Valmai sat in the low rush chair in stony despair, her hands clasped on
her lap, her face white as her dress, her blue eyes dry, and with a
mute, inquiring gaze in them, as though she looked around for an
explanation of this fresh misery.
He did not tell her more than was necessary of his interview with the
Vicar. The child was supposed to be illegitimate as well as
unbaptised, and could not, therefore, be allowed to sleep his last
sleep in the company of the baptised saints.
Old Shôn, the sexton, was already digging the little grave in a corner
of the churchyard relegated to such unconsidered and unwelcomed beings
as this. However, it was a sunny corner, sheltered from the sea-wind,
and the docks and nettles grew luxuriantly there.
Such dry-eyed, quiet grief amongst the emotional Welsh was new to the
doctor, and he knew that if tears did not come to her relief her health
would suffer, so he gently tried to make her talk of her little one.
"I saw you had tried a hot bath, or I would have recommended it," he
said.
"Yes, Nance had."
"I truly sympathise with you; he was a fine child."
"Yes, he is a beautiful child," said Valmai.
"I am sorry to wound your feelings, but what day would you wish him to
be buried?"
"Oh, any day; it makes no difference now."
"To-day is Friday. Shall we say Monday, then?"
"Yes, Monday will do. At what time?" said Valmai.
"At four o'clock."
Nance was crying silently.
"Mrs. Hughes wants to know if you will come and stay with her till
after Monday. I have my gig at Abersethin, and can row you over now."
Valmai smiled, and the sadness of that smile remained in Mr. Francis'
memory.
"No," she said, shaking her head slowly, "I will not leave my baby
until he is buried, but thank her for me, and thank you, oh, so much.
I did not know there was so much kindness left in the world."
As she spoke the tears gathered in her eyes, and, throwing her arms
over the feet of the little dead child, she rested her head upon them,
and broke into long, deep sobs.
Mr. Francis, more content, went quietly out of the house, and did not
see Valmai again until on Monday he met the funeral in the churchyard.
Valmai, to the horror of Nance and her friends, wore her usual white
dress. She had a bunch of white jessamine in her hand, and, as the
little coffin disappeared from sight, she showered the flowers upon it.
Nance was too infirm to accompany her, so that she stood alone beside
the grave, although surrounded by the fisher folk of the island. She
sobbed bitterly as she heard the heavy clods fall on the coffin, and
when at last everything was over, and it was time to move away, she
looked round as if for a friend; and Mr. Francis, unable to resist the
pleading look, pushed his way towards her, and, quietly drawing her arm
within his own, led her homewards down the grassy slope to the shore,
over the rough, uneven sand, and in at the humble cottage door. Nance
received her with open arms, into which Valmai sank with a passionate
burst of tears, during which Mr. Francis went out unnoticed.