“‘I’D like to tell you, sir,’ said Carter, ‘how we first got acquainted,
me and Mr. Blount, to put him right with you, because I heard a whisper
that you thought he must be in with us, in the “cross” butchering line.’
“‘I don’t deny,’ I answered, ‘that I thought it very suspicious that a
man like him should be living with you fellows, and yet have no idea
that dishonest work was going on?’
“‘All right, Mr. Bruce, don’t spare us. It _was_ dishonest, there’s no
two ways about it, and we chaps ought to be ashamed of ourselves, as are
well able to get a living straight and square, and under fear of no man.
Now we’ve had a fright and been let off you’ll never hear another word
against us. But I wanted to have a word about Mr. Blount. If he had been
copped along with us, it would have been a cruel shame, a regular
murder, and him as innocent as the child unborn. His horse was knocked
up, or next door to it, when I came across him a few miles from the
“Lady Julia”; I’d a few cattle with me, and asked him to help me drive
them. He stayed at our place that night. The man I was selling them to
sent for them before daylight, and all he could hear was them being let
out of the yard.’
“‘He was a dividing mate after that, though?’ said I, knowing that such
mining agreements comprehend all knowledge in heaven and earth, and
under the sea.
“Carter answered my unspoken thought when he said, ‘He bought Tumberumba
Dick’s share, him as went to Coolgardie, and if he knew mullock from
wash dirt, then, it’s as much as he did. As for cattle, he hardly knew a
cow from a steer. Then he lost his moke and went down the river to get
word of him.’
“‘Yes!’ I said. ‘I met him then; he came on me just as I was shooting a
small mob of wild horses. I had been watching for them for months. They
seldom came so far in; but I dropped the stallion first shot, a noted
grey, said to be thoroughbred; the mares and foals wouldn’t leave him,
so I got them all, one by one.’
“‘Mr. Blount was astonished, I suppose? Seems a pity, too, they were a
well-bred lot. I’ve had many a gallop after the same lot, thinkin’ to
yard ’em, but they always got away. Anyhow, they’re no blessed good, if
you do yard ’em; mostly sulk and always clear the first chance. His cob,
it seems, joined your horses, and was run in to the paddock. So you put
him up for the night and sent him home on his own horse. Came part of
the way with him, you and the ladies, and Black Paddy. Nigh hand to the
“Lady Julia” you spotted your “E. H. B.” bullock with a fresh brand on.
And he never said nothen’. Next day Black Paddy ran our tracks to the
claim and the stockyard, found where the last bullocks had been driven
to the Back Creek slaughter yards. That was as plain as A B C, and we
had to clear. Phelim waited on to get his horse back that he’d lent him,
and start after Pat and Lanky, who were well on their way to Omeo.’
“‘All quite correct,’ I said; ‘but why didn’t he act straightforwardly
and tell me like a man that he had been working in your claim?’
“‘Because he didn’t want to give us away, and if he said what he knew,
but _didn’t understand_, the police would have been up next day and
collared the lot of us before we had a chance to cut it.’
“‘But why was he so tender about your party?’ I said. ‘You had deceived
him, and he might naturally have felt angry at being let in for aiding
and abetting cattle stealers, and all the more anxious to see you
punished.’
“‘That’s all right, Mr. Bruce; but you see there was another reason why
he stood by us, though he didn’t wait an hour after he knew we were on
the cross; wouldn’t take his share of the gold neither, which he’d
worked as hard for as any of us.’
“‘What _was_ the other reason?’
“‘Well, sir,’ rather shamefacedly, ‘he thought I’d _saved his life_, as
it were.’
“‘Saved his life? How could that be?’
“‘It was this way, sir.’ As he spoke, he looked quite sad and confused.
‘You know that Razor Back ridge on the short track to Bunjil?’
“‘Yes! I was over it once, and a brute of a track it was. That was where
Paddy Farrell was killed.’
“‘The same; well, when we was coming along it from Bunjil to the claim,
that cob of his—a flat-country horse—got frightened, and had half a mind
to back over the edge. I was thinkin’ of somethin’ else; when I looked
back I saw Mr. Blount was confused-like, he didn’t know how to stop him.
I slipped off, and held the cob, while he did the same, and started old
Keewah along the track, with the reins tied to the stirrup-iron. My old
moke trotted on, and the cob after him, till they came to the trap-yard,
where we found them when we came up, half an hour after. There wasn’t
much in it. Any man who’d lived in rangey country couldn’t have helped
doin’ it; but he chose to believe I’d saved his life. So it was chiefly
that that made him not let on to you about where he’d lived. Nothing
might have come of it; but it was a close shave, and no mistake.’
“‘I’m very glad to hear the explanation, Carter. I don’t see how he
could have acted differently, as a man or gentleman. I shall write and
tell him so. And now, a word with you; which you can pass on to your
mates. Make no mistake, you’ve got a fresh start in life! You three
fellows are young. Anything there is against you, as far as I know, is
over and done with. These warrants are just waste paper. But be careful
for the future. If you stick to the Nundooroo station till the drought’s
over, you’re made men. I’ll let the Inspector-General of Police know how
you behaved.’
