"What about Tony?" asked Mr. Oxenham.
"He is not coming. I asked him, but he said he couldn't leave town. He is too much engaged with Lady Louisa, I suppose; and if she didn't keep him, Maude would. Oh, if there was the slightest chance of Tony being at Wandooyamba, of course I shouldn't ask Miss Liddon there."
"Well, my dear, I'm sure I don't care, one way or another. Do just what you think best."
"You are quite sure you don't mind, Harry?"
"Not in the least. What's good enough for you is good enough for me, and, personally, I think she's an awfully nice little thing."
"Then I shall go and settle it with her mother in the morning," said Mrs. Oxenham, "and we will take her back with us."
It was not far from Christmas when Anthony returned from his cruise, which he did in a listless, yawning, world-weary frame of mind. He had not enjoyed himself as he had expected to do, and wished he had remained in Melbourne at work, and given his old father a holiday instead. Tasmania had looked beautiful, to be sure, but he had seen too many things that were more so, and seen them too recently, to be impressed by its hills and streams; while the sea had no charm after his recent voyage. He had wholly depended on his company for entertainment, and his company had disappointed him. Few, indeed, can stand the test of such conditions as those under which they were expected to shine, as under a microscope, with double lustre and meaning (he had not stood it himself); and it was not surprising that the brilliant Lady Louisa had failed to substantiate her pretensions to be a clever woman, or that Mrs. Churchill had contrived to make a most kindly-disposed stepson hate her. Not, of course, that it was necessary for Lady Louisa to show herself clever in order to captivate our hero, or any man; it was because her stupidity had led her to waste her blandishments on a brainless idiot of a whisky-drinking globe-trotter, whose name was his only title to be called a gentleman, that it had manifested itself so unmistakably to her superseded slave. When the bookless, newspaperless, trifling time was over, he stepped ashore with a sense of being released from an irksome bondage, and determined to keep clear of his late too close companions for many a long day. One only was excepted—an old chum and crony, who had accompanied him on the voyage from England, a Queensland squatter, who lived nine months of the year in Melbourne—Adam Danesbury by name. Mr. Danesbury had afforded much amusement on board the yacht by boasting modestly of his recent engagement to a girl at home; showing her likeness, worn in a locket on his watch-chain, to the ladies, and confiding to them his plan for returning to marry and fetch her out as soon as he had got his northern shearing over. The ladies thought it was so very funny of him; any other man, they said, would have kept such a thing as dark as possible, under the circumstances. But Anthony Churchill, who had always made a friend of Danesbury, had never liked him so well as he liked him now.
"Come up to my place and dine with me to-night," he said to him, as the party were dispersing in the yard of the railway station; "and let's have a quiet pipe and a little peace, after all this racket."
"All right," said Mr. Danesbury, "I'm on."
They spoke in low tones, like a couple of conspirators.
"Mr. Churchill! Mr. Churchill!" called Lady Louisa from a Government House carriage, to which a callow aide had escorted her. "What have I done that I should be neglected in this manner? Are you not even going to say good-bye to me?"
Anthony advanced with his man-of-the-world courtliness, and pressed her outstretched hand. "No," he said, "I never mean to say good-bye to you—until I am obliged."
"Au revoir, then," she laughed. "You will come and see me soon?"
He bowed as to a queen, while the young A.D.C., whose enchantress she was at the moment, notwithstanding the fact that she was almost old enough to be his mother, glared ferociously.
"These conceited colonials!" he muttered to himself; "these trading cads, putting on the airs of gentlemen! What presumption of the fellow to speak in that tone to HER!"
"Tony," cried Maude, from the midst of her bags and bundles, which her maid was counting into the hands of a cabman, "you will see me safe home, Tony?"
"Well, really, Maude, I don't see how you can help getting home safely, with your own husband to take care of you," Tony replied, a little irritably (his father, delighted to get his young wife back again, was calling her carriage up). "You don't want me now."
"Tony, you know Ialwayswant you. And youmightcome just for a cup of tea and to see the children. They'll be expecting you."
"I'll see them on Sunday. I must go home and get washed and decent."
"As if you couldn't get washed in our house, where you've got your own rooms, and dozens of suits of clothes lying in your drawers!"
"Oh, I know; but you must excuse me now, really. There'll be letters and all sorts of things at my chambers, waiting for me, and I telegraphed to Jarvis to have my dinner ready."
He detached himself from her clutches, and, when her carriage drove off, called up his hansom and flung himself into it with a sigh of relief. "Thank God, that's over!" he ejaculated, drawing his cigar-case from his pocket. "What fools women are! The more I see of them, the more sick of them I get."
It was great luxury to find himself in his own bachelor home, where the priceless Jarvis had everything in order and ready for him, and where he was his own man, as he could never be elsewhere. He had an iced drink, and read his letters, and glanced at half a dozen newspapers, lolling bare-armed upon a sofa, with a pipe in his mouth and slippered feet in the air; and then he had a bath and elaborately dressed himself, putting a silk coat over his diamond-studded shirt; and Jarvis set the dainty dinner-table, and Danesbury arrived.
"Come in, old fellow!" shouted the emancipated one, hearing his friend in the hall. "Now we'll enjoy ourselves! Take off that black coat—no ladies to consider now; we may as well be cool and comfortable when we do get the chance. Dinner ready, Jarvis? All's vanity and vexation of spirit, old man, except one's dinner. Thank God, we've still got that to fall back upon!"
"We've got something more than that to fall back upon, let us hope," said Mr. Danesbury, smiling. "At any rate, I have."
"Oh,you! You've got Miss Lennox to fall back on, of course. But we are not all so lucky."
"What's happened to you, that you should class yourself with the unlucky ones? But I know; Lady Louisa hasn't appreciated you. I can quite understand that you feel bad about it, being so little accustomed to such treatment."
"Hang Lady Louisa! A battered old campaigner, with no more heart or brains than a Dutch doll! I should be sorry to feel bad over a woman of that sort."
"What then?"
"Lord knows. A troubled conscience, perhaps, for having wasted so much valuable time. Dinner, as I said before, will restore me. Sit down."
