Mrs. Phillips was somewhat annoyed at her husband's treating Elsie Melville on their continental tour more as a travelling companion than as a paid dependant. Where was to be the glory of this journey through France and Italy, of which she would have to boast all her life, if her maid and herself were to be on such terms of equality? In vain Mr. Phillips said he had disliked the difference that was made between the two sisters, and had only submitted to it in London on account of the servants, and that he was glad to take this opportunity of treating Elsie as her birth and education deserved. In vain he pointed out that French ladies conducted themselves to their dependants with less distance and hauteur than Englishwomen, and that in France it was proper to do as the French did. Mrs. Phillips felt offended, and, for the first time in her life, a little jealous—not very jealous, for she was so conscious of her own beauty, and so unconscious of her defects of mind and temper, that she had a strong substratum of confidence in her husband's affection—but at this time, Elsie was looking really very pretty; her movements were quick and graceful—a great contrast to Mrs. Phillips's slow, dignified, Juno-like deportment—and her conversation so sparkling and amusing, that she thought Mr. Phillips looked at her too much, and talked to her too much. When they spoke French together—for Mr. Phillips was trying to revive his more than half-forgotten schoolboy French, and found he could do it more easily with Alice than with the foreigners—Mrs. Phillips had a vague sense that they were talking about something that they did not want her to hear. Elsie would have enjoyed this trip exceedingly, but for Mrs. Phillips's unreasonableness and caprices; but, even in spite of them, she brought away many delightful recollections of scenes and people. When on this tour, she felt as if she could write verses again, if she had only time and quiet.
When in Paris she called on Madame Lenoir with a letter of introduction from her cousin. She received Elsie very kindly, and asked her and the Phillipses to her 'at homes'; but as all the people there talked French, Mrs. Phillips did not find them at all entertaining, and she thought French hospitality a very shabby affair. They did not remain long in Paris, but went down to Italy, and visited Florence and Rome. Mr. Phillips wished he had had his two eldest girls with him in Italy, and promised to himself that next time he took the journey they should accompany him.
When they returned to London they found that all had gone well in their absence—Francis had won his election; Jane appeared to be in excellent spirits; and the children had made good progress with their lessons. Mr. Phillips appeared to miss his old friend and neighbour, Brandon, very much, and could not find any one of his colonial acquaintances who could fill up the blank which his departure from London had made. Besides, they were always losing somebody out of their pleasant circle. Every mail steamer, and every fine clipper ship that sailed for Australia seemed to take one or more from them; and though new people did come, they did not appear to be so agreeable as those who went away. Mr. Phillips could not remain contented in London, so he proposed a trip to America with his wife and Alice as before; but Mrs. Phillips disliked the sea, and did not feel very well, so she said she would rather stay in London with the family, though it was getting rather late in the season for London. She did not care to go to Derbyshire without him, far less to go to Scotland; so, if he could be so cruel as to leave her, she would prefer London. If Emily had been a little older, Mr. Phillips would have taken her with him, for he disliked travelling alone, but she was too young, as he himself acknowledged.
Elsie could not understand the cause of Mrs. Phillips's peculiarly disagreeable conduct to herself lately, and she was almost on the point of leaving her, and taking another situation, when the children, one after the other, took scarlatina, and in such a house of sickness she—their favourite—could not be spared. All lessons, of course, were at an end. Mrs. Phillips looked into the nursery several times a day, and said how sorry she was to see the children so ill, and how she suffered from her anxiety about them; but it was Jane and Elsie who took the real charge of the little patients. The mother did not seem really alarmed, though the children were really very ill; the only thing she did that appeared like apprehension was making Jane write to Mr. Phillips to return to England without delay as soon as the children were seized with the fever. Jane also wrote to Dr. Phillips, and Vivian hurried to London, and stayed with his brother's family until his return, which was a great lightening of the load of responsibility which the sisters felt rested on them. In spite of every care and all that either doctor or nurses could do, little Eva fell a victim to the disease; and, after her death, Mrs. Phillips for the first time seemed to realize the danger of the others. Everything had gone so prosperously with her since her marriage; she had known no sorrow, and little annoyance; she had always had her husband at her side to smooth everything for her, so that she really scarcely knew what the contingencies and trials of life were; but this death, happening when the father who loved his children so dearly was absent, affected the indolent and generally unimpressible woman very strongly. She felt that she was somehow to blame about it. "What will Stanley say when he comes home? Oh, what will he say to me for losing his darling child? Oh, why did he go to America, and leave me with such a charge? And the others will be sure to die, too!"—were her constant lamentations.