“‘All right, sir; we’re on. We won’t go back on you,’ was his reply.
“‘You may expect to see me at Marondah, within the month, though
travelling through a desert, as this country is virtually now, is very
slow and unsatisfactory. I must pick up a riding camel, a “heirie,” such
as I’ve seen in the East, warranted to keep going for twenty-four hours
on end, without water or food. However, I suppose rain will come some
time or other.’”
Thus fully exonerated, it may be believed that Blount made the best use
of his time at Marondah, where he had the field all to himself with the
advantage of the most considerate of chaperons, in the person of Mrs.
Bruce, who had always been, as she told him, his staunch supporter, even
in the dark days, when her husband forbade his name to be mentioned, and
when from adverse circumstances no letters had arrived to clear his
character.
“_I_ never doubted you for a moment,” murmured Imogen, “but it must be
confessed, it was hard work holding to my trust in you, when so many
rumours were flying through the country. I never could make out why you
joined such people at all, or what you were to gain by it. If you wished
to know what a miner’s life was like, there are plenty of gentlemen glad
enough to go into any venture of the sort, with the aid of a little
capital—men such as you have described at the ‘Comstock’ or at Zeehan.”
“But how was I to find them?”
“Just the same way in which you would have done in England, through
introductions to men of mark out here. They would have advised you for
your good. And there would have been no risk of your being compromised
by any action of theirs.”
“No doubt it was indiscreet of me, but I wanted to see for myself, and
form my own opinion by personal experience of a society so different
from any I had known before.”
“That is where you conceited Englishmen”—here she held up a warning
finger—“make a mistake, indeed tons of mistakes. In vain we tell you
that there is no special difference here between the classes of society,
or the laws which rule them, and those of your own beloved country,
which we are proud to resemble.”
“But are they not different?”
“Not radically, by any means. Any departure from English manners and
customs is chiefly superficial. Your squire, or lord of the manor, says
‘Mornin’, Jones! crops doin’ so-so, too dry for the roots,’ and so on.
‘Nice four year old of yours. Looks as if he’d grow into a hunter.’ But
there’s no _real_ equality, nor can there be. Jones doesn’t expect it.”
“Mr. Bruce, I suppose, has much the same feeling for the farmers here,
and they meet on much the same terms. Except when the suspicion of
‘duffing’ comes in, eh? then—then—relations are strained, indeed, as
between the same classes, if poaching was discovered, and brought home
to the guilty ones.”
* * * * *
They had these, with many other, talks and disquisitions, such as are
interesting to lovers, and lovers only, in the long delicious evenings
and unquestioned idlesse which are the prerogatives of the halcyon days
which follow a declared engagement, and before the completed drama of
marriage.
The soft, mild months of the southern spring were now heralding the less
romantic season of the Australian summer. The sun god was daily
strengthening his power, without as yet the fierce noonday glare or
burning heat. Chiefly precious to them were the moonlight walks by the
river side when the shadows of the great willows which fringed the river
bank fell over the hurrying tide, when star sheen or moonrays glinted
through the close foliage or sparkled diamond bright on the rippling
bars. There was a winding path a few feet from the bank, accurately
marked by the cattle and horses, which roved unchecked through the great
meadows.
Here the lovers were at liberty to indulge in fullest confidences. He
told her that he had loved her from the very first moment that his eyes
fell upon her, when, not knowing that any other than Mrs. Bruce was in
the house he had been almost unconventional in the surprise of the
meeting and his instant admiration. “That moment sealed our destiny,” he
said, “or rather, would have left me a lifelong regret had I never set
eyes on you again. And what was your feeling, Imogen?” looking suddenly
into her eyes, which, lit up by a fairy moonray, seemed to his eager
gaze to glow with unearthly radiance. So, in old days did the fabled
Oread enthrall the heart of the doomed shepherd or woodsman, luring him
to follow into her enchanted bower, which he was fated never again to
discover, wasting life wandering through the forest aisles, wearing out
health, youth and passion, in the ever-fleeting, illusory pursuit.
“I think,” she answered softly, as her eyes fell before his ardent gaze,
“that I must have been similarly affected, why, I cannot tell, but the
fact remains that if you had never returned—and we had not much time for
love-making, had we, between that day and your return to the ‘Lady
Julia’ claim, and the fascinating society of Mr. Little-River-Jack?—I
should have ‘fallen into a sadness, then into a fast, thence into a
weakness,’ and so on. As it was, I was very melancholy and low for a
while, and between that and influenza, very nearly ‘went out,’ as my
maid, Josephine Macintyre, phrased it. Then, when I was coming round,
and reaching the stage of ‘the common air, the sea, the skies, to “her”
are opening Paradise,’ and would have written to you, we heard that you
had become a millionaire or a ‘silver king’ in Tasmania. It was foolish,
I know, but I thought it might look as if I wanted to recall you because
of your wealth—a vulgar idea, but still one that works for good or evil
in this silly life of ours. But now, all will be forgiven, ‘if this
should meet the eye,’ &c., as the advertisements say. You will forgive
me, and I will forgive you, and there will never be any more doubts or
despair, will there?”
