"THE BABIES' CORNER."
A glorious summer was once more brooding over sea and land, when one
morning, in Nance's cottage, a feeble wail was heard; a sound which
brought a flood of happiness to Valmai, for nothing could wholly crush
the joyous welcome of a mother's heart. For a little while the past
months of sorrow and weariness were forgotten. The bitter
disappointment caused by Cardo's silence, lying deep below the surface,
was of so mysterious a nature that she scarcely found words to express
it even to herself. That he was false, that he had forgotten her,
never entered her mind. Some dire misfortune had befallen him; some
cruel fate detained him. Was it sickness? Was it death? There was
nothing for her but to bear and to wait; and God had sent this tiny
messenger of love to help and comfort her in her weary waiting. She
still believed that Cardo would return; he had promised, and if he were
living he would keep his promise--of this she felt certain. Secure
from the sneers and scornful glances of the world, alone in Nance's
cottage, her heart awoke afresh to the interests of life. Her baby boy
was bright and strong, and she watched with delight his growing
likeness to Cardo; the black hair, the black eyes, and the curve on the
rosebud mouth, which reminded her so much of his smile. Nance wondered
much at the girl's cheerfulness, and sometimes felt it her duty to
remind her, by look or tone, of the sorrow connected with her child's
birth.
"Look at him, Nance. See these lovely little feet, and there's strong
he is!"
"Yes, druan bâch,[1] he is a beautiful boy, indeed," she would answer
with a sigh, drawing her wrinkled finger over the fresh soft cheek.
Valmai began to chafe at the want of brightness which surrounded her
little one's life. She was proud of him, and wished to take him into
the village.
"No, my child," said Nance gently, "you had better not."
"Why not?" was on Valmai's lips, but she hesitated. A deep blush
crimsoned her face. "My boy has nothing to be ashamed of," she said,
with a proud toss of her head.
"When is he to be christened?" was Nance's next question.
"September."
"September!" gasped the old woman, "he will be three months old; and
what if anything should happen to him before then?"
"Nothing _shall_ happen to him," said Valmai, folding him to her heart.
"My life and my body are larger than his, and they will both have to go
before any harm reaches him."
"There's a foolish thing to say," said Nance, "and I wonder at you,
merch i. You ought to know by this time that we are clay in the hands
of the Potter. Little heart, he ought to be christened, and have a
name of his own."
"He can be 'Baby' till September, and then he will be christened."
"And why, September, child?"
Here Valmai took refuge in that silence which had been her only
resource since Cardo's departure. She would be perfectly silent. She
would make no answer to inquiries or taunts, but would wait patiently
until he returned. September! What glowing pictures of happiness the
word brought before her mind's eye. Once more to stroll with Cardo by
Berwen banks! Once more to linger in the sunshine, and rest in the
shade; to listen to the Berwen's prattling, to the whispering of the
sea-breeze. Such happiness, she thought, was all in store for her when
Cardo came home in September; and the words, "When Cardo comes home in
September," rang in her ears, and filled her heart and soul. Yes, the
long weary months of waiting, the sorrow and the pain, the cruel words,
and the sneering glances, were all coming to an end. She had kept her
promise, and had never spoken a word to implicate Cardo, or to suggest
that the bond of marriage had united them. He would come home, at
latest in a year, and remove every sorrow; and life would be one long
shining path of happiness from youth to age.
The light returned to her eyes, and the rose to her cheek; her step was
once more light and springy, as she paced the lonely shore, dressed in
her favourite white serge, and carrying her little white-robed baby in
her arms. She was an object of great interest to the inhabitants of
the fishing village on the other side of the island, and they often
found an excuse (more especially the young sailor lads) to pass by the
cottage, and to stop at the open door for a drink of water or a chat
with Nance. They were as loud in their condemnation of her faithless
lover as in admiration of her beauty and pleasant manners.
Once more life seemed full of promise and hope for her, until one day
when the bay was glistening in the sunshine, and the sea-gulls, like
flecks of snow, flew about the rocks; the soft waves plashing gently
between the boulders, a little cloud arose on her horizon. Her baby
was fretful and feverish, and Nance had roused her fears.
