HARRY awaited the approach of evening with burning impatience, and his
heart was lighter than it had been for weeks. He thought that now the
distraction induced by her father's danger, his arrest and his death, and
the subsequent trials had departed, he would find her with a clear mind
and responsive to his love, and it would be his pride and joy to teach
her to forget her troubles and to make her happy. Harry, who up to the
time of meeting Chris after his return to Waddy, had been even more
unromantic and lacking in poetry than the average bush native, had, under
the influence of his passion, evolved a strong vein of both romance and
poesy; and the sudden development of this unknown side of his nature
induced novel sensations. He thought of his previous self almost as a
stranger, for whom he felt some sentiment of pity not untouched with
contempt, and even when hope was feeblest he hugged his love and brooded
over it secretly with the devotion of a tender girl.
He was at the trysting-place a quarter of an hour before the time
appointed, but Christina was already there. Her greeting chilled and
subdued him. He went towards her, smiling, elate, with eager arms,
calling her name; she put him back with extended hands.
'No, no, Harry; not that,' she said, and he noticed in her voice the
strength of some resolution, the firmness that had jarred upon him when
last they met.
'Not that!' he repeated. Chris, you love me. For God's sake say it! You
have said it. You told me so, an' it was true--oh, my darling, it was
true!
He could see her distinctly: she stood in a shaft of moonlight falling
between the sombre firs, and her face was marble-like; her whole pose was
statuesque, all the girlish gentleness of the other days seemed to have
fled from her, and her hour of tribulation had invested her with a
dignity and force of will that sat well upon her stately figure. Harry
beheld her with something like terror. This was not the woman he loved.
His cause had never seemed so utterly hopeless as now, and yet he felt
that it was not the true Chris with whom he was dealing; that the true
Chris was the soft-eyed clinging girl safely enshrined in his heart.
'Chris,' he said, 'you have changed--but you'll come to me again?'
Her face was turned towards him; she shook her head with passionless
decision.
'No, Harry,' she answered, 'that is all past. I sent for you to tell you
that we must forget.'
'Forget!' he cried, springing forward and seizing her hand, 'how can I
forget? Can a man forget that he loves?'
'You will forget. It is better, and you will live to be glad that you
did.'
'Never, never! Chris, what do you mean? Why're you talking to me of
forgetting--why, why?'
'Because I know in my heart that it must be. I came here to tell you so,
to ask you to waste no more thought on me.'
'You do not care for me, then. Is that what you mean?'
She gave him no answer, but her steadfast eyes looked into his and their
light was cold, there was no glimmer of affection in them.
'You never loved me, Chris?'
She continued silent; she had wrought herself to a certain point, to what
she believed to be a duty, and she could only maintain the tension by
exerting all her energies.
'What have I done to be treated like this?' he continued. 'I did all I
could to spare you. I would have spared him, too, if it'd been in my
power.'
'You were generous. Yes, you did all you could; for that I will be
grateful to you all my life.'
'And I love you--I love you! I want love, not gratitude, Chris--your
love.'
'You must forget me!
He approached her more closely, and his voice had lost its pleading tone.
'On the night of the arrest,' he said, 'you told me you had deceived
all--lied to all; did you lie to me?'
He paused for a reply, but she did not speak, and he continued fiercely:
'Did you lie to me when you said you loved me? Was that a lie? Was it a
trap?'
'It does not matter now, Harry; all is over, all.'
'An' you did lie to me. You lied because you thought I'd give your father
up if my love was not returned. My God! you thought I took advantage
of--'
'No, no, no!' she cried, 'not that. I thought no ill of you, I think
none. Think what you will of me.'
'But I was fooled--cruelly, bitterly fooled. You needn't have done it,
Chris. I'd rather have died than have added to your sufferings. Your
trick wasn't necessary. I cared more for you than you'll ever know.'
Her hands trembled at her sides and her lips moved, but her eyes remained
steadfast.
'I know your good heart, Harry,' she said in a voice almost harsh from
the restraint put upon her. 'I will bless you and pray for you while I
live, but I can never be your wife. You are mad to think of me. Some day
you will be glad I refused to listen to you, and grateful to me for what
I have done.'
'Grateful!' he cried. 'To be grateful I must learn to hate you. I'll go
an' learn that lesson.'
He turned from her and strode towards the gate, but there he paused with
his arm upon the bar, and presently he moved back to her side.
'I can't go like that, dear,' he said, seizing her hand again, 'nothing
on earth can ever make me anything but your lover, an' nothing can make
me believe you lied when you said you loved me. Your kisses were not
lies. Speak to me--say that you did love me a little!'
'Good-bye, Harry,' she said in the same constrained tone.
'For God's sake be fair to me, Chris.'
'I am fair to you. Go; learn to love someone who will bring you
happiness. Good-bye.'
'There is one woman who could bring me happiness, an' she stabs me to the
heart. I won't give you up, I won't forget, I won't say good-bye. When
this misery's gone from you, you will be your old self again, an' we'll
be happy together.'
'Do not think that, Harry; you must put me out of your heart.'
'Never--never while I live!'
He looked into her strong pale face for a moment, and lifting her
yielding hand to his lips kissed it.
'Good-night,' he said gently. 'I'll come again.'
'Good-bye, Harry,' she whispered.