Her grief made her quite unfit to take any charge of the survivors, and yet she was incredulous when she was told by her brother-in-law, or by the Misses Melville, that they were really recovering. It was not till her husband returned, which was as soon as he possibly could, and assured her that they were quite out of danger, that she gave any credit to it. Mr. Phillips felt the loss of one of his children more keenly than most men, but he was grateful to see that he was likely to save the others, and he did full justice to the care and attention which they had received from Vivian and Jane and Elsie.
Francis Hogarth was in London, attending a short parliamentary session, when the children were so ill, and was constant in his inquiries as to their health. Dr. Vivian Phillips forced Jane and Elsie out to hear their cousin make his first speech one evening, when the patients were decidedly convalescent. Jane was very much pleased with Francis' DEBUT, and though Elsie thought it rather tame, because it was not on an important subject, and was very calmly delivered, she was glad that he had not broken down, for it seemed a most imposing assembly for a stranger to address. Francis had visited the Derbyshire Phillipses, according to promise, after his election was over, and had been a good deal interested in Dr. Vivian, both on account of his own qualifications, and because Jane Melville had been interested in him. He now felt that Jane and the young physician were placed in very intimate relations with each other, and he naturally enough fancied that what he so much wished for himself would appear desirable to a man so acute and sensible as Vivian Phillips. Her calm temper, her promptitude, her method, were all shown to great advantage in a sick room. He forgot that Elsie's gentle tender ways and her overflowing sympathy might be equally attractive, but Dr. Vivian was quite used to all sorts of sick rooms, and to all sorts of nursing, and nothing was very striking to him, so that he fell in love with neither sister, though he liked them both very much.
Jane in particular was one of those women who may count herself fortunate if she meets with one real lover in her lifetime. William Dalzell was not to be counted, except perhaps as a blank, but by means of the most favouring circumstances, she had taken Francis Hogarth's heart into her possession, at least for time, and this was her one prize in the strange lottery of love. No other attachment she was likely to inspire, as she felt herself, but her lover was not so clear-sighted. Dr. Vivian Phillips had a great respect for her, and enjoyed her society now and then as a pleasant change from the more insipid company of his sisters or their female acquaintances, but to spend a life with her would be too fatiguing. She seemed always to require him to think his best, to say his best, and to do his best in her company. Now a wife just intelligent enough to appreciate his own abilities, but willing in all things to be guided by him, was a desirable thing; but one so thoroughly his equal as Jane Melville would allow him no repose.
The children did not gain strength rapidly, and Emily in particular made a most tardy recovery. Her illness threatened permanently to weaken her constitution, particularly as winter was fast approaching, and she had felt that season in England very trying during the preceding year. Her uncle Vivian strongly recommended that she should winter in a milder climate to re-establish her health, and Mr. Phillips thought going to the south of France, where the girls might acquire the language without much trouble, would be a good arrangement; but when he mentioned it to Emily herself as an excellent idea, the child languidly put it aside.
"Why not take up back to dear old Wiriwilta?" said she. "We were never ill there. It is warmer and drier than France; and if Miss Melville and dear Alice go with us, we can learn lessons just as well there as here. I am tired of this great London, with its smoke and its noise."
Mr. Phillips was not a man to disregard a sick child's longing at any time; and when his brother said that, though he would regret the departure of the family from England, her native air was probably the very best she could have, and the long voyage in a good ship would benefit all the children, he turned his thoughts towards Australia, as he could not have believed possible three months before. The accounts he received from Dr. Grant as to his affairs were satisfactory enough, but the returns were not at all what he had expected; and he found that his London establishment was very costly. He might return to England in a few years, but the children were so young they might go on with Miss Melville very well at Wiriwilta for some time. A very fine ship was on the berth; Mr. Dempster was going in it, and several other acquaintances; so that, though he would have preferred waiting for Brandon's report of how things were going on, he decided on leaving England before the season was so far advanced, on Emily's account.
Mrs. Phillips was in consternation at hearing her husband say he was really going to return.
"I thought you was never going back to Australia again, Stanley. You promised me you would not. What will you do about the children's education?"
"We will take Miss Melville with us, and I have no fear but that they will all do very well. Their music, certainly, is not provided for; but something may turn up for that. Our first business is to get them into good health."
"But Miss Melville will never go without Alice," said Mrs. Phillips.
"Probably not; but we can take Alice, too."
"I thought you said we was spending too much money, and that we must retrench," said Mrs. Phillips.
"Our children's education is the last thing I should think of retrenching on," answered her husband. "I have heard you say that Alice saves her salary in your milliners' bills. I have scarcely seen that proved, however, Lily; but Miss Melville saves me two hundred a year—that is clear enough, in black and white. It would be false economy to grudge her salary. Besides, Emily would be broken-hearted to part with Alice, so that I will offer to take both sisters with us, if they will come."
"We don't need such a housekeeper as Miss Melville at Wiriwilta. The house used to keep itself," said Mrs. Phillips.