"He is too fat, merch i," she said, "and if he had any childish illness
it would go hard with him."
Valmai had taken fright at once.
"Can you take care of him, Nance, while I go to Abersethin and fetch
Dr. Hughes?" she asked.
"Yes, but don't be frightened, cariad; I daresay he will laugh at us,
and say there is nothing the matter with the child."
"Being laughed at does not hurt one," said Valmai, as she tied on her
hat. "I will bring him back with me if possible."
She took a long look at the baby, who lay with flushed face on Nance's
knees, and ran with all speed across the Rock-Bridge, from which the
tide was just receding, up the straggling street of Abersethin, and
through the shady lane, which led to the doctor's house.
There was great peering and peeping from the kitchen window, as Valmai
made her progress between the heaps of straw in the farm-yard to the
back door, which stood open. The doctor's wife, who had her arms up to
her elbows in curds and whey, looked up from her cheese-tub as she
appeared at the door.
"Dear me, Miss Powell! Well, indeed, what's the matter?"
"Oh, it's my baby, Mrs. Hughes! Can Dr. Hughes come with me at once?"
"There's a pity, now," said Mrs. Hughes; "he is gone to Brynderyn. Mr.
Wynne is not well. Grieving, they say, about his son."
Valmai blushed, and Mrs. Hughes was pleased with her success.
"When will he be back, d' you think?"
"Not till evening, I'm afraid. But there's Mr. Francis, the
assistant--shall I call him? he is very clever with children. Here he
is. Will you go with Miss Powell, to see--h'm--a baby which she is
taking a great interest in on Ynysoer?"
"Yes, certainly," said the young assistant, colouring, for he had heard
Valmai's story, and never having seen her, was now rather bewildered by
her beauty, and the awkwardness of the situation.
"Oh, thank you; can you come at once?" said Valmai.
"At once," said the young man. "Is the child very ill?"
"Indeed, I hope not," said Valmai; "he is very flushed and restless."
"Whose child is it?"
"Good-bye, Mrs. Hughes. It is mine," she added, in a clear voice, as
they left the kitchen door together.
"Wel, anwl, anwl! there's impidence," said one of the servants, looking
after them. "It is mine! As bold as brass. Well, indeed!"
"Yes, I must say," said her mistress, with a sniff, "she might show a
little more shamefacedness about it."
"There's a beauty, she is," said Will the cowman, coming in.
"Beauty, indeed!" said the girl. "A pink and white face like a doll!"
"Her beauty has not done her much good, whatever," said Mrs. Hughes, as
she finished her curds and dried her arms.
Meanwhile Valmai and the doctor were walking rapidly down the lane to
the shore.
"Dan, will you take us across?" said Valmai to a man who stood leaning
against the corner of the Ship Inn.
"With every pleasure, miss fâch; you've been out early," he said, as he
pushed out his boat, and, seeing the doctor--"if you please, miss, I
hope there's nobody ill at Nance's?"
"Yes," said Valmai, hesitating, "the little one is ill."
She did not say, "my baby," as she had done at the doctor's. At the
first contact with the world beyond Ynysoer, where she had been so long
secluded and sheltered, a feeling of nervous shyness began to
over-shadow her.
"Dear, dear!" was all Dan's answer,
Once on the island, Mr. Francis found it difficult to keep up with
Valmai's hurrying steps. He was full of pity for the beautiful girl
beside him, so young and so friendless, and was anxious to serve her,
and to cure her child if possible.
As they entered the cottage together, Nance endeavoured gently to
prevent Valmai's approaching the child.
"Not you, my dear, not you; let the doctor see him."
Mr. Francis was already attending to the little sufferer.
"No," he said, looking backwards, "not you, Miss Powell; let me manage
him."
Valmai turned white to the lips, and, gently putting the old woman
aside, took her place at the bedside, where a pitiful sight met her
eyes. Her little one lay in the terrible throes of "convulsions," and
again the doctor tried to banish Valmai from the scene.
"Let me be," she said, in a quiet voice, which astonished the young
man. "Let me be; I am used to trouble." And passing her arm under the
little struggling frame, she supported it until the last gasp put an
end to its sufferings.
