A CLIMAX.
A bitter north wind, laden with sleet and rain, blew over Abersethin
Bay, tearing the surface into streaks of foam. The fishing boats were
drawn up on the grassy 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 grass 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 chink 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 buttered 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 passed, 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 buttered
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 stitching, 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, fâch; 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 passed 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.
"Reuben Street, Fordsea," he began. "Oh, dear, dear! here's writing!
Caton pawb! I could write better myself. Read it, Valmai."
And she obeyed.
"REV. ESSEC POWELL,
"DEAR SIR,--I am grieve more than words can say to tell you this sad
news, and I hope you will prepare for the worst. Becos your brother,
Captain John Powell, No. 8 Reuben Street, Fordsea, was drownded
yesterday in the harbour, and I have loast the best frind ever I had
and ever I will have. Please to tell Miss Powell the sad news, and
please to tell her that Captain Powell was oleways talking great deal
about her, and was missing her very much. Oh, we shall never see
nobody like him again. He went out in a small boat with two frinds to
the steamer Penelope, Captain Parley, and coming back the boat was
capsize and the three gentlemen was upset in the water. One was saved,
but Captain Powell and Mr. Jones was drownded. Please to come and see
about the funeral as soon as you can.
"I remain in great sorrow,
"Yours truly,
"JAMES HARRIS."
Valmai's trembling voice failed, and letting the letter drop, she
covered her face with her hands and burst into a flood of tears, as she
realised that her best friend had slipped away from her. In the
trouble and anxiety which had latterly clouded her life, she had often
been comforted by the thought that at all events there was one warm
heart and home open to her, but now all was lost, and her loneliness
and friendlessness pressed heavily upon her. Sob after sob shook her
whole frame.
Essec Powell picked up the letter, and read it again.
"Well, well," he said, "to think that John, my brother, should go
before me! Poor fellow, bâch! To be taken so suddenly and unprepared
as he was."
"Oh, no, uncle," said Valmai, between her sobs, "he was not unprepared.
There never was a kinder soul, a more unselfish man, nor a more
generous. Oh, you don't know how good he was to the poor, how kind and
gentle to every one who suffered! Oh, God has him in His safe keeping
somewhere!"
"Well, well," said Essec Powell, sitting down to his dinner, "we won't
argue about it now, but some day, Valmai, I would like to explain to
you the difference between that natural goodness and the saving grace
which is necessary for salvation. Come to dinner, Valmai. I wonder
how much did he leave? When is the funeral?" he said, addressing Gwen.
"You've got to go down and settle that," she answered. "Will I tell
Shoni to put the gig ready?"
"Yes, yes. I better go. I will be back by Sunday."
"James Harris will help you in every way, uncle, and will settle
everything for you."
"Oh! very well, very well. Tis a pity about the 'Mabinogion,' too; but
we'll go on with them next week, Valmai."
Shoni and Gwen continued until bedtime to discuss with unction every
item of information past, possible, or prospective, connected with the
death of the old Captain, while Valmai lay on the old red sofa, and
thought sadly of her loss.
"There's sudden," said Gwen, "but 'twill be a good thing for the
master, whatever!"
Valmai lay awake far into the night recalling with tears the kindness
and even tenderness of her old uncle.
On the following Saturday Essec Powell returned from the funeral, and
as he stepped out of the gig at the door, his face wore an unusual
expression which Valmai noticed at once. He seemed more alive to the
world around him; there was a red spot on each cheek, and he did not
answer his niece's low greeting, but walked into the parlour with a
stamping tread very unlike his usual listless shuffle.
"Are you tired, uncle?" the girl asked gently.
"No, I am not tired; but I am hurt and offended with you, Valmai. You
are a sly, ungrateful girl, and it is very hard on me, a poor,
struggling preacher very badly paid, to find that my only brother has
left all his worldly goods to you, who are already well provided for.
What do you think yourself? Wasn't it a shame on you to turn him
against his brother?"
"Oh, I never did," said Valmai; "I never thought of such a thing!
Dear, dear Uncle John! I didn't want his money, I only wanted his
love."
"What is the matter?" said Gwen, coming in.
"Matter enough," said her master, in angry, stammering tones. "John,
my brother, has left all his money to this Judas of a girl! A hundred
and fifty pounds a year, if you please! and only a paltry 100 pounds to
me, and the same to Jim Harris, the sailor. Ach y fi! the greediness
of people is enough to turn on me."
Between Gwen's exclamations and Essec Powell's angry harping on the
same string, the evening was made miserable to Valmai, and she was glad
enough to escape to her bedroom.
The next day she awoke with a throbbing headache.
