CHAPTER I

THE CAPTIVE SINGER

[Illustration: _Photo. Spurling & Son, Launceston._

THE LIMESTONE CAVES.]

THE CAPTIVE SINGER

BY

MARIE BJELKE PETERSEN

HODDER AND STOUGHTON

LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY

RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,

BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E.,

AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.

TO

THE PURE WHITE ANGEL

WHOSE LOVE HAS LIFTED ME,

WHOSE WINGS HAVE SHELTERED ME,

WHOSE COMPANIONSHIP HAS INSPIRED ME,

I MOST LOVINGLY AND REVERENTLY

PRESENT THIS BOOK

_I’LL SING THEE SONGS OF ARABY_

“_I’ll sing thee songs of Araby

And tales of fair Cashmere,

Wild tales to cheat thee of a sigh,

Or charm thee to a tear.

And dreams of delight shall on thee break,

And rainbow visions rise,

And all my soul shall strive to wake

Sweet wonder in thine eyes;

And all my soul shall strive to wake

Sweet wonder in thine eyes._

_Through those twin lakes, when wonder wakes,

My raptured song shall sink;

And, as the diver dives for pearls,

Bring tears, bright tears to their brink.

And dreams of delight shall on thee break,

And rainbow visions rise,

And all my soul shall strive to wake

Sweet wonder in thine eyes;

And all my soul shall strive to wake

Sweet wonder in thine eyes.

To cheat thee of a sigh,

Or charm thee to a tear!_”

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAP. PAGE

I. THE HOT-HOUSE 1

II. IN THE WILDS 14

III. THE VOICE IN THE CAVE 25

IV. THE EXPLANATION 43

V. THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER 52

VI. IN THE DUSK 68

VII. BY THE MARBLE CLIFFS 76

VIII. FATE 89

IX. APPROACHING THE RAPIDS 102

X. THE GIRL IN THE YELLOW GOWN 113

XI. AT THE SHRINE 120

XII. THE CONFESSION 133

PART II

I. THE INTRUDER 144

II. IRIS AND RALPH 157

III. JUSTIN GOES AWAY 168

IV. THE BAR OF DESTINY 177

V. REMORSE 185

VI. HER RESOLVE 190

VII. CONSOLED 195

VIII. CAPTAIN BARTON’S PLAN 201

IX. TO THE RESCUE 206

X. THE SUMMIT 218

XI. WHAT THE FIELD-GLASSES REVEALED 237

XII. HER OFFER 251

XIII. THE GOLDEN ROAD 262

XIV. “HOPE” 270

PART III

I. THE EARL’S VISIT 275

II. THE CABLES 285

III. THEIR GOAL 298

PART I

CHAPTER I

THE HOT-HOUSE

“Imagine any one brought up like Iris Dearn actually preferring

Australia to London--it is as bad as liking briar-roses better than

orchids!” And the speaker allowed her large dark eyes, now cold with

scorn, to wander round the crowded reception rooms, decorated with the

rare flowers she had just named.

“Yes, it _is_ rather peculiar, Lady Maud,” replied the thin, elderly

man she had addressed, moving one of his wrinkled, well-manicured

hands. “Still, Australia is a very fascinating country. It is the

baby-nation, of course; but the baby is able to toddle now and it has

most charming--though perhaps a little wilful and wayward--baby ways. I

believe it also shows signs of great intelligence; it is going to make

a deep imprint in history--I should not be in the least surprised if

Australia turned out to be the genius in the World’s family!”

Lady Maud Townsville made a slight movement with her scantily covered

shoulders. “Infant prodigies rarely grow up anything but bores,” she

said disdainfully.

“I did not mean to imply that Australia was an infant prodigy--it is

far from that! In fact at present it is merely a delightful, healthy

child, a little spoilt by rather excessive petting from Providence, but

vigorous and lively, with most engaging ways and full of promise for

future development!”

Just then all conversation was suddenly hushed into silence, for a

famous soprano had made her way to the piano and the accompanist was

striking the opening chords of her song.

Her voice was clear, rich and full. She trilled like a bird, and words

dropped from her lips like smooth round pearls of sound.

She sang about love, blue skies and purling streams. Her music brought

summer with it: soft breezes from the sea, and the lap of drowsy

sun-kissed waves. It suggested drifting white clouds, swaying corn,

scarlet poppies, new-mown grass and buttercups. It made the swelling

tones of exuberant larks tremble into the warm orchid-scented air of

the luxurious drawing-rooms. The guests filling them were suddenly

carried back to long sunlit days spent in magnificent country places,

roaming in green mysterious woods, wandering by silvery lakes, and

driving under long avenues of beech, oak, or stately fir trees.

“Her singing has atmosphere,” remarked Sir Edwin Graves when the song

was over. “She brought back summer to us in this chilly, foggy November

night. Her music has power to do that. But it could not set the air

stirring with passion.”

Lady Maud permitted her costly fan to drop to her pale blue silk knees.

“Who wants passion in these modern times?--it is out of date. We have

outgrown it--with all other savagery.”

“Do you really place love, with its servant, passion, under the

category of savagery?” inquired Sir Edwin, turning to his companion

with a look in his watery blue eyes as if he were regarding a specimen

in a museum which rather interested him.

“Love of what?” asked the woman beside him, with a touch of mockery in

her cool voice; “of rank--position--fabulous wealth?” And her fine eyes

swept the moving, stirring rooms with their artistic splendour and soft

languorous elegance.

He met her derision composedly. “No, I meant love of one human being

for another--the kind of love which would lay down life itself for the

object of its devotion.”

“Hopelessly ancient sentiments, my dear Sir Edwin! That kind of

affection died with Romeo. In these days we flirt with the good-looking

men, but we marry the rich ones.” Lady Maud lifted her well-poised head

with a touch of defiance. She was marrying one of England’s richest

men, whose reputation was as notorious as his wealth.

A little lower down the room sat a beautiful woman with coppery hair,

dreamy eyes and a complexion like white and pink rose petals. A tall,

dark man, with a well-formed, mask-like face stood beside her. He had

just asked her a question and she raised her great limpid eyes to his

as if she were merely replying to some casual remark, but her tones

were low as she said, “I wish you would not ask me these questions

here.”

“May I ask them somewhere else--may I come and see you alone to-morrow

afternoon?” He bent over her a little and a curious expression

struggled into his mask-like features.

“My husband insists on my motoring down with him to-morrow to look at

a new shooting-box he is rather keen on getting; we shall not be back

till late,” she replied evenly.

“But will you let me come some other time?”

“I shall be at home on Sunday afternoon at five o’clock.”

“May I come then and--_ask_?”

“Yes, but remember I have not promised to answer you.” And her smooth

tones held a soft challenge in their careless banter.

A plain woman, with large, protruding teeth, watched them from the

other side of the room. “Lady Langton is going too far in this

flirtation,” she commented to herself with a snarling smile; “she

will end in the divorce court one of these days, and then--” a gleam

of malicious anticipation shot for a moment into her long narrow

eyes--“then we shall have some spicy revelations!”

On a rose-coloured settee sat the hostess, Lady Dearn, talking to an

elderly Duchess.

Lady Dearn was rather short, but she had a well-proportioned figure and

held herself with youthful straightness. Her face was not beautiful,

but it pleased. Her rather small china-blue eyes had just the right

amount of animation; they looked expressive without betraying the least

feeling; they held refined vivacity which never bordered on vulgar

excitement.

“How is Iris?” asked the stately Duchess.

Lady Dearn lifted her eyebrows slightly. “She is always happy in

Australia. I cannot understand how it is the child has taken such a

fancy to that wild place. I am sure it is most extraordinary she should

care for that sort of life!”

“There is no talk of her coming home, then?” Iris was a great favourite

with the magnificent old lady.

“Not the slightest. She and her cousin are going to spend the summer

in Tasmania, at some terrible out-of-the-way place amongst great

lonely mountains, where there are lots of horrid caves and all that

kind of thing.” Lady Dearn shuddered a little. “Think of _my_ daughter

preferring _that_ to _this_!” And she glanced round her superb home

with a puzzled expression on her serene, unlined face.

“But you will surely not allow Iris to stay out there too long? It is

perfectly appalling for such a beautiful and charming girl as that to

waste her loveliness on gum-trees and kangaroos.”

“It is certainly shocking--but how can I prevent it? When children

grow up they please themselves.” She made a pretty little deprecating

gesture of helplessness.

“Of course the young must live their own lives, and they have a

right to please themselves, if their tastes run along--well----” she

hesitated slightly.

“Civilised lines,” suggested the aggrieved parent, “but when they do

not, you think mothers should interfere; quite so, I agree with you.

But I am powerless; Iris is deaf to reason and persuasion; she is of

age, and, as you know, has her own money--what can I do? It is late

to restrain her now; I should never have allowed her to go for that

first trip with her father--that did the damage; she was never happy in

London afterwards.”

As she talked to the Duchess, she caught sight of her second daughter,

Helen, standing by a large console mirror, speaking to a dignitary of

the Church. She sighed a little. Helen was so plain, and she pined for

admiration and attention, while her beautiful sister was so indifferent

to these things that, after two seasons of continual social triumph,

she had chosen to hide her loveliness in the untamed solitudes of the

Australian bush! It was exasperating! And how would it all end? She was

losing all her chances of a brilliant marriage, and no girl had better

chances than Iris. Her remarkable beauty and delightful personality had

taken London by storm.

When she made her début the society papers had been full of her

praises. Her photo had appeared in all the magazines. Every one with

two eyes agreed about her perfect features, her dazzling colouring,

superb figure and elegant bearing. Every one had enthused about

the wonderful blue of her eyes, their bewildering expression, the

phenomenal length of her black lashes and her enchanting smile! Iris

could have married nobility of highest rank, and now--a wave of

annoyance flushed Lady Dearn’s smooth face. Why was Iris so different

from Helen? Why had she no ambition, no appreciation of the enormous

advantages circumstances had placed at her disposal? How could the

vast plains of Australia, the rugged mountains of Tasmania, prove a

stronger attraction than all London was prepared to shower on this

imperious young beauty, who stood aloof and unmoved by all its homage

and adulation? Lady Dearn’s vexation increased as she thought of her

daughter’s inexplicable choice.

But the Hon. Iris Dearn was being discussed by more people than her

mother and her ducal friend that night. In another room, close to

a large marble Venus, a small lavender-tinted lady talked in low

eager tones about her to a young officer who had just returned from

India on furlough. He had evidently expected to see the girl at her

mother’s reception, and the woman beside him was pouring very annoying

information into his attentive ear. “You know Iris was only eighteen

when her father was ordered a long sea voyage,” she was saying, “and

dear Lady Dearn was so busy, the winter season just commencing, so of

course she could not take him herself, and the dear child begged so

hard to be allowed to go--she just adored her father; so eventually her

mother yielded, though she did not approve of her going at all, as she

was to come out that season.

“They went to South Australia and stayed for some months with a niece

of Lord Dearn’s, who had married a squatter there. When Lord Dearn

returned to England,” continued the colourless voice, “his health

gave way completely, and he died soon afterwards. Poor Lady Dearn was

so upset--it was dreadful to lose such a devoted husband, and having

to postpone Iris’s coming out, again; for of course she could not be

presented while they were in mourning. So dear Iris was nearly twenty

when she made her début. She only had two seasons in London, and then,

as ill-fate would have it, the cousin they stayed with in Australia

lost her husband, came to England for a short trip, and persuaded Iris

to go back with her--not that she needed much persuasion; I think she

would have gone sooner or later in any case, for she was perfectly

in love with the place--such a pity, people simply raved about her

here! But--” a sentimental look crept into her small, sharp-featured

face, “she doesn’t seem to have any heart for men at all, only an odd

infatuation for that far-away, strange land.”

The handsome bronzed face of the young officer relaxed a little.

“I can’t understand it at all,” went on the talkative little woman in

lavender; “of course there can’t be any of her own class out there for

her to mix with, except her cousin, and _she_ has probably deteriorated

by this time, having lived there for years. It is most curious! And

Iris was so fastidious, too--no one in London was good enough for her.

I believe she had rather a rupture with her mother over some Earl she

wanted her to marry, and the girl absolutely refused, because he had

once--well, you know what men are--though this was rather an ugly piece

of gossip. But Iris would have nothing to do with him on that account,

and yet she has gone out to stay for an indefinite time in a country

where England sends her--well--the dregs of her families! They used

to be sent to America--these unfortunates--but now they send them to

Australia instead; so much safer--America was much too close, and the

banished ones had a way of returning unexpectedly.”

The speaker sighed becomingly. “You remember young Strathfell--the

second son? Terrible about him, wasn’t it? His father has never got

over it. Ah, perhaps you were in India when it happened. He must have

had a wild strain in him, poor boy, for he actually quarrelled with his

father because he wanted to become a professional singer, and of course

the old man would not give his consent to such a thing. But he really

had a marvellous voice, quite the most touching I have ever heard; and

he was so handsome and delightful! Still, it was really too foolish

to quarrel with his father, be disinherited, and never be allowed to

visit his home again--all for the sake of singing! His father made him

promise never to use his own name either. He had the decency not to

appear in public in England, but he created a perfect furore on the

Continent and in America! However it all came to a sad end; he nearly

drank himself to death, and finally went to Australia, and has not been

heard of since. Then there was General Foulsham’s son----”

But her listener was not interested any longer, and, making some excuse

of wishing to speak to their hostess, he left her.

After his departure, a lady sitting on her right in a smart black

gown, with a huge scarlet poppy fastened at the point where gauzy

shoulder-straps met in front of her low-cut bodice, said to Miss

Marshall, “I heard you telling Captain Barton all about Iris. I don’t

wonder you are mystified; it is really tragic! And she had such

brilliant offers! But goodness knows what will happen to her now. I

suppose she will end by marrying some bushranger!” prophesied the Hon.

Mrs. St. Hill Cresden, turning her rather well-shaped head to watch an

American multi-millionaire who had just passed.

“A bushranger?” repeated her companion questioningly, “There are no

bushrangers in Australia nowadays.”

“Oh, dear Miss Marshall, don’t take me so literally; I didn’t mean a

bushranger, of course, but a bushman, or whatever you call them; they

are really all the same, you know--Iris will end by marrying one of

them. I shall write and warn her.”

“How dreadful! But after she has been mixed up with the people there

I shall not be surprised at anything she does. It must be most

demoralising never meeting any one of her own class, except the

failures we send out. I wonder if Iris will come across young Foulsham.

He was so clever and had his share of good looks too; but they say his

debts were terrible! No wonder, for his fancy for actresses was on a

large scale too, I believe; debts and actresses generally go together,

don’t you think? He had to be sent out; it is just as well Australia

was discovered! I wonder what they are all doing now? Minding sheep,

I suppose--such a nice, healthy occupation for prodigals; all the men

seem to do that out there;--what an alarming number of sheep there must

be when it takes everybody in the country to look after them!”

The famous soprano began to sing again.

Her guitar-like tones pulsated through the sumptuous rooms. They

floated into the hot brilliant spaces as soft moonbeams float into

night. They brought dream-like radiance; the liquid splendour of

silent lakes caressed by silver rays from a rising moon; the faint echo

of boatmen lilting softly as shiny oars glided over the limpid deep.

“She has been to Italy,” said a young diplomatist to Lady Maud, when

the singer had withdrawn.

They were standing in a small alcove sheltered by a profusion of palms

and ferns.

“Very likely,” replied Lady Maud, beginning to move her fan languidly

to and fro.

“Why don’t you come to Italy for Christmas? The climate is most

delightful in the winter,” said the man in the foreign service, turning

to his companion questioningly.

Lady Maud stopped the swaying movement of her fan and regarded the toes

of her pale blue silk slippered feet with a speculative air. “I had

thought of going to Rome for the winter; but after all I think I had

better reserve Italy for my honeymoon.” She glanced up at him now.

She was not disappointed, for she saw him wince.

“Maud,” he began, a dark look coming into his bright eyes, “you can’t

possibly--you don’t mean to say that you really will----”

“My dear Cecil, of course I will--nothing is surer.”

“It’s preposterous!” he replied with some heat.

“What is preposterous--his fortune?” she asked with gracious derision.

He looked between her lashes. “I was thinking of his--reputation.”

Lady Maud’s eyelids flickered a little; then she answered with defiant

composure: “You don’t suppose notorious wealth can exist without

correspondingly notorious other things, do you? I am afraid your

experience of the world is too limited to permit you to rise high in

the diplomatic service.”

The man bent over her suddenly. “Maud, for heaven’s sake throw him

over--and--marry for--”

“How stiflingly hot it is here.” She stepped out from the sheltering

palms and stood in full view of the crowded rooms. “Please take me to

my aunt, I believe she wants to go home early. Ah, there she is coming

towards us. It has been so nice to see you again, Cecil--I hope to meet

you in Rome--some day--good-night.” She made a little gracious movement

towards him with her fan and joined an old lady in black velvet,

wearing a magnificent diamond tiara.

* * * * *

“What a confounded nuisance that Iris is away just now,” muttered

Captain Barton to himself, as he sat frowningly in a corner of a taxi

on his way to his club. “I shall call on Lady Dearn to-morrow and get

her permission to go out and persuade the girl to come back--it is

outrageous for her to be out there! I believe I shall just be able to

do it in the time.”

Then he glanced out on the crowded streets. It was a dreary looking

night. The pavements glittered dully with moisture and mud. The noise

of the traffic was muffled by a chilly fog. Yet he loved the place.

To one coming from the glare of India the thick cold atmosphere was

exhilarating. It was really hard luck having to leave London so soon.

But some months ago he had seen his old playmate’s photograph in her

court dress in a magazine, and the lovely picture had sent the blood

tingling through his veins and made him determined to marry her. Of

course others had been determined about the same thing, and failed; but

then--Ralph Barton straightened his tall, well-knit figure--girls could

never resist him: he was a great favourite in India; so, if he really

meant business, and made Iris aware of it, of course it would be all

right--of course--of course.

CHAPTER II

IN THE WILDS

“He looks like a gentleman,” said Iris Dearn, drawing patterns in the

fine white dust with the point of her elegant parasol.

“He not only looks like a gentleman, I am sure he _is_ one,” replied

her cousin, with slight emphasis, as she threw back the long streamers

of her silver-grey veil which a light breeze had blown teasingly before

her face.

“Then I wonder how he comes to be in this position,” mused the girl,

ceasing to make patterns in the dust and looking dreamily up the

straight bush road by which they were sitting.

Mrs. Henderson shrugged her massive shoulders. “Now, my dear, you have

touched on a mystery that we shall never solve. All that we shall ever

know is, that Mr. Rees is a gentleman and that he is a driver and guide

at this very out-of-the-way place. How he came to occupy this position

we shall never be told.”

Iris Dearn made no comment at the moment. Her deep blue eyes, shadowed

by very black luxuriant lashes, were still gazing in gentle abstraction

up the sunlit track. “It would be interesting to know a little about

his past, don’t you think? He talks so well and I am sure he has had a

splendid education; he really ought to be doing very different work

from this.”

“Yes, he does talk well; and there is no doubt about his education. As

you say, it would be rather interesting to know how he came to take

up his present work. But we shall not be told anything about that.

Though we have been out with him so much, and had so many talks, he

has never once referred to his past; in fact, have you noticed that

he never talks about himself at all, and if by any chance any one

makes the slightest personal reference, he shrinks into unapproachable

aloofness at once? Miss Smith was telling me yesterday, that he has

been with them for nearly three years, but that he had never told them

anything of his former life, and he is not the kind of man they care to

ask questions about his private affairs: for though he is so awfully

good to every one and has that air of deferential courtesy, he has an

impenetrable reserve as well, which keeps even the most curious people

at bay.”

“Yes,” acquiesced Miss Dearn, following the movements of a terra-cotta

tinted butterfly flickering among some flowering bushes. “He is not

the sort of man to satisfy idle curiosity. He will not stand being

patronised either. That vulgar little woman with all the diamonds, in

the tourist party last week, tried to patronise him when they first

went out, but she soon gave it up! I never saw anything better done

than the neat, courteous way he put her in her place, and without in

the least appearing to do so; it was masterly!”

“Yes, that was really clever--I felt inclined to clap and say ‘Bravo!’”

“So did I. That really was an odious little woman--the way she first

spoke to him made me want to shake her.”

Mrs. Henderson’s small plump hands were again occupied putting the

streamers of her veil away from her face; when this was accomplished

she said, turning her round, kind face to her cousin, “By the way,

Iris, that soft new shade of blue you wore last night suited you to

perfection--it just matched your eyes.”

But her cousin was not interested in clothes just then. “He is very

brave,” she said irrelevantly, turning the soft oval of her face once

more towards the long stretch of glistening road. “Wasn’t it splendid

the way he caught that runaway horse the other day and saved that poor

old drunkard’s life!”

“Yes, it was most heroic; and he was nearly killed himself over

it. My heart just stood still when the horse dragged him all that

distance--still he managed to pull it up in the end. But it was a

reckless thing to do, and the old fellow in the cart wasn’t worth the

risk! Miss Smith says Mr. Rees is always doing things like that; he

doesn’t mind what dangers he runs into as long as he helps somebody.

The whole district comes to him for help. If their cows or horses are

ill they always send for him, and he often sits up all night with

people, too. Miss Green’s father, at the shop, has awful heart attacks,

and whenever they come on they always send for Mr. Rees, and he

frequently has to stay with the invalid till early morning.”

Miss Dearn’s delicately gloved hand began to stroke the moss-covered

log on which they were sitting. “I have never met any one so kind and

thoughtful. He seems to think of everything for every one’s comfort,

and does it all in such a quiet unobtrusive manner that one hardly

realises he is doing anything at all. I wonder if he is happy,” she

pondered with cool, detached interest.

“Happy!” repeated her cousin, “how could any man be happy with eyes

like that? Haven’t you noticed the deep melancholy in them when he is

not talking? It is really there all the time, even when he smiles; but,

when he is silent and thinks himself unobserved, the sadness in his

face makes my heart positively ache!”

Her companion brushed away a little green beetle which had lighted on

her dainty gown. “Grey eyes always look sad, don’t you think? They are

so much sadder than blue or brown ones--like grey skies, always looking

a little wistful.”

Mrs. Henderson suddenly glanced at her small, gold wrist-watch. “We

really must go back,” she said rising slowly. “We ought to be in good

time for dinner to-night; generally we are so late with all these long

outings. By the way, Mr. Rees asked me, just before we came out, if

we would care to have another look at the big caves; a large party is

arriving to-night and wants to see them to-morrow. I believe he wants

us to go, and said he would save us the front seats in the brake if

we decided to visit the caves again. It is so nice of him always to

keep the best seats for us. I was so amused the other day when I was

standing on the verandah waiting for you: one of the ladies tried her

best to secure the seat next to him, and coaxed in the most arch and

fascinating way to get it; but he was relentless and the front seats

were rigidly reserved for us. I think he likes to have us there.”

