GWYNNE ELLIS ARRIVES.
For a few days, Valmai, although she had 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 uncle, 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."
"Well, to be sure! Now on the next page you will find a splendid
description of such a storm; go on, my girl," and Valmai continued the
reading.
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 Essec
Powell's cows were just awaking and clumsily rising from their night's
sleep under the quiet stars. The storm had disappeared 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 "Corwen" 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:
"You must have found the storm very interesting, Cardo; what kept you
out so late?"
He did not add that 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
Bridge! 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 I should prefer my son's
risking his life for 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."
"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," he said,
rising; "but you know such duckings are nothing to me; I enjoy them!"
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 corner,
where the furze bushes and wild thyme and harebells still held their
own against the plough and harrow; and here, sitting in deep thought,
and still whistling in a low tone, he held a long consultation with
himself.
"No! I will never try again!" 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 companion to you. What do
you say to it?"
"As far as I am concerned, let him come by all means, if you wish it,
father; it can make no difference 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 questioning your prudence in the matter."
The old man nervously fingered his papers.
"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 pockets there. I flatter myself I can do good 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 truth, 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 thought seemed to strike him, for his face flushed, and he
gave a long, low whistle. "Phew! I never thought of that! Why! 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 throw 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
yellow, as she flung herself down under a towering rock, still a little
languid, but full of an inrushing tide of happiness. The green waves
came rolling in, their foaming crests catching the rosy pink of 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 long gazing at the crimson pathway over the sea, both heart
and soul filled to over-flowing with the beauty of 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 morning, 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 fell
on her ear which brought the red blood mantling 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 was 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 you been washed away by
those cruel waves, there would have been no Cardo Wynne here to-night!
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:
"Come, fanwylyd;[1] let us walk together--I cannot rest. Valmai, tell
me, have I the same place in your heart that you have in mine? Place
in 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 me, 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
moonlight, now I am happy though my heart 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, while 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, whispering 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 for the future, no dread of partings, no
thought of life's fiery trials, which were even now casting their
shadows before them.
Valmai 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; forgotten even the wrangler who was coming to
trouble him; and forgotten that nameless shadow of parting and
distance, which had hovered too near ever since he had met Valmai. 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 evening. 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. 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 without 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 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,
"'A broad and ample road whose dust is gold,
Open, ye heavens! your living 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 _is_ 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 me. 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, "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 undemonstrative manner, made the new-comer 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 pounds for him, I shall keep him till September
fair."
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!
[1] Beloved.