They sat down, and did justice to Jarvis's preparations. Anthony's little dinners were famous amongst dining men, who knew better than to disturb enjoyment and digestion with too much conversation while they were in progress; but when this meal had reached the stage of coffee and cigarettes, the two friends fell into very confidential talk.
"What you want," said Adam Danesbury, "is to get married, Tony."
"Why," said the host, "you've been the loudest of us all in denouncing those bonds—till now. Because you've lost your tail, is that any reason why we should cut off ours?"
"That's all very well while we're young and foolish," said Mr. Danesbury sedately (he was a sedate person always, but "a devil of a fellow," all the same, at times). "And I denounce the thing still, when it's nothing but a buying and selling business, like what we so often see. But get a good girl, Tony—a girl likemygirl—one who doesn't make a bargain of you, but loves the ground you walk on, though you may go barefoot—thenit's all right. Think of our advanced age, if you please. Byron was in the sere and yellow leaf before he was as old as I am, and you are close up. Twenty years hence we shall be old fogies, and we shall have lost our appetite for cakes, if not for ale, and they will shunt us into corners; then we shall want our girls and boys to ruffle it in our place. If we don't look sharp, those girls and boys won't be there, Tony, and it will feel lonely—I know it will."
"These be the words of wisdom," said Tony reflectively. "I must confess I had forgotten about the girls and boys."
"Oh, but, apart from them, it's a mistake to put it off, after a certain time of life—that is, of course, if you can find the right sort of woman. For God's sake, don't go and throw yourself away on one of these society girls. What a fellow wants is a home, and they don't seem to know the meaning of the word."
"How would you describe the right sort of woman?" asked Anthony, pushing the wine towards his friend.
"I would say, a woman like Rose Lennox."
"Yes, of course—naturally. Only, unfortunately, I don't know Miss Lennox."
"I wish you did, Tony. If you had come down to my father's place, as I wanted you to, you would have met her. However, you will see her before long, I trust."
Anthony spread his arms over the table, and looked curiously at the man in whom Miss Lennox had wrought so great a change.
"Tell me about her, will you, old fellow?" he said. "Tell me, so that I may know what the right woman is like, when I do happen to see her."
Mr. Danesbury was nothing loth. He, too, spread his arms on the table, with an air of preparation, having placed his unconsumed cigarette in the ash-tray beside him.
"Well, in the first place, I must tell you she is poor," he began. "But she's none the worse for that."
"No, the better—the better!" cried Anthony, delighted. "I believe it's just money that spoils them all."
"Though she's poor, she's the most perfect lady that ever stepped."
The host nodded comprehendingly.
"Her father has the parish next to my father's; old Lennox got the living after I left home. It's supposed to be worth two-fifty, but if he gets two it's as much as he does; and there are seven children. My Rose is the eldest—twenty-three next birthday."
"Yes?" Anthony had left off smoking, and was listening as men seldom listened to this love-sick swain.
"The way I knew her first—my sisters gave a garden party—you know those little clerical garden parties?—parsons and their wives and daughters from miles round, coming in their washed frocks and their little basket carriages; and two of the Lennox girls were there—nice, interesting little things, but not Rose. We had three tennis afternoons before I knew of her existence. I used to hear my sisters say, 'Why don't you make Rose come?' but never took any heed; until one day I had to drive some of them home, because a storm was coming, and they hadn't any carriage; and just as I got there the storm burst, and I went in to wait till it was over. And there I saw that girl—my Rose—sitting at a table, mending stockings, with half a dozen little brats saying their lessons to her. This was what she did every day—sewed, and kept house, and taught the children, while her sisters went out to play tennis. She said it was so good for them to have a little recreation—as ifshewasn't to be thought of at all. That's the sort of woman she is."
Anthony stretched out his hand. "Show me that locket again, will you?"
Adam Danesbury detached watch and chain, and pushed them over the table. "It don't do her justice," he said tenderly. "She's got hair that you can see yourself in, and a complexion like milk; the colour comes and goes with every word you say to her, and her expression changes in the same way. Photography always fails with people of that sort. Still—there she is."
Photography had evidently not done justice to Miss Lennox. The ladies on the yacht had called her dowdy, and insignificant, and plain, wondering at Mr. Danesbury's taste; but, helped by that gentleman's description of her, Anthony made out a sweet and modest face, which held his gaze for several minutes. Her lover watched him eagerly—this accomplished connoisseur—and swelled with pride to see her so appreciated.
"Well?" he said challengingly.
"Well," said Anthony, as he snapped the locket, "she's a charming creature, and you are an enviable fellow."
"I am that," rejoined the lover, re-opening the case before hanging it to his button-hole. "And I shall be a great deal more enviable this time next year, please God."
This conversation haunted our young man all night, and drove him in the morning to the tea-room, in serious pursuit of the right kind of woman, if haply she might be found there. To his surprise and consternation the bird had flown.
"Not ill, I trust?" he said in alarm, at the end of five restless minutes, during which he had scarcely taken his eyes from the screen.
Sarah was arranging the flowers he had just brought her. She had patiently waited for this question. "No," she said, with a nonchalant air. "Shewasill—very ill indeed—but she is all right now."
"Is she—she is not away?"
"Just now she is. She wanted a change so badly, poor dear."
"With friends?"
"Yes. They are most kind to her. It was just what she wanted, for she was quite worn out. The hard work at Cup time prostrated her."
"I'm awfully sorry to hear it. You are sure she is all right again?"
"Oh, quite. They weigh her every now and then, and she has gained half a stone."
"In this hot weather, too! Evidently it is doing her good. The sea, I suppose?"
"No. Mountains. At least I suppose they are mountains—I never was there myself."
"You must miss her very much?"
"Dreadfully. And I am afraid she worries about us. But the room goes on all right. Lucinda Allonby is a cat, but she is smart at waiting; and her aunt is a good soul. She is regularly in the partnership now."
"Yes. Did you say your sister had gone to Healesville?"
"No, I didn't."
She laughed mischievously, and Anthony laughed too, his bronzed cheek reddening.
"What then?" he pleaded. "Come, tell me, there's a good child."
"I should have thought you'd known," said Sarah, playing with his growing impatience.
"How was I to know anything, away on the sea?"
"I should have thought Mrs. Oxenham would have written to you."
"Of course she has written to me. I got two letters from her last night. But she has been out of town as long as I have."