“That is only because we have been here so long and been out with him

so often,” said Miss Dearn, opening her long ivory-handled parasol.

“Perhaps so; yet, even in his aloof way, he may like some visitors

better than others I suppose--he certainly talks more to us than to any

of the other people.”

Iris made no reply as she walked beside her cousin, tall, erect,

slender--all in white, from her slim shoes to her slanting parasol;

her exquisite profile with its bewildering contours of chin and throat

softly outlined against the bronze-green bush, her deep blue eyes,

shadowed almost to blackness by their long drooping lashes, looking

straight before her.

Mrs. Henderson glanced at her and exclaimed involuntarily: “Iris, you

ought to be closely veiled. It is really not fair to men, having a girl

looking like you walking about--it is not! I don’t wonder so many of

them have gone absolutely mad over you--I should myself if I were a

man! I wonder no one has ever come at night and run away with you--I

shouldn’t blame them if they did!”

Iris smiled a soft, indulgent smile. She had been accustomed to such

admiration all her life. “No one ever feels as badly as that--they all

get over it in time. Anyhow up here there is not the slightest danger,

as we never see any men except those awful tourists who stare, and

stare, and then--go away.”

Neither the girl nor her cousin thought of the driver just then.

By this time they had left the bush track and were now walking on the

open main road leading to the small township where they were staying.

The great chain of mountains surrounding the district had come into

view. A soft haze and the pale blue smoke of bush fires made the

towering ridges look strangely remote and out of reach. It seemed as if

they had shrunk back into some impenetrable reserve, which would never

lift again and reveal their austere savage beauty.

“Here comes Mr. Rees,” said Mrs. Henderson suddenly, interrupting

herself in the middle of a remark about the English letters she had

received that morning.

Miss Dearn followed the direction of her cousin’s gaze. “Are you sure

that is he?” she asked a little absently. She was thinking just then of

her mother’s urgent appeal to come home immediately.

“Why, of course! Who else in this place walks like that? If nothing

else gives him away, his walk does. No one but a gentleman could walk

that way; there is a suggestion of Eton or Harrow about it.”

They watched the man in the paddock making his way to the road. He

was rather tall, straight, well-made, and he moved with an ease and

careless grace which made it a pleasure to look at him. As he came

nearer they could distinguish his finely chiselled features, which bore

their usual expression of preoccupation and quiet gravity.

He had reached the fence now and vaulted over it with the lightness of

a deer, then he greeted the ladies waiting for him in the shade of a

large wattle.

“Good afternoon,” he said in an exceedingly pleasant voice, lifting

his cap and baring a very shapely head, covered with thick black

short-cut hair.

He wore a loose brown Norfolk jacket, a little the worse for wear, but

of good material and cut, and his pink-striped shirt was spotless.

There was an air of neatness about him--not the punctilious, fussy

kind, but the unstudied correctness which comes naturally to those who

have good taste in clothes, and know how to put them on without wasting

much time over their toilet.

“Are you coming home too, Mr. Rees?” said Mrs. Henderson, with the

friendly graciousness she would bestow on an equal.

“Yes--may I walk along with you?”

“Of course, we shall be glad to have a chat with you--we haven’t had a

talk for two or three days.”

Miss Dearn awoke from the contemplation of her mother’s letter. “Have

you been on another errand of mercy?” she inquired turning a dazzling

impersonal smile on the driver.

“Do you call going to a farm to return a borrowed horse by such an

exalted name?” queried Rees, a momentary light coming into his sad grey

eyes.

“I wonder what makes you do all these kind things,” the girl mused,

ignoring his reply. “We have been talking about you this afternoon and

saying how wonderful it is of you to help the whole neighbourhood the

way you do. We watched you stop that runaway horse the other day--that

was really heroic!” she concluded with a fine sweep of her head and a

glowing splendour in her eyes.

Iris Dearn had a magnificent way of bestowing praise. She did it in

such a regal, generous way, like a beneficent goddess distributing

large bounty, yet without the faintest tinge of patronage in her manner.

A slight flush crept under the tan of the guide’s face. “You exaggerate

my usefulness, Miss Dearn. As for the bolting horse, any one would have

tried to stop it, and I just happened to be on the spot,” he answered a

little hastily, but without awkward embarrassment.

Her blue eyes looked steadily into his. “Mr. Rees, we have never met

any one so ready to help others as you; it has been quite a revelation

to see the way you bear the burdens of the whole district; I didn’t

know there were people like you in the world!”

It was the first opportunity she had had of letting him know how much

they admired his bravery in rescuing the poor old drunkard two days

before.

A buggy was just passing and the rumbling of the wheels made

conversation impossible.

When the noise of the vehicle had died away Mrs. Henderson said: “Miss

Smith told me this morning about some Australian writer who visits

here.”

“What is his name?” asked her cousin with keen interest.

“Brian Shadwell.”

“I have never read any of his books--I suppose they are Australian?”

questioned Miss Dearn turning to the driver.

“No, they are not Australian. His scenes are generally laid in England.”

“How disappointing! I should think it would be far more interesting

to describe the life out here. If I were a writer I should revel in

putting the atmosphere of this place on paper and sending it broadcast

over the world;--it would be like bottling up sunshine and mountain

breezes, and distributing them everywhere! But are his books good?”

“I have only seen two of them. They did not appeal to me,” said Rees a

little diffidently. “He writes about a very undesirable type of woman,”

he added, expanding a little.

“What are they like?” interrogated Mrs. Henderson.

“Shallow, pale-faced, exotic; the kind of women who become engaged to a

man for the sake of excitement and sensation only.”

“I wonder what type of woman you really admire,” said Mrs. Henderson,

making a bold attempt to draw him out.

Rees stooped, picked up some broken glass lying on the road, and threw

it away. When he was erect again, he replied: “That is a subject I have

not thought much about--a driver can’t afford to, you know.” And then

he led the conversation into quite different channels.

A little while afterwards they turned a corner of the road and the

insignificant, self-conscious little township came into view. It

consisted of a few scattered cottages, one small shop, two churches,

a home-made-looking post office and a large, imposing boarding-house

facing the great western mountains.

“Isn’t this the quaintest place you ever saw!” exclaimed Miss Dearn,

her blue eyes luminous with animation. “Except for the boarding-house

it looks like a garment which has been put away in a drawer and

forgotten for many years, but eventually found and put out to air.”

“It is so strange there is no hotel here; I am sure one would pay

well,” observed Mrs. Henderson, looking towards the big stone

boarding-house.

The driver glanced suddenly at a small garden they were passing and did

not reply for a moment. Then he said in slow, measured tones: “We have

local option here you know, and the people won’t have a licensed house.”

* * * * *

While Iris was changing her gown for dinner that evening Mrs. Henderson

came into her room. “I am sure Mr. Rees is not married,” she remarked,

with the air of one whose harmless curiosity on some small matter has

been satisfied. “I don’t think he will ever marry either; he evidently

doesn’t think he can afford the luxury of a wife. He spoke as if he had

settled the question finally.”

“I don’t think he cares for women; though he is so delightfully

chivalrous to them they do not seem to interest him in the least. He is

so much occupied with other things that he has no time for sentiment.

If he has ever been in love, he has got over it long ago.”

“I wish you were a little more interested in love, Iris,” commented her

cousin.

Iris glanced composedly at her own beautiful reflection in the mirror.

“I am interested in an abstract way, of course--every one is. But

I don’t want to have any personal experience of it. I am awfully

interested in the South Pole Exploration, but haven’t the least desire

to go tumbling about among the icebergs myself.”

“Your mother would not be at all surprised if you joined the next

Shackleton expedition, I am sure; after the awful shock you have

already given her by coming out here she would be prepared for

anything.”

Iris turned, put her lovely arms round her cousin’s neck and kissed

her fondly. “If it were not for you I am afraid I should not be here

now. But poor dear mother does get so perplexed over what she calls

my uncivilised tendencies. She cannot understand how this wild flower

happened to come into her highly cultivated garden. I have often

wondered how I came to be there myself.”

“My dear, you get the strain from your father’s side, of course--from

your Italian grandmother.”

* * * * *

“Doesn’t Miss Dearn look a perfect vision in evening dress!” remarked

Miss Smith to Rees as she brought him some mountain trout at dinner

that night, glancing over to the small table at the other side of the

room, where Mrs. Henderson and her cousin were sitting. “I have never

seen any one look quite so dazzling--have you? Her skin is so soft and

white, and that wonderful colour in her cheeks makes me think of the

shade on the breast of a robin; and her hair--is it brown or golden?

Just look at her eyes, they seem like great blue shimmering stars!--she

is lovely!”

“That’s right!” replied Rees, laconically, addressing his attention to

the mountain trout before him.

CHAPTER III

THE VOICE IN THE CAVE

“My lamp has gone out--where is the guide?” cried a girlish voice

excitedly, as she clutched at the wire rope acting as a protecting

fence to prevent visitors slipping into the chasm below.

“Take my lamp,” said an elderly man, who had come up behind her, “mine

is all right,” and he held out the lantern to her as he spoke.

“No! No! I will not take yours,” she expostulated; “it would not be

fair; but if you will be so good as to call the guide, I shall be much

obliged to you--I will stand here on this firm rock till he comes.”

The elderly man disappeared into the confusion of weird shadows and

flickering blotches of light cast by numerous small lamps, revealing

walls of stalactitic formation, clammy boulders, and the constant

moving of blurred figures, climbing steadily upwards towards an inky

darkness.

Presently a form appeared making his way downwards, and a lanky youth

came into view, looking distortedly raw-boned and uncouth in the partly

lit gloom.

“Take this lamp, miss,” he said, passing her his lantern, “I’ll help

you up,” and he extended a hard rough hand with large protruding

knuckles.

But the lady did not take the proffered help. “I want the guide,” she

said insistently. “Will you be kind enough to ask him to come to me? I

have already sent one messenger for him.”

“I’m the guide,” replied the gruff voice good-naturedly. “These caves

belong to us, and we always take people through them ourselves.”

“Ah, it is the driver I should have asked for then--isn’t he here? I

saw him come in.”

“Yes, he did come in, but I don’t know where he is now.”

Very reluctantly the lady took the lamp, but ignored the outstretched

hand.

Presently, however, she found the climbing so steep that she was glad

of assistance. She hurried on as fast as the slippery stones would

permit, and was finally rewarded by hearing the hollow echo of distant

voices; and, as she bravely made faster progress, a crowd of fantastic

figures came into view. They were standing under a huge alabaster-like

archway, looking at the beautiful roof, lined with long limestone

icicles which had dropped into many wonderful shapes. In one corner was

a large harp-like formation, where stalactites spanned from ceiling to

floor into delicate strings, which produced sweet reluctant sounds, as

some of the men tapped them gently with their sticks.

From the archway the caves led into a long tunnel, paved halfway across

with large boulders, leaving a terrible chasm on the other side of the

stones, from which rose the dull roar of invisible water, leaping in

ferocious strength somewhere far below in the blackness.

“I don’t think I shall go any farther to-day,” said Iris Dearn to her

cousin, placing her raincoat on a big flat rock and sitting down. “I

have seen it all before, you know, and I have a fancy to stay here in

all this weirdness by myself--it will give me such strange feelings,

feelings I should never have under any other circumstances----”

“But surely you will be too frightened to be here all alone--it would

be horrible,” interrupted her cousin, looking after the rest of the

party, who were a little ahead.

“No, I shall not be afraid--I am sure I shall enjoy it.”

“Are you certain?” asked Mrs. Henderson, with misgiving in her tones.

“Yes, quite sure.”

“Then I will go with the others, for I should not like to be left

here, even if there were two of us---- Ugh!” she shuddered. “This is

like Hades, this hollow hill. Isn’t it strange, so many of the hills

in this locality seem to be hollow. Well, if you want to stay, I’m

going to hurry on to catch the others--I suppose it will be quite two

hours before we come back, so there will be plenty of time for the new

sensations you are pining for.”

Iris watched her making her way after the vanishing lights and soon

they had all turned a corner and disappeared in the darkness.

The girl placed her lamp on one of the low stony ledges, its bright

rays illumining the boulder-strewn track, but leaving the stalactitic

ceiling in gloomy dimness. Then she sat down again and looked about the

cave with curious wonder. Moist rocks bleared at her across the abyss.

She heard the drip of water she could not see, filtering through slimy

dark places. Beyond the rays of her lantern the blackness brooded

all round her as a thick, impenetrable mass, which stood waiting to

swallow the timid glow from her lamp; suddenly Iris shuddered. She

was not easily frightened, but something cold and clammy seemed to

reach out black, stealthy hands towards her. Mrs. Henderson’s words

came back to her. Was this hollow hill a Hades? Was she sitting now

in the ante-room of some Underworld--a terrible Underworld, piled

with gloom and forbidding shapes; an Underworld of gaping chasms, of

treacherous streams bounding in unfathomable depths; a world of eerie

sounds, menacing objects, slippery footholds, of slimy water creeping

insidiously from rock to rock?

Was there really such a Hades? And who were the occupants of such a

place? Was it the abode of departed beings, who had now been dragged

down by the shadow of their deeds to this abode of gloom?

Iris shivered. Were these spirits round her now? She fancied she could

hear soft, wailing notes blending with the drip of the water around her.

And suppose her lamp should go out!

She started violently.

The thick darkness would spring upon her. She felt that. It was

crouching to spring. It was only waiting for the feeble lantern to go

out and its power would be complete. It could assert itself, exercise

its forces. She would be utterly at its mercy then. And those wailing

spirits would gather round her--she could hear their faint whine

now. And if the light failed they would crowd in upon her, drag her

down--down--down into those awful, bottomless chasms!

She shut her eyes and felt her cheeks blanch with horrible coldness.

If only she had gone with the others!

Then suddenly a voice rose from the black vacuum below. It wound

its way a little uncertainly towards her. She listened in surprise.

Who could be singing down there? Surely no human being could be so

far below in that awful ravine? Was it some spirit chained in the

bottomless cavern--some spirit cast into the darkness to endure æons of

misery in the cruel, merciless gloom? A soul who longed for light, for

freedom, whose whole being quivered for sunlit air, blue skies, and the

sight of purple hills?--who yearned passionately for gladness, the song

of birds, the soft murmurs of the sea, and yet was doomed to an endless

existence amid the horrors of this clammy night? What was it? Had her

imagination beguiled her senses? Listen!

The sweet notes seemed to hold memories of days lived in the sunlight,

in freedom, in gladness! In them burned pain, anguish, hopelessness.

The soul was in despair. It would never be free again, never climb out

of its horrible prison.

It was a man’s voice, soft, rich, full of sad sweetness, gentle remorse

smouldering in every note.

Iris listened intently. She had forgotten her own fears. In her heart

surged a deep pity for the being who sang so sorrowfully far below

her in the fearful desolation. A strange longing began to stir in her

to grope her way down into the gaping fissure, till she reached the

captive singer. She half dreamed he might be a spirit who had lived a

sordid earth-life, committed evil deeds; but he was repentant now; his

tones trembled with sadness; he had endured age-long imprisonment in

the icy gloom, till his whole soul was one quivering, sobbing remorse!

Surely there should be some consolation for him now? She wanted to

go and comfort him. There was no one else to do so. All other feet

had hurried on. She alone had halted and heard the song-sobs from the

cleft. The quest must be hers. Some great Fate had willed it so. She

had heard the cry of anguish and she must respond. She shook off the

dream, but it returned.

What would the spirit be like? Would it be some shrivelled up old being

who had lived many years in the sunshine-world, before being cast into

the under-one? The voice was so mellow, yet throbbing with repressed

youth; it pulsated with unfulfilled hopes, a manhood broken, bound with

fetters intolerable! No, the spirit who sang could not be old; buoyant

youth still surged in his veins, blending with the ripe, full powers of

maturity.

The girl had risen. She leant over the big rocks barring the way to the

singer’s haunt. All at once the song ceased. The ugly stillness came

back, a silence relieved only by the far-away rush of water and the

constant dripping from the wet stones.

She leant farther over the boulders and peered into the huge black

gulf. But she could see nothing in the murky expanse. And yet somewhere

deep down in the clammy loneliness sat an imprisoned soul. She must

reach him. She could not leave him entombed in that black solitude.

She must make him sing again till she could find her way to him.

“Please sing again,” she called, leaning over the rocks and sending her

voice down through the pitchy gloom.

There was a moment’s pause, then a well-known voice replied, “Is that

you, Miss Dearn?”

“Yes,” she answered, with slight bewilderment in her tones. To find

that the being about whom she had woven these strange fancies was Rees,

the driver, had a curious effect on her. It partly brought her back to

solid reality, and yet she was unable to dismiss all her conjectures

at once; they clung to him and made him appear in a new light. The

sympathy which had welled up within her for the unknown singer in the

cave still went out to the man who called to her through the dark

spaces.

“Miss Dearn, where are you--are you all alone?”

She sat down and uttered a sigh of relief as she heard the hollow echo

of footsteps making their way towards her. Sometimes they were loud and

distinct, at others they died away in the darkness as if they would

never reach her. Then the echoes grew louder and a faint glimmer of

light appeared at the other end of the tunnel. Shortly afterwards she

could distinguish a form climbing rapidly up the stony pathway towards

her, and a few moments later the driver was beside her.

She watched him with strange interest. He was always pleasant to look

at. His form was so perfectly proportioned, and, though slight, there

was a suggestion of steely strength about it. His large, sombre eyes

met hers in the dimness, and it seemed to her there was a new, deep

sadness in them.

“Miss Dearn, how did you come to be left here all by yourself?” he

almost demanded.

“I wished it. I wanted to be here alone for awhile to see what it was

like,” she replied, smiling reassuringly into his anxious face.

“They should not have allowed you to do it--it is not safe. Suppose

your lamp had gone out and I had not been here, and you had tried to

grope your way back in the darkness--think of it, if you had slipped,

or taken one false step----” He stopped abruptly.

She looked up at him quickly. His handsome lean face was very grave and

pale. Her fancies about the pain-stricken entombed spirit came back to

her.

“Won’t you sit down?” she said, with a little sigh. “No, don’t sit on

those wet rocks; have half of my coat.” And she moved a little to make

room for him on the stone beside her.

“Where have you been?” she asked very quietly.

“Down in a deep ravine.”

“Don’t you ever take visitors there?”

“No. It is too dangerous, and there is such a lot of water, quite a big

stream.”

“A stream deep enough to drown in?”

“Yes.”

The girl shuddered slightly. The caves were really terrible; they

over-awed her with their weird black heights, their narrow burrow-like

passages, the invisible tumultuous streams and blood-curdling, yawning

depths. In the sunlight the imperious young Englishwoman walked with

assured confidence, unafraid, but here, surrounded by these mysterious

wonders, her courage failed her and she felt baffled and subdued. “And

you go down into those caverns without a lantern--I saw you carrying a

torch.”

“With a big party there are not enough lamps to spare one for me. But I

lit a small dry branch I had brought with me, and it just kept alight

till I was within the rays of your lantern. It was odd: it took only

one match to light it, but, in lighting that one match, I dropped my

box and it fell into the stream.”

There was a short silence, then Miss Dearn said, with soft ardour:

“What a wonderful voice you have! Why is it you have never let us hear

it before?”

“I very rarely sing,” he replied, with courteous reserve.

All at once there was a bright flash, the flame in the lantern had made

a quick flickering leap and then sunk into tired dimness.

“Great Cæsar! I believe that lamp is going out!” exclaimed Rees, as he

sprang up hastily.

By the time he was on his feet, there had been another flicker,

followed by sudden darkness.

“And we have no matches!” cried Miss Dearn in dismay.

“No; that is the worst of it. The lanterns have not been properly

looked after lately; owing to the number of visitors they have been

used so constantly, and I have been fearing some experience like this;

the boys are pretty careless. I wanted them to let me look after the

lamps for them, but they wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Whatever shall we do?” whispered Miss Dearn fearfully.

“We can do nothing except wait till the others come back.”

“But they will be over an hour yet; it is not more than half-an-hour

since they left me. Don’t you think you could take me out?” she

suggested, with a touch of entreaty in her voice.

“Of course, I could find the way out in the dark, but it would be most

dangerous to take you. You see we have to climb down those slippery

boulders nearly all the way and you might easily slip, even with my

help, and sprain your ankle or worse. The only way I would dare to take

you is to--carry you.”

“Oh no!” protested the girl. “I could not possibly let you do such a

thing--I am far too heavy.”

“I can carry heavy weights, and you are light.”

“No! I could not let you attempt it,” she said with finality.

“Well, then, we must wait for the others.”

He sat down again.

Neither of them spoke now.

The oppressive gloom was awful. It settled down all around them,

brooded over them, crept closer and closer. Iris felt its moist, icy

breath on her cheek. It struck chill. She felt cold all over. She shut

her eyes, but even then she could feel the stealthy darkness pressing

in upon her. It held a gruesome weight. It seemed as if the great hill

above them was crushing down on them--if the rocky ceiling should

give way!--she caught her breath with fear! They would be entombed

then--buried alive! She almost cried out in her anguish. And there

was that turbulent water rushing headlong in the black spaces--the

mighty torrent she could not see. But if it should rise--young Gill,

the guide, had told her it had risen once and flooded the lower part

of the caves. If it should rise now!--the distant roar seemed to grow

louder; was it swelling already? She knew that streams and rivers in

the district often rose with a rush; if this stream should do so now,

it would flood the lower passages, so that they could not get out. Her

heart beat in wild fear.

“Oh, isn’t it awful?” she gasped.

“What is awful?” asked the man at her side calmly, but with a gentle

touch of sympathy.

“The darkness and--everything; aren’t you afraid?”

“No, of course not.”

She breathed a deep sigh: half of relief because of the strength his

calmness brought her, and half from new terror as she listened to the

hidden water splashing more loudly in the stillness.

She moved instinctively nearer to her companion.

He felt her tremble.

“Miss Dearn, are you really frightened?”

There was deep concern in his voice now.

“I am,” she faltered. “I know it is dreadfully foolish of me--but I

can’t help it.”

“What are you afraid of?” he asked gently.

“The blackness--everything. It is so terrible to be right down here in

this unearthly place--the top of the tunnel might give way and all that

fearful hill fall on us.”

“The ceiling will not give way--it is strong, solid rock,” he soothed

her.

“Mr. Gill told me there had been landslips here which completely buried

part of the caves.”

“But not where these firm rocks are overhead.”

There was another awful silence.

Then he felt her tremble violently again.

“Miss Dearn, don’t be afraid--there is really nothing to fear.” She

felt the strong sympathy in his tones.

But it did not set her terror at rest. “Can’t you hear that water?--oh,

how I hate it! You can’t see it and--I believe it is rising.”

“It will not rise.”

