Everywhere hearts and hands were full of warm hospitality. Clergymen
of the Church of England, though generally looking askance at the
chapels and their swarming congregations, now, carried away by the
enthusiasm of the people, consented to attend the meetings, secretly
looking forward, with the Welsh love of oratory, to the eloquent
sermons generally to be heard on such occasions.
Cardo, ruthlessly striding through the dew-bespangled gossamer of the
turnip field, heard with pleasure from Dye that the adjoining field,
which sloped down to the valley, had been fixed upon for the holding of
the Sassiwn. On the flat at the bottom the carpenters were already at
work at a large platform, upon which the preachers and most honoured
guests were to be seated; while the congregation would sit on the
hillside, which reached up to the Vicar's land. At least three
thousand, or even four, might be expected.
All day Cardo looked over the valley with intense interest, and when
the day's work was over, unable to restrain his curiosity and
impatience any longer, he determined to take a closer survey of the old
house on the hill, which for so many years he had seen with his outward
eyes, though his inner perception had never taken account of it. At
last, crossing the beach, he took his way up the steep path that led to
Dinas. As he rounded a little clump of stunted pine trees he came in
sight of the house, grey, gaunt, and bare, not old enough to be
picturesque, but too old to look neat and comfortable, on that
wind-swept, storm-beaten cliff. Its grey walls, marked with patches of
damp and lichen, looked like a tear-stained face, out of which the two
upstairs windows stared like mournful eyes. Downstairs, in one room,
there was a little sign of comfort and adornment; crimson curtains hung
at the window, inside which a few flowers grew in pots. Keeping well
under the hedge of elders which surrounded the cwrt or front garden,
Cardo passed round to the side--the pine end, as it is called in
Wales--and here a little lattice window stood open. It faced the
south, and away from the sea a white rose tree had ventured to stretch
out its straggling branches. They had evidently lately been drawn by
some loving hand towards the little window. A muslin curtain fluttered
in the evening breeze, on which came the sound of a voice. Cardo knew
it at once. It was Valmai singing at her work, and he longed to break
through the elder bushes and call her attention. He was so near that
he could even hear the words of her song, softly as they were sung.
She was interrupted by a querulous voice.
"Valmai," it said in Welsh, "have you written that?"
"Oh! long ago, uncle. I am waiting for the next line."