That Mr. Blount made a short but impressive reply to this query may be
taken for granted. The river marge, the sighing, trailing willows, the
rippling murmuring stream, the friendly moon, all these were conditions
eminently favourable to “love’s young dream.” Nor did they fail in this
instance to ratify the solemn, irrevocable vow, often lightly, rashly,
falsely sworn, but in this instance repeated with all the passion of
ardent manhood, responded to with the heart’s best and truest affection,
the sacred, intensely glowing flame of the maiden’s love, imperishable,
immortal.
“You told me, the last time we met,” she whispered, “that some day I
should know why you came here to lead an aimless, wandering life. I
always thought there was some mystery about it. Will you tell me now? It
is lovely and mild, there could not be a better time. How clearly you
can hear the ripple in the shallows. Was there a woman in it?”
“Of course there was, but mind, it all happened seven years ago. So if
what I say may be used against me on my trial, I shall be dumb.”
“I’ve copied out depositions now and then, for Edward,” replied the
girl, archly. “Having heard the evidence, do you wish to say anything?
comes next. So I’ll promise not to take advantage of your voluntary
confession, if you make a clean breast of it, once for all. I have no
fear of the dear, dead women, whoever they were.”
“You need not,” said Blount, as he drew her more closely to him, “not if
Helen of Troy were of the company.”
On their return to the verandah, where they found Mrs. Bruce still
occupied with the needlework, which took up (so she said), fortunately,
so much of her time, Imogen pleaded fatigue and retired, leaving the
field free to her sister and the guest, who thereupon commenced a long,
and apparently serious conversation.
Mr. Blount spoke more unreservedly of his private affairs than he had
hitherto thought it expedient to do. Independently of his share in the
Great Comstock Company, for which he had already been offered a hundred
thousand pounds—he had a handsome allowance from his father—as also,
thinking it might be needed, a letter of credit upon the Imperial Bank
for five thousand pounds.
“It will always be a puzzle to me and Imogen,” said Mrs. Bruce, “how,
with all that money at your disposal, you should ever have run the risks
you did in this gipsy business, with the people we found you with, or
would have done, if you had remained a few days longer with them. You
didn’t want to learn their language, like Borrow—what other reason
_could_ there be?”
“My dear Mrs. Bruce,” he replied, “you have been so good, considerate,
and friendly to me, that I must make a clean breast of it. I have
already told Imogen all there is to tell of a by no means uncommon event
in a man’s life, when one of your adorable, yet fatal sex is mixed up
with it.”
“I see, I understand, the ‘eternal feminine’; we have not many romances
of the kind in these quiet hills, but of course they are not wholly
unknown, even in our sequestered lives. You are going to tell me of your
tragedy.”
“It was not far removed from the ordinary run of such adventures, though
there might easily have been a catastrophe. I was young, I said it was
seven years ago, since which I have industriously wasted life’s best
gifts, in trying to forget her. Beautiful, yes, as a dream maiden! a
recognised queen of society, flattered, worshipped, wherever her fairy
footsteps trod; but vain, ambitious and false as the Lorelei, or the
mermaiden, that lures the fated victim. More than one man had thrown
life, character, or fortune at her feet, unavailingly. I had heard this,
but with the reckless confidence of youth, I heeded not. I met her at
the quiet country house of a relative; men being scarce, she
condescended to play for so poor a stake as the heart of a younger son,
an undistinguished lover’s existence, and she won!
“How could it be otherwise? She turned the full battery of her charms
upon the undefended fort. We rode together, we fished the trout stream,
more dangerous still. We read in the old library, morning after morning,
and here my not unmarked university career served me well, as I thought.
I had been reading aloud from a novel of the hour, when, looking up
suddenly I saw a light in her eyes, which gave me hope, more than hope.
I took her hand, I poured out protestations, entreaties, vows of eternal
love; whatever man has distilled from the inward fires of soul and
sense, under the alembic of love at white heat, I found words for and
poured into her not unwilling ear.
“She was visibly agitated. Her cold nature, serenely lovely as she
always was, seemed to kindle into flame under the fire of my impetuous
avowal. I gained her other hand, I threw myself on my knees before her,
and drew her down to the level of my face. I clasped her yielding form,
and kissed her lips with soul-consuming ardour. To my surprise, she made
no resistance, her colour came and went, she might have been the veriest
country milkmaid, surprised into consent by her rustic lover’s
eagerness. ‘You are mine, say you are mine for ever!’ I whispered into
her shell-like ear as her loosened hair fell over her cheek.
“‘Yours,’ she said in a low intense murmur, ‘now and for ever.’ Then
gently, disengaging herself from my arms, ‘This is a foolish business. I
confess to being rather unprepared, but I suppose we must consider it
binding?’
“‘Binding,’ said I, shocked at the alteration of her tone and manner.
‘To the end of the world, and afterwards, in life, in death, my heart is
yours unalterably—to wear in true love’s circlet or to break and cast
beneath your feet.’
