That night the piano-tuner came out in quite a new character, and with immediate success. He began repeating poetry in the moonlit veranda, and Naomi let him go on for an hour and a half; indeed, she made him; for she was in secret tribulation over one or two things that had happened during the day, and only too thankful, therefore, to be taken out of herself and made to think on other matters. Engelhardt did all this for her, and in so doing furthered his own advantage, too, almost as much as his own pleasure. At all events, Naomi took to her room a livelier interest in the piano-tuner than she had felt hitherto, while her own troubles were left, with her boots, outside the door.
It was true she had been interested in him from the beginning. He had so very soon revealed to her what she had never come in contact with before—a highly sensitized specimen of the artistic temperament. She did not know it by this name, or by any name at all; but she was not the less aliveto his little group of interesting peculiarities, because of her inability to label the lot with one phrase. They interested her the more for that very reason; just as her instinct as to the possibilities that were in him was all the stronger for her incapacity to reason out her conviction in a satisfactory manner. Her intellectual experience was limited to a degree; but she had seen success in his face; and she now heard it in his voice when he quoted verses to her, so beautifully that she was delighted to listen whether she followed him or not. Her faith in him was sweetly unreasonable, but it was immensely strong. She was ready and even eager to back him heavily; and there are those who would rather have one brave girl do that on instinct, than win the votes of a hundred clear heads, basing their support upon a logical calculation.
For reasons of her own, however, Naomi decided overnight to take her visitor a little less seriously to his face. She had been too confidential with him concerning station affairs past and present; that she must drop, and at the same time discourage him from opening his heart to her, as he was beginning to do, on the slightest provocation. These resolutions would impose a taboo onnearly all the subjects they had found in common. She quite saw that, and she thought it just as well. Too much sympathy with this young man might be bad for him. Naomi realized this somewhat suddenly in the night, and it kept her awake rather longer than she liked. But she rose next morning fully resolved to eschew conversation of too sympathetic a character, and to encourage her young friend in quotations from the poets instead. Obviously this was quite as great a pleasure to him, while it was a much safer one—or so Naomi thought in her innocence. But then it was a very genuine pleasure to her, too, because the poetry was entirely new to her, and her many-sided young man knew so much and repeated it so charmingly.
It was incredible, indeed, what a number of the poets of all ages he had at his finger-ends, and how justly he rendered their choicest numbers. Their very names were mostly new to Naomi. There was consequently an aboriginal barbarity about many of her comments and criticisms, and more than once the piano-tuner found it impossible to sit still and hear her out. This was notably the case at their second poetical séance, when Naomi had got over her privatedepression on the one hand, and was full of her new intentions toward the piano-tuner on the other. He would jump out of his chair, and fume up and down the veranda, running his five available fingers through his hair until the black shock stood on end. It was at these moments that Naomi liked him best.
He had been giving her "Tears, idle tears" (because she had "heard of Tennyson," she said) on the Wednesday morning in the veranda facing the station-yard. He had recited the great verses with a force and feeling all his own. Over one of them in particular his voice had quivered with emotion. It was the dear emotion of an æsthetic soul touched to the quick by the sheer beauty of the idea and its words. And Naomi said:
"That's jolly; but you don't call it poetry, do you?"
His eyes dried in an instant. Then they opened as wide as they would go. He was speechless.
"It doesn't rhyme, you know," Naomi explained, cheerfully.
"No," said Engelhardt, gazing at her severely. "It isn't meant to; it's blank verse."
"It's blankbadverse, if you ask me," said Naomi Pryse, with a nod that was meant to finish him; but it only lifted him out of his chair.
"Well, upon my word," said the piano-tuner, striding noisily up and down, as Naomi laughed. "Upon my word!"
"Please make me understand," pleaded the girl, with a humility that meant mischief, if he had only been listening; but he was still wrestling with his exasperation. "I can't help being ignorant, you know," she added, as though hurt.
"You can help it—that's just it!" he answered, bitterly. "I've been telling you one of the most beautiful things that Tennyson himself ever wrote, and you say it isn't verse. Verse, forsooth! It's poetry—it's gorgeous poetry!"
"It may be gorgeous, but I don't call it poetry unless it rhymes," said Naomi, stoutly. "Gordon always does."
Gordon, the Australian poet, she was forever throwing at his head, as the equal of any of his English bards. They had already had a heated argument about Gordon. Therefore Engelhardt said merely:
"You're joking, of course?"
"I am doing nothing of the sort."
"Then pray what do you call Shakespeare"—pausing in front of her with his hand in his pocket—"poetry or prose?"
"Prose, of course."
"Because it doesn't rhyme?"
"Exactly."
"And why do you suppose it's chopped up into lines?"
"Oh,Idon't know—to moisten it perhaps."
"I beg your pardon?"
"To make it less dry."
"Ah! Then it doesn't occur to you that there might be some law which decreed the end of a line after a certain number of beats, or notes—exactly like the end of a bar of music, in fact?"
"Certainly not," said Naomi. There was a touch of indignation in this denial. He shrugged his shoulders and then turned them upon the girl, and stood glowering out upon the yard. Behind his back Naomi went into fits of silent laughter, which luckily she had overcome before he wheeled round suddenly with a face full of eager determination. His heart now appeared set upon convincing her that verse might be blank. And for half an hour he stood beating his left hand in the air, and declaiming, in feet,certain orations of Hamlet, until Mrs. Potter, the cook-laundress, came out of the kitchen to protect her young mistress if necessary. It was not necessary. The broken-armed gentleman was standing over her, shaking his fist and talking at the top of his voice; but Miss Pryse was all smiles and apparent contentment; and, indeed, she behaved much better for awhile, and did her best to understand. But presently she began to complain of the "quotations" (for he was operating on the famous soliloquy), and to profane the whole subject. And the question of blank verse was discussed between them no more.
She could be so good, too, when she liked, so appreciative, so sympathetic, so understanding. But she never liked very long. He had a tendency to run to love-poems, and after listening to five or six with every sign of approval and delight, Naomi would suddenly become flippant at the sixth or seventh. On one occasion, when she had turned him on by her own act aforethought, and been given a taste of several past-masters of the lyric, from Waller to Locker, and including a poem of Browning's which she allowed herself to be made to understand, she inquired of Engelhardt whether he hadever read anything by "a man called Swinton."
