"What did he do?"
They were the first faint words that fell from the bloodless lips,
and Millicent was much too thankful to think twice of their meaning.
Besides, she had things to ask the governess. How was she now? Was her
head too low? Had she hurt herself as she fell?
"What did he do?" repeated the faint voice a little less faintly.
"Dear, I will tell you in a minute----"
"Tell me now. What did he do? Did he--remember?"
Millicent did her best to describe the effect of the song upon the man.
She omitted nothing.
The governess gave a great sigh. "Thank God!" she said. "There was no
time to think. It was all on the spur of the moment. But I knew that
you were there, that you'd see. And you saw all that; it was all there
for you to see!" She closed her eyes, and her lips moved in further
thanksgiving.
"Dear, I saw--his soul," said Milly timidly; "it is not dead. I saw
more--I saw his love!"
The fair head shook.
"No; that must be dead."
"Then why should it move him so? Why should he mind? What could the
song be to him, if you were nothing? Dear, you are everything--still!"
The fair head shook again, and more decidedly.
"It's impossible. But I may _do_ something. I have brought him to this,
and I'll bring him back from it, with God's help!"
And as she stood up suddenly, to her last inch, Milicent again beheld
the white, keen face touched for an instant with all the radiant
exaltation of the Angelic Hosts.
"I might have known it," continued Miss Winfrey, in a calmer, more
contemplative tone. "I knew him; I might have guessed the rest. Such
troubles come and go with the ordinary young man, but Wilfrid was never
that. His name is Wilfrid Ferrers, Milly--your Cattle-station Bill! As
I have told you, his father was a country clergyman; and clergymen's
sons are always the worst. Willie had been rather wild before I knew
him; he used to tell me all about it, for he was the most open-hearted
boy in all the world, and could keep nothing to himself. If he could,
he wouldn't; for sail under his true colours he must, he used to say,
even if they were the black flag. But they weren't. His wildness was
one-half high spirits, and the other half good-nature. But it showed
the man. He had once--I almost smile when I remember how he was once
before the magistrates for some reckless boyish folly at the hospital!
He would stick at nothing; but he used to say that I could do what I
liked with him, make what I would of him. And what have I made?" cried
the unhappy girl, in a relapse as sudden as her resolve. "A broken
heart--a broken life!" She sank down at one of the desks, threw her
arms upon the slope, and wept passionately. And yet again she was up,
rapping the desk with her knuckles as she would in school, and staring
masterfully at Millicent, out of her streaming eyes.
"What am I saying? What I have done, I can undo; what I have ruined, I
can redeem. This is no coincidence, Milly; never tell me that! It is
God's plan. He in His mercy means me to repair my wrong. He has given
me this chance.... I am going to my own room, Milly. I want you to
leave me alone, dear. I want to thank Him on my knees. And then--and
then--I may be shown how to act!"
The livelong afternoon she spent alone with her emergency. The
homestead was very quiet. The young men were still away. The first
sounds that penetrated to Miss Winfrey's room were the merry voices of
the returning children. But by this time the governess had made up her
mind. She now arose, and going forth in her right mind, found Millicent
hovering near the door. The girls linked arms, and sauntered in the
home-paddock till dinner-time.
"Here are his tracks," cried Millicent, halting in excitement. "His
galloping tracks!"
The governess had not the bush girl's eye for a trail. To her, one
hoof-mark was like another, and they honeycombed the rude soft road in
millions. But she followed Milly's finger with thoughtful eyes, and
presently she put a question.
"How far is it to the cattle station?"
"Fourteen miles."
"Five to the township, and----"
"Nine beyond. You turn to the left, and take the bridle-path to the
right. Then you come to a gate. Then you cross a five-mile paddock; and
it's half-way across the next one, close to the left-hand fence."
"Thank you. I shall go and see him."
"When he gets back?"
"Gets back! Where from?"
"The township," said Milly reluctantly.
"Did he look to you as though he were going there?"
"I--I certainly thought so; but I daresay I was wrong. I'm sure I was!"
cried Milly.
