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?"
The captain looked critically in the direction towards which they were
sailing.
"Dirty weather coming, I think."
"Yes, I see," said Cardo; "I had not noticed it before, though. How
inky black the sky is over there! And the sea as black, and that white
streak on the line of the horizon!"
"We shall have a bit of a toss," said the captain. "Couldn't expect to
get to Australia on a mill pond."
"Mill pond do you call the swells we have had the last few days?"
"Almost," replied the captain, leaving him unceremoniously, and
shouting some orders to his crew.
Thus left, Cardo fell again into a deep reverie. Yes, it looked black
before them! "But I have always wished to see a storm at sea, and if I
only had Valmai with me, I should be joyous and exultant; but instead
of that, I am alone, and have a strange foreboding of some evil to
come. I can't be well, though I'm sure I don't know where I ail, for I
feel alright, and I eat like a horse."
"Come, Mr. Wynne," said one of the ladies, who had marked his serious
looks, "we must really call you to account! You have fallen into a
brown study again. You must let us cheer you up. We can't have the
very life of the party losing his spirits. Now if you had left your
wife at home, as Mr. Dawson has!"
"I have done that," said Cardo, "but I am not at all likely to fall
into low spirits. I have never in my life known what that means; but a
man, more especially a married man, must have his moments of serious
thought sometimes."
"Yes, of course," said the lady, with a considerable diminution of
interest in "the handsome Mr. Wynne!" "You have left your little ones
too, I suppose?"
"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.
The voyage of the _Burrawalla_ was, on the whole, prosperous, although,
towards the end, she was much delayed by adverse winds, so that Sydney
harbour was not reached until the end of the fourth month. A further
and unexpected delay arose from the illness of a passenger who occupied
a berth in Cardo's cabin, and as they were nearing their destination he
died of typhoid fever. Consequently the _Burrawalla_ was put into
quarantine, of course to the great annoyance and inconvenience of all
on board.
"You are not looking well, Mr. Wynne," said the doctor one day.
"Oh, I'm alright," said Cardo, "only impatient to get on shore. I feel
perfectly well. Why, my dear doctor, I have never had a day's illness
in my life, as far as I can remember."
"I can believe that," said the doctor; "and what a splendid sailor you
have been. But still, let me know if you are not feeling well."
It was quite true that Cardo had latterly experienced some sensations
to which he had hitherto been a stranger--frequent headaches and loss
of appetite; but, being of a very hardy temperament, he tried to ignore
the unpleasant symptoms, and waited for the end of the quarantine with
feverish impatience.
When at last they were allowed to land, he was amongst the liveliest
and most energetic of the passengers.
He drove at once to the Wolfington Hotel, to which he had been
recommended by Captain Owen. As he stepped out of the cab, the portico
of the hotel seemed strangely at loggerheads with the rest of the
building, He managed, however, to get safely inside the hall, and,
after engaging a bedroom, followed his conductor up the stairs, though
each step seemed to rise to meet his foot in an unaccountable manner.
"A long sea voyage doesn't suit me, that's certain," he soliloquised,
as he entered the room and busied himself at once with his luggage. He
took off the labels with the intention of substituting fresh ones
addressed to his uncle's farm, deciding not to stay a day longer than
was necessary in Sydney, but to make inquiries at once as to the best
way of getting to Broadstone, Priory Valley. He still fought bravely
against the feeling of lassitude and nausea which oppressed him, and
went down to his lunch with a bold front, although the place seemed
floating around him. But in vain did the odour of the Wallaby soup
ascend to his nostrils; in vain was the roast fowl spread before him.
He scarcely tasted the viands which the attentive waiter continued to
press upon him; and at last, pushing his plate away, he rose from the
table.
"I shall want writing materials and some labels on my return," he said,
as he left the room with a somewhat unsteady step.
"On the razzle-dazzle last night, I expect," said the waiter, with a
wink at his fellow.
The fresh air seemed to relieve Cardo, in some degree, of the weight
which dragged him down; he was even well enough to notice that the
uneven streets were more like those of an old-fashioned English town
than anything he had expected to find in Australia. But this feeling
of relief did not last long. In the street which led down to the quay
he observed a chemist's shop, and, entering it, asked for a "draught or
pick-me-up" of some kind.
"I feel awfully seedy," he said, sinking into a chair.
"Yes, you look it," said the chemist; "what's wrong?"
"I think I must give in," said Cardo, "for I believe I am sickening for
typhoid fever."
The chemist looked grave.
"I advise you to go home at once, and to bed."
