"No," said Cardo, laughing, "I have none."
"Ah, indeed, that's a pity!" and she took the first opportunity of joining her friend, and telling her of her discovery.
Cardo continued to look out to sea. No, bad enough to leave Valmai, but "little ones"? Would that time ever come? and as he pondered, a fresh idea seemed to strike him. It was evidently a painful one, it stung him like the lash of a whip, and clenching his hands, and muttering something between his teeth, he roused himself hastily, and joined a party of young people, who were amusing themselves with the pranks of a little boy, who, delighted with the notice taken of him, strutted about and gave his orders, in imitation of the captain.
"Oh, here's Mr. Wynne," said the little urchin, and in a moment he was lifted on to Cardo's shoulder, whooping with delight, and for the next hour, the laugh was loudest and the fun most furious where Cardo and his little friend were located. Before long, however, the storm was upon them. Masts creaked and cordage rattled; the sails had been lowered, and everything made safe, and Captain Owen, standing on the bridge, looked energetic, and "fit" to fight with the storm-fiend. The ladies soon retired, and many of the gentlemen followed them below, some of the younger and hardier remaining on deck. Amongst them was Cardo, who watched the fury of the elements as the wind tore down upon them. Once, as the captain passed him, he asked, "Is there any danger?" "I see none," was the laconic reply. It satisfied Cardo, and he gave himself up to watch the grandeur of the storm. It was natural that the thought of Valmai should enter his mind, and that he should long for her presence; but it was not natural that he, a young and healthy man, in the first flush of his manhood, should feel this strange depression, this dark cloud hanging over him, whenever he thought of his young wife. It was unlike Cardo. If his life had been devoid of any special interest or excitement, it had at least been free from care. Not even his lonely childhood, or his dull, old home had dimmed the brightness and elasticity of his spirits. He had never had a cobweb in his brain, and this haunting shadow which followed every sweet memory of his wife was beginning to rouse his resentment, and while the storm raged around him, and the ship ploughed her way through the seething waters, Cardo Wynne, set himself with manful determination to face the "black dog" which had haunted him lately; and somewhat in this groove ran his thoughts.
"Valmai, sweet Valmai, I have left her; it could not be helped. I will return to her on the wings of love as soon as I have fulfilled my father's wishes." But a year—had he provided fully and properly for her happiness during that time? Money, amply sufficient, he had left in her uncle's keeping for her, as she had firmly refused to accept it herself. "I shall not want it; I have plenty for myself. I have twenty gold sovereigns in my little seal purse at home, and I shall receive my next quarter's allowance soon. No, no, Cardo, no money until we set up house-keeping," and he had acceded to her wishes; but had, unknown to her, left a cheque in her uncle's keeping. "Why did I claim from her that promise of secrecy? What if circumstances might arise which would make it impossible for her to keep it?" He knew that having given her promise to him, she would rather die than break it. He had acted the part of a selfish man, who had no thought, but of his own passionate love; the possible consequences to her had not before occurred to his mind. But now, in the stress of the storm, while the thunder rolled above him, and the lightning flashed over the swirling waters, everything seemed clear and plain. He had done wrong, and he would now face the wrong. Their happy meeting at Fordsea, as blissful as it was unexpected, might be followed by times of trouble for Valmai—times when she would desire to make known her marriage; and he had left her with an embargo upon her only means of escape out of a difficulty. Yes, the path was plain, he would write to her and release her from her promise of secrecy. Better by far that his father should be angered than that Valmai should suffer. Yes, it was plain to him now; he had left the woman he loved in the anomalous position of a married woman without a husband. What trying scenes might she not pass through! What bitter fruits might not their brief happiness bear!
The next day they had cleared the storm, its fury having been as short-lived as it was sudden. The sea was gradually quieting down, and the sun shone out bravely. The sails were unfurled and the Burrawalla once more went gaily on her way.
Cardo had spent all the morning in writing; he would send his letter by the first opportunity. It was full of all the tender expressions of love that might be expected under the circumstances. His pen could scarcely keep up with the flow of his thoughts. "I have done wrong in making you promise to keep our marriage a secret," he wrote, "and I repent bitterly of my thoughtlessness. Many things might happen which would make it absolutely necessary that you should disclose it. For instance, your uncle might die; what would then become of you? Certainly you would have your good old Uncle John to fall back upon, and he is a host in himself. If any circumstances should arise which would make it desirable for you to do so, remember, dearest, it is my express wish that you should make known to all the world that you are Valmai Wynne, the beloved wife of Caradoc Wynne." Page after page was written with the lavish fervour of a first love-letter, very interesting to the writer no doubt, but which we will leave to the privacy of the envelope which Cardo addressed and sealed with such care. He placed it in his desk, not expecting that the opportunity for sending it would so soon arrive. In the course of the afternoon, there was some excitement on board, for a large homeward bound ship was sighted, which had been a good deal damaged by the storm. She had been driven before the wind, and had borne the brunt of the gale before it had reached the Burrawalla, having sprung a leak which considerably impeded her course. She hove to within hailing distance, and received the aid which the better condition of Captain Owen's ship enabled him to confer. She was The Dundee (Captain Elliotson), bound for Liverpool. All letters were delivered to her keeping, and the ships went on their way, but to what different destinations. The Dundee, after a stormy passage, was wrecked off the coast of France. The captain and crew were saved, but the ship became a total wreck, sinking at last in deep water; and thus Cardo's letter never reached Valmai.
Its transmission, however, relieved him of much of the uneasiness which had hung over him, and his usual cheerfulness returned in a great measure.
Meanwhile, Valmai hoped and longed for the promised letter.
"Why does he not write, I wonder?" was the question continually uppermost in her thoughts.