“It does sometimes. Mr. Gill told me it has risen and destroyed that

lovely fern corner near the entrance. Oh, if only you could take me

out--I don’t know how to stay here all that time!”

She was shaking from head to foot now.

The driver grew alarmed. “Miss Dearn, I will take you out if you will

allow me to carry you. I can easily do it. I promise to bring you out

in safety. Will you?”

“No! No! I could not let you do it.” Her tones were again final.

“But I can’t bear you to suffer like this.” There was a tremor in his

words.

“Oh, I know I am absolutely absurd, but this is--Hades----”

He felt her swaying slightly against him. He caught her in his arms

quickly.

“Are you faint, Miss Dearn?” he ejaculated under his breath.

There was no answer.

“My God, she has fainted!” he muttered.

He drew her closer towards him so that her head rested comfortably

against his shoulder, then he dipped his handkerchief in one of the

pools between the rocks and began to bathe her forehead gently.

She was unconscious for only a few minutes before she began to stir

restlessly. She lifted her head slightly, then let it sink back wearily.

“Miss Dearn, are you feeling better?” he asked anxiously.

“Where--where am I?” she murmured vaguely.

“You are here in the cave--with me,” involuntarily his arms tightened

round her.

“Yes, yes,” she answered drowsily; “I remember the darkness was just

going to choke me--it is coming back again,” she added, fear returning

to her voice.

“No, no, it is not coming back--nothing shall harm you, I am holding

you--just rest quietly till you feel better.”

She drew a deep sigh and lay back more calmly. Presently she moved

again. “I am better now,” she whispered and made an effort to sit up.

“Please don’t exert yourself, just stay where you are; you were frozen

and you are just getting warm now.”

“How kind you are to me!” she breathed. “It was ridiculous of me to

faint. I have never done such a thing before. I suppose it was the want

of air and being so terribly--frightened.”

“You are not afraid now, are you?” he asked, bending over her.

“No,” she faltered; “but--I--mustn’t stay here.”

“Of course you must. I am not going to run any risk of your fainting

again,” he said, with tender concern.

She did not stir for some time. There was wonderful comfort in the

sheltering clasp of his arms, it brought her a strange sense of

security, a delicious calm crept over her. All at once she understood

why every one trusted this man, why all sought his help, why weak

things came to him for protection. She felt the strength emanating from

him. Within his arms was a rest which was wonderful. “I am so thankful

you are here,” she said under her breath, “if I had been all alone now

I should just have gone mad with terror.”

“I am more glad than I can say to be here, but you know you should

never have been left by yourself--it is too much for any one who is not

accustomed to it, especially as the lamp went out and you have more

than your share of imagination.”

Another silence fell between them and in the silence a sense of horror

returned. She could hear the water clamouring to reach her. It really

seemed to be rising--she was sure it was coming nearer.

“Oh, do talk,” she cried in fear; “don’t let me hear that horrible

water--it seems----” She stopped and instinctively nestled closer to

him.

“Would you like me to sing to you?”

“Please do.”

He paused a moment as if considering what he should sing, and then he

began in soothing exquisite tones--

“I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”

The water receded. The awful darkness drew back. She forgot everything

but the delightful sound of his voice. It was a true tenor, deliciously

soft on the high notes and containing an ethereal purity throughout

its entire range. He sang with the perception and feelings of a born

artist, and with the perfection of a highly trained one. Every note

quivered with beauty and tender sympathy, and when he reached the

climax--

“And all my soul shall strive to wake

Sweet wonder in thine eyes,”

his voice held a melting, an almost unbearable, sweetness.

Iris stirred in his arms. His singing moved her as she had never been

moved before. It seemed to reach some unknown depth in her. It brought

enchantment; but it also brought a strange fear. It held her. It

enthralled her; but with it she was conscious of a curious uneasiness.

It seemed as if the music laid soft chains about her, and involuntarily

she shrank a little from this sweet captivity, yet some hidden part of

her revelled in the magic thraldom.

Rees sang on--

“And dreams of delight shall on thee break

And rainbow visions rise.”

Did he feel her thrill to his music? She did not stop to consider, she

was only aware that her whole being responded to every note of his

song. Then the last liquid sound faded into the darkness.

“Oh, sing it again,” she pleaded tremulously. “I can’t bear you to

stop!”

Without comment he began the song once more.

The first time he had sung it with the natural sweetness and beauty

his voice possessed. He had sung to please and soothe her, to brighten

the darkness. She felt that he had sung it to her as to a tired

frightened child he wished to calm and rest. But as she heard the

words the second time, Iris was conscious of another element, a new

indefinable something which was not in his tones when he sang at first.

What had caused this subtle change?

But she could not stop to answer her stirring wonders. She was

listening passionately as she had never listened to anything before.

His voice floated round her, pressed close to her, caressed her with

its irresistible charm. The words came to her as if they had been

whispered from his soul, conveying a special message to her own and she

felt something within her respond fiercely to his song.

All her fear of the cave and the horrible darkness had gone. She was

only aware of this sublime singing. It rested her. It bore her into

a world of rapture! Yet, mingling with the exultant gladness, was a

mysterious sadness, which filled her with an odd sense of foreboding.

The song ceased.

A great wave of emotion surged up in her. She did not understand the

turmoil within. She only knew it was there. She was conscious of a

tumultuous peace, a delicious pain, a rapture, an anguish which was

sweet! She lay in his arms mute, overcome, crushed into silence by the

beauty of his music.

She felt her heart throb, her bosom sink and swell quickly, and at

last the turmoil within found vent in a long, sobbing sigh. His arms

about her tightened, and there was the same new element in his touch

there had been in his tones when he repeated the song. His enfolding

still held tenderest sympathy; deep, solicitous shelter; but they held

more--a new strength, or was it a new softness--and with it mingled a

yearning sadness.

“Have I sung you sad too?” he breathed, his lips brushing her hair.

“I don’t know--I don’t know,” she whispered faintly; “only it was too

wonderful--too amazing--I have never heard anything so heavenly!”

She felt a great sigh pass through his frame. But he said nothing, only

there was an almost imperceptible pressure of his arms again.

Iris made a desperate attempt to get her feelings under control; but

her effort was fruitless. She lay back in his clasp dumb, trembling,

her heart throbbing wildly against his.

At last there was the sound of distant voices and a faint glimmer of

light at the upper end of the tunnel. Iris started. “They are coming,”

she gasped, but there was no gladness in her voice now. “Please take

me out before they reach us--we can easily find our way by the sheen

of their lamps. I could not bear to meet them just yet.” She had drawn

gently away from him and had risen to her feet.

He sighed again. “Yes,” he replied tonelessly. “I think that will be

light enough,” and he began to help her down the slimy stones.

It was difficult by the rays from the distant lamps to find foothold,

but Rees guided her skilfully along the dangerous track.

They walked in absolute silence till they were near the entrance, and

the sunlight began to filter slowly into the gloom; then Iris said,

still looking down on the slippery rocks: “You won’t tell the others

about the--fainting, will you?”

“Certainly not, if you don’t wish it.”

“I don’t want them to know--I will just tell Amy quietly later on.”

They had now reached the mouth of the cave and stood quite still a

moment, blinded by the glare of sunlight pouring through the wide

opening.

“I hope this has not been too dreadful an experience for you,” said the

driver, as he helped her over a small trickling stream.

She shaded her smarting eyes with her hand. “I don’t know--I don’t

know,” she said, as one not wholly awake from a strange, vivid dream.

The rest of the party had caught up to them now. Explanations followed.

Mrs. Henderson had been anxious when they did not find her cousin where

she had left her.

Rees answered all questions. He seemed bent on drawing attention from

Miss Dearn to himself, and Iris felt grateful to him.

She sat beside him on the way home, but tactfully he did not look at

her. Mrs. Henderson was on the box-seat, too, and kept up a continuous

flow of conversation, so the time passed without embarrassment.

But when they reached the township, the driver helped Miss Dearn out

of the brake, and, as their hands touched, a tremor passed through the

girl and a deep flush mounted to her face. She felt his clasp tighten,

as if to convey his unspoken sympathy. But she did not dare raise her

eyes to his.

CHAPTER IV

THE EXPLANATION

During the following days Miss Dearn and Rees did not meet. Somehow the

girl managed that she and her cousin had their meals either before the

driver came into the dining-room or after he had left it, and they did

not join any of the parties going for excursions.

Mrs. Henderson was rather surprised that Iris all at once seemed tired

of driving and preferred walking about in the bush instead. However,

she was easy-going, and quite content either to go sightseeing in the

neighbourhood or stroll about in the country surrounding the township.

But Miss Dearn was most unhappy. She was torn asunder by mortification

and shame. Almost as soon as she had returned to the house after her

experience in the cave, a terrible realisation of what had taken place

sprang upon her. She saw her own behaviour in the glaring merciless

light of reason, with every particle of weakness bared before her

horrified gaze.

So she, the Hon. Iris Dearn, the proud London beauty, who had held men

at bay as easily as great towering cliffs hold back the sea, supremely

calm, loftily ignoring the loud advances and passionate appeals of

the ocean--had fallen so low that after her faint she had actually

remained in the driver’s arms--yes, a _driver’s_ arms--long after her

indisposition had made it necessary to do so! It was absolutely---- But

she could find no word strong enough to express her unutterable scorn

and amazement at her conduct! Of course, she had felt very weak after

the faint, and at first, when she had attempted to sit up, it had been

impossible to do so. But afterwards she had gained strength, and it was

unpardonable not to have exerted it. She did not spare herself. She did

not try to put the unpalatable facts away, but faced them. Even the

horror of the hideous darkness in the caves supplied no extenuating

excuses to her.

She had paced her room at night in hot, impetuous rage. She had

clenched her hands in agony. Her tall young form had stood heaving

by the window while her splendid eyes, gleaming with angry tears,

had looked out into the summer darkness. So, after all, she who had

thought herself so strong, who had walked through life fearless, with

clear courage, undaunted gaze, head held high, had now suddenly sunk

to--_this_!

Her moral strength had ebbed out with her physical force. She had

stayed in the driver’s arms from sheer cowardice, because she had been

afraid of the night and all it held. His enfolding brought comfort,

support, peace, and she had yielded to the subtle consolation of his

touch. Some wonderful strength had emanated from him and held her.

And there had been his song!

A tremor still passed through her as she thought of that. His singing

was marvellous--the most tender, exquisite thing that had ever come to

her. The memory of it brought a hard aching to her throat. She had not

told Amy about it, it was too sacred even to discuss with her cousin.

His voice was not only delightful because of its musical beauty, but it

touched deeply because it laid bare the great loftiness, the passionate

warmth throbbing in the man who sang. The real man was revealed to her

now. But--what must he think of her? This scorching question brought

her the deepest mortification. She could never face him again--oh, the

shame of it, the fierce humiliation!

She ought, of course, to pack her trunks and go away, and it rather

astonished her that she did not do so. Why did she linger in a place

which ought to be abhorrent to her now? She could not explain this;

but she could not go away. Something held her. She was no longer quite

free. Some invisible chain had been slipped round some invisible part

of her and bound her to the place. She felt the soft cord, yet she did

not attempt by one determined effort to break it.

Mrs. Henderson did not notice any change in her cousin, except the

apparent disinclination to join the excursions she had revelled in

before. The girl was a little quieter also, and at times she seemed

a little paler, but that was no doubt the lassitude frequently left

behind by a faint. Otherwise there was no difference. She took long

strolls in the bush, smiled her bewitching, dazzling smile; laughed her

rippling, silvery laughter, walked in her tall, graceful, imperious

way; and yet, if Mrs. Henderson had been more keenly observant, she

would have noticed that the fine colour in her cheeks was often merely

a flush, and the lustre in her eyes frequently the brilliance of pain.

However, though Miss Dearn kept out of the driver’s way and had managed

to evade him at meals, it was impossible to remain in the township for

any length of time without meeting him. So it happened that one evening

as she was returning from the post office she suddenly came face to

face with him. He came out of a small cottage at the side of the store

just as she was passing, so there was no chance of escape.

“Good evening, Mr. Rees,” she said, with an effort at outward

composure, but perplexed at the sudden leap of her heart; “are you on

your way home, too?”

He answered in the affirmative, and said he had been to see Mr. Green,

who had not been well all day, and then went on to speak of other

indifferent things. His manner and tone were gentle and courteous, but

rather distant. He seemed anxious to show her that he remembered the

gulf between them, that the episode in the cave would not make the

slightest difference to their relationship, and that he would never

assume any tone of intimacy on that account. It seemed to Iris, as they

walked along the road, that he went out of his way to make this clear.

Then all at once it occurred to her that he must have misunderstood her

motive for avoiding him. He evidently thought she shunned him because

she did not wish to give him an opportunity of taking advantage of a

situation many men would have regarded as a legitimate stepping-stone

to familiarity. How horrible and contemptible he must have thought her

conduct after all his kindness and tender concern!

Her cheeks flamed suddenly in the twilight--such a thought was

intolerable!

She must undeceive him at once. It was unbearable that he should think

her so base and ungrateful! But how was she to do it? It would be

difficult, especially to begin.

However, as they came within sight of the house, and would not have

many more minutes together, she made a courageous plunge.

“Mr. Rees, there is something I want to say to you. I have wanted to

say it ever since--since--that afternoon.” She ceased abruptly as if

words failed her.

He waited a moment for her to continue, but, as she did not do so, he

broke the silence by saying: “I was under the impression you would

rather not speak to me at all.”

So he _had_ misunderstood! The hot colour surged into her face again.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she said in troubled tones, forgetting her own

embarrassment in her eagerness to explain what he must have regarded

as a cruel slight. She must be very frank with him, nothing but a full

confession would be adequate now; so she continued: “I only avoided

you--because--because---- Oh, Mr. Rees,” she faltered with deep

agitation, “can’t you understand how I should feel after--behaving

so--so--unpardonably--can’t you imagine how ashamed I should feel--how

afraid to meet you? Oh, after all your kindness the other day--a

kindness I shall never forget--it is dreadful to think that you

misunderstand me! I will be perfectly open with you--I owe you

that; I have only kept out of your way because I--felt too horribly

ashamed--too mortified to face you--and--I have been so miserable, I

have hardly been able to sleep for the awful shame of it.”

They had reached the house now.

“Miss Dearn, would you mind coming down this lane for a few minutes--we

can’t talk here near the house.” There was a perceptible unsteadiness

in his voice.

Silently they turned down the narrow track fenced on both sides by

great hawthorn hedges.

When they were a little distance from the main road Rees said: “You

don’t know how grateful I feel because you have explained this to me.

It was indeed good of you, especially when it was so difficult.” His

tones showed he was deeply moved, though he spoke very quietly. “Let me

thank you, Miss Dearn. But,” he came a little closer to her, “why are

you ashamed? There is absolutely nothing for you to be ashamed about.”

“But I behaved most disgracefully.”

They had stopped walking. She stood before him contrite, ashamed,

as superb, as beautiful in her humiliation as she had been in her

graciousness and her fine appreciation of his bravery.

“Don’t say that, Miss Dearn,” and there was entreaty in his manner.

“You were only frightened; and every other human being who was not used

to those caves would have been terrified at being left alone so far

underground in the dark.”

“Yes, but I was not alone, I had you--there was no excuse for me,” she

reminded him dejectedly.

“Still there were only two of us, and that is not like being with a big

party. Anyhow, most people would have been dreadfully nervous, even if

there had been many others with them.”

She shook her head sadly. “You make most generous allowances for me;

still, of course, you must know that none of them is sufficient to

excuse such conduct. I had no right to be so terrified and, even if

I were afraid, I should not have showed it and--fainted and--placed

you in such--an--awkward position.” She finished heroically but with

downcast eyes, her long velvet lashes quivering on her flushed cheeks.

“Please don’t look at it in that way,” he pleaded; “to me it was the

highest honour and most sacred privilege to be there to help you. So

don’t distress yourself about it--it hurts me more than I can say to

see you so troubled because of--of--what I did.”

“No, no, not because of what _you_ did,” she interrupted him hastily.

“You were only kind, so exquisitely good to me--” her voice grew low

on the last words--“I am only so grieved that I should have made it

necessary.”

Just then they heard running footsteps behind them, and, as they

turned, they saw a little girl making her way pantingly towards them.

“Mr. Rees,” she called when she was still a few paces away, “Miss Green

sent me to fetch you--her father has had another attack. Some boys

at the corner said you had gone up here with a lady,” she finished

breathlessly as she reached them.

“I am afraid I must go,” said the driver reluctantly: “there is no

doctor here. Miss Green is all alone and her father is such a heavy

man she can’t manage him by herself.”

As he spoke they began to walk back to the main road. When they reached

the corner Miss Dearn held out her hand to Rees, and, as he held it for

a moment, he said, “I am so sorry to have to go. Please promise me that

you will not distress yourself over that matter again. Believe me there

is not the slightest need; will you promise?”

“I will try.”

“And will you let things be just as they were before, and let me take

you for drives whenever you want to go, and--talk to me--sometimes--as

you used to do?”

“Yes, of course,” she responded eagerly; “I can promise it shall not

make any difference in _that_ way.”

“I am asking you not to let it make a difference in _any_ way.”

“Are you sure it will not make a difference to you either?” asked Miss

Dearn a little shyly, but meeting his eyes bravely.

“No--not in the least,” he began reassuringly, then his tones changed

suddenly, “that is--I--I shall----”

“Miss Green told me to ask you to hurry,” interrupted the child.

“I must go, then. Good-night, Miss Dearn; please do what I asked.”

“I will try; good-night.”

He hastened towards the little shop a short distance along the road,

while Iris turned slowly into the house. She looked once more at

his well-built, retreating form as it grew blurred in the soft,

violet-tinted twilight.

“That afternoon in the cave has evidently made some difference to him

too,” she thought to herself; “I wonder in what way--if only he had

finished that sentence I might have known.”

CHAPTER V

THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER

“Wake up, dear,” said Mrs. Henderson the following morning, stooping

and gently kissing her cousin’s white arm as it nestled against the

coverlet, the dainty sleeve of muslin and cobweb-lace having slipped

over the delicately curved elbow.

Iris opened her deep blue eyes and looked with troubled wonder at her

companion.

Mrs. Henderson explained. “You must get dressed at once, dearie; Miss

Smith has just called me. Mr. Rees sent her up to ask if we would

care to go with him to a place--I forget the name--but there are to

be sports in aid of some charity; I was too sleepy to take in the

details--only Miss Smith said it would be such a lovely drive through

a part of the country we have never seen, and you said last night

you would like some more trips. Mr. Rees has to go, they are to have

jumping, and he has been asked at the last minute to ride one of the

horses; the owner is not well enough, or, as Miss Smith put it, he has

‘funked’ it, and wants Mr. Rees to take his place. It appears they are

all anxious to get him as he is such an excellent rider. But we have to

start early; the place is twenty miles away and the sports commence at

twelve o’clock; there are some other people from the township going

too, so Mr. Rees is taking the wagonette. I suppose we shall have the

front seats as usual.”

An hour afterwards they were on their way.

It was a lovely morning. The cloudless sky was the clear blue of baby

eyes. The hills lay wrapped in dreamy gossamer haze. The air throbbed

with warmth and golden sunlight. Flocks of chattering parrots flew in

and out of the silver wattle trees and honey-eaters twittered merrily

in bottle-brushes.

The horses danced along the road. They were very fresh and enjoyed

being allowed to gallop up the numerous hills. The wagonette was filled

with people gaily attired for the holiday. Mrs. Henderson and Miss

Dearn were in their usual places, and Iris arranged that her cousin

should sit next to the driver, for, in spite of her promise the night

before, she still felt distinctly uncomfortable in his presence. She

was not only ashamed of her conduct, but there was another curious

emotion blending with her mortification which made her still more

uneasy when she was near him. It was a strange feeling, making her

want to avoid him and at the same time feel restless if she kept out

of his way. That morning when he greeted her she felt her pulses beat

unaccountably fast, and it was this inexplicable embarrassment which

made her choose the seat farthest away from him.

Mrs. Henderson was always bright and talkative, and kept up a constant

conversation with the driver. She asked a great many questions and he

answered them all more extensively than usual. After they had been

driving for an hour it dawned on Mrs. Henderson that her cousin had

said very little that morning and she at once remarked on it. “Iris,”

she said suddenly, “what is the matter with you? You have hardly said a

word all the way, and, now I come to think of it, you have been rather

quiet the last few days--whatever is wrong?”

“Have I been quiet?” Miss Dearn replied with light composure, opening

her parasol; but, before she could proceed, Rees had begun to tell

Mrs. Henderson a thrilling story of bushranging days, which held her

attention for the rest of the journey.

When they arrived at the sports ground it was already swarming with

people; the adjacent paddocks were dotted with vehicles and horses tied

to fences and shady trees. Other buggies and carts were constantly

arriving. Whole families stowed away in traps were suddenly released

from their tight imprisonment. Babies cried, children laughed. Men

shouted country witticisms to each other. Women chattered.

Rees soon secured a programme, which he brought to Mrs. Henderson,

pointing out the items of greatest interest; then, telling her where

to get lunch, and explaining that he would be occupied for the rest of

the day, as the Committee had asked him to help in judging the various

races and other items, he left them.

As Mrs. Henderson and her cousin crossed the road to enter the festive

grounds, they glanced back and saw the driver helping a woman with

a baby out of a big cart. He was holding the infant in one arm and

assisting the rather massive farmer’s wife out with the other hand.

“That poor man will have his work cut out to-day, I can see,” remarked

Mrs. Henderson as they handed their tickets to a very important looking

official standing at the entrance to the enclosure. “Poor fellow, he

must be tired after being up half the night with the invalid. It is a

good thing Mr. Green is better this morning, and it is to be hoped he

will keep all right, so that Mr. Rees can have a good sleep to-night.”

“Yes,” replied Iris, a luminous softness coming into her eyes; “he

deserves it.” Then she added in a different tone: “When is he going to

ride?”

Her cousin consulted the programme. “Not till four o’clock. Come,” she

continued, “he told us not to miss the first item; it is a sack race!

Men look so funny in sack races; they always look to me as if they were

trying to hop like kangaroos. I notice they call it the Wallaby Race; I

am sure the Committee must have a sense of humour!”

A band began to play a gay two-step.

Iris and her cousin followed the crowd towards the opposite side of

the ground, where a large area had been roped in for the coming sack

race. The men were ready to start, standing in a straight line looking

very ungainly in their potato bags. Presently a pistol was fired and

the competitors commenced their cumbersome flight, looking more like a

flock of penguins flopping along their ice-fields than swift marsupials

bounding through the bush.

After this item followed running and walking races for men and boys.

It was a very hot day and all the competitors had very red and moist

faces, especially those who had just taken part in the first race.

It was half-past one before Mrs. Henderson and Miss Dearn made their

way to one of the long, low sheds where lunch was obtainable. Meals

were served all the time and the tables were constantly filled.

