When Bertram Devereux, who had waited patiently for the chatelaine's
appearance, received the intimation that she would not appear again that
night, that Miss Pollie being indisposed, he was requested to order in
dinner, he was considerably astonished. He addressed himself
mechanically to his solitary meal, but after an absent, desultory
fashion and with less than his ordinary appetite. He failed to
understand or account for the sudden seizure. She had walked with him to
the outer gate in the morning, had patted his horse's neck, apparently
as well and handsome as ever she was in her life. Why then this
astonishing change for the worse? The whole thing was vexatious and
disappointing in the last degree. He would go over to the barracks,
smoke his cigar, and read his letters. A chat with old Gateward would be
better than a solitary evening in the drawing-room.
Carrying over his mails, the young man lit a cigar and wended his way to
the barrack-room. Mr. Gateward was out; the storekeeper was in the store
writing up his accounts; so he threw his letters upon the large
dining-room table and commenced to sort them with a strong sense of
ill-treatment.
The first that attracted his notice was like the one which he had
described as a cousin's to his unsuspecting _fiancee_. He opened it
hastily; his brow clouded and his face grew dark as he commenced to
devour rather than read the contents. 'Confound the woman!' he said with
a fierce oath, before he had read half a dozen lines; 'she was born to
be my ruin, I believe, and by--! she has managed it this time.'
This was her letter.
WYNTON HALL, _9th August 188-_.
BERTRAM DEVEREUX--When you learn that I have written by this
mail to Miss Devereux explaining all, and that she has received
my letter, your wrath will be bitter against me. _N'importe._ I
know you as well, aye, better than you know yourself. The wound
to your vanity will be sore, your spirit will chafe, nay,
agonise for a time, but your ultimate good will result directly
from this _eclaircissement_.
Now look me in the face, mentally, and say, what is this thing
that you have been proposing to do? To marry an innocent,
unsophisticated girl, partly for her beauty, partly for her
money; to desert and betray me, who have loved you long, truly,
wildly well; and to pretend to yourself that you were going to
be happy--yes, happy! ha! ha!
No, Bertram Devereux, it is not in you. You have deceived
yourself as well as her. You would have cheated me, but the
attempt has failed. You _know_ in your heart, or rather in your
inmost consciousness, that you are incapable of love, pure,
unsullied, constant--such as the poets sing of; such as this
young girl, doubtless, has brought to you. In the maelstrom of
London life, under the spell of old associations, you would
have fallen as you have fallen before, and dragged others with
you. In that hour I am the only one who has power over you. Is
it not so? And my hand withdrawn from the helm, your bark and
its inmates would have gone down into depths unfathomable.
Angel or demon, I, and I alone, am qualified to act as your
guardian. Elude my power, and you are lost, irrevocably and
eternally.
I see from the papers that old Walter Devereux is dead, and has
left you an income, which, though not large, ought to suffice
for your reasonable needs. So take my advice once more; _soyez
bon enfant_; quit the wild country of your banishment; make
your adieux with the best grace you may to these Arcadian
relatives; and return to a society where you have been
missed--strange to say--and to a civilised life amid people
that understand you. Among those who are ready to welcome the
returned wanderer will most likely be your true friend as of
yore,
SYBIL DE WYNTON.
He went patiently through his letters after reading this one, with a
countenance which gave but little clue to the nature of the
communications. One business-appearing epistle in round, legal
handwriting he put aside and re-read. He then lighted a fresh cigar, and
for nearly an hour remained in deep meditation before he sought his
room. There he employed a portion of the night in arranging his effects,
so as to be ready for that departure on the morrow upon which he had
determined.
Mrs. Devereux did not appear at the breakfast table, but as he walked to
and fro along the lagoon path, smoking the matutinal cigar, he saw her
come into the garden. He threw down his cigar, and at once went to meet
her.
She stopped a few paces ere she came to him, and looking at him with a
sad, reproachful gaze, said, 'Oh, Bertram, what is this you have done to
us? Did we deserve this at your hands?'
