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 sh.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.sed 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 att.i.tude 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 Blaennos, 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 bra.s.s plate which bore the words, "Mr. William Lloyd, Solicitor," and she entered the office with as business-like an air as she could a.s.sume.

"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 _role_ 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.

CHAPTER XV.

THE SISTERS.

In the s.p.a.cious, handsomely-furnished drawing-room of a large country-house, two ladies sat on a quiet evening in autumn. The large bay window looked out over extensive grounds to the blue hills beyond.

In the pale evening sky the crescent moon hung like a silver boat, the trees in the quiet air looked black as if drawn in ink. In the grate a large wood fire crackled, which the elder lady seemed much to enjoy as she rubbed her hands one over another on her knee, and spoke in a low, purring tone. The younger occupant of the room was a girl about twenty years of age; she was fair and fragile-looking compared with her portly companion, who was rather florid in complexion.

"Put your work away, my dear," said the elder lady; "it is getting too dark for you to see."

"This is the last petal, auntie," said the girl, still bending her head with its wealth of golden hair over her work. At last with a satisfied "There!" she laid it on the table and turned towards the bay window, through which might be seen a fair view of the park, with its undulating knolls and clumps of trees, between which wound in flowing curves the well-kept drive leading to the high road.

"You had better ring for the lights, Gwladys," said the elder lady, as she settled herself to what she called "five minutes' snooze," a slumber which generally lasted till dinner-time.

"There is a carriage coming down the drive; what can it be, auntie?"

But auntie was already in dreamland, and Gwladys stood still at the window watching with curiosity the vehicle which drew nearer and nearer.

"The fly from the Red Dragon at Monmouth! who can it be?" and her blue eyes opened wide as she saw alighting from it a girl in a quiet black travelling dress. "She's young and has golden hair like mine--a dressmaker, probably, for one of the servants, but she would scarcely come to the front door."

Before she had time to conjecture further, the door was opened by a servant man, who seemed rather fl.u.s.tered as the visitor entered quickly, unannounced. She had merely asked him, "Miss Gwladys Powell lives here?" and, receiving an answer in the affirmative, had walked into the hall and followed the puzzled man to the drawing-room door.

As she entered the room in the dim twilight, Gwladys stood still with astonishment, while William so far forgot himself as to stand open-mouthed with his hand on the door-handle, until Gwladys said, "The lamps, William," when he disappeared suddenly.

The visitor stood for one moment frightened and doubtful.

"I am Valmai," she said, approaching Gwladys with her hands extended.

"Valmai?" said Gwladys, taking both the offered hands. "I don't know the name--but--surely, surely, we are sisters! You are my twin-sister.

Oh, I have heard the old story, and have longed for and dreamt of this meeting all my life," and in a moment the two girls were clasped to each other's hearts.

Gwladys seemed more unnerved by the meeting than Valmai, for she trembled with eagerness as she drew the new-comer nearer to the window, where the evening light shone upon the fresh pure face, so completely the image of her own, that both were impelled over and over again to renew their embraces, and to cling closely together.

When William entered with the lights, they were seated on the sofa with clasped hands, and arms thrown round each other's necks.

"Please, m'm, is the carriage to go or to stay?"

"Oh, to go--to go, of course," said Gwladys, rising to her feet.

"I have paid him," said Valmai; "but I couldn't be sure, you know, whether--whether--"

"No, darling, of course. Auntie, auntie, awake and see who has come."

Mrs. Besborough Power blinked lazily.

"Dinner?" she said.

"No, no, auntie, not for another hour, it is only seven o'clock; but do wake up and see who has come."

But the sight of the strange girl had already recalled her aunt to her senses; her beady black eyes were fixed upon her, and her high-bridged nose seemed to be aiding them in their inquiries, as she pressed her lips together, and sniffed in astonishment.

"Gwladys," she said, "is it possible that I have invited anyone to dinner, and then forgotten it?"