"I know I had more trouble with it than was pleasant or convenient," said her husband. "I think things will go on much more comfortably there if Miss Melville continues with us; and after all their exceeding kindness and care of our poor dear children during their illness, I know that you too must be disinclined to leave them behind us."
"Oh, yes! really they were very good to the children. I was not strong enough to do much for them myself; and I don't feel inclined for the voyage just at this time. Let us go overland, and it will be sooner over."
"No; we cannot go overland; there is very little pleasure going overland with four young children, and as I suppose you will want one servant, as well as Miss Melville and Alice, you must think of the expense."
"I hate the sea, and you know I must be on shore before the end of February. And you recollect Mr. Brandon, for all his difficulties—saying he was ruined and all that sort of thing—would have gone overland, if he had only had his letters soon enough."
"Because he was only one, or, with Edgar, two, and time was of more importance to him than the difference in passage-money. A fine long voyage will restore our children to health, and it does not matter to me being a month or two longer on the voyage. I think we are sure to be in Melbourne time enough for you. If it were only you and myself, Lily, there is nothing I should like so much as the overland route. There is so much that I should like to see and to show to you, but under present circumstances it is impossible."
No arrangement could have suited Jane and Elsie so well as Mr. Phillips's proposal, as a personal favour to himself, that they should accompany his family to Melbourne. It was the destination they had long aimed at; and as they were neither of the station nor qualifications to obtain free passages in any immigrant ship, they joyfully agreed to his liberal offer.
"But," said Jane, "we must be perfectly frank with you. We have had a great desire to begin business in Melbourne together. We must tell you that we have often planned to join our savings to those of Peggy Walker, when she returns to Melbourne, as she will probably do ere long. Plans, of course, may not be carried out, but if ours are, we may leave you when you depend most on us. I am quite satisfied with my position in your family, but——"
"But neither you nor I are quite satisfied with your sister's," interposed Mr. Phillips. "It was the best arrangement that at the time could have been made; but you would never consent to go with us to Australia, and leave Alice to work here by herself; so, if she sees anything, either in Melbourne or in the bush that will suit her better, she is quite free to accept of it, and to leave Mrs. Phillips. Her services and your services to our children in this recent affliction can never be forgotten by us. I can assure you, Mrs. Phillips feels deeply indebted to both of you."
The party to Australia was increased from an unexpected quarter. Harriett Phillips had found that she had made no impression whatever on Mr. Hogarth. He had paid his visit to her father, but had taken almost no notice of her, who had been the person who invited him: in fact, he had markedly preferred her elder sister. His head had apparently been so full of politics, or something else, that he had not been half so agreeable as when she had met him in London, so that she was now very sorry that she had treated Mr. Brandon so cruelly during the last days of his stay in England. He certainly would have proposed if she had not discouraged him so much; it was really almost wrong in her to try to make him jealous, and she had succeeded only too well. After having entertained the idea that she could be married to him if she pleased for several months, she missed the pleasing excitement of a lover when she returned to her flat country life.
Now that her brother had actually made up his mind to leave England, she would also miss the change and the gaiety of a London winter, which she reckoned on having every year; so she astonished him by saying that she should like of all things to accompany them to Melbourne, and to see a little of bush life at that dear Wiriwilta that Emily was always talking about. She did not think that she would care to stay long, but for a year or two she really thought the life would be very pleasant for a change, just to see how things were done in these outlandish uncivilized places. She said, too, to her brother, that she thought she could be of service to Mrs. Phillips and the children. The society of Victoria was so indifferent, that it would be desirable to form a pleasant little coterie of one's own. The children's music should really be kept up; and she would be most happy to give them lessons. If her papa and Georgiana and Vivian could only spare her for a year or two, she should really like extremely to go. She would feel it so sad when Stanley left for an indefinite period again.
Mr. Phillips was pleased with the proposal; it showed a more friendly feeling towards his wife and family than she had ever evinced before, so he offered to pay all her outward-bound expenses, at any rate, for her. If she liked Australia, perhaps she might stay there with them altogether; or, indeed, she might find a home for herself there, and settle in the colony. Harriett said such a thing had never entered her head—that she went merely on a visit; but she set about getting her outfit in a very business-like way. It was an exceedingly busy fortnight for Jane and Elsie; but by dint of great applications to ready-made warehouses, everything was really got ready in time, and Mr. Phillips had again to admire the thoughtfulness, the foresight, and the method which Miss Melville showed in all her arrangements, while Elsie's busy fingers were employed from morning to night in doing an endless variety of little things that were needed to supplement the ready-made stock of clothes.