'My dearest Aunt Mary,' he said, advancing and taking her hand with a
show of natural feeling which she could not resent, 'I cannot justify
myself wholly, but it is due to me that I should be permitted to
explain. All is over, I know, between your daughter and myself; still I
do not wish her to think worse of me than is needful. When I won her
love I pledged my word to her in good faith and sincerity to do all that
a man might to promote her happiness. Whether I should have kept that
resolution God knows, but I should have given my whole being to the
task.
'By a fatal mischance she has been made acquainted with a dark chapter
in my life. I do not excuse it, but it is such as many men who show
fairly before the world keep locked away in secret cabinets. No doubt I
deceived Pollie in denying the existence of former passages of so
compromising a nature; but I thought myself justified in keeping the
whole thing from her pure mind. I think so still. And now,' he said,
with a return to his old charm of manner, 'I fear that nothing remains
but to thank you fervently for the kindness with which you have always
treated me, in sickness and in health. I owe my life to your tender
nursing. Corindah will be amongst my purest, happiest memories to my
life's end.'
By this time they had reached the house. Entering the old dining-room,
Bertram threw himself into a chair, and Mrs. Devereux took her seat near
him.
'No words can describe, Bertram,' said Mrs. Devereux, with softened air,
'how grieved I feel that we should part in this manner. I have always
looked upon you as a near relative; latterly I have regarded you as a
son. It is unspeakably sad to me to think that all is over--that
henceforth we must be as complete strangers, as if we had never met.'
'And how little I thought yesterday that this would be my last day at
Corindah!' he said half musingly. 'And yet it is best so. As if in
mockery of my position, I have just been left an income by an old
grand-uncle which will enable me to return to England and more or less
take my former place in society.'
'I am sincerely glad for your sake,' she said warmly, 'and I know Pollie
will be so also. We could not have borne that you should leave Corindah
to go we knew not where. Now we shall have no fear on that score.'
'I should like to see her once before we part for ever, if you would
consent,' he said pleadingly--'if it were but to hear her say that she
forgives me.'
'No, Bertram!' said the matron firmly, if sorrowfully. 'Such a meeting
would answer no good end. You have had forgiveness. She will never
harbour a bitter thought, believe me. She has overcome her first natural
feeling of resentment, such as any woman would feel who had been
deceived by the man she loved. But she will grieve over the
circumstances which led to your estrangement; she will pity and forgive
one so near her heart as you have been.'
'If I may not see her, will you let her read a farewell letter which I
will leave with you? Surely it is not necessary to debar me from the
humblest felon's privilege--that of defence before condemnation.'
'She shall have your letter. I have no intention of being in the least
degree harsh, Bertram, but it is by her own wish that I decline an
interview. Our paths will henceforth lie separate. We shall pray for
your welfare. You have a powerful will. Oh, may God guide you to use it
aright! Your welfare will always concern us; but in this world we shall
meet no more. And now farewell! May God bless and keep you, and forgive
you even as you are forgiven by me and my poor child!'
He wrung the kindly, high-souled matron's hand in silence. An unwonted
glistening in his dark eyes showed the depth to which his feelings were
stirred, and if there ever was a moment in which Bertram Devereux truly
repented of the sins of the past and vowed amendment of life in the
future, that was the hour and the minute.
It was shortly after this interview that he held a colloquy with Mr.
Gateward, and rode over to Wannonbah, with a black boy behind him, who
duly led back Guardsman. He had apparently arranged for the transmission
of his luggage, inasmuch as the portmanteaux, three in number, were
taken on by the coach when that indispensable vehicle arrived in due
course. Next morning it was announced by Mr. Gateward to the storekeeper
and other employees of the station generally that Mr. Devereux had been
left a fortune, which he had to go 'home' to claim, owing to law matters
and other details not comprehensible by ordinary intelligence.
'He'll be back afore next shearing,' quoth one of the boundary riders.
'Leastways I know I should if I was in his place.'