"Yes," replied Cardo, trying to rise to the emergency, and still
manfully struggling against the disease which threatened him. "Yes, I
will go home," he said again, walking out of the shop. He took the
wrong turning however, going down towards the harbour, instead of
returning to the hotel, and he was soon walking under a burning sun
amongst the piled-up bales and packages on the edge of the quay. A
heavy weight seemed to press on his head, and a red mist hung over
everything as he walked blindly on. At a point which he had just
reached, a heap of rough boxes obstructed his path, and at that moment
a huge crank swung its iron arm over the edge of the dock, a heavy
weight was hanging from it, and exactly as Cardo passed, it came with a
horizontal movement against the back of his head with terrible force,
throwing him forward insensible on the ground. The high pile of boxes
had hidden the accident from the crowd of loungers and pedestrians who
might otherwise have noticed the fall. The sudden lurch with which he
was thrown forward jerked his pocket-book from the breast-pocket of his
coat, and it fell to the ground a foot or two in front of him. It was
instantly picked up by a loafer, who had been leaning against the pile
of boxes, and who alone had witnessed the accident; he immediately
stooped to help the prostrate man, and finding him pale and still,
shouted for assistance, and was quickly joined by a knot of
"larrikins," who dragged the unconscious man a little further from the
edge of the quay.
It was not long before a small crowd had gathered round, the man who
had first observed him making a safe escape in the confusion, Cardo's
pocket-book carefully hidden under his tattered coat.
"Better take him up to Simkins the chemist," said a broad-shouldered
sailor; and, procuring a stretcher, they carried their unconscious
burden to the chemist's shop.
"Why, let me see," said Mr. Simkins; "surely this is the gentleman who
called here a few minutes ago. I told him to go home, and he said he
would; but I noticed he turned down towards the quay; poor fellow, bad
case, I'm afraid. He said he thought he was sickening for typhoid
fever, and he's about right, I think."
"What shall we do with him?" said the sailor. "See if you can find a
card or letter in his pockets? Nothing," he added, as together they
searched Cardo's pockets, "not a card, nor a letter, nothing but this
bunch of keys, and some loose gold and silver."
There was no clue to the stranger's identity, except the marking on his
clothing.
"Here's C. W. on his handkerchief--Charles Williams, perhaps; well, he
ought to be attended to at once, if he ain't dead already," said
another.
"Yes, a good thing the hospital is so near," said the chemist. "You
had better leave his money here, and tell Dr. Belton that you have done
so. My brother is his assistant. I daresay we shall hear more about
him from him."
"Now, then, boys; heave up, gently, that's it," and Cardo was carried
out of the shop to the hospital in an adjoining street. Here, placed
on a bed in one of the long wards, doctors and nurses were soon around
him; but Cardo lay white and still and unconscious.
One of the bearers had mentioned typhoid fever, and Dr. Belton looked
grave and interested as he applied himself to the examination of the
patient.
"My brother has been here," said his assistant; "this man had just been
in to his shop, and said he believed he was sickening for typhoid, and
it wasn't ten minutes before he was picked up on the quay."
"The heat of the sun, I expect, was too much for him under the
circumstances," said Dr. Belton. "A plain case of sunstroke, I think."
"This money was found in his pocket," said Simkins, handing over five
sovereigns and fifteen shillings in silver; "this bunch of keys, too,
and his watch; but no card or letter to show who he is."
"Fine young fellow," said Dr. Belton; "splendid physique, but looks
like a bad attack."
Restoratives were tried, but with no effect; Cardo still lay like a
dead man.
"Very strange," said the doctor, when next day he found the patient in
the same unconscious condition. "Few constitutions would be able to
fight against two such serious diseases."
"Sunstroke as well as typhoid?" said Mr. Simkins.
"Yes, I have no doubt of it. Curious combination of evils."
"Poor chap!" said Simkins, "no constitution could survive that."
"Nothing is impossible," said the doctor, "very interesting case; keep
up the strength, nurse."
Everything was done that was possible for poor Cardo; the nurses were
unremitting in their care and attention, but nothing roused him from
his trance-like stupor.
During the course of the day, the news of the finding of an unknown man
on the quay reached the Wolfington Hotel, where the waiter, with
another knowing wink and shake of the head, said, "On the razzle-dazzle
again, I expect. Must be the same man." And he proceeded upstairs to
examine the luggage, from which Cardo had removed the labels intending
to redirect them to his uncles house. There was no letter or paper
found to indicate the name of the owner, even the initials C. W. gave
no clue.
"What was the man's name?" said the waiter to Mr. Simkins, who happened
to call the following morning.
"Don't know. Charles Williams he is called at the hospital. There was
no clue to his identity, but just the letters C. W. on his linen."
"Then, no doubt, his luggage is here," said the waiter. "All his
things are marked C. W., and, from your description, it must be the
same man."
"Well, my brother will speak to Dr. Belton about it, and he will
arrange to have it taken care of; he already has his money and his
watch."
And so Cardo Wynne slipped out of his place in the outside world and
was soon forgotten by all except those connected with the hospital.
In three weeks the fever had run its course, and, to the astonishment
of the nurses and doctors, Cardo still lived.
"Extraordinary vitality! Has he never spoken a word?"
"Never a sound or a word until he began moaning to-day."
"Good sign, this moaning. Mind, keep up his strength."
And gradually, under the constant care of Doctor Belton, who was much
interested in the case, Cardo, or Charles Williams as he was now
called, recovered strength of body; and, to a slight extent,
restoration to consciousness; for though he lay inert and motionless,
his lips moved incessantly in a low muttering or whispering, in which
the nurses in vain endeavoured to find a clue to the mystery of his
illness.