"You are not going to chapel to-day, I suppose?" said Gwen.
"No, my head aches too badly. I have never missed before, but to-day I
think I will rest at home."
"Yes, rest at home, certainly," said Gwen. "You ought to have stopped
at home long ago; in my opinion, it would be more decent."
Her meaning was too plain, and Valmai's head drooped as she answered:
"Perhaps it would have been wiser, considering all things."
"Considering all things, indeed!" sneered Gwen. "Yes, they will turn
you out of the 'Sciet, because when the calf won't go through the
scibor door he has to be pushed out!" And with a toss of her head she
carried the tray away.
It was a miserable day for Valmai, and not even after events of more
bitterness were able to efface it from her memory.
She roamed about the house restlessly, and round the garden, which was
beginning to show signs of the budding life which had slept through the
storms and snows of winter. Already in a sheltered corner she detected
the scent of violets, an early daffodil nodded at her, a bee hummed
noisily, and a sweet spring breeze swept over the garden. What
memories it awoke within her! How long ago it seemed since she and
Cardo had roamed together by the Berwen! Years and years ago, surely!
Her reverie was disturbed by Shoni, who, coming back early from chapel,
had found his way into the garden.
"You wass quite right not to go to chapel this morning," he said.
"Don't go to-night again, neither!"
"No," said Valmai, "I won't. But why, Shoni?"
"Why?" he said, "because you better not. John Jones and William
Hughes, the deacons, is bin speaking to master about you, and next week
is the 'Sciet,[1] and you will be turn out."
Valmai turned a shade paler; she knew the disgrace this excommunication
implied; but she only turned with a sigh towards the house, Shoni
marching before her with the air of a man who felt he had performed a
disagreeable duty. Essec Powell had stopped to dine with a farmer
living near the chapel, and did not return home until near tea-time.
Then burst upon the girl the storm she had so long dreaded; her uncle's
anger had already been roused by his brother's "will," and his feelings
of greed and spite had been augmented by the information imparted to
him by his deacons.
"How dare you?" he said. His eyes flashed with anger, and his voice
trembled with the intensity of his fury.
Valmai, who was arranging something on the tea-table, sank down on a
chair beside it; and Gwen, carrying a slice of toast on a fork, came in
to listen. To hear her master speak in such excited tones was an event
so unusual as to cause her not only astonishment but pleasure.
Shoni, too, was attracted by the loud tones, and stood blocking up the
doorway.
Valmai flung her arms on the table, and leant her head upon them,
sobbing quietly.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself?" thundered the old man. "Sitting at
my table, sleeping under my roof, and attending my chapel--and all the
time to be the vile thing that you are! Dear Uncle John, indeed! what
would your dear Uncle John say of you now? You fooled him as you have
fooled me. Do you think I can bear you any longer in the house with
me?"
There was no answer from Valmai, and the old man, angered by her
silence, clutched her by the arm and shook her violently.
"Stop there!" said Shoni, taking a step forward, and thrusting his
brawny arm protectingly over the girl's bent head. "Stop there! Use
as many bad words as you like, Essec Powell, but if you dare to touch
her with a finger, I'll show you who is the real master here."
"She is a deceitful creature, and has brought shame and dishonour on my
name!" stammered the old man. "Am I, a minister of religion, any
longer to harbour in my house such a huzzy? _No_; out you go, madam!
Not another night under my roof!"
"Will you send her out at this late hour?" said Shoni. "Where is she
to go?"
"I don't care where she goes! She has plenty of money--money that
ought to belong to me. Let her go where she likes, and let her reap
the harvest that her conduct deserves. Remember, when I come back from
chapel to-night I will expect the house to be cleared of you."
Valmai rose wearily from the table, and went up the stairs to her own
room, where she hastily gathered a few things together into a light
basket, her heavier things she had packed some time before in readiness
for some such sudden departure as this.
Meanwhile, in the parlour below the sturdy Shoni faced his irate master.
"Man," he said, "are you not ashamed of yourself?"
"How dare you speak to me in that tone?" said the old man. "Because I
owe you two or three hundred pounds you forget your position here."
"No," said Shoni, "I don't forget, and I'll remind you sooner than you
think if you don't behave yourself! Man! you haven't learnt the ABC
of religion, though you are a 'preacher.' Christ never taught you that
way of treating a fallen woman. Shame upon you! And your own
brother's child! But I'll see she's taken care of, poor thing! And
the villain who has brought this misery upon her shall feel the weight
of this fist if ever he returns to this country; but he won't; he has
got safe away, and she has to bear the shame, poor thing! Wait till I
tell the 'Vicare du' what I think of his precious son."