'He'll be back,' replied Mr. Gateward oracularly, with an expression of
countenance at once severe and impenetrable, 'when he _does_ come back.
If he shouldn't turn up at all, I don't know as it's any business of
ours. There's as good men left behind, and would be if there were a
dozen like him off by the next mail-steamer.'
* * * * *
Those who are of opinion that provincial gossip, along with all other
British traditionary institutions, is not faithfully reproduced in
British colonies, underrate the vivacious ardour of bush society when
presented with a brand-new topic. No sooner was it definitely announced
that Mr. Devereux had been seen on his way to the metropolis, _en route_
to England, with all his portmanteaux--the same with which he had
arrived--than a perfect flood of conjecture and assertion arose.
'He had come into a title and a fortune. Of course he was not going to
marry in the colonies now, so he broke off his engagement at once.'
'It was Pollie's temper--nothing else--that did it; everybody knew how
ungovernable that was. He couldn't stand it any longer, though Mrs.
Devereux went down on her knees to him.'
'He wanted Mrs. D. to settle twenty thousand on Polly on her
wedding-day, which she refused to do. He declared off at once.'
'Pollie flirted so with that Mr. Atherstone; no man could stand it. He
found them walking by moonlight or something, and gave her notice at
once.' 'Mr. Atherstone was in Queensland.' 'Oh, was he? Then it was some
one else. It came to the same thing.'
Finally the torrent of popular criticism subsided, to settle down into a
trickling rill of authentic information. It ran to the effect that
Bertram Devereux had been bequeathed money by a relative, and had for
some reason or other left suddenly for England.
It was neither the next day nor the next week after Bertram's departure
that Pollie reappeared in her accustomed place, to lead her old life at
Corindah. A weary time of illness supervened, and when the girl crept
down to the drawing-room sofa to be shawled, and nursed, and petted for
being graciously pleased to be better, she was but the shadow of her
former self. As marked a mental change had apparently taken place, for
she was mild and patient, piteously subdued in tone and bearing. How
different from the wilful spoilt beauty who had turned so many heads,
and who paid so little heed to good advice!
'You will have a better daughter in the time to come, mother,' she said,
as she clasped the matron's neck with arms that were sadly shrunken from
their former lovely roundness. 'I have had time to think over my past
folly, to know who are my truest friends;' and then both wept and
embraced each other, as is the way of women--the mother thankful to
Heaven for the recovery of her child, the child softened by suffering
and chastened by the near approach of the Death Angel.
Harold Atherstone had been far away in Northern Queensland during this
eventful time. He had apparently needed stronger excitement than the
everyday life of a prosperous, long-settled station; so he had elected
to report upon an immense tract of country west of the 'Red Barcoo,'
which, taken up by a pioneer squatter some years back, had passed into
the hands of a syndicate, of which he was a shareholder.
So, from one cause or another, it fell out that Corindah seemed to be
more solitary, not to say monotoned, than it had ever been before. The
visitors who came were of the occasional, transitory sort; all their old
friends seemed to have mysteriously vanished. The Rev. Cyril Courtenay
was the only one of their _habitues_ who did not fail them. He made his
monthly visitation, when, indeed, Mrs. Devereux was more than usually
glad to see him.
He was sympathetic in his manner, as divining that something unusual had
affected his friends. With tact, as well as sincerity, he drew forth an
admission of grief. This done, he essayed to lead their thoughts to the
Healer of all mortal sorrow, the Bearer of burdens, the Consoler in time
of trouble. He dwelt upon the unsatisfactory nature of all earthly
pleasures, the disappointment inseparably connected with mere worldly
aspirations, the only sure hope of forgiveness of sins, the need of
repentance, the certainty of peace.
As at the time of pain and anguish, of fear and danger, the physician
attains a status which in the heedless hours of health is withheld, so,
in the hour of the mind's sickness, the physician of souls is welcomed
and revered. Urged to lengthen his stay, the Rev. Cyril gladly consented
to remain over the ensuing Sunday. His ministrations, he thought, had
never been so appreciated before at Corindah. And when he quitted the
locality his heart beat high with the consciousness that he had aided
the consolation of the dearest friends and best supporters of the Church
_in sicco_, while a yet more daring thought caused his colourless cheek
to burn and his pulses to throb with unwonted speed.