Emily brightened up wonderfully at the prospect of a return to her old home. She seemed to gain strength every day, and no objection could be made to her going up to Edinburgh to pay her long-promised visit to Peggy Walker before she left England. Mr. and Mrs. Phillips and little Harriett accompanied her, and they took Jane Melville with them, for Elsie could not be spared from the needlework, and she did not wish so much to go to Scotland as Jane did.
Peggy was delighted to see her two nurslings, and also to see the young lady to whom she had given a home when she most needed one. Tom eagerly showed Jane what he had done in her absence, and received the commendation he deserved for his industry and his success. Grandfather was very weak, but in very tolerable spirits; this visit from Peggy's friends would be something for him to think on for the short remainder of his life. Mrs. Phillips's beauty and her fine clothes were something new to him; and the liveliness of the girls, and the politeness of their father, and Miss Jean's kind inquiries and kind looks all did him good.
Francis Hogarth met, by appointment, his cousin Jane at Peggy Walker's, where she meant to bid him good-bye, but he was not disposed to do so.
"You MUST come to Cross Hall, just to give a look at it before you bid the country farewell for ever. Mr. Phillips, do come round by Cross Hall, and let Jane see her old home once more."
"I want so much to see Cross Hall, that Alice tells us such pretty stories about," said Emily.
"Cross Hall! is that the name of your place?" said Mrs. Phillips. "I would like to see it too, very much. Mr. Phillips will go, of course, if we all wish it."
Jane expected to suffer something in this farewell visit. It was not to be long, but it must be trying. Francis was cruel to ask it, and Mr. Phillips inconsiderate to accept of his invitation. There were some things to be done that were not painful. When they left the train and got into Francis' carriage—which was her uncle's old one, in which she had been used to ride—for a five-miles drive, they passed the gates of Moss Tower, and saw William Dalzell and his young wife riding out, and bowed to both. Then they went to Allendale, for Miss Thomson had expressed the strongest wish to see Miss Melville before her departure for Australia, and Jane, too, was very much pleased to see again one whom she held in such high esteem. There, for the first time, she saw Mr. Sinclair, whose appearance and conversation were quite equal to her expectations; but even he was not so great an object of curiosity to her as Mary Forrester—a niece of Miss Thomson's several years older than the girl who had got her new frock at Mrs. Dunn's, in Elsie's time. Mary was then on a visit to her aunt, and apparently had the charge of two lovely children, cousins of her own, and grand-nephew and niece of Miss Thomson's. Their parents had gone a voyage in search of health, and Aunt Margaret had invited them to spend the winter at Allendale, and cousin Mary to keep them company. Jane thought she had never seen a more charming girl than Mary, who was evidently a great favourite with her aunt and Mr. Sinclair. Frank, intelligent, and graceful, she looked like a sunbeam in the house. The little Phillipses knew at once that she liked children, and wondered if she knew any of the delightful stories and ballads for which Elsie was famed. The little Munroes would take the Australians out of doors to see the poultry and the wonderful peacock, so Mary and Jane accompanied their charges. Mary had heard so much of Jane that she was disposed to be interested in her, while a new tide of ideas flowed into Jane's mind in relation to this stranger. In all probability this was the girl to whom Francis was likely to become attached when she left the country. And now that it was no unseen, and perhaps impossible, person whom she was to fancy as his wife, but a really pretty and amiable girl, did the thought now give her pain or awaken any sharp pang of jealousy? Her heart filled with many emotions at the thought, agitating and painful enough, but there was no jealousy. The more she fancied that Francis could love her, the more Jane felt that she must love her too.
"I really half envy you, Miss Melville," said Mary. "I wish I could do something for myself. You cannot think how anxiously I watched and wondered how you and your sister got on, and how delighted I was when you got the situation with Mrs. Phillips. Your cousin too—it must have been a sad weight off his mind. A generous man like him must have felt the terms on which he got the property very cruel."
"Yes," said Jane, "I know he felt it very much. We have great cause to thank God that things have turned out so well as they have done."
"Well, Miss Melville, do you know I feel quite ashamed to think of the amount of money which our family has cost Aunt Margaret; and after all she has spent on my education, and I really did try my best to learn too, I feel almost guilty in looking for a situation. There are so many wanting employment, that it seems like taking bread out of their mouths; and here am I, a full-grown woman, dependent on other people for mine. There are four girls of us, and only Grace at school now, but yet none of us are doing anything for ourselves. I spoke to Aunt Margaret about taking a situation, but she said she must have me at Allendale for the winter, on account of Archie and Maggie. After that is over, I may speak of it again. You are going to Melbourne, where I have got a brother doing pretty well; but one does not like to be dependent even on a brother. If you think there is any opening there for us, will you let us know through your cousin? we see him very often."
"Then you stay at Allendale for all this winter?" said Jane.
"Yes, and it will be very pleasant. I like living with Aunt Margaret so much, and John and I were always the two who drew together most of the family; and then Mr. Sinclair is the dearest old gentleman in the world."
