The summer had passed, with all its charms of June roses and soft July showers, with its sweet, long days of sunshine, and its soft, west winds brine-laden, its flights of happy birds, and its full promise in orchard and corn-field.
Cardo and Valmai still haunted the woods by the Berwen, and walked along its banks, or sat listening to its trickling music as it hastened down to the sea; but there was a sadder look on both their faces. Cardo had new lines about his mouth, and Valmai had a wistful look in her blue eyes; both had an unaccountable premonition of something sorrowful to come.
"Oh, I am afraid of something," the girl had said one day, as she sat beside her lover, throwing pebbles into the brook, "something worse even than this terrible parting, which must come next month. What is it, Cardo? What is hanging over us? Something that darkens the sunlight and dims the moonlight to me? Are we parting for ever, do you think?"
"Nonsense, dearest," said Cardo cheerfully, though the little pucker between his eyes seemed to speak of the same anxiety and fear. "Isn't the separation which we must bear enough to account for all sorts of fears and depressing thoughts? It is that only which dims the sunshine to me, and makes me feel as if I were losing all the light and happiness out of my life; but let us cast our fears to the wind, Valmai, for a year will see all our troubles over; in a year's time I shall have returned, bringing, I hope, reconciliation and love to my dear old father—peace for his last days, Valmai. It is worth trying for, is it not?"
"Yes, yes; no doubt your presence will be more effectual than a letter."
"He thinks, too," said Cardo, "that a little travel by land and sea will brighten my life which he imagines must be so monotonous on this lonely west coast. He doesn't know of the happy hours we spend here on the banks of the Berwen, but when I return with loving greetings from his brother, and, who knows, perhaps bringing that brother with me in person, then, Valmai, while his heart is softened and tender, I will tell him of our love, I will ask his consent to our marriage, and if he refuses, then we must take our own way and be married without his consent. There is the thatch house just above the mill already waiting for us—it is my own, you know; and although old Sianco and his wife don't make much of it, think how lovely you and I would make it. Think of me sitting in the thatched porch behind those roses smoking, and you looking out through those pretty little lattice windows under the eaves."
Valmai sighed and blushed. "Oh, what dreams, Cardo; I cannot reach so far. My thoughts stop short at the long winter, when that glistening sea will be tossing and frothing under the fierce north-west wind. Oh, I know how it looks in the winter; and then to think that all that lies between me and you. What a trouble has come upon us when all seemed so bright and glorious."
"Yes, I have brought sorrow and unrest into your peaceful life. Will you give me up; will you break the bonds that are between us; and once more be free and happy?"
"Cardo," was all her answer, in a pained tone, as she placed her hand in his, "what are you talking about?"
"Nonsense, love, foolish nonsense. I know too well that nothing on earth or heaven can break the bonds that bind us to each other. And this terrible parting. I could bear it far more easily if you were mine, my very own, my wife, Valmai. Then I should feel that nothing could really part us. Can it not be? Can we not be married here quietly in the old church, with none but the sea-breezes and the brawling Berwen for company?"
"And the old white owl to marry us, I suppose. Oh, Cardo, another dream. No, no; wait until you return from that dreadful Australia, and then—"
"And then," said Cardo, "you will not say no."
"No," said the girl, looking frankly into his eager face, "I will not say no. But I must go; I am late. Shoni begins to ask me suspiciously, 'Wherr you going again, Valmai?' I am sure we could not go on much longer meeting here without his interference."
"How dreadful to have Shoni's red hair and gaitered legs dogging our footsteps in this fairy dell."
"To whom does this sweet valley belong, Cardo? To you?"
"To my father. If it ever comes into my possession, it will be so guarded that no stray foot shall desecrate its paths."
Cardo was not without hope of being able to overcome Valmai's reluctance to be married before he left the country, and as he and Gwynne Ellis returned one day from a sail he broached the subject to his friend.
"To-morrow will be the first of September," he said, as he watched the bulging sail and the fluttering pennon against the blue sky.
"Yes," answered Ellis, "I am sorry my holiday is coming to a close."
"I don't see why you should leave, although I am obliged to go."
"Oh, it will be quite time for me; everything jolly comes to an end some time or other."
"True," said Cardo, with a sigh.
"Well, you heave a sigh, and you look as grave and solemn as any of Essec Powell's congregation, and, upon my word, I don't see what you've got to look so glum about. Here you are, engaged to the prettiest girl in Wales; just going out for a year's travel and enjoyment before you settle down as a married man in that idyllic thatched cottage up the valley—a year to see the world in—and a devoted father (for he is that, Cardo, in spite of his cold ways) waiting to greet you when you come back. And Valmai Powell following every step you take with her loving and longing thoughts. No, no, Cardo; you have nothing to pull such a long face about. On the contrary, as I have said before, you are a lucky dog." (Cardo grunted.) "Besides, you are not obliged to go. It seems to me rather a quixotic affair altogether, and yet, by Jove! there is something in it that appeals to the poetic side of my nature. You will earn your father's undying gratitude, and in the first gush of his happiness you will gain his consent to your marriage with Valmai. Not a bad—rather a clever little programme."