"Swinburne," suggested Engelhardt.
"Are you sure?" said Naomi, jealously. "I believe it's Swinton. I'm prepared to bet you that it is!"
"Where have you come across his name?" the piano-tuner said, smiling as he shook his head.
"In the preface to Gordon's poems."
Engelhardt groaned.
"It mentions Swinton—what are you laughing at? All right! I'll get the book and settle it!"
She came back laughing herself.
"Well?" said Engelhardt.
"You know too much! Not that I should accept anything that preface says as conclusive. It has the cheek to say that Gordon was under his influence. You give me something of his, and we'll soon see."
"Something of Swinburne's?"
"Oh, you needn't put on side because you happen to be right according to a preface. I'll write and askThe Australasian! Yes, of course I mean something of his."
Engelhardt reflected. "There's a poem called 'A Leave-taking,'" said he, tentatively, at length.
"Then trot it out," said Naomi; and she set herself to listen with so unsympathetic an expression on her pretty face, that he was obliged to look the other way before he could begin. The contrary was usually the case. However, he managed to get under way:
"Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.Let us go hence together without fear;Keep silence now, for singing-time is over,And over all old things and all things dear.She loves not you nor me as all we love her.Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,She would not hear."Let us rise up and part; she will not know.Let us go seaward as the great winds go,Full of blown sand and foam; what help is there?There is no help, for all these things are so,And all the world is bitter as a tear.And how these things are, though ye strove to showShe would not know."Let us go home and hence; she will not weep——"
"Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.Let us go hence together without fear;Keep silence now, for singing-time is over,And over all old things and all things dear.She loves not you nor me as all we love her.Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,She would not hear."Let us rise up and part; she will not know.Let us go seaward as the great winds go,Full of blown sand and foam; what help is there?There is no help, for all these things are so,And all the world is bitter as a tear.And how these things are, though ye strove to showShe would not know."Let us go home and hence; she will not weep——"
"Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.Let us go hence together without fear;Keep silence now, for singing-time is over,And over all old things and all things dear.She loves not you nor me as all we love her.Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,She would not hear.
"Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.
Let us go hence together without fear;
Keep silence now, for singing-time is over,
And over all old things and all things dear.
She loves not you nor me as all we love her.
Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,
She would not hear.
"Let us rise up and part; she will not know.Let us go seaward as the great winds go,Full of blown sand and foam; what help is there?There is no help, for all these things are so,And all the world is bitter as a tear.And how these things are, though ye strove to showShe would not know.
"Let us rise up and part; she will not know.
Let us go seaward as the great winds go,
Full of blown sand and foam; what help is there?
There is no help, for all these things are so,
And all the world is bitter as a tear.
And how these things are, though ye strove to show
She would not know.
"Let us go home and hence; she will not weep——"
"Let us go home and hence; she will not weep——"
"Stop a moment," said Naomi, "I'm in a difficulty. I can't go on listening until I know something."
"Until you know what?" said Engelhardt, who did not like being interrupted.
"Who it's all about—whosheis!" cried Naomi, inquisitively.
"Who—she—is," repeated the piano-tuner, talking aloud to himself.
"Yes, exactly; whoisshe?"
"As if it mattered!" Engelhardt went on in the same aside. "However, who doyousay she is?"
"I? She may be his grandmother for all I know. I'm asking you."
"I know you are. I was prepared for you to ask me anything else."
"Were you? Then why is she such an obstinate old party, anyway? She won't hear and she won't know. What will she do? Now it seems that you can't even make her cry! 'She will not weep' was where you'd got to. As you seem unable to answer my questions, you'd better go on till she does."
"I'm so likely to go on," said Engelhardt, getting up.
Naomi relented a little.
"Forgive me, Mr. Engelhardt; I've been behaving horribly. I'm sorry I spoke at all, only I did so want to know who she was."
"I don't know myself."
"I was sure you didn't!"
"What's more, I don't care. Whathasit got to do with the merits of the poem?"
"I won't presume to say. I only know that it makes all the difference to my interest in the poem."
"But why?"
"Because I want to know what she was like."
"But surely to goodness," cried Engelhardt, "you can imagine her, can't you? You're meant to fill her in to your own fancy. You pays your money and you takes your choice."
"I get precious little for my money," remarked Naomi, pertinently, "if I have to do the filling in for myself!"
Engelhardt had been striding to and fro. Now he stopped pityingly in front of the chair in which this sweet Philistine was sitting unashamed.
"Do you mean to say that you like to have every little thing told you in black and white?"
"Of course I do. The more the better."
"And absolutely nothing left to your own imagination?"
"Certainly not. The idea!"
He turned away from her with a shrug of his shoulders, and quickened his stride upand down the veranda. He was visibly annoyed. She watched him with eyes full of glee.
"I do love to make you lose your wool!" she informed him in a minute or two, with a sudden attack of candor. "I like you best when you give me up and wash your hands of me!"
This cleared his brow instantaneously, and brought him back to her chair with a smile.
"Why so, Miss Pryse?"
"Must I tell you?"
"Please."
"Then it's because you forget yourself, and me, too, when I rile you; and you're delightful whenever you do that, Mr. Engelhardt."
Naomi regretted her words next moment; but it was too late to unsay them. He went on smiling, it is true, but his smile was no longer naïve and unconsidered; no more were his recitations during the next few hours. His audience did her worst to provoke him out of himself, but she could not manage it. Then she tried the other extreme, and became more enthusiastic than himself over this and that, but he would not be with her; he had retired into the lair of his own self-consciousness, and there was notempting him out any more. When he did come out of himself, it was neither by his own will nor her management, and the moment was a startling one for them both.
It was late in the afternoon of that same Wednesday. They were sitting, as usual, in the veranda which overlooked not the station-yard but the boundless plains, and they were sitting in silence and wide apart. They had not quarrelled; but Engelhardt had made up his mind to decamp. He had reasoned the whole thing out in a spirit of mere common-sense; yet he was reasoning with himself still, as he sat in the quiet veranda; he thought it probable that he should go on with his reasoning—with the same piece of reasoning—until his dying hour. He looked worried. He was certainly worrying Naomi, and annoying her considerably. She had given up trying to take him out of himself, but she knew that he liked to hear himself saying poetry, and she felt perfectly ready to listen if it would do him any good. Of course she was not herself anxious to hear him. It was entirely for his sake that she put down the book she was reading, and broached the subject at last.