"My cousin seems to be a favourite of your aunt's," said Jane.
"I never saw aunt take to any one at once as she did to him. What a pity your uncle did not take him home; it would have added very much to his happiness and to yours."
It was not like the parting of strangers that took place between Jane Melville and Mary Forrester.
"Will you let me kiss you?" said Jane, timidly, as she said good-bye. This was rather a remarkable proceeding on Jane's part, for she was not addicted to the promiscuous osculation so common among young ladies, but she felt for Mary Forrester no common interest.
Mary frankly granted the little request, and they parted to meet again—when, and where, and how?
The party then went to Cross Hall, which was unaltered since Jane had left it; and while Mrs. Phillips and the children were resting after their journey, Francis took Mr. Phillips and Jane to look at the cottages he had built, and she mounted her old horse to ride out to see the allotments, which, even in this short time, showed signs of improvement. There were words of greeting to be said to everybody and to every animal about the place. The old servants were eager to tell her of all that had been done, and all that was to be done; they were glad to see her in good health, and apparently in good spirits. Many sad reports had reached Cross Hall about their straitened circumstances when in Edinburgh, and about poor Miss Elsie falling into a decline; and to see and hear that all was so well with the sisters was a pleasant thing for all who were attached to them. After all this had been gone through, and she went into the room which had been hers and Elsie's for fifteen years, to dress for dinner, the past, the present, and the future all came upon her at once, and she felt as if she could have given the world for the opportunity to give way. Everything was exactly as she had left it; all the furniture which had been taken to Edinburgh had been brought back and placed as it used to be.
"Can I help you, any way, Miss Jane?" said Susan, the upper housemaid, tapping at the door.
"No, thank you," said Jane: then recollecting herself, and hoping that the presence of the girl might help to steady her nerves—"but stop, do come in for a little, and brush my hair. I am too tired, I think, to do it; and my head aches a little."
"Is everything right here? The master said I was to tell him exactly how things used to be, that ye should see nae change."
"All is right," said Jane. "If Elsie were here I might forget that I ever had left Cross Hall; and I see that our people have no cause to miss us, so that we can go to Australia with lighter hearts."
But for all this talk about a light heart, the tears would come into Jane's eyes slowly as she looked out to the familiar scene and heard the well-known voices, and thought that to-morrow she must leave Cross Hall and Scotland and Francis for ever.
Mr. Phillips helped her well to keep up conversation at dinner and during the evening, but after the children had gone to bed and Mrs. Phillips had retired, he thought the cousins might wish to have their quiet talk by themselves, and wished them good-night.
"You have not been in the library yet Jane," said Francis; "shall we adjourn there? I have a little, a very little business to talk over with you, and I am going to bid you our real farewell tonight, for I am not going to see you on board ship. I dare not."
Jane followed him to the library. She had not been in it since they had searched through her uncle's papers, and had read the letters of Madame de Vericourt together. Francis took from the drawer, which still contained those yellow letters, a paper on which was some writing and figures, and a parcel of bank-notes.
"You recollect that you asked me to store the furniture that you left in your room till you saw fit to claim it. After Elsie decided on staying at Mrs. Phillips's, I sent to Peggy's for what you had there, as I think I wrote to you, and Susan saw that everything was placed just as it used to be. Was it so?"
"Yes; exactly so."
"I do not want to part with any of it, but I got a valuation taken of it the other day, which you see here, and I give you the market price for all the things. There is no favour in such a commercial transaction as that surely, so here is a little addition to your slender capital. You will find the money all right, I think, odd shillings and all."
"All right," said Jane, compelling herself to count the notes according to her old methodical way.
"And you like my cottages, Jane, and you hope great things from the allotments, and you were pleased with my two speeches in parliament? Oh! Jane, if I am ever worth anything I will owe it to you, and now you are going to put half the globe between us, I feel as if I had lost more than half of myself."
Jane could scarcely trust herself to speak.
"It is better so, Francis."
"If you miss me as I know I will miss you, write and tell me so. You KNOW, Jane, I love you," said Francis.
"I feared it."
"Why should you fear it? Is it not the most natural, the most reasonable thing I could do? If you loved me you would not fear it."
"I thought that in all your many avocations, and especially in public life, that you would forget this fancy, but it is well that I must leave the country, for then I may hope that you will form another attachment. Write to me when you do so, that I may know I have not permanently deprived you of domestic happiness, and that I may pray for you both. You think you owe me much, but to you I owe still more. Till I knew you I had no religion, I never knew the privilege of prayer. Even though we may never meet again on earth, we can look forward to a happy meeting in heaven."
"Now, Jane, when you women bid good-bye to a friend of your own sex, as dear to you as I am to you—for in a sense I am dear to you, am I not?"