"Oh, it is all very well for you to talk like that, Ellis; but nothing you say can lessen the bitterness of parting from Valmai. It is my own wish to go, and nothing shall prevent me; but I could bear the separation with much more fortitude if only—"
And he stopped and looked landwards, where the indistinct grey blur was beginning to take the pattern of fields and cliffs and beach.
"If what?" said Ellis, shifting the sail a little.
"If only I were married to Valmai."
"Phew! what next?" said Ellis, "married! Cardo Wynne, you are bringing things to a climax. My dear fellow, it would be far harder to part from a wife of a week than from a sweetheart of a year. That's my idea of wedded bliss, you see."
"Nonsense; it would not!" said Cardo. "It would give me a sense of security—a feeling that, come fair or come foul, nothing could really come between me and Valmai; and besides, I should not want her to be the wife of a week—I should be satisfied to be married even on the morning of my departure. Come, Ellis, be my friend in this matter. You promised when I first told you of my love for Valmai that you would help us out of our difficulties. You are an ordained priest; can you not marry us in the old church on the morning of the 14th? You know the Burrawalla sails on the 15th, and I go down to Fordsea the day before, but not till noon. Can you not marry us in the morning?"
"Has Valmai consented?" asked Ellis, sinking down in the prow of the boat and looking seriously at his companion.
"I—I—have not pressed the question, but if she agrees, will you do it?"
"Do it? My dear fellow, you talk as if it were a very simple affair. Do it, indeed! Where are the banns?"
"I would buy a license."
"And the ring?"
"At Caer Madoc." And Cardo began to look in deadly earnest.
"And what about the witnesses?"
"I have even thought of that. Are not your two friends, Wilson and Chester, coming to Abersethin next week?"
"So they are," said Ellis, "to stay until I leave. The very thing. They will be delighted with such a romantic little affair. But, Cardo, how about my duty to your father, who has been a very kind friend to me?"
"Well," said Cardo, "shall you be doing me an unkindness or the reverse when you make Valmai my wife? Is she not all that a woman can be? has she not every virtue and grace—"
"Oh, stop, my dear fellow! don't trouble to go through the inventory. I'll allow you at once she is perfect in mind, body, and soul—and the man to whom I marry her will owe me an eternal debt of gratitude!"
"True, indeed!" said Cardo, beginning energetically to lower the sails, and guide the boat safely to shore.
He said no more, until, after a tramp over the beach, both buried in their own thoughts, they drew near the path to Brynderyn.
"You will help me, then, at the old church on the morning of the fourteenth?"
"I will," said Ellis.
Before that morning arrived, Cardo had won from Valmai a frightened and half-reluctant consent.
She was no longer a child, but seemed to have matured suddenly into a woman of calm and reflective character, as well as of deep and tender feeling.
To be married thus hurriedly and secretly! How different to the beautiful event which she had sometimes pictured for herself! Where was the long, white veil? Where were the white-robed bridesmaids? Where were the smiling friends to look on and to bless? There would be none of these indeed, but then—there would be Cardo! to encourage and sustain her—to call her wife! and to entrust his happiness to her. Yes, she would marry him; she would be true to him—neither life nor death should shake her constancy—no power should draw from her lips the sweet secret of their marriage, for Cardo had said, "It must be a secret between us, love, until I return and tell my father myself—can you promise that, Valmai?" and with simple earnestness she had placed her hand in his, saying, "I promise, Cardo." And well might he put his trust in her, for, having given that word of promise, no one who knew her (they were very few) could doubt that she would keep it both in the letter and in the spirit.
The morning of the fourteenth dawned bright and clear, but as Cardo threw up his window and looked over the shining waters of the bay he saw that on the horizon gray streaky clouds were rising, and spreading fan-like upwards from one point, denoting to his long-accustomed eye that a storm was brewing.
"Well! it is September," he thought, "and we must expect gales."
He dressed hurriedly though carefully, and was soon walking with springy step across the beach, and up the valley to the old church. He cast a nervous glance towards Dinas, wondering whether Valmai would remember her promise—fearing lest she might have overslept herself—that Essec Powell or Shoni might have discovered her intentions and prevented their fulfilment; perhaps even she might be shut up in one of the rooms in that gaunt, grey house! Nothing was too unreasonable or unlikely for his fears, and as he approached the church he was firmly convinced that something had happened to frustrate his hopes; nobody was in sight, the Berwen brawled on its way, the birds sang the ivy on the old church tower glistened in the sunshine, and the sea-gulls sailed overhead as usual.