As the two ladies entered the rough wooden building Rees came up; he

had reserved seats for them, and, when he saw they were being well

looked after, hastened away again, reminding them of the chopping match

at half-past two.

Mrs. Henderson was very hungry after the long drive, and the first

course, consisting of cold ham and chicken, was most appetising. The

tables were laden with all kinds of home-made cakes, scones, mince-pies

and tarts. The floral decorations were rather crude; huge bunches of

Canterbury bells, dahlias and snap-dragons had been bound tightly

together and pressed into jam-jars with uncompromising firmness.

When Mrs. Henderson had finished a second portion of chicken the

girl who waited on them brought two plates piled high with delicious

raspberries and a jug of thick cream. “Mr. Rees told me to save these

for you,” she explained as no one else was having fruit at the table.

“We had a few for the Committee and the riders, and Mr. Rees thought

you might like them.”

“Isn’t he the most wonderful man you ever came across!” Mrs. Henderson

exclaimed when the waitress had gone. “How juicy and sweet the berries

are! I am afraid this means he has gone without any himself.”

“I don’t suppose he will have time for meals at all--he seems to be

wanted everywhere,” replied Iris evenly, looking at a youth sitting at

the opposite side of the table, who had evidently lavished much care on

his toilet that day. He wore a blue serge suit, a new straw hat with

a vivid pink band, and a tie of the same hue. But the sleeves of the

apparently ready-made clothes were much too short, and the waistcoat

was distressingly tight across the chest. However, he was ideally happy

talking to a girl with red hair in a saffron-coloured dress and a white

silk hat smothered with purple roses. They were both very young, both

evidently heart-whole, but seemingly anxious to experience the first

sweet clamours of love.

Mrs. Henderson and Iris were at the chopping match in time to see

the competitors arrive with their axes slung over their strong,

firm shoulders, the axe-heads most carefully wrapped in coloured

handkerchiefs or protected by leather covers. These were removed with

great care and the shiny blades, sharp as razors, anxiously felt.

At a given signal the men mounted the logs they were to chop and stood

ready with the weapons in position to deal the first telling blow. They

were all thinly clad; some wore cream or striped cotton jerseys, others

only vests or shirts with running pants, displaying finely developed

limbs. They were also bare-headed, and one good-looking youth with

chestnut hair had a long curl hanging coquettishly over his left eye.

The pistol was fired. Ten shiny axe-heads blinked high in the sunlight

and the next second pierced into the barked eucalyptus wood. Other

strokes followed with lightning rapidity; strokes well aimed, cutting

clean--great chips were separated from the blocks and flew about in all

directions.

Each competitor was surrounded by his own circle of admirers, who

shouted, cheered, gave advice and urged on the glittering strokes from

the flashing blades.

When the logs were nearly through the excitement became intense. The

shouts grew louder, the cheering wilder. From the ground rose a babel

of voices. Friends gesticulated and moved their bodies and arms in

uncontrollable agitation, pressing in upon the choppers till they were

almost within reach of the relentless axes.

At last, after moments of acutest suspense and frenzied commotion, the

first block was divided and the hero thunderously applauded. Other

heats followed and the final winner was the youth with the chestnut

curl. He was evidently a great favourite with the girls, and was now

thronged by pink-, green- and white-robed figures, holding out bare

or cotton-gloved hands to him. One girl, more enterprising than the

rest, brought him a huge buttonhole, and others who had not been so

thoughtful had to content themselves by plucking the roses they were

wearing and pelting him with the soft petals.

Iris all at once felt very tired. The drive had been long, and it was

stiflingly hot on the sports ground. She sighed for a little rest in

some shady, cool spot. She had a curious desire to be alone--a desire

she did not in the least understand.

At any other time this gay, motley Australian country crowd would have

interested her immensely. It was so happy, so full of spontaneous life

and irrepressible vitality. It was so enchantingly fresh and youthful.

It reminded her of a little girl who had dressed in grown-up clothes

and then suddenly forgotten the long skirts and given herself up to

the wild frolics of childhood. The air throbbed with laughter, merry

voices, the bark of hilarious dogs and the gay music of the exuberant

band. The Australians knew how to enjoy a holiday. They gave themselves

up to the pleasure of the moment with an abandonment that was almost

grand in its naïve simplicity. But the moving, jostling, excited throng

could not hold Iris Dearn’s interest just then. She had noticed that at

the upper end of the ground there was a small pine grove on a gentle

slope and making some excuse to her cousin she walked to this secluded

spot.

When she had reached the delicious solitude of the grove, she seated

herself on the carpet of pine needles and leant against a firm dark

brown tree. She was dressed in soft wedgewood-blue with a black

waistband and hat, on which a velvet flower, matching the gown, lay

gently against the brim in the one place where it added balance and

beauty to the general effect. As she rested against the dark tree-trunk

she closed her eyes. Her face was unusually pale and her heavy black

lashes accentuated the ivory whiteness of her soft curving cheeks. She

sat for some minutes absolutely still. The band was playing in the

distance and a melodious waltz floated up to her from the plain.

She did not hear approaching footsteps.

The driver had mounted the rise and was standing a few yards away,

regarding her pale, lovely face with a strange look in his sad, grey

eyes. Then he came nearer and spoke--

“Miss Dearn, are you not well--what is the matter?” he asked, and there

was suppressed concern in his voice.

She opened her eyes with a start and they seemed extraordinarily dark

and velvety in contrast with the delicate whiteness of her skin.

“I am sorry if I frightened you,” Rees continued; “I saw you coming up

here and I was afraid you were not well--you were not yourself this

morning.”

As she felt his eyes upon her a wave of colour mounted to her cheeks.

“Thank you, I am quite well--quite all right--only a little tired,” she

answered hurriedly, looking with sudden interest at the pine needles

beside her.

There was a short silence. Then she heard the driver sigh.

“You are not worrying over that--other matter?” he asked anxiously.

“No--not that.”

“Something else then?”

She did not reply. She was picking up small dry needles with her slim

white fingers and arranging them in a pile.

“Has it anything to do with--that afternoon?” he inquired after a

slight pause.

She looked out into the soft light filtering through the great

over-hanging branches, in thoughtful silence.

“Yes, I think so,” she said, still gazing into space.

“And it makes you--sad?”

“Yes----”

“Only sad--nothing else?”

“No, it doesn’t only make me sad,” she replied with a sudden fine

frankness.

He took a few steps away from her. Then he came back to the spot

where he had stood before, as he said, “Miss Dearn, I should not have

asked--please forgive me.”

She looked up at him now. “Why shouldn’t you ask? That afternoon was

yours as much as mine,” she said steadily.

As their glances met, they became strangely entangled and she could not

draw her eyes away from his for several seconds.

“Ah, here you are!” said Mrs. Henderson, making her way through the

pines; and, catching sight of the driver, she added: “Glad to see you

having a little respite after the way you have been slaving all the

time, Mr. Rees. But why don’t you sit down and rest properly while you

are about it?”

“Thank you--but I must not stay. I really came up to see if I could get

Miss Dearn some tea. Most people are having it early as the jumping

commences at four o’clock. May I bring some for you both?”

“No indeed, thank you! Do you think we should allow you to carry it all

this way? We won’t be quite so selfish; we shall go to the refreshment

stall and have some presently.”

The driver then asked if they would care to look at the horse he was

to ride, and, after arranging where to meet, he left them.

“I suppose he saw you come up here,” said Mrs. Henderson after he

had gone. “Nothing escapes that man, and see how he is in demand

everywhere--he is really most remarkable.”

At the appointed time Mrs. Henderson and her cousin arrived at the

place of meeting. Rees was already there. He was looking very handsome

in a brown corduroy velvet riding suit and long brown riding boots,

revealing his straight, well-shaped limbs.

He greeted them with friendly gravity and then took them to see his

beautiful mount. Prince was tall, with long, slender legs and a

jet-black satiny coat. As the ladies came up, he put out a soft velvet

muzzle to greet them.

“You beauty!” exclaimed Mrs. Henderson, patting his glossy neck.

“Isn’t he lovely?” said Iris, stroking his inquisitive, friendly nose.

“Yes, he is a beautiful racer,” said Rees; “the finest I have seen for

a long time.”

“You _must_ win,” cried Miss Dearn with a flush of enthusiasm.

“I shall do my best,” replied the driver, evidently pleased at her

eagerness.

It was time to get into the saddle now. Mrs. Henderson had already

turned away. Suddenly Iris pulled a deep red rosebud from the spray she

was wearing and gave it to Rees, smiling with lips and eyes. “Take it,

and may it bring you victory,” she said with gracious impulsiveness;

then she followed her cousin.

The jumping commenced.

A high four-railed fence had to be cleared.

A big grey hunter with powerful shoulders led the way. After followed a

stylish bay; then a number of horses in quick succession flew past the

spectators towards the high test. Some of them were soon disqualified,

the dull thud of iron striking wood denoted the top rail had been

touched--sometimes it even rattled to the ground.

There were some magnificent animals competing and most of them were

ridden by their owners, who wore picturesque riding suits.

It seemed a long time to Iris before Rees appeared. But at last the

black thoroughbred and his handsome rider came in sight. The horse

tossed his splendid head impatiently. The eyes were not docile now;

they glittered with fiery eagerness, and the velvet nostrils were

dilated till their red tinge gleamed in the sunlight. His muscles

quivered with excitement, but his rider kept him gently back, saving

his pace.

Rees had a fine seat. He was perfectly at home in the saddle. He rode

with a refined grace, a distinguished air, which set him at once apart

from his rivals in the field.

A loud cheer broke from the crowd as he cantered towards the fence. He

came up to it quietly, leant a little forward, allowed the horse to

attain the necessary speed, then lifted him over the obstacle as gently

as he had approached it. Louder applause followed. It was the neatest

jump on the grounds that day.

Iris watched with glowing interest.

Then an interminable succession of horses followed before the

jet-black racer appeared again. Once more he went over the fence like

a bird, and was vociferously cheered by the enthusiastic onlookers.

Prince was clearly the favourite.

Three-quarters of an hour went by. Some of the horses were showing

signs of fatigue and many had already fallen out. But the black

thoroughbred cantered towards the fence with arched neck and without

the least show of weariness.

Mrs. Henderson and her cousin were terribly excited; such a small

number of horses were left in now and after a few more rounds only the

big grey hunter, the light bay and the black favourite remained. All

three seemed inexhaustible; they went round, cleared the barrier, time

after time, and it seemed as if it would have to be a draw between them.

At last the bay touched the rail, and only the black and the grey were

left.

The excitement was at fever-heat now, the applause was thunderous.

But Rees kept very calm, he held his hands low and there was no trace

of agitation in his manner, only in his eyes burned a daring, eager

determination.

For some rounds there was no change in the position; then the big

hunter suddenly stumbled just before it was to take the final leap. His

rider turned him far enough back to get up speed again and made another

attempt to clear the fence, but the grey was tired and brought down the

top rail to the hard ground with a loud rattle.

The remaining horse with his wonderful greyhound stride followed,

cleared the obstacle as easily as before and passed the judges amid the

frantic acclamations from the vast crowd of spectators.

The black, with Rees up, had won!

The main road was lined with cars, smart buggies and traps, belonging

to the squatters and large estate owners of the surrounding districts,

who had come out to watch the jumping which was a special feature of

these annual sports; many of them had horses competing, and their sons

and friends were riding.

The whole road rang with uproarious cheers. Rees was surrounded by

congratulating friends, he could hardly move for thronging admirers.

“Let us go and congratulate him too,” said Mrs. Henderson to Iris;

“didn’t he ride perfectly? The way he managed that horse was masterly.”

But it was nearly six o’clock before they could get an opportunity of

speaking to the driver.

“We are so awfully proud of you; let us congratulate you most

heartily,” said Iris, a wonderful light in her blue eyes as she held

out her hand to him.

He pressed it gently. “Thank you,” he said with unmistakable pleasure;

“you told me I must win, so of course I had to. But,” he added, “won’t

you come and give a little of your appreciation to Prince, too?”

Mrs. Henderson said she was rather tired and would return to the

refreshment shed for a rest; so Iris followed Rees to the farther side

of the enclosure where the horses were tied to the strong fence.

The girl stroked the silky neck of the docile racer. “You darling!”

she cried under her breath, pressing her own soft cheek against his

smooth, shining coat. “You were just lovely--I should like to buy you

and keep you always, you dear, beautiful thing!”

The rider had stepped a little nearer; and, while he fondled the

thoroughbred’s sensitive, inquiring head, he drew it gently against his

shoulder.

An odd feeling came over Miss Dearn as she saw him caressing the docile

animal and she thought how nice it must be for the horse to have the

driver’s hands stroking it and drawing it to him. Then her thoughts

flew back to the afternoon in the cave. She too had rested against his

shoulder; she too had felt his arms round her, and the memory of it

thrilled her now with a strange exaltation. There was no longer shame

nor mortification at the thought; it was no more a thing for hot,

impetuous tears and regret. It had become beautiful--something for

which the future would be guarded, hedged about, only approached with

shoeless feet and hushed tones; something which for the rest of her

life would be enshrined in memory’s sacred temple. She instinctively

felt it was the biggest, the loftiest, the sweetest and the purest

thing which had ever touched her life. She was suddenly aware of this

as she stood beside the lovely horse and his handsome rider.

When she left them she seemed to be walking in some wonderful dream.

She held her head high; her starlike eyes burned with dazzling

splendour. As she moved towards the shed where she was to meet her

cousin, people turned and stared at her--they had stared at her all

day--her remarkable beauty, splendid bearing, air of breeding; her

exquisite clothes, simple, but stamped with luxurious elegance, had

attracted attention wherever she moved. But now there was something

about her even more enchanting, which made people exclaim involuntarily

as she passed.

But Iris was utterly unconscious of the interest she aroused and the

admiration she excited. She walked in exultant abstraction, unaware

of what took place around her. She did not know that the man she had

just left glanced after her with a long, wistful look in his large grey

eyes, and that when she was out of sight he put his arms round the

horse’s black, shiny neck and pressed his lips against the glossy coat

where her cheek had rested.

CHAPTER VI

IN THE DUSK

During tea Mrs. Henderson watched the girl with pleasure. “Iris,” she

said, “how splendid you are looking--I have never seen you look so

well! This day in the open has done wonders for you--you look simply

radiant!”

Miss Dearn smiled in her bewitching way. “It has been a beautiful

day--I am sorry it is nearly over.”

“Iris,” said her cousin, still looking at her, “I don’t know what to do

with you--you really look too adorably lovely! I think I shall have to

cover you up on the way home, or else that poor man----”

Iris made a quick movement as if to stop the voluble outburst, but it

was no use. Mrs. Henderson proceeded: “Remember, he is only flesh and

blood like the rest of mankind; and to have you so near him!--for I am

going to make you sit next to him going home; he deserves that after

the way he rode and all his hard work to-day looking after every one

and helping in everything--all the same I am sorry for him; it must be

almost maddening to be so close to the beautiful Miss Dearn and have

her so delightfully nice to him--you know you really are awfully nice

to him, Iris--and yet he is only a poor driver----”

Her cousin made another attempt to speak, but still Mrs. Henderson

continued: “He really is splendid--such a wonderful organiser! I have

been watching him to-day, and here as well as everywhere else he knows

just what ought to be done and how to do it. But a man like that is

absolutely wasted here; he should be in a very different position,

and, with his ability, he easily could.” She touched Miss Dearn on

the shoulder. “Look down there; he has just come in for tea; see how

the girls are surrounding him! He is a great favourite with them; but

they have to worship him from afar; although he has that delightful

manner with them all he is not intimate with one of them. They have to

content themselves with bringing him things to eat and casting long,

sly glances after him when he has gone. But what a superb rider he is!

By the way, I wonder who gave him that rose he is wearing; I have never

seen him with flowers in his coat before, and I noticed he looked down

to see if it was there several times before he took the fence.”

Iris did not blush, only the strange joy in her heart deepened. It was

glorious to be alive, to be young, to be amid all this great beauty,

and she gazed suddenly towards the haze-covered hills and the softly

indicated mountains in the distance. She would be going towards those

mountains presently. She would drive by huge fields of swaying corn,

while the sunset still cast its rosy rays on the enchanted earth. Then

would come the delicious cool twilight. She would pass through long

stretches of dense bush where shadows would fall around her and fold

her about with soft wings of mystery. And above all she would be beside

the man who had sung to her in the cave, who had held her in his arms

and who had suddenly brought a great wonderful something into her life.

They had started home.

Iris sat next to the driver. The front seat of the wagonette was

rather small for three, and, as Mrs. Henderson took up a good deal of

room, Miss Dearn and Rees were sitting close together. His arm pressed

against hers constantly, especially when Mrs. Henderson spoke to him

and he had to lean over Iris a little to catch what her cousin said.

The contact thrilled her and brought a sweetness to her senses which

was almost numbing.

They soon left the noisy main road crowded with holiday-makers going

home and made their way towards the western mountains, where only

occasional vehicles passed them on the quiet road.

They drove through small townships, passed prosperous farms, went up

steep ascents, crossed murmuring creeks, while the setting sun cast

a shimmering splendour over all. Then at last they reached the dense

virgin bush, where the trees met overhead completely shutting out

the sky; where the stillness seemed like the stillness in some dim

cathedral, and the stray notes of birds like fading notes from an organ.

The soft, breathless twilight crept over the earth; not a branch

moved, not a grass-blade stirred. The twilight was deep purple with the

rich hue of hyacinths, gradually emerging into soft, cool darkness,

which glided into the scented air, slipping under branches of the huge

gum-trees, dropping over luxuriant undergrowth, brooding over the road

and resting in delicious languor on the grass. Iris felt its gentle

breath upon her cheek. To her it was a tangible, beautiful thing which

had come to enrich her joy.

They drove some distance without talking, the majestic stillness around

them had for the time hushed all voices. The silence was only broken by

the muffled rumble of wheels and the touch of iron hoofs on the soft,

yielding road.

But the people inside the wagonette could not be still for long;

presently some one began a chorus, and soon afterwards the others

joined, even Mrs. Henderson, so it was possible for Iris and Rees to

talk a little.

“How I wish you were singing instead of all these people,” said Iris

gently, with a touch of yearning in her voice.

“Would you really care to have me sing again? I didn’t think you would

want that any more.”

The effort to suppress the eagerness in his tones was not altogether

successful.

“How strange you should think such a thing. Why, I have been wanting to

hear you sing ever since----”

“Really?”

“I should love to hear you out here in the bush--in this great mellow

dimness.”

“I am sorry I can’t sing to you to-night; if we had been alone----”

“You would have sung then?”

“Yes, gladly.”

“The others do not know you sing?”

“No.”

“You do not wish them to know?”

“Certainly not.”

“How strange,” mused his companion; “when you have such a wonderful

voice I should have thought you would love to use it.”

“I do.”

“Yet----?”

“That desire has to be restrained, like--others.”

“You think this--necessary?”

“I know it is.” He spoke with emphasis.

“Of course you know best, but--it seems such dreadful waste. You ought

to be singing to thousands.”

“It is kind of you to think so.”

“Now you are reminding me that I am trespassing----”

“You know I did not mean that. Miss Dearn, don’t pretend to

misunderstand me--please don’t,” he said with profound entreaty.

“No, no, of course I knew,” she said, turning to him in eager

explanation. “But I deserved a reminder all the same.” She stopped for

a moment, but, without giving him time to reply, she continued: “Only

it would have been so beautiful to have you singing to-night, such an

exquisite finish to a perfect day.”

“A perfect day?” he repeated questioningly. “Has it really been that to

you?”

“Yes, absolutely satisfying--didn’t you find it so? You ought to, you

know, after your great success.”

“Success, do you call it!” She felt the smile in his voice. “It has

been a day to remember, but satisfying----”

“Not that? You must be hard to please.”

“Perhaps I am. But _some_ beauty is not satisfying, because it makes

one wish for more.”

“In that case you may have your wish, as there are many more long,

delicious summer days to come.”

He sighed a little, then said in altered tones: “As I can’t sing to you

to-night, may I do so some other time?”

“I should love that--when do you think it will be?”

“Perhaps to-morrow at the Marble Cliffs--you are going there, aren’t

you?”

“If you can take us.”

Iris saw what was in his mind now. Her cousin would never venture on

the dangerous path down the great hill leading to the best view of the

cliffs. Mrs. Henderson would stay at the cottage on the top of the

hill, and talk to the old lady who lived there and supplied visitors

with afternoon tea and raspberries and cream; while she and the driver

made the descent alone, as they had done before. They would sit on the

wide ledge above the turbulent river and look across to the majestic

white rocks rising nearly seven hundred feet in sheer, massive grandeur

on the other side of the stream.

The singing had ceased, and Mrs. Henderson spoke again to the driver.

“Is that our little township over there?” she said, pointing to some

lights which had come into view as they turned a corner.

“I am afraid so.”

“Afraid--I should have thought you would be glad; you must be so tired

after all your hard work.”

“No, I am not at all tired,” he said. “I could go through it again with

ease.”

When they had reached the boarding-house and every one had got out of

the vehicle Iris walked up to the horses and stroked them caressingly.

“They have done excellent work to-day,” she said; “they must have a

little attention also.”

Rees was beside her in a moment; one of the bays moved his head eagerly

towards him as if asking for his caress too.

“How all animals love you,” said Miss Dearn impulsively.

“Perhaps they are sorry for me because I have--no other love.”

“Come on, Iris, I am starving for supper; let those poor horses get

some too,” called Mrs. Henderson from the open door.

* * * * *

As Iris sat before the large oval mirror that night, brushing her

golden-brown hair, she suddenly put down the brush, placed her elbows

on the dressing-table and covered her face with her hands. “I am no

longer free,” she whispered half aloud, “I am no longer quite free;

something has bound me--my pride has been conquered--something is

holding me----”

She was no longer the independent, rather self-sufficient Iris Dearn,

who had walked through life unimpeded, in her grand, aloof, imperious

way.

She was no longer free: she was beginning to discover her fetters.

CHAPTER VII

BY THE MARBLE CLIFFS

Iris Dearn and Rees were seated on a flat rocky ledge overlooking a

tremendous precipice at the bottom of which flowed a gleaming, silvery

stream. They were gazing across the gorge at the great Marble Cliffs

rising in majestic splendour on the other side of the river. The warm

afternoon sunshine poured its glinting radiance on the colossal mass

of stone, making its peculiar dull pallor glitter with a ghost-like

whiteness. The rocks rose from the edge of the water in perpendicular,

undeviating straightness. They seemed to have stepped out from the

tangled background of thickly wooded hills with uncompromising

boldness. There was an air of lofty decision about them, an almost

grim, relentless purpose in their stately, imposing immensity.

Iris and her companion sat a little distance apart, and were for a time

silenced by the solemn grandeur before them. The cliffs always awed and

overwhelmed.