“‘Poor Val!’ said she, smoothing my hair with her dainty jewelled
fingers, ‘yet women have played false before now to their promises, as
fondly made, and men’s hearts have not been broken. They have lived to
smile, to wed, to enjoy life much as usual—or old tales are untrue.’
“‘Do not jest,’ said I, ‘a man’s life—a woman’s heart, are treasures too
precious to win—too perilous to lose; say you are not in earnest?’
“‘Perhaps not,’ she said, lightly. ‘Yes! you may have your good-night
kiss,’ and we parted. You would not think it was for ever.
“The house-party was not large at Kingswood, but it was as much
disturbed and excited when our engagement was given out, as if it had
been a much more exalted gathering.
“My devotion had not been unmarked, but the betting had been against me.
I was too young, too undistinguished—what had I done? not even in the
army—in literature, beyond a few tentative minor successes, I was
unknown. How had I presumed to propose to—indeed to win this belle of
the last two seasons—the admitted star of the most aristocratic,
exclusive, socially distinguished set? I was fairly good-looking—so much
was admitted—my family was unimpeachable, old and honoured, but where is
the money to come from to uphold the dignity and pay the bills of a
queen of beauty and fashion such as Adeline Montresor?
“She had not come down from her room next morning when we men adjourned
to the grounds for a smoke, and the usual after breakfast stroll.
“I was in the stable examining a strain which had lamed my hunter a few
days since, and which had accounted for my presence in the library on
the eventful afternoon, when my attention was attracted by an
observation made by one man to another who held out a morning paper for
his friend to see.
“‘I thought there was something “by ordinar,” as our Scotch gardener
says.
“‘Death of Sir Reginald Lutterworth, all his money and the lovely place
left to his nephew, Valentine Blount, the younger son of Lord
Fontenaye.’
“‘By Jove!’ said his friend. ‘What a throw in! This accounts for the
unaccountable, to put it mildly. The fair Adeline sees something beyond
the personal merits of our enthusiastic young friend.
“‘A house in town—a place in the country, etc., presented at Court,
Marlborough House in the future—what girl of the period could say no to
such a present—with a still more gorgeous perspective?’
“‘Certainly not Miss Montresor, nor any of her set. But what about
Colonel Delamere?’
“‘He’ll receive a neat, carefully worded note, which being interpreted,
needs only one word of translation, “farewell.”
“‘Perhaps to soften the blow, as the phrase runs, something like “my
people so badly off, pressure brought to bear—feelings unchanged—bow to
Fate, etc.”’
“‘Wonder if she saw it?’
“‘My man says it’s in all the evening papers, but we were so hard at
work at bridge, that no one thought of looking at them. She couldn’t
have seen it, unless the maid took it up to her room when she went to
dress for dinner. Ha! didn’t think of that.’
“On inquiry, I found that my enslaver and her maid had left for London
by the early train. A note had been left for me, containing only a few
words. ‘Dearest, I feel I _must_ go home. See you at Oldacres. Au
revoir.’
“I felt disappointed. Still I had no rational ground for distrust. It
was most natural that a girl under such circumstances should wish to go
home to her mother, and relieve her heart, when such an important step
had been decided upon. I sent a telegram in answer, and arranged to
leave for London, having to make certain arrangements in accordance with
what would doubtless be my altered position.
“We wrote to one another daily. The letters, though not particularly
ardent on her side, were affectionate and apparently sincere. A few days
passed in making necessary financial arrangements, in receiving
congratulations, freely tendered by friends and acquaintances.
“By my own family, I was regarded as a Spanish galleon, laden with
treasure, which had come to redeem the faded glories of the estate, and
to aid the wearer of a title, unsupported by an adequate income. Life
was roseate, radiant with dazzling splendour.
“What cared I for the wealth? Was I not the proud possessor of the heart
of the loveliest girl in England? I was invited to her father’s place in
the Midlands, for the forthcoming hunting season.
“The kindest, semi-maternal letter informed me that ‘darling Adeline’
had overtaxed her nervous system, and not been quite herself for the
last few days. I could understand _why_. However, she was looking her
best once more, and all impatience to greet me at Oldacres, next week,
when some of their more intimate neighbours would be able to pay their
respects. I made rather a wry face at the extra week’s delay, thus
imposed upon me, but suppressed any impatience as much as was possible,
while thinking of the rapturous delight awaiting me, at the end of the
probation. On the morning of the day on which I was to leave London, I
received another of the extra-legal, important-looking documents, with
which I had been so familiar lately. I was on the point of throwing it
into the drawer of my writing table to await my return when I should be
able to settle all formal matters in one morning’s work. Something,
however, urged me to open the bothering thing, and have done with it, so
as not to have it hanging over me when I was impatient of business of
any sort or kind.
“I read over the first page twice before I fully grasped its purport.
“‘MY DEAR SIR,—We regret deeply the unpleasant nature of the
communication which we are reluctantly compelled to make. We cannot
sufficiently express our surprise at the apparent carelessness of
Messrs. Steadman and Delve, who have been your uncle’s trusted lawyers
and agents for fifty years, and in point of fact acted in that capacity
for your grandfather, the late Lord Fontenaye, and we apologise, with
sincere regrets, for not having verified with greater care the precise
nature of Sir Reginald’s last will and testament.