"Have you quite exhausted the poetry that you know by heart, Mr. Engelhardt?"
"Quite, I'm afraid, Miss Pryse; and I'm sure you must be thankful to hear it."
"Now you're fishing," said Naomi, with a smile (not one of her sweetest); "we've quarrelled about all your precious poets, it's true, but that's why I want you to trot out another. I'm dying for another quarrel, don't you see? Out with somebody fresh, and let me have shies at him!"
"But I don't know them all off by heart—I'm not a walking Golden Treasury, you know."
"Think!" commanded Naomi. When she did this there was no disobeying her. He had found out that already.
"Have you ever heard of Rossetti—Dante Gabriel?"
"Kill whose cat?" cried Naomi.
He repeated the poet's name in full. She shook her head. She was smiling now, and kindly, for she had got her way.
"There is one little thing of his—but a beauty—that I once learnt," Engelhardt said, doubtfully. "Mind, I'm not sure that I can remember it, and I won't spoil it if I can't; no more must you spoil it, if I can."
"Is there some sacred association, then?"
He laughed. "No, indeed! There's more of a sacrilegious association, for I onceswore that the first song I composed should be a setting for these words."
"Remember, you've got to dedicate it to me! What's the name of the thing?"
"'Three Shadows.'"
"Let's have them, then."
"Very well. But I love it! You must promise not to laugh."
"Begin," she said, sternly, and he began:
"I looked and saw your eyesIn the shadow of your hair,As the traveller sees the streamIn the shadow of the wood;And I said, 'My faint heart sighsAh me! to linger there,To drink deep and to dreamIn that sweet solitude.'"
"I looked and saw your eyesIn the shadow of your hair,As the traveller sees the streamIn the shadow of the wood;And I said, 'My faint heart sighsAh me! to linger there,To drink deep and to dreamIn that sweet solitude.'"
"I looked and saw your eyesIn the shadow of your hair,As the traveller sees the streamIn the shadow of the wood;And I said, 'My faint heart sighsAh me! to linger there,To drink deep and to dreamIn that sweet solitude.'"
"I looked and saw your eyes
In the shadow of your hair,
As the traveller sees the stream
In the shadow of the wood;
And I said, 'My faint heart sighs
Ah me! to linger there,
To drink deep and to dream
In that sweet solitude.'"
"Go on," said Naomi, with approval. "I hope youdon'tsee all that; but please go on."
He had got thus far with his face raised steadfastly to hers, for he had left his chair and seated himself on the edge of the veranda, at her feet, before beginning. He went on without wincing or lowering his eyes:
"I looked and saw your heartIn the shadow of your eyes,As a seeker sees the goldIn the shadow of the stream;And I said, 'Ah me! what artShould win the immortal prize,Whose want must make life coldAnd heaven a hollow dream?'"
"I looked and saw your heartIn the shadow of your eyes,As a seeker sees the goldIn the shadow of the stream;And I said, 'Ah me! what artShould win the immortal prize,Whose want must make life coldAnd heaven a hollow dream?'"
"I looked and saw your heartIn the shadow of your eyes,As a seeker sees the goldIn the shadow of the stream;And I said, 'Ah me! what artShould win the immortal prize,Whose want must make life coldAnd heaven a hollow dream?'"
"I looked and saw your heart
In the shadow of your eyes,
As a seeker sees the gold
In the shadow of the stream;
And I said, 'Ah me! what art
Should win the immortal prize,
Whose want must make life cold
And heaven a hollow dream?'"
"Surely not as bad as all that?" said Naomi, laughing. He had never recited anything so feelingly, so slowly, with such a look in his eyes. There was occasion to laugh, obviously.
"Am I to go on," said Engelhardt, in desperate earnest, "or am I not?"
"Go on, of course! I am most anxious to know what else you saw."
But the temptation to lower the eyes was now hers; his look was so hard to face, his voice was grown so soft.
"I looked and saw your loveIn the shadow of your heart,As a diver sees the pearlIn the shadow of the sea;And I murmured, not aboveMy breath, but all apart——"
"I looked and saw your loveIn the shadow of your heart,As a diver sees the pearlIn the shadow of the sea;And I murmured, not aboveMy breath, but all apart——"
"I looked and saw your loveIn the shadow of your heart,As a diver sees the pearlIn the shadow of the sea;And I murmured, not aboveMy breath, but all apart——"
"I looked and saw your love
In the shadow of your heart,
As a diver sees the pearl
In the shadow of the sea;
And I murmured, not above
My breath, but all apart——"
Here he stopped. Her eyes were shining. He could not see this, because his own were dim.
"Go on," she said, nodding violently, "do go on!"
"That's all I remember."
"Nonsense! What did you murmur?"
"I forget."
"You do no such thing."
"I've said all I mean to say."
"But not all I mean you to. Iwillhave the lot."
And, after all, his were the eyes to fall; but in a moment they had leapt up again to her face with a sudden reckless flash.
"There are only two more lines," he said; "you had much better not know them."
"I must," said she. "What are they?"
"Ah! you can love, true girl,And is your love for me?"
"Ah! you can love, true girl,And is your love for me?"
"Ah! you can love, true girl,And is your love for me?"
"Ah! you can love, true girl,
And is your love for me?"
"No, I'm afraid not," said Naomi, at last.
"I thought not."
"Nor for anybody else—nor for anybody else!"
She was leaning over him, and one of her hands had fallen upon his neck—so kindly—so naturally—like a mother's upon her child.
"Then you are not in love with anybody else!" he cried, joyously. "You are not engaged!"
"Yes," she answered, sadly. "I am engaged."
Then Naomi learnt how it feels to quench the fire in joyous eyes, and to wrinkle a hopeful young face with the lines of anguish and despair. She could not bear it. She took the head of untidy hair between her two soft hands, and pressed it down upon the open book on her knees until the haunting eyes looked into hers no more. And as a mother soothes her child, so she stroked him, and patted him, and murmured over him, until he could speak to her calmly.