A flock of black cockatoos flew shrieking across the deep ravine, and,

as they fluttered past the rocks, small dark shadows flickered for a

moment over their dead white surface.

“Isn’t it wonderful to have such cliffs so far inland!” said Iris,

without removing her gaze from the monstrous erection of stone. “I

suppose the sea was here once.”

“I suppose so.”

“What do you think the cliff looks like?” asked Miss Dearn after

another pause.

“To me it seems like a tremendous tombstone,” he replied, with

significant seriousness.

Iris shuddered slightly. “What a mournful comparison. But,” she

continued turning to him a little, “what grave would have such a

monument?”

He reflected a moment. “The things that might have been; all the

beautiful, warm, joyous things which might have been within our reach,

and after all can never be ours.”

The girl breathed a little fluttering sigh. “I wonder if we shall ever

know what these things were.”

“We shall never know all, of course. But sometimes we have dreams. A

beautiful vision comes to us and we long with all the force of our

nature to reach out and capture the lovely thing, and yet, because of

circumstances, we cannot, we dare not, make it ours.”

“But do you think it could ever be wrong to reach out after the things

we want?”

“Perhaps our hands are tied.”

“But surely, if our desire to possess the delightful things was strong

enough, we should burst the restraining bonds?”

“Even then we might not be able to break the fetters.”

“Then our desire cannot be strong enough,” commented his companion

with youthful certainty.

Rees had been looking at the cliffs all the time he had been speaking,

now he suddenly turned to Miss Dearn and there was a curious expression

in his grey eyes as he said: “Some chains are never broken.”

“Marriage chains,” suggested Iris lightly, a sudden fear blanching her

cheeks.

“No, I was not referring to those,” he said steadily; “there are others

equally relentless.”

She drew a quick breath of relief and the colour leapt into her cheeks

again. “I don’t think any others could bind irrevocably.”

“No, you may not think so; all the same, they do.”

He had been speaking with a quiet significance, and she knew he wanted

her to understand his underlying meaning. Yesterday they had been

drifting towards each other. Iris had realised this. She knew that,

though the driver had made no advances, though his manner had been very

much the same as usual, a wonderful new intimacy had sprung up between

them. The nature of this bond was as yet unrealised by her. She only

knew it was something intangible, but warm and strong; something which

had lifted her out of ordinary life into a sphere of strange, exultant

emotions, tremulous joy, exuberant gladness, at the same time slipping

soft, delicious chains about her which bound her in an exquisite, sweet

captivity.

Had Rees also felt this great magic something drawing them together?

Yes, he must have been aware of it; some beautiful vision had come to

him of all it might bring into his sad, humble life, and he had let

her know that he considered he had no right to such bliss. She liked

him for feeling like that, and yet why should he not try to gain what

he desired? Surely, there could be no serious obstacle to the intimacy

between them, except his position? For one instant a terrible fear of

a possible marriage hidden somewhere in the background of his life

had paled her cheeks. But he had immediately removed her trepidation

on that score. The sudden terror should have opened her eyes at once

to the nature of the emotions drawing her to him. But she was so

much occupied by their effect upon herself, that she did not stop to

investigate their cause.

Yet, what could he mean by the binding chains he had referred to? There

was only one probable answer--his circumstances. From the world’s point

of view, of course, it would be most incongruous that any friendship

should exist between a London society beauty and a poor, insignificant

driver. Her mother would be appalled at the thought of such a thing.

But Rees was the finest, the most attractive, man she had ever met, and

he was unmistakably a gentleman; so did position matter?

In the world she had left behind it would matter greatly--vitally. But

in free, delightful, sun-kissed Australia, where man was linked to

man, where barriers had been overthrown, and people were unhampered by

old-world traditions of rank, blood and social distinction--here in

this glad liberty--such a relationship might surely be possible between

them. Suddenly Iris Dearn determined that she would not return to

London. Her lot should be cast in Australia.

“I wonder what you are thinking about?” said her companion at length,

gazing at her from under well-marked, dark brows. “You look as if you

were solving big problems.”

Iris felt her cheeks grow warm. “I was--I have just made up my mind not

to go back to England--I want to stay out here,” she said, evading his

eyes.

“Is that a wise decision?”

“I am sure it is. But,” she went on as if anxious to change the

subject, “you were going to sing to me, you know.”

He looked carefully up the steep, ledge-like track by which they had

descended to their present rocky seat. It was a very dangerous path,

hanging over a drop of many hundred feet. Few people ventured down

unless the guide accompanied them; all the same his eyes scanned the

zigzag path to where it disappeared over the brow of the tree-covered

hill.

There was no one in sight.

“I wonder what you would like me to sing?” he asked after he was

satisfied that no one else was within ear-shot.

“What do you feel in the mood to sing?”

“Do you think it is safe to indulge one’s moods?”

“Why not--where music is concerned?”

“Because music has such terrible power to reveal secrets--to those who

should know least about them.”

[Illustration: _Photo. Spurling & Son, Launceston._

THE ALUM CLIFFS, MERSEY RIVER.]

“I am afraid you are too sensitive on that point,” said Miss Dearn

lightly. “You are so reserved that I believe it is positively painful

to you to show your fellow-beings that you have any feelings at all.

You would like us all to think that you are a cold, callous thing who

has no interest except in beauty spots, and no heart for any one except

dumb animals and people in trouble,” she laughed with a teasing, tender

look in her eyes.

“My fellow-beings would be wise if they thought so.”

“How correctly I have guessed,” said the girl triumphantly. “You would

like to drive us all to this conclusion.”

“And won’t you be driven?” A bright light sprang for a moment into his

grey eyes.

“I should think not! We have taken you too long at your own valuation,

now I shall form my own estimate of you.”

“An estimate which will be quite wrong, I am afraid, so you had better

keep to mine.”

“Very well, then, if you are so insistent that we shall regard you as

an iceberg, I shall begin to treat you like one straight away,” she

said with playful dignity.

He smiled, and there was less sadness in his face than she had ever

seen there.

She sat leaning lightly against the rock behind her. She had taken

off her hat and glinting sunbeams played indulgently with the thick

golden-brown waves of her hair. Her large blue eyes smiled at him from

behind their enchanting lashes, her red lips were slightly parted and

he caught a flash of her snowy, even teeth. The vermilion in her cheeks

was dazzling. She looked bewilderingly beautiful, and for a moment an

almost dazed look came into the driver’s face. After a pause he said

with a show of emotion: “Miss Dearn, you are too kind to me.”

“Do you call it kind to promise to treat you as an iceberg?” she

laughed again.

“I was not referring to that. But such kindness is too good for me--it

would be as well to remember that I am only a driver and----”

She interrupted him hastily; this was his sore point: she must show him

at once that his position did not affect her, so she said lightly: “And

couldn’t a driver by any chance be manly enough, honourable enough to

be worthy of a woman’s trust--a woman’s friendship?”

“Some might be,” he admitted.

“In spite of being drivers?” The blue velvet of her eyes held smiling

banter.

“Yes,” he replied, watching her for some seconds. “If a man is worthy

in himself, I don’t think any position could make him less a man.”

“You are right,” said Miss Dearn with sudden seriousness. Then she went

on more playfully: “And now that we both agree on this subject, we can

let it drop once and for all.”

“I think not.” He spoke as one determined to be honest at all costs.

“Why not?” There was deep surprise in her voice.

“Because some drivers cannot lay claim to manliness.”

Miss Dearn laughed suddenly. “Do you mean to imply that you are not

manly--and you are the manliest man I have ever known!”

“God help the rest!” he said, with quick vehemence.

“What a strange mood you are in to-day,” observed the girl, regarding

him from under half-closed lids. “A little while ago you were afraid to

sing in case your music might give me a glimpse of what is below the

surface, and here you are telling me in plain words some of the things

your reserve generally hides--truly men are enigmas!”

“I was not afraid of that kind of revelation.”

“I don’t believe you want to sing,” said Miss Dearn, changing her

tactics.

He jumped to the bait instantly. “If only you knew how much! I will

start at once if I may sing what I like,” he said, with a tense

question in his gaze.

“Yes,” she replied softly, surveying the rocky ledge with minute

interest.

He moved a little nearer and began to sing--

“The white sea mist rolls up to the sand

And sorrow they say is over the land.

But little they know that behind the mist

The sea and the land have softly kissed.”

Iris listened with bated breath.

He sang with a tenderness which was moving, with a sweetness

inexpressible.

Then followed the second verse--

“And I who sit and sorrow apart,

Am dying they say of a broken heart;

Ah, little they know that behind the mist

I live in a dream of the day we--kissed.”

The pathos in his voice hurt her and brought stinging tears to her

eyes. They had never kissed, but somehow he conveyed to her that for

the future he would live in the day he had held her to his heart in the

caves.

“How exquisite--but--how sad! Why did you sing such a pathetic song?”

“You said I might sing according to my mood.”

“Why are you so sad?” Her eyes were upon his face almost demanding an

answer.

“Because of what might have been--because of what I must bury under

those great cliffs and never uncover again.”

His words brought a quick pain to her heart. “What might have been--”

she repeated as one stunned by a blow.

“Yes, what might have been, and never can be.” His face had all at once

blanched and his eyes had a haunted look in them. “The White Sea Mist

has blotted out all sunshine,” he added as something irrevocable and

final.

“Yet the Sea and the Land met behind the mist,” Iris murmured scarcely

audibly.

“Only for a time. Then came the bitter parting and the bare after-life

with its blinding memory.”

“Yet it was worth all to have that memory.”

“Do you think it is better to have a memory which blinds, or to have no

pain and no--memory?”

“I would rather have the pain and--the memory.”

“Would you really?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I think so. The memory means that one has something to look back

upon.”

“It would be worth all just to have that.”

“Are you positively sure?” He still spoke as one a little uncertain,

who wanted a definite understanding.

She met his eyes unflinchingly. “I am,” she said slowly, and after she

had said the words, she knew that she had made a compact with the man

beside her.

He rose to his feet, stood for some minutes looking into the terrible

gully below, then he came and sat down closer to her.

“I am going to sing now--not anything which will remind you of the

monument over there, but something which will bring back to you--other

things.”

She waited in breathless anticipation, and thrilled visibly when he

began to sing--

“I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”

Suddenly she was back in the cave. She felt his arms holding her, she

was pressed against his heart. The song and the way he sang it made her

feel this. Every note was a caress, every word a vibrant sigh from his

soul. It seemed as if his voice folded her to him with arms which would

not let her go; and when he came to the words--

“And all my soul shall strive to wake

Sweet wonder in thine eyes,”

she knew he was striving with all the force of his strong nature to

awaken in her an answering emotion.

She sat listening with closed eyes, face pale, lips trembling and her

soft bosom heaving.

When he had finished she bent forward and said brokenly: “Oh, don’t

sing like that to me again, I cannot bear it--how can I?” And her voice

was choked by a great, dry sob.

“I only sang from my heart,” he said quietly: his face white and set,

his hands gripping each other. “I thought you gave me permission?”

“Yes, I know I did, but it simply--it makes me--I can’t bear it,

unless----”

“Unless what?” he demanded breathlessly.

“Don’t ask, please don’t!”

“Perhaps I can guess--I, too, am thinking of the--cave.”

She started. He was speaking plainly now, but she had given him

permission. She did not blame him; her own heart was crying out wildly,

as his cried out! It was not his fault that this terrible love had come

to him as it had come to her: the keen, piercing love which had been

born in their hearts while she lay softly pressed against his breast.

Now she suddenly understood the nature of the emotion which had drawn

her to him--it was love--love--love! Oh, the power of it! the beauty

of it! the force of it! She could cry out with its fierce excruciating

sweetness!

She sat helpless, overwhelmed by the vehemence of her feelings.

“Can’t you make it easier?” she faltered tremulously.

“There are only two ways: either to stay here as our hearts tell us,

or--go back to the cottage quickly.”

He waited for her reply. “What is it to be?” he asked, as no answer

came.

“Whichever you think is right,” she whispered at last.

Her utter trust and abandonment touched him.

“Then let me take you up to your cousin at once,” he said hurriedly.

He helped her to her feet, and they began to climb the precipitous path.

They reached the top of the hill breathless and hot, then they stopped

and looked down once more on the wonderful white cliffs. The path

turned at this point and the great rocks would soon be lost to view.

They stood gazing down, as if saying good-bye.

“Thank you for helping me,” said Iris in an undertone; “but I knew I

could trust you always to do the right thing.”

“I should not have sung what I did; such things reveal too much.” He

spoke remorsefully and all the sadness had returned to his face.

“Don’t say that,” she pleaded softly. “I would not have had it any

different--not for the world!”

“Wouldn’t you really?”

“No, for now we shall have this to look back upon in the future when

you have buried everything under that huge, unrelenting tombstone.”

“You say when _I_ have buried everything. Do you mean to say that _you_

would not?”

She met his eyes bravely. “No, I should not--I couldn’t,” she said

simply.

He drew a hard breath. “_I_ must do it then,” he said, deep shadows

gathering in his eyes.

The pain in his face hurt her. She wanted to comfort him. “We won’t

think of that just now, this is the time to gather the memories, isn’t

it?”

He smiled gravely. “Yes, let us gather the sweetness now.” He glanced

once more down towards the great towering stones. “That cliff is not to

be our tombstone yet--what shall it be to us for the present?”

Iris lifted her face suddenly and there was a wonderful light in

her splendid eyes. “I think it is a monument Nature has erected to

commemorate the purest and brightest thing which has ever come into our

lives,” she said.

He looked at her with deep reverence. “God grant that you may always

regard what is between us in that light,” he said huskily, baring his

head.

CHAPTER VIII

FATE

“Fate is strange--it is weird!” said Iris often to herself during the

following days.

“Mother used to say that no girl had better chances of making a

brilliant match than I; but I never could care for any of the men who

counted, and now--” her tones grew soft and wistful--“and now there

will be no marriage at all, for the only man I shall ever love--a poor

driver employed by the mistress of a boarding-house--will have none of

me! He loves me, yes, he loves me, as I love him.” Her eyes shone as

she put the precious facts into words, but their brightness was dimmed

by a dewy mist. “All the same he will have none of me. He has told me

our love must one day be buried under that great white tombstone--that

is the fate of our love; and mine--to be near him for a little while,

to watch his beautiful life, see more clearly how useless my own has

been, get to know him better--love him more desperately.” She stopped

and breathed more quickly. “And then--when we have come to the end of

our endurance--when we have gone as far as our love may go, he will

take it, and, with strong though trembling hands, thrust it into its

cold, silent grave. That is my future--all life will ever hold for

me--the fate of the much envied, much-sought-after, spoilt Iris Dearn,

who, London prophesied, would marry a prince or a duke--she has come to

this! She cannot even marry a poor guide--he will not have her! Fate is

weird! It has shown me what could give me unspeakable bliss and then

told me it must never be mine. All that may be mine is a home with Amy

in the vast desolation of the Australian bush. I shall live with her

always and my future will be one long, sweet, terrible looking back

on--_this_!

“I shall spend my days trying to live as he lives; be useful, bear

burdens, give help. I shall ride about on Amy’s estate, visit the

shepherds’ wives and children, take them things, sit with them when

they are ill; drive about the whole district and do for all I can reach

what he would do for them if he were there. I shall give most of my

income away. I shall live simply, and it will not cost much to keep me;

and the rest of my money shall be spent on people in need; myself and

my money--all must be given.

“But at present I am still near him--this is the time to gather

memories. I see him at meals; he comes and arranges for outings; his

dear, sad eyes look often into mine. I sit beside him when we drive; we

talk, discuss all kinds of things; his arm sometimes touches mine, we

look at all the beauty together, smile and laugh, but--we have never

been alone since the afternoon by the cliffs.”

* * * * *

Rees was very busy driving numerous visitors to the various beauty

spots, and Iris and her cousin joined most of the excursions; but

there had been no opportunity for him to take them out by themselves.

However, at last there had been a big clearance of tourists, and one

afternoon he was free to take them out alone wherever they cared to go.

Mrs. Henderson had for some time wished to explore a road winding its

way among some very wild-looking hills, so they decided to go.

They drove some miles away from the township on a rather rough,

chocolate-tinted road surrounded by magnificent bush. There were

stretches of flowering ti-tree and sombre-hued blackwoods. Golden

wattle, dogwood, bronze-green cherry trees, patches of grass-tree

and numerous other shrubs grew in lavish tangle under the immense

interlacing blue-gums, scenting the summer air with their delicious

fragrance. From the bush came showers of silvery notes from the

happy blue wren as it swelled its little blue and black throat in

glad, liquid song. The track led through moist, shady corners, where

sassafras and myrtle and huge tree ferns were matted together in

luxuriant confusion.

When they came to a little stream trickling over moss-covered stones

Mrs. Henderson suggested they should have afternoon tea as it was

a cool, shady spot. They got out of the buggy, and, after Rees had

unharnessed the horses, he began to gather bark and wood to light the

fire.

“I shall go down under those tree ferns and have a quiet read while you

two boil the billy,” said Mrs. Henderson, beginning to descend a small

gully on the left side of the road.

“Be careful about snakes,” the driver cautioned as she left them.

“I am used to the bush, I shall be all right and I promise not to go

far away.”

Iris insisted on helping Rees, and when the fire was burning brightly

they unpacked the baskets and laid out the tea.

“Come and sit on this bank till the water boils,” suggested her

companion.

Iris breathed a sigh of utter content. It was so lovely in this green,

cool, fragrant spot in the depth of the great forest, where the

exalted stillness was only broken by the flutter of wings, the murmur

of streamlets and the soft notes of birds. They were by themselves at

last, and her lover’s nearness brought her a great, vital joy.

“Miss Dearn, you have hurt your hand,” said her companion suddenly.

She glanced down at it quickly. “It is only a scratch.”

“I believe there is a splinter in it--may I look?”

She held out her hand to him. He took it tenderly between his own and

examined it carefully; there really was a small splinter in the wound

and he pulled it out gently. As he did so his sleeve and soft cuff

slipped up a little and Iris noticed that above the wrist his arm was

as white and his skin as fine in texture as her own. And, though his

hands were brown, they were wonderfully soft, well cared for and had a

delicacy of touch which had often surprised her.

When he had extracted the splinter he did not release her hand, but

still held it caressingly and fondly in his clasp.

Neither of them spoke. Iris averted her face a little and in her eyes

shone a deep, tremulous shyness.

“Miss Dearn, am I taking too great a liberty?” he asked in a low voice.

“No,” she breathed. There was another delicious pause; then she

continued: “Please don’t call me Miss Dearn--at least not when we are

just--together, like this.”

“What may I call you then?” he asked eagerly.

“My name, of course,” she said very quietly.

“May I really call you by your beautiful flower-name?” There was wonder

and exultation in his words.

“Yes, if you care to,” she whispered, her shyness increasing with the

emotion he showed.

“Iris--Iris,” he murmured lingeringly. “How sweet of you to let me----”

There was a loud, seething splutter from the fire: the billy had boiled

over.

He released her hand quietly, and went over to make the tea. He coo-eed

to let Mrs. Henderson know it was ready, and presently they were all

enjoying a dainty repast.

Iris noticed that the driver did not eat much, but he drank great

quantities of tea. He was generally thirsty, but as a rule he was

hungry as well; to-day he ate only one tiny scone.

“Mr. Rees, you are not eating anything--what has happened to your

appetite? By the way, Iris,” Mrs. Henderson went on without waiting

for his reply, “what did your mother say in the letter you got this

morning?”

“There was no particular news. Mother told me about the things she and

Helen had been doing lately, painted London in glowing colours, and

concluded by asking her usual question--when am I coming home?”

Mrs. Henderson turned to Rees. “My cousin, as I dare say you have

noticed, is not infatuated with London life; on the contrary she has

fallen most violently in love with the life here, to the consternation

and grief of her relations and friends on the other side of the

world--they are always trying to induce her to go back to England.”

“I suppose they don’t quite understand the fascination of the life

here.”

“No, indeed! They think our taste for it extraordinary, as they

consider the people here rather rough, and of course some of the

Australians cannot claim as fine breeding as they do for their sheep.

It is this I am sure which worries our people at home when they think

of Iris; as one friend put it in a letter last mail, if Iris stayed

here much longer she would be marrying a----”

“Please don’t tell Mr. Rees about that,” interrupted Iris a little

imperiously, blushing hotly.

“Why not, my dear? It would only amuse him.”

“No, please don’t tell me if Miss Dearn doesn’t want me to hear it,”

the driver interposed.

“You are really too soft with her, all because of those pretty blushes.

Now, when I come to think of it, Iris, you never used to blush like

that; it is something you have acquired quite recently.”

The colour in the girl’s face deepened still more, but she did not

lower her splendid eyes.

Mrs. Henderson continued: “Why shouldn’t Mr. Rees be allowed to share

the joke about your marrying a bushranger----”

She stopped as she saw the driver’s face suddenly blanch, and a curious

look came into his eyes as they became fixed on the ground behind her.

Rees had just discovered a huge black snake creeping in bulky curves

towards Mrs. Henderson. Its small dark tongue was out, moving

menacingly as its thick glistening body made a wide trail on the loose

fine earth. Mrs. Henderson was evidently seated in front of its hole in

the bank and it was determined to attack the obstacle in the way. Its

small beady eyes glittered--in another moment it would spring, already

it was raising its head to strike.

Rees had a gun in the buggy, but there was no time to get that. There

was a stick within reach, but it was a very thin one and it would be

dangerous to attack the monster with such a frail weapon. There was not

a moment to lose, so he could not stop to think of the risk to himself.

Quickly he gripped the wood, made a plunge forward, and with a big

swoop brought the stick with all his force on the sleek black body.

There was a small cracking sound.

The slender weapon had broken without vitally injuring the snake,

which now, goaded to fury, hissed viciously and turned fiercely on its

assailant. Rees was within a yard of the snake and without defence for

the moment. He would have retreated in search of a weapon, but he was

alive to the fact that, if he were to do so, the monster would probably

turn upon Mrs. Henderson, who was standing stock still, too fascinated

with horror to move.

Iris took in his predicament instantly. In another second the man she

loved would be bitten by the venomous, hissing thing so close to his

feet. She was standing by the smouldering fire. Quickly she snatched

one of the long, burning sticks, sprang forward and thrust it into the

driver’s right hand.

It was only just in time to ward off the malicious head now only a few

inches away from his left hand.

The reptile was brought to the ground by the close contact of the

flames.

Before it could spring again there had been time to raise the heavy

stick high and now it came down on the fat, glistening back with a

power which broke it. The snake lay writhing on the dry dusty ground.

It was not dead yet and it hissed viciously, trying to wriggle towards

its opponent, but a few more blows and it moved no more.

“What a horribly ugly thing!” shuddered Mrs. Henderson coming up beside

it. “You have saved my life, Mr. Rees--it was just behind me,” she said

unsteadily.