"Not quite as long. She stayed a few days after you left, and then she went home; and she took Jenny with her."
"What!" Anthony almost bounded from his chair. "Took Jenny to Wandooyamba? As her guest?"
Sarah nodded carelessly. "Wasn't it good of her? She found Jenny looking very ill, and she said she must have a change and rest. And we hurried to get her clothes ready and fix up an evening dress for her, and off she went, and there she has been ever since."
"Ever since," groaned Anthony; "while I have been dawdling on that cursed yacht. If I'd only known——"
"I don't see," said Sarah demurely, "what it has to do with you."
She was a little sore about his long desertion, and wanted to know what it meant before she permitted herself to be confidential.
He plumped down on his seat in front of her. "It has everything to do with me," he said; "everything. Sarah—I am going to call you Sarah from this moment—shall I tell you something?"
She looked at him, holding her breath.
"You must keep it a secret for a little while, until I know whether she will have me. I am going to ask Jenny to be my wife."
He met her eyes boldly, for he had made up his mind; and she, seeing him serious and determined, clasped her hands in a speechless ecstasy of gratitude to Heaven for its goodness to her.
Then he went home and wrote a letter.
"Dear Polly,—"Many thanks for yours, which I got both together last night. We only returned yesterday, or I would have written before. I am glad you found all well at home, and that the kiddies were pleased with their presents. Give them my love. Tell Harry I will see about the buggy and the stores at once; the latter shall go up by goods train to-morrow. I suppose he wants the waggonette big enough to hold you all—something like the old one, only lighter. It might have been rather serious, that smash. He's too risky with his half-broken cattle and his fancy driving, and that Emily always was a fiend incarnate. If she belonged to me I'd shoot her."I didn't have such a gaudy time as you seem to think. I'm sure I don't know what I went for, unless it was to get cool, which there was little chance of in a boat so crowded. Lord Nettlebury made a beast of himself as usual, regardless of the ladies, who pretended not to see it just because it was Nettlebury. I told Maude they disgraced themselves more than he did, by their indulgence of him; but women are all alike—or nearly all. It was sickening to see them fawning over the disgusting little brute, who ought to have been pitched overboard."Danesbury is the best of fellows—mad on his little Englishfiancée, and with no eyes for anybody else. They chaffed him unmercifully, but he liked it. She has wonderfully improved him. He says they are going to live in the country when she comes out, and he's looking for a place in this colony not too fatiguingly far from town. He's in the right there. Melbourne isn't wholesome. I'm sick of it myself—that is, I'm sick of streets, which are the same everywhere, and of sea, and of men and women who make a child's game of life. I want a sniff of the bush air before I settle down, and I think I'll run up to you to-morrow night, when I've seen about Harry's commissions. We have hardly had a good talk since I came back, and the kids will be forgetting me. Our stepmother has been rather getting on my nerves lately; it will be a relief to be out of her reach for a day or two. And my liver (perhaps that's why I've been so bored) wants horse exercise after so much loafing. Hal and I will have some rides together, tell him. I suppose the poor little beggars have done school, and are in the full swing of holidays by now. They won't object to a few more toys for Santa Claus's stocking, I daresay. I will bring you up some fish in ice, if I can get them fresh enough."Yours affectionately,"A. Churchill."
"Dear Polly,—
"Many thanks for yours, which I got both together last night. We only returned yesterday, or I would have written before. I am glad you found all well at home, and that the kiddies were pleased with their presents. Give them my love. Tell Harry I will see about the buggy and the stores at once; the latter shall go up by goods train to-morrow. I suppose he wants the waggonette big enough to hold you all—something like the old one, only lighter. It might have been rather serious, that smash. He's too risky with his half-broken cattle and his fancy driving, and that Emily always was a fiend incarnate. If she belonged to me I'd shoot her.
"I didn't have such a gaudy time as you seem to think. I'm sure I don't know what I went for, unless it was to get cool, which there was little chance of in a boat so crowded. Lord Nettlebury made a beast of himself as usual, regardless of the ladies, who pretended not to see it just because it was Nettlebury. I told Maude they disgraced themselves more than he did, by their indulgence of him; but women are all alike—or nearly all. It was sickening to see them fawning over the disgusting little brute, who ought to have been pitched overboard.
"Danesbury is the best of fellows—mad on his little Englishfiancée, and with no eyes for anybody else. They chaffed him unmercifully, but he liked it. She has wonderfully improved him. He says they are going to live in the country when she comes out, and he's looking for a place in this colony not too fatiguingly far from town. He's in the right there. Melbourne isn't wholesome. I'm sick of it myself—that is, I'm sick of streets, which are the same everywhere, and of sea, and of men and women who make a child's game of life. I want a sniff of the bush air before I settle down, and I think I'll run up to you to-morrow night, when I've seen about Harry's commissions. We have hardly had a good talk since I came back, and the kids will be forgetting me. Our stepmother has been rather getting on my nerves lately; it will be a relief to be out of her reach for a day or two. And my liver (perhaps that's why I've been so bored) wants horse exercise after so much loafing. Hal and I will have some rides together, tell him. I suppose the poor little beggars have done school, and are in the full swing of holidays by now. They won't object to a few more toys for Santa Claus's stocking, I daresay. I will bring you up some fish in ice, if I can get them fresh enough.
"Yours affectionately,"A. Churchill."
"Yours affectionately,"A. Churchill."
The writer of this letter posted it at the G.P.O. while spending his afternoon about town, buying buggies and Christmas presents for his sister's family, consequently it went up country by the five o'clock express, and Mrs. Oxenham received it before noon next day. No answer was expected or required, and therefore Tony was surprised and annoyed to get a telegram from her, just as he was thinking it time to change his clothes for his journey, to say,—
"Come to-morrow if equally convenient. Meet you night train."
"Come to-morrow if equally convenient. Meet you night train."
"What the deuce—oh, here, Jarvis, hold on a bit. Confound the—what on earth does she mean? Can't have got that great house full of guests, so that there isn't a corner for me to sleep in—that would be too absurd. Going out, perhaps—but she wouldn't stop me for that. Can't be Jenny—she'd stop me altogether if she meantthat. It's a dashed nuisance anyhow."