"Who is he?" whispered Engelhardt, drawing away from her at last, and gazing up into her face with a firm lip. "What is he? Where is he? I want to know everything!"
"Then look over your shoulder, and you will see him for yourself."
A horseman had indeed ridden round the corner of the house, noiselessly in the heavy sand. Monty Gilroy sat frowning at them both from his saddle.
"I'm afraid I have interrupted a very interesting conversation?" said Gilroy, showing his teeth through his beard.
Naomi smiled coolly.
"What if I say that you have, Monty?"
"Then I'm sorry, but it can't be helped," replied the manager, jumping off his horse, and hanging the bridle over a hook on one of the veranda-posts.
"Ah, I thought as much," said Naomi, dryly. She held out her hand, however, as she spoke.
But Gilroy had stopped before setting foot in the veranda. He stood glaring at Engelhardt, who was not looking at him, but at the fading sky-line away beyond the sand and scrub, and with a dazed expression upon his pale, eager face. The piano-tuner had not risen; he had merely turned round where he sat, at the sound of Gilroy's voice.
Now, however, he seemed neither to see nor to heed the manager, though the latter was towering over him, white with mortification.
"Now then, Mr. Piano-tuner, jump up and clear; I've ridden over to see Miss Pryse on urgent business——"
"Leaving your manners behind you, evidently," observed that young lady, "or I think you would hardly be ordering my visitors out of my verandaandmy presence!"
"Then will you speak to the fellow?" said Gilroy, sulkily. "He seems deaf, and I haven't ridden in for my own amusement. I tell you it's an important matter, Naomi."
"Mr. Engelhardt!" said Naomi, gently. He turned at once. "Mr. Gilroy," she went on to explain, "has come from the shed to see me about something or other. Will you leave us for a little while?"
"Certainly, Miss Pryse." He rose in sudden confusion. "I—I beg your pardon. I was thinking of something else."
It was only Naomi's pardon that he begged. He had not looked twice at Gilroy; but as he rounded the corner of the building, he glanced sharply over his shoulder. He could not help it. He felt instinctively that a glimpse of their lovers' greeting would do something toward his cure. All that he saw, however, was Naomi with her back to the wall, and her hands laid firmly upon the wicker chair-back where her head had resteda moment before. Across this barrier Gilroy had opened so vehement a fire upon her that Engelhardt thought twice about leaving them alone together. As he hesitated, however, the girl shot him a glance which commanded him to be gone, while it as plainly intimated her perfect ability to take care of herself.
Once out of her sight, the piano-tuner turned a resolute back upon the homestead, determining to get right away from it for the time being—to get away and to think. He did not, however, plunge into the plantation of pines, in which Naomi and he had often wandered during these last few days, that seemed a happy lifetime to him now that he felt they were over. He took the broad, sandy way which led past the stables to the men's hut on the left, and to the stock-yards on the right. Behind the yards the sun was setting, the platform for the pithing of bullocks, and the windlass for raising their carcasses, standing out sharp and black against the flaming sky; and still farther to the right, where there were sheep-yards also, a small yellow cloud rose against the pink like a pillar of sand. Engelhardt knew little enough of station life, but he saw that somebody was yarding-up a mob ofsheep for the night. He went on to have a look at the job, which was over, however, before he reached the spot. Three horses were trotting off in the direction of the horse-paddock, while, coming away from the yard, carrying their saddles and bridles, were two of the station hands and the overseer, Tom Chester.
"Hulloa, Engelhardt, still here?" said the latter, cheerily, as they met. "How goes the arm?"
"First-rate, thanks. I'm off to-morrow."
"Yes? Come on back to the homestead, and help me shave and brush up. I've been mustering seventeen miles from the shed. We've run the mob into these yards for the night, and I'm roosting in the barracks."
"So is Mr. Gilroy, I fancy."
"The devil he is! Has he come in from the shed, then?"
"Yes; within the last ten minutes."
Chester looked black.
"You didn't hear what for, I suppose?"
"To speak to Miss Pryse about some important matter; that's all I know."
"I should have thought they'd had enough to say to each other yesterday, tolast Gilroy for a bit. I'm mustering, you know; but I heard all about it when I got back to the shed last night. Some of the men came to me in a sort of deputation. They hate Gilroy about as much as I do, and they want him out of that. If he's a sensible man he's come in to chuck up the sponge himself."
Tom Chester flung his saddle and bridle over the rail as they passed the stable, and walked on to the station-yard, and across it to the little white barracks, without another word. Engelhardt followed him into his room and sat down on the bed. He felt that they understood one another. That was what made him say, while Chester was stropping his razor:
"You don't love Gilroy, I imagine."
"No, I don't," replied Tom Chester, after a pause.
"But Miss Pryse does!" Engelhardt exclaimed, bitterly.
The other made a longer pause. He was lathering his chin. "Not she," said Tom, coolly, at length.
"Not! But she's engaged to him, I hear!"
"There's a sort of understanding."
"Only an understanding?"
"Well, she doesn't wear a ring, for one thing."
"I wish you would tell me just how it stands," said Engelhardt, inquisitively. His heart was beating, nevertheless.
"Tell you?" said Tom Chester, looking only into the glass as he flourished his razor. "Why, certainly. I don't wonder at your wanting to know how a fine girl like that could go and engage herself to a God-forsaken image like Gilroy.Idon't know, mind you. I wasn't here in Mr. Pryse's time; but everyone says he was a good sort, and that the worse thing he ever did was to take on Gilroy, just because he was some sort of relation of his dead wife's. He's second cousin to Miss Pryse, that's what Gilroy is; but he was overseer here when the boss was his own manager, and when he died Gilroy got the management, naturally. Well, and then he got the girl, too—the Lord knows how. She knew that her father thought well of the skunk, and no doubt she herself felt it was the easiest way out of her responsibilities and difficulties. Ay, she was a year or two younger then than she is now, and he got the promise of her; but I'll bet you an even dollar he never gets her to keep."