The summer days grew longer and longer. The fever heat of the season
waxed more and more intense. The still air grew tremulous with the
quivering, ardent sun-rays. Yet no suggestion was made by Pollie to go
to the sea-side or to call the ocean breezes to aid her recovered
health. Her mother would have rushed off directly the great event of the
year was over, but the girl would not hear of it.
'No, mother dear,' she said, 'I have sinned and suffered. I have been
wilful and headstrong. Let me remain and mortify the flesh for a season.
You do not mind the heat, I know, and I am strong enough now to bear it
in the dear old place where I was born. We may have many a year to live
here together yet, and I may as well commence to accustom myself to it.'
So the two women laid their account to remain patiently at home till the
following summer, and Pollie set resolutely to work to utilise all her
resources, natural and acquired. She commenced to be more methodical in
the appointment of her time. She rose early and took exercise in the
fresh morning air, before the sun had gained power--the truest hygienic
rule in the torrid zone. She read and did needlework at appointed hours,
and resolutely set herself to perfect her knowledge of French and
German. She 'kept up' her music, vocal and instrumental, though it was
long ere her voice recovered from a certain tremulous tendency, far
different from the rich, full tones soaring upwards like the skylark to
perilous altitudes unharmed. She rode regularly, or drove her mother out
in the light American carriages which no station is now without. She
visited the wives and children of the employees, showing a more
considerate and intelligent interest in their welfare than had been
before observable.
'Mother,' said the girl, as they sat together on the verandah in the
waning summer-time, when a south wind speeding from the coast had
unexpectedly cooled the air, 'I won't say that I was never so happy
before; but I don't think I ever was so fully occupied. There is, no
doubt, a sense of relief and satisfaction to be gained when one does
what one can; I never thought I should feel like this again.'
'Let us have faith and patience, my darling,' said the mother, looking
into her child's eyes with the measureless fondness of earlier days,
'and happiness will still come to us. Only persevere in the duties that
lie nearest to you. In His own good time God will reward and bless you.
After all, there are many good things in this life yet remaining.'
It was the late autumn when Harold Atherstone returned from his far,
wild journeyings. A long-practised and trained bushman 'to the manner
born,' he was familiar with all the exigencies of the wildest woodcraft.
But from his appearance this expedition had been no child's play. Tanned
and swart, almost to Indian darkness, both mother and daughter gazed at
him in astonishment. He had been down with fever and ague, and was
haggard and worn of aspect. He had even had a brush with the blacks, he
said, on one of the far out-stations, and had managed to drop in for a
spear wound. He was becoming quite a scarred veteran, he averred.
However, save for a cicatrix to mark the trifling occurrence, he was
unharmed. Altogether, though he had enjoyed the chances and adventures
of his pioneer life, he was very glad to find himself within hail of
Corindah again.
'And we are so glad to have our old Harold back, I can tell you,' said
Mrs. Devereux. 'We missed him dreadfully all the summer, didn't we,
Pollie? To be ill, and weak, and lonely at the same time, is hard to
bear.'
Pollie made an inaudible reply to her mother's query, but as her eyes
rested upon the bronzed, athletic frame, and met the frank gaze of the
Australian, it may be that a comparison, not wholly to his disadvantage,
passed through her mind.
'It is the first time when there was trouble at Corindah that I have
been absent, I think,' he said gently. 'You must manage to have me more
available in future.'
'What reason is there for your risking your life in that terrible Never
Never country?' said Mrs. Devereux. 'It is not as if you needed to make
any more money, or had no one to care for you.'
'One must do something with one's life,' he said simply. 'I don't know
that it greatly mattered if that Myall's spear _had_ gone through me, as
it did through poor Williamson. I had got very tired of an easy life at
Maroobil. I needed a strong change, and I got it, I must say.'
