"'Because I wonder she does not come down and reproach us, for we have been wronging her from beginning to end, Betto! These letters prove to me that my brother--my beloved, innocent brother--was deeply in love with her cousin, Ellen Vaughan, and she, in the tenderness of her heart, helped to bring about their union, and was the means of delivering the letters which they wrote to each other. They were married this morning at Caer Madoc Church, and have probably already sailed for Australia.'

"Betto left me, sobbing bitterly. I think she has never forgiven herself; neither can I forgive myself, Cardo. As the years went on, my sorrow only deepened, and an intense longing arose in my heart for the friendship of the brother who had been so much to me for so many years.

I wrote to him, Caradoc--a humble, penitent letter, beseeching his forgiveness even as a man begs for his life. He has never answered my letter. I know he is alive and thriving, as he writes sometimes to Dr.

Hughes; but to me he has never sent a message or even acknowledged my letter, and I thirst for his forgiveness--I cannot die without it.

"I have long cherished the thought that when you came to man's estate I would send you to him. I would send the best of earthly treasure that I possess--my only son--to plead for me, to explain for me, and to bring back his love and forgiveness. Now, Cardo, will you go?"

"I will, father," said Cardo, rising and placing his hand in his father's.

"And can you think over what I have told you and still retain a little love and pity for your old father?"

"Father, I feel nothing but the deepest sorrow and pity for you both--father and mother. I don't know which is to be pitied most.

Thank you for telling me all this, it explains so much that has puzzled me--it accounts for your sadness and gloom--and--and your apparent coldness. I will go to Australia, and, please G.o.d, I will bring back my uncle's love and forgiveness to you."

"G.o.d bless you, my boy, and good-night."

There was a warm hand-clasp, and Cardo left his father sitting by the flickering candle, which had burnt down to its socket.

[1] A blue mug containing a little over half a pint.

[2] Dear sweetheart.

[3] "Oh, dear! what shall I do?"

CHAPTER VIII.

THE OLD REGISTER.

The summer had pa.s.sed, 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 d.o.g.g.i.ng 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 grat.i.tude, 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 fort.i.tude 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.