The packing was stayed, and he mooned away to the club, because he didn't know what else to do with himself. He was lost for want of occupation, and ridiculously angry at having to kick his heels for twenty-four hours for no earthly purpose that he could see. There was nothing to do or to interest one—there never is under these circumstances; his journey put back at the last moment, he was stranded until it could be put on again. So he drifted to the club.
There he found his father. It was the old gentleman's habit to play tennis after business, to keep his fat down—a habit formed long years before the lawn variety of the game had been invented; and Tony found him hard at it, and watched him listlessly.
As soon as Mr. Churchill was aware of his son's presence, he exclaimed: "Why, I thought you were off to Wandooyamba to-night!"
"Going to-morrow," returned Tony.
And when the game was over, the father said, "Come out and dine with us to-night, boy. You are deserting us altogether these days, and I've got a lot of business I want to talk over with you."
Tony recognised that it was his duty to accede, because he really had been neglecting his father (but that was Maude's fault); and he acceded accordingly, as cheerfully as he could. Jarvis having been informed by telephone, the two gentlemen took tram together, and were presently seen by Maude from her bedroom window sauntering up the garden, affectionately arm in arm. She dashed aside the gown that had been chosen for the evening, and called for Mrs. Earl's latest—a white brocade, full of gold threads, that was very splendid.
Anthony had leisurely dressed himself in the clothes he kept at Toorak for these chance occasions, and was pulling his coat lappets straight over his big chest when he heard her knock on his door.
"That you, mother?" he called. "How are you?"
"Oh, Tony! Are you ready, Tony?" she called back.
"Yes—no, not quite, I sha'n't be long."
"Do—do make haste and come downstairs. I've something I want to say to you—very particularly—before the others come down."
"All right. I won't be a minute."
He thought he would dawdle on until he heard the "others"—i.e., his father—on the stairs; then he thought he might as well hear what the wonderful secret was. It was never safe to put her off. She was liable to burst at wrong times if kept bottled up too long.
He found her pacing up and down the long drawing-room with excitement in her face, all the gold drops on the crape front of her dress swinging and twinkling, the stiff train scratching over the carpet. She almost rushed at him when he appeared.
"Tony," she said, laying her heavily diamonded hand upon his arm, "your father says you are going up to Wandooyamba."
He flushed a little, admitting that he was. "And what then?"
"Tony, you—are—not—to—go."
"Oh, indeed! And pray, madam, who are you, to give me orders—me, that was dux of my school when you were in your cradle?"
"I am your mother, sir. It is a mother's business to give orders, and a son's to obey them. And I say you are not to go to Wandooyamba."
"If a mother is to issue commands of that sort, and in that tone of voice, the least she can do is to give her reasons for them."
"The reason is that Mary has company up there—people—aperson—a person that I don't choose you to associate with."
"And who may that person be? A he or a she?"
"You know quite well, so don't pretend you don't."
"I know nothing," said Tony mendaciously, "and am most anxious for information. I cannot imagine Mary associating with anybody who isn't fit to associate with me. But perhaps it is I who am not fit? Who's the almighty swell that I'm not good enough for?"
"No swell at all—quite the contrary. It's that tea-room girl—oh, Tony, I believe you knew all the time, only you like to put that mask on, because you know how I hate to see you look at me like a wooden image! It's that Liddon girl, that she made such an absurd fuss about. She wasn't well, and Mary took her to Wandooyamba to recruit, and she's there now."
"I don't see what that has to do with me," said he in a stately way; and he tried to move away from her.
Maude clutched him with both hands round his arm, and moved with him. "If it doesn't matter now, it will matter when you get under the same roof with her. Oh!"—looking up at him—"youdidknow she was there, and youaregoing after her! You used to sneak to the tea-room on the sly—heaps of people have told me—and now you are going to Wandooyamba just on purpose to make love to her—I can see it in your face, though you have your mask on! Oh! Tony dear, don't—don'tbe a naughty, bad boy—for my sake!"
"If I have ever been bad—bad to women," said Tony, removing his mask, "that time is over. Don't distress yourself. If I should by chance make love to Miss Liddon, it will be quite respectably, I assure you."
"But that would beworse!" shrieked Maude, coming to a standstill in the middle of the room, horrified. "Oh, Tony, what are you talking about—you, that have always been so fastidious! A tea-room girl! Oh, you are only trying to aggravate me! I didn't save you from Lady Louisa to have you throw yourself away on a tea-room girl!"
He almost shook her, he was so angry with her. "May I ask you to be so very good as to mind your own business, and allow me to manage mine?" he said, with a sort of cold fury in his voice and eyes. It was not the way a son should speak to his mother—indeed, it was quite brutal—but he could not restrain himself; and she, looking at him, guessed what the sudden rage portended.
"Itismy business," she retorted, with equal passion. "It is my family's business—it is all our businesses—to see that we are not disgraced."
"Disgraced!" he drawled, with bitter amusement. "Good Lord!"
The white gauze over her bosom heaved like foam on a flowing tide, the gold drops studding it shook like harebells in a breeze.
"Tony," she burst out fiercely, "I shall tell your father of you."
She swept out of the room, and he heard her long tail scraping over the tiles of the hall, and rustling up the broad stairs.
"Little devil!" he muttered in his teeth; and then he laughed, and his eyes cleared, and he went out upon the colonnaded verandah and walked up and down, with his hands behind him, till the gong clanged for dinner.
Sedately he marched into the dining-room and stood by the table, he and the servants, all silent alike, waiting for host and hostess to come downstairs. Then in flounced Maude, in her glittering whiteness, with her head up, and a wicked flash of triumph in her eyes as she met the wooden stare of her stepson; and her husband followed at her heels, furtive, downcast, troubled—pretending for the present that all was well, and failing to convince even the footman that it was so. Tony was at once aware that Maude had "told his father of him," and all through dinner he was trying to forecast what the result would be. She sparkled balefully for a time, trying to tease him into disputatious talk; but his cold irresponsiveness cowed her into silence too, and the resource of wistful glances that hinted at remorse and tears. It was a dismal meal. When it was happily at an end, and she rose from her plate of strawberries, he marched to the door and held it open for her, standing stiffly, like a soldier sentinel. She looked at him appealingly, and whispered "Forgive me," as she swept slowly out; but he stared stonily over her head and took no notice.
