By Berwen Banks Part 27

"Extraordinary vitality! Has he never spoken a word?"

"Never a sound or a word until he began moaning 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 muttering or whispering, in which the nurses in vain endeavoured to find a clue to the mystery of his illness.

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 fis.h.i.+ng boats were drawn up on the gra.s.sy slope which bordered the sandy beach, and weighted with heavy stones. The cottage doors were all closed, and if a stray pedestrian was anywhere 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 gra.s.s 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 c.h.i.n.k 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 enjoyed. He was sitting in his arm-chair and in his 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 pressed 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'll 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 _you know who_."

"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 b.u.t.tered 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 from 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 was thinking, Gwen."

"Oh, yes; thinking, thinking," said Gwen, with 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 stood for a moment with her hands clasped, and pressed on her bosom, looking at the door through which Gwen had just pa.s.sed, 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 went 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 b.u.t.tered toast which she placed before him.

When tea was over, the "Mabinogion" were brought out again and Valmai continued 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, with her head bent over some bit of work, her busy fingers pleating and st.i.tching, 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 motherhood--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 her to hide her condition from those around her, she was filled with trouble and distressing forebodings, Her sensitive nature received continual wounds. Suspicious looks and taunting sneers, innuendos and broad suggestions all came to her with exceeding bitterness. She knew that every day the cloud which hung over her grew blacker and heavier. Where should she turn when her uncle should discover 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 arrival 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, or, if it did, was instantly expelled. No; the whole world might 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 Abersethin 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 basket of eggs.

"Here it is. I 'member now; I put it safe with 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 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 pa.s.sed out into the driving wind and sleet. Perhaps the letter bore some news of Cardo! Perhaps bad news, for it had a 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, Gwen was already laying the dinner in the little parlour.

"You have been a long time," she said. "Where have you been? To the post again 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 spectacles, and after turning the envelope in every direction, opened it.