“‘It now appears that the testator made _another will_ a year after the
one by which you were to benefit so largely. That other will has been
found in a secret drawer, and is now in the possession of Messrs.
Steadman and Delve. By it _all former wills_ are revoked, and there is a
total omission of your name as a beneficiary. With the exception of
comparatively trifling annuities and legacies, the whole of the
testator’s very large estates, together with the sum of £300,000
invested in the three per cents, is willed to your elder brother, the
present Lord Fontenaye.’
“This was a thunderclap; indeed, apart from the natural distaste felt by
most men at having been suddenly displaced from a position of wealth and
importance, my chief regret arose from the feeling of disappointment
which my change from wealth to moderate competence would cause to my
beloved Adeline.
“No doubt of her loyalty and good faith troubled me. A legacy from my
mother provided a sufficient, if not unusual income, as well as a fair
estate, upon which we could live in something more than moderate
comfort. Surely no girl would hesitate to declare her willingness to
share the fortunes of a man to whom she had plighted her troth, though
dissociated from the splendour which surrounded the former position. I
lost no time in telegraphing to her father the change in our
circumstances, at the same time writing a full explanation and
requesting a day’s delay before visiting Oldacres, on account of
necessary arrangements. But little time was lost in telegraphing an
answer to my communication. ‘Much shocked by your news. Please to await
letter. Miss Montresor much overcome.’
“The first news had been disastrous; the second intimation was
unpleasant in tone and suggestion. I could not but regard it as showing
a disposition to retreat from the engagement. But was this possible—even
probable? Could I think my adored one guilty of withdrawing from her
solemnly pledged troth-plight, _entirely_ on account of the change in my
fortunes from those of a rich man with an historic rent-roll and estates
hardly exceeded by those of any English proprietor? Was it then the
rents and the three per cents which this angel-seeming creature accepted
without reference to the man? It would appear so. My youth and
inexperience, how inferior in worldly wisdom had they shown me to be to
this calculating worldling in the garb of an angel of light.
“If so, of course it was not fully decided so far. Let the end try the
man. I trusted that I should be able to stand up to my fight, heavy and
crushing as might be the blow Fate had dealt me. But all light and
colour, all sympathy with and savour of pleasure, so-called, died out of
my life. My premonition was but too accurate. Following the statement in
my legal adviser’s letter, every paper in England had a more or less
sensational paragraph to the effect that the announcement of the late
Sir Reginald Lutterworth’s testamentary disposition was premature and
incorrect. The bulk of that gentleman’s property, his great estates, and
large deposits in the funds, goes to Lord Fontenaye, the head of the
house.
“Soon after this, through some channels of intelligence, came a harmless
looking paragraph in the personal column of the _Court Circular_:—‘We
are authorised to contradict the report of the engagement of Miss
Adeline Montresor to the Honourable Valentine Blount. The arrangement,
if any, was terminated by mutual consent.’ A note of studied politeness
from her mother left no doubt on my mind that her daughter’s engagement
to me, too hastily entered into in the opinion of Mr. Montresor and
herself, must now be regarded as finally terminated. ‘Mr. Blount would
understand that, as no good purpose would be served by an interchange of
letters or an interview, he would consult the feelings of the family by
refraining from requiring either.’
“Such, and so worded in effect, was my _congé_. It was a hard fall. In
more than one instance within my knowledge a fatal one.
“Last week, _fortunatus nimium_, I had stood on the very apex of human
happiness. Rich—more than rich, the possessor of historic estates, with
a commensurate rent-roll, above all ecstatically happy as the _fiancé_
of the loveliest girl in England—high-born, highly endowed, the envy of
my compeers, the admired of the crowd—a few short days saw me bereft of
all but a moderate fortune, reduced in position, socially disrated,
discarded by the woman of my passionate adoration.
“What remained, but as was suggested to the victim of an earlier inrush
of disasters? To curse God, and die? The teaching of my youth, combined
with a substratum of philosophic disdain of the ills of life, forbade
the ignominious surrender. I took counsel with my calmer self, with my
best friends, made no sign, arranged for regular remittances, and took
my passage for South America.
“How I lived among the wild people and wilder adventurers, whom debt and
dishonour, or Bohemian love of freedom had driven from the headquarters
of art, civilisation and luxury, may be told some day; sufficient to say
that during the five years I lived abroad much of my unhappiness and
despair of life wore off by the slow but sure attrition of new
occupations amongst strange companions. From time to time I sent home
articles to scientific societies which gave me a certain vogue in
literary circles. At length, and not until the end of the sixth year of
wandering had been reached, a desire arose to see England and my people
once more. Six months after my departure, Adeline had married an elderly
peer, when, as Lady Wandsborough, she gained the position and
consideration which I had been unable to offer her. Two years afterwards
another excitement was caused among the smart set by her elopement with
Colonel Delamere, ‘a distinguished military man,’ said the _Court
Circular_, concerning whom there had been a growing scandal. Socially
condemned, dropped and disowned, what was to be the end of the brilliant
woman, whose entertainments, dresses, jewels, and friendships, made up
so large a part of English and Continental chit-chat?
