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.
Her frequent meetings with Cardo, though scarcely noticed at the time,
were remembered against her; and her long stay at Fordsea, with the
rumour of Cardo's return there, decided the feeling of suspicion which
had for some time been floating about. There had been a whisper, then
mysterious nods and smiles, and cruel gossip had spread abroad the evil
tidings.
Valmai bore all in patient silence. Her longing for Cardo's return
amounted almost to an agony, yet the thought of explaining her
position, and clearing her name before the world, never entered her
head, or, if it did, was instantly expelled. No; the whole world might
spurn her; she might die; but to reveal a secret which Cardo had
desired her to keep, seemed to her faithful and guileless nature an
unpardonable breach of honour.
Gwen, who had not been immaculate herself, was her cruellest enemy,
never losing an opportunity of inflicting a sting upon her helpless
victim, whose presence in the household she had always resented.
The day following Gwen's sneering remark, Valmai took her daily walk to
Abersethin post-office.
The old man beamed at her over his counter.
"Letter come at last, miss," he said.
And her heart stood still. She was white to the lips as she sat down
on a convenient sack of maize.
"It is a long walk," said the postmaster, hunting about for the letter.
"Dear me, wherrs I put it?"