"May I come in?"
It was her brother at Moya's door, and he began to believe she must be
asleep after all. Theodore felt aggrieved; he wanted speech with Moya
before he went to bed. He was about to knock again when the door was
opened without a word. There was no light in the room. Yet the girl
stood fully dressed in the last level rays of the moon. And she had been
crying.
"Moya!"
"What do you want?"
"Only to speak to you."
"What about?"
"Yourself, to begin with. What's the trouble, my dear girl?"
He had entered in spite of her, and yet she was not really sorry that he
had come. She had suffered so much in silence that it would be relief to
speak about anything to anybody. Theodore was the last person in whom
she could or would confide. But there was something comfortable in his
presence just there and then. She could tell him a little, if she could
not tell him all; and he could tell her something in return.
She heard him at his match-box, and shut the door herself as he lit the
candles.
"Don't speak loud, then," said Moya. "I--I'd rather they didn't hear
us--putting our heads together."
"No fear. We've got the main building to ourselves, you and I. Rather
considerate of Rigden, that."
Indeed it was the best parlour that had been prepared for Moya, for in
your southern summers the best parlour of all is the shadiest verandah.
Theodore took to the sofa and a cigarette.
"Do you mind?" he said. "Then do please tell me what's the matter with
you, Moya!"
"Oh, can't you see? I'm so unhappy!"
Her eyes had filled, but his next words dried them.
"Had a row with Rigden?"
And he was leaning forward without his cigarette.
Moya hated him.
"Is that all that occurs to you?" she asked cuttingly. "I'm sorry to
disappoint you, I'm sure! I should have thought even you could have seen
there was enough to make one unhappy, without the consummation you so
devoutly----"
"Good, Moya! That's all right," said her brother, as he might have
complimented her across the net at lawn-tennis.
"It's quite unpleasant enough," continued Moya, with spirit, "without
your making it worse. The police in possession, and a runaway convict
goodness knows where!"
"I agree," said Theodore. "It _is_ unpleasant. I wonder where the beggar
can be?"
"It's no use asking me," said Moya; for the note of interrogation had
been in his voice.
"You didn't see any suspicious-looking loafers, I suppose? I mean this
afternoon."
"How could I? I was with Pelham all the time."
She would never marry him, never! That was no reason why she should give
him away. She would never marry a man with discreditable secrets which
she might not share, not because they were discreditable, but for the
other reason. Yet she must be a humbug for his sake! Moya felt a
well-known eye upon her, felt her face bathed in fire; luckily her
explanation itself might account for that, and she had the wit to see
this in time.
"I mean," she stammered, "one was on the verandah all the afternoon.
Nobody could have come without our seeing them."
"I don't know about that. Love is blind!"
His tone carried relief to Moya. The irony was characteristic, normal.
It struck her as incompatible with any strong suspicion. But the ground
was dangerous all the same.
"If we are made uncomfortable," said Moya, shifting it, "what must it be
for Pelham! It's on his account I feel so miserable."
And she spoke the truth; indeed, a truism; but she would be still more
miserable if she married him. She would never marry a man----the
haunting sentence went for once unfinished. Theodore was favouring her
with a peculiar scrutiny whose import she knew of old. She was on her
guard just in time.
"You haven't heard the latest development, I suppose?"
"Has there been something fresh since I came away?"
And even Theodore did not know that she was holding her breath.
"Something as fresh as paint," said he dryly. "Rigden thinks he's got on
the fellow's tracks."
Moya had braced herself against any sudden betrayal of alarm; she was
less proof against the inrush of a new contempt for her lover.
"You don't mean it!" she cried with indignation.
"Why not?" asked Theodore blandly.
"Oh, nothing. Only it's pretty disgraceful--on the part of the police, I
mean--that they should spend hours looking for what a mere amateur finds
at once!"
The brother peeped at her from lowered lids. He was admiring her
resource.
"I agree," he said slowly, "_if_--our friend is right."
"Whom do you mean?" inquired Moya, up in arms on the instant.
"Rigden, of course."
"So you think he may be mistaken about the tracks, do you?"
"I think it's possible."
"You know a lot about such things yourself, of course! You have a wide
experience of the bush, haven't you? What do the police think?"
"They're leaving it till the morning. They hope for the best."
"So everybody is pleased except my brilliant brother! I want to know
why--I want to know more about these tracks."
He told her more with unruffled mien; he rather enjoyed her sarcasm; it
both justified and stimulated his own. Sarcasm he held to be the salt of
intercourse. It was certainly a game at which two Bethunes could always
play.
"But we shall see in the morning," concluded Theodore. "The heathen is
to be put upon the scent at dawn; if he passes it, well and good."
"Meanwhile you don't?"
"No, I'm hanged if I do," said Theodore, bluntly.
"Because you haven't been to see?"
Theodore smiled.
