UNREST.
The summer months had passed away, and September had come and gone, and
yet Cardo had not arrived. Valmai had trusted with such unswerving
faith that in September all her troubles would be over--that Cardo
would come to clear her name, and to reinstate her in the good opinion
of all her acquaintances; but as the month drew to its close, and
October's mellow tints began to fall on all the country-side, her heart
sank within her, and she realised that she was alone in the world, with
no friend but Nance to whom to turn for advice or sympathy.
A restless feeling awoke in her heart--a longing to be away from the
place where every scene reminded her of her past happiness and her
present sorrow. Every day she visited the little grave in the
churchyard, and soon that corner of the burying-ground, which had once
been the most neglected, became the neatest and most carefully tended.
For her own child's sake, all the other nameless graves had become
sacred to Valmai; she weeded and trimmed them until the old sexton was
proud of what he called the "babies' corner." A little white cross
stood at the head of the tiny grave in which her child lay, with the
words engraved upon it, "In memory of Robert Powell ----." A space was
left at the end of the line for another name to be added when Cardo
came home, and the words, "Born June the 30th; died August the 30th,"
finished the sad and simple story. Nance, too, who seemed to have
revived a good deal latterly, often brought her knitting to the sunny
corner, and Valmai felt she could safely leave her grassy garden to the
care of her old friend.
"You are better, Nance," she said one day, when she had been sitting
long on the rocks gazing out to sea, in one of those deep reveries so
frequent with her now, "and if I paid Peggi 'Bullet' for living with
you and attending to you, would you mind my going away? I feel I
cannot rest any longer here; I must get something to do--something to
fill my empty hands and my empty heart."
"No, calon fâch," said Nance the unselfish, "I will not mind at all, I
am thinking myself that it is not good for you to stay here brooding
over your sorrow. Peggi 'Bullet' and I have been like sisters since
the time when we were girls, and harvested together, and went together
to gather wool on the sheep mountains. You have made me so rich, too,
my dear, that I shall be quite comfortable; but you will come and see
me again before very long, if I live?"
"Oh, yes, Nance. People who have asthma often live to be very old.
You know that, wherever I am, I will be continually thinking of you,
and of the little green corner up there in the rock churchyard; and I
will come back sometimes to see you."
"But where will you go, my dear?"
"To my sister. Ever since this trouble has come upon me I have longed
for a sister's love, and now I think I will go to her I will tell her
all my troubles, and ask her to help me to find employment."
"Perhaps she has never heard of you--what do I know?--and perhaps she
will spurn you when she hears your story. If she does, come back to
old Nance, my dear; her arms will always be open to receive you. Yes,
begin the world again. Caton pawb! you are only twenty now You have
your life before you; you may marry, child, in spite of all that has
happened."
"_Nance!_" said Valmai, and the depth of reproach and even injury in
her voice made plain to Nance that she must never suggest such a thing
again.
"Don't be angry with me, my dear!"
"Angry with you! No, I am only thinking how little you know--how
little you know. But where shall I find my sister? You said once you
had her address, where is it?"
"Oh, anwl! I don't know. Somewhere in the loft--" and Nance looked up
at the brown rafters. "I haven't seen it for twenty years, but it's
sure to be there, I remember, then somebody wrote it out for me, and I
tied it up with a packet of other papers. They are in an old teapot on
the top of the wall under the thatch, just there, my child, over the
door. You must get the ladder and go up. It is many a long year since
I have climbed up there."
But Valmai's agile limbs found no great difficulty in reaching the
brown boards which lay loosely across the rafters.
"Now, straight along, my dear."
"It is very dark, but I have found it," and coming down the ladder
backwards, she placed the cracked and dust-begrimed teapot on the
table. "Oh, how brown and faded the papers are! Nance, what is this?
I do believe it is your marriage certificate!"
"Very likely, my dear, and you will find the bill for my husband's
funeral, too; and a pattern of my scarlet 'mantell,' the one I nursed
my children in; oh! I thought a lot of that, and here it is still, you
see, folded over my shoulders."
