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Title: The Captive Singer
Author: Marie Bjelke Petersen
Release date: February 22, 2026 [eBook #78003]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1917
Credits: David E. Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CAPTIVE SINGER ***
THE CAPTIVE SINGER
[Illustration: _Photo. Spurling & Son, Launceston._
THE LIMESTONE CAVES.]
THE CAPTIVE SINGER
BY
MARIE BJELKE PETERSEN
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E.,
AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
TO
THE PURE WHITE ANGEL
WHOSE LOVE HAS LIFTED ME,
WHOSE WINGS HAVE SHELTERED ME,
WHOSE COMPANIONSHIP HAS INSPIRED ME,
I MOST LOVINGLY AND REVERENTLY
PRESENT THIS BOOK
_I’LL SING THEE SONGS OF ARABY_
“_I’ll sing thee songs of Araby
And tales of fair Cashmere,
Wild tales to cheat thee of a sigh,
Or charm thee to a tear.
And dreams of delight shall on thee break,
And rainbow visions rise,
And all my soul shall strive to wake
Sweet wonder in thine eyes;
And all my soul shall strive to wake
Sweet wonder in thine eyes._
_Through those twin lakes, when wonder wakes,
My raptured song shall sink;
And, as the diver dives for pearls,
Bring tears, bright tears to their brink.
And dreams of delight shall on thee break,
And rainbow visions rise,
And all my soul shall strive to wake
Sweet wonder in thine eyes;
And all my soul shall strive to wake
Sweet wonder in thine eyes.
To cheat thee of a sigh,
Or charm thee to a tear!_”
CONTENTS
PART I
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE HOT-HOUSE 1
II. IN THE WILDS 14
III. THE VOICE IN THE CAVE 25
IV. THE EXPLANATION 43
V. THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER 52
VI. IN THE DUSK 68
VII. BY THE MARBLE CLIFFS 76
VIII. FATE 89
IX. APPROACHING THE RAPIDS 102
X. THE GIRL IN THE YELLOW GOWN 113
XI. AT THE SHRINE 120
XII. THE CONFESSION 133
PART II
I. THE INTRUDER 144
II. IRIS AND RALPH 157
III. JUSTIN GOES AWAY 168
IV. THE BAR OF DESTINY 177
V. REMORSE 185
VI. HER RESOLVE 190
VII. CONSOLED 195
VIII. CAPTAIN BARTON’S PLAN 201
IX. TO THE RESCUE 206
X. THE SUMMIT 218
XI. WHAT THE FIELD-GLASSES REVEALED 237
XII. HER OFFER 251
XIII. THE GOLDEN ROAD 262
XIV. “HOPE” 270
PART III
I. THE EARL’S VISIT 275
II. THE CABLES 285
III. THEIR GOAL 298
PART I
CHAPTER I
THE HOT-HOUSE
“Imagine any one brought up like Iris Dearn actually preferring
Australia to London--it is as bad as liking briar-roses better than
orchids!” And the speaker allowed her large dark eyes, now cold with
scorn, to wander round the crowded reception rooms, decorated with the
rare flowers she had just named.
“Yes, it _is_ rather peculiar, Lady Maud,” replied the thin, elderly
man she had addressed, moving one of his wrinkled, well-manicured
hands. “Still, Australia is a very fascinating country. It is the
baby-nation, of course; but the baby is able to toddle now and it has
most charming--though perhaps a little wilful and wayward--baby ways. I
believe it also shows signs of great intelligence; it is going to make
a deep imprint in history--I should not be in the least surprised if
Australia turned out to be the genius in the World’s family!”
Lady Maud Townsville made a slight movement with her scantily covered
shoulders. “Infant prodigies rarely grow up anything but bores,” she
said disdainfully.
“I did not mean to imply that Australia was an infant prodigy--it is
far from that! In fact at present it is merely a delightful, healthy
child, a little spoilt by rather excessive petting from Providence, but
vigorous and lively, with most engaging ways and full of promise for
future development!”
Just then all conversation was suddenly hushed into silence, for a
famous soprano had made her way to the piano and the accompanist was
striking the opening chords of her song.
Her voice was clear, rich and full. She trilled like a bird, and words
dropped from her lips like smooth round pearls of sound.
She sang about love, blue skies and purling streams. Her music brought
summer with it: soft breezes from the sea, and the lap of drowsy
sun-kissed waves. It suggested drifting white clouds, swaying corn,
scarlet poppies, new-mown grass and buttercups. It made the swelling
tones of exuberant larks tremble into the warm orchid-scented air of
the luxurious drawing-rooms. The guests filling them were suddenly
carried back to long sunlit days spent in magnificent country places,
roaming in green mysterious woods, wandering by silvery lakes, and
driving under long avenues of beech, oak, or stately fir trees.
“Her singing has atmosphere,” remarked Sir Edwin Graves when the song
was over. “She brought back summer to us in this chilly, foggy November
night. Her music has power to do that. But it could not set the air
stirring with passion.”
Lady Maud permitted her costly fan to drop to her pale blue silk knees.
“Who wants passion in these modern times?--it is out of date. We have
outgrown it--with all other savagery.”
“Do you really place love, with its servant, passion, under the
category of savagery?” inquired Sir Edwin, turning to his companion
with a look in his watery blue eyes as if he were regarding a specimen
in a museum which rather interested him.
“Love of what?” asked the woman beside him, with a touch of mockery in
her cool voice; “of rank--position--fabulous wealth?” And her fine eyes
swept the moving, stirring rooms with their artistic splendour and soft
languorous elegance.
He met her derision composedly. “No, I meant love of one human being
for another--the kind of love which would lay down life itself for the
object of its devotion.”
“Hopelessly ancient sentiments, my dear Sir Edwin! That kind of
affection died with Romeo. In these days we flirt with the good-looking
men, but we marry the rich ones.” Lady Maud lifted her well-poised head
with a touch of defiance. She was marrying one of England’s richest
men, whose reputation was as notorious as his wealth.
A little lower down the room sat a beautiful woman with coppery hair,
dreamy eyes and a complexion like white and pink rose petals. A tall,
dark man, with a well-formed, mask-like face stood beside her. He had
just asked her a question and she raised her great limpid eyes to his
as if she were merely replying to some casual remark, but her tones
were low as she said, “I wish you would not ask me these questions
here.”
“May I ask them somewhere else--may I come and see you alone to-morrow
afternoon?” He bent over her a little and a curious expression
struggled into his mask-like features.
“My husband insists on my motoring down with him to-morrow to look at
a new shooting-box he is rather keen on getting; we shall not be back
till late,” she replied evenly.
“But will you let me come some other time?”
“I shall be at home on Sunday afternoon at five o’clock.”
“May I come then and--_ask_?”
“Yes, but remember I have not promised to answer you.” And her smooth
tones held a soft challenge in their careless banter.
A plain woman, with large, protruding teeth, watched them from the
other side of the room. “Lady Langton is going too far in this
flirtation,” she commented to herself with a snarling smile; “she
will end in the divorce court one of these days, and then--” a gleam
of malicious anticipation shot for a moment into her long narrow
eyes--“then we shall have some spicy revelations!”
On a rose-coloured settee sat the hostess, Lady Dearn, talking to an
elderly Duchess.
Lady Dearn was rather short, but she had a well-proportioned figure and
held herself with youthful straightness. Her face was not beautiful,
but it pleased. Her rather small china-blue eyes had just the right
amount of animation; they looked expressive without betraying the least
feeling; they held refined vivacity which never bordered on vulgar
excitement.
“How is Iris?” asked the stately Duchess.
Lady Dearn lifted her eyebrows slightly. “She is always happy in
Australia. I cannot understand how it is the child has taken such a
fancy to that wild place. I am sure it is most extraordinary she should
care for that sort of life!”
“There is no talk of her coming home, then?” Iris was a great favourite
with the magnificent old lady.
“Not the slightest. She and her cousin are going to spend the summer
in Tasmania, at some terrible out-of-the-way place amongst great
lonely mountains, where there are lots of horrid caves and all that
kind of thing.” Lady Dearn shuddered a little. “Think of _my_ daughter
preferring _that_ to _this_!” And she glanced round her superb home
with a puzzled expression on her serene, unlined face.
“But you will surely not allow Iris to stay out there too long? It is
perfectly appalling for such a beautiful and charming girl as that to
waste her loveliness on gum-trees and kangaroos.”
“It is certainly shocking--but how can I prevent it? When children
grow up they please themselves.” She made a pretty little deprecating
gesture of helplessness.
“Of course the young must live their own lives, and they have a
right to please themselves, if their tastes run along--well----” she
hesitated slightly.
“Civilised lines,” suggested the aggrieved parent, “but when they do
not, you think mothers should interfere; quite so, I agree with you.
But I am powerless; Iris is deaf to reason and persuasion; she is of
age, and, as you know, has her own money--what can I do? It is late
to restrain her now; I should never have allowed her to go for that
first trip with her father--that did the damage; she was never happy in
London afterwards.”
As she talked to the Duchess, she caught sight of her second daughter,
Helen, standing by a large console mirror, speaking to a dignitary of
the Church. She sighed a little. Helen was so plain, and she pined for
admiration and attention, while her beautiful sister was so indifferent
to these things that, after two seasons of continual social triumph,
she had chosen to hide her loveliness in the untamed solitudes of the
Australian bush! It was exasperating! And how would it all end? She was
losing all her chances of a brilliant marriage, and no girl had better
chances than Iris. Her remarkable beauty and delightful personality had
taken London by storm.
When she made her début the society papers had been full of her
praises. Her photo had appeared in all the magazines. Every one with
two eyes agreed about her perfect features, her dazzling colouring,
superb figure and elegant bearing. Every one had enthused about
the wonderful blue of her eyes, their bewildering expression, the
phenomenal length of her black lashes and her enchanting smile! Iris
could have married nobility of highest rank, and now--a wave of
annoyance flushed Lady Dearn’s smooth face. Why was Iris so different
from Helen? Why had she no ambition, no appreciation of the enormous
advantages circumstances had placed at her disposal? How could the
vast plains of Australia, the rugged mountains of Tasmania, prove a
stronger attraction than all London was prepared to shower on this
imperious young beauty, who stood aloof and unmoved by all its homage
and adulation? Lady Dearn’s vexation increased as she thought of her
daughter’s inexplicable choice.
But the Hon. Iris Dearn was being discussed by more people than her
mother and her ducal friend that night. In another room, close to
a large marble Venus, a small lavender-tinted lady talked in low
eager tones about her to a young officer who had just returned from
India on furlough. He had evidently expected to see the girl at her
mother’s reception, and the woman beside him was pouring very annoying
information into his attentive ear. “You know Iris was only eighteen
when her father was ordered a long sea voyage,” she was saying, “and
dear Lady Dearn was so busy, the winter season just commencing, so of
course she could not take him herself, and the dear child begged so
hard to be allowed to go--she just adored her father; so eventually her
mother yielded, though she did not approve of her going at all, as she
was to come out that season.
“They went to South Australia and stayed for some months with a niece
of Lord Dearn’s, who had married a squatter there. When Lord Dearn
returned to England,” continued the colourless voice, “his health
gave way completely, and he died soon afterwards. Poor Lady Dearn was
so upset--it was dreadful to lose such a devoted husband, and having
to postpone Iris’s coming out, again; for of course she could not be
presented while they were in mourning. So dear Iris was nearly twenty
when she made her début. She only had two seasons in London, and then,
as ill-fate would have it, the cousin they stayed with in Australia
lost her husband, came to England for a short trip, and persuaded Iris
to go back with her--not that she needed much persuasion; I think she
would have gone sooner or later in any case, for she was perfectly
in love with the place--such a pity, people simply raved about her
here! But--” a sentimental look crept into her small, sharp-featured
face, “she doesn’t seem to have any heart for men at all, only an odd
infatuation for that far-away, strange land.”
The handsome bronzed face of the young officer relaxed a little.
“I can’t understand it at all,” went on the talkative little woman in
lavender; “of course there can’t be any of her own class out there for
her to mix with, except her cousin, and _she_ has probably deteriorated
by this time, having lived there for years. It is most curious! And
Iris was so fastidious, too--no one in London was good enough for her.
I believe she had rather a rupture with her mother over some Earl she
wanted her to marry, and the girl absolutely refused, because he had
once--well, you know what men are--though this was rather an ugly piece
of gossip. But Iris would have nothing to do with him on that account,
and yet she has gone out to stay for an indefinite time in a country
where England sends her--well--the dregs of her families! They used
to be sent to America--these unfortunates--but now they send them to
Australia instead; so much safer--America was much too close, and the
banished ones had a way of returning unexpectedly.”
The speaker sighed becomingly. “You remember young Strathfell--the
second son? Terrible about him, wasn’t it? His father has never got
over it. Ah, perhaps you were in India when it happened. He must have
had a wild strain in him, poor boy, for he actually quarrelled with his
father because he wanted to become a professional singer, and of course
the old man would not give his consent to such a thing. But he really
had a marvellous voice, quite the most touching I have ever heard; and
he was so handsome and delightful! Still, it was really too foolish
to quarrel with his father, be disinherited, and never be allowed to
visit his home again--all for the sake of singing! His father made him
promise never to use his own name either. He had the decency not to
appear in public in England, but he created a perfect furore on the
Continent and in America! However it all came to a sad end; he nearly
drank himself to death, and finally went to Australia, and has not been
heard of since. Then there was General Foulsham’s son----”
But her listener was not interested any longer, and, making some excuse
of wishing to speak to their hostess, he left her.
After his departure, a lady sitting on her right in a smart black
gown, with a huge scarlet poppy fastened at the point where gauzy
shoulder-straps met in front of her low-cut bodice, said to Miss
Marshall, “I heard you telling Captain Barton all about Iris. I don’t
wonder you are mystified; it is really tragic! And she had such
brilliant offers! But goodness knows what will happen to her now. I
suppose she will end by marrying some bushranger!” prophesied the Hon.
Mrs. St. Hill Cresden, turning her rather well-shaped head to watch an
American multi-millionaire who had just passed.
“A bushranger?” repeated her companion questioningly, “There are no
bushrangers in Australia nowadays.”
“Oh, dear Miss Marshall, don’t take me so literally; I didn’t mean a
bushranger, of course, but a bushman, or whatever you call them; they
are really all the same, you know--Iris will end by marrying one of
them. I shall write and warn her.”
“How dreadful! But after she has been mixed up with the people there
I shall not be surprised at anything she does. It must be most
demoralising never meeting any one of her own class, except the
failures we send out. I wonder if Iris will come across young Foulsham.
He was so clever and had his share of good looks too; but they say his
debts were terrible! No wonder, for his fancy for actresses was on a
large scale too, I believe; debts and actresses generally go together,
don’t you think? He had to be sent out; it is just as well Australia
was discovered! I wonder what they are all doing now? Minding sheep,
I suppose--such a nice, healthy occupation for prodigals; all the men
seem to do that out there;--what an alarming number of sheep there must
be when it takes everybody in the country to look after them!”
The famous soprano began to sing again.
Her guitar-like tones pulsated through the sumptuous rooms. They
floated into the hot brilliant spaces as soft moonbeams float into
night. They brought dream-like radiance; the liquid splendour of
silent lakes caressed by silver rays from a rising moon; the faint echo
of boatmen lilting softly as shiny oars glided over the limpid deep.
“She has been to Italy,” said a young diplomatist to Lady Maud, when
the singer had withdrawn.
They were standing in a small alcove sheltered by a profusion of palms
and ferns.
“Very likely,” replied Lady Maud, beginning to move her fan languidly
to and fro.
“Why don’t you come to Italy for Christmas? The climate is most
delightful in the winter,” said the man in the foreign service, turning
to his companion questioningly.
Lady Maud stopped the swaying movement of her fan and regarded the toes
of her pale blue silk slippered feet with a speculative air. “I had
thought of going to Rome for the winter; but after all I think I had
better reserve Italy for my honeymoon.” She glanced up at him now.
She was not disappointed, for she saw him wince.
“Maud,” he began, a dark look coming into his bright eyes, “you can’t
possibly--you don’t mean to say that you really will----”
“My dear Cecil, of course I will--nothing is surer.”
“It’s preposterous!” he replied with some heat.
“What is preposterous--his fortune?” she asked with gracious derision.
He looked between her lashes. “I was thinking of his--reputation.”
Lady Maud’s eyelids flickered a little; then she answered with defiant
composure: “You don’t suppose notorious wealth can exist without
correspondingly notorious other things, do you? I am afraid your
experience of the world is too limited to permit you to rise high in
the diplomatic service.”
The man bent over her suddenly. “Maud, for heaven’s sake throw him
over--and--marry for--”
“How stiflingly hot it is here.” She stepped out from the sheltering
palms and stood in full view of the crowded rooms. “Please take me to
my aunt, I believe she wants to go home early. Ah, there she is coming
towards us. It has been so nice to see you again, Cecil--I hope to meet
you in Rome--some day--good-night.” She made a little gracious movement
towards him with her fan and joined an old lady in black velvet,
wearing a magnificent diamond tiara.
* * * * *
“What a confounded nuisance that Iris is away just now,” muttered
Captain Barton to himself, as he sat frowningly in a corner of a taxi
on his way to his club. “I shall call on Lady Dearn to-morrow and get
her permission to go out and persuade the girl to come back--it is
outrageous for her to be out there! I believe I shall just be able to
do it in the time.”
Then he glanced out on the crowded streets. It was a dreary looking
night. The pavements glittered dully with moisture and mud. The noise
of the traffic was muffled by a chilly fog. Yet he loved the place.
To one coming from the glare of India the thick cold atmosphere was
exhilarating. It was really hard luck having to leave London so soon.
But some months ago he had seen his old playmate’s photograph in her
court dress in a magazine, and the lovely picture had sent the blood
tingling through his veins and made him determined to marry her. Of
course others had been determined about the same thing, and failed; but
then--Ralph Barton straightened his tall, well-knit figure--girls could
never resist him: he was a great favourite in India; so, if he really
meant business, and made Iris aware of it, of course it would be all
right--of course--of course.
CHAPTER II
IN THE WILDS
“He looks like a gentleman,” said Iris Dearn, drawing patterns in the
fine white dust with the point of her elegant parasol.
“He not only looks like a gentleman, I am sure he _is_ one,” replied
her cousin, with slight emphasis, as she threw back the long streamers
of her silver-grey veil which a light breeze had blown teasingly before
her face.
“Then I wonder how he comes to be in this position,” mused the girl,
ceasing to make patterns in the dust and looking dreamily up the
straight bush road by which they were sitting.
Mrs. Henderson shrugged her massive shoulders. “Now, my dear, you have
touched on a mystery that we shall never solve. All that we shall ever
know is, that Mr. Rees is a gentleman and that he is a driver and guide
at this very out-of-the-way place. How he came to occupy this position
we shall never be told.”
Iris Dearn made no comment at the moment. Her deep blue eyes, shadowed
by very black luxuriant lashes, were still gazing in gentle abstraction
up the sunlit track. “It would be interesting to know a little about
his past, don’t you think? He talks so well and I am sure he has had a
splendid education; he really ought to be doing very different work
from this.”
“Yes, he does talk well; and there is no doubt about his education. As
you say, it would be rather interesting to know how he came to take
up his present work. But we shall not be told anything about that.
Though we have been out with him so much, and had so many talks, he
has never once referred to his past; in fact, have you noticed that
he never talks about himself at all, and if by any chance any one
makes the slightest personal reference, he shrinks into unapproachable
aloofness at once? Miss Smith was telling me yesterday, that he has
been with them for nearly three years, but that he had never told them
anything of his former life, and he is not the kind of man they care to
ask questions about his private affairs: for though he is so awfully
good to every one and has that air of deferential courtesy, he has an
impenetrable reserve as well, which keeps even the most curious people
at bay.”
“Yes,” acquiesced Miss Dearn, following the movements of a terra-cotta
tinted butterfly flickering among some flowering bushes. “He is not
the sort of man to satisfy idle curiosity. He will not stand being
patronised either. That vulgar little woman with all the diamonds, in
the tourist party last week, tried to patronise him when they first
went out, but she soon gave it up! I never saw anything better done
than the neat, courteous way he put her in her place, and without in
the least appearing to do so; it was masterly!”
“Yes, that was really clever--I felt inclined to clap and say ‘Bravo!’”
“So did I. That really was an odious little woman--the way she first
spoke to him made me want to shake her.”
Mrs. Henderson’s small plump hands were again occupied putting the
streamers of her veil away from her face; when this was accomplished
she said, turning her round, kind face to her cousin, “By the way,
Iris, that soft new shade of blue you wore last night suited you to
perfection--it just matched your eyes.”
But her cousin was not interested in clothes just then. “He is very
brave,” she said irrelevantly, turning the soft oval of her face once
more towards the long stretch of glistening road. “Wasn’t it splendid
the way he caught that runaway horse the other day and saved that poor
old drunkard’s life!”
“Yes, it was most heroic; and he was nearly killed himself over
it. My heart just stood still when the horse dragged him all that
distance--still he managed to pull it up in the end. But it was a
reckless thing to do, and the old fellow in the cart wasn’t worth the
risk! Miss Smith says Mr. Rees is always doing things like that; he
doesn’t mind what dangers he runs into as long as he helps somebody.
The whole district comes to him for help. If their cows or horses are
ill they always send for him, and he often sits up all night with
people, too. Miss Green’s father, at the shop, has awful heart attacks,
and whenever they come on they always send for Mr. Rees, and he
frequently has to stay with the invalid till early morning.”
Miss Dearn’s delicately gloved hand began to stroke the moss-covered
log on which they were sitting. “I have never met any one so kind and
thoughtful. He seems to think of everything for every one’s comfort,
and does it all in such a quiet unobtrusive manner that one hardly
realises he is doing anything at all. I wonder if he is happy,” she
pondered with cool, detached interest.
