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 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.