"The 'Vicare du'?" said the old man, turning white with rage. "Do you
mean to say that his son has been the cause of this disgrace? I'll
thrash her within an inch of her life!" and he made a rush towards the
door.
"Sit down," said Shoni, taking him by the arm and pushing him back into
his easy-chair, "sit down, and calm yourself, before you stand up and
preach and pray for other people. Tis for yourself you ought to pray."
"True, Shoni, true. I am a miserable sinner like the rest, but don't
let me see that girl again."
"Put her out of your thoughts," said Shoni; "I'll see to her." And as
Valmai came silently down the stairs, he opened the front door for her,
and quietly took her basket from her.
"Well, howyr bâch!" said Gwen, looking after them, "there's attentions!
We'd better all walk in the wrong path!" and she banged the door
spitefully, and returned to the parlour to arrange her master's tea.
"And, now, where are you going to, my dear?" said Shoni kindly. "Will
you come to Abersethin? Jane, my sister, will give you lodgings; she
is keeping a shop there."
"No, no, Shoni," said the girl, "you are kind, indeed, and I will never
forget your kindness; but I will go to Nance, on the island; she will
take me in, I know."
"Will she?" said Shoni. "Then you could not go to a better place.
'Tis such lonesome place, the pipple will forget you there."
"Oh, I hope so," said Valmai; "that is all I desire."
"The tide will be down. We can get there easy, only 'tis very cold for
you."
"No, I like the fresh night-wind."
"Well, my dear," said Shoni, "I daresay your uncle will be shamed of
himself to-morrow, and will be wanting you to kom back. I will bring
the gig for you; 'tis a long walk."
"No, never, Shoni; I will never go back there again, so don't bring the
gig for me; but if you will kindly send my big box to the Rock Bridge,
I will send somebody across for it."
"'S' no need for you to do that. I will take it down to the shore on
the whilbare and row it over in Simon Lewis's boat. I will kom before
dawn tomorrow, then no one will know where you are. I'll put it out on
the rocks before Nance's house and carry it up to her door."
"Thank you, thank you, Shoni; but wouldn't tonight be better?"
"Oh, no; Sunday to-night," said Shoni, in quite another tone.
He waited until he saw Nance's door opened in response to Valmai's
timid knock, and then made his way back over the Rock Bridge at once
before the tide turned.
When Nance opened her door and saw the figure of a woman standing
there, she was at first surprised, for the dress struck her at once as
not being that of a peasant.
"Nance, fâch! it is I!" said Valmai. "You will let me in?"
"Let you in! yes, indeed. Haven't I been longing to see you all day!
Come in, my child, from this bitter wind; come in and get warm. I see
you have brought your basket, that means you are going to stay the
night. Right glad I am. You will have the little bed in the corner.
Keep your red cloak on, dear little heart, because the wind is blowing
in cold here at nights, and you have been used to warm rooms. I am
well used to cold, and sickness, and discomfort."
"But, Nance--" and then the terrible revelation had to be made, the
truth had to be told, and then the loving arms were clasped round the
sorrowful girl, and words of comfort and hope were whispered into her
ear. No reproaches, no cruel taunts here; nothing but the warmth of
human sympathy, and the loving forgiveness of a tender pure woman.
In the early dawn, while Valmai still slept, Shoni's "yo-hoy!" was
heard from the rocks, through which he was guiding his boat. Nance
opened her door, and, in the gray of the morning, the "big box" was
brought in and safely deposited in the tiny bedroom, which it nearly
filled.
"Good-bye," said Shoni. "Take care of her, and if she wants anything
get it for her, and remember I will pay you." And he rowed away, and
was busily ploughing when Gwen went out to milk the cows in the morning.
"Where is she gone?" she asked. "That shameful girl."
"Gone away," said Shoni shortly, and Gwen knew it was useless trying to
get anything more out of him.
Thus Valmai slipped quietly out of her old life, though for some time
she was the subject of much gossip in the neighbourhood.
It was not long before Shoni found an opportunity of speaking to the
Vicar, and as he saw the effect of his tidings upon the cold, hard man,
a feeling of pity stirred within him.
"Is this all news to you?" he said. "Didn't you know that your son was
haunting the footsteps of this innocent girl, to bring her to ruin?"
"Had I known," said the Vicar, in a stern voice, "that my son held any
communication with the Methodist preacher's family, however innocent it
might be, I would have closed my doors against him."
"Where is he?" asked Shoni, clenching his fist.
"I don't know," said the Vicar, turning away.
Shoni called after him, "When he comes back he'll feel the weight of
this fist, if it's twenty years to come."
[1] Society meeting.