“Lord Wandsborough without loss of time obtained a divorce. There was no
appearance of the co-respondent. Since then, there had been no authentic
information about the arrant pair—neither, though I searched the fashion
journals with unusual industry, did I come across the marriage of
Colonel Delamere to the heroine of so many historiettes in high life. It
was not that I had any strong personal interest in her career, fallen as
she was now from her high estate finally and irrevocably.
“But I couldn’t attain to complete detachment from all human sympathy
for the fallen idol of my youthful dreams, though perhaps my strongest
sentiment connected with her was one of heartfelt gratitude for the
brusque manner in which she had discarded me, and so saved me from the
keenest—the most exquisitely cruel tortures to which the civilised man
can be subjected.
“Of all people in the world she was the last whom I expected, or indeed
desired, to see again; yet we were doomed to meet once more. I told you
that I came from Hobart, the day after my arrest (save the mark!), in a
vessel from Callao, of which the crew and passengers were strangely
mixed, various in character as in colour and nationality; South
Americans, Mexicans, Americans of the States, both Northerners and
Southerners. Among them I noted, although I was far from troubling
myself about their histories, a tall, handsome man, who bore on him the
impress of British military service. It was Colonel Delamere! I could
not be mistaken. I had formed a slight acquaintance with him in earlier
days; had watched him at cards, with some of the least villanous-looking
of the foreigners, to whose excitable manner and reckless language his
own offered so marked a contrast. I did not intend to make myself known
to him, but accident was stronger than inclination. Seeing a lady
struggling up the companion (the weather was still rough), I moved
forward and helped her to a seat. She turned to thank me, and after an
earnest surprised glance at my face—‘But, no! it can’t be! Am I so
changed?’ she said reproachfully, ‘that you don’t know Adeline
Montresor?’ She _was_ changed, oh! how sadly, and I had _not_ known her.
The second time, of course, I recognised the object of my youthful
adoration, the woman by whose heartless conduct I had been so rudely
disillusioned. She glanced at the Colonel, who, engrossed in the game,
had not observed her coming on deck, and motioned me to take a seat
beside her, saying, ‘How _you_ have changed since we last met! I treated
you shamefully—heartlessly, I confess, but it was all for your good, as
people say to children. You would never have been the man you are if
Fate and I had not sent you out into the world with a broken heart. Now
tell me all about yourself?’ she continued, with a glance which recalled
the spell of former witchery, harmless however, _now_, as summer
lightning. ‘You don’t wish to cut me, I hope?’
“‘Far from it,’ I replied, ‘you will always find me a friend. Is there
any way in which I can serve you? you have only to say. What is your
address?’ She looked over at the Colonel and his companions with a
melancholy air, and replied in a low voice, ‘We are travelling as
“Captain and Mrs. Winchester.” Poor fellow, he cannot marry me, though
he would do so to-morrow, if he were free from his wife, as I am from my
husband. But she will not go for a divorce, just to punish us; isn’t it
spiteful? You can see—’ here she touched her dress which was strictly
economical—‘that it is low water with us. I have tried the stage, and we
have been doing light comedy in Callao, and the coast towns. You have
seen me in the amateur business?’
“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘how I admired you!’
“‘I know that,’ and she smiled with a strangely mingled suggestion of
amusement and sadness; ‘you were a first-class lover in the proposal
scene, though a little too much in earnest. I really _was_ touched, and
if—if indeed—everything had been different, my heart, my previous
experiences, my insane love of society triumphs, dress, diamonds, etc.
These I thought I had secured, and so accepted your honest adoration.
But even then I was in love with poor Jack—never loved any one else in
fact. I have been his ruin, and he mine. I see he has finished his game,
and is coming over. You may as well know each other.’ The Colonel looked
at me fixedly, much wondering at our apparent friendly attitude, then
bowed politely and formally. ‘No, Jack, you don’t know him, though
you’ve seen him before. He’s an old friend of mine, though, to whom I
did a good turn, the best any one ever did him, when I broke our
engagement short off, after hearing he’d lost his money. Now you know.’
“‘You’re a queer woman,’ said he, putting out his hand in frank and
manly fashion, which I shook warmly. ‘I always said you treated him
brutally. It didn’t break his heart, though it might have suffered at
the time. We’re all fools; I nearly shot myself when I was just of age
over Clara Westbrook.’
“‘Yes, I know,’ assented ‘Mrs. Winchester,’ good-humouredly; ‘now she’s
eighteen stone and can hardly get into her carriage.’
“‘She was dashed handsome then,’ pleaded the Colonel; ‘but hang the
past, it’s the future we’ve got to look at—not a gay prospect, either.
Some people make money here, I suppose; we were nearly getting off the
boat at Hobart and trying our luck at that new silver mine, the
Cornstalk, or something like that. Do you know anything about it?’