Shutting the door sharply behind her, he returned to his seat at the table. The gliding servants vanished, and his father pushed the wine towards him. There was a long silence, which he would not break. The old man cleared his throat a few times, and smacked his lips over his old port. At last their eyes met, and the spell was lifted.
"What's this, my boy, about—about poor Liddon's daughter?"
Anthony laid a broad palm over his father's hand resting on the table. "Don't let us talk of it here, daddy," he said, with gruff gentleness. "Finish your wine comfortably. Then we'll go into the smoking-room, and I'll tell you all about it."
Mr. Churchill brisked up, tossed off his port, and was ready for the smoking-room at once. It was detached from the house, and its French doors opened upon a retired lawn, on which the moon shone between the shadows of shrubs and trees. They drew armchairs towards the threshold, and lit their pipes, but not the lamps, and talked and talked in the cooling twilight, as men who had confidence in one another.
At first the father would not hear of the projected match. He belonged to a vulgar little world that was eaten up with the love of money, and could not despise the conventions of his caste. He argued, gently but obstinately, that it would "never do, you know," for quite a long time, thinking of what Maude would say to him if he failed to be firm; but a mention of Maude's homely predecessor, and the days when there was no high fashion in the family, touched his susceptible heart. Tony drew comparisons between his dead mother, his stepmother and his proposed wife, and morals therefrom.
"Well, well," the old gentleman admitted, "there's something in that."
"Where would you have been withouther, all that time when you were poor and struggling?"
"True. But you are not poor and struggling."
"I may be. No one can tell. Any sort of misfortune may come to a man. And in the day of adversity—well, you can see what she would be."
"Oh, she's a good girl—I never denied it—as good as they make 'em."
"Suppose I should fall ill? Maude's sister was at a ball the night before her husband died."
"She didn't know he was so bad, of course."
"She would have guessed if she'd been a woman of the right sort. Jenny won't go to balls when I am ill in bed, if it's only a cold or a headache."
"No doubt that's the sort to stick to you and comfort you." The old father sighed as he reflected on his increasing gout. "And I daresay—after all—in the long run perhaps——"
"Exactly. I am firmly convinced of it. She will last it out. And meanwhile, think of the cosy home I'll have! Oh, I may have been a careless, fast fellow, but I've had my ideas of what I would like to be, and like my home to be. And then there's the children—if anybody has got the makings of a good mother in her, she has. Don't you see it yourself?"
"Certainly. A good daughter always makes a good mother."
"If you'd seen her with Maude's brats—washing the milk and butter stains from their hands and mouths! And they took to her on the spot, as if they'd known her for years. It is a sure sign."
"Oh, it is—it is! Your mother had that way. Poor old girl! Many's the time I've seen her at the wash-tub, and ironing my shirts, and cooking my dinner, and you children hanging round her all the while. But it's odd to see a swell fellow like you caring for that sort of thing. You've been brought up so differently."
"Perhaps it's my mother's nature cropping out in me. But, in fact, it's because I've seen too much, sir."
"Too much what?"
"Too much woman—of the sort that I knowdon'tmake good wives—at any rate, not good enough for me."
"Ah, you're wise! I daresay you do take after your mother; she was better than I am. You are wiser for yourself than I should have been for you."
"I don't know that it's wisdom, consciously. It's pure selfishness, as like as not. I know she'll be good to me, and take care of me, and stick to me through thick and thin."
"You must stick to her, too, Tony."
"No fear. A man couldn't play the beast, with a wife of that sort; at least, I hope not. I mean to be a pattern husband."
After the third pipe he rose up stealthily.
"I'll just go and change my clothes and get home to bed," he said. "Say good-night to Maude for me. I won't disturb her again."
"Good-night, my boy. And you may tell her I've given my consent, if you like. Only, mind you, we shall have to abolish the tea-room for the sake of the family."
"We'll hand it over to the basket-maker's wife, and that fellow in the office must make a home for his remaining relatives. Good-night, dad—good old dad!"
He stole up to his room and changed his clothes, stole down again and out into the moonlit garden. As the road gate clicked behind him he saw the front-door open, and in the effulgent aperture a white figure that glittered vaguely. A wailing note came through the scented dusk.
"Tony!"
"Good-night," he called back, and turned to run towards an approaching tram. He made his voice as cheerful and kindly as he could, for he forgave her now; but he said to himself, "Oh, you little Jezebel!" and then, in a graver spirit, "Thank God, my Jenny is not one of that breed!"
He went home to bed and slept like a new-born baby. Next morning he went early to the tea-room to tell Sarah that his father had given his consent and good wishes, and to inquire if Jenny was still at Wandooyamba—because Mary's telegram had made him nervous. Sarah said her sister was with Mrs. Oxenham still, and not to return till after Christmas; and Sarah wept a little for pure happiness, and kissed her potential brother behind the screen. He would have spoken to Mrs. Liddon, as suitor to guardian, before going away; but she was busy with her scones, and the girl declared they would all be spoiled and the credit of the tea-room ruined if such a surprise were sprung upon her at such a time. So he left the matter in Sarah's hands, and went away and did some more shopping; bought a beautiful little ring with a pea-sized pearl in it, in addition to fish and lollies. No more telegrams arrived, and Jarvis took the portmanteau to the station, and stood the crush of ticket-getting, and put his master's coat and the evening papers into the best corner of the smoking carriage on the express; and at 4.55 the happy man was borne upon his way, feeling certain that he was to see the wife he had promised himself before he went to bed that night.
Jenny was having an idyllic time at Wandooyamba. Mrs. Oxenham was not the woman to do things by halves, and, having undertaken to restore the girl to health, she set about the task with her native wisdom and capability. New milk in the morning; broth at eleven o'clock; drives behind Harry's wild teams, which never made her afraid; rides on a quiet pony with him and little Hal; rambles in the wooded hills about the house—the lone bush that she loved, but had never had her fill of; these things, in conjunction with a kindness from all around her that never allowed her to feel like an outsider, promptly brought a glow to the magnolia-petal whiteness of the little face, and a clear light to the eyes that had been so dull and tired.