“Happy!” repeated her cousin, “how could any man be happy with eyes
like that? Haven’t you noticed the deep melancholy in them when he is
not talking? It is really there all the time, even when he smiles; but,
when he is silent and thinks himself unobserved, the sadness in his
face makes my heart positively ache!”
Her companion brushed away a little green beetle which had lighted on
her dainty gown. “Grey eyes always look sad, don’t you think? They are
so much sadder than blue or brown ones--like grey skies, always looking
a little wistful.”
Mrs. Henderson suddenly glanced at her small, gold wrist-watch. “We
really must go back,” she said rising slowly. “We ought to be in good
time for dinner to-night; generally we are so late with all these long
outings. By the way, Mr. Rees asked me, just before we came out, if
we would care to have another look at the big caves; a large party is
arriving to-night and wants to see them to-morrow. I believe he wants
us to go, and said he would save us the front seats in the brake if
we decided to visit the caves again. It is so nice of him always to
keep the best seats for us. I was so amused the other day when I was
standing on the verandah waiting for you: one of the ladies tried her
best to secure the seat next to him, and coaxed in the most arch and
fascinating way to get it; but he was relentless and the front seats
were rigidly reserved for us. I think he likes to have us there.”
“That is only because we have been here so long and been out with him
so often,” said Miss Dearn, opening her long ivory-handled parasol.
“Perhaps so; yet, even in his aloof way, he may like some visitors
better than others I suppose--he certainly talks more to us than to any
of the other people.”
Iris made no reply as she walked beside her cousin, tall, erect,
slender--all in white, from her slim shoes to her slanting parasol;
her exquisite profile with its bewildering contours of chin and throat
softly outlined against the bronze-green bush, her deep blue eyes,
shadowed almost to blackness by their long drooping lashes, looking
straight before her.
Mrs. Henderson glanced at her and exclaimed involuntarily: “Iris, you
ought to be closely veiled. It is really not fair to men, having a girl
looking like you walking about--it is not! I don’t wonder so many of
them have gone absolutely mad over you--I should myself if I were a
man! I wonder no one has ever come at night and run away with you--I
shouldn’t blame them if they did!”
Iris smiled a soft, indulgent smile. She had been accustomed to such
admiration all her life. “No one ever feels as badly as that--they all
get over it in time. Anyhow up here there is not the slightest danger,
as we never see any men except those awful tourists who stare, and
stare, and then--go away.”
Neither the girl nor her cousin thought of the driver just then.
By this time they had left the bush track and were now walking on the
open main road leading to the small township where they were staying.
The great chain of mountains surrounding the district had come into
view. A soft haze and the pale blue smoke of bush fires made the
towering ridges look strangely remote and out of reach. It seemed as if
they had shrunk back into some impenetrable reserve, which would never
lift again and reveal their austere savage beauty.
“Here comes Mr. Rees,” said Mrs. Henderson suddenly, interrupting
herself in the middle of a remark about the English letters she had
received that morning.
Miss Dearn followed the direction of her cousin’s gaze. “Are you sure
that is he?” she asked a little absently. She was thinking just then of
her mother’s urgent appeal to come home immediately.
“Why, of course! Who else in this place walks like that? If nothing
else gives him away, his walk does. No one but a gentleman could walk
that way; there is a suggestion of Eton or Harrow about it.”
They watched the man in the paddock making his way to the road. He
was rather tall, straight, well-made, and he moved with an ease and
careless grace which made it a pleasure to look at him. As he came
nearer they could distinguish his finely chiselled features, which bore
their usual expression of preoccupation and quiet gravity.
He had reached the fence now and vaulted over it with the lightness of
a deer, then he greeted the ladies waiting for him in the shade of a
large wattle.
“Good afternoon,” he said in an exceedingly pleasant voice, lifting
his cap and baring a very shapely head, covered with thick black
short-cut hair.
He wore a loose brown Norfolk jacket, a little the worse for wear, but
of good material and cut, and his pink-striped shirt was spotless.
There was an air of neatness about him--not the punctilious, fussy
kind, but the unstudied correctness which comes naturally to those who
have good taste in clothes, and know how to put them on without wasting
much time over their toilet.
“Are you coming home too, Mr. Rees?” said Mrs. Henderson, with the
friendly graciousness she would bestow on an equal.
“Yes--may I walk along with you?”
“Of course, we shall be glad to have a chat with you--we haven’t had a
talk for two or three days.”
Miss Dearn awoke from the contemplation of her mother’s letter. “Have
you been on another errand of mercy?” she inquired turning a dazzling
impersonal smile on the driver.
“Do you call going to a farm to return a borrowed horse by such an
exalted name?” queried Rees, a momentary light coming into his sad grey
eyes.
“I wonder what makes you do all these kind things,” the girl mused,
ignoring his reply. “We have been talking about you this afternoon and
saying how wonderful it is of you to help the whole neighbourhood the
way you do. We watched you stop that runaway horse the other day--that
was really heroic!” she concluded with a fine sweep of her head and a
glowing splendour in her eyes.
Iris Dearn had a magnificent way of bestowing praise. She did it in
such a regal, generous way, like a beneficent goddess distributing
large bounty, yet without the faintest tinge of patronage in her manner.
A slight flush crept under the tan of the guide’s face. “You exaggerate
my usefulness, Miss Dearn. As for the bolting horse, any one would have
tried to stop it, and I just happened to be on the spot,” he answered a
little hastily, but without awkward embarrassment.
Her blue eyes looked steadily into his. “Mr. Rees, we have never met
any one so ready to help others as you; it has been quite a revelation
to see the way you bear the burdens of the whole district; I didn’t
know there were people like you in the world!”
It was the first opportunity she had had of letting him know how much
they admired his bravery in rescuing the poor old drunkard two days
before.
A buggy was just passing and the rumbling of the wheels made
conversation impossible.
When the noise of the vehicle had died away Mrs. Henderson said: “Miss
Smith told me this morning about some Australian writer who visits
here.”
“What is his name?” asked her cousin with keen interest.
“Brian Shadwell.”
“I have never read any of his books--I suppose they are Australian?”
questioned Miss Dearn turning to the driver.
“No, they are not Australian. His scenes are generally laid in England.”
“How disappointing! I should think it would be far more interesting
to describe the life out here. If I were a writer I should revel in
putting the atmosphere of this place on paper and sending it broadcast
over the world;--it would be like bottling up sunshine and mountain
breezes, and distributing them everywhere! But are his books good?”
“I have only seen two of them. They did not appeal to me,” said Rees a
little diffidently. “He writes about a very undesirable type of woman,”
he added, expanding a little.
“What are they like?” interrogated Mrs. Henderson.
“Shallow, pale-faced, exotic; the kind of women who become engaged to a
man for the sake of excitement and sensation only.”
“I wonder what type of woman you really admire,” said Mrs. Henderson,
making a bold attempt to draw him out.
Rees stooped, picked up some broken glass lying on the road, and threw
it away. When he was erect again, he replied: “That is a subject I have
not thought much about--a driver can’t afford to, you know.” And then
he led the conversation into quite different channels.
A little while afterwards they turned a corner of the road and the
insignificant, self-conscious little township came into view. It
consisted of a few scattered cottages, one small shop, two churches,
a home-made-looking post office and a large, imposing boarding-house
facing the great western mountains.
“Isn’t this the quaintest place you ever saw!” exclaimed Miss Dearn,
her blue eyes luminous with animation. “Except for the boarding-house
it looks like a garment which has been put away in a drawer and
forgotten for many years, but eventually found and put out to air.”
“It is so strange there is no hotel here; I am sure one would pay
well,” observed Mrs. Henderson, looking towards the big stone
boarding-house.
The driver glanced suddenly at a small garden they were passing and did
not reply for a moment. Then he said in slow, measured tones: “We have
local option here you know, and the people won’t have a licensed house.”
* * * * *
While Iris was changing her gown for dinner that evening Mrs. Henderson
came into her room. “I am sure Mr. Rees is not married,” she remarked,
with the air of one whose harmless curiosity on some small matter has
been satisfied. “I don’t think he will ever marry either; he evidently
doesn’t think he can afford the luxury of a wife. He spoke as if he had
settled the question finally.”
“I don’t think he cares for women; though he is so delightfully
chivalrous to them they do not seem to interest him in the least. He is
so much occupied with other things that he has no time for sentiment.
If he has ever been in love, he has got over it long ago.”
“I wish you were a little more interested in love, Iris,” commented her
cousin.
Iris glanced composedly at her own beautiful reflection in the mirror.
“I am interested in an abstract way, of course--every one is. But
I don’t want to have any personal experience of it. I am awfully
interested in the South Pole Exploration, but haven’t the least desire
to go tumbling about among the icebergs myself.”
“Your mother would not be at all surprised if you joined the next
Shackleton expedition, I am sure; after the awful shock you have
already given her by coming out here she would be prepared for
anything.”
Iris turned, put her lovely arms round her cousin’s neck and kissed
her fondly. “If it were not for you I am afraid I should not be here
now. But poor dear mother does get so perplexed over what she calls
my uncivilised tendencies. She cannot understand how this wild flower
happened to come into her highly cultivated garden. I have often
wondered how I came to be there myself.”
“My dear, you get the strain from your father’s side, of course--from
your Italian grandmother.”
* * * * *
“Doesn’t Miss Dearn look a perfect vision in evening dress!” remarked
Miss Smith to Rees as she brought him some mountain trout at dinner
that night, glancing over to the small table at the other side of the
room, where Mrs. Henderson and her cousin were sitting. “I have never
seen any one look quite so dazzling--have you? Her skin is so soft and
white, and that wonderful colour in her cheeks makes me think of the
shade on the breast of a robin; and her hair--is it brown or golden?
Just look at her eyes, they seem like great blue shimmering stars!--she
is lovely!”
“That’s right!” replied Rees, laconically, addressing his attention to
the mountain trout before him.
CHAPTER III
THE VOICE IN THE CAVE
“My lamp has gone out--where is the guide?” cried a girlish voice
excitedly, as she clutched at the wire rope acting as a protecting
fence to prevent visitors slipping into the chasm below.
“Take my lamp,” said an elderly man, who had come up behind her, “mine
is all right,” and he held out the lantern to her as he spoke.
“No! No! I will not take yours,” she expostulated; “it would not be
fair; but if you will be so good as to call the guide, I shall be much
obliged to you--I will stand here on this firm rock till he comes.”
The elderly man disappeared into the confusion of weird shadows and
flickering blotches of light cast by numerous small lamps, revealing
walls of stalactitic formation, clammy boulders, and the constant
moving of blurred figures, climbing steadily upwards towards an inky
darkness.
Presently a form appeared making his way downwards, and a lanky youth
came into view, looking distortedly raw-boned and uncouth in the partly
lit gloom.
“Take this lamp, miss,” he said, passing her his lantern, “I’ll help
you up,” and he extended a hard rough hand with large protruding
knuckles.
But the lady did not take the proffered help. “I want the guide,” she
said insistently. “Will you be kind enough to ask him to come to me? I
have already sent one messenger for him.”
“I’m the guide,” replied the gruff voice good-naturedly. “These caves
belong to us, and we always take people through them ourselves.”
“Ah, it is the driver I should have asked for then--isn’t he here? I
saw him come in.”
“Yes, he did come in, but I don’t know where he is now.”
Very reluctantly the lady took the lamp, but ignored the outstretched
hand.
Presently, however, she found the climbing so steep that she was glad
of assistance. She hurried on as fast as the slippery stones would
permit, and was finally rewarded by hearing the hollow echo of distant
voices; and, as she bravely made faster progress, a crowd of fantastic
figures came into view. They were standing under a huge alabaster-like
archway, looking at the beautiful roof, lined with long limestone
icicles which had dropped into many wonderful shapes. In one corner was
a large harp-like formation, where stalactites spanned from ceiling to
floor into delicate strings, which produced sweet reluctant sounds, as
some of the men tapped them gently with their sticks.
From the archway the caves led into a long tunnel, paved halfway across
with large boulders, leaving a terrible chasm on the other side of the
stones, from which rose the dull roar of invisible water, leaping in
ferocious strength somewhere far below in the blackness.
“I don’t think I shall go any farther to-day,” said Iris Dearn to her
cousin, placing her raincoat on a big flat rock and sitting down. “I
have seen it all before, you know, and I have a fancy to stay here in
all this weirdness by myself--it will give me such strange feelings,
feelings I should never have under any other circumstances----”
“But surely you will be too frightened to be here all alone--it would
be horrible,” interrupted her cousin, looking after the rest of the
party, who were a little ahead.
“No, I shall not be afraid--I am sure I shall enjoy it.”
“Are you certain?” asked Mrs. Henderson, with misgiving in her tones.
“Yes, quite sure.”
“Then I will go with the others, for I should not like to be left
here, even if there were two of us---- Ugh!” she shuddered. “This is
like Hades, this hollow hill. Isn’t it strange, so many of the hills
in this locality seem to be hollow. Well, if you want to stay, I’m
going to hurry on to catch the others--I suppose it will be quite two
hours before we come back, so there will be plenty of time for the new
sensations you are pining for.”
Iris watched her making her way after the vanishing lights and soon
they had all turned a corner and disappeared in the darkness.
The girl placed her lamp on one of the low stony ledges, its bright
rays illumining the boulder-strewn track, but leaving the stalactitic
ceiling in gloomy dimness. Then she sat down again and looked about the
cave with curious wonder. Moist rocks bleared at her across the abyss.
She heard the drip of water she could not see, filtering through slimy
dark places. Beyond the rays of her lantern the blackness brooded
all round her as a thick, impenetrable mass, which stood waiting to
swallow the timid glow from her lamp; suddenly Iris shuddered. She
was not easily frightened, but something cold and clammy seemed to
reach out black, stealthy hands towards her. Mrs. Henderson’s words
came back to her. Was this hollow hill a Hades? Was she sitting now
in the ante-room of some Underworld--a terrible Underworld, piled
with gloom and forbidding shapes; an Underworld of gaping chasms, of
treacherous streams bounding in unfathomable depths; a world of eerie
sounds, menacing objects, slippery footholds, of slimy water creeping
insidiously from rock to rock?
Was there really such a Hades? And who were the occupants of such a
place? Was it the abode of departed beings, who had now been dragged
down by the shadow of their deeds to this abode of gloom?
Iris shivered. Were these spirits round her now? She fancied she could
hear soft, wailing notes blending with the drip of the water around her.
And suppose her lamp should go out!
She started violently.
The thick darkness would spring upon her. She felt that. It was
crouching to spring. It was only waiting for the feeble lantern to go
out and its power would be complete. It could assert itself, exercise
its forces. She would be utterly at its mercy then. And those wailing
spirits would gather round her--she could hear their faint whine
now. And if the light failed they would crowd in upon her, drag her
down--down--down into those awful, bottomless chasms!
She shut her eyes and felt her cheeks blanch with horrible coldness.
If only she had gone with the others!
Then suddenly a voice rose from the black vacuum below. It wound
its way a little uncertainly towards her. She listened in surprise.
Who could be singing down there? Surely no human being could be so
far below in that awful ravine? Was it some spirit chained in the
bottomless cavern--some spirit cast into the darkness to endure æons of
misery in the cruel, merciless gloom? A soul who longed for light, for
freedom, whose whole being quivered for sunlit air, blue skies, and the
sight of purple hills?--who yearned passionately for gladness, the song
of birds, the soft murmurs of the sea, and yet was doomed to an endless
existence amid the horrors of this clammy night? What was it? Had her
imagination beguiled her senses? Listen!
The sweet notes seemed to hold memories of days lived in the sunlight,
in freedom, in gladness! In them burned pain, anguish, hopelessness.
The soul was in despair. It would never be free again, never climb out
of its horrible prison.
It was a man’s voice, soft, rich, full of sad sweetness, gentle remorse
smouldering in every note.
Iris listened intently. She had forgotten her own fears. In her heart
surged a deep pity for the being who sang so sorrowfully far below
her in the fearful desolation. A strange longing began to stir in her
to grope her way down into the gaping fissure, till she reached the
captive singer. She half dreamed he might be a spirit who had lived a
sordid earth-life, committed evil deeds; but he was repentant now; his
tones trembled with sadness; he had endured age-long imprisonment in
the icy gloom, till his whole soul was one quivering, sobbing remorse!
Surely there should be some consolation for him now? She wanted to
go and comfort him. There was no one else to do so. All other feet
had hurried on. She alone had halted and heard the song-sobs from the
cleft. The quest must be hers. Some great Fate had willed it so. She
had heard the cry of anguish and she must respond. She shook off the
dream, but it returned.
What would the spirit be like? Would it be some shrivelled up old being
who had lived many years in the sunshine-world, before being cast into
the under-one? The voice was so mellow, yet throbbing with repressed
youth; it pulsated with unfulfilled hopes, a manhood broken, bound with
fetters intolerable! No, the spirit who sang could not be old; buoyant
youth still surged in his veins, blending with the ripe, full powers of
maturity.
The girl had risen. She leant over the big rocks barring the way to the
singer’s haunt. All at once the song ceased. The ugly stillness came
back, a silence relieved only by the far-away rush of water and the
constant dripping from the wet stones.
She leant farther over the boulders and peered into the huge black
gulf. But she could see nothing in the murky expanse. And yet somewhere
deep down in the clammy loneliness sat an imprisoned soul. She must
reach him. She could not leave him entombed in that black solitude.
She must make him sing again till she could find her way to him.
“Please sing again,” she called, leaning over the rocks and sending her
voice down through the pitchy gloom.
There was a moment’s pause, then a well-known voice replied, “Is that
you, Miss Dearn?”
“Yes,” she answered, with slight bewilderment in her tones. To find
that the being about whom she had woven these strange fancies was Rees,
the driver, had a curious effect on her. It partly brought her back to
solid reality, and yet she was unable to dismiss all her conjectures
at once; they clung to him and made him appear in a new light. The
sympathy which had welled up within her for the unknown singer in the
cave still went out to the man who called to her through the dark
spaces.
“Miss Dearn, where are you--are you all alone?”
She sat down and uttered a sigh of relief as she heard the hollow echo
of footsteps making their way towards her. Sometimes they were loud and
distinct, at others they died away in the darkness as if they would
never reach her. Then the echoes grew louder and a faint glimmer of
light appeared at the other end of the tunnel. Shortly afterwards she
could distinguish a form climbing rapidly up the stony pathway towards
her, and a few moments later the driver was beside her.
She watched him with strange interest. He was always pleasant to look
at. His form was so perfectly proportioned, and, though slight, there
was a suggestion of steely strength about it. His large, sombre eyes
met hers in the dimness, and it seemed to her there was a new, deep
sadness in them.
“Miss Dearn, how did you come to be left here all by yourself?” he
almost demanded.
“I wished it. I wanted to be here alone for awhile to see what it was
like,” she replied, smiling reassuringly into his anxious face.
“They should not have allowed you to do it--it is not safe. Suppose
your lamp had gone out and I had not been here, and you had tried to
grope your way back in the darkness--think of it, if you had slipped,
or taken one false step----” He stopped abruptly.
She looked up at him quickly. His handsome lean face was very grave and
pale. Her fancies about the pain-stricken entombed spirit came back to
her.
“Won’t you sit down?” she said, with a little sigh. “No, don’t sit on
those wet rocks; have half of my coat.” And she moved a little to make
room for him on the stone beside her.
“Where have you been?” she asked very quietly.
“Down in a deep ravine.”
“Don’t you ever take visitors there?”
“No. It is too dangerous, and there is such a lot of water, quite a big
stream.”
“A stream deep enough to drown in?”
“Yes.”
The girl shuddered slightly. The caves were really terrible; they
over-awed her with their weird black heights, their narrow burrow-like
passages, the invisible tumultuous streams and blood-curdling, yawning
depths. In the sunlight the imperious young Englishwoman walked with
assured confidence, unafraid, but here, surrounded by these mysterious
wonders, her courage failed her and she felt baffled and subdued. “And
you go down into those caverns without a lantern--I saw you carrying a
torch.”
“With a big party there are not enough lamps to spare one for me. But I
lit a small dry branch I had brought with me, and it just kept alight
till I was within the rays of your lantern. It was odd: it took only
one match to light it, but, in lighting that one match, I dropped my
box and it fell into the stream.”
There was a short silence, then Miss Dearn said, with soft ardour:
“What a wonderful voice you have! Why is it you have never let us hear
it before?”
“I very rarely sing,” he replied, with courteous reserve.
All at once there was a bright flash, the flame in the lantern had made
a quick flickering leap and then sunk into tired dimness.
“Great Cæsar! I believe that lamp is going out!” exclaimed Rees, as he
sprang up hastily.
By the time he was on his feet, there had been another flicker,
followed by sudden darkness.
“And we have no matches!” cried Miss Dearn in dismay.
“No; that is the worst of it. The lanterns have not been properly
looked after lately; owing to the number of visitors they have been
used so constantly, and I have been fearing some experience like this;
the boys are pretty careless. I wanted them to let me look after the
lamps for them, but they wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Whatever shall we do?” whispered Miss Dearn fearfully.
“We can do nothing except wait till the others come back.”
“But they will be over an hour yet; it is not more than half-an-hour
since they left me. Don’t you think you could take me out?” she
suggested, with a touch of entreaty in her voice.
“Of course, I could find the way out in the dark, but it would be most
dangerous to take you. You see we have to climb down those slippery
boulders nearly all the way and you might easily slip, even with my
help, and sprain your ankle or worse. The only way I would dare to take
you is to--carry you.”
“Oh no!” protested the girl. “I could not possibly let you do such a
thing--I am far too heavy.”
“I can carry heavy weights, and you are light.”
“No! I could not let you attempt it,” she said with finality.
“Well, then, we must wait for the others.”
He sat down again.
Neither of them spoke now.