"What is this? You had bad ink, but I think it must be the address.
Let me see, here is 'Mrs. Besborough Power.'"
"I knew it was a hard, long name," said the old woman.
"'Carne,' but the last word, oh, Nance, what is it? It begins with M
o, and ends with r e--r e is the end of the shire, of course.
Merionithshire? No, it is M o, so must be Monmouthshire or
Montgomeryshire, stay, there is a t in the middle. Mrs. Besborough
Power, Carne--I will try Carne anyway," and next day she wrote to her
sister addressing the letter:
Miss Gwladys Powell,
c/o Mrs. Besborough Power,
Carne,
Montgomeryshire.
In a few days her letter was returned.
"Not known," said Valmai; "then we have not read the address aright. I
will go myself, Nance. I will go next week." And the following days
were occupied with arrangements for her departure and Nance's comfort
during her absence.
On one of these latter days Mr. Francis came in.
"I am glad you have come to-day," said Valmai, holding out her hand.
"I wanted to thank you before I left for all your kindness to me, and
to ask you to continue to see Nance sometimes."
"Are you going to leave us, then?" said the young man, in a
disappointed tone.
He had felt deeply interested in the girl who bore her desertion and
sorrow with such patience, and had unconsciously been looking forward
to a continuance of the friendship begun between them.
"You are not going away for long, I hope?"
"Yes, for long; possibly for ever, except for a hasty visit to Nance
sometimes I shall trust her to you, Mr. Francis, and I hope you will
be as kind to her as you have been to me."
"Certainly I will; but do not talk of kindness. It has been a great
privilege to me, and a pleasure to know you, and I hope in the future
if I can be of any service to you, you will let me know."
Valmai took out her purse nervously, she hesitated to speak of
remuneration to this kind friend.
"You are not going to wound me," he said, gently laying his hand on her
purse, "by offering to pay me?"
"No, no," said Valmai; "only for the future, for your care of Nance."
"There will be nothing much to do for her, I think; just a call in
passing and a few cheering words, and _they_ don't cost much." And he
rose to go.
"Good-bye, then," said Valmai. "I shall never forget your kindness."
"Good-bye," said Mr. Francis, holding her hand for a moment. He seemed
about to say something more, but changed his mind, and abruptly left
the house.
The next day was Valmai's last in Nance's cottage. She rose early,
and, after her simple breakfast, put on her white hat, and, kissing the
old woman tenderly, said:
"I am going out for a few hours; there are one or two people I want to
see--Peggi Bullet, and Shôn, the sexton. Then I am going to cross the
Rock Bridge."
She did not tell Nance that her chief object was to pay a last visit to
her old haunts by the Berwen. After making all arrangements with Peggi
Bullet and Shôn, she took her way across the bridge. The year that had
passed since Cardo had left her, with its varied experiences and
trials, the bitter sense of loneliness and desertion, the pains and the
delights of motherhood, the desolation and sorrow of bereavement, all
had worked a change in the simple girl's character, that now surprised
even herself, and she thankfully realised that her troubles had at all
events generated a strength which enabled her to act for herself and
attend to matters of business which had before been unapproachable
mysteries to her. She shrank a little as she met the bold, admiring
gaze of a knot of sailors, who stood at the door of the Ship Inn, where
she explained to the buxom landlady that she wanted the car to meet her
at the Rock Bridge on the following morning at ten.
"Yes, miss fâch, and Jackie will drive you safe; but, indeed, there's
long time since we saw you! You never come to see us now, and there's
many warm hearts on this side the Rock Bridge as on the island, I can
tell you."
"Yes, indeed, I know, and I thank you all," said Valmai, as she went
out again into the sunshine.
The sailors were gone now, and she was free to make her way over the
golden sands so often trodden by her and Cardo.
Every boulder, every sandy nook, every wave that broke, brought its own
sad memories.