Mr. Francis took the child into his own arms and laid it on the bed,
turning his attention to Valmai, who had fallen fainting on the floor.
"Poor thing! poor thing!" said the tender-hearted young man. "It is a
pity she cannot remain unconscious."
But he applied the usual restoratives, and she soon opened her eyes,
while Nance straightened the folds of the little night-gown with loving
fingers, tears coursing each other down her wrinkled face.
"Oh, dear heart! how will she bear it?"
Mr. Francis was silently bathing the girl's forehead.
"You are better now?" he asked.
"Yes," she said; "thank you. You have been very kind, but do not
trouble to stay longer; I am quite well," and she slowly rose from the
settle.
"I will go now," said the young man. "You would like to be alone, but
I will call in the afternoon. You will want someone to--to--make
arrangements for you."
"Arrangements? To have my little one buried? Yes, yes, of course. I
shall be thankful, indeed."
"Here, or at Penderin?"
"Oh, here--in the 'rock' churchyard."
"I will go at once," and he went out, gently closing the door upon the
two women in their sorrow.
In the afternoon he came again, and, being a man of very warm feelings,
dreaded the scene of a woman's tears and sobs, though he longed to
soothe and comfort the girl who so much interested him. But there were
no tears or wailings awaiting him.
Valmai sat in the low rush chair in stony despair, her hands clasped on
her lap, her face white as her dress, her blue eyes dry, and with a
mute, inquiring gaze in them, as though she looked around for an
explanation of this fresh misery.
He did not tell her more than was necessary of his interview with the
Vicar. The child was supposed to be illegitimate as well as
unbaptised, and could not, therefore, be allowed to sleep his last
sleep in the company of the baptised saints.
Old Shôn, the sexton, was already digging the little grave in a corner
of the churchyard relegated to such unconsidered and unwelcomed beings
as this. However, it was a sunny corner, sheltered from the sea-wind,
and the docks and nettles grew luxuriantly there.
Such dry-eyed, quiet grief amongst the emotional Welsh was new to the
doctor, and he knew that if tears did not come to her relief her health
would suffer, so he gently tried to make her talk of her little one.
"I saw you had tried a hot bath, or I would have recommended it," he
said.
"Yes, Nance had."
"I truly sympathise with you; he was a fine child."
"Yes, he is a beautiful child," said Valmai.
"I am sorry to wound your feelings, but what day would you wish him to
be buried?"
"Oh, any day; it makes no difference now."
"To-day is Friday. Shall we say Monday, then?"
"Yes, Monday will do. At what time?" said Valmai.
"At four o'clock."
Nance was crying silently.
"Mrs. Hughes wants to know if you will come and stay with her till
after Monday. I have my gig at Abersethin, and can row you over now."
Valmai smiled, and the sadness of that smile remained in Mr. Francis'
memory.
"No," she said, shaking her head slowly, "I will not leave my baby
until he is buried, but thank her for me, and thank you, oh, so much.
I did not know there was so much kindness left in the world."
As she spoke the tears gathered in her eyes, and, throwing her arms
over the feet of the little dead child, she rested her head upon them,
and broke into long, deep sobs.
Mr. Francis, more content, went quietly out of the house, and did not
see Valmai again until on Monday he met the funeral in the churchyard.
Valmai, to the horror of Nance and her friends, wore her usual white
dress. She had a bunch of white jessamine in her hand, and, as the
little coffin disappeared from sight, she showered the flowers upon it.
Nance was too infirm to accompany her, so that she stood alone beside
the grave, although surrounded by the fisher folk of the island. She
sobbed bitterly as she heard the heavy clods fall on the coffin, and
when at last everything was over, and it was time to move away, she
looked round as if for a friend; and Mr. Francis, unable to resist the
pleading look, pushed his way towards her, and, quietly drawing her arm
within his own, led her homewards down the grassy slope to the shore,
over the rough, uneven sand, and in at the humble cottage door. Nance
received her with open arms, into which Valmai sank with a passionate
burst of tears, during which Mr. Francis went out unnoticed.
[1] Poor little fellow.