The oppressive gloom was awful. It settled down all around them,
brooded over them, crept closer and closer. Iris felt its moist, icy
breath on her cheek. It struck chill. She felt cold all over. She shut
her eyes, but even then she could feel the stealthy darkness pressing
in upon her. It held a gruesome weight. It seemed as if the great hill
above them was crushing down on them--if the rocky ceiling should
give way!--she caught her breath with fear! They would be entombed
then--buried alive! She almost cried out in her anguish. And there
was that turbulent water rushing headlong in the black spaces--the
mighty torrent she could not see. But if it should rise--young Gill,
the guide, had told her it had risen once and flooded the lower part
of the caves. If it should rise now!--the distant roar seemed to grow
louder; was it swelling already? She knew that streams and rivers in
the district often rose with a rush; if this stream should do so now,
it would flood the lower passages, so that they could not get out. Her
heart beat in wild fear.
“Oh, isn’t it awful?” she gasped.
“What is awful?” asked the man at her side calmly, but with a gentle
touch of sympathy.
“The darkness and--everything; aren’t you afraid?”
“No, of course not.”
She breathed a deep sigh: half of relief because of the strength his
calmness brought her, and half from new terror as she listened to the
hidden water splashing more loudly in the stillness.
She moved instinctively nearer to her companion.
He felt her tremble.
“Miss Dearn, are you really frightened?”
There was deep concern in his voice now.
“I am,” she faltered. “I know it is dreadfully foolish of me--but I
can’t help it.”
“What are you afraid of?” he asked gently.
“The blackness--everything. It is so terrible to be right down here in
this unearthly place--the top of the tunnel might give way and all that
fearful hill fall on us.”
“The ceiling will not give way--it is strong, solid rock,” he soothed
her.
“Mr. Gill told me there had been landslips here which completely buried
part of the caves.”
“But not where these firm rocks are overhead.”
There was another awful silence.
Then he felt her tremble violently again.
“Miss Dearn, don’t be afraid--there is really nothing to fear.” She
felt the strong sympathy in his tones.
But it did not set her terror at rest. “Can’t you hear that water?--oh,
how I hate it! You can’t see it and--I believe it is rising.”
“It will not rise.”
“It does sometimes. Mr. Gill told me it has risen and destroyed that
lovely fern corner near the entrance. Oh, if only you could take me
out--I don’t know how to stay here all that time!”
She was shaking from head to foot now.
The driver grew alarmed. “Miss Dearn, I will take you out if you will
allow me to carry you. I can easily do it. I promise to bring you out
in safety. Will you?”
“No! No! I could not let you do it.” Her tones were again final.
“But I can’t bear you to suffer like this.” There was a tremor in his
words.
“Oh, I know I am absolutely absurd, but this is--Hades----”
He felt her swaying slightly against him. He caught her in his arms
quickly.
“Are you faint, Miss Dearn?” he ejaculated under his breath.
There was no answer.
“My God, she has fainted!” he muttered.
He drew her closer towards him so that her head rested comfortably
against his shoulder, then he dipped his handkerchief in one of the
pools between the rocks and began to bathe her forehead gently.
She was unconscious for only a few minutes before she began to stir
restlessly. She lifted her head slightly, then let it sink back wearily.
“Miss Dearn, are you feeling better?” he asked anxiously.
“Where--where am I?” she murmured vaguely.
“You are here in the cave--with me,” involuntarily his arms tightened
round her.
“Yes, yes,” she answered drowsily; “I remember the darkness was just
going to choke me--it is coming back again,” she added, fear returning
to her voice.
“No, no, it is not coming back--nothing shall harm you, I am holding
you--just rest quietly till you feel better.”
She drew a deep sigh and lay back more calmly. Presently she moved
again. “I am better now,” she whispered and made an effort to sit up.
“Please don’t exert yourself, just stay where you are; you were frozen
and you are just getting warm now.”
“How kind you are to me!” she breathed. “It was ridiculous of me to
faint. I have never done such a thing before. I suppose it was the want
of air and being so terribly--frightened.”
“You are not afraid now, are you?” he asked, bending over her.
“No,” she faltered; “but--I--mustn’t stay here.”
“Of course you must. I am not going to run any risk of your fainting
again,” he said, with tender concern.
She did not stir for some time. There was wonderful comfort in the
sheltering clasp of his arms, it brought her a strange sense of
security, a delicious calm crept over her. All at once she understood
why every one trusted this man, why all sought his help, why weak
things came to him for protection. She felt the strength emanating from
him. Within his arms was a rest which was wonderful. “I am so thankful
you are here,” she said under her breath, “if I had been all alone now
I should just have gone mad with terror.”
“I am more glad than I can say to be here, but you know you should
never have been left by yourself--it is too much for any one who is not
accustomed to it, especially as the lamp went out and you have more
than your share of imagination.”
Another silence fell between them and in the silence a sense of horror
returned. She could hear the water clamouring to reach her. It really
seemed to be rising--she was sure it was coming nearer.
“Oh, do talk,” she cried in fear; “don’t let me hear that horrible
water--it seems----” She stopped and instinctively nestled closer to
him.
“Would you like me to sing to you?”
“Please do.”
He paused a moment as if considering what he should sing, and then he
began in soothing exquisite tones--
“I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”
The water receded. The awful darkness drew back. She forgot everything
but the delightful sound of his voice. It was a true tenor, deliciously
soft on the high notes and containing an ethereal purity throughout
its entire range. He sang with the perception and feelings of a born
artist, and with the perfection of a highly trained one. Every note
quivered with beauty and tender sympathy, and when he reached the
climax--
“And all my soul shall strive to wake
Sweet wonder in thine eyes,”
his voice held a melting, an almost unbearable, sweetness.
Iris stirred in his arms. His singing moved her as she had never been
moved before. It seemed to reach some unknown depth in her. It brought
enchantment; but it also brought a strange fear. It held her. It
enthralled her; but with it she was conscious of a curious uneasiness.
It seemed as if the music laid soft chains about her, and involuntarily
she shrank a little from this sweet captivity, yet some hidden part of
her revelled in the magic thraldom.
Rees sang on--
“And dreams of delight shall on thee break
And rainbow visions rise.”
Did he feel her thrill to his music? She did not stop to consider, she
was only aware that her whole being responded to every note of his
song. Then the last liquid sound faded into the darkness.
“Oh, sing it again,” she pleaded tremulously. “I can’t bear you to
stop!”
Without comment he began the song once more.
The first time he had sung it with the natural sweetness and beauty
his voice possessed. He had sung to please and soothe her, to brighten
the darkness. She felt that he had sung it to her as to a tired
frightened child he wished to calm and rest. But as she heard the
words the second time, Iris was conscious of another element, a new
indefinable something which was not in his tones when he sang at first.
What had caused this subtle change?
But she could not stop to answer her stirring wonders. She was
listening passionately as she had never listened to anything before.
His voice floated round her, pressed close to her, caressed her with
its irresistible charm. The words came to her as if they had been
whispered from his soul, conveying a special message to her own and she
felt something within her respond fiercely to his song.
All her fear of the cave and the horrible darkness had gone. She was
only aware of this sublime singing. It rested her. It bore her into
a world of rapture! Yet, mingling with the exultant gladness, was a
mysterious sadness, which filled her with an odd sense of foreboding.
The song ceased.
A great wave of emotion surged up in her. She did not understand the
turmoil within. She only knew it was there. She was conscious of a
tumultuous peace, a delicious pain, a rapture, an anguish which was
sweet! She lay in his arms mute, overcome, crushed into silence by the
beauty of his music.
She felt her heart throb, her bosom sink and swell quickly, and at
last the turmoil within found vent in a long, sobbing sigh. His arms
about her tightened, and there was the same new element in his touch
there had been in his tones when he repeated the song. His enfolding
still held tenderest sympathy; deep, solicitous shelter; but they held
more--a new strength, or was it a new softness--and with it mingled a
yearning sadness.
“Have I sung you sad too?” he breathed, his lips brushing her hair.
“I don’t know--I don’t know,” she whispered faintly; “only it was too
wonderful--too amazing--I have never heard anything so heavenly!”
She felt a great sigh pass through his frame. But he said nothing, only
there was an almost imperceptible pressure of his arms again.
Iris made a desperate attempt to get her feelings under control; but
her effort was fruitless. She lay back in his clasp dumb, trembling,
her heart throbbing wildly against his.
At last there was the sound of distant voices and a faint glimmer of
light at the upper end of the tunnel. Iris started. “They are coming,”
she gasped, but there was no gladness in her voice now. “Please take
me out before they reach us--we can easily find our way by the sheen
of their lamps. I could not bear to meet them just yet.” She had drawn
gently away from him and had risen to her feet.
He sighed again. “Yes,” he replied tonelessly. “I think that will be
light enough,” and he began to help her down the slimy stones.
It was difficult by the rays from the distant lamps to find foothold,
but Rees guided her skilfully along the dangerous track.
They walked in absolute silence till they were near the entrance, and
the sunlight began to filter slowly into the gloom; then Iris said,
still looking down on the slippery rocks: “You won’t tell the others
about the--fainting, will you?”
“Certainly not, if you don’t wish it.”
“I don’t want them to know--I will just tell Amy quietly later on.”
They had now reached the mouth of the cave and stood quite still a
moment, blinded by the glare of sunlight pouring through the wide
opening.
“I hope this has not been too dreadful an experience for you,” said the
driver, as he helped her over a small trickling stream.
She shaded her smarting eyes with her hand. “I don’t know--I don’t
know,” she said, as one not wholly awake from a strange, vivid dream.
The rest of the party had caught up to them now. Explanations followed.
Mrs. Henderson had been anxious when they did not find her cousin where
she had left her.
Rees answered all questions. He seemed bent on drawing attention from
Miss Dearn to himself, and Iris felt grateful to him.
She sat beside him on the way home, but tactfully he did not look at
her. Mrs. Henderson was on the box-seat, too, and kept up a continuous
flow of conversation, so the time passed without embarrassment.
But when they reached the township, the driver helped Miss Dearn out
of the brake, and, as their hands touched, a tremor passed through the
girl and a deep flush mounted to her face. She felt his clasp tighten,
as if to convey his unspoken sympathy. But she did not dare raise her
eyes to his.
CHAPTER IV
THE EXPLANATION
During the following days Miss Dearn and Rees did not meet. Somehow the
girl managed that she and her cousin had their meals either before the
driver came into the dining-room or after he had left it, and they did
not join any of the parties going for excursions.
Mrs. Henderson was rather surprised that Iris all at once seemed tired
of driving and preferred walking about in the bush instead. However,
she was easy-going, and quite content either to go sightseeing in the
neighbourhood or stroll about in the country surrounding the township.
But Miss Dearn was most unhappy. She was torn asunder by mortification
and shame. Almost as soon as she had returned to the house after her
experience in the cave, a terrible realisation of what had taken place
sprang upon her. She saw her own behaviour in the glaring merciless
light of reason, with every particle of weakness bared before her
horrified gaze.
So she, the Hon. Iris Dearn, the proud London beauty, who had held men
at bay as easily as great towering cliffs hold back the sea, supremely
calm, loftily ignoring the loud advances and passionate appeals of
the ocean--had fallen so low that after her faint she had actually
remained in the driver’s arms--yes, a _driver’s_ arms--long after her
indisposition had made it necessary to do so! It was absolutely---- But
she could find no word strong enough to express her unutterable scorn
and amazement at her conduct! Of course, she had felt very weak after
the faint, and at first, when she had attempted to sit up, it had been
impossible to do so. But afterwards she had gained strength, and it was
unpardonable not to have exerted it. She did not spare herself. She did
not try to put the unpalatable facts away, but faced them. Even the
horror of the hideous darkness in the caves supplied no extenuating
excuses to her.
She had paced her room at night in hot, impetuous rage. She had
clenched her hands in agony. Her tall young form had stood heaving
by the window while her splendid eyes, gleaming with angry tears,
had looked out into the summer darkness. So, after all, she who had
thought herself so strong, who had walked through life fearless, with
clear courage, undaunted gaze, head held high, had now suddenly sunk
to--_this_!
Her moral strength had ebbed out with her physical force. She had
stayed in the driver’s arms from sheer cowardice, because she had been
afraid of the night and all it held. His enfolding brought comfort,
support, peace, and she had yielded to the subtle consolation of his
touch. Some wonderful strength had emanated from him and held her.
And there had been his song!
A tremor still passed through her as she thought of that. His singing
was marvellous--the most tender, exquisite thing that had ever come to
her. The memory of it brought a hard aching to her throat. She had not
told Amy about it, it was too sacred even to discuss with her cousin.
His voice was not only delightful because of its musical beauty, but it
touched deeply because it laid bare the great loftiness, the passionate
warmth throbbing in the man who sang. The real man was revealed to her
now. But--what must he think of her? This scorching question brought
her the deepest mortification. She could never face him again--oh, the
shame of it, the fierce humiliation!
She ought, of course, to pack her trunks and go away, and it rather
astonished her that she did not do so. Why did she linger in a place
which ought to be abhorrent to her now? She could not explain this;
but she could not go away. Something held her. She was no longer quite
free. Some invisible chain had been slipped round some invisible part
of her and bound her to the place. She felt the soft cord, yet she did
not attempt by one determined effort to break it.
Mrs. Henderson did not notice any change in her cousin, except the
apparent disinclination to join the excursions she had revelled in
before. The girl was a little quieter also, and at times she seemed
a little paler, but that was no doubt the lassitude frequently left
behind by a faint. Otherwise there was no difference. She took long
strolls in the bush, smiled her bewitching, dazzling smile; laughed her
rippling, silvery laughter, walked in her tall, graceful, imperious
way; and yet, if Mrs. Henderson had been more keenly observant, she
would have noticed that the fine colour in her cheeks was often merely
a flush, and the lustre in her eyes frequently the brilliance of pain.
However, though Miss Dearn kept out of the driver’s way and had managed
to evade him at meals, it was impossible to remain in the township for
any length of time without meeting him. So it happened that one evening
as she was returning from the post office she suddenly came face to
face with him. He came out of a small cottage at the side of the store
just as she was passing, so there was no chance of escape.
“Good evening, Mr. Rees,” she said, with an effort at outward
composure, but perplexed at the sudden leap of her heart; “are you on
your way home, too?”
He answered in the affirmative, and said he had been to see Mr. Green,
who had not been well all day, and then went on to speak of other
indifferent things. His manner and tone were gentle and courteous, but
rather distant. He seemed anxious to show her that he remembered the
gulf between them, that the episode in the cave would not make the
slightest difference to their relationship, and that he would never
assume any tone of intimacy on that account. It seemed to Iris, as they
walked along the road, that he went out of his way to make this clear.
Then all at once it occurred to her that he must have misunderstood her
motive for avoiding him. He evidently thought she shunned him because
she did not wish to give him an opportunity of taking advantage of a
situation many men would have regarded as a legitimate stepping-stone
to familiarity. How horrible and contemptible he must have thought her
conduct after all his kindness and tender concern!
Her cheeks flamed suddenly in the twilight--such a thought was
intolerable!
She must undeceive him at once. It was unbearable that he should think
her so base and ungrateful! But how was she to do it? It would be
difficult, especially to begin.
However, as they came within sight of the house, and would not have
many more minutes together, she made a courageous plunge.
“Mr. Rees, there is something I want to say to you. I have wanted to
say it ever since--since--that afternoon.” She ceased abruptly as if
words failed her.
He waited a moment for her to continue, but, as she did not do so, he
broke the silence by saying: “I was under the impression you would
rather not speak to me at all.”
So he _had_ misunderstood! The hot colour surged into her face again.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she said in troubled tones, forgetting her own
embarrassment in her eagerness to explain what he must have regarded
as a cruel slight. She must be very frank with him, nothing but a full
confession would be adequate now; so she continued: “I only avoided
you--because--because---- Oh, Mr. Rees,” she faltered with deep
agitation, “can’t you understand how I should feel after--behaving
so--so--unpardonably--can’t you imagine how ashamed I should feel--how
afraid to meet you? Oh, after all your kindness the other day--a
kindness I shall never forget--it is dreadful to think that you
misunderstand me! I will be perfectly open with you--I owe you
that; I have only kept out of your way because I--felt too horribly
ashamed--too mortified to face you--and--I have been so miserable, I
have hardly been able to sleep for the awful shame of it.”
They had reached the house now.
“Miss Dearn, would you mind coming down this lane for a few minutes--we
can’t talk here near the house.” There was a perceptible unsteadiness
in his voice.
Silently they turned down the narrow track fenced on both sides by
great hawthorn hedges.
When they were a little distance from the main road Rees said: “You
don’t know how grateful I feel because you have explained this to me.
It was indeed good of you, especially when it was so difficult.” His
tones showed he was deeply moved, though he spoke very quietly. “Let me
thank you, Miss Dearn. But,” he came a little closer to her, “why are
you ashamed? There is absolutely nothing for you to be ashamed about.”
“But I behaved most disgracefully.”
They had stopped walking. She stood before him contrite, ashamed,
as superb, as beautiful in her humiliation as she had been in her
graciousness and her fine appreciation of his bravery.
“Don’t say that, Miss Dearn,” and there was entreaty in his manner.
“You were only frightened; and every other human being who was not used
to those caves would have been terrified at being left alone so far
underground in the dark.”
“Yes, but I was not alone, I had you--there was no excuse for me,” she
reminded him dejectedly.
“Still there were only two of us, and that is not like being with a big
party. Anyhow, most people would have been dreadfully nervous, even if
there had been many others with them.”
She shook her head sadly. “You make most generous allowances for me;
still, of course, you must know that none of them is sufficient to
excuse such conduct. I had no right to be so terrified and, even if
I were afraid, I should not have showed it and--fainted and--placed
you in such--an--awkward position.” She finished heroically but with
downcast eyes, her long velvet lashes quivering on her flushed cheeks.
“Please don’t look at it in that way,” he pleaded; “to me it was the
highest honour and most sacred privilege to be there to help you. So
don’t distress yourself about it--it hurts me more than I can say to
see you so troubled because of--of--what I did.”
“No, no, not because of what _you_ did,” she interrupted him hastily.
“You were only kind, so exquisitely good to me--” her voice grew low
on the last words--“I am only so grieved that I should have made it
necessary.”
Just then they heard running footsteps behind them, and, as they
turned, they saw a little girl making her way pantingly towards them.
“Mr. Rees,” she called when she was still a few paces away, “Miss Green
sent me to fetch you--her father has had another attack. Some boys
at the corner said you had gone up here with a lady,” she finished
breathlessly as she reached them.
“I am afraid I must go,” said the driver reluctantly: “there is no
doctor here. Miss Green is all alone and her father is such a heavy
man she can’t manage him by herself.”
As he spoke they began to walk back to the main road. When they reached
the corner Miss Dearn held out her hand to Rees, and, as he held it for
a moment, he said, “I am so sorry to have to go. Please promise me that
you will not distress yourself over that matter again. Believe me there
is not the slightest need; will you promise?”
“I will try.”
“And will you let things be just as they were before, and let me take
you for drives whenever you want to go, and--talk to me--sometimes--as
you used to do?”
“Yes, of course,” she responded eagerly; “I can promise it shall not
make any difference in _that_ way.”
“I am asking you not to let it make a difference in _any_ way.”
“Are you sure it will not make a difference to you either?” asked Miss
Dearn a little shyly, but meeting his eyes bravely.
“No--not in the least,” he began reassuringly, then his tones changed
suddenly, “that is--I--I shall----”
“Miss Green told me to ask you to hurry,” interrupted the child.
“I must go, then. Good-night, Miss Dearn; please do what I asked.”
“I will try; good-night.”
He hastened towards the little shop a short distance along the road,
while Iris turned slowly into the house. She looked once more at
his well-built, retreating form as it grew blurred in the soft,
violet-tinted twilight.
“That afternoon in the cave has evidently made some difference to him
too,” she thought to herself; “I wonder in what way--if only he had
finished that sentence I might have known.”
CHAPTER V
THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER
“Wake up, dear,” said Mrs. Henderson the following morning, stooping
and gently kissing her cousin’s white arm as it nestled against the
coverlet, the dainty sleeve of muslin and cobweb-lace having slipped
over the delicately curved elbow.
Iris opened her deep blue eyes and looked with troubled wonder at her
companion.
Mrs. Henderson explained. “You must get dressed at once, dearie; Miss
Smith has just called me. Mr. Rees sent her up to ask if we would
care to go with him to a place--I forget the name--but there are to
be sports in aid of some charity; I was too sleepy to take in the
details--only Miss Smith said it would be such a lovely drive through
a part of the country we have never seen, and you said last night
you would like some more trips. Mr. Rees has to go, they are to have
jumping, and he has been asked at the last minute to ride one of the
horses; the owner is not well enough, or, as Miss Smith put it, he has
‘funked’ it, and wants Mr. Rees to take his place. It appears they are
all anxious to get him as he is such an excellent rider. But we have to
start early; the place is twenty miles away and the sports commence at
twelve o’clock; there are some other people from the township going
too, so Mr. Rees is taking the wagonette. I suppose we shall have the
front seats as usual.”
An hour afterwards they were on their way.
It was a lovely morning. The cloudless sky was the clear blue of baby
eyes. The hills lay wrapped in dreamy gossamer haze. The air throbbed
with warmth and golden sunlight. Flocks of chattering parrots flew in
and out of the silver wattle trees and honey-eaters twittered merrily
in bottle-brushes.
The horses danced along the road. They were very fresh and enjoyed
being allowed to gallop up the numerous hills. The wagonette was filled
with people gaily attired for the holiday. Mrs. Henderson and Miss
Dearn were in their usual places, and Iris arranged that her cousin
should sit next to the driver, for, in spite of her promise the night
before, she still felt distinctly uncomfortable in his presence. She
was not only ashamed of her conduct, but there was another curious
emotion blending with her mortification which made her still more
uneasy when she was near him. It was a strange feeling, making her
want to avoid him and at the same time feel restless if she kept out
of his way. That morning when he greeted her she felt her pulses beat
unaccountably fast, and it was this inexplicable embarrassment which
made her choose the seat farthest away from him.