She turned up the path by the Berwen, which led to the old church,
carefully avoiding even a glance at the tangled path on the other side
of the river, which she and Cardo had made their own.
Pale and dry-eyed, she pressed her hands on her bosom as if to still
the aching throbbing within. Every step that brought her nearer to the
old church increased the dull aching that weighed her down; but still
she pressed on, longing, yet dreading, to see the spot on which she and
Cardo had made their vows together on that sunny morning which seemed
so long ago.
As she entered the porch, she disturbed the white owl, who emerged from
the ivy with a flap of her great wings, and sailed across the Berwen.
The worm-eaten door of the church stood wide open. Entering the aisle
with light footsteps, she approached the altar rails. The light was
very dim in the chancel, as every year the ivy grew thicker over the
windows. Surely in that dark corner within the rails some black object
stood, something blacker and darker than the shadow itself, and she
stood still for a moment, startled. Yes, there was a sound of heavy
breathing and the rustling of paper. She drew nearer, even close to
the altar rails, and, as her eyes became accustomed to the dim light,
she saw a man, who stooped over a musty, tattered book.
The sound of her footstep attracted his attention, and as he rose from
his stooping position, Valmai recognised the marble face and the black
eyebrows of the "Vicar du."
He was looking at one of the leaves in the old registry book, and for a
moment as he raised his eyes to the silent, white figure before the
altar, he took her for a ghostly visitant; but Valmai, with a sudden
inrush of recognition, clasped her hands, a faint exclamation escaped
her lips, and the "Vicare du" knew it was no spirit who stood trembling
before him. For a moment both were speechless--then pointing to the
page before him, he asked in a husky voice, "What is the meaning of
this?" and from beginning to end he read, with this strange hoarseness
in his voice, the entry of his son's marriage to Valmai. Not a word
escaped him, not even the date, nor the names of the witnesses. Then
he turned his black eyes upon her once more, and repeated his question.
"What is the meaning of this? I have heard of your shame, of your
dishonour--of the disgraceful way in which you have entrapped my poor
boy. But what is this farce enacted here? How dare you enter the
House of God and forge this ridiculous statement? Where is my son,
whom you have lured to destruction?"
Valmai was shaken like a reed by this sudden and unexpected meeting,
and the outburst of feeling exhibited by the "Vicare du" awoke in her
own heart such a tumult of doubt and suspense, that she could no longer
restrain the tears which for days she had kept in check; long, silent
sobs heaved her bosom, she covered her face with her hands, and the
tears trickled through her fingers, but she made no answer.
"Speak, girl," said the Vicar, "have you nothing to say for yourself?
no excuse to make for your conduct? My son and I lived in perfect
happiness together until you came to this neighbourhood; now you have
led a young man on to his ruin and broken the heart of an old man--for
this," he said, tapping the register with a trembling finger, "this is
a lie--a forgery--a foolish piece of deceit, not worth the paper on
which it is written!"
Still Valmai spoke not a word. Oh, what happiness it would have been
to throw herself at the old man's feet, and to confess everything,
here, where Cardo and she had plighted their troth--to have told him of
her ignorance of his fate, of her distracted longing for his return.
Surely, surely he would have forgiven her! She was torn with
conflicting feelings. But, no! Had she borne the contempt and scorn
of all her acquaintances and friends to break down now, and disclose
her secret to the man of all others from whom Cardo desired to keep the
knowledge of it? No, she would die rather than divulge it--and with an
earnest prayer for strength she remained silent, for in silence alone
she had taken refuge since her troubles had come upon her.
"Speak, girl, I implore you! Tell me, is this true?" His voice
trembled, and he came a step nearer to her. "Tell me that it is true,
and I will forgive you and him, for I shall then have a hope that his
love for you will bring him home, though he has no love for me." And
completely overcome by his feeling's he dropped on his knees by the
table, and, leaning his head on his arms, broke into a torrent of
tears. "Oh, Cardo, Cardo, my boy!" he cried. "Come back to me."