The piano-tuner had with difficulty sat still upon the bed, as he listened to this seemingly impartial version of the engagement which had numbed his spirit from the moment he heard of it. Tom Chester had spoken with many pauses, filled by the tinkle of his razor against a healthy beard three days old. When he offered to bet the dollar, he was already putting the razor away in its case.
"I won't take you," said Engelhardt. "You don't think she'll marry him, then?" he added, anxiously.
"Tar here on the brisket," remarked Chester, in the shearer's formula, as he dabbed at a cut that he had discovered under his right jaw. "What's that! Marry him? No; of course she won't."
Engelhardt waited while the overseer performed elaborate ablutions and changed his clothes. Then they crossed over together to the front veranda, which was empty; but as they went round to the back the sound of voices came fast enough to their ears. The owner and her manager were still talking in the back veranda, which was now in darkness, and their voices were still raised. It was Tom Chester's smile, however, that helped Engelhardt to grasp the fullsignificance of the words that met their ears. Gilroy was speaking.
"All right, Naomi! You know best, no doubt. You mean to paddle your own canoe, you say, and that's all very well; but if Tom Chester remains on at the shed there'll be a row, I tell you straight."
"Between whom?" Naomi inquired.
"Between Tom Chester and me. I tell you he's stirring up the men against me! You yourself did mischief enough yesterday; but when he came in he made bad worse. It may be an undignified thing to do, for the boss of the shed; but I can't help that, I shall have to fight him."
"Fight whom?" said Chester, in a tone of interest, as he and Engelhardt came upon the scene together.
"You," replied Naomi, promptly. "You have arrived in the nick of time, Mr. Chester. I am sorry to hear that you two don't hit it off together at the shed."
"So that's it, is it?" said Tom Chester, quietly, glancing from the girl to Gilroy, who had not opened his mouth. "And you're prepared to hit it off somewhere else, are you? I'm quite ready. I have been wanting to hit it off with you, Gilroy, ever since I've known you."
His meaning was as plain as an italicised joke. They all waited for the manager's reply.
"Indeed!" said he, at length, out of the kindly dark that hid the color of his face. "So you expect me to answer you before Miss Pryse, do you?"
"On the contrary, I'd far rather you came down to the stables and answered me there. But you might repeat before Miss Pryse whatever it is you were telling her about me behind my back."
"I shall do nothing of the sort."
"Then I must do it for you," said Naomi, firmly.
"Do," said Gilroy. And diving his hands deep into his cross-pockets, he swaggered off the scene with his horse at his heels and his arm through the reins.
"I think I can guess the kind of thing, Miss Pryse," Tom Chester waited to say; "you needn't trouble to tell me, thank you." A moment later he had followed the manager, and the piano-tuner was following Tom; but Naomi Pryse remained where she was. She had not lifted a finger to prevent the fight which, as she saw for herself, was a good deal more imminent than he had imagined who warned her of it five minutes before.
"Will you take off your coat?" said Chester, as he caught up to Gilroy between homestead and stables.
"Is it likely?" queried Gilroy, without looking round.
"That depends whether you're a man. The light's the same for both. There are lanterns in the stables, whether or no. Will you take off your coat when we get there?"
"To you? Manager and overseer? Don't be a fool, Tom."
"I'll show you who's the fool in a brace of shakes," said Tom Chester, following Gilroy with a swelling chest. "I never thought you had much pluck, but, by God, I don't believe you've got the pluck of a louse!"
Gilroy led on his horse without answering.
"Have you got the pluck of a louse?" the overseer sang into his ear. Gilroy was trembling, but he turned as they reached the stable.
"Take off your coat, then," said he, doggedly; "I'll leave mine inside."
Gilroy led his horse into the stable. Instead of taking off his coat, however, Tom Chester stood waiting with his arms akimbo and his eyes upon the open stable-door.
"Aren't you going to take it off?" saidan eager yet nervous voice at his side. "Don't you mean to fight him after all?"
It was the piano-tuner, whose desire to see the manager soundly thrashed was at war with his innate dread of anything approaching a violent scene. He could be violent himself when his blood was up, but in his normal state the mere sound of high words made him miserable.
"Hulloa! I didn't see that you were there," remarked Chester, with a glance at the queer little figure beside him. "Lord, yes; I'll fight him if he's game, but I won't believe that till I see it, so we'll let him strip first. The fellow hasn't got the pluck of—— I knew he hadn't! That's just what I should have expected of him!"
Before Engelhardt could realize what was happening, a horse had emerged from the shadow of the stable-door, a man's head and wide-awake had risen behind its ears as they cleared the lintel, and Gilroy, with a smack of his whip on the horse's flank and a cut and a curse at Tom Chester, was disappearing in the dusk at a gallop. Chester had sprung forward, but he was not quick enough. When the cut had fallen short of him, he gathered himself together for one moment, as though to give chase on foot;then stood at ease and watched the rider out of sight.
"Next time, my friend," said he, "you won't get the option of standing up to me. No; by the Lord, I'll take him by the scruff of his dirty neck, and I'll take the very whip he's got in his hand now, and I'll hide him within an inch of his miserable life. That's the way we treat curs in these parts, d'ye see? Come on, Engelhardt. No, we'll stop and see which road he takes when he gets to the gate. I can just see him opening it now. I might have caught him up there if I'd thought. Ah! he's shaking his fist at us; he shall smell mine before he's a day older! And he's taken the township track; he'll come back to the shed as drunk as a fool, and if the men don't dip him in the dam I shall be very much surprised."
"And Miss Pryse is going to marry a creature like that," cried Engelhardt, as they walked back to the house.
"Not she," said Chester, confidently.
"Yet there's a sort of engagement."
"There is; but it would be broken off to-morrow if I were to tell Miss Pryse to-night of the mess he's making of everything out at the shed. The men do what they like with him, and he goes dropping uponthe harmless inoffensive ones, and fining them and running their sheep; whereas he daren't have said a word to that fellow Simons, not to save his life. I tell you there'd have been a strike last night if it hadn't been for me. The men appealed to me, and I said what I thought. So his nibs sends me mustering again, about as far off as he can, while he comes in to get Miss Pryse to give me the sack. Of course that's what he's been after. That's the kind of man he is. But here's Miss Pryse herself in the veranda, and we'll drop the subject, d'ye see?"