“It is Miss Dearn who saved us all. If she had not passed me that stick

so quickly--it would have had me,” he said, not trusting himself to

look at the girl who had helped him so promptly.

“Oh! that was nothing,” expostulated Iris, “it was you who killed it; I

should never have had the courage to attack such a monster.”

“You were very nearly attacked by it when you put that stick in my

hand.” He was looking at her now, and what she saw in his eyes made her

heart suddenly bound at a terrible pace.

“How long is it?” asked Mrs. Henderson, still standing fascinated

beside the dead reptile.

“It is over five feet and as thick as my arm,” said Rees quietly.

“Dangerous brutes when they mean mischief!”

All at once Mrs. Henderson shook off her horror and walked away from

the object which had held her attention. “Now look here,” she said, “we

are not going to allow any snake to spoil our outing; let us forget all

about the horrid episode and go on as if it hadn’t happened.”

Rees removed the crushed snake and threw it into a thicket of bracken.

“Now I am going for a little stroll along this lovely road while you

two pack up the things,” said Mrs. Henderson.

“But----” remonstrated the driver.

“No, I’m not afraid, we can’t have two such adventures in one

afternoon; that is really beyond all possibility--such things only

happen in penny dreadfuls,” and she went smilingly down the furrowed

road and soon disappeared round a sharp corner.

When she was well out of sight she sat down on a big stone. “Poor

things,” she thought, “I’ll give them a little time to themselves; they

deserve it after the brave way they behaved. There is no doubt about it

they are badly in love with each other; but how in the world will it

end? They can’t possibly marry, of course; Iris would never be allowed

to do such a thing--though I am not sure that they could stop her if

she really wanted to. The way he looks at her when he thinks himself

unobserved! And she is properly in love with him too, but then--he

really is so handsome--and such a perfect dear! I wonder what they are

doing now--not discussing snakes I’ll be bound.”

[Illustration: _Photo. Beattie, Hobart._

HERMANDIE RIVER.]

“Iris,” said the driver when they had stowed the baskets away in the

buggy, “I have not thanked you yet for saving my life.”

“I didn’t, I only passed you a piece of wood. You saved it yourself by

being so brave and strong--you saved ours too--we have not thanked you

either,” she replied with a tremulous smile.

“I don’t want to be thanked.”

“Never mind about the snake; let us follow Amy’s example and forget

it--only I must say how splendid you always are,” she exclaimed with

undisguised admiration.

His face brightened. “If you go on praising me like this, I shall begin

to--blush also,” he said with a sudden twinkle in his eyes.

At the reference to her blushes, her cheeks grew warm again.

“But, Iris, why wouldn’t you allow your cousin to tell me the joke

about your--marrying--a bushranger?” he asked, the twinkle still

between his dark lashes.

“I didn’t want you to hear about it--it was so horrid.”

“What was horrid, your marrying a bushranger, or--my hearing about it?”

he said, still smiling.

The warm blood mounted to her face again. “Both, of course--I mean----”

“Do you think it would be _very_ horrid to marry a bushman?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” she stammered in confusion.

“You don’t think it would be horrid then?”

“I don’t think it would be horrid to marry any man I--loved,” she said

with fine courage.

“Could you love a bushman?”

“Why not--if he were--lovable?”

They had been standing by the buggy talking; now Rees said, “You must

not be standing here, come and sit on this cleared bank.”

When he had spread a rug they sat down and for a while remained

silently looking into the green tangle of undergrowth. Into the

stillness came floating a clear flute-like note.

“That is the white magpie calling to its mate,” Rees said with his eyes

still on the scented shrubs. “Happy birds!” he sighed. “Happy birds!

they live their own free joyous lives, unfettered, unhampered--they

mate, sing and--kiss.”

Iris stirred uneasily, but she did not speak.

After a pause another flute-like call fell upon the pregnant stillness,

followed almost immediately by a tender response.

“Iris, did you hear that call, and--the answer?”

“Yes,” she murmured, her face averted.

“Iris--speak to me--please speak to me--use my name as I am using

yours,” he said with restless intensity.

“I do not know your name.” His vehemence had curiously confused her.

“You don’t know it--how strange!”

“No, you have never told me and no one uses it here, so how could I

know?”

“Justin is my name: please use it.”

“Thank you, I should like to.”

“Say it then.”

There came a silence.

“Iris,” he began, “please say it?”

“Some other time,” she faltered.

“Please say it now.”

Again there fell a throbbing pause.

“Are you punishing me because I--I--took that liberty this afternoon?”

and he gazed fondly at the slim white hand he had held in his own a

little while ago.

His companion suddenly looked down at it too.

“Of course not,” she said softly.

“Then are you trying to show me, that I must never--do it again?”

The well-poised head sank lower. “No.” He hardly caught the word.

“I may do it again then?”

“If--you care to.”

“Oh, Iris, you are too good to me--how little I deserve it! And yet you

will not call me by my name.”

“Oh, Justin!” she faltered, catching her breath.

“You darling!” he said in scarcely audible tones, and she saw a tremor

pass through him.

Some heavily pulsating moments went by, then he spoke again. “Iris--I

wonder if you really understand where you and I are drifting?”

“I think so,” she said, with drooping lashes.

“And you do not mind?”

“What is the use?”

“Oh, Iris!” he broke out remorsefully: “I have no right to ask you all

these questions--would to Heaven I had!”

At that moment Mrs. Henderson appeared at the bend of the road.

“Have you finished packing up? Isn’t it time to start home?” she

inquired.

“That is of course as you like,” replied the driver a little absently.

“Well, then, I think we had better go. I hope you two haven’t been

thinking about the reptile _all_ the time I have been away. It is so

bad for one’s nerves to dwell on horrors; it brings nightmare, and it

is unlucky to dream of snakes.”

CHAPTER IX

APPROACHING THE RAPIDS

The evening was iridescent with gold, azure and lilac. The sun was low

in the west, and the high, irregularly formed mountains looked as if

they had been shapes of mauve laid softly against the luminous sky.

They did not seem solid, but fairy-like, elusive, like the mystic forms

which glide before crystal-gazers, ready to vanish as silently as they

appear. The evening itself was unreal--too beautiful, too delicately

coloured, too spiritual to belong to this world. It seemed as if it

must be a fragment of time, dropped by accident from some wonderful

starry sphere and allowed to rest on earth for a little while before it

should be gathered to the place where it belonged.

Miss Dearn was sitting on a long, low chair on the balcony, her dainty,

cool hands lying idly in her lap, while she gazed into the soft

illumined spaces.

By one of the high wooden pillars stood Rees, regarding her with

unmistakable admiration in his disconcerting grey eyes.

“Iris, you have no idea what pleasure you gave Mr. Green by going to

see him,” he was saying; “they were as excited as two children just now

when I was there--and their delight at your gift--dressing-gown, wasn’t

it?--you should have heard them! The poor old man has never had such a

beautiful article in his life before--it really was a handsome present,

and it will give him no end of pleasure to wear it.”

The girl flushed happily; it was sweet to give the Greens pleasure, and

sweeter still to have pleased the man she loved.

“And I hear you have promised to go and see them again and read to the

poor old fellow--it is just splendid of you, Iris! You don’t know how

much it means to them; they live such dull, monotonous lives, and to

see you--” the admiration in his eyes deepened--“would be new life to

them--a vision from another world!”

“But it was such a little thing to do; I sent to Melbourne for the

garment--those things are generally useful to invalids, and when it

came I thought I should like to take it to them myself. I am so glad

they were pleased. I should like to go and see some more of them, if

you think they would care for it.”

“They would adore it!” he said, his face aglow with the pride he felt

in her. “Iris, you are wonderful, perfectly wonderful!”

She raised her soft, snowy chin, and a dewy beauty shone in her eyes as

she lifted them to his. “Justin, if there is any good in me it is only

there because of--you.”

He glanced at her incredulously. “What do you mean?”

“Why, just what I say. I have lived a horribly selfish life, and I did

not even know it was selfish till I met you; but your beautiful example

showed me what my life might be--ought to be.”

All at once he looked away from her and his head was bent as if she had

heaped some shame upon him. “Don’t talk like that--I can’t bear it,” he

said in tones tinged with pain.

“Why not? It is the truth: your splendid example showed me what life

was meant to be.”

“Iris, don’t!”

“Now I am going to try and make up for lost time. Besides,” she added

with a brave little smile, “I must begin to train for the future.”

“What are you going to do in the future?” he asked, turning to her

again.

“I am going to live with Amy and----”

“Yes, and what?”

“Try and live as you do,” she replied under her breath.

“As I do--how do you mean?”

“Try and help everybody bear burdens, ride about and visit the poor,

sit up with the sick people, and----”

He had come close to her chair now. “Iris,” he said, his voice shaking

a little, “you are too touchingly sweet. But I am not living that kind

of beautiful life--I have to work for my living, and I only just do

little odds and ends for the people about.”

“Well, that is just what I mean to do--little odds and ends for

everybody within reach; only, as I don’t have to work, I shall have all

day to do it, and all night, too, if need be.”

“Why are you going to do that instead of going back to your old happy

life?”

“It was not happy--it did not satisfy; but I did not know how to live

any other till you showed me.”

“And will this new plan make you happy in the future, do you think?”

Her eyes dropped before his searching gaze. “I don’t know about happy,”

she said with a half-stifled sigh.

“Then why not go back to your home? You could live just as beautiful a

life there.”

“No,” she said steadily, “I couldn’t--not there; I should be dragged

into the whirlpool of pleasure and excitement again. Perhaps, if you

had been there and showed me--” she raised her head delicately--“but I

could not do it otherwise. Besides----”

“Yes?”

“How could I bear to live in pleasure and ease when--when--you have to

work so hard, and all the while living for others, as you do?”

He drew a quick, sharp breath as if she had hurt him. “I have a good

reason for working hard,” he said brokenly. “And most of my life, alas!

I have lived without giving a thought to others.”

“But you are not living like that to-day.”

“Perhaps I am trying to atone for the past.”

The haunted look in his eyes touched her deeply. From several remarks

he had made she knew his past caused him sorrow; he was grieving over

it now. She wanted to comfort him, so she said: “If your past has been

a stepping-stone to the present, it has been useful.”

He moved away from her and stood by the pillar again, his face shadowed

with sadness.

She rose and went to him quickly, her eyes pools of sapphire splendour

looking tenderly into his. “Don’t be sad about it--dear.” The last word

was a mere breath, but he heard it and she saw him start a little.

Then all at once he leant back against the pillar and closed his eyes.

Presently he opened them and looked at her, and there was such an

anguish of longing in their sad, grey depths that it made her turn pale

and suddenly grip the wooden railing for support.

“I am sorry,” he murmured apologetically. “I should not have let you

see that.”

“I thought--I thought--we had agreed----” she whispered, struggling for

composure.

“Yes,” he replied, “you have been so good to me, and I am afraid I

have taken great advantage of your generosity. All the same I must not

presume too much--it would not be fair to you.”

“Don’t use the word ‘presume’--it could never be a case of that between

us--I have given you the right.”

“Still, I am not sure that I should be justified in taking it.”

“You mean--you should not show me your--feelings?”

“Yes.”

“You are afraid of hurting--my life?”

“Yes.”

“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that silence may sometimes hurt more

than----” She checked herself abruptly.

The sun had sunk below the rim of the distant hills. The evening was

not so ethereal now. It had intensified, become more real, more a thing

of earth. It was still beautiful, but its beauty was the solid beauty

of reality; even the great spaces brooding over the purple jagged

mountains pulsated now with a vivid, vital glow.

Rees suddenly straightened. “Iris,” he said in very strained tones,

“tell me truly; be quite frank with me--has my silence _hurt_ you?”

“Yes--at times,” she answered very quietly.

“And--and--would you like me to--speak?”

She drew back in terror. “No, please don’t,” she said quickly. “I can’t

imagine what possessed me to say such a dreadful thing.”

There was fear and distress in every word.

“But--I asked you.”

“Yes, but I told you first--that---- Oh, it was awful of me!”

Rees came a little closer. “No, it was not awful,” he said in tones

slightly stern. “After I have said so much, showed you as much as

I have, it is your right to know all, Iris.” He came closer still

and she felt his nearness keenly. “If my silence has hurt you, I

will make a clean breast of everything. I will tell you about my

feelings, my--past--all. I have been longing to tell you--all!

how--I--feel--burning to tell you, but for your sake I have kept

silent. Yet if it will make it easier for you I will tell you all, at

once.”

“No, no, no,” she cried, with touching appeal in her voice. “Don’t you

see I could not let you tell me--now. You were right to keep silent and

it was terrible of me to say what I did; but at times it has all seemed

so strange and I could not understand why--and I----”

“You wanted me to be more frank with you--to speak freely?”

“Yes,” she faltered, and the soft corners of her mouth looked a little

unsteady.

“What a brute I have been not to have thought of that!” he muttered

under his breath. “But come down into the garden and I will make

full amends; we cannot talk here, we may be interrupted at any

moment--come!” He laid his hand over her trembling one still gripping

the railing, and his strong fingers untwined her slender ones from the

wood. “Come,” he repeated in a tense, low voice.

“No, no,” protested the girl; “it must not be. You were right; what you

did was best.”

“Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?”

In the gathering dusk she felt the burning question in his eyes

demanding an absolutely honest reply.

“Yes,” she said tremblingly, “of course I want to hear it--how can I

help it, Justin? All the same,” she added regretfully, “I cannot.”

“Yes, you can, if I insist on telling you.”

“But you will not insist; it would be too cruel--for I should feel so

awful afterwards, because I had made you do it. It would be as bad

as--or perhaps even worse than what happened that afternoon--in--the

cave. Don’t you remember how terribly ashamed I was afterwards? You

don’t know what tortures I went through over it!”

His fingers upon her own tightened. “You poor darling,” he murmured

very gently, “shall I ever forget? It was awful to see your distress.”

“Well, I should feel much worse if--if--I made you tell me--this.”

“But you wouldn’t have made me.”

“Yes, I should, for if I had not said what I did, you would never have

thought of telling me.”

“Not thought of telling you! Iris, how little you understand--why, I

think of little else. I am always having to stifle the yearning to pour

it all out to you, and sometimes I feel it will suffocate me to keep it

in much longer!” As he spoke he drew her hand against his breast.

“You poor dear boy,” she said, looking up at him with sudden tenderness.

She felt him draw a deep, quivering sigh. “Oh, Iris, it is too

wonderful to have you talking to me like that! Do say it again!” he

entreated.

“You poor dear boy,” she repeated, colouring slightly.

“Come down into the garden,” he pleaded, every word weighted with

yearning.

“No, not to-night--I dare not.”

“Why not?”

“Because--because--I----”

“Iris, how I wish you could put aside that shyness and just talk quite

freely to me.”

“Oh, Justin, I do try, only--those--deeper things--make me feel

so--strange--they frighten me.”

“Don’t they draw you, too?”

“Yes,” she breathed with sweet candour, “that is the worst of it: they

draw me so strongly that I cannot resist them.”

“I thought you had already come to the conclusion that it was useless

to try.”

“Yet I _must_ try.”

“Why must you?”

“Because--oh, Justin, surely you know.”

“Please tell me.”

“Because--” her voice dropped so low that he had to bend his head till

it almost touched her face in order to hear it--“because--you do.”

“Iris,” he began unsteadily, “I resisted only--for your sake.”

“Yes, I know,” she murmured faintly.

A pause followed which held a terrible suction, drawing each towards

the other with an almost physical power.

“But, Iris,” he said with strained accents, “I don’t know how much

longer I shall be able to keep this up--I cannot keep on--always. I am

afraid some day I may give way--the strain is awful.”

“Justin,” she whispered, laying her hand gently on his arm, “I can’t

bear you to suffer----”

He took her hand in his and his grip on it tightened so suddenly, so

fiercely, that the pain brought a moan to her lips.

He loosened his hold instantly and raised the fragile, hurt thing in

deep contrition to his face. “How cruel it was to hurt that soft little

hand which rested so confidingly in mine,” and he pressed it fondly

against his cheek.

Its cool, satin smoothness calmed him.

“Iris,” he said in a different voice, after a pause, “do you know,

there is a spot where I am always taking you in my dreams--it is an

old, deserted garden far up the road towards the hills, away from all

habitation. Miss Smith and her parents used to live there before they

came here. The garden is a wilderness. It has flowers and fruit-trees

all mixed together, and every night when I put my head on the pillow

I walk there with you under the old gnarled apple-trees. Some evening

will you let me take you to that sacred spot and tell you all, there?

Will you come with me and make some of my dreams real? You don’t know

how I should revel in having you all to myself for a little while in

that enchanted spot--oh, Iris, give me a few hours--let us walk under

the old trees, sit under the bower of roses--all alone just for one

happy evening!”

She drew a quick, fluttering breath. “Justin,” she said, with a soft

lustre in her blue, velvet eyes, “you make it so entrancing I can’t

resist--I want to be there--with you. But I must go in now. Amy will

wonder where I am,” she added a little reluctantly.

“You will let me take you to that garden--very soon?”

“Yes.”

He had released her hand, now she held it out to him again.

“Good-night,” she whispered.

“Good-night,” he murmured, raising her hand to his lips and pressing a

long, lingering kiss upon it.

Then he opened the door for her to enter the hall.

She halted a second on the threshold. The light from the corridor fell

full upon her exquisitely gowned form with its superb shoulders, slim

white throat and the delicately poised head. It turned her light brown

hair to gleaming gold and revealed the vivid beauty of the radiant,

upturned face.

Her deep blue eyes shadowed by their long, thick lashes lifted for a

moment to his, and there was a melting tenderness in their dazzling

splendour as she said in a very low voice: “Justin, I am going to dream

about that garden to-night.”

Before he could answer she was walking swiftly down the hall.

CHAPTER X

THE GIRL IN THE YELLOW GOWN

The same evening, on the wide, spotless deck of an ocean liner, sat

Captain Barton, talking to a dashing brunette. She was dressed in a

striking, low-cut yellow gown as conspicuous as her rather audacious

self. Her tapering fingers held a cigarette and her very red lips blew

ringlets of pale, thin smoke into the warm summer night.

Dinner had been over an hour ago, promenading had ceased, and from the

other side of the boat sounded laughter, the hum of voices, dancing,

and the strain of an impudent two-step.

“Would you care to dance, Betty?” inquired Captain Barton, carefully

flicking away the ashes from his fragrant cigar.

“No, thanks, not to-night.”

Her companion crossed one black knee nonchalantly over the other

well-formed limb--Captain Barton had very good limbs and he seemed to

be aware of it.

“Can you believe that this is our last night on board, and that we

shall be in Melbourne to-morrow?” said the girl, turning her pretty,

dark, insolent head towards her companion.

“No, indeed,” replied the man at her side, hailing a steward who was

passing and ordering two liqueurs; then he continued to the girl, “You

have made the time pass so jolly fast--I can’t believe we are nearly

there.”

“Will you be staying in Melbourne long?” asked Betty, gazing with

leisurely abstraction into the soft darkness beyond the brilliant

lights of the ship.

“No,” he said a little evasively. “I must catch the next boat to

Tasmania; I believe they run almost daily.”

The steward brought the order and Captain Barton paused to sign his

wine card.

“A day or two more or less can’t make much difference,” suggested the

girl, with a glance at her yellow satin slippers.

“Unfortunately, in this case it might,” replied her companion, moving a

little uneasily.

The brunette took a sip from her glass, then laughed suddenly. “I can’t

imagine you in little Tassy--you and that small, antiquated island

don’t blend!”

“I suppose it will be beastly quiet over there,” the man observed

ruefully.

“Dead slow! It’s the kind of place people resort to when they have

been going the pace a bit--splendid for neurotics, invalids and

babies--nothing to do but watch the clouds and wait for dinner.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Captain Barton, as he emptied his glass.

“So you had better change your mind and have a few nights at the Opera

in Melbourne before you shut yourself up in that convalescent home.”

“Oh, I daresay I shall survive--won’t have to stay long, I trust.”

“You expect to fix up your--business--quickly?”

Her companion stroked his smooth chin. “With a little decent luck--yes.”

“Shall I wish you good luck? You haven’t asked me to, you know.”

“Please do.”

The girl made no response. She sat gazing on the limpid, phosphorescent

waters with a strange expression in her dark eyes.

“Why so pensive to-night?” said the man, turning to her with a smile.

“Is it the thought of leaving the ship?”

“Good gracious, no! I hate boats. I was only philosophising.”

“What about?”

“How curious you are, Captain Barton.”

“Man is always curious where a pretty girl is concerned.”

“Yes, man is curious when he is interested, but he is never profound,”

she said, crossing one yellow silk ankle over the other.

“You don’t want him profound, surely--he would be a confounded nuisance

to a girl with your sentiments.”

“What do you know about my sentiments?” she asked, suddenly leaning her

head back on a pale blue _crêpe de Chine_ cushion.

“You have been generous enough to give me--samples, and I have been

testing their practical value.”

“And what is the result?” she inquired, letting her head slide along

the cushion a little towards him.

“I think your sentiments are just the thing--they make you a ripping

companion!”

“You don’t like prudes, do you?” she said, with an odd flash in her

dark eyes.

He laughed lightly. “Are there any left? One never meets them.”

“After all, I believe that you really like them,” she said, with a

probing look from under her lashes.

“How can I like what I never see?”

There was a short silence, then Ralph moved his long deck-chair a

little closer to Betty’s and said, “But you haven’t told me yet what

you were philosophising about.”

“Did I promise to tell you?” and she put a hand up to feel if the

yellow velvet band binding her black hair was still in place.

“No; but you might as well.”

She drummed with her tapering fingers on the arm of her chair.

“Well, if you will have it, I was thinking what a rotten world this

is for women; everything in it favours men--all our social laws and

conventions--everything!”

Captain Barton looked down at his black silk socks. “I don’t see

that--in fact, I think it is all the other way. Social laws make men

wait on women, see to their comforts and put them first in everything.”

The brunette shrugged her arrogant shoulders. “In small things, yes.

Society throws women a sop by piling cushions at her back and handing

her muffins and tea; but in all things that really matter man has the

advantage on his side.”

“Will you give me some instances?”

“To man is given all power of selection. He chooses the girls he will

flirt with, his partners at dances; and he chooses his companion for

life--woman is allowed no choice at all.”

“But she need not meekly acquiesce in man’s selection; she can say Yes

or No when he asks for dances and--other things.”

The brunette pouted impatiently. “And what is that? Man is granted the

power to make love, woo, ask. If only women were granted that privilege

they would oftener have what they want than they do at present.”

“But women can win the men they want, too. They can be so deucedly

charming that they send a fellow fairly crazy over them.”

