"Yes. Come to tea, uncle. I was thinking, Gwen."
"Oh, yes; thinking, thinking," said Gwen, with an insolent sneer. "You may think and think—you are always thinking now; and what about, I should like to know?" and, with a shrewd shake of her head, she left the room.
A crimson tide overspread Valmai's face and neck, and, fading away, left her paler than before. She stood for a moment with her hands clasped, and pressed on her bosom, looking at the door through which Gwen had just passed, and then seating herself at the table, her eyes suffused with tears, she began to pour out her uncle's tea.
"That's a fine piece, Valmai," he said, "how Clwyn went away and never came back again, till the sea washed him one day at Riana's feet."
"Yes," said the girl, in a low voice. "Won't you eat your toast, uncle?"
"Oh, yes, to be sure," said the old man, beginning on the buttered toast which she placed before him.
When tea was over, the "Mabinogion" were brought out again and Valmai continued to read till her uncle fell asleep. Then leaving him to Gwen's care, she gladly retired for the night into her own little bedroom. Here she might think as much as she liked, and well she availed herself of that privilege. Here she would sit alone for hours every day, with her head bent over some bit of work, her busy fingers pleating and stitching, while her thoughts took wing over the leaden wintry sea before her. Away and away, in search of Cardo. Where was he? Why did he not write to her? Would he ever come? Would he ever write? And with weary reiteration she sought out every imaginary reason for his long silence.
New hopes, new fears had of late dawned in her heart, at first giving rise to a full tide of happiness and joy, the joy that comes with the hope of motherhood—woman's crowning glory; but the joy and happiness had gradually given place to anxiety and fear, and latterly, since it had become impossible for her to hide her condition from those around her, she was filled with trouble and distressing forebodings, Her sensitive nature received continual wounds. Suspicious looks and taunting sneers, innuendos and broad suggestions all came to her with exceeding bitterness. She knew that every day the cloud which hung over her grew blacker and heavier. Where should she turn when her uncle should discover her secret? In the solitude of her room she paced backwards and forwards, wringing her hands.
"What will I do? what will I do? He said he would return in seven or eight months—a year at furthest. Will he come? will he ever come?"
And, gazing out over the stormy sea, she would sob in utter prostration of grief. Every day she walked to Abersethin and haunted the post-office. The old postmaster had noticed her wistful looks of disappointment, and seemed to share her anxiety for the arrival of a letter—who from, he did not know for certain, but he made a very good guess, for Valmai's secret was not so much her own only as she imagined it to be.