Mrs. Henderson was always bright and talkative, and kept up a constant
conversation with the driver. She asked a great many questions and he
answered them all more extensively than usual. After they had been
driving for an hour it dawned on Mrs. Henderson that her cousin had
said very little that morning and she at once remarked on it. “Iris,”
she said suddenly, “what is the matter with you? You have hardly said a
word all the way, and, now I come to think of it, you have been rather
quiet the last few days--whatever is wrong?”
“Have I been quiet?” Miss Dearn replied with light composure, opening
her parasol; but, before she could proceed, Rees had begun to tell
Mrs. Henderson a thrilling story of bushranging days, which held her
attention for the rest of the journey.
When they arrived at the sports ground it was already swarming with
people; the adjacent paddocks were dotted with vehicles and horses tied
to fences and shady trees. Other buggies and carts were constantly
arriving. Whole families stowed away in traps were suddenly released
from their tight imprisonment. Babies cried, children laughed. Men
shouted country witticisms to each other. Women chattered.
Rees soon secured a programme, which he brought to Mrs. Henderson,
pointing out the items of greatest interest; then, telling her where
to get lunch, and explaining that he would be occupied for the rest of
the day, as the Committee had asked him to help in judging the various
races and other items, he left them.
As Mrs. Henderson and her cousin crossed the road to enter the festive
grounds, they glanced back and saw the driver helping a woman with
a baby out of a big cart. He was holding the infant in one arm and
assisting the rather massive farmer’s wife out with the other hand.
“That poor man will have his work cut out to-day, I can see,” remarked
Mrs. Henderson as they handed their tickets to a very important looking
official standing at the entrance to the enclosure. “Poor fellow, he
must be tired after being up half the night with the invalid. It is a
good thing Mr. Green is better this morning, and it is to be hoped he
will keep all right, so that Mr. Rees can have a good sleep to-night.”
“Yes,” replied Iris, a luminous softness coming into her eyes; “he
deserves it.” Then she added in a different tone: “When is he going to
ride?”
Her cousin consulted the programme. “Not till four o’clock. Come,” she
continued, “he told us not to miss the first item; it is a sack race!
Men look so funny in sack races; they always look to me as if they were
trying to hop like kangaroos. I notice they call it the Wallaby Race; I
am sure the Committee must have a sense of humour!”
A band began to play a gay two-step.
Iris and her cousin followed the crowd towards the opposite side of
the ground, where a large area had been roped in for the coming sack
race. The men were ready to start, standing in a straight line looking
very ungainly in their potato bags. Presently a pistol was fired and
the competitors commenced their cumbersome flight, looking more like a
flock of penguins flopping along their ice-fields than swift marsupials
bounding through the bush.
After this item followed running and walking races for men and boys.
It was a very hot day and all the competitors had very red and moist
faces, especially those who had just taken part in the first race.
It was half-past one before Mrs. Henderson and Miss Dearn made their
way to one of the long, low sheds where lunch was obtainable. Meals
were served all the time and the tables were constantly filled.
As the two ladies entered the rough wooden building Rees came up; he
had reserved seats for them, and, when he saw they were being well
looked after, hastened away again, reminding them of the chopping match
at half-past two.
Mrs. Henderson was very hungry after the long drive, and the first
course, consisting of cold ham and chicken, was most appetising. The
tables were laden with all kinds of home-made cakes, scones, mince-pies
and tarts. The floral decorations were rather crude; huge bunches of
Canterbury bells, dahlias and snap-dragons had been bound tightly
together and pressed into jam-jars with uncompromising firmness.
When Mrs. Henderson had finished a second portion of chicken the
girl who waited on them brought two plates piled high with delicious
raspberries and a jug of thick cream. “Mr. Rees told me to save these
for you,” she explained as no one else was having fruit at the table.
“We had a few for the Committee and the riders, and Mr. Rees thought
you might like them.”
“Isn’t he the most wonderful man you ever came across!” Mrs. Henderson
exclaimed when the waitress had gone. “How juicy and sweet the berries
are! I am afraid this means he has gone without any himself.”
“I don’t suppose he will have time for meals at all--he seems to be
wanted everywhere,” replied Iris evenly, looking at a youth sitting at
the opposite side of the table, who had evidently lavished much care on
his toilet that day. He wore a blue serge suit, a new straw hat with
a vivid pink band, and a tie of the same hue. But the sleeves of the
apparently ready-made clothes were much too short, and the waistcoat
was distressingly tight across the chest. However, he was ideally happy
talking to a girl with red hair in a saffron-coloured dress and a white
silk hat smothered with purple roses. They were both very young, both
evidently heart-whole, but seemingly anxious to experience the first
sweet clamours of love.
Mrs. Henderson and Iris were at the chopping match in time to see
the competitors arrive with their axes slung over their strong,
firm shoulders, the axe-heads most carefully wrapped in coloured
handkerchiefs or protected by leather covers. These were removed with
great care and the shiny blades, sharp as razors, anxiously felt.
At a given signal the men mounted the logs they were to chop and stood
ready with the weapons in position to deal the first telling blow. They
were all thinly clad; some wore cream or striped cotton jerseys, others
only vests or shirts with running pants, displaying finely developed
limbs. They were also bare-headed, and one good-looking youth with
chestnut hair had a long curl hanging coquettishly over his left eye.
The pistol was fired. Ten shiny axe-heads blinked high in the sunlight
and the next second pierced into the barked eucalyptus wood. Other
strokes followed with lightning rapidity; strokes well aimed, cutting
clean--great chips were separated from the blocks and flew about in all
directions.
Each competitor was surrounded by his own circle of admirers, who
shouted, cheered, gave advice and urged on the glittering strokes from
the flashing blades.
When the logs were nearly through the excitement became intense. The
shouts grew louder, the cheering wilder. From the ground rose a babel
of voices. Friends gesticulated and moved their bodies and arms in
uncontrollable agitation, pressing in upon the choppers till they were
almost within reach of the relentless axes.
At last, after moments of acutest suspense and frenzied commotion, the
first block was divided and the hero thunderously applauded. Other
heats followed and the final winner was the youth with the chestnut
curl. He was evidently a great favourite with the girls, and was now
thronged by pink-, green- and white-robed figures, holding out bare
or cotton-gloved hands to him. One girl, more enterprising than the
rest, brought him a huge buttonhole, and others who had not been so
thoughtful had to content themselves by plucking the roses they were
wearing and pelting him with the soft petals.
Iris all at once felt very tired. The drive had been long, and it was
stiflingly hot on the sports ground. She sighed for a little rest in
some shady, cool spot. She had a curious desire to be alone--a desire
she did not in the least understand.
At any other time this gay, motley Australian country crowd would have
interested her immensely. It was so happy, so full of spontaneous life
and irrepressible vitality. It was so enchantingly fresh and youthful.
It reminded her of a little girl who had dressed in grown-up clothes
and then suddenly forgotten the long skirts and given herself up to
the wild frolics of childhood. The air throbbed with laughter, merry
voices, the bark of hilarious dogs and the gay music of the exuberant
band. The Australians knew how to enjoy a holiday. They gave themselves
up to the pleasure of the moment with an abandonment that was almost
grand in its naïve simplicity. But the moving, jostling, excited throng
could not hold Iris Dearn’s interest just then. She had noticed that at
the upper end of the ground there was a small pine grove on a gentle
slope and making some excuse to her cousin she walked to this secluded
spot.
When she had reached the delicious solitude of the grove, she seated
herself on the carpet of pine needles and leant against a firm dark
brown tree. She was dressed in soft wedgewood-blue with a black
waistband and hat, on which a velvet flower, matching the gown, lay
gently against the brim in the one place where it added balance and
beauty to the general effect. As she rested against the dark tree-trunk
she closed her eyes. Her face was unusually pale and her heavy black
lashes accentuated the ivory whiteness of her soft curving cheeks. She
sat for some minutes absolutely still. The band was playing in the
distance and a melodious waltz floated up to her from the plain.
She did not hear approaching footsteps.
The driver had mounted the rise and was standing a few yards away,
regarding her pale, lovely face with a strange look in his sad, grey
eyes. Then he came nearer and spoke--
“Miss Dearn, are you not well--what is the matter?” he asked, and there
was suppressed concern in his voice.
She opened her eyes with a start and they seemed extraordinarily dark
and velvety in contrast with the delicate whiteness of her skin.
“I am sorry if I frightened you,” Rees continued; “I saw you coming up
here and I was afraid you were not well--you were not yourself this
morning.”
As she felt his eyes upon her a wave of colour mounted to her cheeks.
“Thank you, I am quite well--quite all right--only a little tired,” she
answered hurriedly, looking with sudden interest at the pine needles
beside her.
There was a short silence. Then she heard the driver sigh.
“You are not worrying over that--other matter?” he asked anxiously.
“No--not that.”
“Something else then?”
She did not reply. She was picking up small dry needles with her slim
white fingers and arranging them in a pile.
“Has it anything to do with--that afternoon?” he inquired after a
slight pause.
She looked out into the soft light filtering through the great
over-hanging branches, in thoughtful silence.
“Yes, I think so,” she said, still gazing into space.
“And it makes you--sad?”
“Yes----”
“Only sad--nothing else?”
“No, it doesn’t only make me sad,” she replied with a sudden fine
frankness.
He took a few steps away from her. Then he came back to the spot
where he had stood before, as he said, “Miss Dearn, I should not have
asked--please forgive me.”
She looked up at him now. “Why shouldn’t you ask? That afternoon was
yours as much as mine,” she said steadily.
As their glances met, they became strangely entangled and she could not
draw her eyes away from his for several seconds.
“Ah, here you are!” said Mrs. Henderson, making her way through the
pines; and, catching sight of the driver, she added: “Glad to see you
having a little respite after the way you have been slaving all the
time, Mr. Rees. But why don’t you sit down and rest properly while you
are about it?”
“Thank you--but I must not stay. I really came up to see if I could get
Miss Dearn some tea. Most people are having it early as the jumping
commences at four o’clock. May I bring some for you both?”
“No indeed, thank you! Do you think we should allow you to carry it all
this way? We won’t be quite so selfish; we shall go to the refreshment
stall and have some presently.”
The driver then asked if they would care to look at the horse he was
to ride, and, after arranging where to meet, he left them.
“I suppose he saw you come up here,” said Mrs. Henderson after he
had gone. “Nothing escapes that man, and see how he is in demand
everywhere--he is really most remarkable.”
At the appointed time Mrs. Henderson and her cousin arrived at the
place of meeting. Rees was already there. He was looking very handsome
in a brown corduroy velvet riding suit and long brown riding boots,
revealing his straight, well-shaped limbs.
He greeted them with friendly gravity and then took them to see his
beautiful mount. Prince was tall, with long, slender legs and a
jet-black satiny coat. As the ladies came up, he put out a soft velvet
muzzle to greet them.
“You beauty!” exclaimed Mrs. Henderson, patting his glossy neck.
“Isn’t he lovely?” said Iris, stroking his inquisitive, friendly nose.
“Yes, he is a beautiful racer,” said Rees; “the finest I have seen for
a long time.”
“You _must_ win,” cried Miss Dearn with a flush of enthusiasm.
“I shall do my best,” replied the driver, evidently pleased at her
eagerness.
It was time to get into the saddle now. Mrs. Henderson had already
turned away. Suddenly Iris pulled a deep red rosebud from the spray she
was wearing and gave it to Rees, smiling with lips and eyes. “Take it,
and may it bring you victory,” she said with gracious impulsiveness;
then she followed her cousin.
The jumping commenced.
A high four-railed fence had to be cleared.
A big grey hunter with powerful shoulders led the way. After followed a
stylish bay; then a number of horses in quick succession flew past the
spectators towards the high test. Some of them were soon disqualified,
the dull thud of iron striking wood denoted the top rail had been
touched--sometimes it even rattled to the ground.
There were some magnificent animals competing and most of them were
ridden by their owners, who wore picturesque riding suits.
It seemed a long time to Iris before Rees appeared. But at last the
black thoroughbred and his handsome rider came in sight. The horse
tossed his splendid head impatiently. The eyes were not docile now;
they glittered with fiery eagerness, and the velvet nostrils were
dilated till their red tinge gleamed in the sunlight. His muscles
quivered with excitement, but his rider kept him gently back, saving
his pace.
Rees had a fine seat. He was perfectly at home in the saddle. He rode
with a refined grace, a distinguished air, which set him at once apart
from his rivals in the field.
A loud cheer broke from the crowd as he cantered towards the fence. He
came up to it quietly, leant a little forward, allowed the horse to
attain the necessary speed, then lifted him over the obstacle as gently
as he had approached it. Louder applause followed. It was the neatest
jump on the grounds that day.
Iris watched with glowing interest.
Then an interminable succession of horses followed before the
jet-black racer appeared again. Once more he went over the fence like
a bird, and was vociferously cheered by the enthusiastic onlookers.
Prince was clearly the favourite.
Three-quarters of an hour went by. Some of the horses were showing
signs of fatigue and many had already fallen out. But the black
thoroughbred cantered towards the fence with arched neck and without
the least show of weariness.
Mrs. Henderson and her cousin were terribly excited; such a small
number of horses were left in now and after a few more rounds only the
big grey hunter, the light bay and the black favourite remained. All
three seemed inexhaustible; they went round, cleared the barrier, time
after time, and it seemed as if it would have to be a draw between them.
At last the bay touched the rail, and only the black and the grey were
left.
The excitement was at fever-heat now, the applause was thunderous.
But Rees kept very calm, he held his hands low and there was no trace
of agitation in his manner, only in his eyes burned a daring, eager
determination.
For some rounds there was no change in the position; then the big
hunter suddenly stumbled just before it was to take the final leap. His
rider turned him far enough back to get up speed again and made another
attempt to clear the fence, but the grey was tired and brought down the
top rail to the hard ground with a loud rattle.
The remaining horse with his wonderful greyhound stride followed,
cleared the obstacle as easily as before and passed the judges amid the
frantic acclamations from the vast crowd of spectators.
The black, with Rees up, had won!
The main road was lined with cars, smart buggies and traps, belonging
to the squatters and large estate owners of the surrounding districts,
who had come out to watch the jumping which was a special feature of
these annual sports; many of them had horses competing, and their sons
and friends were riding.
The whole road rang with uproarious cheers. Rees was surrounded by
congratulating friends, he could hardly move for thronging admirers.
“Let us go and congratulate him too,” said Mrs. Henderson to Iris;
“didn’t he ride perfectly? The way he managed that horse was masterly.”
But it was nearly six o’clock before they could get an opportunity of
speaking to the driver.
“We are so awfully proud of you; let us congratulate you most
heartily,” said Iris, a wonderful light in her blue eyes as she held
out her hand to him.
He pressed it gently. “Thank you,” he said with unmistakable pleasure;
“you told me I must win, so of course I had to. But,” he added, “won’t
you come and give a little of your appreciation to Prince, too?”
Mrs. Henderson said she was rather tired and would return to the
refreshment shed for a rest; so Iris followed Rees to the farther side
of the enclosure where the horses were tied to the strong fence.
The girl stroked the silky neck of the docile racer. “You darling!”
she cried under her breath, pressing her own soft cheek against his
smooth, shining coat. “You were just lovely--I should like to buy you
and keep you always, you dear, beautiful thing!”
The rider had stepped a little nearer; and, while he fondled the
thoroughbred’s sensitive, inquiring head, he drew it gently against his
shoulder.
An odd feeling came over Miss Dearn as she saw him caressing the docile
animal and she thought how nice it must be for the horse to have the
driver’s hands stroking it and drawing it to him. Then her thoughts
flew back to the afternoon in the cave. She too had rested against his
shoulder; she too had felt his arms round her, and the memory of it
thrilled her now with a strange exaltation. There was no longer shame
nor mortification at the thought; it was no more a thing for hot,
impetuous tears and regret. It had become beautiful--something for
which the future would be guarded, hedged about, only approached with
shoeless feet and hushed tones; something which for the rest of her
life would be enshrined in memory’s sacred temple. She instinctively
felt it was the biggest, the loftiest, the sweetest and the purest
thing which had ever touched her life. She was suddenly aware of this
as she stood beside the lovely horse and his handsome rider.
When she left them she seemed to be walking in some wonderful dream.
She held her head high; her starlike eyes burned with dazzling
splendour. As she moved towards the shed where she was to meet her
cousin, people turned and stared at her--they had stared at her all
day--her remarkable beauty, splendid bearing, air of breeding; her
exquisite clothes, simple, but stamped with luxurious elegance, had
attracted attention wherever she moved. But now there was something
about her even more enchanting, which made people exclaim involuntarily
as she passed.
But Iris was utterly unconscious of the interest she aroused and the
admiration she excited. She walked in exultant abstraction, unaware
of what took place around her. She did not know that the man she had
just left glanced after her with a long, wistful look in his large grey
eyes, and that when she was out of sight he put his arms round the
horse’s black, shiny neck and pressed his lips against the glossy coat
where her cheek had rested.
CHAPTER VI
IN THE DUSK
During tea Mrs. Henderson watched the girl with pleasure. “Iris,” she
said, “how splendid you are looking--I have never seen you look so
well! This day in the open has done wonders for you--you look simply
radiant!”
Miss Dearn smiled in her bewitching way. “It has been a beautiful
day--I am sorry it is nearly over.”
“Iris,” said her cousin, still looking at her, “I don’t know what to do
with you--you really look too adorably lovely! I think I shall have to
cover you up on the way home, or else that poor man----”
Iris made a quick movement as if to stop the voluble outburst, but it
was no use. Mrs. Henderson proceeded: “Remember, he is only flesh and
blood like the rest of mankind; and to have you so near him!--for I am
going to make you sit next to him going home; he deserves that after
the way he rode and all his hard work to-day looking after every one
and helping in everything--all the same I am sorry for him; it must be
almost maddening to be so close to the beautiful Miss Dearn and have
her so delightfully nice to him--you know you really are awfully nice
to him, Iris--and yet he is only a poor driver----”
Her cousin made another attempt to speak, but still Mrs. Henderson
continued: “He really is splendid--such a wonderful organiser! I have
been watching him to-day, and here as well as everywhere else he knows
just what ought to be done and how to do it. But a man like that is
absolutely wasted here; he should be in a very different position,
and, with his ability, he easily could.” She touched Miss Dearn on
the shoulder. “Look down there; he has just come in for tea; see how
the girls are surrounding him! He is a great favourite with them; but
they have to worship him from afar; although he has that delightful
manner with them all he is not intimate with one of them. They have to
content themselves with bringing him things to eat and casting long,
sly glances after him when he has gone. But what a superb rider he is!
By the way, I wonder who gave him that rose he is wearing; I have never
seen him with flowers in his coat before, and I noticed he looked down
to see if it was there several times before he took the fence.”
Iris did not blush, only the strange joy in her heart deepened. It was
glorious to be alive, to be young, to be amid all this great beauty,
and she gazed suddenly towards the haze-covered hills and the softly
indicated mountains in the distance. She would be going towards those
mountains presently. She would drive by huge fields of swaying corn,
while the sunset still cast its rosy rays on the enchanted earth. Then
would come the delicious cool twilight. She would pass through long
stretches of dense bush where shadows would fall around her and fold
her about with soft wings of mystery. And above all she would be beside
the man who had sung to her in the cave, who had held her in his arms
and who had suddenly brought a great wonderful something into her life.
They had started home.
Iris sat next to the driver. The front seat of the wagonette was
rather small for three, and, as Mrs. Henderson took up a good deal of
room, Miss Dearn and Rees were sitting close together. His arm pressed
against hers constantly, especially when Mrs. Henderson spoke to him
and he had to lean over Iris a little to catch what her cousin said.
The contact thrilled her and brought a sweetness to her senses which
was almost numbing.
They soon left the noisy main road crowded with holiday-makers going
home and made their way towards the western mountains, where only
occasional vehicles passed them on the quiet road.
They drove through small townships, passed prosperous farms, went up
steep ascents, crossed murmuring creeks, while the setting sun cast
a shimmering splendour over all. Then at last they reached the dense
virgin bush, where the trees met overhead completely shutting out
the sky; where the stillness seemed like the stillness in some dim
cathedral, and the stray notes of birds like fading notes from an organ.
The soft, breathless twilight crept over the earth; not a branch
moved, not a grass-blade stirred. The twilight was deep purple with the
rich hue of hyacinths, gradually emerging into soft, cool darkness,
which glided into the scented air, slipping under branches of the huge
gum-trees, dropping over luxuriant undergrowth, brooding over the road
and resting in delicious languor on the grass. Iris felt its gentle
breath upon her cheek. To her it was a tangible, beautiful thing which
had come to enrich her joy.
They drove some distance without talking, the majestic stillness around
them had for the time hushed all voices. The silence was only broken by
the muffled rumble of wheels and the touch of iron hoofs on the soft,
yielding road.
But the people inside the wagonette could not be still for long;
presently some one began a chorus, and soon afterwards the others
joined, even Mrs. Henderson, so it was possible for Iris and Rees to
talk a little.
“How I wish you were singing instead of all these people,” said Iris
gently, with a touch of yearning in her voice.
“Would you really care to have me sing again? I didn’t think you would
want that any more.”
The effort to suppress the eagerness in his tones was not altogether
successful.
“How strange you should think such a thing. Why, I have been wanting to
hear you sing ever since----”
“Really?”
“I should love to hear you out here in the bush--in this great mellow
dimness.”
“I am sorry I can’t sing to you to-night; if we had been alone----”
“You would have sung then?”
“Yes, gladly.”
“The others do not know you sing?”
“No.”
“You do not wish them to know?”
“Certainly not.”
“How strange,” mused his companion; “when you have such a wonderful
voice I should have thought you would love to use it.”
“I do.”
“Yet----?”
“That desire has to be restrained, like--others.”
“You think this--necessary?”
“I know it is.” He spoke with emphasis.
“Of course you know best, but--it seems such dreadful waste. You ought
to be singing to thousands.”
