"But you can say, 'Cardo, I love you.' Say that again."
"Yes, I can say that, whatever."
"Say it, then, Valmai."
"Oh, well, indeed! You know quite well that I love you. Cardo, I love
you." And to the sound of the plashing waves the old, old story was
told again.
He had asked, while he held her face between both hands, gazing
earnestly into the blue eyes, "Does this golden sky look down to-night
upon any happier than we two?" and with her answer even he was
satisfied.
An hour later the moon added her silver glory to the scene, and under
her beams they continued long walking up and down, lingering by the
surf, whispering though there was no one to hear. They parted at last
under the elder bushes at Dinas.
Cardo was right. In all Wales there were not that night two happier
hearts than theirs. No fears for the future, no dread of partings, no
thought of life's fiery trials, which were even now casting their
shadows before them.
Valmai lay long awake that night, thinking of her happiness and
blushing, even in the darkness, as she remembered Cardo's burning words
of love; and he went home whistling and even singing in sheer
exuberance of joy. Forgotten his father's coldness; forgotten his
bare, loveless home; forgotten even the wrangler who was coming to
trouble him; and forgotten that nameless shadow of parting and
distance, which had hovered too near ever since he had met Valmai. She
loved him, so a fig for all trouble! They had pledged their troth on
the edge of the waves, and they thought not of the mysterious, untried
sea of life which stretched before them.
Early in the following week Cardo drove to Caer Madoc to meet the
mail-coach, which entered the town with many blasts of the horn, and
with much flourishing of whip, at five o'clock every evening. In the
yard of the Red Dragon he waited for the arrival of his father's guest.
At the appointed time the coach came rattling round the corner, and, as
it drew up on the noisy cobble stones, a pale, thin face emerged from
the coach window and looked inquiringly round.
"Mr. Gwynne Ellis, I suppose?" said Cardo, approaching and helping to
tug open the door.
"Yes," said a high but pleasant voice, "and I suppose you are Mr.
Wynne's son," and the two young men shook hands.
They were a complete contrast to each other. Cardo, tall and
square--the new-comer, rather short and thin, but with a frank smile
and genial manner which gave a generally pleasant impression. He wore
gold spectacles, and carried a portfolio with all an artist's
paraphernalia strapped together.
"Too precious to be trusted amongst the luggage, I suppose," said Cardo.
"You are right! As long as I have my painting materials safe, I can
get along anywhere; but without them I am lost." And he busied himself
in finding and dragging down his luggage.