"You are perfection in my eyes, f'anwylyd—that is what makes the parting with you so cruel. Gwynne Ellis was quite right when he said that it would be much harder to part with a wife of a week than a sweetheart of a year."
CHAPTER XI.
THE "BLACK DOG."
During the next few weeks, Cardo Wynne was generally to be seen pacing the deck of the Burrawalla, playing with the children or chatting with some of the passengers. He walked up and down, with his hands sunk deep in his pockets, and cap tied firmly under his chin, for there was a pretty stiff breeze blowing, which developed later on in the voyage into the furious gales and storms which made that autumn so memorable for its numerous wrecks and casualties. Cardo was a great favourite on board, his frank and genial manner, the merry twinkle of his eye, and his tender politeness to the very old or the very young had won all hearts. With good-natured cheerfulness he entered into the plans and pastimes of the youthful part of the community, so that he had made a favourable impression upon all, from the cabin boy to the captain, and from the old general, who seldom left his berth, to the big black retriever, who was making his third voyage with his master to the Antipodes.
"Always a pleasant smile on his face when you speak to him," said one of the ladies to a friend one day; "but I think he has a rather sad look sometimes, when he is pacing up and down with his hands in his pockets."
"Yes," said the other, with a sentimental air, "I wonder what he is thinking of at those times! I'll make love to the captain, and see if I can find out something about him, they seem very intimate. We must try and cheer him up, dear."
"He doesn't seem to want much cheering up now," said her friend, as Cardo passed them with two other young men, who were enjoying a story told by one of them, Cardo's merry laugh being loudest and heartiest of the three. But—there was a sober, wistful look on his face sometimes which was not habitual to it, and as the days slipped on, he might often be seen, leaning over the side of the vessel with an anxious pucker on his forehead.
The parting with Valmai had, of course, been a trying ordeal. With the fervour of a first and passionate love, he recalled every word she had spoken, every passing shade of thought reflected on her face, and while these reveries occupied his mind, there was a tender look in the deep black eyes and a smile on his lips. But these pleasant memories were apparently often followed by more perplexing thoughts. One afternoon he had been standing for some time lost in a dream, while he looked with eyes that saw nothing over the heaving waters to the distant horizon, when the captain's voice at his elbow recalled him to his surroundings.
"You are looking at the very point of the wind, the very eye of the storm."
"The storm!" said Cardo, starting; "are we going to have one?"