 which lost none of their depth of feeling from being 
 spoken in soft, low tones. 
 
 In silence, which was more eloquent than words, 
 they pursued their way till they reached the bridge 
 over the Berwen ; and as they leant over its side, and 
 looked into the depths of the woods beneath them, 
 they recalled all the circumstances of their first 
 meeting. 
 
 " I wish I had bought some gingerbread in the 
 Mwntroyd, Cardo, so that we might eat it here 
 together. Ah ! how it all comes back to me ! " 
 
 And as they leant over the bridge he held her 
 hand in his, and with eyes which sought each other's 
 in the moonlight, they let the time slip by unheeded. 
 The only sound that rose upon the still night air was 
 the babbling of the Berwen. 
 
 When at last both had told their story, and every 
 
f 
 
 334 
 
 JSi? 3Betwen JSanfte* 
 
 question and answer had again and again been re- 
 newed, and all its side bearings and suggestions 
 had been satisfactorily explained, the sweet, lisping 
 sounds of the river flooded their souls with its music. 
 
 " Oh, Cardo ! to think we can once more sing to- 
 gether. How different to that miserable evening at 
 Colonel Meredith's, when you stood aloof, and Gwen 
 sang the dear old song. I thought it would kill me." 
 
 " And I, darling, when I carried you up in my 
 arms, what did I feel ? " 
 
 " Well, indeed, I don't know ; but we have had a 
 dreadful experience, whatever." And presently 
 Valmai began to hum "By Berwen Banks," Cardo 
 irresistibly joining in with his musical bass, and once 
 again the old ballad floated down the valley and 
 filled the night with melody. 
 
 " We ought to be going now, or we shall be shut 
 out. I know Nance will be gone to bed already, 
 but, certainly, there is not much distance between her 
 bed and the door." 
 
 " Nance ! " said Cardo. " No, indeed, my wild sea- 
 bird. I have caught you now, and never again will I 
 part with vou. Home to Br^ nderyn, dearest, with 
 me, where my father is longing to fold you in his 
 arms." 
 
 " Anywhere with you, Cardo." And down by the 
 Berwen they took their way, by the old church, 
 where the white owl hooted at them as they passed, 
 and down to the shore, where the waves whispered 
 their happy greetings. 
 
 The " Vicare du," as he sat by his study fire that 
 night, was lost in thought. A wonderful change had 
 come over his countenance, the gloom and sternness 
 
Jnto tbe Sunsbtnc. 
 
 335 
 
 ;s music. 
 
 had disappeared, and a softened and even gentle look 
 had taken their place. A smile of eager interest crossed 
 his face as he heard the crunching of the gravel, 
 which announced his son's return. Betto was 
 already opening the door, and a cry of surprise and 
 gladness woke an echo in the old man's heart as he 
 hurried along the stone passage into the parlour. 
 Cardo came in to meet him, leading Valmai, who 
 hung back a little timidly, looking nervously into the 
 Vicar's pale face. But the look she saw there 
 banished all her fears, and in another moment she 
 was clasped in his arms, and in all Wales no happier 
 family drew round their evening meal that night than 
 the Wynnes of Brynderyn, 
 
 There is nothing more to be said, except that 
 Gwynne Ellis's letter awaited Cardo's home-coming, 
 and it shall speak for itself. 
 
 " Dear Wynne, — I write with such mixed feelings, 
 and at the same time in such a hurry to catch the first 
 possible post, that probably you will think my letter 
 is a little ' mixed ' too. You will guess what was my 
 astonishment, when calling upon Mrs. Power, to find 
 —not Valmai, but her twin-sister, Miss Gwladys 
 Powell ! My dear Wynne, I was struck dumb by the 
 likeness between them. I waited eagerly for Valmai's 
 arrival, which they were daily expecting, and it was 
 not until I heard she was going to Cardiganshire in- 
 stead that I mentioned to Gwladys your marriage to 
 her sister, and the cruel manner in which she had 
 received you after your long absence. Then came the 
 explanation, which, no doubt, ere this you have re- 
 ceived from Valmai's own lips, for I know that 
 
an 
 
 ■'I 
 I' 
 
 1 
 
 336 
 
 3B^ JSerwen BanFis. 
 
 to-morrow she will see you, having received her 
 sister's letter in the morning; and the veil will be 
 lifted, and all your sorrow will disperse like the base- 
 less fabric of a dream. You will see already how 
 Gwladys, dreading your influence upon the sister 
 whom she thought you had deceived and deserted, 
 was tempted, by your mistaking her for Valmai, to 
 impersonate her, and to drive you away from her 
 presence. Her sorrow and repentance are greater 
 than the occasion demands, I think, for, af all, it 
 was her deep love for her sister which made iiCr act in 
 this way ; and I am sure that, when you and Valmai 
 have been reunited and all your joys return, you will 
 have no room in your hearts for anger against 
 Gwladys. She is the most lovely girl I have ever 
 seen, except your wife, and her mind and heart are 
 quite worthy of her beautiful face ; indeed, my dear 
 Cardo, she is what I once thought was not to be 
 found — a second Valmai ! In fact I love her, and I 
 am not without a faint hope that my love is returned. 
 Remember me to Shoni, and tell him I hope to see 
 him again next spring. And what if I bring Gwladys 
 down, and we all roam by the Berwen together? — not 
 Shoni ! What can I add more, except that I hope 
 this delicious programme may be carried out ? 
 
 "Yours as of old, 
 
 "GwYNNE Ellis.'* 
 
 ? .. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 :^ 
 
 ' t 
 
 »,. . ( 
 
 
 sS*. 
 
ceived her 
 eil will be 
 i the base- 
 ready how 
 
 the sister 
 i deserted, 
 Valmai, to 
 
 from her 
 re greater 
 tr all, it 
 : liCr act in 
 nd Valmai 
 ti, you will 
 ■r against 
 have ever 
 
 heart are 
 i> my dear 
 not to be 
 her, and I 
 i returned, 
 pe to see 
 I Gwladys 
 her?-— not 
 tt I hope 
 t? 
 
 Ellis."