"YOU NEED NOT EXPECT ME BACK"
Harry Oxenham, pipe in mouth, stood at the open garden gate. Mary stood
on the step of the front door. Conscious of guilt, they greeted him with
more than usual cordiality.
"And so you have really come, after all, my dear old boy," his sister
cried, with her arms about his neck. "This _is_ good of you! A piece of
luck that I _never_ expected!"
"Yes, I've come. Awfully glad to get into clean air, out of those
stinking streets. How are the kids? Why didn't you let me come last
night?"
"Oh, the kids are as right as possible. You won't know them, they have
grown so. Of course they are in bed and asleep, or they would be pulling
you down between them."
She was hoping the tiresome brats wouldn't begin to talk of Jenny the
first thing in the morning, and he was anxiously peering over her
shoulder.
"Why did you stop me yesterday, Polly?"
"Oh, for reasons--never mind now, as long as you are here. Come in and
have some supper. You must be hungry and tired after your long journey.
Did you bring me some fish? Oh, thanks. It will be a treat, after weeks
of Murray cod."
He followed her across the hall into the dining-room, where half the
table was spread with a tempting meal. He looked around; there was no
one there. He looked at Mary, and he thought she blushed.
"Where is Miss Liddon?" he inquired coolly. "Has she gone to bed?"
This time Mary blushed unmistakably. She exchanged a faltering glance
with her husband, who sidled out of the room; then she rallied her
dignity, and quietly replied that Miss Liddon was not with her.
"She was here two days ago," said Tony darkly.
"How do you know that?"
"Never mind how I know it. Only I do, for a certainty."
"Not from me; I have told nobody. If _she_ has been writing to
you,"--Mrs. Oxenham, gentle woman that she was, flared up at the
thought--"all I can say is that I am shockingly deceived in her."
"She never wrote to me in her life. But that's neither here nor there.
The fact remains that she was in this house two days ago, and is out of
it now. What have you done with her?"
There was an irritating abruptness in his tone and manner, and his
sister threw up her head with a haughty gesture.
"_I?_ Is she a child, that anybody should do anything with her? She has
some relations living in the town, and has gone to stay with them."
"When did she go?"
"Oh, my dear Tony, you are too absurd! And I don't choose to be
catechised in this fashion. Miss Liddon is nothing to you."
"That's all you know about it. When did she go, Mary?"
He looked hard at her, and she at him, and she held her breath for a
moment, trying to grasp the situation.
"She went this morning."
"And knew that I was coming to-night?"
"How can I tell? I did not think it necessary to talk about it to her."
"You mean you kept it from her? And that you contrived that she should
go to her relations--having put me off to give you time to do it--so as
to have her out of my way. I know about those relations. They have
snubbed and spurned her in her struggles, like the cads they are, and
she can't endure them."
"They have been exceedingly attentive to her, and had asked her to visit
them a dozen times. They proposed to-day themselves."
"I have it from her sister. And also that she was expecting to stay on
here. It was in a letter, dated two days ago. I read it. Mary, it seems
to me that you have behaved abominably. You simply turned her out."
"Tony, I will not allow you to talk to me like that. And just let me ask
_you_ one question:--Supposing I did, what in the world can it matter to
you?"
"Well, I came up on purpose to see her, that's all."
"Oh! You are very complimentary to us. But you don't mean that, of
course. _You!_ A man in your position can't possibly have any concern
with a girl in hers; at least, you have no business to have any."
"That's worthy of Maude, Polly. In fact, the very words she said to me
yesterday."
"Maude? What does she know about it? Tony, you are talking riddles. I
can't understand you in the least."
"Oh, Maude knows. So does my father. But _he_ doesn't say those
insulting things. He says I have made a wise choice--as I know I
have--and has given us his consent and blessing in advance. Do you
understand now?"
She understood, and was momentarily stunned. Not Lady Louisa, after all,
but this little no-account tea-room girl! It was a heavy shock. She
dropped into a chair, flung herself back in it, and ejaculated,
"_Well!_"--adding with a long breath, "And she never gave me the least
hint of it all this time!"
"She couldn't very well, seeing that she hasn't the faintest idea of
such a thing herself--to the best of my knowledge."
"Then"--eagerly--"you have not spoken yet?"
"I am going to speak as soon as I can find her. And you are not going to
prevent me, though you may think you are."
He poured out some whisky, and began to survey the dishes on the table.