His companion shrugged again. “That is a very negative privilege--give

a woman a clear field to make honest and open love, and we should soon

have a change in things. The world often accuses women of not being as

straight and honourable as men; but how can they, when they are never

given a chance to be direct and frank? They are taught to hide their

feelings, and the result is, that they must gain their ends by subtle

methods; if they fall in love they must not show a man a straight and

honest affection, they must wait till he approaches them, and may only

try to draw him to them in little coquettish, artful ways which in the

long run make women a little sly and underhand. She loves as strongly

as a man, and she is just as eager to possess what she loves as he

is; why not give her the right to win in an open, square way what she

wants?”

“Why don’t you start a social reform on those lines?” suggested her

companion half-absently. To-morrow they would be in port; the day after

he would start for Tasmania and--Iris. The girl at his side had amused

him and kept him from being dull on the voyage; but now he would need

her no longer, and the dazzling Iris Dearn loomed large on his horizon

again.

“Yes, it would be interesting--I wonder how you would feel if I began

with you?”

“Began with me--how?” he said abstractedly, still thinking of the girl

he was following to Tasmania.

“Ralph, how stupid you are! Why, begin to make real, honest love to

you, of course.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Captain Barton, sitting up straight, “that would

be a ripping game--jolly ending to our trip--I believe you could do it,

too!”

“Yes, I believe I could; you have given me some valuable hints, you

know, and I am quick at picking up things--we Australians are.”

Captain Barton winced a little. “You didn’t mind the hints, did you? Ye

gods, how could a man endure a voyage if he didn’t make love!”

“Do you always make love on your trips?”

“What else is there to do?”

“And you never become--profound?”

“Jolly girls don’t like profound men.”

“You haven’t really answered my question.”

“I don’t think there is anything else to say. But,” he continued,

in a different voice, “come and have a waltz and give up all this

philosophising; have a good time while you can, that is my philosophy.

Now come.”

“I think I would rather go up on the top deck for a stroll.”

“Brilliant notion! Then you can begin your social reform on me, and you

shall have the whole evening to practise in.”

“How amiable you are, Captain Barton; perhaps with a few more hints

from you--such an expert on the subject--and a little practice I shall

be proficient by the time the man who really matters comes into my

life.”

Ralph rose from his chair, helped the brunette to her feet, and

together they walked down the deck; soon afterwards the soldier’s

tall figure in his immaculate evening dress and his daringly attired

companion disappeared up the narrow stairway leading to the upper

regions.

CHAPTER XI

AT THE SHRINE

Iris and Justin were together in the deserted old garden. They walked

on the velvet grass amid a wilderness of flowers and fruit. There

were great rosebushes covered with golden, pink and crimson blooms;

clusters of purple clematis, honeysuckle, and white, starry jasmine

climbed broken arches and dilapidated trellis; long spires of yellow

and red hollyhocks reared stately heads amid banks of mignonette,

blue-eyed forget-me-not and mauve and snow-white stock. Old moss-green

apple-trees laden with half ripe fruit stretched protecting arms over

the profusion of flowers, gooseberry and currant bushes. The garden was

ablaze with colour. The air was weighted with the heavy perfume of many

blooms, and everywhere there was an exuberant wild beauty which made

Iris catch her breath and look up at her companion with large, shiny

eyes. Nature ruled in this forsaken spot. Man’s restraining hand had

not clipped, pruned and trained into monotonous, civilised neatness.

“This is my dream-garden,” said Justin, standing under an ancient,

gnarled apple-tree and facing Iris. “Don’t you think it is an ideal

place for saying what I am going to say to-night?”

“Yes,” she replied, the tint in her cheeks deepening. Her light,

graceful form stood against the coloured background of flowers and

deep, rich greens, her lovely face framed by the moss-tinted branches.

He came a little nearer. “Iris, this is just how I picture you in my

dreams, standing here under these dear, friendly trees, and in my

dreams we----”

His eyes told her the rest and her white, heavily fringed lids dropped

before his gaze.

“But that part of my dream may not come true,” he continued, a

plaintive sadness creeping into his voice. “Such things only happen in

fancy, and perhaps once--just once, as it happened in--the cave.” His

tones were low and not quite steady.

Iris looked up quickly. “Oh, Justin, why do you talk like that? I can’t

bear it!” she said, her delicate nostrils suddenly dilating.

“I only say it because--it must be so. I am going to open my heart to

you to-night--that privilege is granted me; but I may not tell you in

the way I should like best.”

She did not speak, but she looked intensely vivid, as if she were

struggling with some overwhelming emotion.

After a short silence he went on: “I am going to make two confessions

to you to-night. One you know about already, and yet I long with all

the strength of my being to put it into words; the other--” his voice

dropped--“if I possessed worlds I would gladly give every one if I

might be spared making that.”

“In that case don’t make it. I don’t want you to tell me anything

which will give you pain,” she said, finding her voice.

“I _must_,” he answered regretfully. Then, changing his tones, he

continued: “But we won’t talk about that yet. For a little while let us

revel in all this beauty and--in each other.”

“Why not do that all the time and leave the rest for another night?”

suggested the girl very softly.

“No, that will not do--we have gone too far to put off my confession

any longer.”

The setting sun had been hidden behind large masses of purple cloud;

now it suddenly shone out from a fraying rift, its golden rays wedging

their way in between the trees like gleaming swords cutting into the

fragrant stillness.

“How lovely!” murmured Iris in hushed tones. “Doesn’t this make you

feel as if you were kneeling at some great illumined shrine?”

“Yes,” he replied as softly as she had spoken. “That is just how I

feel. For I am kneeling at a sacred shrine to-night--at the great

shrine of Love. Iris--” he turned to her now--“are you kneeling there

too?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her sea-blue eyes shining tremulously under their

shadowy lashes.

Rees regarded her for a moment as he would have regarded some wonderful

vision which had come to him while wrapt in devoted worship. Then he

said suddenly and with great simplicity: “Iris, how beautiful you

are--how beautiful! I do believe you have been created from tall,

stately flowers, fresh waves from the sea, and shining stars.”

She glanced up at him, smiling tenderly.

“What about yourself--what were you made from?”

Instantly a change came over his face. “I was made from the dry sand of

the desert.”

A low, silvery laugh rippled over her parted red lips. “What a

humble-minded dear you are! No, you are not made of sand; there is

plenty of grit in you, but sand--no! However, I will tell you what you

were made of, if you like?”

The same tenderness which had shone in her eyes softened his. “Yes,

tell me, Sweetheart.”

It was the first time he had called her by this endearing term, and the

word and its meaning thrilled her with its exquisite sweetness.

“You must have been made of that high peak which catches the sunset on

that far-away, rugged mountain I long to explore. You were made at the

time when the roseate sunbeams tint the rocks and turn the peak into a

crimson jewel. Then you were made, too, from the deep pools of marshes,

when the sky is overcast and each little lagoon lies like a great

solitary tear.”

He moved nearer to her and his voice was a little uneven as he said:

“Iris, what makes you think I was made of such beautiful things?”

“Because there is such a lofty strength about you, a strength which

could only come from the great exalted mountains. But it is not a cold

strength, it is deliciously warm--just like the crimson shafts of a

summer sunset. And then there is your sadness--that is really like the

big tears which have dropped from the sky on the marshes.”

“Iris,” Rees began in tones shaking slightly, “when I have told you all

I am going to tell you, you will never talk like that again. You will

turn from me and say that I was only a strip of desert on which you for

a moment saw a mirage created entirely by your own sweet fancy.”

“Justin, I shall never say that, no matter what you tell me,” she said

with decision.

“We shall see.”

They walked away from the apple-trees to a huge blossom-laden rosebush

under which was a little rustic seat, and there they sat down under the

crimson blooms.

The sun was just sinking behind the hills, and it seemed to have become

strangely entangled in tree trunks, foliage and branches. It hung

shimmering, trembling, then gradually disappeared behind the confusion

of trees.

There were no golden shafts piercing the deserted garden now; but a

rosy twilight crept caressingly over the earth, folding all things in

its soft, warm embrace.

They sat for some time without speaking, Justin gazing with rapt, sad

eyes at the lovely girl beside him. She had turned her head away,

looking into the roseate shadows. He saw the soft contour of her regal

head, the fine oval of her cheek, the soft whiteness of her neck where

little golden-brown curls rested in alluring innocence. She looked so

splendid, so enchanting, so radiant in her youthful beauty!

As he watched her the sad look in his grey eyes brightened. After

all, he still had that delicious revelation to make--the revelation

she already knew about, yet wished to have put into words. How open

she had been with him from the first, and yet at times how shy! She

had not attempted to hide her feelings from him, and he blessed her

in his heart for her sweet candour. They had met under such unusual

circumstances; love had caught them unawares in the cave. He had felt

her thrill to his song--ah, how she had quivered in his arms as his

music saturated her soul! She did not understand her own emotions

then--he had hardly understood his at first, but he had watched hers

deepen as she had laid them bare to him again and again. It was so

apparent she had not been in love before, and she believed in him with

an abandonment of trust which often brought a blinding mist to his

eyes. His heart beat fast as he thought of it now. He knew hers was not

a weak nature; there was a certain hauteur about her; an air of fine,

proud strength. She had met many men, known admiration and homage all

her life, yet no passion had been able to stir her before. She had

walked through her London season heart-whole, and he was evidently the

first man who had awakened the slumbering woman within her. He _had_

awakened the slumbering woman within her, he knew that. But he was not

sure if she had discovered this in its wide, deep reality for herself.

To-night his confession would open her eyes.

The rosy twilight grew purple--the colour of the trailing clematis

which swayed for ever softly to and fro in the stirring shades of

coming night.

“Iris, are you ready to listen to me?” Rees began a little unsteadily,

after a lengthy pause.

She turned to him rather shyly. “Yes,” she said in a low voice.

“Dearest, you already know what I want to tell you--that I--_love_ you.”

He heard her draw a quick, fluttering breath.

“It all began that afternoon in the cave,” he continued unevenly. “Of

course, I had admired you before--who could help it? Iris, I wonder

if you have any idea how dazzling you are! Often when I sat beside

you driving, and you turned and looked suddenly up at me with those

wonderful eyes of yours, it made me feel quite bewildered for a time;

but there was no love--no, not then, not till that afternoon in the

cave----”

She started slightly, but she did not speak, so he went on in lower

tones: “But that afternoon when I held you in my arms, when you were

pressed against my breast and I felt your heart throb against mine;

when your soft hair brushed my face, and just once your velvet cheek

touched mine--oh, Iris, how could any man resist such sweetness! I

thought all love within me dead, all emotions in my being slain; but

that afternoon it seemed as if there was a resurrection of all I

thought vanished and gone. It was when I sang the second time that I

felt the power stirring in me. At first I only wanted to comfort and

soothe you, but as you lay in my arms and I felt your quivering form

against mine--Iris, I, who admired you, who had been with you daily,

exposed to your charms--Iris, can’t you understand that I couldn’t

resist--that I was swept off my feet? Of course, I had no right to

love you--no one knows that better than I--but it was all no use, no

reasoning could make any difference--I simply couldn’t help myself.”

He stopped and waited for her to make some reply. She had sat very

still with closed eyes while he was speaking; she was still now; only

her white hands moved nervously.

“Iris, I have told you; but I dare not ask if you--care--it is not for

a poor driver to ask Lord Dearn’s daughter such a question----” He

stopped for she had stirred quickly. In the tumult of her emotions she

wondered what this man could know about her father; neither she nor

her cousin had ever mentioned him. But her surprise soon passed in the

turmoil of other and stronger feelings.

If her companion had said more than he intended, he was not aware of

it just then. “Darling,” he went on, “I may not ask you this great

question, and yet all my soul is crying out for your answer.”

“Justin,” the girl began, her proud head bent low, “you need not ask,

for you already know that--I _do_.”

He made a sudden movement towards her--then checked himself. “Iris,

I never knew before how strange and wonderful this life can be,” he

murmured huskily.

There was a throbbing, tumultuous silence, in which the music of their

hearts seemed to find an echo in the music palpitating in the wild

heart of Nature. Moths and insects had come out from the dusk and

brushed cobweb wings against the clusters of crimson roses. The air was

atune with the hum of fluttering life awakened by the shadows of night.

A large dark moth lighted on Iris’s shoulder, flapping velvet wings as

it crept towards her soft white throat. Justin picked it off quickly

and let it fly. It made a big swerve in the shadows, then returned

almost to the same spot.

“Let it stay,” said the girl; “it can do me no harm--you will hurt its

wings if you touch it again.”

He picked it off and set it free once more. This time it did not dart

into the air as it had done before, but dropped into the grass a little

distance away.

“You have hurt the soft little, persistent thing,” she said

reproachfully, looking in the direction it had fallen to see if it

would fly up again. But there was no stirring of the furry wings.

“Yes,” he said regretfully; “I am afraid I have--but it was only for

your sake. Iris,” he continued, the regret in his voice deepening, “do

you know our love is like that moth, and I must with ruthless hands

fling it away so that it cannot hurt you?”

“Justin, you cannot mean that?” There was sudden fear in her tones.

“I do, Iris--I do.”

“Are you really going to--to--make us--part?” she faltered

incredulously.

“In God’s Name, what else can I do?”

“Oh, Justin--surely you know.”

“Iris, do you know what you are saying?” He spoke with strange

tenseness.

Her splendid head dropped lower. “Oh, Justin, you must think me

horribly bold--I suppose I must be bold--but----”

“No, no! You are not that--sweetest, you are not!” He was bending over

her now, his head so close to hers he felt her hair brush his cheek.

“You are only too generous, too amazingly good! But can’t you see that

I am racked already by the desire to be with you always and for ever,

and unless you are less kind I may not be able to hold out against

it----”

There was no response from his companion, but he felt her quiver from

head to foot.

“Iris,” he said, like one in torture, “don’t you want me to--hold out

against it?”

“It is cruel--cruel,” she said brokenly.

“What is cruel, Sweetheart?”

There was no answer.

He watched her through the gathering gloom a moment, then said in a

curious, quiet voice: “You don’t mean to say that you--that you would

really--_marry_ me?”

She made a slight movement towards him. “Of course I would,” she

whispered.

He drew a hard breath. “Do you mean to say that _you_--you would marry

a nobody, a poor driver and guide?”

“I would not marry a driver and guide, but I _am_ willing to marry the

man I love. I think I have told you this before.”

“Yes, I know you have fine ideals; but it seems too miraculous that you

should be willing to marry--_me_!”

“Why not? Oh, Justin, why do you make it so hard for me?”

“I don’t want to make it hard, but it seems too extraordinary that a

girl in your position should be willing to marry a man in mine--it is

amazing!”

She looked up at him now. “Why so amazing? I know you are a gentleman

by birth and education, and doesn’t love count for more than position,

money--all?”

“Yes, Iris, it does.” He spoke with deep conviction now. “But it seems

too incredible that any one could care as much as that--for me.”

“Oh, Justin,” she whispered under her breath; then she leant her head

back against the remnant of the archway which had once stretched over

the seat, and shut her eyes, and Rees saw that she was white to the

lips.

“Iris--Iris,” he cried hoarsely, “I would give the rest of my life if I

might take what you are willing to give and hold it just for a little

while!”

She moved her head towards him, but she did not open her eyes; in her

lashes hung heavy tears.

He gripped the bench hard.

“I don’t think you can care very much, after all, if you allow your

pride to come between us,” she said, trying to steady her quivering

lips.

“Not care much! Good Heavens! Iris, you can’t know what you are saying.

Not love you, when I am swept with a furious tide of longing to take

you to my heart and have you always! Why, it is only my great love for

you which keeps my own yearnings in check, which makes me think of your

happiness first--it is only my deep love for you which makes me put

this restraint upon myself. Iris, don’t you understand what it means to

be so close to you, feel you so near me, yet not be able to--fold you

in my arms and overwhelm you with this torrent of desperate love?”

The anguish in his voice made her glance up at him quickly. He was

ashen grey and the muscles of his face worked. She forgot herself in

her desire to comfort him.

“You poor boy,” she whispered, bending towards him. “Yes, I do believe

you care; it was cruel of me to say what I did, only I was so hurt that

I did not know what I was saying--please forgive me.”

“You dear little girl; and I have brought all this trouble into your

life; and, Iris--I have to make you sadder still; there is something

else which I must tell you--it is about the past----”

She interrupted him. “Please don’t tell me if it makes you unhappy--the

past doesn’t matter.”

“But I _have_ to tell you; in this case the past does matter, for it

affects the future--in fact, it is the past which will blight the

future for us. At present you think it is merely pride which is coming

between us; but it is not that--there is another and far more vital

thing which blocks the way. If you and I really cared for each other,

position could not keep us apart; believe me, I should not let that

alone separate us, though I should never have expected a girl like you

to stoop to make such a sacrifice; and oh, Iris, no matter what the

future may bring, it is lovely to know that you were ready to marry me,

the poor, insignificant driver! But,” he added in a different voice,

“there is something else--much worse----” He stopped, as if to gain

strength to proceed.

“Is it another----?”

“No, it is not. I thought I told you that afternoon by the Marble

Cliffs--no woman has ever come into my life as you have done. But it is

something equally irrevocable.” He breathed hard, then went on bravely,

“I am a--a----drunkard----”

CHAPTER XII

THE CONFESSION

Iris looked at him with dazed, bewildered eyes, as if she had not

understood what he had said; as if he had spoken in some unknown

language. At last, part of the meaning of his words dawned upon her.

“But that is--impossible!” she said tonelessly. “I have never seen

you--you have never----”

“No, you have never seen it, but that is because I am out of the reach

of temptation here--that is the reason I live in this place--to keep

away from danger; when it is in my way--I--fall.”

“Oh, Justin, it can’t be true!” The anguish in her voice was terrible.

He shuddered, but went on courageously: “It _is_ true, and when I

have told you a little about my life you will believe me. I am your

equal by birth and education, as you say. After leaving Eton I went

to Cambridge and my father expected me to have a brilliant career;

all his plans were made. But I had a voice and I loved singing with a

passion which almost amounted to madness; so I threw up my splendid

prospects and took up singing as a profession instead. My father was a

proud man of the old school, and it nearly broke his heart that a son

of his should choose such a life. To cut a long story short, it led

to a complete break between us. I was disinherited, never allowed to

visit my old home; and I believe that my name is still never mentioned

there. My mother was already dead, or I am sure my conduct would have

killed her. Before we finally parted my father made me promise to take

another name and never breathe my own to a living soul, so that is why

I cannot tell even you. My voice had already been trained and I had

splendid offers immediately. But I never appeared in England; I spared

my father that, at least. Amazing success followed. I had wonderful

receptions in America, France, Russia and everywhere I went. I was

making a big fortune. But it was at this time that I learned to--drink.

I will not harrow you with horrible details, but I went downhill fast.

I could never do anything in a half-hearted way, and in a few years

I had nearly drunk myself to death. I could not rely on being sober;

concert after concert had to be postponed--I had to pay heavy forfeits

for not appearing. At last my voice gave way also and I had to withdraw

altogether. Iris, you can guess the rest; there was absolutely nothing

to check me now, and I gave way to my vice completely, and became so

ill the doctors did not expect me to live. I was in bed for three

months, and convalescent with a nurse for another three. Nurse was

splendid, she never left my side. It was during this time I discovered

I could exist without alcohol--you may hardly believe it, but I had

sunk so low that I thought I should die if I did not have it.”

He had been looking away from his companion while he was speaking;

the confession was difficult and he had to summon all his courage to

make it. Now he continued in the same forced voice: “Then I determined

to make another desperate effort to reform--ah! no one knows how

many I had already made, how I had striven and struggled to master

my vice--yet I could not--every effort had only ended in failure.

Now I began to feel there might be hope if only I could keep out of

temptation’s way; but alas! that was impossible, living an ordinary

life--everywhere the danger confronted me, at the clubs, in houses,

walking down the street. Oh, Iris, you don’t know what it means to a

man with that burning craving in his system to be continually passing

those places!” He shuddered visibly. “I knew I could never live an

ordinary life again, so Nurse and I thought out a new future for me.

I was to come out here, find a small country place where there were

no--temptations, and then I might have a chance. Nurse was fine. She

would not let me risk travelling on a big boat, so got a friend of

hers, a captain of a sailing vessel, to take me, and this man never

allowed alcohol on his ship. I was three months on the water. The many

months of abstinence in England had purified my system and partially

restored my health; now the long voyage did the rest. My voice and

strength came back and I had hope of being able to work again. I landed

in Hobart and began to look for the quiet spot I wanted, but it was not

easy for a stranger to secure a position in the right place at once.

Of course I had to work, as I had run through most of my money and I

had refused to take the allowance my father offered me when he knew I

had given up singing as a profession and was coming out here to make a

fresh start.” A deep melancholy crept into his voice now. “While I was

making enquiries for a position--oh, Iris,” he bent suddenly forward

and shaded his eyes with his hand, “I fell again. I passed so many

hotels in that little town and the scent in the streets as I went along

seemed almost to drag me inside. Days of fierce fighting followed.

Believe me, I _did_ fight--I walked out on the hills, up mountains, I

sometimes tramped about all night to get away from the awful craving

consuming me! I could not sleep, so spent the nights roaming about

with despair in my heart. But at last I was so exhausted I could not

walk any more; and it was then, one evening, that I----” he stopped

abruptly. “Iris, I cannot tell you the ghastly details, but eventually

I heard of this place. Miss Smith was in need of a driver, as the last

one had left her suddenly. I have been here nearly three years and

shall never be able to move away--I am chained--chained----”

In the east a slightly waning moon climbed above long strands of slaty

clouds. It peered through gaps in the foliage of the large trees

hedging the garden, and stray pools of silver began to glimmer on

stretches of grass and dense banks of nodding flowers. It illumined

swaying branches of roses weighted with scented, pallid blooms. It cast

mystic bands of light on stems, tree trunks and whispering branches; it

transformed the high spires of hollyhocks into tall dusky lilies.

One silver strand fell full on the girl’s pale immovable face, making

it more ghastly white as she sat rigid, tense, trying to frame a reply

to the pitiful revelation just made to her.

Justin had stopped speaking, and was evidently waiting for some

response.

But Iris made none; her lips could frame no words; she sat speechless,

looking fixedly into the confusion of moonlight and shadows about her.

“A drunkard--a drunkard, this splendid man beside her a drunkard----”

her brain reeled. Her senses were alternately numb and curiously alive.

They conjured up visions of this beloved form reeling, swaying, making

its way home in the dark. His wonderful voice thickened, coarsened

by liquor. Suddenly she winced, sat up very straight, her slim hands

clenched, her white teeth gripping her lower lip.

Then she thought of the afternoon when she heard him sing far down

below her in the cave. She remembered how she had fancied he was a

chained spirit, singing in a gloomy prison. How true these imaginings

had been! He was a bound spirit--chained to a vice, bound to a dark

horrible thing. She shivered.