'It's positively wicked to talk in that way,' said his hostess.
'However, now you have come back, your friends must take care of you and
keep you among them. You look dreadfully thin; but I suppose you're not
ill, are you?' And then the kind creature looked at him with the same
anxiety in her face that he remembered so well when he was a boy, over
whose accidents and offences she had always mourned maternally.
'If it comes to that, it seems to me that no one looks very pink,' he
returned playfully. 'Pollie's not what she used to be. You look as if
you had gone through another night attack. And Bertram Devereux has gone
home? What has happened? I feel abroad.'
'You are going to stay to-night, and your old room is ready for you, of
course,' Mrs. Devereux answered. 'Do not allude to it when Pollie comes
down. (This young lady had retired temporarily to her room.) I will tell
you all about it after tea.'
Harold Atherstone looked searchingly at her, but held his peace. In a
minute afterwards Pollie appeared, looking, in spite of her illness, so
delicately lovely and overpowering, after his long sojourn in the
desert, that all doubts and conjectures were put to flight or lost in
the regained pleasure of seeing her smile of welcome and hearing the
well-remembered tones of her voice.
It was a happy evening. Apart from 'love and love's sharp woe' there
_is_ such a thing as friendship, pure and unalloyed, between people of
differing sexes. The sentiment of these friends was deep and
sincere--founded upon sympathy, congenial tasks, and the long experience
of mutual truth, loyalty, and affection. They were honestly glad to see
each other again. Love temporarily divides friends, and, as it were,
elbows out all other claimants. But as its fervour declines, the purer
flame burns with a deeper glow. As the years advance, the fires of
passion wax dim; the altar reared to friendship regains its votaries;
while the more ornate and ephemeral edifice is too often deserted,
empty, and ungarnished.
Thus, at their pleasant evening meal, all was mirthful interchange of
news and adventures since last the little party had met. Harold's
favourite wine of the remembered brand was brought out as of old; then
Pollie was persuaded to sing some of her oldest songs, while Mrs.
Devereux and their guest talked confidentially in the verandah. It
seemed as if the happy old Corindah days had come again, when no malign
influence intervened; when, in Mrs. Devereux's eyes, all things were
peacefully tending towards the cherished aspiration of her life.
Finally, when the parting hour--later than usual--arrived, each secretly
confessed to a sensation so nearly akin to the joy long since departed
from their lives, that not only wonder but even a _soupcon_ of hope was
commingled with its formation.
Harold Atherstone had been placed fully in possession of facts by Mrs.
Devereux, as they sat on the verandah in the hushed southern night,
while Pollie's sweet voice trilled nightingale-like through the odorous
breath of the rose and the orange bloom. He heard how she had been
deceived, wounded in her tenderest feelings, and was now deserted and
left desolate. When he thought of her lying wearily on a bed of
sickness, wan and wasted, heart-sore and despairing, he could not
repress a malediction upon the head of the man who had received such
unstinted kindness at the hands of the speaker, and had thus repaid it.
When the tale was finished he took her hand and pressed it silently.
'The poor child has suffered deeply,' he said; 'but matters are best as
they are. Who knows but that deeper, more irrevocable misery might have
been her lot had she not been warned in time? I mourn over the change in
her, but she is returning to her old ways, and the memory of her sorrow
will become yet more faint. Her youth and pride, with the resources at
her command, will enable her to divest herself of all trace of what was
one of the inevitable mistakes of youth.'
'You think then that she acted rightly in refusing to see him again?'
'Unquestionably; no other course was possible. I never thought him
worthy of her. But he was her choice, and as a man of honour I could not
disparage him, even had I any other grounds than those of mere taste and
prejudice, which I had not. The event has proved that my instinctive
distrust was correct. I need not tell you how I rejoice that she is
again free and unfettered.'