He hastened away, carrying his trouble into the sleeping bush. She stood
for a few moments after he had gone, erect, with her hands pressed over
her eyes, then walked towards the house with firm steps; but at the
verandah uncontrollable sobs were breaking in her throat; she turned and
fled into the plantation, and lying amongst the long grass wept
unreservedly.
Harry's mind was in a tumult; he tried in vain to compose his faculties,
to discover some reason for Miss Chris's action apart from the dreadful
possibility that she had really never cared for him. Now that he had it
from her own lips that she could be nothing to him, he refused to accept
the situation. There were barriers raised between them, he would beat
them down; there were mistakes, illusions, he would overcome them; he was
strong, he would conquer. Anything was possible but that she had lied to
him, but that her warm loving kisses were false and scheming. His heart
scouted that idea with a blind rage that impelled him to hit out in the
darkness. This spiritual fight tore the man of action, racked him limb
from limb. Oh! to have been able to settle it, bare-armed and abreast of
a living antagonist in the child's play of merely physical strife. He
found tears on his cheek and this weakness amazed him, but his thoughts
followed each other quickly, disconnectedly, like those of a drunken man;
he went home baffled, but clinging to hope with the tenacity of one who
feels that despair means death.
Next morning Harry found himself utterly miserable, but still trusting
that time would serve to restore Chris her natural cheerful temperament,
and bring home to her again the conviction that she really loved him, and
then all would be well.
At about half-past two that afternoon Dick Haddon, in his capacity of
faithful squire to the two lovers, visited the mine hot-foot, with news
for his friend. Harry was below, but he hastened to answer the boy's
message. He had dreamed of a sudden repentance on his sweetheart's part,
and his heart beat fast as Dick beckoned him away from McKnight, who was
at the windlass.
'She's gone away,' said the boy eagerly.
'Chris away? Where's she gone?'
'She's goin' to Melbourne--going fer years an' years. Mr. Summers is
drivin' her into Yarraman now. She left a letter for you with mother.
Thought I'd come an' tell you, 'case you might want to go after her.'
'Gone for good!' This possibility had not occurred to the young man. 'She
left a letter for me? Are you sure it's for me?'
'Yes, yes; mother's got it. If I was you I'd get it at once; an'
I'd--I'd--' Dick was much more excited than Harry; he was eager to spur
his friend to action.
'How long have they been gone?' asked Harry, as he hastened towards the
township. He felt that this was a crisis, that action was called for, but
the news had confused him. He was fighting with the fear that she was
taking this course to avoid him for the reason that his connection with
her misfortunes had made him hateful to her. He burned to read her
letter, but he had no mind for heroic schemes or projects.
'On'y about a quarter of an hour,' said Dick in answer to his question.
'They can't've gone far.'
'You're sure she was going to. Melbourne--going for good?'
'Certain sure--heard her tell mum.'
Mrs. Haddon was standing at the door when they reached the house, and
Harry followed her into the kitchen.
'Give it to me, Alice,' he said. 'Quick! Can't you see I'm half mad?'
Mrs. Haddon handed him the letter, and he tore the envelope with awkward
impatient fingers. The note was brief:
'DEAR HARRY,--I write this to bid you good-bye again, and thank you again
for all your kindness and goodness. I am going away because I can no
longer bear to live amongst people who know me as the daughter of one who
was a thief and almost a murderer. Don't think bitterly of me. All that I
have done I did for the best, according to my poor light. We may never
meet again, but it would make me happier some day to know that you had
forgiven me, and that you remembered me without anger in your own
happiness.
--Your very true friend,
'CHRISTINA SHINE.'
Harry sank into a chair and sat for a minute staring blankly at the
letter, and Mrs. Haddon stood by his side staring curiously at him.
Suddenly she slapped firmly on the table with her plump hand and asked
sharply:
'Well, Harry, well?'
He turned his blank eyes upon her.
'Do you care a button for that girl?'
'Care?' he said. 'I care my whole life an' soul for her!'
'Well, then, what're you goin' to do? ''Re you goin' to lose her?'
'In the name o' God, Alice, what can I do? She doesn't want me; she is
going away to be rid of me.'
'Not want you? You great, blind, blunderin' man you; she loves you well
enough to break her heart for you. Can't you see why she's going away? Of
course you can't. She's goin' because she thinks she's an object of shame
an' disgrace; because she feels on her own dear head an' weighin' on her
own great, soft, simple heart all the weight of the shame that belonged
to that bad devil of a father of hers; because all that the papers, an'
the lawyers, an' the judge said about the sins o' Ephraim Shine she feels
burnin' in red letters on her own sweet face. That's why she's goin'; an'
if she is leavin' you it's because she feels this whole villainous
business makes her unfit to be your wife. Now what're you goin' to do,
Harry Hardy?'
Harry had risen to his feet; his face was flushed, he trembled in every
limb.
'Do?' he gasped. 'Do?'
'Do!' Repeated the widow in a voice that had grown almost shrill.
'There's a horse an' saddle an' bridle in McMahon's stable.'
Harry turned and ran from the house; and the little widow, standing at
the door flushed and tearful, looking after him, murmured to herself:
'An' if you lose her, Harry Hardy, you're not the man I took you for, an'
I'll never forgive you--never.'
She looked down and encountered Dick's eyes--seeming very much larger and
graver than usual--regarding her with solemn admiration. The boy had
conceived a new respect for his mother within the last two minutes, and
had discovered in her a kindred spirit hitherto unsuspected.
'My colonial! that was rippin', mum!' he said.