“It is kind of you to think so.”
“Now you are reminding me that I am trespassing----”
“You know I did not mean that. Miss Dearn, don’t pretend to
misunderstand me--please don’t,” he said with profound entreaty.
“No, no, of course I knew,” she said, turning to him in eager
explanation. “But I deserved a reminder all the same.” She stopped for
a moment, but, without giving him time to reply, she continued: “Only
it would have been so beautiful to have you singing to-night, such an
exquisite finish to a perfect day.”
“A perfect day?” he repeated questioningly. “Has it really been that to
you?”
“Yes, absolutely satisfying--didn’t you find it so? You ought to, you
know, after your great success.”
“Success, do you call it!” She felt the smile in his voice. “It has
been a day to remember, but satisfying----”
“Not that? You must be hard to please.”
“Perhaps I am. But _some_ beauty is not satisfying, because it makes
one wish for more.”
“In that case you may have your wish, as there are many more long,
delicious summer days to come.”
He sighed a little, then said in altered tones: “As I can’t sing to you
to-night, may I do so some other time?”
“I should love that--when do you think it will be?”
“Perhaps to-morrow at the Marble Cliffs--you are going there, aren’t
you?”
“If you can take us.”
Iris saw what was in his mind now. Her cousin would never venture on
the dangerous path down the great hill leading to the best view of the
cliffs. Mrs. Henderson would stay at the cottage on the top of the
hill, and talk to the old lady who lived there and supplied visitors
with afternoon tea and raspberries and cream; while she and the driver
made the descent alone, as they had done before. They would sit on the
wide ledge above the turbulent river and look across to the majestic
white rocks rising nearly seven hundred feet in sheer, massive grandeur
on the other side of the stream.
The singing had ceased, and Mrs. Henderson spoke again to the driver.
“Is that our little township over there?” she said, pointing to some
lights which had come into view as they turned a corner.
“I am afraid so.”
“Afraid--I should have thought you would be glad; you must be so tired
after all your hard work.”
“No, I am not at all tired,” he said. “I could go through it again with
ease.”
When they had reached the boarding-house and every one had got out of
the vehicle Iris walked up to the horses and stroked them caressingly.
“They have done excellent work to-day,” she said; “they must have a
little attention also.”
Rees was beside her in a moment; one of the bays moved his head eagerly
towards him as if asking for his caress too.
“How all animals love you,” said Miss Dearn impulsively.
“Perhaps they are sorry for me because I have--no other love.”
“Come on, Iris, I am starving for supper; let those poor horses get
some too,” called Mrs. Henderson from the open door.
* * * * *
As Iris sat before the large oval mirror that night, brushing her
golden-brown hair, she suddenly put down the brush, placed her elbows
on the dressing-table and covered her face with her hands. “I am no
longer free,” she whispered half aloud, “I am no longer quite free;
something has bound me--my pride has been conquered--something is
holding me----”
She was no longer the independent, rather self-sufficient Iris Dearn,
who had walked through life unimpeded, in her grand, aloof, imperious
way.
She was no longer free: she was beginning to discover her fetters.
CHAPTER VII
BY THE MARBLE CLIFFS
Iris Dearn and Rees were seated on a flat rocky ledge overlooking a
tremendous precipice at the bottom of which flowed a gleaming, silvery
stream. They were gazing across the gorge at the great Marble Cliffs
rising in majestic splendour on the other side of the river. The warm
afternoon sunshine poured its glinting radiance on the colossal mass
of stone, making its peculiar dull pallor glitter with a ghost-like
whiteness. The rocks rose from the edge of the water in perpendicular,
undeviating straightness. They seemed to have stepped out from the
tangled background of thickly wooded hills with uncompromising
boldness. There was an air of lofty decision about them, an almost
grim, relentless purpose in their stately, imposing immensity.
Iris and her companion sat a little distance apart, and were for a time
silenced by the solemn grandeur before them. The cliffs always awed and
overwhelmed.
A flock of black cockatoos flew shrieking across the deep ravine, and,
as they fluttered past the rocks, small dark shadows flickered for a
moment over their dead white surface.
“Isn’t it wonderful to have such cliffs so far inland!” said Iris,
without removing her gaze from the monstrous erection of stone. “I
suppose the sea was here once.”
“I suppose so.”
“What do you think the cliff looks like?” asked Miss Dearn after
another pause.
“To me it seems like a tremendous tombstone,” he replied, with
significant seriousness.
Iris shuddered slightly. “What a mournful comparison. But,” she
continued turning to him a little, “what grave would have such a
monument?”
He reflected a moment. “The things that might have been; all the
beautiful, warm, joyous things which might have been within our reach,
and after all can never be ours.”
The girl breathed a little fluttering sigh. “I wonder if we shall ever
know what these things were.”
“We shall never know all, of course. But sometimes we have dreams. A
beautiful vision comes to us and we long with all the force of our
nature to reach out and capture the lovely thing, and yet, because of
circumstances, we cannot, we dare not, make it ours.”
“But do you think it could ever be wrong to reach out after the things
we want?”
“Perhaps our hands are tied.”
“But surely, if our desire to possess the delightful things was strong
enough, we should burst the restraining bonds?”
“Even then we might not be able to break the fetters.”
“Then our desire cannot be strong enough,” commented his companion
with youthful certainty.
Rees had been looking at the cliffs all the time he had been speaking,
now he suddenly turned to Miss Dearn and there was a curious expression
in his grey eyes as he said: “Some chains are never broken.”
“Marriage chains,” suggested Iris lightly, a sudden fear blanching her
cheeks.
“No, I was not referring to those,” he said steadily; “there are others
equally relentless.”
She drew a quick breath of relief and the colour leapt into her cheeks
again. “I don’t think any others could bind irrevocably.”
“No, you may not think so; all the same, they do.”
He had been speaking with a quiet significance, and she knew he wanted
her to understand his underlying meaning. Yesterday they had been
drifting towards each other. Iris had realised this. She knew that,
though the driver had made no advances, though his manner had been very
much the same as usual, a wonderful new intimacy had sprung up between
them. The nature of this bond was as yet unrealised by her. She only
knew it was something intangible, but warm and strong; something which
had lifted her out of ordinary life into a sphere of strange, exultant
emotions, tremulous joy, exuberant gladness, at the same time slipping
soft, delicious chains about her which bound her in an exquisite, sweet
captivity.
Had Rees also felt this great magic something drawing them together?
Yes, he must have been aware of it; some beautiful vision had come to
him of all it might bring into his sad, humble life, and he had let
her know that he considered he had no right to such bliss. She liked
him for feeling like that, and yet why should he not try to gain what
he desired? Surely, there could be no serious obstacle to the intimacy
between them, except his position? For one instant a terrible fear of
a possible marriage hidden somewhere in the background of his life
had paled her cheeks. But he had immediately removed her trepidation
on that score. The sudden terror should have opened her eyes at once
to the nature of the emotions drawing her to him. But she was so
much occupied by their effect upon herself, that she did not stop to
investigate their cause.
Yet, what could he mean by the binding chains he had referred to? There
was only one probable answer--his circumstances. From the world’s point
of view, of course, it would be most incongruous that any friendship
should exist between a London society beauty and a poor, insignificant
driver. Her mother would be appalled at the thought of such a thing.
But Rees was the finest, the most attractive, man she had ever met, and
he was unmistakably a gentleman; so did position matter?
In the world she had left behind it would matter greatly--vitally. But
in free, delightful, sun-kissed Australia, where man was linked to
man, where barriers had been overthrown, and people were unhampered by
old-world traditions of rank, blood and social distinction--here in
this glad liberty--such a relationship might surely be possible between
them. Suddenly Iris Dearn determined that she would not return to
London. Her lot should be cast in Australia.
“I wonder what you are thinking about?” said her companion at length,
gazing at her from under well-marked, dark brows. “You look as if you
were solving big problems.”
Iris felt her cheeks grow warm. “I was--I have just made up my mind not
to go back to England--I want to stay out here,” she said, evading his
eyes.
“Is that a wise decision?”
“I am sure it is. But,” she went on as if anxious to change the
subject, “you were going to sing to me, you know.”
He looked carefully up the steep, ledge-like track by which they had
descended to their present rocky seat. It was a very dangerous path,
hanging over a drop of many hundred feet. Few people ventured down
unless the guide accompanied them; all the same his eyes scanned the
zigzag path to where it disappeared over the brow of the tree-covered
hill.
There was no one in sight.
“I wonder what you would like me to sing?” he asked after he was
satisfied that no one else was within ear-shot.
“What do you feel in the mood to sing?”
“Do you think it is safe to indulge one’s moods?”
“Why not--where music is concerned?”
“Because music has such terrible power to reveal secrets--to those who
should know least about them.”
[Illustration: _Photo. Spurling & Son, Launceston._
THE ALUM CLIFFS, MERSEY RIVER.]
“I am afraid you are too sensitive on that point,” said Miss Dearn
lightly. “You are so reserved that I believe it is positively painful
to you to show your fellow-beings that you have any feelings at all.
You would like us all to think that you are a cold, callous thing who
has no interest except in beauty spots, and no heart for any one except
dumb animals and people in trouble,” she laughed with a teasing, tender
look in her eyes.
“My fellow-beings would be wise if they thought so.”
“How correctly I have guessed,” said the girl triumphantly. “You would
like to drive us all to this conclusion.”
“And won’t you be driven?” A bright light sprang for a moment into his
grey eyes.
“I should think not! We have taken you too long at your own valuation,
now I shall form my own estimate of you.”
“An estimate which will be quite wrong, I am afraid, so you had better
keep to mine.”
“Very well, then, if you are so insistent that we shall regard you as
an iceberg, I shall begin to treat you like one straight away,” she
said with playful dignity.
He smiled, and there was less sadness in his face than she had ever
seen there.
She sat leaning lightly against the rock behind her. She had taken
off her hat and glinting sunbeams played indulgently with the thick
golden-brown waves of her hair. Her large blue eyes smiled at him from
behind their enchanting lashes, her red lips were slightly parted and
he caught a flash of her snowy, even teeth. The vermilion in her cheeks
was dazzling. She looked bewilderingly beautiful, and for a moment an
almost dazed look came into the driver’s face. After a pause he said
with a show of emotion: “Miss Dearn, you are too kind to me.”
“Do you call it kind to promise to treat you as an iceberg?” she
laughed again.
“I was not referring to that. But such kindness is too good for me--it
would be as well to remember that I am only a driver and----”
She interrupted him hastily; this was his sore point: she must show him
at once that his position did not affect her, so she said lightly: “And
couldn’t a driver by any chance be manly enough, honourable enough to
be worthy of a woman’s trust--a woman’s friendship?”
“Some might be,” he admitted.
“In spite of being drivers?” The blue velvet of her eyes held smiling
banter.
“Yes,” he replied, watching her for some seconds. “If a man is worthy
in himself, I don’t think any position could make him less a man.”
“You are right,” said Miss Dearn with sudden seriousness. Then she went
on more playfully: “And now that we both agree on this subject, we can
let it drop once and for all.”
“I think not.” He spoke as one determined to be honest at all costs.
“Why not?” There was deep surprise in her voice.
“Because some drivers cannot lay claim to manliness.”
Miss Dearn laughed suddenly. “Do you mean to imply that you are not
manly--and you are the manliest man I have ever known!”
“God help the rest!” he said, with quick vehemence.
“What a strange mood you are in to-day,” observed the girl, regarding
him from under half-closed lids. “A little while ago you were afraid to
sing in case your music might give me a glimpse of what is below the
surface, and here you are telling me in plain words some of the things
your reserve generally hides--truly men are enigmas!”
“I was not afraid of that kind of revelation.”
“I don’t believe you want to sing,” said Miss Dearn, changing her
tactics.
He jumped to the bait instantly. “If only you knew how much! I will
start at once if I may sing what I like,” he said, with a tense
question in his gaze.
“Yes,” she replied softly, surveying the rocky ledge with minute
interest.
He moved a little nearer and began to sing--
“The white sea mist rolls up to the sand
And sorrow they say is over the land.
But little they know that behind the mist
The sea and the land have softly kissed.”
Iris listened with bated breath.
He sang with a tenderness which was moving, with a sweetness
inexpressible.
Then followed the second verse--
“And I who sit and sorrow apart,
Am dying they say of a broken heart;
Ah, little they know that behind the mist
I live in a dream of the day we--kissed.”
The pathos in his voice hurt her and brought stinging tears to her
eyes. They had never kissed, but somehow he conveyed to her that for
the future he would live in the day he had held her to his heart in the
caves.
“How exquisite--but--how sad! Why did you sing such a pathetic song?”
“You said I might sing according to my mood.”
“Why are you so sad?” Her eyes were upon his face almost demanding an
answer.
“Because of what might have been--because of what I must bury under
those great cliffs and never uncover again.”
His words brought a quick pain to her heart. “What might have been--”
she repeated as one stunned by a blow.
“Yes, what might have been, and never can be.” His face had all at once
blanched and his eyes had a haunted look in them. “The White Sea Mist
has blotted out all sunshine,” he added as something irrevocable and
final.
“Yet the Sea and the Land met behind the mist,” Iris murmured scarcely
audibly.
“Only for a time. Then came the bitter parting and the bare after-life
with its blinding memory.”
“Yet it was worth all to have that memory.”
“Do you think it is better to have a memory which blinds, or to have no
pain and no--memory?”
“I would rather have the pain and--the memory.”
“Would you really?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I think so. The memory means that one has something to look back
upon.”
“It would be worth all just to have that.”
“Are you positively sure?” He still spoke as one a little uncertain,
who wanted a definite understanding.
She met his eyes unflinchingly. “I am,” she said slowly, and after she
had said the words, she knew that she had made a compact with the man
beside her.
He rose to his feet, stood for some minutes looking into the terrible
gully below, then he came and sat down closer to her.
“I am going to sing now--not anything which will remind you of the
monument over there, but something which will bring back to you--other
things.”
She waited in breathless anticipation, and thrilled visibly when he
began to sing--
“I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”
Suddenly she was back in the cave. She felt his arms holding her, she
was pressed against his heart. The song and the way he sang it made her
feel this. Every note was a caress, every word a vibrant sigh from his
soul. It seemed as if his voice folded her to him with arms which would
not let her go; and when he came to the words--
“And all my soul shall strive to wake
Sweet wonder in thine eyes,”
she knew he was striving with all the force of his strong nature to
awaken in her an answering emotion.
She sat listening with closed eyes, face pale, lips trembling and her
soft bosom heaving.
When he had finished she bent forward and said brokenly: “Oh, don’t
sing like that to me again, I cannot bear it--how can I?” And her voice
was choked by a great, dry sob.
“I only sang from my heart,” he said quietly: his face white and set,
his hands gripping each other. “I thought you gave me permission?”
“Yes, I know I did, but it simply--it makes me--I can’t bear it,
unless----”
“Unless what?” he demanded breathlessly.
“Don’t ask, please don’t!”
“Perhaps I can guess--I, too, am thinking of the--cave.”
She started. He was speaking plainly now, but she had given him
permission. She did not blame him; her own heart was crying out wildly,
as his cried out! It was not his fault that this terrible love had come
to him as it had come to her: the keen, piercing love which had been
born in their hearts while she lay softly pressed against his breast.
Now she suddenly understood the nature of the emotion which had drawn
her to him--it was love--love--love! Oh, the power of it! the beauty
of it! the force of it! She could cry out with its fierce excruciating
sweetness!
She sat helpless, overwhelmed by the vehemence of her feelings.
“Can’t you make it easier?” she faltered tremulously.
“There are only two ways: either to stay here as our hearts tell us,
or--go back to the cottage quickly.”
He waited for her reply. “What is it to be?” he asked, as no answer
came.
“Whichever you think is right,” she whispered at last.
Her utter trust and abandonment touched him.
“Then let me take you up to your cousin at once,” he said hurriedly.
He helped her to her feet, and they began to climb the precipitous path.
They reached the top of the hill breathless and hot, then they stopped
and looked down once more on the wonderful white cliffs. The path
turned at this point and the great rocks would soon be lost to view.
They stood gazing down, as if saying good-bye.
“Thank you for helping me,” said Iris in an undertone; “but I knew I
could trust you always to do the right thing.”
“I should not have sung what I did; such things reveal too much.” He
spoke remorsefully and all the sadness had returned to his face.
“Don’t say that,” she pleaded softly. “I would not have had it any
different--not for the world!”
“Wouldn’t you really?”
“No, for now we shall have this to look back upon in the future when
you have buried everything under that huge, unrelenting tombstone.”
“You say when _I_ have buried everything. Do you mean to say that _you_
would not?”
She met his eyes bravely. “No, I should not--I couldn’t,” she said
simply.
He drew a hard breath. “_I_ must do it then,” he said, deep shadows
gathering in his eyes.
The pain in his face hurt her. She wanted to comfort him. “We won’t
think of that just now, this is the time to gather the memories, isn’t
it?”
He smiled gravely. “Yes, let us gather the sweetness now.” He glanced
once more down towards the great towering stones. “That cliff is not to
be our tombstone yet--what shall it be to us for the present?”
Iris lifted her face suddenly and there was a wonderful light in
her splendid eyes. “I think it is a monument Nature has erected to
commemorate the purest and brightest thing which has ever come into our
lives,” she said.
He looked at her with deep reverence. “God grant that you may always
regard what is between us in that light,” he said huskily, baring his
head.
CHAPTER VIII
FATE
“Fate is strange--it is weird!” said Iris often to herself during the
following days.
“Mother used to say that no girl had better chances of making a
brilliant match than I; but I never could care for any of the men who
counted, and now--” her tones grew soft and wistful--“and now there
will be no marriage at all, for the only man I shall ever love--a poor
driver employed by the mistress of a boarding-house--will have none of
me! He loves me, yes, he loves me, as I love him.” Her eyes shone as
she put the precious facts into words, but their brightness was dimmed
by a dewy mist. “All the same he will have none of me. He has told me
our love must one day be buried under that great white tombstone--that
is the fate of our love; and mine--to be near him for a little while,
to watch his beautiful life, see more clearly how useless my own has
been, get to know him better--love him more desperately.” She stopped
and breathed more quickly. “And then--when we have come to the end of
our endurance--when we have gone as far as our love may go, he will
take it, and, with strong though trembling hands, thrust it into its
cold, silent grave. That is my future--all life will ever hold for
me--the fate of the much envied, much-sought-after, spoilt Iris Dearn,
who, London prophesied, would marry a prince or a duke--she has come to
this! She cannot even marry a poor guide--he will not have her! Fate is
weird! It has shown me what could give me unspeakable bliss and then
told me it must never be mine. All that may be mine is a home with Amy
in the vast desolation of the Australian bush. I shall live with her
always and my future will be one long, sweet, terrible looking back
on--_this_!
“I shall spend my days trying to live as he lives; be useful, bear
burdens, give help. I shall ride about on Amy’s estate, visit the
shepherds’ wives and children, take them things, sit with them when
they are ill; drive about the whole district and do for all I can reach
what he would do for them if he were there. I shall give most of my
income away. I shall live simply, and it will not cost much to keep me;
and the rest of my money shall be spent on people in need; myself and
my money--all must be given.
“But at present I am still near him--this is the time to gather
memories. I see him at meals; he comes and arranges for outings; his
dear, sad eyes look often into mine. I sit beside him when we drive; we
talk, discuss all kinds of things; his arm sometimes touches mine, we
look at all the beauty together, smile and laugh, but--we have never
been alone since the afternoon by the cliffs.”
* * * * *
Rees was very busy driving numerous visitors to the various beauty
spots, and Iris and her cousin joined most of the excursions; but
there had been no opportunity for him to take them out by themselves.
However, at last there had been a big clearance of tourists, and one
afternoon he was free to take them out alone wherever they cared to go.
Mrs. Henderson had for some time wished to explore a road winding its
way among some very wild-looking hills, so they decided to go.
They drove some miles away from the township on a rather rough,
chocolate-tinted road surrounded by magnificent bush. There were
stretches of flowering ti-tree and sombre-hued blackwoods. Golden
wattle, dogwood, bronze-green cherry trees, patches of grass-tree
and numerous other shrubs grew in lavish tangle under the immense
interlacing blue-gums, scenting the summer air with their delicious
fragrance. From the bush came showers of silvery notes from the
happy blue wren as it swelled its little blue and black throat in
glad, liquid song. The track led through moist, shady corners, where
sassafras and myrtle and huge tree ferns were matted together in
luxuriant confusion.
When they came to a little stream trickling over moss-covered stones
Mrs. Henderson suggested they should have afternoon tea as it was
a cool, shady spot. They got out of the buggy, and, after Rees had
unharnessed the horses, he began to gather bark and wood to light the
fire.
“I shall go down under those tree ferns and have a quiet read while you
two boil the billy,” said Mrs. Henderson, beginning to descend a small
gully on the left side of the road.
“Be careful about snakes,” the driver cautioned as she left them.
“I am used to the bush, I shall be all right and I promise not to go
far away.”
Iris insisted on helping Rees, and when the fire was burning brightly
they unpacked the baskets and laid out the tea.
“Come and sit on this bank till the water boils,” suggested her
companion.
Iris breathed a sigh of utter content. It was so lovely in this green,
cool, fragrant spot in the depth of the great forest, where the
exalted stillness was only broken by the flutter of wings, the murmur
of streamlets and the soft notes of birds. They were by themselves at
last, and her lover’s nearness brought her a great, vital joy.
“Miss Dearn, you have hurt your hand,” said her companion suddenly.
She glanced down at it quickly. “It is only a scratch.”
“I believe there is a splinter in it--may I look?”
She held out her hand to him. He took it tenderly between his own and
examined it carefully; there really was a small splinter in the wound
and he pulled it out gently. As he did so his sleeve and soft cuff
slipped up a little and Iris noticed that above the wrist his arm was
as white and his skin as fine in texture as her own. And, though his
hands were brown, they were wonderfully soft, well cared for and had a
delicacy of touch which had often surprised her.
