TWO YEARS AFTER.
A tall bearded man walked slowly up the side of a steep ravine, leading
a tired horse by the bridle. His hands were plunged deep in his
trousers-pockets, and his brows were knitted in deep thought. He wore
the regulation Australian costume--flannel shirt and silk scarf, straw
hat, rough trousers, and enormous boots.
It was Alec Lindsay. Two years of the dry bracing air of Australia had
done wonders for him. His cheeks and hands were brown as a nut, his
muscles strong and springy as when he used to run up the sides of the
Highland hills; not a trace of weakness was left in his frame.
When the ascent was climbed, the traveller came upon a rough path
running along the upper edge of the gully, which brought him to a
shepherd’s hut. This had been Alec’s home for the last fifteen months.
Here he had lived, contentedly enough, dreaming now and then of the big
world so far away, but never hankering after it, deeming it a pleasant
piece of excitement if a traveller dropped in with a fortnight-old
newspaper in his pocket.
As he drew near the hut, a short, thick-set man with a black beard,
which resembled a section of a sweep’s brush, appeared at the doorway,
and stood waiting for his companion’s approach.
‘Well?’ he inquired, as Alec came up.
‘I saw Martin,’ said Alec; ‘and I ordered the flour, and the other
things. The wash for the sheep will be sent over on Saturday.’
Bill Cutbush gave a grunt, by way of acknowledging the information.
‘I went round by the post-office.’
‘Ah!’ growled Bill. ‘That’s what’s made you so late. You didn’t get any
letters for me, I fancy? No billy-doos, or such-like?’
‘There was a letter and a paper for you,’ answered Alec, producing them
from his pouch.
Bill stared at them as if he were half afraid of them.
‘Blest if I ain’t forgot how to read such things,’ he said, with a
short laugh, as he thrust them into his pocket, and turned away.
‘I got a letter too,’ began Alec. ‘I think, Bill----’
Then he saw that his rough-spoken comrade was paying no attention to
him, but was striding off to discover what the news was that had
travelled so many thousand miles to find him.
So Alec rubbed down Brown Jim, his horse, and fed him. After that he
went to the brook and washed himself, and then he walked into the hut.
Supper, the never-changing supper of tea, chops, and unleavened bread,
was ready cooked; and when that subject had been adequately discussed,
Alec lit his pipe and sat down on a log outside the hut to ruminate.
Much had happened during the two years of his exile. His father had
died, and Margaret had let the Castle Farm, and the others which the
laird had bought back before his death, and had gone to live with Miss
Lindsay in Glasgow.
Old Mr. Blake, too, was dead; and Hubert Blake and Sophy had been
married for some time. The letter Alec had just received was from
Blake; and pulling it out of his pocket he began to read it once more.
‘MY DEAR LINDSAY’ (so ran the letter),
‘I see it is of no use to blow you up for not writing--so
I spare you. But I have news for you. Your cousin Semple
is dead. Poor fellow, I fear his wealth did him little
good. You know, I dare say, that he managed to hear of an
attorney while he was in Spain, and through this man he
succeeded in recovering the quarter of a million to obtain
which he did you so grievous a wrong. But he never dared
to show his face in England, knowing that if he escaped
imprisonment he would have been shunned by everybody.
‘I have seen his lawyer, who seems a fairly respectable
individual; and he tells me that the two hundred and fifty
thousand pounds are intact; and that your cousin left no
will. So you and your sister inherit this property. You
must come home at once, and see about it. I believe your
sister is to be put into possession of her share very
shortly.
‘You are a rich man now, Lindsay; and if you choose you
may do something towards realizing those schemes of
colonization which in your book, “England’s Hope,” you
recommend to all wealthy philanthropists. At least you may
as well spend the money in that way; for I feel certain you
will get rid of it before long, in one way or another. As
for “England’s Hope,” it has made quite a sensation. It is
talked of and quoted everywhere; and really your doctrine
that the unskilled labourers who are starving should be
helped to emigrate to Australia in large numbers, and
settled on virgin land by the two Governments, seems to me
the only practical way of solving the difficulty. I quite
agree with you in this, that we may expect the agricultural
labourers to find less and less work on English farms,
so that the distress which comes round as regularly every
winter as the first of November, must grow worse every
year, unless it is relieved by a remedy which will be in
some degree commensurate with the evil.
‘But we will talk over all this when we meet. What I want
to impress upon you is that you must, as soon as this
reaches you, saddle your horse, and make for the nearest
seaport. Take the first steamer for England, and as soon
as you land come straight to Brighton. We shall be here
for four or five months at least. I want to have a long
chat with you, and my wife wants to show you the baby,
whose faculties (according to his mother) are well-nigh
superhuman, and whose beauties and graces are infinite.
‘By the way, we lighted upon an old acquaintance of yours
the other day, Miss Mowbray. Poor girl, I fancy she has
rather a hard life of it. She foolishly invested the
greater part of her little fortune in a company which paid
high dividends long enough to enable the promoters to sell
their shares, and then went to smash. So she lives with
some relations as a sort of nursery-governess to a pack
of preternaturally ugly children. But I fancy her hard
fortune has improved her. My wife has taken a great fancy
to her, chiefly, I believe, on account of her courage in
giving evidence on a certain occasion, and on account of
her refusing James Semple, when he wanted to marry her last
year.
‘Now, good-bye, and remember to come to Brighton the moment
your ship comes in.