She was so perfectly well-mannered and well-bred, and she looked so pretty in her neat gowns—particularly when she wore the black silk that had been cut low and frilled with lace for the evening, showing her delicately-curved and fine-skinned throat—that neither host nor hostess felt any incongruity in her position as their social equal and the equal of their friends. If they remembered the tea-room, they remembered also the father who had been an Eton boy; but soon they forgot all about her antecedents and belongings, and esteemed her wholly on her own merits. They wished they could have kept her altogether, as housekeeper, or companion, or governess to the children (two sturdy boys, who loved her with all the sincerity of their discriminating little hearts), because she was so gentle, and so useful, and never in anybody's way.
She was never in anybody's way, and yet she was always at hand if there was anything to be done that nobody else was ready to do. Until she had left the house no one realised the amount of unostentatious service that she represented. She made toys for the boys; she made sailor suits for them (though nobody had wanted her to do that); she arranged the flowers; she sewed and cut the weekly papers; she marked handkerchiefs; she made the tea; she took the children for walks, and kept them good by telling stories to them—a great relief to the house when school-time was over and the governess had gone away.
"She's just my right hand," Mary said to her husband one day; "and I don't know what I shall do without her when the time comes to send her home. It's like having a younger sister to stay with one."
"It is," said Mr. Oxenham, who had just found his favourite driving gloves, of which several fingers and thumbs had opened, mended so neatly that they were as good as ever.
Nevertheless, neither of them had any idea of making an actual younger sister of Jenny Liddon, and when Tony's letter arrived there was consternation over its contents.
"Now, isn't that justtoobad?" Mary cried, as she dashed it on the table, and stamped her foot with vexation (Jenny being in the school-room with the boys). "When I wanted him to come, he wouldn't; and now I don't want him he starts off, without giving me any warning, in this way! Oh, it really is too provoking of him! To-morrow—that's this very night, less than twelve hours from now—he will be here, Harry. And that girl in the house!"
"It's awkward," said Harry, picking up the letter and perusing it for himself. "A fetching little thing like her, and a handsome, fast fellow like him, both under the same roof——"
"Oh, it must not be," Mrs. Oxenham declared impetuously. "It must be prevented at all costs. I have a duty to Jenny as well as to my brother. I only hope and trust he doesn'tknowshe is here—I asked them not to mention it, and you see he says nothing about her; but, whether or no, I am not going to let either of them make fools of themselves, if I can help it."
"You can't very well tell him not to come, my dear."
"I know I can't. Besides, that would only make him the more determined."
"Nor yet pack Miss Liddon home, after asking her to stay over Christmas—like a schoolgirl expelled for misconduct."
"I know that too. I must scheme and plot to deceive them, like the bad women in novels; only they do it to harm people, while I shall do it for their good. Go away, Harry, and let me think."
He went away, and was uncomfortable till lunch time, when she met him with a calm face and a telegram in her hand, which she asked him to despatch to the township for her.
"I have put him off till to-morrow," she said. "You can tell him the horses were lame, or something."
Mr. Oxenham, who had scores of buggy horses, all jumping out of their skins with the exhilaration of their spring coats and renewed constitutions, said she must think of something that Tony would be more likely to believe thanthat. And she said, "Oh, leave it to me!" And he replied that he would do so with the very greatest pleasure.
The luncheon bell rang, and Jenny came into the pleasant dining-room, with the children clinging to her. She put them in high chairs on either side of her place at the table, and tied on their bibs, and cut up their roast mutton and potato, like the little mother that her lover dreamed of.
"Why do you bother about those brats, Miss Liddon, while the nurse spends all her time flirting over the back fence?" their father said, in a gay but compunctious tone. And he helped her to mayonnaise, and to her special wine, and to cool soda-water, and to salt, and to anything he could lay his hands on; for he feared they were going to treat her badly, and he wanted to put in all the good treatment that he could beforehand.
His wife regarded the girl with infinite kindness, but no compunction whatever—for she was a woman, and not a man.
"Jenny, dear," she said, "do you think you would enjoy a little drive this afternoon? I don't think it is too hot."
"I should, greatly," Jenny replied, the ready glow in her face. "But I enjoy everything—whether out of doors or in—whatever you like best."
"Me, too," clamoured little Hal. "Let me go too, mother! Then I can tell Miss Liddon some more about Uncle Tony's ship that he's gone to Tasmania in."
With the explosion of this unexpected bomb the colour flew over Jenny's face, and, because she knew she was blushing, it deepened to the hue of a peony. Anthony had not been named in the family circle since her arrival, except to and by this terrible infant; even Sarah had been afraid to interfere with the march of events by any allusion to him in her letters. So that Jenny believed him to be still upon the sea, and that nobody knew how she thought about him.
Mrs. Oxenham flashed one lightning glance at her guest, and leisurely helped her little son to gravy. "It isn't Uncle Tony's ship, as it happens; it is Mr. Daunt's," she said. "And what do you know about ships, you monkey?"
She looked at her husband, and he knew she looked at him, though he was eating industriously, with his eyes upon his plate.
"I sha'n't be able to take you this afternoon, Mary," he mumbled, with his mouth full, visibly shrinking. "I shall be busy."
"We shall not want you, dear," she calmly answered him. "Dickson can drive us. I am going to the township to do a little shopping for Christmas. And, Jenny, we will call on your aunt at the bank; it will be a good opportunity."
Jenny's aunt, her mother's sister, chanced to live in the town which was the Oxenhams' post-town and their railway terminus. Neither aunt, uncle, nor cousins had communicated with the Liddons since the tea-room was instituted, and had intended never again to do so; but when they discovered that the arch-offender against the pride of the Rogersons was a guest at Wandooyamba, the great house of the district, which had never conferred such a distinction upon them, their attitude towards this kinswoman changed completely. They rushed to call upon her, and to clasp her in their arms, and to beg that she would go and see them while she was so near. Their call had not yet been returned, and the invitation had been disregarded, because Mrs. Oxenham had looked a little coldly upon the connection, and Jenny had preferred her friend to her relations; but now Mary considered that the time had come to attend to them. "We will go and see your aunt and cousins," she said cheerfully. "They must wonder what has become of you."
And Jenny thought it was so good of her to trouble about people she didn't care for, for the sake of a guest who was of no account, and thanked her gratefully.