He said no more. The summer had passed. The nights became longer,
colder. The calm, peaceful, autumnal season, which in this south land
brings no fall of the leaf, commenced to herald the mild but well-marked
winter of the plains. It was the Indian summer of their old, peaceful
Corindah life. They rode, and walked, and drove together, the three
friends, much as in the old days before the advent of the disturbing
stranger from beyond the sea. Then Harold Atherstone had been the
favourite companion of the girl, the trusted friend and counsellor of
the elder woman. The _bon vieux temps_ had returned. Once more the
heavens were bright, and the storm-cloud had disappeared with the
tempest which had so nearly wrecked the frail bark of a woman's
happiness.
And yet both were changed. The girl, mild and pensive, was almost humble
in mien. All her wilfulness and obstinacy had departed. A deeper, more
reasoning spirit of advance and inquiry seemed to possess her, to mould
her every action and thought. He, on the other hand, had acquired
broader views of life, and had seriously modified many of his earlier
opinions.
But their parting was near. Harold received a telegram, without warning
or notice, which necessitated instant action. His presence was again
required at the far North, where everything was going on as badly as
could be imagined. The chief manager lay dying of fever, the blacks were
troublesome, and becoming emboldened, had commenced to scatter off the
cattle. To mend matters, a drought of unprecedented severity had set in.
'If Mr. Atherstone did not go out,' the telegram stated, 'the whole
enterprise might be wrecked, and ruinous loss accrue to shareholders.'
At first he rebelled, swore stoutly, indeed, that he would not go. He
would let things take their course. He was happy where he was, and there
was no reason why he should risk his life and tempt again the dangers of
the Waste. However, cooler reflection decided him to take the field as a
duty to his comrades in the enterprise, as well as to the shareholders,
who had risked their money perhaps on the guarantee of his known
judgment and reputation for management.
He made his preparations quickly, as was his wont, bade farewell to
Corindah and its inmates, and set off on the long, hazardous journey.
Somehow Corindah seemed more lonely than ever. He had been very kind and
thoughtful as a brother, but no word of warmer admiration had passed his
lips. Pollie pursued her tasks and occupations with accustomed
regularity, but was more unequal in her spirits than ever. One day her
mother surprised her in tears. A letter had been received from Harold,
and the tone of it had aroused her from habitual indifferentism.
'Why is he always so studiously cool and brotherly?' she said, with
something of her old impetuosity. 'Does he think that I am likely to
misconstrue his feelings? That he requires to keep a guard over his
expressions? But I know how it is. He has met some one else in that far
country. He spoke of some English families settled there. I have lost
his love, which once was so truly mine. I despised it then. Now I am
rightly punished by contempt and desertion.'
Mrs. Devereux gained from this little speech a fresh and accurate
insight into the state of her daughter's heart. It went to confirm the
suspicion which she had lately entertained that the recent companionship
of Harold Atherstone, the daily experience of his strong, true
character, had not been without its effect. He had come most opportunely
to cheer their loneliness. His manner had somewhat altered, too, of
late, they had remarked; had become more gay and carelessly mirthful,
more easy and conventional. His travels and adventures had supplied him
with a larger field of observation, had added to his conversational
powers, or else he had exerted himself exceptionally for their
entertainment.
His sense of humour seemed to have developed, and withal there were
occasional touches of tenderness and deep feeling which, always latent,
had been rarely exhibited. Both women confessed that they had never done
justice to the versatile force of his character; never had they dreamed
he could exert fascination in addition to his power of compelling
respect.
And now he was gone thousands of miles away--the true friend, the
gallant gentleman, the loyal lover--to brave the risks of the Waste,
perhaps die there, as had done many a brave man before him; perhaps to
be attracted by some newer, fresher face, never to return to his old
allegiance. The thought was bitter. No wonder that Pollie's tears flowed
fast.
Harold Atherstone had exhibited his habitual self-control in quitting
Corindah for a long absence without making sign or giving expression to
his feelings. He had carefully considered the situation, had come to
certain conclusions, had decided upon his course of action. His feelings
were unchanged with respect to Pollie. It had been hard to bear, almost
unendurably torturing, to know that she preferred another; to witness
her bright glances and hear her tender tones directed towards one whom
in his heart he deemed unworthy of her. In his chivalric generosity he
felt this to be the crowning bitterness of the whole. Unable to bear it
longer, he elected to join this dangerous enterprise, reckless of life
and health, hoping only for 'surcease of sorrow' in peril and privation.