He was very angry, and consequently calm.
"Where's Harry?" he inquired. "I ordered the new buggy yesterday. I want
to tell him about it. Harry, where are you?"
Harry came in, sheepish, but blustering, and was delighted to go into
the buggy question without delay. They sat down to supper, and the men
discussed business matters throughout the meal. Then Mr. Oxenham
faint-heartedly proposed a smoke.
"No, thank you," said Anthony. "I'm off to bed. Same room, Mary?"
"Yes, dear." She followed him into the hall. "Aren't you going to say
good-night to me, Tony?"
He kissed her coldly in silence.
"I did not know," she whispered. "It is so sudden--so unexpected. We
will talk it over to-morrow, Tony."
"There's nothing to talk over," said he. And he marched off.
Mrs. Oxenham went to bed and cried. Then she thought deeply for a long
time. Then she woke her husband up to talk to him.
"After all," she said, "it might have been worse. Some men, gentlemen of
the highest class, marry barmaids and actresses--the vulgarest
creatures. And Jenny isn't vulgar. However unsuitable she may be in
other ways, personally she is a lady. That's one comfort. And--and it's
very noble of him, don't you think?"
She got up early in the morning, and wrote to Jenny.
"DEAR CHILD,--
"My brother came last night, and was in a great way to find you
gone. Ask your aunt to be good enough to spare you again to us, for
I want you to help me to entertain him. We are talking of a picnic
to the ranges, and could not manage that without you. I am sending
Dickson with the buggy. Come back with him, and your aunt can have
you later.
"Your affectionate friend,
"MARY OXENHAM."
This note was delivered at the bank at breakfast time, with the message
that the man was waiting for an answer. Jenny took it to her room, read
it, and penned the following reply with a violently shaking hand:--
"DEAR MRS. OXENHAM,--
"Thank you very much for your kindness in wishing me to return to
you, but I think I ought not to prolong my holiday further, now
that I am quite strong again. I am sure they must be badly wanting
me at home, and I have decided to go back to-morrow, with some
friends of my aunt's who happen to be going down. I could not leave
her to-day, as I have but just come, and the time is so short. I am
very sorry you should have had the trouble of sending the buggy for
nothing. Please accept my grateful thanks for all your kindness,
which I shall never forget, and believe me,--
"Yours sincerely,
"JENNY LIDDON."
Anthony at Wandooyamba was restless and surly. Mary had always been his
ally in everything, and these devoted ones are the people we have no
compunction about punishing severely when they do happen inadvertently
to offend us. He would not forgive her for sending Jenny away.
"Can you lend me a horse, Harry?" was the first thing he said on coming
down to breakfast--before he had even noticed the children, whom he had
not seen for so long.
"A dozen, my dear fellow, if you want them," said Harry.
"Thank you. I only want one."
Mary leaned over the table and whispered to him, "Wait a little. She is
coming back to-day."
"Have you sent for her?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows.
She nodded.
He shook his head. "She will know what she was turned out for, and she
won't come back."
"She will--she will," said Mary, who devoutly hoped it. "Wait till
Dickson returns, at any rate."
Dickson had a wife and family in the township, and when he found that he
had not to drive the young lady to Wandooyamba, he concluded that he
need not hurry home, but might take his ease in his own house, as he was
accustomed to do on the day of rest; so he pocketed Jenny's letter until
the evening. When he then delivered it--at past six o'clock--he was very
much surprised and offended at being taken to task for presuming to
exercise his own judgment in the matter. He little knew what the
consequences had been to Mr. Churchill's temper and his mistress's peace
of mind. Tony was a handful that day, and sincerely did Mary regret
having tried to play Providence to him.
She went to church with her family--to her own little bush church which
her own money maintained; the parson, ritual, and general affairs of
which were wholly under her direction--hoping to find the lovers
together on her return. In the afternoon they all walked for miles on
the track of the expected buggy, and walked back again, casting wistful
looks behind them. Then Dickson came leisurely ambling home--they saw
him from the verandah sitting in solitary state--and Jenny's letter was
delivered and the suspense ended.
Mary tore it open, read it with distress, almost with tears, and handed
it to her brother. He perused it with a grim smile, put it into his
pocket, and ordered a horse to be saddled immediately.
"What, at _this_ hour?" she cried.
"I have wasted too many," he answered stiffly. "Good-night. You need not
expect me back again."