"Because you wouldn't know a man's track from a monkey's if you went?"
Theodore laughed.
"Why drag in Darwin, my dear girl? No, I've not been to look, and yet
I'm not convinced. I just have my doubts, and a reason or so for them;
then I haven't your admirable ground of belief in the infallibility of
our host's judgment. He may be mistaken. Mistakes do get made by
moonlight. Let's put it at that."
But Moya knew that he was not putting it at that in his mind, and she
made up hers to learn the worst of his suspicions.
"If the tracks are not his, whose are they?" she demanded, as though it
mattered. "If the creature is not somewhere about the run, where is he?"
And this did matter.
"If you ask me," said Theodore, with great gravity for him, "I should
say that he was within a few yards of us all the time!"
"A few yards?"
"I should say," repeated Theodore, "that he was somewhere about the
homestead, not the run. And you know perfectly well that you agree!"
"I?"
She jumped up in a fury.
"How dare you say that to me? How dare you, Theodore?"
"My dear Moya, I'm at a loss to understand you!" and his eyebrows
underlined the words into largest capitals. "How on earth have I
offended? I'm quite sure that you have the same suspicion--not to call
it fear--that I entertain myself. If not, why be in such a state? Why
not go to bed and to sleep like a rational person? I confess I don't
feel like doing so myself--with the chance of waking up to find an
escaped criminal on your chest. I prefer to sit up and keep watch. I'm
convinced he's somewhere about; all these huts afford far better cover
than the open paddocks, bless you! He could easily have slipped among
them without either of you seeing him, and the chances are he has."
"If you think that," said Moya, "why didn't you suggest it?"
"I did--to Rigden. Wouldn't listen to me; so, of course, I can't expect
you to be so disloyal as to do so either."
But Moya had no more of that kind of fight in her. "So you intend to sit
up and watch?" was her sole rejoinder.
"I do."
"Then so do I!"
Theodore looked dubious, but only for an instant.
"You begin to think there may be something in my theory?"
"I think there--may be."
"Then I'll tell you more!" exclaimed Theodore with decision: "I believe
the fellow's over yonder in that store!"
His eyes were waiting for her face to change. But it changed very
little. Moya was beginning to wonder whether her terrible brother did
not already know all. One moment she thought he did, the next that he
did not; indifference was creeping over her with the long-drawn strain
of the situation. What did it matter if he did know? It would make no
difference between her and Pelham. That was at an end, in any case; all
that was at an end for ever.
Meanwhile she humoured Theodore just a little, particularly in the
matter of her sitting up. He begged her not to do so, and she feigned
consent. One of his objects in sitting up himself was to secure her
safety. He might be wrong in all his conjectures, and Rigden might be
right. Theodore was none the less virtuously determined not to give a
chance away.
"And if I am right I'll nab him the moment he shows his nose; and the
credit will belong to your humble brother. It isn't as if I hadn't
mentioned my general ideas to Rigden; otherwise it might be rather much
to take upon one's self; but as it is I have no scruples. If nothing
happens, I've simply been sleeping on the verandah, because it's cooler
there, and that long chair's as good as any bed. Do you mind doing
something for me, Moya?"
"What is it?"
"My room's at the back, as you know; do you mind keeping a look-out
while I go round and get into my pyjamas?"
"No, I don't mind."
"Particularly on the store, you know."
"Yes, I know."
"If anything happens come straight to me, but as quietly as possible."
"Very well."
"I mean if you see anybody."
"Yes."
"But I shan't be many minutes."
And he was gone.
At last!
Moya flung herself upon the bed, and lay for a few seconds with closed
eyes. Her forehead was wondrous white; the fine eyebrows and the long
lashes seemed suddenly to have gone black; the girl was fainting under
the triple strain of fear and shame and outraged love. Yes, she was in
love, but she would never marry him. Never! It was the irony of her
fate to love a man whom she would rather die than marry, after this! Yet
she loved him none the less; that was the last humiliation of women whom
she had scorned all her days for this very thing, only to become one of
them in the end.
But she at least would never marry the man she loved and yet despised.
That would be the only difference, yet a fairly essential one. And now
her strength was renewed with her resolve, so that she was up and doing
within the few seconds aforesaid; her first act was to blow out the
candle; her next, to open the door an inch and to take her stand at the
opening.
Nor was she much too soon. It was as though Rigden had been only waiting
for her light to go out. Within a minute he appeared in the sandy space
between the main building and the store. He was again wearing the yellow
silk dust-coat of which enough has been heard; it was almost all that
could be seen of him in the real darkness which had fallen with the
setting of the moon.
Moya heard his key in the heavy door opposite. Should she tell him of
Theodore's suspicions, or should she not? While she hesitated, he let
himself in, took out the key, and once more locked the door behind him.
Next moment a thread of light appeared upon the threshold; and, too
late, Moya repented her indecision.