They set out immediately after luncheon. They had six miles to go, mostly up-hill, and the light breeze was behind them, carrying the dust of hot December into their necks and ears. Mrs. Oxenham beguiled the way with prattle about Mr. Daunt's yachting party and the beautiful Lady Louisa who held her brother in bonds; and Jenny looked annoyingly pale and tired when they arrived.
"We will go to the bank first," said the elder lady, "in the hope that Mrs. Rogerson will give us a good cup of tea."
And the coachman was ordered thither.
The maid who answered his ring at the private door announced that Mrs. Rogerson was in, and ushered the visitors upstairs into a stifling drawing-room—only used for the reception of callers and an occasional evening party. Here they sat for full ten minutes, fanning themselves with their handkerchiefs, and looking round upon the art muslin draperies, and be-ribboned tambourines, and Liberty-silk-swathed plates and photographs, waiting for their hostess to appear. Mrs. Oxenham made no remarks upon what she saw, nor upon the rustlings and whisperings that she heard, because these people were Jenny's relatives; and Jenny took no notice of anything.
Her aunt came in, damp and flushed with heat and haste and the weight of a silk dress covered with beads. She was a great contrast to Mrs. Liddon, as she was well aware; much more stylish in every way—much more on a level with this distinguished squatter's wife, whom she gushed over effusively.
"And you, too, Jenny!"—kissing the girl, who offered her cheek and not her lips to the salute. "I really thought you had gone home without coming to see us."
This was just what Jenny would have done, if left to her own devices, having no desire for intimacy with Aunt Emma or her family after the way they had treated her about the tea-room; and she made no reply.
Mrs. Oxenham answered for her, however. "I should not have allowed that, you may be sure. Aunts and cousins"—disregarding Jenny's protesting eyes—"are more to one than strangers."
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Rogerson. "And I want to hear about my poor sister—poor thing! When we were girls together, and papa and mamma giving us every luxury that money could buy, I little thought what she was to come to, Mrs. Oxenham. And we believed she had made a good marriage too. Your father, Jenny, was an Eton boy."
"I know," said blushing Jenny, who often wished devoutly that her father had gone to a state school.
"Mr. Liddon was a gentleman," said Mary, "and his daughter takes after him. I'm sure I don't know what Mr. Oxenham and I will do without her when she leaves us. It is like having one of our own."
Mrs. Rogerson gushed afresh—over her niece this time; and two smart girl-cousins came in and gushed with her. They sat on either side of Jenny and held her hands, until one of them (Joey's adored one) got up to make the tea.
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Rogerson. "She was always a favourite with us; we always knew she was a lady born, in spite of her absurd notions about tea-rooms and so forth—which, I must confess,didmake us a little angry with her. You would have felt it yourself, Mrs. Oxenham, now wouldn't you? But, after all, blood is blood, isn't it? You can't alter that. Our own grandfather was nephew to a baronet—Sir Timothy Smith. You may have heard of him?"
Mrs. Oxenham said she did not remember to have done so—that perhaps he was before her time—and graciously took another cup of tea, which she declared was delicious.
"And now, when are you coming to us, Jenny?" Cousin Alice inquired. "Couldn't you come and spend the day to-morrow? And couldn'tyoucome, Mrs. Oxenham? Our tennis club is having a tournament, and we are giving a tea on the ground—under nice shady trees, you know. It would be such an honour if you would come and look on at us."
"I'm afraidIcouldn't," said Mary, with a pretence of thinking it over. "But Jenny, if she likes, I could send her in."
"Oh, yes! And couldn't she spend a few days with us when she was here? We have seen nothing of her. We could drive her back to Wandooyamba."
This was what Mrs. Oxenham had fished for, had roasted herself in the sun for, and she roused herself to deal with the timely opportunity. She looked at Jenny, and Jenny looked back at her with eyes that said "No" so unmistakably as to suggest the thought that perhaps she knew of Anthony's coming to the mind of the suspicious woman. This made her resolute.
"What do you say, dear?" she inquired genially; and in a moment Jenny understood that her friend wished her to accept the invitation, and was wondering in a startled way whether she had outstayed her welcome at Wandooyamba. "Don't consider us—we must not be selfish—and you will come back to us, of course. Dickson could drive you over when he goes for the letters, and that would give you the afternoon to see the tournament."
There was nothing to say but "thank you" all round, and Jenny said it with good taste, determined to bring her holiday to an end as soon as possible—not to return to Wandooyamba after leaving it, but to spend Christmas with her own too-long deserted family. Mary had an inkling of what was going on in the girl's mind, but said to herself that it couldn't be helped. Anthony must be saved at all hazards.
Mrs. Oxenham was immensely kind to Jenny when the pair were again upon the road.
"They seemed to want you so much, darling, and I thought your mother would wish you to show them some attention," she said. "But goodness knows what Harry and I will do without you! We shall be quite lost, and the children too, till you come back again."
"You are too good to me," murmured Jenny, half inclined to cry. "I think I am getting quite spoiled."
"Oh, no! You are not one of the spoilable sort," said Mary tenderly.
Jenny had but one portmanteau with her, and into this she packed all her belongings before starting off next day. Mr. Oxenham put it and her into the buggy with his own hands, and, because he was not directly responsible for her departure, bewailed it loudly.
"I call it too bad of you—downright mean, I call it—to run away from us like this, Miss Liddon," he said to her again and again, to the unconcealed irritation of his wife.
"You go on, Harry, as if she were leaving us for ever. We haven't seen the last of her yet—not by a long way, have we, dear?"
The parting guest was sped with warmest kisses and handclasps, and bidden vaguely to come back again soon. But as she stood up to wave her handkerchief to the children from the middle of the home paddock, looking back upon the great, rambling house, where she had had such a good time, she said to herself that she should go back no more. If matters had turned out differently she would have called her conviction of that moment a presentiment.
Aunt Emma and Cousins Clementine and Alice received her cordially, and at once began to pelt her with questions concerning the Oxenham household, and as to what she knew of the Churchills in town. Uncle John, the bank manager, lunching with his family, asked about Joey, and the state of the restaurant business, and other practical matters. In the afternoon she helped to carry cakes and cream jugs to the tennis-ground, and was there introduced to the rank and fashion of the town, not as "My cousin, who keeps the tea-room in Little Collins Street," but as "My cousin, who is staying with Mrs. Oxenham at Wandooyamba," and she sat under a tree and watched the players, and talked when she was obliged to talk, and, when she wasn't, thought her own thoughts, which were chiefly concerned in devising some way of getting home immediately.