“‘I’m a part proprietor, and so on,’ said I, trying vainly to divest my
manner of any trace of importance, cruel as was the contrast between my
position and that of this forlorn pair. ‘It was a chance investment when
I came out here.’
“‘The devil! Tregonwell, Blount, Herbert and Clarke. Forgotten your
name, you know. Why, they say you’re all worth £100,000 each?’
“‘At least!’ I said; ‘quite a fluke, though. My partner, Tregonwell, who
_is_ a good man of business, wanted to throw it up. I held on out of
pure obstinacy, and it turned up a “bonanza.”’
“‘Your luck was in, and ours is dead out,’ said ‘Mrs. Winchester,’
‘there’s no denying that, but ours may turn again some day. Where are we
going next, Jack?’
“‘Checked through to Coolgardie, West Australia,’ said the Colonel.
‘Know some fellows. Believe there are immensely rich gold mines there.
Saw some quartz specimens in a window in London, as much gold as
quartz.’
“‘Quite true. There have been wonderful yields there,’ said I; ‘it’s an
awful hot place, very primitive and rough. Still, the women—there _are_
ladies, too—manage to live and keep up their spirits.’
“‘What do you say, Addie, hadn’t you better stay behind for a while, at
any rate?’
“‘All places are alike to me now,’ said she wearily; ‘but where you go I
go. We’ll see it out together, Jack.’
“‘We’re to be in Melbourne to-night, the steward told me,’ said the
Colonel; ‘perhaps Mr. Blount will kindly recommend an hotel?’
“‘I know a good one,’ said I, ‘handy to your boat. I’ll see you on board
to-morrow. The _Marloo_ leaves in the afternoon. I can give you letters
to some people on “the field” as they call it.’
“We went to ‘Scott’s,’ where I arranged certain things with the
management. So that when the Colonel paid his bill next day, and we left
together in a cab for the _Marloo_, he told his wife that the charges
were most reasonable. She looked at me with a meaning glance and wrung
my hand as the Colonel hurried off with the luggage. ‘You’re a good
fellow,’ she said, ‘though it’s late in the day to find it out. You’ve
had your revenge, haven’t you? Are you going to get married?’
“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘next week.’
“‘I wish you joy, with all my heart, what there is of it, that is. Is
she beautiful, innocent, devoted to you?’
“‘All that,’ said I, ‘and more.’
“‘Then tell her my story, and when for vanity, pleasure, or the tinsel
trappings of society she is tempted to stray from the simple faith of
her youth (I had it once, strange to say), let her think of _me_ as I am
now, poverty-stricken, degraded, and, except for poor Jack, whom I have
dragged down to ruin with me, without a friend in the world.’
“‘While I live,’ said I, ‘you must not say that.’
“‘I know—I know,’ and the tears fell from her eyes, changed as she was,
from all that she had been in her day of pride. ‘But we can take nothing
from you, of all men. God bless you!’
“Here came the Colonel. ‘Come along, Addie, we shall be left behind.
Ta-ta, Blount, you’re a dashed good fellow, too good altogether, if you
ask me. We’ll let you know how we get on.’
* * * * *
“As the coasting steamer churned the far from limpid waters of the
Yarra, I waved my hand once and turned my head. They went their way. She
and her companion to a rude life and a cheerless future, I to love and
unclouded happiness, with fortune and social fame thrown in as
makeweights. So there you have the whole of it. Last dying speech and
confession of a sometime bachelor, but henceforth able to proudly
describe himself ‘as a mawwied man,’ like the swell in the witness-box,
‘faw-mally in the awmy!’”
Edward Bruce came back from Queensland, and for fear of accidents the
wedding was solemnised quietly, but with all due form and observance,
between Valentine FitzEustace Blount, bachelor, and Imogen Carrisforth,
spinster, of Marondah, in the parish of Tallawatta, district of Upper
Sturt, colony of Victoria, Australia. The day was one of those
transcendant glories of a summer land, which, as combining warmth with
the fresh dry air of the Great South Land, are absolutely peerless. The
lightly-wooded downs, verdant as in spring in this exceptional year,
were pleasing to the eye as they stretched away mile after mile to the
base of the mountain range. The exotic trees, oaks and elms, with a few
beeches, walnuts, and an ash-tree, hard by the back entrance were in
fullest leaf, most brilliant greenery. The great willows hung their
tresses over the river bank, swaying over the murmuring stream, while
they almost covered the channel with their trailing wreaths.
The glory of the wattle gold had departed; the graceful tender
fern-frond appearing chaplets were no longer intertwined with the lavish
spring gold which, following the windings of every streamlet and ravine,
seems to penetrate the dim grey woodlands with golden-threaded devices.
Herald and earliest note in tone and tendril of that manifold, divinest
harmony, the Voice of Spring. A souvenir of the ocean in the form of a
gladsome, whispering breeze came through the woodland at noon, tempering
the sun’s potent influence, until all comments and criticisms united in
one sincerest utterance, an absolutely perfect day, fitting, indeed, as
the youngest bridesmaid asserted, for such an ideal marriage.