When he had extracted the splinter he did not release her hand, but
still held it caressingly and fondly in his clasp.
Neither of them spoke. Iris averted her face a little and in her eyes
shone a deep, tremulous shyness.
“Miss Dearn, am I taking too great a liberty?” he asked in a low voice.
“No,” she breathed. There was another delicious pause; then she
continued: “Please don’t call me Miss Dearn--at least not when we are
just--together, like this.”
“What may I call you then?” he asked eagerly.
“My name, of course,” she said very quietly.
“May I really call you by your beautiful flower-name?” There was wonder
and exultation in his words.
“Yes, if you care to,” she whispered, her shyness increasing with the
emotion he showed.
“Iris--Iris,” he murmured lingeringly. “How sweet of you to let me----”
There was a loud, seething splutter from the fire: the billy had boiled
over.
He released her hand quietly, and went over to make the tea. He coo-eed
to let Mrs. Henderson know it was ready, and presently they were all
enjoying a dainty repast.
Iris noticed that the driver did not eat much, but he drank great
quantities of tea. He was generally thirsty, but as a rule he was
hungry as well; to-day he ate only one tiny scone.
“Mr. Rees, you are not eating anything--what has happened to your
appetite? By the way, Iris,” Mrs. Henderson went on without waiting
for his reply, “what did your mother say in the letter you got this
morning?”
“There was no particular news. Mother told me about the things she and
Helen had been doing lately, painted London in glowing colours, and
concluded by asking her usual question--when am I coming home?”
Mrs. Henderson turned to Rees. “My cousin, as I dare say you have
noticed, is not infatuated with London life; on the contrary she has
fallen most violently in love with the life here, to the consternation
and grief of her relations and friends on the other side of the
world--they are always trying to induce her to go back to England.”
“I suppose they don’t quite understand the fascination of the life
here.”
“No, indeed! They think our taste for it extraordinary, as they
consider the people here rather rough, and of course some of the
Australians cannot claim as fine breeding as they do for their sheep.
It is this I am sure which worries our people at home when they think
of Iris; as one friend put it in a letter last mail, if Iris stayed
here much longer she would be marrying a----”
“Please don’t tell Mr. Rees about that,” interrupted Iris a little
imperiously, blushing hotly.
“Why not, my dear? It would only amuse him.”
“No, please don’t tell me if Miss Dearn doesn’t want me to hear it,”
the driver interposed.
“You are really too soft with her, all because of those pretty blushes.
Now, when I come to think of it, Iris, you never used to blush like
that; it is something you have acquired quite recently.”
The colour in the girl’s face deepened still more, but she did not
lower her splendid eyes.
Mrs. Henderson continued: “Why shouldn’t Mr. Rees be allowed to share
the joke about your marrying a bushranger----”
She stopped as she saw the driver’s face suddenly blanch, and a curious
look came into his eyes as they became fixed on the ground behind her.
Rees had just discovered a huge black snake creeping in bulky curves
towards Mrs. Henderson. Its small dark tongue was out, moving
menacingly as its thick glistening body made a wide trail on the loose
fine earth. Mrs. Henderson was evidently seated in front of its hole in
the bank and it was determined to attack the obstacle in the way. Its
small beady eyes glittered--in another moment it would spring, already
it was raising its head to strike.
Rees had a gun in the buggy, but there was no time to get that. There
was a stick within reach, but it was a very thin one and it would be
dangerous to attack the monster with such a frail weapon. There was not
a moment to lose, so he could not stop to think of the risk to himself.
Quickly he gripped the wood, made a plunge forward, and with a big
swoop brought the stick with all his force on the sleek black body.
There was a small cracking sound.
The slender weapon had broken without vitally injuring the snake,
which now, goaded to fury, hissed viciously and turned fiercely on its
assailant. Rees was within a yard of the snake and without defence for
the moment. He would have retreated in search of a weapon, but he was
alive to the fact that, if he were to do so, the monster would probably
turn upon Mrs. Henderson, who was standing stock still, too fascinated
with horror to move.
Iris took in his predicament instantly. In another second the man she
loved would be bitten by the venomous, hissing thing so close to his
feet. She was standing by the smouldering fire. Quickly she snatched
one of the long, burning sticks, sprang forward and thrust it into the
driver’s right hand.
It was only just in time to ward off the malicious head now only a few
inches away from his left hand.
The reptile was brought to the ground by the close contact of the
flames.
Before it could spring again there had been time to raise the heavy
stick high and now it came down on the fat, glistening back with a
power which broke it. The snake lay writhing on the dry dusty ground.
It was not dead yet and it hissed viciously, trying to wriggle towards
its opponent, but a few more blows and it moved no more.
“What a horribly ugly thing!” shuddered Mrs. Henderson coming up beside
it. “You have saved my life, Mr. Rees--it was just behind me,” she said
unsteadily.
“It is Miss Dearn who saved us all. If she had not passed me that stick
so quickly--it would have had me,” he said, not trusting himself to
look at the girl who had helped him so promptly.
“Oh! that was nothing,” expostulated Iris, “it was you who killed it; I
should never have had the courage to attack such a monster.”
“You were very nearly attacked by it when you put that stick in my
hand.” He was looking at her now, and what she saw in his eyes made her
heart suddenly bound at a terrible pace.
“How long is it?” asked Mrs. Henderson, still standing fascinated
beside the dead reptile.
“It is over five feet and as thick as my arm,” said Rees quietly.
“Dangerous brutes when they mean mischief!”
All at once Mrs. Henderson shook off her horror and walked away from
the object which had held her attention. “Now look here,” she said, “we
are not going to allow any snake to spoil our outing; let us forget all
about the horrid episode and go on as if it hadn’t happened.”
Rees removed the crushed snake and threw it into a thicket of bracken.
“Now I am going for a little stroll along this lovely road while you
two pack up the things,” said Mrs. Henderson.
“But----” remonstrated the driver.
“No, I’m not afraid, we can’t have two such adventures in one
afternoon; that is really beyond all possibility--such things only
happen in penny dreadfuls,” and she went smilingly down the furrowed
road and soon disappeared round a sharp corner.
When she was well out of sight she sat down on a big stone. “Poor
things,” she thought, “I’ll give them a little time to themselves; they
deserve it after the brave way they behaved. There is no doubt about it
they are badly in love with each other; but how in the world will it
end? They can’t possibly marry, of course; Iris would never be allowed
to do such a thing--though I am not sure that they could stop her if
she really wanted to. The way he looks at her when he thinks himself
unobserved! And she is properly in love with him too, but then--he
really is so handsome--and such a perfect dear! I wonder what they are
doing now--not discussing snakes I’ll be bound.”
[Illustration: _Photo. Beattie, Hobart._
HERMANDIE RIVER.]
“Iris,” said the driver when they had stowed the baskets away in the
buggy, “I have not thanked you yet for saving my life.”
“I didn’t, I only passed you a piece of wood. You saved it yourself by
being so brave and strong--you saved ours too--we have not thanked you
either,” she replied with a tremulous smile.
“I don’t want to be thanked.”
“Never mind about the snake; let us follow Amy’s example and forget
it--only I must say how splendid you always are,” she exclaimed with
undisguised admiration.
His face brightened. “If you go on praising me like this, I shall begin
to--blush also,” he said with a sudden twinkle in his eyes.
At the reference to her blushes, her cheeks grew warm again.
“But, Iris, why wouldn’t you allow your cousin to tell me the joke
about your--marrying--a bushranger?” he asked, the twinkle still
between his dark lashes.
“I didn’t want you to hear about it--it was so horrid.”
“What was horrid, your marrying a bushranger, or--my hearing about it?”
he said, still smiling.
The warm blood mounted to her face again. “Both, of course--I mean----”
“Do you think it would be _very_ horrid to marry a bushman?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” she stammered in confusion.
“You don’t think it would be horrid then?”
“I don’t think it would be horrid to marry any man I--loved,” she said
with fine courage.
“Could you love a bushman?”
“Why not--if he were--lovable?”
They had been standing by the buggy talking; now Rees said, “You must
not be standing here, come and sit on this cleared bank.”
When he had spread a rug they sat down and for a while remained
silently looking into the green tangle of undergrowth. Into the
stillness came floating a clear flute-like note.
“That is the white magpie calling to its mate,” Rees said with his eyes
still on the scented shrubs. “Happy birds!” he sighed. “Happy birds!
they live their own free joyous lives, unfettered, unhampered--they
mate, sing and--kiss.”
Iris stirred uneasily, but she did not speak.
After a pause another flute-like call fell upon the pregnant stillness,
followed almost immediately by a tender response.
“Iris, did you hear that call, and--the answer?”
“Yes,” she murmured, her face averted.
“Iris--speak to me--please speak to me--use my name as I am using
yours,” he said with restless intensity.
“I do not know your name.” His vehemence had curiously confused her.
“You don’t know it--how strange!”
“No, you have never told me and no one uses it here, so how could I
know?”
“Justin is my name: please use it.”
“Thank you, I should like to.”
“Say it then.”
There came a silence.
“Iris,” he began, “please say it?”
“Some other time,” she faltered.
“Please say it now.”
Again there fell a throbbing pause.
“Are you punishing me because I--I--took that liberty this afternoon?”
and he gazed fondly at the slim white hand he had held in his own a
little while ago.
His companion suddenly looked down at it too.
“Of course not,” she said softly.
“Then are you trying to show me, that I must never--do it again?”
The well-poised head sank lower. “No.” He hardly caught the word.
“I may do it again then?”
“If--you care to.”
“Oh, Iris, you are too good to me--how little I deserve it! And yet you
will not call me by my name.”
“Oh, Justin!” she faltered, catching her breath.
“You darling!” he said in scarcely audible tones, and she saw a tremor
pass through him.
Some heavily pulsating moments went by, then he spoke again. “Iris--I
wonder if you really understand where you and I are drifting?”
“I think so,” she said, with drooping lashes.
“And you do not mind?”
“What is the use?”
“Oh, Iris!” he broke out remorsefully: “I have no right to ask you all
these questions--would to Heaven I had!”
At that moment Mrs. Henderson appeared at the bend of the road.
“Have you finished packing up? Isn’t it time to start home?” she
inquired.
“That is of course as you like,” replied the driver a little absently.
“Well, then, I think we had better go. I hope you two haven’t been
thinking about the reptile _all_ the time I have been away. It is so
bad for one’s nerves to dwell on horrors; it brings nightmare, and it
is unlucky to dream of snakes.”
CHAPTER IX
APPROACHING THE RAPIDS
The evening was iridescent with gold, azure and lilac. The sun was low
in the west, and the high, irregularly formed mountains looked as if
they had been shapes of mauve laid softly against the luminous sky.
They did not seem solid, but fairy-like, elusive, like the mystic forms
which glide before crystal-gazers, ready to vanish as silently as they
appear. The evening itself was unreal--too beautiful, too delicately
coloured, too spiritual to belong to this world. It seemed as if it
must be a fragment of time, dropped by accident from some wonderful
starry sphere and allowed to rest on earth for a little while before it
should be gathered to the place where it belonged.
Miss Dearn was sitting on a long, low chair on the balcony, her dainty,
cool hands lying idly in her lap, while she gazed into the soft
illumined spaces.
By one of the high wooden pillars stood Rees, regarding her with
unmistakable admiration in his disconcerting grey eyes.
“Iris, you have no idea what pleasure you gave Mr. Green by going to
see him,” he was saying; “they were as excited as two children just now
when I was there--and their delight at your gift--dressing-gown, wasn’t
it?--you should have heard them! The poor old man has never had such a
beautiful article in his life before--it really was a handsome present,
and it will give him no end of pleasure to wear it.”
The girl flushed happily; it was sweet to give the Greens pleasure, and
sweeter still to have pleased the man she loved.
“And I hear you have promised to go and see them again and read to the
poor old fellow--it is just splendid of you, Iris! You don’t know how
much it means to them; they live such dull, monotonous lives, and to
see you--” the admiration in his eyes deepened--“would be new life to
them--a vision from another world!”
“But it was such a little thing to do; I sent to Melbourne for the
garment--those things are generally useful to invalids, and when it
came I thought I should like to take it to them myself. I am so glad
they were pleased. I should like to go and see some more of them, if
you think they would care for it.”
“They would adore it!” he said, his face aglow with the pride he felt
in her. “Iris, you are wonderful, perfectly wonderful!”
She raised her soft, snowy chin, and a dewy beauty shone in her eyes as
she lifted them to his. “Justin, if there is any good in me it is only
there because of--you.”
He glanced at her incredulously. “What do you mean?”
“Why, just what I say. I have lived a horribly selfish life, and I did
not even know it was selfish till I met you; but your beautiful example
showed me what my life might be--ought to be.”
All at once he looked away from her and his head was bent as if she had
heaped some shame upon him. “Don’t talk like that--I can’t bear it,” he
said in tones tinged with pain.
“Why not? It is the truth: your splendid example showed me what life
was meant to be.”
“Iris, don’t!”
“Now I am going to try and make up for lost time. Besides,” she added
with a brave little smile, “I must begin to train for the future.”
“What are you going to do in the future?” he asked, turning to her
again.
“I am going to live with Amy and----”
“Yes, and what?”
“Try and live as you do,” she replied under her breath.
“As I do--how do you mean?”
“Try and help everybody bear burdens, ride about and visit the poor,
sit up with the sick people, and----”
He had come close to her chair now. “Iris,” he said, his voice shaking
a little, “you are too touchingly sweet. But I am not living that kind
of beautiful life--I have to work for my living, and I only just do
little odds and ends for the people about.”
“Well, that is just what I mean to do--little odds and ends for
everybody within reach; only, as I don’t have to work, I shall have all
day to do it, and all night, too, if need be.”
“Why are you going to do that instead of going back to your old happy
life?”
“It was not happy--it did not satisfy; but I did not know how to live
any other till you showed me.”
“And will this new plan make you happy in the future, do you think?”
Her eyes dropped before his searching gaze. “I don’t know about happy,”
she said with a half-stifled sigh.
“Then why not go back to your home? You could live just as beautiful a
life there.”
“No,” she said steadily, “I couldn’t--not there; I should be dragged
into the whirlpool of pleasure and excitement again. Perhaps, if you
had been there and showed me--” she raised her head delicately--“but I
could not do it otherwise. Besides----”
“Yes?”
“How could I bear to live in pleasure and ease when--when--you have to
work so hard, and all the while living for others, as you do?”
He drew a quick, sharp breath as if she had hurt him. “I have a good
reason for working hard,” he said brokenly. “And most of my life, alas!
I have lived without giving a thought to others.”
“But you are not living like that to-day.”
“Perhaps I am trying to atone for the past.”
The haunted look in his eyes touched her deeply. From several remarks
he had made she knew his past caused him sorrow; he was grieving over
it now. She wanted to comfort him, so she said: “If your past has been
a stepping-stone to the present, it has been useful.”
He moved away from her and stood by the pillar again, his face shadowed
with sadness.
She rose and went to him quickly, her eyes pools of sapphire splendour
looking tenderly into his. “Don’t be sad about it--dear.” The last word
was a mere breath, but he heard it and she saw him start a little.
Then all at once he leant back against the pillar and closed his eyes.
Presently he opened them and looked at her, and there was such an
anguish of longing in their sad, grey depths that it made her turn pale
and suddenly grip the wooden railing for support.
“I am sorry,” he murmured apologetically. “I should not have let you
see that.”
“I thought--I thought--we had agreed----” she whispered, struggling for
composure.
“Yes,” he replied, “you have been so good to me, and I am afraid I
have taken great advantage of your generosity. All the same I must not
presume too much--it would not be fair to you.”
“Don’t use the word ‘presume’--it could never be a case of that between
us--I have given you the right.”
“Still, I am not sure that I should be justified in taking it.”
“You mean--you should not show me your--feelings?”
“Yes.”
“You are afraid of hurting--my life?”
“Yes.”
“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that silence may sometimes hurt more
than----” She checked herself abruptly.
The sun had sunk below the rim of the distant hills. The evening was
not so ethereal now. It had intensified, become more real, more a thing
of earth. It was still beautiful, but its beauty was the solid beauty
of reality; even the great spaces brooding over the purple jagged
mountains pulsated now with a vivid, vital glow.
Rees suddenly straightened. “Iris,” he said in very strained tones,
“tell me truly; be quite frank with me--has my silence _hurt_ you?”
“Yes--at times,” she answered very quietly.
“And--and--would you like me to--speak?”
She drew back in terror. “No, please don’t,” she said quickly. “I can’t
imagine what possessed me to say such a dreadful thing.”
There was fear and distress in every word.
“But--I asked you.”
“Yes, but I told you first--that---- Oh, it was awful of me!”
Rees came a little closer. “No, it was not awful,” he said in tones
slightly stern. “After I have said so much, showed you as much as
I have, it is your right to know all, Iris.” He came closer still
and she felt his nearness keenly. “If my silence has hurt you, I
will make a clean breast of everything. I will tell you about my
feelings, my--past--all. I have been longing to tell you--all!
how--I--feel--burning to tell you, but for your sake I have kept
silent. Yet if it will make it easier for you I will tell you all, at
once.”
“No, no, no,” she cried, with touching appeal in her voice. “Don’t you
see I could not let you tell me--now. You were right to keep silent and
it was terrible of me to say what I did; but at times it has all seemed
so strange and I could not understand why--and I----”
“You wanted me to be more frank with you--to speak freely?”
“Yes,” she faltered, and the soft corners of her mouth looked a little
unsteady.
“What a brute I have been not to have thought of that!” he muttered
under his breath. “But come down into the garden and I will make
full amends; we cannot talk here, we may be interrupted at any
moment--come!” He laid his hand over her trembling one still gripping
the railing, and his strong fingers untwined her slender ones from the
wood. “Come,” he repeated in a tense, low voice.
“No, no,” protested the girl; “it must not be. You were right; what you
did was best.”
“Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?”
In the gathering dusk she felt the burning question in his eyes
demanding an absolutely honest reply.
“Yes,” she said tremblingly, “of course I want to hear it--how can I
help it, Justin? All the same,” she added regretfully, “I cannot.”
“Yes, you can, if I insist on telling you.”
“But you will not insist; it would be too cruel--for I should feel so
awful afterwards, because I had made you do it. It would be as bad
as--or perhaps even worse than what happened that afternoon--in--the
cave. Don’t you remember how terribly ashamed I was afterwards? You
don’t know what tortures I went through over it!”
His fingers upon her own tightened. “You poor darling,” he murmured
very gently, “shall I ever forget? It was awful to see your distress.”
“Well, I should feel much worse if--if--I made you tell me--this.”
“But you wouldn’t have made me.”
“Yes, I should, for if I had not said what I did, you would never have
thought of telling me.”
“Not thought of telling you! Iris, how little you understand--why, I
think of little else. I am always having to stifle the yearning to pour
it all out to you, and sometimes I feel it will suffocate me to keep it
in much longer!” As he spoke he drew her hand against his breast.
“You poor dear boy,” she said, looking up at him with sudden tenderness.
She felt him draw a deep, quivering sigh. “Oh, Iris, it is too
wonderful to have you talking to me like that! Do say it again!” he
entreated.
“You poor dear boy,” she repeated, colouring slightly.
“Come down into the garden,” he pleaded, every word weighted with
yearning.
“No, not to-night--I dare not.”
“Why not?”
“Because--because--I----”
“Iris, how I wish you could put aside that shyness and just talk quite
freely to me.”
“Oh, Justin, I do try, only--those--deeper things--make me feel
so--strange--they frighten me.”
“Don’t they draw you, too?”
“Yes,” she breathed with sweet candour, “that is the worst of it: they
draw me so strongly that I cannot resist them.”
“I thought you had already come to the conclusion that it was useless
to try.”
“Yet I _must_ try.”
“Why must you?”
“Because--oh, Justin, surely you know.”
“Please tell me.”
“Because--” her voice dropped so low that he had to bend his head till
it almost touched her face in order to hear it--“because--you do.”
“Iris,” he began unsteadily, “I resisted only--for your sake.”
“Yes, I know,” she murmured faintly.
A pause followed which held a terrible suction, drawing each towards
the other with an almost physical power.
“But, Iris,” he said with strained accents, “I don’t know how much
longer I shall be able to keep this up--I cannot keep on--always. I am
afraid some day I may give way--the strain is awful.”
“Justin,” she whispered, laying her hand gently on his arm, “I can’t
bear you to suffer----”
He took her hand in his and his grip on it tightened so suddenly, so
fiercely, that the pain brought a moan to her lips.
He loosened his hold instantly and raised the fragile, hurt thing in
deep contrition to his face. “How cruel it was to hurt that soft little
hand which rested so confidingly in mine,” and he pressed it fondly
against his cheek.
Its cool, satin smoothness calmed him.
“Iris,” he said in a different voice, after a pause, “do you know,
there is a spot where I am always taking you in my dreams--it is an
old, deserted garden far up the road towards the hills, away from all
habitation. Miss Smith and her parents used to live there before they
came here. The garden is a wilderness. It has flowers and fruit-trees
all mixed together, and every night when I put my head on the pillow
I walk there with you under the old gnarled apple-trees. Some evening
will you let me take you to that sacred spot and tell you all, there?
Will you come with me and make some of my dreams real? You don’t know
how I should revel in having you all to myself for a little while in
that enchanted spot--oh, Iris, give me a few hours--let us walk under
the old trees, sit under the bower of roses--all alone just for one
happy evening!”
She drew a quick, fluttering breath. “Justin,” she said, with a soft
lustre in her blue, velvet eyes, “you make it so entrancing I can’t
resist--I want to be there--with you. But I must go in now. Amy will
wonder where I am,” she added a little reluctantly.
“You will let me take you to that garden--very soon?”
“Yes.”
He had released her hand, now she held it out to him again.
“Good-night,” she whispered.
