"Let him go," said the Vicar. "What do you want?"
"Nothing, sir. For a moment I thought I would go back and take a last
look at the valley; but never mind, let us go on. How black it looks
in front!"
"A storm rising, I think," said his father.
"Yes. There will be a gale from the north-west; we shall catch it on
the Burrawalla, I expect. Well, I have often wished to see a storm
at sea."
His father did not answer, but looked gloomily on at the gathering
darkness in front. He was full of fears for his son's safety, but it
was not his nature to speak openly of any tender feelings. His late
confession, although it had comforted and soothed him, was yet a
mystery to himself, and he thought of it with a kind of awkward
surprise and something like resentment. He was, however, unusually
talkative and even gentle as they drove on together. When at last he
had seen Cardo fairly off in the coach, with his luggage piled on the
top, he turned homewards with a heavy foreboding at his heart.
Should he ever see his son again? Had he sent him from his native land
to be lost to him for ever? And how willingly he had given in to his
father's wishes! But, certainly there was nothing to attract him to
his home--nothing but his love for a surly old father!
"A fine fellow!" he soliloquised, with a side jerk of his head. "A
fine fellow! a son to be proud of!"
And when Gwynne Ellis joined him at tea, they vied with each other in
their praises of Cardo's character.
If Cardo had followed his impulse and returned to look over the stile,
he would have found on the mossy hedge inside a little white heap of
misery. For Valmai, who had watched for an hour to catch a last
glimpse of him, had been frightened when she saw the "Vicare du"
looking towards the stile, and evidently drawing Cardo's attention to
it; she had shrunk back until they had passed, and then standing on the
hedge, had waved a last good-bye, and immediately afterwards slipped
down in an abandonment of grief. She remained for some time sobbing
and moaning on the grass, until at last her passion of tears subsided.
Almost suddenly growing calmer, she stood up, and, not attempting to
dry her eyes, let the tears roll slowly down her cheeks. She clasped
her hands, and tried to steady her voice as, looking up at the flying
clouds above her, she spoke words of encouragement to herself.
"Valmai," she said, "you must learn to bear your sorrow in silence; you
are no longer a girl--you are a wife! and you must be a brave and good
woman!"