The tennis-tea was followed by tea at the bank, composed of the remains of the former, with cold meat and eggs; and by-and-by the moon got up, and it was proposed that the young people should have a walk to enjoy the pleasant night. A bank-clerk and a bachelor lawyer, who had "dropped in," attached themselves to Clem and Alice, and Mrs. Rogerson and her niece soberly chaperoned the party, and talked family affairs together.
The night train from Melbourne came in at ten o'clock, and the little township loved to catch it in the act. All townships which have a train do. It is a never-failing joy to them. And, finding themselves in the neighbourhood of the station at about 9.35, the Rogerson girls exclaimed with one voice, "Let's stay and see the train come in."
The motion was carried unanimously, and for half an hour they loitered up and down the platform, looking into the vagueness of the moonlit night, and talking and laughing rather loudly; all but Jenny, who, though she was so much less genteel than these relations, did not think it good manners to make a noise. And so it came to pass that she presently saw a buggy dash into the station-yard, and recognised it as the one that had brought her in in the morning.
"That's to meet somebody," said Clem to Alice, with intense curiosity. "Jenny, who's expected at Wandooyamba to-night?"
"Nobody, that I know of," said Jenny. "They are always sending for parcels and things."
The train signalled from a distance, hummed through the still night, and clattered up to the platform, watched intently by all the eyes available. It was not the great express, but a local off-shoot from it, and the passengers it disgorged at this point were not very numerous. The first to tumble out was a big man with a red beard.
"Oh!Oh!OH! It's Mrs. Oxenham's brother! It's Mr. Anthony Churchill! He hasn't been here for ages—they said he was in England. Oh, isn't he handsome? Oh, I wonder if he will come to the town at all? Oh, Jenny, just see what you have missed!"
Jenny drew back into the dim crowd, on which he cast no glance as he strode to the buggy, calling to a porter to bring his things. She said nothing, but she thought—it was a thought that stung like fire—"Now I know why I have been sent away from Wandooyamba."
Anthony's journey had been a pleasant one—especially the latter part of it, when the coolness of a dewy night had replaced the glare of day; smoking quietly, and meditating upon his prospects, he would not have changed places with a king. Since he had definitely made up his mind to marry Jenny, and since his father had admitted the wisdom of that proceeding, and consented to it, all seemed plain and clear before him; for he had no fear of Mary, who was the first to know her worth, and already treated her as a sister, and no fear at all that the girl herself would for a moment dream of refusing him. He was too deeply experienced in the signs and tokens of the supreme sentiment not to recognise it when he saw it, and he had seen it very plainly once or twice through the modest disguises that she flattered herself had screened it from him.
All the way up he had been thinking of her, imagining their meeting at Wandooyamba, and all that he would do on the morrow, which was Sunday, and a most beautiful day for love-making. He planned the time and circumstances of his marriage, and how the other Liddons should be disposed of while he was showing the world to his bride, and where he and she would live, and what sort of home they would have when they settled down after their travels. Being Saturday night, which passengers by the express who want to go all the way to Sydney don't choose for starting on that journey, if they can help it, he had room to put up his legs and make a rug pillow for his head; in which condition of bodily ease, his mind, so to speak, went out to play, and amused itself delightfully. Jenny would not have known herself had she seen how she was pictured in the fancies of his dreaming brain.
Needless to say, he never dreamed of seeing her on the platform when he arrived, and did not do so. At each of the country stations there was a lounging crowd to see the train come in, people to whom it was the chief entertainment in life, and who were a great nuisance occasionally to the hungry and thirsty traveller with but a few minutes in which to get his meal; but these had nothing to do with Jenny or with him, and were ignored as far as possible. He distinctly heard the "Oh's" of Clementine and Alice, and the sound of his name, and nothing was less likely to suggest the presence of his little sweetheart, with her shy refinement. He knew that a man would have been sent to meet the train, and looked for him and him only. In two minutes his rug and luggage were in the buggy, and the light vehicle spinning out of the town.
The groom was a youth who was not supposed to know anything about the inside of his master's house, and Anthony heard no news that interested him—except that Mr. Oxenham did not intend to drive Emily again with ladies and children behind her; which was a great relief to him. He lit his pipe afresh, and leaned back in his corner with arms folded, and thought of what was coming, in a mood of mind that he had imagined himself to have outgrown years and years ago. The night was very sweet and still, with its delicate mixture of moonlight and shadow; a night to make the most world-hardened man feel sentimental. And the spell of the lonely bush is very strong upon those who are native to it, when they have been away for a long time.
"There will be a moon again to-morrow night," he thought. "And all these leagues of solitude to lose ourselves in! It shall be settled to-morrow night, and then we will both stay for Christmas, while I teach her to get used to it. Oh, this is better than the Richmond lodgings, or the St. Kilda pier!"
Through the trees he saw a dark bank, crowned with a cluster of low roofs, uplifted from the valley pastures to the palely shining sky. He looked at it with kindling eyes, and thought of the little figure moving about the many rooms, in the atmosphere of cultured people—its native air—and how considerate and sagacious his sister Mary was. A light like a star stole out upon the hill, and another, and another. He hoped devoutly that Mary had not sent her charge to bed.
"What time do you make it, Pat?"
"About eleven, sir; not more."
Oh, that wasn't bed-time! And she was not ill now. Perhaps, however, she would make an excuse to retire, lest she should be in the way at the family meeting; it would be just like her. Perhaps she would go to bed to avoid him, out of pure shyness. The doubt worried him, for he had set his heart on seeing her that night—just to satisfy himself that she was really alive and well, and had not been forgetting to care for him during his long absence from her.
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. "Thisisgood of you! A piece of luck that Ineverexpected!"
"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. Ifshehas 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 askyouone 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. Buthedoesn'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."
"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."
"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."
"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."
"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, atthishour?" she cried.
"I have wasted too many," he answered stiffly. "Good-night. You need not expect me back again."