Naomi herself never mentioned it. Possibly from the veranda she had seen and heard enough to enable her to guess the rest pretty accurately. However that may be, the name of Monty Gilroy never passed her lips, either now in the interval before dinner, or at that meal, during which she conversed very merrily with the two young men who faced one another on either side of her. She insisted on carving for them both, despite the protests of the more talkative of the two. She rattled on to them incessantly—if anything, to Engelhardt more than to the overseer. But there could be no question as to which of these two talked most to her. Engelhardt was even more shy and awkward than at hisfirst meal at Taroomba, when Naomi had not been present. He disappeared immediately after dinner, and Naomi had to content herself with Tom Chester's company for the rest of the evening.
That, however, was very good company at all times, while on the present occasion Miss Pryse had matters for discussion with her overseer which rendered a private interview quite necessary. So Engelhardt was not wanted for at least an hour; but he did not come back at all. When Chester went whistling to the barracks at eleven o'clock he found the piano-tuner lying upon his bed in all his clothes.
"Hulloa, my son, are you sick?" said Tom, entering the room. The risen moon was shining in on all sides of the looking-glass.
"No, I'm well enough, thanks. I felt rather sleepy."
"You don't sound sleepy! Miss Pryse was wondering what could be the matter. She told me to tell you that you might at least have said good-night to her."
"I'll go and say it now," cried Engelhardt, bounding from the bed.
"Ah, now you're too late, you see," said Chester, laughing a little unkindly as hebarred the doorway. "You didn't suppose I'd come away before I was obliged, did you? Come into my room, and I'll tell you a bit of news."
The two rooms were close together; they were divided by the narrow passage that led without step or outer door into the station-yard. It was a lined, set face that the candle lighted up when Tom Chester put a match to it; but that was only the piano-tuner's face, and Tom stood looking at his own, and the smile in the glass was peculiar and characteristic. It was not conceited; it was merely confident. The overseer of Taroomba was one of the smartest, most resolute, and confident young men in the back-blocks of New South Wales.
"The news," he said, turning away from the glass and undoing his necktie, "may surprise you, but I've expected it all along. Didn't I tell you before dinner that Miss Pryse would be breaking off her rotten engagement one of these days! Well, then, she's been and done it this very afternoon."
"Thank God!" cried Engelhardt.
"Amen," echoed Chester, with a laugh. He had paid no attention to the piano-tuner's tone and look. He was winding a keyless watch.
"And is he going on here as manager?" Engelhardt asked, presently.
"No, that's the point. Naomi seems to have told him pretty straight that she could get along without him, and on second thoughts he's taken her at her word. She got a note an hour ago to say she would never see him again. He'd sent a chap with it all the way from the township."
"Do you mean to say he isn't coming back?"
"That's the idea. You bet he had it when he shook his fist at us as he opened that gate. He was shaking his fist at the station and all hands on the place, particularly including the boss. She's to send his things and his check after him to the township, where they'll find him drunk, you mark my words. Good riddance to the cur! Of course he was going to marry her for her money; but she's tumbled to him in time, and a miss is as good as a mile any day in the week."
He finished speaking and winding his watch at the same moment. It was a gold watch, and he set it down carelessly on the dressing-table, where the candle shone upon the monogram on its back.
"He has nothing of his own?" queriedEngelhardt, with jealous eyes upon the watch.
"Not a red cent," said Tom Chester, contemptuously. "He lived upon the old boss, and of course he meant to live upon his daughter after him. He was as poor as a church-mouse."
So indeed was the piano-tuner. He did not say as much, however, though the words had risen to his lips. He said no more until the overseer was actually in bed. Then a flash of inspiration caused him to ask, abruptly,
"Are you anything to do with Chester, Wilkinson, & Killick, the big wool-people down in Melbourne?"
"To do with 'em?" repeated Tom, with a smile. "Well, yes; at least, I'm Chester's son."
"I've heard that you own more Riverina stations than any other firm or company?"
"Yes; this is about the only one around here that we haven't got a finger in. That's why I came here, by the way, for a bit of experience."
"Thenyoudon't want to marry her for her money. You'll have more than she ever will! Isn't that so?"
"What the blue blazes do you mean, Engelhardt?"
Chester had sat bolt upright in his bed. The piano-tuner was still on the foot of it, and all the fire in his being had gone into his eyes.
"Mean?" he cried. "Who cares whatImean! I tell you that she thinks more of you than ever she thought of Gilroy. She has said so to me in as many words. I tell you to go in and win!"
He was holding out his left hand.
"I intend to," said Tom Chester, taking it good-naturedly enough. "That's exactly my game, and everybody must know it, for I've been playing it fair and square in the light of day. I may lose; but I hope to win. Good-night, Engelhardt. Shall I look you up in the morning? We make a very early start, mind."
"Then you needn't trouble. But I do wish you luck!"
"Thanks, my boy. I wish myself luck, too."
Naomi's room opened upon the back veranda, and in quitting it next morning it was not unnatural that she should pause to contemplate the place where so many things had lately happened, which, she felt, must leave their mark upon her life for good or evil. It was here that she might have seen the danger of unreserved sympathy with so sensitive and enthusiastic a nature as that of the piano-tuner. Indeed, she had seen it, and made suitable resolutions on the spot; but these she had broken, and wilfully shut her eyes to that danger until the young man had told her, quite plainly enough, that he loved her. Nay, she had made him tell her that, and until he did so she had purposely withheld from him the knowledge that she was already engaged. That was the cruel part of it, the part of which she was now most sincerely ashamed. Yet some power stronger than her own will had compelled her to act as she had done, and certainly she had determined beforehand to take the first opportunity of severing all ties stillexisting between herself and Monty Gilroy. And it was here that she had actually broken off her engagement with him within a few minutes of her announcement of it to Hermann Engelhardt. Still she was by no means pleased with herself as she stepped out into the flood of sunshine that filled the back veranda of a morning, and saw everything as it had been overnight, even to the book she had laid aside open when Gilroy rode up. It was lying shut in the self-same spot. This little difference was the only one.
