By Berwen Banks Part 7

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 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. n.o.body wanted her, and n.o.body 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 Berwen.

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 tall 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 pa.s.sers-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 man, who reined in his spirited, well-groomed horse and addressed the party. At once Valmai recognised the voice, and peeping through the greenery, saw it was Cardo, stalwart and strong, with his rough freize coat and b.u.t.toned 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 looking 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 remounting; then she ventured over the stile and looked at the retreating figure, with his broad shoulders, his firm seat, and his steady hand on his bridle as he galloped out of sight. A flood of 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,[1] 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 sh.o.r.e. At low tide a reef of rocks, generally known as the Rock Bridge, connected it with the mainland, but at high tide the reef was completely under water, the sea rus.h.i.+ng 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.

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 coa.r.s.e gra.s.s which surrounded it, for tufts of gra.s.s and moss grew on the roof also, and Nance's goat was frequently to be seen browsing on the house-top. 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 h.o.r.n.y 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.

"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."

"After 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 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 s.h.i.+ning surface and curved legs would have delighted the heart of a collector of antique furniture.

"Oh, calon fach![2] to think your little white hands have been working for me! Now I will cut the bread and b.u.t.ter 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 Morien, 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 suddenly 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 reminds me of my boy!" and she rocked herself backwards and forwards for some time, while Valmai stroked with tender white fingers the hard, wrinkled hand which rested on her lap. "Well, indeed," said the old woman at last, "there's enough of my sorrows; let us get on to the happy 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 Valmai, 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 message 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 you ever heard, and the longest; I could never twist my tongue round it. It is with me somewhere written out on paper, and her directions, 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 looking 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 to pall, and 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 not 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 Brynderyn.

"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 before the wind, "I expect it will be a furious gale before midnight."