‘Yours always,
‘HUBERT BLAKE.’
By the time Alec’s pipe was finished, Bill Cutbush had returned to
the hut. He was very quiet and subdued in his manner. Evidently the
contents of his letter had touched him deeply; but he said not a word
about it.
‘Bill,’ said Alec, before they separated for the night, ‘I have had an
important letter from England: and I am going home. I spoke to Martin;
and he will send someone to take my place to-morrow.’
‘When d’you start?’ asked Bill, after a pause.
‘At daybreak.’
‘What are you going to do with Brown Jim?’
‘I shall ride him to Clifford’s, and catch the stage there.’
‘You think of selling him?’
‘I shall leave him to you, Bill.’
‘For my own?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank’ee.’
‘Good-night, Bill.’
Half an hour afterwards Alec suddenly awoke.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted.
‘It’s only me,’ said the voice of Bill Cutbush. ‘I say, y’know, it was
sort of partickler good in you to give me Brown Jim. He’s the best hoss
for a long way round. I’ll take good care on him. Thought you’d like to
know.’
And before Alec had time to reply, Bill had vanished.
* * * * *
Before two months had passed, Alec was once more in London. And without
waiting to see the solicitor who had charge of his late cousin’s
property, he went down to Brighton the same day.
To his disappointment, however, he found that Blake and his wife were
not at home, and would not probably be back till the evening. Alec
spent the rest of the day in wandering about the pier and the streets,
feeling more lonely than he had been in the Australian bush.
It was late in the afternoon, and he was strolling aimlessly along the
seashore, when happening to look towards the cliffs he caught sight of
Laura Mowbray.
Yes, it was she; a glad surprise shining in her eyes. Alec rushed up to
her, holding out both his hands.
‘Oh, how are you? I am so glad to see you!’ he cried.
Laura gave him her right hand without speaking, but Alec seized her
left as well, and held it, while his eyes devoured her face.
‘Won’t you give me a word of welcome?’ he asked.
‘Welcome back to England!’ she said, gently disengaging her hands.
Then they walked on side by side.
‘When did you return?’ asked Laura.
‘I only reached London this morning.’
‘Had you a pleasant voyage?’
‘Yes; but I want to hear about you. I want to know so much.’
‘No, no; you shall tell me all about Australia, and what you have been
doing all this time.’
There were plenty of topics for conversation, and an hour went by
before they noticed that the sun was near his setting.
‘I must take the children home,’ said Laura. ‘They are under my charge,
you know.’
‘The children? Where are they?’
‘Playing over there. Oh! I have been keeping an eye on them all the
time. I have not been so careless as you think.’
‘You cannot imagine,’ said Alec, as they walked over to the children’s
encampment, ‘how strange it seems to me that I am here, walking by your
side. I can hardly believe it to be true.’
Laura smiled, but she said nothing by way of reply; and just then two
pert-looking little girls came running up and claimed her attention.
Alec drew back a little, and watched the group. He could not help
seeing that in some subtle way Laura was greatly changed. Her manner
was gentle and self-forgetful. The very tones of her voice had altered.
Presently the children scampered off again, and Alec rejoined his
companion.
‘Do you know what I was thinking of just now?’ he said.
Something in his voice startled her. He did not wait for an answer, but
went on:
‘I was thinking of an afternoon in the garden at Glendhu, half a dozen
years ago.’
‘Some things are best forgotten,’ she murmured, hardly knowing what she
said.
‘I was only a foolish boy then,’ went on Alec, ‘but I think my heart
has never changed.’
‘Please stop, Mr. Lindsay. Indeed I cannot listen to you.’
‘Laura--you are not--engaged?’
‘No; oh no!’
‘Then why won’t you listen? You did not doubt me then. Why should you
doubt me now?’
‘I don’t doubt you. But it can never, never be.’
‘You think I am hasty. It may seem so, but I have been longing to tell
you this for weeks and months. And you know my heart was always yours.’
‘Oh, Mr. Lindsay, I entreat you not to say any more! I should not have
allowed you to go on.’
‘Why? If I can win your love, Laura----’
‘No, no; you do not really know me. You do not understand.’
‘I only understand one thing--I love you. Laura, you won’t refuse me?’
‘But I have been so heartless, so unprincipled, so selfish, so----’ the
rest was lost in tears.
‘Hush, hush! I won’t have you say such things.’
‘But they are true.’
‘Laura, just one word,’ whispered Alec, gently taking her hand in his.
‘Can you care for me? Look at me, dearest.’
‘It is better not,’ she said, trying to withdraw her hand. ‘See, there
are Mr. and Mrs. Blake coming down the cliff.’
‘They don’t see us yet. There is time for you to hear me and make me
happy.’
‘Would it make you happy? Are you sure?’ asked Laura; and the sunlight
seemed to play for a moment on her face.
‘Can you doubt it? Come; let us forget the last three years, and
imagine that we are boy and girl again at Glendhu. Will you? And let
me whisper, “Can you love me, Laura?”’
‘Oh, Alec, in my heart I loved you even then!’
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
Transcriber’s Note:
This book was written in a period when many words had not become
standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling
variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been
left unchanged. Dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings were left
unchanged. Misspelled words were not corrected.
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the
end of the chapter. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside
down, or partially printed letters and punctuation, were corrected.
Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were
added.
On 1236 line, several words of text in the original were unprinted. A
later edition of this book uses “to an,” which were added to this text.