She went round to the front of the house, looking out rather nervously for Engelhardt on the way. Generally he met her in the front veranda, but this morning he was not there. Mrs. Potter was laying the breakfast-table, but she had not seen him either. She looked searchingly at her young mistress as she answered her question.
"Are you quite well, miss?" she asked at length, without preamble. "You look as though you hadn't slep' a wink all night."
"No more I have," said Naomi, calmly.
"Good gracious, miss!" cried Mrs. Potter, clapping down the plate-basket with a jingle. "Whatever has been the matter? That nasty toothache, I'll be bound!"
"No, it wasn't a tooth this time. I may as well tell you what it was," added Naomi, "since you're bound to know sooner or later. Well, then, Mr. Gilroy has left the station for good, and I am not ever going to marry him. That's all."
"And I'm thankful——"
Mrs. Potter checked herself with a gulp.
"So am I," said her mistress, dryly; "but it's a little exciting, and I let it keep me awake. You are to pack up his boxes, please, so that I may send them to the township in the spring-cart. But now make haste with the tea, for I need a cup badly, and I'll go and sing out to Mr. Engelhardt. Did you call him, by the way?"
"Yes, miss, I called him as usual."
Naomi left the breakfast-room, and was absent some three or four minutes. She came back looking somewhat scared.
"I've called him, too," she said, "at the top of my voice. But there's no making him hear anything. I've hammered at his door and at his window, too; both are shut, as if he wasn't up. I do wish that you would come and see whether he is."
A moment later Mrs. Potter was crossing the sandy yard, with Naomi almost treading on her ample skirts until they reached thebarracks, which the elderly woman entered alone. No sooner, however, had she opened Engelhardt's door than she called her mistress to the spot. The room was empty. It was clear at a glance that the bed had not been slept in.
"If he hasn't gone away and left us without a word!" cried Mrs. Potter, indignantly.
"I am looking for his valise," said Naomi. "Where has he generally kept it?"
"Just there, underneath the dressing-table. He has taken it with him. There's nothing belonging to him in the room!"
"Except that half-crown under the tumbler, which is evidently meant for you. No, Mrs. Potter, I'm afraid you're right. The half-crown settles it. I should take it if I were you. And now I'll have my breakfast, if you please."
"But, miss, I can't understand——"
"No more can I. Make the tea at once, please. A little toast is all that I require with it."
And Naomi went slowly back toward the house, but stopped half way, with bent head and attentive eyes, and then went slower still. She had discovered in the sand the print of feet in stockings only. Thesetracks led up to the veranda, where they ended opposite the sitting-room door, which Naomi pushed open next moment. The room wore its ordinary appearance, but the pile of music which Engelhardt had brought with him for sale had been removed from the top of the piano to the music-stool; and lying conspicuously across the music, Naomi was mortified to find a silk handkerchief of her own, which the piano-tuner had worn all the week as a sling for his arm. She caught it up with an angry exclamation, and in doing so caught sight of some obviously left-handed writing on the topmost song of the pile. She stooped and read:
"These songs for Miss Pryse, with deep gratitude for all her kindness to Hermann Engelhardt."
"These songs for Miss Pryse, with deep gratitude for all her kindness to Hermann Engelhardt."
It was a pale, set face that Mrs. Potter found awaiting her in the breakfast-room when the toast was ready and the tea made. Very little of the toast was eaten, and Mrs. Potter saw no more of her young mistress until the mid-day meal, to which Naomi sat down in her riding-habit.
"Just wait, Mrs. Potter," said she, hastily helping herself to a chop. "Take a chair yourself. I want to speak to you."
"Very good, miss," said the old lady, sitting down.
"I want to know when you last set eyes on Sam Rowntree."
"Let me see, miss. Oh, yes, I remember; it was about this time yesterday. He came to the kitchen, and told me he was going to run up a fresh mob of killing-sheep out of Top Scrubby, and how much meat could I do with? I said half a sheep, at the outside, and that was the last I saw of him."
"He never came near you last night?"
"That he didn't, miss. I was looking out for him. I wanted——"
"You didn't see him in the distance, or hear him whistling?"
"No, indeed I didn't."
"Well, he seems to have vanished into space," said Naomi, pushing away her plate and pouring out a cup of tea.
"It's too bad," said Mrs. Potter, with sympathy and indignation in equal parts. "I can't think what he means—to go and leave us alone like this."
"I can't think what Mr. Chester meant by not telling me that he was gone," remarked Naomi, hotly.
"I 'xpect he knew nothing about it, miss. He went off before daylight, him and thetwo men that come in with the sheep they was to take on to the shed."
"How can you know that?" inquired Naomi, with a touch of irritation. Her tea was very hot, and she was evidently in a desperate hurry.
"Because Mr. Chester asked me to put his breakfast ready for him overnight; and I did, too, and when I got up at six he'd had it and gone long ago. The teapot was cold. The men had gone, too, for I gave 'em their suppers last night, and they asked for a snack to take before their early start this morning. They must all have got away by five. They wouldn't hardly try to disturb Sam so early as all that; so they weren't to know he wasn't there."
"Well, he wasn't," said Naomi, "and it's disgraceful, that's what it is! Here we are without a man on the place, and there are nearly a hundred at the shed! I have had to catch a horse, and saddle it for myself." As she spoke Naomi made a last gulp at her hot tea, and then jumped up from the table.
"You are going to the shed, miss?"
"No; to the township."
"Ah, that's where you'll find him!"
"I hope I may," said Naomi, softly, andher eyes were far away. She was in the veranda, buttoning her gloves.
"I meant Sam Rowntree, miss."
Naomi blushed.
"I meant Mr. Engelhardt," said she, stoutly. "They are probably both there; but I have no doubt at all about Mr. Engelhardt. I am going to fetch the mail, but I hope I shall see that young gentleman, too, so that I may have an opportunity of telling him what I think of him."
"I should, miss, I should that!" cried Mrs. Potter, with virtuous wrath. "I should give him a piece of my mind about his way of treating them that's good and kind to him. I'm sure, miss, the notice you took of that young man——"
"Come, I don't think he's treatedyouso badly," interrupted Naomi, tartly. "Moreover, I am quite sure that he must have had some reason for going off so suddenly. I am curious to know what it was, and also what he expects me to do with his horse. If he had waited till this morning I would have sent him in with the buggy, and saved him a good old tramp. However, you don't mind being left in charge for an hour or so—eh, Mrs. Potter? No one ever troubles the homestead during shearing, you know."