“Good-night,” he murmured, raising her hand to his lips and pressing a
long, lingering kiss upon it.
Then he opened the door for her to enter the hall.
She halted a second on the threshold. The light from the corridor fell
full upon her exquisitely gowned form with its superb shoulders, slim
white throat and the delicately poised head. It turned her light brown
hair to gleaming gold and revealed the vivid beauty of the radiant,
upturned face.
Her deep blue eyes shadowed by their long, thick lashes lifted for a
moment to his, and there was a melting tenderness in their dazzling
splendour as she said in a very low voice: “Justin, I am going to dream
about that garden to-night.”
Before he could answer she was walking swiftly down the hall.
CHAPTER X
THE GIRL IN THE YELLOW GOWN
The same evening, on the wide, spotless deck of an ocean liner, sat
Captain Barton, talking to a dashing brunette. She was dressed in a
striking, low-cut yellow gown as conspicuous as her rather audacious
self. Her tapering fingers held a cigarette and her very red lips blew
ringlets of pale, thin smoke into the warm summer night.
Dinner had been over an hour ago, promenading had ceased, and from the
other side of the boat sounded laughter, the hum of voices, dancing,
and the strain of an impudent two-step.
“Would you care to dance, Betty?” inquired Captain Barton, carefully
flicking away the ashes from his fragrant cigar.
“No, thanks, not to-night.”
Her companion crossed one black knee nonchalantly over the other
well-formed limb--Captain Barton had very good limbs and he seemed to
be aware of it.
“Can you believe that this is our last night on board, and that we
shall be in Melbourne to-morrow?” said the girl, turning her pretty,
dark, insolent head towards her companion.
“No, indeed,” replied the man at her side, hailing a steward who was
passing and ordering two liqueurs; then he continued to the girl, “You
have made the time pass so jolly fast--I can’t believe we are nearly
there.”
“Will you be staying in Melbourne long?” asked Betty, gazing with
leisurely abstraction into the soft darkness beyond the brilliant
lights of the ship.
“No,” he said a little evasively. “I must catch the next boat to
Tasmania; I believe they run almost daily.”
The steward brought the order and Captain Barton paused to sign his
wine card.
“A day or two more or less can’t make much difference,” suggested the
girl, with a glance at her yellow satin slippers.
“Unfortunately, in this case it might,” replied her companion, moving a
little uneasily.
The brunette took a sip from her glass, then laughed suddenly. “I can’t
imagine you in little Tassy--you and that small, antiquated island
don’t blend!”
“I suppose it will be beastly quiet over there,” the man observed
ruefully.
“Dead slow! It’s the kind of place people resort to when they have
been going the pace a bit--splendid for neurotics, invalids and
babies--nothing to do but watch the clouds and wait for dinner.”
“Good Lord!” ejaculated Captain Barton, as he emptied his glass.
“So you had better change your mind and have a few nights at the Opera
in Melbourne before you shut yourself up in that convalescent home.”
“Oh, I daresay I shall survive--won’t have to stay long, I trust.”
“You expect to fix up your--business--quickly?”
Her companion stroked his smooth chin. “With a little decent luck--yes.”
“Shall I wish you good luck? You haven’t asked me to, you know.”
“Please do.”
The girl made no response. She sat gazing on the limpid, phosphorescent
waters with a strange expression in her dark eyes.
“Why so pensive to-night?” said the man, turning to her with a smile.
“Is it the thought of leaving the ship?”
“Good gracious, no! I hate boats. I was only philosophising.”
“What about?”
“How curious you are, Captain Barton.”
“Man is always curious where a pretty girl is concerned.”
“Yes, man is curious when he is interested, but he is never profound,”
she said, crossing one yellow silk ankle over the other.
“You don’t want him profound, surely--he would be a confounded nuisance
to a girl with your sentiments.”
“What do you know about my sentiments?” she asked, suddenly leaning her
head back on a pale blue _crêpe de Chine_ cushion.
“You have been generous enough to give me--samples, and I have been
testing their practical value.”
“And what is the result?” she inquired, letting her head slide along
the cushion a little towards him.
“I think your sentiments are just the thing--they make you a ripping
companion!”
“You don’t like prudes, do you?” she said, with an odd flash in her
dark eyes.
He laughed lightly. “Are there any left? One never meets them.”
“After all, I believe that you really like them,” she said, with a
probing look from under her lashes.
“How can I like what I never see?”
There was a short silence, then Ralph moved his long deck-chair a
little closer to Betty’s and said, “But you haven’t told me yet what
you were philosophising about.”
“Did I promise to tell you?” and she put a hand up to feel if the
yellow velvet band binding her black hair was still in place.
“No; but you might as well.”
She drummed with her tapering fingers on the arm of her chair.
“Well, if you will have it, I was thinking what a rotten world this
is for women; everything in it favours men--all our social laws and
conventions--everything!”
Captain Barton looked down at his black silk socks. “I don’t see
that--in fact, I think it is all the other way. Social laws make men
wait on women, see to their comforts and put them first in everything.”
The brunette shrugged her arrogant shoulders. “In small things, yes.
Society throws women a sop by piling cushions at her back and handing
her muffins and tea; but in all things that really matter man has the
advantage on his side.”
“Will you give me some instances?”
“To man is given all power of selection. He chooses the girls he will
flirt with, his partners at dances; and he chooses his companion for
life--woman is allowed no choice at all.”
“But she need not meekly acquiesce in man’s selection; she can say Yes
or No when he asks for dances and--other things.”
The brunette pouted impatiently. “And what is that? Man is granted the
power to make love, woo, ask. If only women were granted that privilege
they would oftener have what they want than they do at present.”
“But women can win the men they want, too. They can be so deucedly
charming that they send a fellow fairly crazy over them.”
His companion shrugged again. “That is a very negative privilege--give
a woman a clear field to make honest and open love, and we should soon
have a change in things. The world often accuses women of not being as
straight and honourable as men; but how can they, when they are never
given a chance to be direct and frank? They are taught to hide their
feelings, and the result is, that they must gain their ends by subtle
methods; if they fall in love they must not show a man a straight and
honest affection, they must wait till he approaches them, and may only
try to draw him to them in little coquettish, artful ways which in the
long run make women a little sly and underhand. She loves as strongly
as a man, and she is just as eager to possess what she loves as he
is; why not give her the right to win in an open, square way what she
wants?”
“Why don’t you start a social reform on those lines?” suggested her
companion half-absently. To-morrow they would be in port; the day after
he would start for Tasmania and--Iris. The girl at his side had amused
him and kept him from being dull on the voyage; but now he would need
her no longer, and the dazzling Iris Dearn loomed large on his horizon
again.
“Yes, it would be interesting--I wonder how you would feel if I began
with you?”
“Began with me--how?” he said abstractedly, still thinking of the girl
he was following to Tasmania.
“Ralph, how stupid you are! Why, begin to make real, honest love to
you, of course.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Captain Barton, sitting up straight, “that would
be a ripping game--jolly ending to our trip--I believe you could do it,
too!”
“Yes, I believe I could; you have given me some valuable hints, you
know, and I am quick at picking up things--we Australians are.”
Captain Barton winced a little. “You didn’t mind the hints, did you? Ye
gods, how could a man endure a voyage if he didn’t make love!”
“Do you always make love on your trips?”
“What else is there to do?”
“And you never become--profound?”
“Jolly girls don’t like profound men.”
“You haven’t really answered my question.”
“I don’t think there is anything else to say. But,” he continued,
in a different voice, “come and have a waltz and give up all this
philosophising; have a good time while you can, that is my philosophy.
Now come.”
“I think I would rather go up on the top deck for a stroll.”
“Brilliant notion! Then you can begin your social reform on me, and you
shall have the whole evening to practise in.”
“How amiable you are, Captain Barton; perhaps with a few more hints
from you--such an expert on the subject--and a little practice I shall
be proficient by the time the man who really matters comes into my
life.”
Ralph rose from his chair, helped the brunette to her feet, and
together they walked down the deck; soon afterwards the soldier’s
tall figure in his immaculate evening dress and his daringly attired
companion disappeared up the narrow stairway leading to the upper
regions.
CHAPTER XI
AT THE SHRINE
Iris and Justin were together in the deserted old garden. They walked
on the velvet grass amid a wilderness of flowers and fruit. There
were great rosebushes covered with golden, pink and crimson blooms;
clusters of purple clematis, honeysuckle, and white, starry jasmine
climbed broken arches and dilapidated trellis; long spires of yellow
and red hollyhocks reared stately heads amid banks of mignonette,
blue-eyed forget-me-not and mauve and snow-white stock. Old moss-green
apple-trees laden with half ripe fruit stretched protecting arms over
the profusion of flowers, gooseberry and currant bushes. The garden was
ablaze with colour. The air was weighted with the heavy perfume of many
blooms, and everywhere there was an exuberant wild beauty which made
Iris catch her breath and look up at her companion with large, shiny
eyes. Nature ruled in this forsaken spot. Man’s restraining hand had
not clipped, pruned and trained into monotonous, civilised neatness.
“This is my dream-garden,” said Justin, standing under an ancient,
gnarled apple-tree and facing Iris. “Don’t you think it is an ideal
place for saying what I am going to say to-night?”
“Yes,” she replied, the tint in her cheeks deepening. Her light,
graceful form stood against the coloured background of flowers and
deep, rich greens, her lovely face framed by the moss-tinted branches.
He came a little nearer. “Iris, this is just how I picture you in my
dreams, standing here under these dear, friendly trees, and in my
dreams we----”
His eyes told her the rest and her white, heavily fringed lids dropped
before his gaze.
“But that part of my dream may not come true,” he continued, a
plaintive sadness creeping into his voice. “Such things only happen in
fancy, and perhaps once--just once, as it happened in--the cave.” His
tones were low and not quite steady.
Iris looked up quickly. “Oh, Justin, why do you talk like that? I can’t
bear it!” she said, her delicate nostrils suddenly dilating.
“I only say it because--it must be so. I am going to open my heart to
you to-night--that privilege is granted me; but I may not tell you in
the way I should like best.”
She did not speak, but she looked intensely vivid, as if she were
struggling with some overwhelming emotion.
After a short silence he went on: “I am going to make two confessions
to you to-night. One you know about already, and yet I long with all
the strength of my being to put it into words; the other--” his voice
dropped--“if I possessed worlds I would gladly give every one if I
might be spared making that.”
“In that case don’t make it. I don’t want you to tell me anything
which will give you pain,” she said, finding her voice.
“I _must_,” he answered regretfully. Then, changing his tones, he
continued: “But we won’t talk about that yet. For a little while let us
revel in all this beauty and--in each other.”
“Why not do that all the time and leave the rest for another night?”
suggested the girl very softly.
“No, that will not do--we have gone too far to put off my confession
any longer.”
The setting sun had been hidden behind large masses of purple cloud;
now it suddenly shone out from a fraying rift, its golden rays wedging
their way in between the trees like gleaming swords cutting into the
fragrant stillness.
“How lovely!” murmured Iris in hushed tones. “Doesn’t this make you
feel as if you were kneeling at some great illumined shrine?”
“Yes,” he replied as softly as she had spoken. “That is just how I
feel. For I am kneeling at a sacred shrine to-night--at the great
shrine of Love. Iris--” he turned to her now--“are you kneeling there
too?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her sea-blue eyes shining tremulously under their
shadowy lashes.
Rees regarded her for a moment as he would have regarded some wonderful
vision which had come to him while wrapt in devoted worship. Then he
said suddenly and with great simplicity: “Iris, how beautiful you
are--how beautiful! I do believe you have been created from tall,
stately flowers, fresh waves from the sea, and shining stars.”
She glanced up at him, smiling tenderly.
“What about yourself--what were you made from?”
Instantly a change came over his face. “I was made from the dry sand of
the desert.”
A low, silvery laugh rippled over her parted red lips. “What a
humble-minded dear you are! No, you are not made of sand; there is
plenty of grit in you, but sand--no! However, I will tell you what you
were made of, if you like?”
The same tenderness which had shone in her eyes softened his. “Yes,
tell me, Sweetheart.”
It was the first time he had called her by this endearing term, and the
word and its meaning thrilled her with its exquisite sweetness.
“You must have been made of that high peak which catches the sunset on
that far-away, rugged mountain I long to explore. You were made at the
time when the roseate sunbeams tint the rocks and turn the peak into a
crimson jewel. Then you were made, too, from the deep pools of marshes,
when the sky is overcast and each little lagoon lies like a great
solitary tear.”
He moved nearer to her and his voice was a little uneven as he said:
“Iris, what makes you think I was made of such beautiful things?”
“Because there is such a lofty strength about you, a strength which
could only come from the great exalted mountains. But it is not a cold
strength, it is deliciously warm--just like the crimson shafts of a
summer sunset. And then there is your sadness--that is really like the
big tears which have dropped from the sky on the marshes.”
“Iris,” Rees began in tones shaking slightly, “when I have told you all
I am going to tell you, you will never talk like that again. You will
turn from me and say that I was only a strip of desert on which you for
a moment saw a mirage created entirely by your own sweet fancy.”
“Justin, I shall never say that, no matter what you tell me,” she said
with decision.
“We shall see.”
They walked away from the apple-trees to a huge blossom-laden rosebush
under which was a little rustic seat, and there they sat down under the
crimson blooms.
The sun was just sinking behind the hills, and it seemed to have become
strangely entangled in tree trunks, foliage and branches. It hung
shimmering, trembling, then gradually disappeared behind the confusion
of trees.
There were no golden shafts piercing the deserted garden now; but a
rosy twilight crept caressingly over the earth, folding all things in
its soft, warm embrace.
They sat for some time without speaking, Justin gazing with rapt, sad
eyes at the lovely girl beside him. She had turned her head away,
looking into the roseate shadows. He saw the soft contour of her regal
head, the fine oval of her cheek, the soft whiteness of her neck where
little golden-brown curls rested in alluring innocence. She looked so
splendid, so enchanting, so radiant in her youthful beauty!
As he watched her the sad look in his grey eyes brightened. After
all, he still had that delicious revelation to make--the revelation
she already knew about, yet wished to have put into words. How open
she had been with him from the first, and yet at times how shy! She
had not attempted to hide her feelings from him, and he blessed her
in his heart for her sweet candour. They had met under such unusual
circumstances; love had caught them unawares in the cave. He had felt
her thrill to his song--ah, how she had quivered in his arms as his
music saturated her soul! She did not understand her own emotions
then--he had hardly understood his at first, but he had watched hers
deepen as she had laid them bare to him again and again. It was so
apparent she had not been in love before, and she believed in him with
an abandonment of trust which often brought a blinding mist to his
eyes. His heart beat fast as he thought of it now. He knew hers was not
a weak nature; there was a certain hauteur about her; an air of fine,
proud strength. She had met many men, known admiration and homage all
her life, yet no passion had been able to stir her before. She had
walked through her London season heart-whole, and he was evidently the
first man who had awakened the slumbering woman within her. He _had_
awakened the slumbering woman within her, he knew that. But he was not
sure if she had discovered this in its wide, deep reality for herself.
To-night his confession would open her eyes.
The rosy twilight grew purple--the colour of the trailing clematis
which swayed for ever softly to and fro in the stirring shades of
coming night.
“Iris, are you ready to listen to me?” Rees began a little unsteadily,
after a lengthy pause.
She turned to him rather shyly. “Yes,” she said in a low voice.
“Dearest, you already know what I want to tell you--that I--_love_ you.”
He heard her draw a quick, fluttering breath.
“It all began that afternoon in the cave,” he continued unevenly. “Of
course, I had admired you before--who could help it? Iris, I wonder
if you have any idea how dazzling you are! Often when I sat beside
you driving, and you turned and looked suddenly up at me with those
wonderful eyes of yours, it made me feel quite bewildered for a time;
but there was no love--no, not then, not till that afternoon in the
cave----”
She started slightly, but she did not speak, so he went on in lower
tones: “But that afternoon when I held you in my arms, when you were
pressed against my breast and I felt your heart throb against mine;
when your soft hair brushed my face, and just once your velvet cheek
touched mine--oh, Iris, how could any man resist such sweetness! I
thought all love within me dead, all emotions in my being slain; but
that afternoon it seemed as if there was a resurrection of all I
thought vanished and gone. It was when I sang the second time that I
felt the power stirring in me. At first I only wanted to comfort and
soothe you, but as you lay in my arms and I felt your quivering form
against mine--Iris, I, who admired you, who had been with you daily,
exposed to your charms--Iris, can’t you understand that I couldn’t
resist--that I was swept off my feet? Of course, I had no right to
love you--no one knows that better than I--but it was all no use, no
reasoning could make any difference--I simply couldn’t help myself.”
He stopped and waited for her to make some reply. She had sat very
still with closed eyes while he was speaking; she was still now; only
her white hands moved nervously.
“Iris, I have told you; but I dare not ask if you--care--it is not for
a poor driver to ask Lord Dearn’s daughter such a question----” He
stopped for she had stirred quickly. In the tumult of her emotions she
wondered what this man could know about her father; neither she nor
her cousin had ever mentioned him. But her surprise soon passed in the
turmoil of other and stronger feelings.
If her companion had said more than he intended, he was not aware of
it just then. “Darling,” he went on, “I may not ask you this great
question, and yet all my soul is crying out for your answer.”
“Justin,” the girl began, her proud head bent low, “you need not ask,
for you already know that--I _do_.”
He made a sudden movement towards her--then checked himself. “Iris,
I never knew before how strange and wonderful this life can be,” he
murmured huskily.
There was a throbbing, tumultuous silence, in which the music of their
hearts seemed to find an echo in the music palpitating in the wild
heart of Nature. Moths and insects had come out from the dusk and
brushed cobweb wings against the clusters of crimson roses. The air was
atune with the hum of fluttering life awakened by the shadows of night.
A large dark moth lighted on Iris’s shoulder, flapping velvet wings as
it crept towards her soft white throat. Justin picked it off quickly
and let it fly. It made a big swerve in the shadows, then returned
almost to the same spot.
“Let it stay,” said the girl; “it can do me no harm--you will hurt its
wings if you touch it again.”
He picked it off and set it free once more. This time it did not dart
into the air as it had done before, but dropped into the grass a little
distance away.
“You have hurt the soft little, persistent thing,” she said
reproachfully, looking in the direction it had fallen to see if it
would fly up again. But there was no stirring of the furry wings.
“Yes,” he said regretfully; “I am afraid I have--but it was only for
your sake. Iris,” he continued, the regret in his voice deepening, “do
you know our love is like that moth, and I must with ruthless hands
fling it away so that it cannot hurt you?”
“Justin, you cannot mean that?” There was sudden fear in her tones.
“I do, Iris--I do.”
“Are you really going to--to--make us--part?” she faltered
incredulously.
“In God’s Name, what else can I do?”
“Oh, Justin--surely you know.”
“Iris, do you know what you are saying?” He spoke with strange
tenseness.
Her splendid head dropped lower. “Oh, Justin, you must think me
horribly bold--I suppose I must be bold--but----”
“No, no! You are not that--sweetest, you are not!” He was bending over
her now, his head so close to hers he felt her hair brush his cheek.
“You are only too generous, too amazingly good! But can’t you see that
I am racked already by the desire to be with you always and for ever,
and unless you are less kind I may not be able to hold out against
it----”
There was no response from his companion, but he felt her quiver from
head to foot.
“Iris,” he said, like one in torture, “don’t you want me to--hold out
against it?”
“It is cruel--cruel,” she said brokenly.
“What is cruel, Sweetheart?”
There was no answer.
He watched her through the gathering gloom a moment, then said in a
curious, quiet voice: “You don’t mean to say that you--that you would
really--_marry_ me?”
She made a slight movement towards him. “Of course I would,” she
whispered.
He drew a hard breath. “Do you mean to say that _you_--you would marry
a nobody, a poor driver and guide?”
“I would not marry a driver and guide, but I _am_ willing to marry the
man I love. I think I have told you this before.”
“Yes, I know you have fine ideals; but it seems too miraculous that you
should be willing to marry--_me_!”
“Why not? Oh, Justin, why do you make it so hard for me?”
“I don’t want to make it hard, but it seems too extraordinary that a
girl in your position should be willing to marry a man in mine--it is
amazing!”
She looked up at him now. “Why so amazing? I know you are a gentleman
by birth and education, and doesn’t love count for more than position,
money--all?”
“Yes, Iris, it does.” He spoke with deep conviction now. “But it seems
too incredible that any one could care as much as that--for me.”
“Oh, Justin,” she whispered under her breath; then she leant her head
back against the remnant of the archway which had once stretched over
the seat, and shut her eyes, and Rees saw that she was white to the
lips.
“Iris--Iris,” he cried hoarsely, “I would give the rest of my life if I
might take what you are willing to give and hold it just for a little
while!”
She moved her head towards him, but she did not open her eyes; in her
lashes hung heavy tears.
He gripped the bench hard.
“I don’t think you can care very much, after all, if you allow your
pride to come between us,” she said, trying to steady her quivering
lips.
“Not care much! Good Heavens! Iris, you can’t know what you are saying.
Not love you, when I am swept with a furious tide of longing to take
you to my heart and have you always! Why, it is only my great love for
you which keeps my own yearnings in check, which makes me think of your
happiness first--it is only my deep love for you which makes me put
this restraint upon myself. Iris, don’t you understand what it means to
be so close to you, feel you so near me, yet not be able to--fold you
in my arms and overwhelm you with this torrent of desperate love?”
The anguish in his voice made her glance up at him quickly. He was
ashen grey and the muscles of his face worked. She forgot herself in
her desire to comfort him.
“You poor boy,” she whispered, bending towards him. “Yes, I do believe
you care; it was cruel of me to say what I did, only I was so hurt that
I did not know what I was saying--please forgive me.”
“You dear little girl; and I have brought all this trouble into your
life; and, Iris--I have to make you sadder still; there is something
else which I must tell you--it is about the past----”
She interrupted him. “Please don’t tell me if it makes you unhappy--the
past doesn’t matter.”