"Yes, very dear to me," was wrung out of Jane, by Francis' earnest looks and words.
"Well, when you bade farewell to Peggy this morning, she took you in her arms and kissed you—you kissed Mary Forrester, a stranger to you—and you are going to leave me—perhaps for ever—me, who would give my life to serve you, who would give up fortune, fame, almost duty for your sake, and you will shake hands coldly, and say—'Good-bye, Francis.'"
"Not coldly, my friend—my brother. Do not think I can part from you so," and by an irresistible impulse, she turned to her cousin, and felt herself folded for a few seconds in his arms, and kissed with passionate tenderness.
"This is what might have been ours for life, but for this accursed will, and your notions of what is best for me, and perhaps a natural disinclination towards my suit. Reflect—think—before it is too late make your choice;—love in poverty and obscurity, perhaps—but still love."
"Love is not all life, either for you or for me;—it is better for us to part."
"Then you make your choice;—but Jane, if you change your mind, write to me, and let me know. I tried to leave off writing at one time; but it did no good, for I could do nothing that did not remind me of you. Then it must be good-bye. May God bless you, my beloved one, now and for ever!"
"May God bless you, my dear Francis, and now farewell!"
Another sort of farewell from her dismissal of William Dalzell! Centuries had seemed to have passed over her since that first eventful day of her life. She scarcely could identify herself with the woman who had so calmly and so kindly extinguished a fancied partiality, as she sat down in her own room and trembled from head to foot at the thought of the pain she had given, and the love she had rejected. In the one case she was perfectly certain that she had done right, in this she was not by any means so clear. As she heard her cousin restlessly pacing up and down the library, she felt tempted to go to him and say she would share his fortunes, and even destroy them for him if he wished it. She looked at the mirror, and wondered at her being able to excite such an attachment; she looked into her own soul, and did not see anything in it to warrant a man in giving her such a power over him. Duty was clear as to the dismissal of William Dalzell, and the result had proved that she was in the right; and now, when duty was so terribly difficult, surely time, that tardy, but certain adjuster of life's inequalities, would justify her both to Francis and herself. William Dalzell's love had appeared to evaporate; but Francis' had grown more intense and passionate till she felt she could scarcely look at him.
But it was true that she had admired his speeches, and that she was ambitious for his success in all his plans. Every one who knew anything about the subject said that Francis Hogarth was the most promising young man who had entered the walls of parliament at this recent general election. He had given great attention to public business; he had mastered the details with ease; and the principles seemed to be intuitive with him.
He had become acquainted with a small band of outsiders like himself, men of independence and originality, who kept aloof from party, but whose votes were of importance to both parties, and whose approbation was of far more value than that of the strongest partizan. No one could tell to what height he might not rise from such a beginning; the ministry had noticed him favourably, and he was as likely as not to be offered office before the parliament had expired.
Mr. Sinclair had told her how his hopes rested on the new member for the burghs, and how many public matters and reforms they talked over together with constant reference to first principles.
Jane was proud of the conquest she had made, and proud of her influence over a man so able, and so upright; but now she felt it was dangerous to see too much of him, and his parliamentary life had brought him into far more frequent contact with her now than ever before. She had led him so far in the right direction, but now she feared for her own resolution; she knew she could not withstand many such scenes as she had just gone through, and she saw that there was great wisdom and propriety in her leaving the country that he lived in. From her distant home across the ocean, she could hear of his labours and his triumphs, and, she hoped, after a time, of his happiness. But while she reasoned with herself as to the propriety of leaving him, she felt all the bitterness of the lifelong separation. She could no longer disguise the truth from herself—he was as truly half of her as she was of him—and she shivered at the thought of a life to be gone through in which she should never more see his face, or hear his voice. It was as sad a night, and as sleepless, as that she had spent in her cousin's house in Edinburgh, when all doors had seemed to be shut against her, except the faint chance of a sub-matronship in a lunatic asylum. Now, two doors were open to her—one to a life of toil and dependence for herself and probably a happy life for Elsie, at the antipodes; and the other, a life of love with the man who had all her heart, and who deserved it all, with a dependent life for Elsie. Even though her own hand had closed the door, she could not help lingering at the threshold, and grieving that she was shut out from the only paradise she cared for.
So the good ship sailed next week, bearing Jane from the man who loved her, and whom she loved, and Elsie and Miss Harriett Phillips towards the man whom they both thought loved them.
On Mr. Brandon's arrival at Melbourne after a longer voyage than he had expected in a ship with such a high character as the one he sailed in, he hurried up to Barragong, and was much gratified to find things there did not look so badly as he had been led to expect. It was his overseer's want of confidence in himself that had made him exaggerate everything that was going wrong, or was likely to go wrong. In fact Mr. Phillips's affairs were suffering much more from the want of the master's eye than his; but Dr. Grant had a better opinion of his own management, and wrote more cheerful accounts. Brandon regretted that Powell had left his employment, for if he had been in charge of Barragong there might have been three more happy months in England for his master.