"Oh, I shall be all right, miss, thank you," Mrs. Potter said, cheerfully; and she followed Naomi out into the yard, and watched her, in the distance, drag a box out of the saddle-room, mount from it, and set off at a canter toward the horse-paddock gate.
But Naomi did not canter all the way. She performed the greater part of her ride at a quiet amble, leaning forward in her saddle most of the time, and deciding what she should say to the piano-tuner, while she searched the ground narrowly for his tracks. She had the eagle eye for the trail of man or beast, which is the natural inheritance of all children of the bush. Before saddling the night-horse, she had made it her business to discover every print of a stocking sole that had been left about the premises during the night; and there were so many that she had now a pretty definite idea of the movements of her visitor prior to his final departure from the station. He had spent some time in aimless wandering about the moonlit yard. Then he had stood outside the kitchen, just where she had left him standing on the night of his arrival; and afterward had crossed the fence, just where they had crossed it together, and steered the verysame course through the pines which she had led him that first evening. Still in his stockings, carrying his boots in his one hand and his valise under that arm (for she came to a place where he had dropped one boot, and, in picking it up, the valise also), he had worked round to the back veranda, and sat long on the edge, with his two feet in the soft sand, staring out over the scrub-covered, moonlit plain, just as he had sat staring many a time in broad daylight. Of all this Naomi was as certain as though she had seen it, because it was child's play to her to follow up the trail of his stockinged feet and to sort them out from all other tracks. But it ought to have been almost as easy to trace him in his boots on the well-beaten road to the township, and it was not.
The girl grew uncomfortable as she rode on and on without ever striking the trail; and the cutting sentences which she had prepared for the piano-tuner escaped her mind long before she reached the township, and found, as she now expected, that nobody answering to his description had been seen in the vicinity.
Naomi was not the one to waste time in a superfluity of inquiries. She saw in amoment that Engelhardt had not been near the place, and a similar fact was even more easily ascertained in the matter of Sam Rowntree. The township people knew him well. His blue fly-veil had not enlivened their hotel verandas for a whole week. So Naomi received her mail-bag and rode off without dismounting. A glimpse which she had caught of a red beard, at the other side of the broad sandy road, and the sound of a well-known voice shouting thickly, added to her haste. And on this journey she never once drew rein until her horse cantered into the long and sharp-cut shadows of the Taroomba stables.
As Naomi dismounted, Mrs. Potter emerged from the homestead veranda. The good woman had grown not a little nervous in her loneliness. Her looks as she came up were in striking contrast to those of her mistress. The one was visibly relieved; the other had come back ten times more anxious than she had gone away.
"No one been near you, Mrs. Potter?"
"Not a soul, miss. Oh, but it's good to see you back! I thought the afternoon was never coming to an end."
"They are neither of them at the township," said Naomi, with a miserable sigh.
"Nor have they been there at all—neither Mr. Engelhardt nor Sam Rowntree!"
Mrs. Potter cudgelled her poor brains for some—for any—kind of explanation.
"Sam did tell me"—she had begun, when she was promptly shut up.
"Who cares about Sam?" cried Naomi. "He's a good bushman; he can take care of himself. Besides, wherever he is, Sam isn't bushed. But anything may have happened to Mr. Engelhardt!"
"What do you think has happened?" the old lady asked, inanely.
"How am I to know?" was the wild answer. "I have nothing to go on. I know no more than you do."
Yet she stood thinking hard, with her horse still bridled and the reins between her fingers. She had taken off the saddle. Suddenly she slipped the reins over a hook and disappeared into the saddle-room. And in a few moments she was back, with a blanched face, and in her arms a packed valise.
"Is this Mr. Engelhardt's?"
Mrs. Potter took one look at it.
"It is," she said. "Yes, it is his!"
"Take it, then," said Naomi, mastering her voice with difficulty, "while I hunt up his saddle and bridle. If they are gone, allthe better. Then I shall know he has his horse; and with a horse nothing much can happen to one."
She disappeared again, and was gone a little longer; but this time she came back desperately self-possessed.
"I have found his saddle. His bridle is not there at all. I know it's his saddle, because it's a pretty good one, and all our decent saddles are in use; besides, they all have the station brand upon them. This one has no brand at all. It must be Mr. Engelhardt's; and now I know exactly what he has done. Shall I tell you?"
Mrs. Potter clasped her hands.
"He has taken his bridle," said Naomi, still in a deadly calm, "and he has set out to catch his horse. How he could do such a thing I can't conceive! He knows the run of our horse-paddock no more than you do. He has failed to find his horse, tried to come back, and got over the fence into Top Scrubby. You don't know what that means! Top Scrubby's the worst paddock we have. It's half-full of mallee, it's six miles whichever way you take it, and the only drop of water in it is the tank at the township corner. Or he may be in the horse-paddock all the time. People who don't know the bushmay walk round and round in a single square mile all day long, and until they drop. But it's no good our talking here; wherever he is, I mean to find him."
As she spoke she caught her saddle from the rail across which she had placed it, and was for flinging it on to her horse again, when Mrs. Potter interposed. The girl was trembling with excitement. The sun was fast sinking into the sand and scrub away west. In half an hour it would be dark.
"And no moon till ten or eleven," said Mrs. Potter, with sudden foresight and firmness. "You mustn't think of it, miss; you mustn't, indeed!"
"How can you say that? Why should you stop me? Do you mean me to leave the poor fellow to perish for want of water?"
"My dear, you could do no good in the dark," said Mrs. Potter, speaking as she had not spoken to Naomi since the latter was a little girl. "Besides, neither you nor the horse is fit for anything more until you've both had something to eat and drink."
"It's true!"
Naomi said this in helpless tones and with hopeless looks. As she spoke, however, hereyes fastened themselves upon the crimson ball just clear of the horizon, and all at once they filled with tears. Hardly conscious of what she did or said, she lifted up her arms and her voice to the sunset.
"Oh, my poor fellow! My poor boy! If only I knew where you were—if only I could see you now!"