It had been decided the night before that Gwynne Ellis should leave the house alone at his usual early hour, and that his friends should come by the high road from Abersethin, and down by the river-path to the church. They were not to stand outside, but to enter the church at once, to avoid any possible observation; but in spite of this prior arrangement Cardo wondered why no one appeared.
"Can Gwynne Ellis be late? or those confounded fellows from Abersethin have forgotten all about it, probably? It's the way of the world!"
As he crossed the stepping-stones to the church he felt sure there would be no wedding, and that he would have to depart at midday still a bachelor, leaving Valmai to all sorts of dangers and trials!
When he entered the porch, however, and pushed open the door of the church, in the cool green light inside, he found his three friends waiting for him.
"I wonder why she doesn't come," he said, turning back to look up the winding path through the wood; "it's quite time."
"Yes, it is quite time," said Ellis. "I will go and put on my surplice. You three can sit in that ricketty front pew, or range yourselves at the altar rail, in fact—there she is coming down the path, you won't be kept long in suspense."
And as the three young men stood waiting with their eyes fixed upon the doorway, Valmai appeared, looking very pale and nervous. Gwynne Ellis had already walked up the church, and was standing inside the broken altar rails. Valmai had never felt so lonely and deserted. Alone amongst these strangers, father! mother! old friends all crowded into her mind; but the memory of them only seemed to accentuate their absence at this important time of her life! She almost failed as she walked up with faltering step, but a glance at Cardo's sympathetic, beaming face restored her courage, and as she took her place by his side she regained her composure. Before the simple, impressive service was over she was quite herself again, and when Cardo took her hand in his in a warm clasp, she returned the pressure with a loving smile of confidence and trust, and received the congratulations of Gwynne Ellis and his two friends with a smiling though blushing face.
The two strangers, never having seen her before, were much struck by her beauty; and indeed she had never looked more lovely. She wore one of her simple white frocks, and the white hat which had been her best during the summer, adorned only with a wreath of freshly gathered jessamine, a bunch of which was also fastened at her neck. With the addition of a pair of white gloves which Cardo had procured for her, she looked every inch a bride. She wore no ornament save the wedding ring which now glistened on her finger.
"Let us do everything in order," said Ellis. "Take your wife down to the vestry."
Cardo drew her hand through his arm, and at the word "wife," pressed it gently to his side, looking smilingly down at the blushing face beside him. When they reached the vestry, whose outer wall in the old tower was lying crumbling on the grass outside, while the two young men chatted freely with the bride and bridegroom, they were joined by Gwynne Ellis, carrying an old and time-worn book under his arm.
Cardo gasped, "I never thought of the register; it is kept in the new church! Is it absolutely necessary, Ellis? What shall we do? What have you there?"
"Why, the old register, of course! I furraged it out last night from that old iron chest inside the altar rails. There is another there, going back to the last century, I should think. I must have a look at them; they will be interesting."
"Ellis, you are a friend in need," said Cardo. "I had never thought of this part of the ceremony."
"No, be thankful you had a cool and collected head to guide you. See, here is a blank space at the bottom of one of these musty pages. It won't be at all en rÈgle to insert your marriage here; but I dare not bring the new register out of the other church; moreover, there may be another wedding soon, and then yours would be discovered."
"What a genius you are!" said Cardo, while Gwynne Ellis wrote out in bold, black characters, under the faded old writing on the rest of the page, the certificate of Cardo and Valmai'a marriage.
"There, you have tied a knot with your tongue that you can't untie with your teeth! Here is your marriage certificate, Mrs. Wynne. I need not tell you to keep it safely."
Suddenly there was a rustling sound above them, which startled them all, and Cardo grasped Valmai hastily, to the 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 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 together."
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 vestry, 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 his last hours to be spent with him.
"When do you start from Brynderyn?" she asked, her voice growing lower and more sorrowful.
"At two o'clock, love, punctually; the cart has already gone with my luggage. Valmai, how can I part from you—how can I leave you, my beloved, my wife?"
"Oh, Cardo, 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 me leave to reveal it."
"We must part, fanwylyd; my father must not miss me."
"No, no—go, I will not keep you back."
There was a long, passionate embrace, during which the white owl flapped in again to her nest.
"Good-bye and good-bye, darling, and farewell until we meet again."
"Leave me here, Cardo. Good-bye, dearest husband!"
