By Berwen Banks

by Allen Raine

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.