* * * * *
Nothing went wrong with train or coach this time. Fate had done her
worst, and was minded to hold off from these persistent seekers after
happiness. Edward Bruce had arrived from Queensland, sunbrowned, rather
harder in condition than when he left home, but hale, strong, in good
spirits, and even jubilant, having heard by wire of a six-inch rainfall
since his departure.
Little-River-Jack and the O’Hara brothers had crowned themselves with
glory on Crichel Downs since they had been employed there. Energetic,
athletic, and miraculously learned in every department of bush lore,
they had thrown themselves into the work of the drought-stricken
district with an amount of enthusiasm that rejoiced the manager’s heart,
moving him to declare that they were worth their weight in gold, and had
saved the lives of sheep and cattle to the value of their wages six
times over. He was going to give Little-River-Jack the post of overseer
at a back outstation, and felt certain that no one would get hold of
calf, cow, or bullock with the Crichel Downs brand as long as he was in
charge. Phelim and Pat O’Hara were kept on the home station, and for
driving a weak flock of sheep at night, or “moonlighting” the outlying
scrub cattle, no one in all Queensland, except Jim Bradfield, was fit to
“hold a candle” to them.
It was for various reasons, the bride’s recent illness and other
considerations, that what is known as “a quiet wedding” took place, yet
were there certain additions to the family circle.
Pastoral neighbours, such as the MacRimmons, the Grants, the MacAulays,
the Chesters, the Waterdales, could not decently be left out. Besides
the seniors, they included large families of young men and maidens born
and reared among the forests and meadows of the Upper Sturt. The
climatic conditions of this Highland region proved its adaptability for
the development of the Anglo-Saxon and the Anglo-Celt, for finer
specimens of the race than these young people who rode and drove so
joyously to this popular function would have been difficult, if not
impossible, to find. The men, tall, stalwart, adepts in every manly
exercise; the girls, fresh-coloured, high-spirited, full of the joyous
abandon of early youth, as yet unworn by care and with the instinctive
confidence of all healthy minded young people in the continuance of the
_joie de vivre_, of which they had inherited so large a share.
It was noticed by some of these whose eyes were sharp and general
intelligence by no means limited, that at the breakfast there was a new
damsel who assisted the waiting maid, Josephine Macintyre (chiefly known
as Joe Mac), a smart soubrette of prepossessing appearance.
With her the bride and bridegroom shook hands warmly before they
departed “for good.” Well and becomingly dressed, she was an object of
more than ordinary interest to some of the youthful squirearchy.
“Why, it’s Sheila Maguire, from Bunjil!” said one youngster to his
comrade. “Thought I’d seen her before, somewhere. Doesn’t she look
stunning?”
“My word,” was the reply. “They say she’s been left a lot of money by
old Barney, her uncle.”
“She’s a fine, straight, jolly girl, with no nonsense about her,”
declared the first speaker, “a man might do worse than make up to her,
if he had to live in the back blocks.”
“Why don’t you try the experiment?”
“Thanks, awfully! Hope I shall do as well—but I’m not ‘on the marry’
just yet. Want to see another Melbourne Cup or so first.”
There was no “marriage bell,” yet all went well without that obsolete
summons. Every one turned up at the right time, not even the best man
was absent. He came the evening before—a cool, unpretending person, very
correctly dressed, and with “soldier” written all over him—in spite of
the vain disguise of mufti. He was presented as Colonel Pelham Villiers,
D.S.O., Royal Engineers, just down from Northern India. That he had
“assisted” at such functions before was evident by the air of authority
with which he put the bridegroom through his facings, and even ordered
the bridesmaids about—“like a lot of chorus girls”—as Susie Allerton
observed.
She had (she said) “a great mind to refuse to obey,” but after once
meeting the look in a pair of stern grey eyes—hers were hazel—she
capitulated. He took her in to breakfast, it was noticed, where they
seemed excellent friends.
Punctually at three p.m. the drag came round with Edward Bruce on the
box—behind such a team as only one station on the Upper Sturt could turn
out. The leaders—own brothers—cheap at a hundred apiece, were a “dream,”
as an enthusiastic girl observed, while the solid pair of dark bays in
the wheel were scarcely behind them in value.
Out came the bride in travelling suit of grey, on the arm of “the
happiest man in Australia,” as he had that day professed himself to be.
Black Paddy noiselessly relinquished the rein of the nearside leader, a
fine tempered, but impatient animal, and like one horse, the
well-broken, high-mettled team moved off. The road was level, and smooth
for the first half mile, then came a long up grade pretty much against
collar, the team, at a touch of the rein, broke into a hand gallop,
which they kept up easily until the crown of the hill was reached. There
on the long down-grade—high above the river bank on one side, and
scooped out of the mountain side on the other, the powerful leg-brake
was applied, and the laden vehicle rolled steadily, and well controlled,
until the level track of the river meadow was reached. There was a full
quarter of an hour to spare when the railway station was neared, and
with the luggage checked through to Menzies Hotel, Melbourne, and an
engaged carriage for Imogen and himself, Mr. Blount decided that the
first stage of matrimonial happiness was reached.