But on his return he found that the enchanted portal had been opened,
the captive princess liberated. The glamour had fallen from her eyes.
The magic fetters had been unloosed. He could picture the scorn and
indignation with which she had renounced Bertram Devereux for ever. From
his lifelong knowledge of her character he believed that she had freed
herself from the memory of his treason as from something foul and
revolting; that it had fallen from her pure soul as earth from a golden
robe; that she had returned instinctively to the simple loyalty and
freedom of her youth. From his experience of life and woman's nature he
foresaw that she would turn to him as to one of the lost ideals of her
girlhood, if only he were not precipitate and premature. These were not
the faults with which men charged Harold Atherstone. So he returned
silent and self-contained to the far North.
His unswerving courage and iron will stood him in good stead in this
supreme hazard.
When Harold returned from the far country, his friends at Corindah were
unaffectedly glad to see him. Pollie especially was so radiant in
renewed health and beauty that he felt irresistibly impelled to ask the
momentous question.
He chose an appropriate time and place--one of the star-bright,
cloudless nights which in the southern hemisphere so glorify the
majestic solitude of nature. Low-toned and musical was the whispering
breeze which, stealing over the 'lone Chorasmian waste,' stirred the
slumbering lemon sprays and murmured to the love-fraught roses as they
walked by the margin of the lakelet, all silver-bright in the wondrous
transparent atmosphere. It seemed as though, after the rude experiences
of his desert life, he had re-entered paradise. He was so delighted to
return, so charmed with the warm welcome accorded to him, that he would
never more return to the wilderness. He would indeed promise and
guarantee to do so, but on one condition only. Need we say what that
was, or that the concession was made?
'Are you sure that you think me worthy of your love, after all my
folly?' murmured she. 'But I have suffered--you will know how much. I
have repented, and, dearest Harold, I will try to be the woman you would
have me to be.'
'There has been but one woman in the world for me,' he said, clasping
her to his heart. 'She is mine now for ever; life holds no other prize
henceforth that I will stretch out my hand to seize.'
What more remains to tell? Pollie's probation was ended. Her wayward,
errant woman's heart, 'with feelings and fancies like birds on the
wing,' had found rest, relief, and safety on the manly breast of Harold
Atherstone. Henceforth there was no fear, uncertainty or anxiety. She
felt a wavering dread at times lest he, requiring so much love (as she
had gauged his temperament), would find her nature unequal to the
demand. But, as generally happens in similar cases, this proved to be a
groundless apprehension.
As for Mrs. Devereux, she was prepared to sing '_Nunc dimittis._' Her
cherished hope had been realised. Maroobil and Corindah in conjunction
would make a princely property, no matter how many there might be to
inherit it. In every relation of life Harold was a tower of strength.
Now she had a son whom she had loved since the days of his fearless
childhood. Now was she proud, happy, thankful. Providence _did_
sometimes settle affairs of mortals aright. She had only to thank God
humbly on her bended knees that night, to pray with tears and sobs for
her darling's happiness, believing in her inmost heart that it was now
assured and lasting.
And she was happy--perfectly, utterly, completely, if there be such a
thing in this world below. They lived for the greater part of the year
at Maroobil or Corindah, choosing by preference the quiet home life,
where they had full enjoyment of each other's society, varied only by
the ordinary demands upon their hospitality, which they were careful to
recognise fully as of old. Maroobil was voted to be the pleasantest
visiting-place in the West, and Mrs. Harold Atherstone the most perfect
hostess.
'What a fortunate thing that you were able to sell out of that horrid
Queensland country so advantageously!' said Mrs. Atherstone a month
after their marriage, when, resting under the shadows of Mount
Wellington, they absorbed rather than admired the charms of the varied
Tasmanian landscape. 'I shall never forget my fears on your account
during that last journey.'