And so they parted, and, in the memory of both, for many a long year the sound of the Berwen held a place, and the flap of the white owl's wings brought back to Valmai memories of pain and happiness, mixed together in a strange tumult. Slowly she made her way up the path to Dinas, the scarlet cloak was taken out from the bush under which it had been hidden, and, enveloped in its folds, she entered the house. Going up to her own room, she took off the sacred wedding dress, and, folding it carefully, laid it away with its bunch of jessamine, while she donned another much like it, but of a warmer material, for she loved white, and seldom appeared in a coloured dress.
With Cardo the hours slipped by quickly. His father had many last directions to give him, and Betto had endless explanations to make.
"You will find your gloves in your pocket, Mr. Cardo, and your clean handkerchiefs are in the leather portmanteau; but only six are by themselves in the little black bag."
Gwynne Ellis had accompanied his friends to their lodgings at Abersethin, and after breakfast returned to Brynderyn; they had all been charmed with the bride's appearance.
"By Jove! Ellis," Chester had said, "I think I envy that Wynne in spite of the parting. I have never seen such a lovely bride!"
"Any more pearls of the sort to be found in this out-of-the-way place?" asked Wilson.
"No, I have seen none," said Ellis; "and I doubt if you will find one anywhere," for he was an enthusiastic admirer of Valmai.
"I have quite enjoyed the part we have taken in this romantic little affair—eh, Wilson?"
"Ra—ther!" he replied.
"But don't forget it is to be a dead secret," said Ellis, as he left the door.
"Oh! honour bright!"
At two o'clock punctually Cardo and his father seated themselves in the light gig, which was the only carriage the Vicar affected, and when Betto had bid him a tearful good-bye, with all the farm-servants bobbing in the background, Gwynne Ellis, grasping his hand with a warm pressure, said:
"Good-bye, Wynne, and 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 invitation."
"Yes," said the Vicar, in a wonderfully softened tone, "it would be too trying to have the house emptied at one blow."
As they drove along the high road together and crossed the little bridge over the Berwen Valley, the Vicar, pointing with his whip, drew Cardo's attention to the stile beside the bridge.
"This is the stile which I saw Ellen Vaughan crossing the day I met your mother waiting for her. I met my brother afterwards, and oh! how blinded I was! But there, a man who is carried away by his passions is like a runaway horse, which, they say, becomes blind in the eagerness of his flight."
It was needless to call Cardo's attention to the stile. His first meeting with Valmai was so intimately connected with it; and as he crossed the bridge, he called to mind how they had shared their gingerbread under the light of the moon.
"Perhaps you never noticed there was a stile there?" said the Vicar.
"Yes," said Cardo, turning round to take a last look at it and the bridge, and—was it fancy, or did he see something waving in the wind?
For a moment he laid his hand on the reins with the idea of running back to see, but "Jim" was fresh, and, resenting the check, swerved uncomfortably aside.
"Let him go," said the Vicar. "What do you want?"
"Nothing, sir. For a moment I thought I would go back and take a last look at the valley; but never mind, let us go on. How black it looks in front!"
"A storm rising, I think," said his father.
"Yes. There will be a gale from the north-west; we shall catch it on the Burrawalla, I expect. Well, I have often wished to see a storm at sea."
His father did not answer, but looked gloomily on at the gathering darkness in front. He was full of fears for his son's safety, but it was not his nature to speak openly of any tender feelings. His late confession, although it had comforted and soothed him, was yet a mystery to himself, and he thought of it with a kind of awkward surprise and something like resentment. He was, however, unusually talkative and even gentle as they drove on together. When at last he had seen Cardo fairly off in the coach, with his luggage piled on the top, he turned homewards with a heavy foreboding at his heart.
Should he ever see his son again? Had he sent him from his native land to be lost to him for ever? And how willingly he had given in to his father's wishes! But, certainly there was nothing to attract him to his home—nothing but his love for a surly old father!
"A fine fellow!" he soliloquised, with a side jerk of his head. "A fine fellow! a son to be proud of!"
And when Gwynne Ellis joined him at tea, they vied with each other in their praises of Cardo's character.
If Cardo had followed his impulse and returned to look over the stile, he would have found on the mossy hedge inside a little white heap of misery. For Valmai, who had watched for an hour to catch a last glimpse of him, had been frightened when she saw the "Vicare du" looking towards the stile, and evidently drawing Cardo's attention to it; she had shrunk back until they had passed, and then standing on the hedge, had waved a last good-bye, and immediately afterwards slipped down in an abandonment of grief. She remained for some time sobbing and moaning on the 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 and there between the storm rifts, then she quietly put on her hat and returned down the well-known path to the river, and with steady, set face and firm step made her way homeward.
When her uncle appeared at the tea-table, he carried two large books under his arm, and when the meal was over the lamp was lighted and the red curtains drawn. Up here on the cliffs the wind was already blowing furiously; it roared in the chimneys, and found its way in through every 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.