There was no answer from Valmai, and when he raised his head again she
was gone. At the words, "Oh! Cardo, Cardo," she had fled down the
aisle, out into the golden sunshine, down the rugged path to the shore,
where behind a huge boulder she flung herself down on the sands, crying
out in a long pent-up agony of tears, "Oh Cardo, Cardo, come back!"
The morning hours passed on, and noontide drew near.
The "Vicare du" emerged from the church porch, pale and calm as usual.
He looked at his watch as he came out into the sunshine, and followed
the same path over which Valmai had sped an hour before. He had
replaced the old registry book in the rusty, iron chest, had closed the
door methodically, and when he had disappeared through the trees the
white owl had flapped back into the tower, and the dimly-lighted church
which had been the scene of such stormy human feelings was once more
silent and deserted.
At noontide, too, Valmai had regained her composure, and had risen from
her attitude of despair with a pale face and eyes which still showed
traces of their storm of tears.
Next day she bade her faithful Nance good-bye, leaving with her a
promise to write as soon as she was settled in some place that she
could call "home," and to return for a few days in the spring.
Arrived at Caer Madoc, she took her place in the coach in which she had
journeyed a year before; and reaching the station at Blaennôs, soon
arrived at Fordsea. Leaving her luggage at the station, she made her
way into the well-remembered town. There was the white-flashing
harbour, here was the crooked Reuben Street, and here the dear little
house once occupied by her uncle, where she and Cardo had spent their
happy honeymoon. Yes, she remembered it all; but she held her head up
bravely, and crushed down every tender memory, hardening her heart, and
setting herself to attend to the business of the hour.
In the broad High Street she easily found the shining brass plate which
bore the words, "Mr. William Lloyd, Solicitor," and she entered the
office with as business-like an air as she could assume.
"Can I see Mr. William Lloyd himself?"
"You see him, madam; I am he," said a middle-aged, pleasant-faced man,
who met her in the doorway. "I was just going out, but if your
business is not likely to keep us long--"
"I don't think so," said Valmai. "I am the niece of Captain Powell,
who used to live in Reuben Street. He once told me you were his
lawyer, and I have heard that in his will he has left me some money."
"Bless me! You are his niece Valmai! Of course. I have been
wondering when you would turn up, and was really beginning to think I
must advertise for you. I have written to your uncle at Abersethin,
but have had no reply."
"He never writes if he can help it. I am very ignorant of money
matters and business ways," said Valmai, as Mr. Lloyd handed her a
chair, "but would like to know in plain words how much my dear uncle
has left me, as I am leaving this part of the country to-morrow."
"Not going out of England, I suppose?" said the lawyer.
"No, oh no; not even out of Wales."
"Well, I have your uncle's will here, and I can read it to you at once."
"No, indeed," said Valmai, "I don't think I want to hear it read. I
know from dear Uncle John's perfect faith in you that I can trust you.
If you will only tell me plainly how much money I can have now, and how
I am to receive it in the future, I shall be quite satisfied; and if I
owe you anything you can deduct it, please."
Mr. Lloyd smiled and shook his head at this unbusiness-like proposal.
"Well," he said, "young ladies can't be expected to know much of
business ways, but I should certainly like to go into the accounts with
you at the first opportunity. He has left you the bulk of his
property, the income of which is about 150 pounds a year; and, after
deducting the legacies and my costs and all expenses, I shall have in
hand about 300 pounds for you."
"Three hundred pounds," said Valmai, "what a lot of money! Could you
take care of it for me, Mr. Lloyd? and let me send to you for it when I
want it," she added nervously.
"Certainly, my dear young lady, and I will send you a statement of
accounts as soon as possible."
After a few more business arrangements Valmai left the office, feeling
she had quite acted up to her new _rôle_ of an independent woman of
business.
Making her way to a quiet hotel, the landlord of which she remembered
had been an intimate acquaintance of her uncle's, she procured a bed
there for the night, and in the morning arose with the feeling that the
dear old past was dead, and that a new and unlovely life lay before her.