'I take great credit for not committing myself before I started,' he
said. 'It grieved me sore, but I held out. I was mortally afraid, too,
that you might have another proposal in my absence. I suppose you
hadn't?'
'Well, not quite a proposal, only from Mr.----.'
'Why, you insatiable woman, you don't mean to say that? Tell me this
moment who it was. Why didn't I know before?'
'Don't look so fierce, and I'll confess everything. It is not much. But
Mr. Courtenay, the Rev. Cyril, _did_ call while you were away.'
'Confound him! The smooth-faced humbug!' growled Harold, twirling his
moustache. 'However, "Better men than he," etc. Well, go on, Circe----'
'None of your heathen innuendoes, or I stop. But really, love, the poor
fellow said he had been left a competence by an uncle, and that as he
could not now be accused of mercenary feelings, he wished me to know,
etc.; we should be able to do so much good with his means and those
Providence had gifted me with. Of course I explained gently that it
could not be. I felt quite clever, I assure you. I had only to alter
what I said to Mr. MacCallum a very little. It would have served you
right, sir, if I had taken him after your leaving me in that way.'
'H--m, you won't be left much in future, madam, as you are not to be
trusted.'
* * * * *
Brian Devereux Atherstone and Harold the second were respectively three
years and one year old when, the season being a good one, and wool above
the average, it was decided by the collective wisdom of the family that
a suitable opportunity had occurred for the long-promised visit to
Europe. Mrs. Devereux had no objection to offer, except that the dear
children might not in all respects be benefited. But this was overruled.
Statistics were quoted to the effect that on board the P. and O. and
Messageries steamers children were stronger, happier, and longer lived
than on shore. Finally the project was carried out, Mr. Gateward being
left in full possession of the station for the three years which it was
intended that the tour should embrace.
Why attempt to portray here with what supreme, almost unutterable,
delight two cultured persons of congenial tastes and fresh, unworn
mental palates savoured the intellectual banquets placed before them?
Again and again did Mrs. Atherstone declare that her cup of happiness
was filled to the brim, even running over.
On one of those elysian days, as Pollie sat dreamily under the columns
of the Temple of Poseidon, while around them stretched the green plain
of Paestum, Harold, who had been reading Galignani with a Briton's
never-failing interest, handed the paper to her with a pencil-marked
paragraph.
Her cheek paled for an instant, then glowed more brightly, her eye
flashed, her head was raised, as she ran over the following extract from
a society paper:--'We observe with regret that the demise of Sir Ralph
de Wynton at his seat, Wynton Hall, Herefordshire, took place on
Thursday last. The announcement will not surprise many who were
acquainted with the sombre family history of the last male heir of this
ancient race. The deceased baronet had been for many years a hopeless
invalid. It was believed, indeed, that he was placed in confinement at
those periods when he was supposed to be travelling abroad. Owing to
differences which had arisen at an early period of their union, it was
generally supposed that Lady de Wynton, who resided chiefly at Florence,
had arranged a virtual separation. The estates, with all property, real
and personal, excepting only her ladyship's ample jointure, pass to
Colonel de Wynton of the Life Guards.'
'So, poor thing, she has been freed from her fetters at last!' said the
fair reader, as she handed back the paper with a smile of loving content
and absolute trust to her husband. 'She will now be free to marry
Bertram, and I trust sincerely they will be happy. I always pitied her
from my heart, and thought it a case of cruel wrong and injustice.'
'H--m!' replied Harold, with cautious non-committal. 'I suppose very
probable. "More sinned against," etc. But I don't wonder at your
sympathy. You are under greater obligations to Sybil, Lady de Wynton,
than to any living woman, the grandmum only excepted.'
'Obligations indeed! Why?' she demands, in much astonishment. 'Oh! I
know--though it's like your cool audacity to say so--because but for her
I should have gone through the wood, and through the wood, and taken--as
I fully believe and acknowledge _now_--"The Crooked Stick" at last.'
THE END