"I wish I were sure," said Miss Winfrey with a sigh. "Yes, dear," she
added, "I shall wait until he gets back."
A voice said close behind them that the dinner was getting cold. The
voice was Mrs. Pickering's. In the sand they had heard no step; both
girls changed colour, and in Mrs. Pickering's eye there was a curious
light. But she had never been more civil to Miss Winfrey than at
dinner that night; and after dinner she clamoured for a song. This was
almost unprecedented. And the song she wanted was the song which she
had heard in the distance that afternoon. But the governess made her
excuses, and went early to her own room.
An hour later there was a tentative, light knock at Miss Winfrey's
door--and no answer. Mrs. Pickering knocked again and louder. She
carried a lighted candle; her hand trembled, and the hot grease
spattered the floor. There was still no answer, so the lady tried
the door. It was unlocked. She walked in. "I thought so!" muttered
Mrs. Pickering, in a triumphant tone. She passed her candle over the
untouched bed; she poked it into the empty corner; and it was some
minutes before she could bring herself to quit the deserted room that
filled her with so shrewd a sense of personal satisfaction.
That satisfaction was only too well founded. It was then just eleven,
and at that very minute the indomitable Miss Winfrey was tramping into
view of the township lights. They were few enough at such an hour. The
Stockman's Rest, however, was both alight and alive, and midnight oil
was burning in the post-office over the way. Miss Winfrey hesitated,
bent her steps towards the post-office, hesitated again, and finally
marched straight across to the hotel. The verandah was empty. She did
not set foot on it. She could see into the bar.... She did not think he
was there.... If only she could be sure!
In the end a groundless panic overcame her, and to the post-office she
fled pell-mell. There, however, she recovered herself sufficiently to
recall the pretext with which she had come prepared, and to drop a sham
missive in the box before knocking.
It was the post-mistress herself who unlocked the door, who stood
on the threshold with a lamp held high, her kind face wrinkled with
surprise and concern.
"Why--bless the lot of us!--it's never Miss Winfrey?"
"It is," said the governess, with a wan smile and a hand on her heart.
"Will you let me sit down, and--not ask what brings me?"
Miss Crisp pushed her pale visitor into a chair.
"Perhaps I know," said she slyly. "That letterbox makes a noise!"
"Oh, to be so deceitful!" moaned Miss Winfrey, red with shame.
"Tut!" said her ready dupe; "I only call it venturesome. I know _I_
shouldn't like to have all my letters seen when they make up the
station mail-bag, though I don't know the thing that would bring me all
this way on foot at this time of night. However, that's your business,
my dear, and you shall have a cup of tea before I let you go again."
The two had often foregathered since the day of Miss Winfrey's arrival,
and the fact made her feel meaner than ever now. Yet she could not
bring herself to tell the post-mistress everything, and it was either
that or the small deceit which she was practising. Consciously or
unconsciously Miss Crisp must help her. They took the same strong
view of the dreadful system of knocking down cheques; the governess
proceeded to turn this to account. She referred to their first meeting,
and as casually as possible to Cattle-station Bill, saying the poor man
had been in for another cheque that afternoon.
"Indeed?" said Miss Crisp, seating herself till the kettle should boil.
"He didn't get one, did he?"
"He did. That's just it. What makes you think he did not?"
"He never stopped on his way back."
"Not--opposite?"
"No."
The girl's heart danced.
"Are you positive?"
"Quite. He's back at his hut, for I saw him go--galloping like a mad
thing!"
"What time was that?"
"Between four and five."
The governess was too clever to drop the subject suddenly. She said
she had made sure the poor man's cheque had gone the same way as the
last, and so obtained a second assurance that as yet, at all events, it
had not. Miss Crisp of the post-office saw most of what went on in the
township; the rest was sure to reach her ears. So Miss Winfrey acted
her part to the last, and took leave of her little old friend with a
guilty and a penitent heart. But go on she must; it was too late to
turn back, too late to think.