As his affairs were really in a sufficiently satisfactory state, he felt that he must write to Elsie Melville, renewing his offer of marriage, and endeavouring as far as he could to give her confidence in the stability of his character. How exceedingly awkward he felt it to be to have to write this instead of saying it. How incomparably better such things are done by word of mouth, particularly when one is not a ready and clever letter-writer. He would in the personal interview have felt the effect of one sentence before he ventured on another—he would have assisted his halting phrases by all the advantages of tone, gesture, and expression of countenance. Though he had failed once in his attempt to win her affections, he had been far more stupid than he was now, and he was now more anxious for success. The more he had thought over the person, the manners, and the character of Elsie Melville, the more convinced he was that she was the one woman in the world for him; but he was by no means so sanguine of being accepted as he had been, particularly when he had only the pen to trust to. There was no saying what so clever and so literary a girl as Elsie Melville was would think of his blundering declaration. The paper looked cold and blank and uninviting—it really was hard to make it the only means of telling her how much he loved her. No kind wishes towards the overseer whose fears and scruples had hurried him away, or towards Miss Phillips, who had interrupted him when he was about to say something he had hoped Elsie could not mistake, accompanied the half-dozen different attempts at a love-letter, which were written before he could please himself. Emily was his friend; Jane, he thought, would be his friend too. Elsie was really a kind-hearted girl, and if he could only convince her that he would be miserable if she refused him, she might pity him a little. He had not the same objections to a little pity that she had on that day in the railway carriage, when he had been so confident of success. But when he reflected on what Peggy might have said with truth about him, and when he put to that the fact that immediately after his refusal by Elsie he had devoted himself to Miss Phillips, there was no doubt that Elsie had some cause to suspect the steadiness of his principles. It was difficult by writing to hint at these things without saying too much, but they must not be passed over in silence either.
At last the letter was written and committed to the country post-office nearest to Barragong—not that he was satisfied with it, but he must not lose the mail. If she was good enough to accept of him, she was to draw upon him for a specified sum for passage-money and outfit, and come out in the mail steamer following her answer. It was not a brilliant letter, but it was honest and straightforward. However, as Elsie had sailed for Melbourne before it reached England, it was of the less consequence what it was.
Pending her answer, Brandon felt very unsettled. He could not set himself to work systematically, and all the neighbours said that his visit to England had spoiled him for a colonist, as it did with most people. He missed his pleasantest neighbour, Mr. Phillips, and he missed the children. Though Dr. Grant in one direction, and Mr. M'Intyre in another, thought they were ten times better than the Phillipses, Brandon did not feel that they could make up to him for their absence.
Dr. Grant was certainly mismanaging, to a considerable extent, Mr. Phillips's business, and muddling it as he did his own affairs. He had now been many years in the sheep-farming line, and in the best of times, for he had bought very cheap—much cheaper than either Phillips or Brandon, and he had quite as large a capital to start with; but he had a bad way of managing the men on his stations; he gave the same wages as other people, certainly, for he could not help that, but he always gave them with a grudge, and seemed to think his employes were picking his pocket. He had a harsh and dictatorial way of giving orders—very different from Brandon's and Phillips's pleasant manner—and he consequently had never been well served. His men had been the first to leave at the time of the diggings, and the consequences had been most disastrous. From sheer want of hands, he had sacrificed one of his runs with the sheep on it to Powell, and now he grudged to see how very handsomely Powell had been repaid for his money and time in this transaction. The fortune that Powell had made ought to have been his—Dr. Grant's own—instead of filling the pockets of a man who had only sprung from the ranks.
The same style of mismanagement was carried into Mr. Phillips's affairs; and yet when Brandon relieved Dr. Grant of the burden he had so unwillingly taken up, the latter felt rather hurt, for he had had a handsome salary for the charge of Wiriwilta and the other stations, and he would certainly miss the money; and, besides, he thought it showed a want of confidence in himself on Phillips's part.
At Wiriwilta, however, there was a feeling of pleasure at the exchange, and Brandon had the satisfaction of really benefiting his friend without taking any very great deal of trouble.
In this restless state of his mind he had great pleasure in the society of Edgar, who attached himself to his uncle with quiet fidelity. He soon learned to ride, and to ride fearlessly and far; he learned too to use his limbs, his ears, and his eyes, so that Brandon found he really had a head on his shoulders, which he had been rather doubtful of when the lad had been kept so constantly at his books.