But could nothing set him free? All at once the numbness left her

brain; her feelings became acute, vivid, endued with a peculiar

piercing intensity. Was there nothing--nothing in the whole vast world

which could deliver this dear prisoner from his hopeless cell? If there

were deliverance she would go to the end of the earth to find it!

While she remained silent Rees had risen and moved a little away from

her.

“Iris,” he said in dull, hopeless tones, “I knew your love could not

stand such an awful revelation--I suppose no love could. I knew when

I told you everything that it would not only end all between us, but

even slay your love itself. A little while ago--forgive me for speaking

plainly--you would have let me repeat what--I did--in the cave. You

loved me then and I could have taken your love and held it for a little

while. But I restrained myself, because it would not have been fair

to accept the love you would have given, when I knew that, once I had

told you all, you would turn from me in coldness and contempt. I am not

blaming you,” he continued as she tried to interrupt him, “I did not

expect anything else. Love is not for such as I--I am not worthy of

such a gift.”

He stopped. The white-robed girl had risen and stood bathed in a long

shaft of moonlight. She looked fearlessly into his face in the shadows,

as she said with flashing eyes: “Justin, you are doing my love an

injustice. No confession that you have made, could make, has power to

change it. I love you as much as--before,” she finished with quiet

dignity.

He remained in the shadow of the rosebush, his eyes burning upon her

face. “Is it possible?” he murmured almost inaudibly.

“Of course it is,” she took a step towards him; “Justin, try to

understand. Your confession stunned me for a while, and it--hurt--as

nothing else has ever hurt me in my life before. But--my love is not

altered by it--it will always remain the same.”

“Iris--do you mean it?”

“How could I mean anything else?”

He paused a moment. “Iris, you are--wonderful!” The words came as a low

sob from his breast. “But--now you see for yourself why--we must--part;

why I must bury all between us, all that might have been, under those

great white cliffs across the river.”

She stood gazing at him, the moonlight upon her face, then she said in

a very low voice: “Are you really going to do that--after all?”

“What else can I do?” The grey eyes scorched her through the gloom.

“Justin--you will break my heart if you do,” she said, an awful pain in

her voice.

“Iris,” her name came as a moan from his lips.

She took another step towards him. “Be kind to me--let me stay beside

you and--help you; you need me--let me do it!” Her proud strength had

suddenly gone; she stood before him humbly pleading.

“Iris,” his voice shook terribly now, “such an offer is too incredible.

Do you really mean that you would still--marry me--marry me under--such

circumstances?”

“I would.” Her voice was low, but firm.

“Not just out of pity?”

“Oh, Justin; how cruel you are!” she broke out passionately. “Why do

you rack my heart with these doubts, these suspicions? Why won’t you

believe in my love? Why do you drive me to such desperate measures?

Can’t you understand it is cruel of you not to allow me to help

you--to be with you? Oh, Justin----” She came close to him, and

suddenly she laid her hands on his shoulders and whispered brokenly:

“Dearest--please let me!”

“Let you be with me--always?”

“Yes,” she murmured faintly, “please do.”

“Do you realise the awful risk you would be running?”

“Yes--I am prepared for that. But I am sure everything would be all

right; we could always live here away from danger, and if temptation

should ever come to you--we could fight it out together.”

“Iris,” he said with a catch in his throat; “I don’t know what to say

to you.”

Her fingers upon his shoulders tightened. “Justin, be kind!”

“Do you really love me as much--as _that_?”

“Don’t tantalise me--can’t you see--the strain is--awful----”

She trembled violently.

“Iris--Iris,” he said in strained tones, “what am I to do? I can’t

possibly endure this if you--if you----”

She did not move, but her breath came faster.

“Iris--I shall take you in my arms if you stay here an instant longer,”

he said thickly.

The girl did not stir.

He waited another moment, then suddenly he crushed her to his breast.

Dazed, bewildered by the excruciating sweetness of contact she lifted

her face, only to encounter his, and their lips met in a long kiss.

She trembled violently again.

“Darling, don’t tremble so--please don’t----”

“I can’t help it--Justin.”

“I warned you, Iris--shall I let you go?”

“No, no--I shall drop if you do--it is terrible--it is stunning

me--blinding me.”

“Iris, this is what we have been drifting to since--the cave. We are

beyond our depths--and God only knows where we shall end! Sweetheart, I

love you--I love you--tell me again that you--care.”

She swayed in his arms.

“I do, how can I help it--how could any woman help it? But let me

go----”

He released her immediately, but she clung to him suddenly,

desperately. “Justin, can this really be love--_this--this_----”

Could it be love, this violent strong thing crushing them together,

stunning her--blinding her?

“Yes--has it frightened you?” he murmured, folding her to him once more.

Her heart beat wildly; every pulse throbbed. Quivering and confused she

yielded to his embrace again.

“Does it frighten you?” he repeated, his lips brushing her ear.

“I don’t know--I don’t know--” she whispered faintly. “I don’t know

myself--I never thought I could feel like this.”

They stood for some minutes silent, swaying, clinging. Then Iris drew

gently apart.

“Justin, take me back--take me home--if I stay here any longer----” she

began in dazed tones.

“Yes, what then?”

“I don’t know--I don’t know--only take me back.”

“Iris, just once more,” he pleaded with profound solemnity; “just once

more!”

She yielded her lips to his, and again the contact numbed her senses by

its tumultuous sweetness.

Then very slowly, very reluctantly, he released her, but, keeping one

arm round her slim waist, led her silently through the silver-spangled

garden.

At the rickety gate opening into the dusky avenue of huge walnut trees,

leading to the tumbled-down barn where the horse and trap awaited them,

he stopped and turned to look back.

A strange wistful brilliance pulsated through the wild deserted garden.

It lighted on leaves, picked out isolated flowers, poured its lavish

radiance on clustering jasmine, climbing vines, trailing roses and

swaying creepers. It approached the brooding shadows under trees;

shrank away from the black gloomy places, and stole timidly over the

soft inviting grass.

In the distance a bat darted over the apple-trees and vanished into

the shade cast by some tall gleaming poplars. The ivory-tinted air was

heavily perfumed by the breath of many flowers.

Near the gate from some over-hanging bushes came the sleepy chirp of

a bird, it had evidently wakened in the night and twittered in drowsy

happiness to its mate.

Rees glanced quickly at Iris, then looked back once more on the riotous

beauty of the moonlit garden. And as he stood there, his hand on the

gate, watching the scene they were leaving behind them, an awful look

of anguish and determination came into his large, shadowy eyes.

Iris caught her breath and blanched with fear. She understood that

look. He was saying good-bye to their love for ever. An agonised horror

made her dumb. She stood beside him, feeling every part of her being

turned to stone.

He made a sudden movement. “We must be going,” he said abruptly.

He held the gate open for her to pass out.

From one of the large walnut trees came the muffled shriek of an owl.

Then silently they entered the dark avenue and shortly afterwards

disappeared among the shadows.

PART II

CHAPTER I

THE INTRUDER

The following afternoon Rees stood on the verandah looking sombrely

towards the long high ridges of uncompromising mountains rising in

clear undaunted beauty from behind the bronze-green foothills. He had

returned a little while since, after a busy day taking visitors to the

caves. It was almost time to get ready for dinner, but he had yet a few

minutes to spare before going to his room.

He watched a small pearly cloud which clung to one of the rocky peaks

till it slowly diminished and disappeared into space. It vanished into

the warm sunlit air with a rapidity which almost startled him. He

sighed, moved a little restlessly and looked at the place where the

cloud had been.

His love-dream was like that. Last night he had revelled in the glamour

of its intoxicating sweetness, and to-day--it had gone out of his life;

it had disappeared from the sphere of reality and entered the elusive

unsatisfying region of memory; it had left the living, palpable present

and passed into the unreachable realms of the past.

The night before, as he stood at the decrepit gate leading out from

their tumultuous paradise of bliss, he had said good-bye to their

love-dream for ever. The strength of his feelings as the woman he loved

lay pressed against his breast had alarmed him, as it had alarmed

her. It was an enormous, unyielding thing, violent with an impetuous

vehemence, dominant with sweeping torrential power! He dared not give

these gigantic forces any more chances to sweep him off his feet. A

few more such hours as they had spent in the garden the night before

and he would be completely unnerved and in their meshes. He would be

carried away by the strong tide of love to do what he knew was cowardly

and wrong, in accepting Iris’s generous offer to marry him. It would be

contemptible to chain her beautiful young life to this little corner

of the world, to his misfortunes and perhaps--degradation. It would

be despicable to allow her to run the risk of uniting herself to him

when he knew he had not his besetting vice in hand--had no hope of

ever getting it under control. If there had been the slightest hope,

he might have listened to his heart then; but there was none. He was

only safe when he kept rigidly out of the way of temptation. But danger

might accost him at any moment even here; and then---- No, Iris must

not be allowed to run into such peril. She must be kept from that at

all costs. He could at least save her from such an awful fate.

But she loved him, and her love was not the meek smooth tranquil

affection which could easily resign itself to being thwarted. In her

blood ran fire, as there ran fire in his own. She was high-spirited,

impetuous, capable of feelings as strong as his own. The slumbering

woman in her had now been fully awakened and had risen with great

lustrous eyes responding to his love. She was willing to marry him.

She had pleaded softly, shyly, but with irresistible intensity to be

allowed to become his. As he thought of it now something blinding

passed before his eyes, and something hard in his throat seemed to

choke him. Her attitude towards him had been beautiful--wonderful!

Proud, imperious Iris--the rich Society beauty, flattered and

worshipped in London, with her easy, conquering ways, had stood before

him, a poor driver--an outcast, her eager hands upon his shoulders

imploring him to allow her to share his fate! He jerked his hand over

his eyes.

Good God, what women there were in the world! That _such_ a woman

should love _him_ like that! He turned hot and cold alternately--it was

utterly incomprehensible--too astoundingly amazing!

But that was all the more reason why he should protect her from the

calamity which threatened her; why he should remain firm and keep her

from the danger confronting her. He could at least do that. He must

not stoop to the contemptible meanness of taking advantage of her

marvellous generosity.

But how was he to do this without hurting her too much? Ah, that was

the great perplexing question. He could not endure the thought of

wounding her. But how was he to save her from the terrible fate of

marrying him without at the same time thrusting a dagger into her heart?

He must certainly not do anything suddenly. She must not even suspect

that he had already buried their love-dream--he was quite ignorant of

the fact that she had read it in his eyes. No, he must slip out of her

life gradually, quietly, causing her as little pain as possible. He

must remain the same to her outwardly, only he must rigidly avoid being

alone with her; then perhaps, in time, she would become accustomed to

the idea that they must part, never to meet again. But oh, what racking

torment this would mean to him! To be near her daily, look deep into

her eyes, see the bewitching scarlet of her lips--he clenched his

hands----

All at once he was roused from his reverie by the throb of a motor. A

big car had just glided up to the house and a distinguished-looking,

broad-shouldered man in perfectly cut clothes sprang out and made his

way towards Rees. When he was within speaking distance he said with a

very English accent, “Can you tell me if Miss Dearn is staying here?”

Rees met his cold blue stare civilly, and answered in the affirmative.

The new-comer said something to his driver, who was in immaculate

uniform matching the dark red car, then turned to Rees again to ask if

he could get accommodation at the house, also if he would direct his

man to the garage.

Rees had to tell the visitor there was no garage in the township, only

a large shed at the back of the house where motorists generally put

their cars.

“No garage. Good Heavens!” muttered the Englishman under his breath.

Then he favoured Rees with another momentary stare. “Are you the

proprietor?” he inquired.

Rees informed him that Miss Smith owned the place, and that he was her

driver and guide to the caves and beauty spots.

“Ah!” replied the new-comer, and there was a world of expression in the

monosyllable. “Perhaps before you attend to my man you would kindly see

if Miss Dearn is in and tell her I am here.”

The driver led the way to the sitting-room on the ground floor, opened

the door, and, as he did so, caught sight of Iris’s slim, straight

figure and the glitter of her glorious hair as she sat writing at a

small table by the window.

She looked over her shoulder at the sound of footsteps and for a second

he caught a glimpse of her exquisite profile; then he said quietly:

“Miss Dearn, a visitor has come to see you.”

She rose quickly, and Captain Barton passed Rees and walked towards her.

“Ralph!” she exclaimed, her blue eyes widening and a tinge of surprise

mounting to her lovely cheeks. “However did you get here? Such a

surprise to see you! What years since we met! Fancy your coming out

here, too!” And she held out both hands to him.

He clasped them eagerly. “What a young goddess my little playmate has

become!” he said, greeting her warmly. “But then, you always were

in the grand style! It’s awfully jolly to see you again,” he added

affectionately.

Justin was just closing the door, when Iris called him. “Don’t go away,

Mr. Rees; come back, I want you to meet an old friend of mine.”

A look of surprise passed over Ralph’s well-cut features, but it

vanished instantly. “What in the name of thunder does this mean?” he

thought to himself.

Iris and Justin had not met since the previous evening, as he had

breakfasted early and not been home for lunch. If they had encountered

each other alone after their hours in the moonlit garden she would

have been shy with him, but before others she always had a fine

command of herself; and, whatever she felt below the surface, it was

never permitted to reveal itself to casual observers. As the driver

re-entered the room she hastened to introduce the men.

“Mr. Rees, may I introduce Captain Barton?”

She had mentioned the driver’s name first; Ralph noticed it and a

sudden glare came into his blue eyes--Iris was too well versed in

Society etiquette to do things inadvertently. But he smiled blandly

at the driver as he said, “How d’you do--very pleased to meet you I’m

sure, Mr.----”

“Mr. Rees,” Iris filled the pause which followed the emphasised “Mr.,”

drawing herself up a little. “Mr. Rees is a great friend of ours; we

have got to know each other well since we have been here, and he has

been so good to us!”

“How delightful, to be sure!” said Captain Barton with an ultra-English

intonation.

Iris noticed the patronage in his manner and resented it immediately.

She laughed lightly. “How very English you have become, my dear

Ralph--I suppose that’s from living in Indi-ah,” she said banteringly,

slightly imitating his accent.

He knew she was annoyed and guessed why. From the first he had felt a

latent animosity towards the driver; now it became an active dislike.

“Yes, I suppose a place like India does influence one--it is rather

toney you know. This country, I understand, doesn’t bother about

trifles of that kind,” he retorted smilingly.

“No, Australia does not give over-much attention to the surface, it has

rather a refreshing way of bestowing care on what is below.”

“How charmingly wise and prudent of it!” he laughed. “I suppose that

is why every one is so friendly here. My chauffeur, a man I engaged

in Melbourne, actually offered me a cigarette coming up to-day, and

recommended the brand to me--thought it so unique of him at the

time--spirit of the place though, isn’t it? I suppose chimney-sweeps

and costermongers would be considered social equals here,” he smiled

benevolently, with a side-glance at Rees.

Iris’s large eyes had suddenly become very blue and her smile was

extraordinarily dazzling as she said: “Yes, out here even our

chauffeurs and sweeps are _men_--such a nice change from the apology

for the real thing you and I know so well, Ralph. You will appreciate

the new species after a time--when you get more used to it!”

Captain Barton’s healthy complexion grew a little more florid.

Rees saw a new side of the girl’s nature. How splendidly she dealt

with the man who had insulted him. Her loyalty was magnificent; the

delicate way she had honoured him before this Society bounder--superb!

He watched the proud tilt of her head, the brilliant eyes, her

vivid smiles, her easy grace, her finished manner, her underlying

dignity! Somehow she made him think of the black thoroughbred he

had ridden at the sports. Before Prince took the jump he had always

come up to the high test in the same light way, aware of contest,

inwardly excited, but always taking the decisive leap with well-bred

ease--sure of himself--never contemplating defeat. Iris dealt with this

difficult situation like that, crossing swords with her friend in that

smiling, self-possessed way, dealing each blow with the same pleasant

graciousness with which she would have handed him a flower.

Mrs. Henderson entered the room just then, and Rees quietly took his

departure.

* * * * *

It was late that evening when Captain Barton followed the ladies into

the dining-room. He was in evening dress and looked strikingly handsome

and distinguished.

Rees watched them taking their seats at the small table on the

opposite side of the room. Peace had evidently been restored between

Iris and her old playmate, and both ladies seemed to be enjoying

his gay spontaneous talk and pleasant banter. Rees also noticed

that the new-comer was in love with Iris; the soft look coming into

his forget-me-not eyes whenever they met her deep sea-blue ones was

unmistakable.

Miss Dearn was looking particularly lovely that night. She wore a

gauzy mauve-tinted ninon gown, thinly veiling her beautiful arms and

shoulders and dropping over her form in soft exquisite folds. The

driver scanned her face carefully to see if he could discover how

the previous evening had affected her. But outwardly there was no

apparent change, except some slight shadow round her lustrous eyes

making them look larger and more brilliant than usual. Was it a mark of

sleeplessness? Had she, too, been awake, spending the long black hours

with tumultuous longing for what might have been? He looked towards

her again; she was not talking or smiling just then, and, suddenly,

as he watched, she looked up at him, and into her eyes came a strange

dew-like softness, a mute appeal--or was it a dumb cry of pain? And for

a second, even across the room, he could see her lips were not quite

steady. It happened in a moment, an instant’s dropping of the surface

mask, a signal flash from her soul to his; then she turned and talked

lightly to her companions again.

“Did you have an enjoyable trip, Ralph?” she asked pleasantly.

“Yes, not bad at all; some quite decent people on board--a great herd

of Australians, of course. How very simple and unreserved they are.”

“They are delightful,” said Iris decidedly. “I love their great, almost

primitive, simplicity; it has something of the same grand force about

it as their immense tangled bush! Australians have lived so near the

heart of Nature that they have retained a wonderful, natural integrity.

I should imagine they are more natural than any other civilised type.”

“Yes, I think you are right,” observed Mrs. Henderson. “Natural

integrity has almost died out in certain parts of Europe, and an

artificial culture has taken its place.”

“Are you, too, advocating barbarism?” asked Captain Barton, slightly

raising his rather straight eyebrows.

“No, I do not favour barbarism, neither do I favour bleeding humanity

to death in order to educate it; such methods are brutal. But that is

just what some sections of our civilisation are doing to-day, draining

humanity drop by drop of all its life-blood and power.”

“Yes,” said Iris, “Australians are so fresh and charming because they

have not been drained; they still have vitality and warm young blood in

their veins.”

“I should have thought you would admire culture,” observed Captain

Barton, delicately dividing an apricot with his fruit-knife.

“I do. I love the silk finish of real culture. But silk finish is of

little use on a material which has already begun to decay. Decadent

Europe has been so busy putting on the silk finish that it has been

rather careless about the material it is ornamenting. Now Australia is

more concerned about the vital substance beneath, and that is why it

appeals to me. I like the durable, undaunted strength it is weaving

before attempting the outer polish.”

* * * * *

“That must be the man Miss Dearn is going to marry,” remarked Miss

Smith to Rees after dinner. “Isn’t he a swell, and doesn’t he look

every inch a soldier? What a handsome pair they will make! I heard

him explaining to the ladies, while I was waiting for Miss Dearn’s

order, that her mother had sent him out--I believe he called her Lady

Dearn. I always knew they were swells, too, though they are so nice

and friendly, and keep it all to themselves. He gave Miss Dearn a

letter from her mother; she evidently wants her to come back at once. I

heard them discussing it all as I was going backwards and forwards. I

don’t think Miss Dearn wants to go home. Captain Barton was trying to

persuade them to return with him; he lives in India and is here for a

holiday. I don’t think you will have to drive the ladies about any more

now,” went on Miss Smith; “I heard Captain Barton making arrangements

to take them everywhere in his car; they are planning to go out a lot;

I do hope they won’t leave us yet awhile.”

Rees went out shortly afterwards.

He strolled up the lane where Iris had walked with him one night, and

his heart was heavy as lead. The elasticity of his step had vanished,

and he moved slowly as if with difficulty.

Only that afternoon before dinner he had stood perplexedly gazing at

the mountains, wondering how he might carry out his determination to

slip quietly out of Iris’s life. Fate had come to his rescue now,

it had taken the initiative and showed him the way. Captain Barton

wanted her; he was of her own world, in a good position, in love

with her, decidedly an attractive man, good-looking, well-groomed

and polished--the kind of man women like. So all Rees had to do now

was simply to stand aside and give the new-comer a chance. Of course

Captain Barton was a bounder and had been very odious to him; he had

not much character or brains; but, if only he really loved the girl,

could make her happy and would be true to her, it was all that really

mattered.

Rees sighed heavily. The man was not worthy of her; but who was?

Certainly not he himself. Captain Barton did not look as if he had any

vices, and even if he were a frivolous, conceited young ass, his faults

were certainly far more harmless than his own shameful failing.

Yes, Fate had stepped in at the right moment to take Iris’s attention

from himself and direct it into another channel; and, as they had not

known each other long, perhaps her feeling for him might be merely a

strong infatuation, which in time and with suitable means might be

cured.

It was only necessary for him to stand aside and let events shape

themselves.

But how was he to endure seeing Iris constantly with another man,

taken out by him, made love to, and finally conquered by him? He

blanched in the dusk. It seemed unendurable; but for her dear sake he

must tolerate it. She deserved that. His cold, pain-stricken heart

warmed as he thought of her magnificent love and loyalty to him. She

had been willing to renounce all worldly prospects, all that women

generally valued, for his sake. Could he not make this sacrifice for

her happiness?

He thought of that one glance from her splendid eyes at dinner. His

pulses throbbed--was she suffering already because he was keeping out

of her way? He could not bear to hurt her, and yet he must continue

to wound her--for her ultimate good. Would she understand, or would

she misconstrue, his conduct? A sharp pain shot through him at the

thought of that. But perhaps, after all, it was best she should not

understand; then she might be ready to turn from him more quickly.

Yet how could he stand the agony of being misunderstood--perhaps

condemned--and appearing cruel and contemptible to her--how was he to

endure that!

A cold perspiration broke out on his forehead, and he breathed heavily.

It was after midnight when he returned to the house. “For your sake,

Iris--for your sake,” he murmured to himself as he went wearily to his

room.

* * * * *

At the other end of the corridor Captain Barton sat in his room with

a book on his knees, smoking and looking ruefully up at the acetylene

gas-jet over a small table in front of him.

“These beastly early hours,” he muttered in disgust. “Fancy going to

bed at this time--it is outrageous! What a hole this is--how on earth

can Iris stand it--actually like it? Ye gods, what a day I’ve had--the

cheek of these confounded Australians is the limit! Imagine being

offered cigarettes by my own chauffeur, being introduced--actually

introduced--to the groom on this place--and by Iris Dearn, and being

told he is a friend of Lord Dearn’s daughter! Good Lord! What a

country! If Lady Dearn knew she would have seven fits--high time little

Iris was brought home and tamed a bit; if she isn’t--by Jingo, the next

thing will be that insolent beggar making love to her!”