She made an elaborate _détour_, and struck the main road once more
considerably to the left of the township. That amounted to the same
thing as turning to the left through the township street. She now stood
still to rehearse the remainder of Milly's directions, which she had by
heart. She was to take the bridle-path to the right, which would bring
her to a gate; she was then to cross a five-mile paddock; and--that was
enough for the present.
The bridle-path was easily found. It brought her to the gate without
let or panic. But by this time the girl had walked many miles and her
feet were very sore. So she perched herself upon the gate, and watched
an attenuated moon float clear of the inhospitable sandhills, and sail
like a silver gondola on a sombre sea. But as the ache left her feet,
it crept into her heart with all the paralysing wonder as to what she
should say and do when at last she found her poor love. And immediately
she jumped down and continued her tramp; for she was obliged to do what
she was doing; only it was easier to walk, than to look, ahead.
The thin moon was much higher when its wan rays shone once more upon
the wires of a fence running right and left into the purple walls of
the night. There were no trees now. The vague immensity of the plains
was terrifying to the imaginative girl, who had felt for some time
as if she were walking by a miracle upon a lonely sea: a miracle
that might end any moment: a sea that supported her on sufferance
capriciously. But with the fence and the gate came saner thought, and
a clear sight of the true occasion for fear and trembling. She was
now within two or three miles of the hut. What was she to do when she
got there? She did not know, she would not think. She would get there
first, and leave the rest to that fate which had urged her so far.
She went through this gate without resting; she was no longer conscious
of bodily pains. She followed up the fence on the left, according to
Milly's directions, walking at the top of her speed for half an hour.
Then all at once she trembled and stood still: there was the hut.
It was as though it had risen out of the ground, so sudden was the
sight of it, standing against the fence, one end towards her, scarce
a hundred yards from where she was. She got no farther just then; the
courage of her act forsook her at the last. She had no more strength of
heart or limb, and she sank to the ground with a single sob. The slip
of a moon was sickening in a sallow sky when the girl stood up next.
The dawn put new life in her will. She would wait till sunrise before
she made a sound. Meanwhile, if the hut door was open, she would
perhaps peep in. The door was open; there was a faint light within; she
could see it through the interstices of the logs as she approached; it
fell also in a sickly, flickering beam upon the sand without. And after
a little, she did peep in: to see a "slush-lamp" burning on the table,
and, in the wretched light of it, the figure of a man, with his bare
arms and hidden face upon the table too. He seemed asleep; he might
have been dead.
"Wilfrid!"
He was alive. The white face flashed upon her. The wild eyes started
and stared. Then slowly, stiffly, unsteadily, he rose, he towered.
"So it was you I heard--singing that song!"
"Yes, Wilfrid."
"It is unbelievable. I've dreamt it often enough, but----yes, it's you!
So you've found me out!"
"By the merest accident. I had no idea of it until to-day."
She was terrified at his eyes; they hungered, and were yet instinct
with scorn. He stuck his spurred foot upon the box which had been his
seat, and leaned forward, looking at her, his brown arms folded across
his knee.
"And now?" he said.
She took one step, and laid her warm hands upon his arms, and looked
up at him with flaming face, with quivering lips, with streaming eyes.
"And now," she whispered, "I am ready to undo the past----"
"Indeed!"
"To make amends--to keep my broken word!"
He looked at her a moment longer, and his look was very soft. He had
heard her singing, but neither the song nor the voice had done more
than remind him of her. And yet the mere reminder had carried him
through the township with a live cheque in his pocket--had kept him
sitting up all night with his false love's image once more unveiled
in his heart. Here by a miracle was his love herself; she loved him
now--now that she had made him unworthy of her love! Little wonder that
he looked softly at her for a moment more; and the next, still less
wonder that he flung those hot hands from him, and kicked the box from
under his foot, and recoiled with a mocking laugh from the love that
had come too late.
"Keep what you like," he cried out with a brutal bitterness; "only keep
your pity to yourself! You should require it. I don't."
And the girl was still staring at him, in a dumb agony, an exquisite
torture, when the smack of a riding-whip resounded on the corrugated
roof, and the eyes of both flew to the door.