One day when the boy had been talking with enthusiasm of Australian life, and expressing his longing after more adventures, his uncle, who also was eager for change, proposed to Edgar an overland journey together to Adelaide. He had heard that some particularly fine sheep were to be had in South Australia, and he wished to add this variety to his own flocks as well as to those of Mr. Phillips. He had always had a great wish to see the Adelaide side, and this journey would amuse and employ him till he could get his answer from Elsie. If she accepted him, and came out, as he wished, without delay, he might never have another opportunity for making the visit, for he would not be inclined to leave her, for a while at any rate.
Edgar was delighted with the proposal, and helped his uncle with the few simple preparations for their long ride with a vigour and despatch that showed he had the stuff in him for a good bushman. How his tender mother would have trembled at the thought of the perils and hardships of such a journey but as she knew nothing about it till it was safely over, she was spared all anxiety. Brandon was not altogether insincere when he told Elsie and the Edinburgh ladies that the finest prospect he ever saw in Victoria was the prospect of getting out of it, but the present pleasure made him forget many past ones. He had a real enjoyment in the bush life he then talked so contemptuously about. Camping out was to him no hardship, and to Edgar it was a delightful novelty. It was varied by nights spent at sheep stations, where a hospitable welcome generally awaited them, and an amount of comfort varying according to circumstances. When they crossed the Victorian border, and came to the South Australian side, the welcome appeared to be equally hearty. Edgar Holmes could not help admiring the want of suspicion and the liberality of these absolute strangers.
Brandon went about his purchase of sheep on his way to Adelaide, and made what he thought a very satisfactory bargain. It was to be a joint speculation between himself and Mr. Phillips, and he was sure it would turn out very well. When he had left directions as to delivery, he and his nephew went down to Adelaide, to see what they thought of that little colonial capital. Edgar was charmed with Adelaide, and preferred it out-and-out to Melbourne, but as he had only passed through the latter, and had got acquainted with none of the people there, his preference was perhaps not worth much. Brandon, however, could not help confessing that the Adelaide men had some cause for the patriotism so strongly, and, as he had thought, so tiresomely expressed at the time of the diggings. It had less bustle than Melbourne, and certainly was not so wealthy; but it was a quiet, cheap, and hospitable place, and its prosperity rested on a very solid basis. The amount of cultivation, both agricultural and horticultural, contrasted favourably with that of Melbourne, which had been almost exclusively pastoral till the gold diggings broke out, and had had many drawbacks, in the shape of land regulations, to its becoming a corn and wine bearing country.
Brandon took up his abode at the York Hotel, of course, and met with some pleasant people in and about Adelaide. Some of them he had known in London, and they introduced him to others. If his heart had not been fixed at this present time on Elsie Melville, he might have taken a fancy to one of the Adelaide girls whom he met. They were not so formidable in the array of their accomplishments and acquirements as the modern English young lady; they were frank, agreeable, and not ignorant of domestic matters, and they had no apparent horror of the bush. But Brandon's affections were really engaged, and he put considerable restraint on his flirting powers during this visit, which all engaged men ought to do, but which, I must say, I have found very few engaged men do; they feel so perfectly safe themselves that they care very little for what construction other people may put on their attentions, or their polite speeches.
Brandon had sent directions for Mr. Talbot to get his letters and forward them to him in Adelaide, for he was now daily expecting Elsie's answer. In case of his being accepted, he would cross over to Melbourne in time to receive her from the next mail-steamer, would marry her there, and take her home to Barragong, and thus save himself two long land journeys.
But the mail-steamer had come with the Adelaide mails, and the next after that with his own letters, but not a word from Elsie or from any of the Phillipses. He had had a few lines from Emily the preceding month, to say that dear little Eva was dead, and that they were all getting better. The address was either in Jane's hand writing or in Elsie's, but he took if for granted that it was Elsie's, and had treasured it up in consequence of that supposition. But this month there was not a word from any of them. There had been plenty of time for an answer, for his letter had been sent via Marseilles, so that Elsie had had ten days clear to make up her mind and reply to what she ought to have thought an important communication.
It was using him extremely ill to treat his letter with so much contempt. He was never more near being very angry in his life. It was strange that Elsie Melville, whose manner was so remarkably gentle and winning, should on two important occasions have treated him with such marked discourtesy. No doubt, his letter was not worth very much in itself; but to him it was great consequence. If she wanted a month for consideration, why not write and tell him so? Or, if she feared to commit herself, she might have got Jane to write. Could she have taken the fever? That was a solution—but a very sad one—of her conduct. Jane would have certainly written in that case if she had not got the fever too. He would alter his plans: he would go back overland; or, rather, he would sail up the Murray, and not pass through Melbourne at all. So he took his passage and Edgar's by one of the Murray steamers, and felt that if he was not a very ill-used man, he ought to feel a very unhappy one.