“But I _have_ to tell you; in this case the past does matter, for it
affects the future--in fact, it is the past which will blight the
future for us. At present you think it is merely pride which is coming
between us; but it is not that--there is another and far more vital
thing which blocks the way. If you and I really cared for each other,
position could not keep us apart; believe me, I should not let that
alone separate us, though I should never have expected a girl like you
to stoop to make such a sacrifice; and oh, Iris, no matter what the
future may bring, it is lovely to know that you were ready to marry me,
the poor, insignificant driver! But,” he added in a different voice,
“there is something else--much worse----” He stopped, as if to gain
strength to proceed.
“Is it another----?”
“No, it is not. I thought I told you that afternoon by the Marble
Cliffs--no woman has ever come into my life as you have done. But it is
something equally irrevocable.” He breathed hard, then went on bravely,
“I am a--a----drunkard----”
CHAPTER XII
THE CONFESSION
Iris looked at him with dazed, bewildered eyes, as if she had not
understood what he had said; as if he had spoken in some unknown
language. At last, part of the meaning of his words dawned upon her.
“But that is--impossible!” she said tonelessly. “I have never seen
you--you have never----”
“No, you have never seen it, but that is because I am out of the reach
of temptation here--that is the reason I live in this place--to keep
away from danger; when it is in my way--I--fall.”
“Oh, Justin, it can’t be true!” The anguish in her voice was terrible.
He shuddered, but went on courageously: “It _is_ true, and when I
have told you a little about my life you will believe me. I am your
equal by birth and education, as you say. After leaving Eton I went
to Cambridge and my father expected me to have a brilliant career;
all his plans were made. But I had a voice and I loved singing with a
passion which almost amounted to madness; so I threw up my splendid
prospects and took up singing as a profession instead. My father was a
proud man of the old school, and it nearly broke his heart that a son
of his should choose such a life. To cut a long story short, it led
to a complete break between us. I was disinherited, never allowed to
visit my old home; and I believe that my name is still never mentioned
there. My mother was already dead, or I am sure my conduct would have
killed her. Before we finally parted my father made me promise to take
another name and never breathe my own to a living soul, so that is why
I cannot tell even you. My voice had already been trained and I had
splendid offers immediately. But I never appeared in England; I spared
my father that, at least. Amazing success followed. I had wonderful
receptions in America, France, Russia and everywhere I went. I was
making a big fortune. But it was at this time that I learned to--drink.
I will not harrow you with horrible details, but I went downhill fast.
I could never do anything in a half-hearted way, and in a few years
I had nearly drunk myself to death. I could not rely on being sober;
concert after concert had to be postponed--I had to pay heavy forfeits
for not appearing. At last my voice gave way also and I had to withdraw
altogether. Iris, you can guess the rest; there was absolutely nothing
to check me now, and I gave way to my vice completely, and became so
ill the doctors did not expect me to live. I was in bed for three
months, and convalescent with a nurse for another three. Nurse was
splendid, she never left my side. It was during this time I discovered
I could exist without alcohol--you may hardly believe it, but I had
sunk so low that I thought I should die if I did not have it.”
He had been looking away from his companion while he was speaking;
the confession was difficult and he had to summon all his courage to
make it. Now he continued in the same forced voice: “Then I determined
to make another desperate effort to reform--ah! no one knows how
many I had already made, how I had striven and struggled to master
my vice--yet I could not--every effort had only ended in failure.
Now I began to feel there might be hope if only I could keep out of
temptation’s way; but alas! that was impossible, living an ordinary
life--everywhere the danger confronted me, at the clubs, in houses,
walking down the street. Oh, Iris, you don’t know what it means to a
man with that burning craving in his system to be continually passing
those places!” He shuddered visibly. “I knew I could never live an
ordinary life again, so Nurse and I thought out a new future for me.
I was to come out here, find a small country place where there were
no--temptations, and then I might have a chance. Nurse was fine. She
would not let me risk travelling on a big boat, so got a friend of
hers, a captain of a sailing vessel, to take me, and this man never
allowed alcohol on his ship. I was three months on the water. The many
months of abstinence in England had purified my system and partially
restored my health; now the long voyage did the rest. My voice and
strength came back and I had hope of being able to work again. I landed
in Hobart and began to look for the quiet spot I wanted, but it was not
easy for a stranger to secure a position in the right place at once.
Of course I had to work, as I had run through most of my money and I
had refused to take the allowance my father offered me when he knew I
had given up singing as a profession and was coming out here to make a
fresh start.” A deep melancholy crept into his voice now. “While I was
making enquiries for a position--oh, Iris,” he bent suddenly forward
and shaded his eyes with his hand, “I fell again. I passed so many
hotels in that little town and the scent in the streets as I went along
seemed almost to drag me inside. Days of fierce fighting followed.
Believe me, I _did_ fight--I walked out on the hills, up mountains, I
sometimes tramped about all night to get away from the awful craving
consuming me! I could not sleep, so spent the nights roaming about
with despair in my heart. But at last I was so exhausted I could not
walk any more; and it was then, one evening, that I----” he stopped
abruptly. “Iris, I cannot tell you the ghastly details, but eventually
I heard of this place. Miss Smith was in need of a driver, as the last
one had left her suddenly. I have been here nearly three years and
shall never be able to move away--I am chained--chained----”
In the east a slightly waning moon climbed above long strands of slaty
clouds. It peered through gaps in the foliage of the large trees
hedging the garden, and stray pools of silver began to glimmer on
stretches of grass and dense banks of nodding flowers. It illumined
swaying branches of roses weighted with scented, pallid blooms. It cast
mystic bands of light on stems, tree trunks and whispering branches; it
transformed the high spires of hollyhocks into tall dusky lilies.
One silver strand fell full on the girl’s pale immovable face, making
it more ghastly white as she sat rigid, tense, trying to frame a reply
to the pitiful revelation just made to her.
Justin had stopped speaking, and was evidently waiting for some
response.
But Iris made none; her lips could frame no words; she sat speechless,
looking fixedly into the confusion of moonlight and shadows about her.
“A drunkard--a drunkard, this splendid man beside her a drunkard----”
her brain reeled. Her senses were alternately numb and curiously alive.
They conjured up visions of this beloved form reeling, swaying, making
its way home in the dark. His wonderful voice thickened, coarsened
by liquor. Suddenly she winced, sat up very straight, her slim hands
clenched, her white teeth gripping her lower lip.
Then she thought of the afternoon when she heard him sing far down
below her in the cave. She remembered how she had fancied he was a
chained spirit, singing in a gloomy prison. How true these imaginings
had been! He was a bound spirit--chained to a vice, bound to a dark
horrible thing. She shivered.
But could nothing set him free? All at once the numbness left her
brain; her feelings became acute, vivid, endued with a peculiar
piercing intensity. Was there nothing--nothing in the whole vast world
which could deliver this dear prisoner from his hopeless cell? If there
were deliverance she would go to the end of the earth to find it!
While she remained silent Rees had risen and moved a little away from
her.
“Iris,” he said in dull, hopeless tones, “I knew your love could not
stand such an awful revelation--I suppose no love could. I knew when
I told you everything that it would not only end all between us, but
even slay your love itself. A little while ago--forgive me for speaking
plainly--you would have let me repeat what--I did--in the cave. You
loved me then and I could have taken your love and held it for a little
while. But I restrained myself, because it would not have been fair
to accept the love you would have given, when I knew that, once I had
told you all, you would turn from me in coldness and contempt. I am not
blaming you,” he continued as she tried to interrupt him, “I did not
expect anything else. Love is not for such as I--I am not worthy of
such a gift.”
He stopped. The white-robed girl had risen and stood bathed in a long
shaft of moonlight. She looked fearlessly into his face in the shadows,
as she said with flashing eyes: “Justin, you are doing my love an
injustice. No confession that you have made, could make, has power to
change it. I love you as much as--before,” she finished with quiet
dignity.
He remained in the shadow of the rosebush, his eyes burning upon her
face. “Is it possible?” he murmured almost inaudibly.
“Of course it is,” she took a step towards him; “Justin, try to
understand. Your confession stunned me for a while, and it--hurt--as
nothing else has ever hurt me in my life before. But--my love is not
altered by it--it will always remain the same.”
“Iris--do you mean it?”
“How could I mean anything else?”
He paused a moment. “Iris, you are--wonderful!” The words came as a low
sob from his breast. “But--now you see for yourself why--we must--part;
why I must bury all between us, all that might have been, under those
great white cliffs across the river.”
She stood gazing at him, the moonlight upon her face, then she said in
a very low voice: “Are you really going to do that--after all?”
“What else can I do?” The grey eyes scorched her through the gloom.
“Justin--you will break my heart if you do,” she said, an awful pain in
her voice.
“Iris,” her name came as a moan from his lips.
She took another step towards him. “Be kind to me--let me stay beside
you and--help you; you need me--let me do it!” Her proud strength had
suddenly gone; she stood before him humbly pleading.
“Iris,” his voice shook terribly now, “such an offer is too incredible.
Do you really mean that you would still--marry me--marry me under--such
circumstances?”
“I would.” Her voice was low, but firm.
“Not just out of pity?”
“Oh, Justin; how cruel you are!” she broke out passionately. “Why do
you rack my heart with these doubts, these suspicions? Why won’t you
believe in my love? Why do you drive me to such desperate measures?
Can’t you understand it is cruel of you not to allow me to help
you--to be with you? Oh, Justin----” She came close to him, and
suddenly she laid her hands on his shoulders and whispered brokenly:
“Dearest--please let me!”
“Let you be with me--always?”
“Yes,” she murmured faintly, “please do.”
“Do you realise the awful risk you would be running?”
“Yes--I am prepared for that. But I am sure everything would be all
right; we could always live here away from danger, and if temptation
should ever come to you--we could fight it out together.”
“Iris,” he said with a catch in his throat; “I don’t know what to say
to you.”
Her fingers upon his shoulders tightened. “Justin, be kind!”
“Do you really love me as much--as _that_?”
“Don’t tantalise me--can’t you see--the strain is--awful----”
She trembled violently.
“Iris--Iris,” he said in strained tones, “what am I to do? I can’t
possibly endure this if you--if you----”
She did not move, but her breath came faster.
“Iris--I shall take you in my arms if you stay here an instant longer,”
he said thickly.
The girl did not stir.
He waited another moment, then suddenly he crushed her to his breast.
Dazed, bewildered by the excruciating sweetness of contact she lifted
her face, only to encounter his, and their lips met in a long kiss.
She trembled violently again.
“Darling, don’t tremble so--please don’t----”
“I can’t help it--Justin.”
“I warned you, Iris--shall I let you go?”
“No, no--I shall drop if you do--it is terrible--it is stunning
me--blinding me.”
“Iris, this is what we have been drifting to since--the cave. We are
beyond our depths--and God only knows where we shall end! Sweetheart, I
love you--I love you--tell me again that you--care.”
She swayed in his arms.
“I do, how can I help it--how could any woman help it? But let me
go----”
He released her immediately, but she clung to him suddenly,
desperately. “Justin, can this really be love--_this--this_----”
Could it be love, this violent strong thing crushing them together,
stunning her--blinding her?
“Yes--has it frightened you?” he murmured, folding her to him once more.
Her heart beat wildly; every pulse throbbed. Quivering and confused she
yielded to his embrace again.
“Does it frighten you?” he repeated, his lips brushing her ear.
“I don’t know--I don’t know--” she whispered faintly. “I don’t know
myself--I never thought I could feel like this.”
They stood for some minutes silent, swaying, clinging. Then Iris drew
gently apart.
“Justin, take me back--take me home--if I stay here any longer----” she
began in dazed tones.
“Yes, what then?”
“I don’t know--I don’t know--only take me back.”
“Iris, just once more,” he pleaded with profound solemnity; “just once
more!”
She yielded her lips to his, and again the contact numbed her senses by
its tumultuous sweetness.
Then very slowly, very reluctantly, he released her, but, keeping one
arm round her slim waist, led her silently through the silver-spangled
garden.
At the rickety gate opening into the dusky avenue of huge walnut trees,
leading to the tumbled-down barn where the horse and trap awaited them,
he stopped and turned to look back.
A strange wistful brilliance pulsated through the wild deserted garden.
It lighted on leaves, picked out isolated flowers, poured its lavish
radiance on clustering jasmine, climbing vines, trailing roses and
swaying creepers. It approached the brooding shadows under trees;
shrank away from the black gloomy places, and stole timidly over the
soft inviting grass.
In the distance a bat darted over the apple-trees and vanished into
the shade cast by some tall gleaming poplars. The ivory-tinted air was
heavily perfumed by the breath of many flowers.
Near the gate from some over-hanging bushes came the sleepy chirp of
a bird, it had evidently wakened in the night and twittered in drowsy
happiness to its mate.
Rees glanced quickly at Iris, then looked back once more on the riotous
beauty of the moonlit garden. And as he stood there, his hand on the
gate, watching the scene they were leaving behind them, an awful look
of anguish and determination came into his large, shadowy eyes.
Iris caught her breath and blanched with fear. She understood that
look. He was saying good-bye to their love for ever. An agonised horror
made her dumb. She stood beside him, feeling every part of her being
turned to stone.
He made a sudden movement. “We must be going,” he said abruptly.
He held the gate open for her to pass out.
From one of the large walnut trees came the muffled shriek of an owl.
Then silently they entered the dark avenue and shortly afterwards
disappeared among the shadows.
PART II
CHAPTER I
THE INTRUDER
The following afternoon Rees stood on the verandah looking sombrely
towards the long high ridges of uncompromising mountains rising in
clear undaunted beauty from behind the bronze-green foothills. He had
returned a little while since, after a busy day taking visitors to the
caves. It was almost time to get ready for dinner, but he had yet a few
minutes to spare before going to his room.
He watched a small pearly cloud which clung to one of the rocky peaks
till it slowly diminished and disappeared into space. It vanished into
the warm sunlit air with a rapidity which almost startled him. He
sighed, moved a little restlessly and looked at the place where the
cloud had been.
His love-dream was like that. Last night he had revelled in the glamour
of its intoxicating sweetness, and to-day--it had gone out of his life;
it had disappeared from the sphere of reality and entered the elusive
unsatisfying region of memory; it had left the living, palpable present
and passed into the unreachable realms of the past.
The night before, as he stood at the decrepit gate leading out from
their tumultuous paradise of bliss, he had said good-bye to their
love-dream for ever. The strength of his feelings as the woman he loved
lay pressed against his breast had alarmed him, as it had alarmed
her. It was an enormous, unyielding thing, violent with an impetuous
vehemence, dominant with sweeping torrential power! He dared not give
these gigantic forces any more chances to sweep him off his feet. A
few more such hours as they had spent in the garden the night before
and he would be completely unnerved and in their meshes. He would be
carried away by the strong tide of love to do what he knew was cowardly
and wrong, in accepting Iris’s generous offer to marry him. It would be
contemptible to chain her beautiful young life to this little corner
of the world, to his misfortunes and perhaps--degradation. It would
be despicable to allow her to run the risk of uniting herself to him
when he knew he had not his besetting vice in hand--had no hope of
ever getting it under control. If there had been the slightest hope,
he might have listened to his heart then; but there was none. He was
only safe when he kept rigidly out of the way of temptation. But danger
might accost him at any moment even here; and then---- No, Iris must
not be allowed to run into such peril. She must be kept from that at
all costs. He could at least save her from such an awful fate.
But she loved him, and her love was not the meek smooth tranquil
affection which could easily resign itself to being thwarted. In her
blood ran fire, as there ran fire in his own. She was high-spirited,
impetuous, capable of feelings as strong as his own. The slumbering
woman in her had now been fully awakened and had risen with great
lustrous eyes responding to his love. She was willing to marry him.
She had pleaded softly, shyly, but with irresistible intensity to be
allowed to become his. As he thought of it now something blinding
passed before his eyes, and something hard in his throat seemed to
choke him. Her attitude towards him had been beautiful--wonderful!
Proud, imperious Iris--the rich Society beauty, flattered and
worshipped in London, with her easy, conquering ways, had stood before
him, a poor driver--an outcast, her eager hands upon his shoulders
imploring him to allow her to share his fate! He jerked his hand over
his eyes.
Good God, what women there were in the world! That _such_ a woman
should love _him_ like that! He turned hot and cold alternately--it was
utterly incomprehensible--too astoundingly amazing!
But that was all the more reason why he should protect her from the
calamity which threatened her; why he should remain firm and keep her
from the danger confronting her. He could at least do that. He must
not stoop to the contemptible meanness of taking advantage of her
marvellous generosity.
But how was he to do this without hurting her too much? Ah, that was
the great perplexing question. He could not endure the thought of
wounding her. But how was he to save her from the terrible fate of
marrying him without at the same time thrusting a dagger into her heart?
He must certainly not do anything suddenly. She must not even suspect
that he had already buried their love-dream--he was quite ignorant of
the fact that she had read it in his eyes. No, he must slip out of her
life gradually, quietly, causing her as little pain as possible. He
must remain the same to her outwardly, only he must rigidly avoid being
alone with her; then perhaps, in time, she would become accustomed to
the idea that they must part, never to meet again. But oh, what racking
torment this would mean to him! To be near her daily, look deep into
her eyes, see the bewitching scarlet of her lips--he clenched his
hands----
All at once he was roused from his reverie by the throb of a motor. A
big car had just glided up to the house and a distinguished-looking,
broad-shouldered man in perfectly cut clothes sprang out and made his
way towards Rees. When he was within speaking distance he said with a
very English accent, “Can you tell me if Miss Dearn is staying here?”
Rees met his cold blue stare civilly, and answered in the affirmative.
The new-comer said something to his driver, who was in immaculate
uniform matching the dark red car, then turned to Rees again to ask if
he could get accommodation at the house, also if he would direct his
man to the garage.
Rees had to tell the visitor there was no garage in the township, only
a large shed at the back of the house where motorists generally put
their cars.
“No garage. Good Heavens!” muttered the Englishman under his breath.
Then he favoured Rees with another momentary stare. “Are you the
proprietor?” he inquired.
Rees informed him that Miss Smith owned the place, and that he was her
driver and guide to the caves and beauty spots.
“Ah!” replied the new-comer, and there was a world of expression in the
monosyllable. “Perhaps before you attend to my man you would kindly see
if Miss Dearn is in and tell her I am here.”
The driver led the way to the sitting-room on the ground floor, opened
the door, and, as he did so, caught sight of Iris’s slim, straight
figure and the glitter of her glorious hair as she sat writing at a
small table by the window.
She looked over her shoulder at the sound of footsteps and for a second
he caught a glimpse of her exquisite profile; then he said quietly:
“Miss Dearn, a visitor has come to see you.”
She rose quickly, and Captain Barton passed Rees and walked towards her.
“Ralph!” she exclaimed, her blue eyes widening and a tinge of surprise
mounting to her lovely cheeks. “However did you get here? Such a
surprise to see you! What years since we met! Fancy your coming out
here, too!” And she held out both hands to him.
He clasped them eagerly. “What a young goddess my little playmate has
become!” he said, greeting her warmly. “But then, you always were
in the grand style! It’s awfully jolly to see you again,” he added
affectionately.
Justin was just closing the door, when Iris called him. “Don’t go away,
Mr. Rees; come back, I want you to meet an old friend of mine.”
A look of surprise passed over Ralph’s well-cut features, but it
vanished instantly. “What in the name of thunder does this mean?” he
thought to himself.
Iris and Justin had not met since the previous evening, as he had
breakfasted early and not been home for lunch. If they had encountered
each other alone after their hours in the moonlit garden she would
have been shy with him, but before others she always had a fine
command of herself; and, whatever she felt below the surface, it was
never permitted to reveal itself to casual observers. As the driver
re-entered the room she hastened to introduce the men.
“Mr. Rees, may I introduce Captain Barton?”
She had mentioned the driver’s name first; Ralph noticed it and a
sudden glare came into his blue eyes--Iris was too well versed in
Society etiquette to do things inadvertently. But he smiled blandly
at the driver as he said, “How d’you do--very pleased to meet you I’m
sure, Mr.----”
“Mr. Rees,” Iris filled the pause which followed the emphasised “Mr.,”
drawing herself up a little. “Mr. Rees is a great friend of ours; we
have got to know each other well since we have been here, and he has
been so good to us!”
“How delightful, to be sure!” said Captain Barton with an ultra-English
intonation.
Iris noticed the patronage in his manner and resented it immediately.
She laughed lightly. “How very English you have become, my dear
Ralph--I suppose that’s from living in Indi-ah,” she said banteringly,
slightly imitating his accent.
He knew she was annoyed and guessed why. From the first he had felt a
latent animosity towards the driver; now it became an active dislike.
“Yes, I suppose a place like India does influence one--it is rather
toney you know. This country, I understand, doesn’t bother about
trifles of that kind,” he retorted smilingly.
“No, Australia does not give over-much attention to the surface, it has
rather a refreshing way of bestowing care on what is below.”
“How charmingly wise and prudent of it!” he laughed. “I suppose that
is why every one is so friendly here. My chauffeur, a man I engaged
in Melbourne, actually offered me a cigarette coming up to-day, and
recommended the brand to me--thought it so unique of him at the
time--spirit of the place though, isn’t it? I suppose chimney-sweeps
and costermongers would be considered social equals here,” he smiled
benevolently, with a side-glance at Rees.
Iris’s large eyes had suddenly become very blue and her smile was
extraordinarily dazzling as she said: “Yes, out here even our
chauffeurs and sweeps are _men_--such a nice change from the apology
for the real thing you and I know so well, Ralph. You will appreciate
the new species after a time--when you get more used to it!”
Captain Barton’s healthy complexion grew a little more florid.
Rees saw a new side of the girl’s nature. How splendidly she dealt
with the man who had insulted him. Her loyalty was magnificent; the
delicate way she had honoured him before this Society bounder--superb!
He watched the proud tilt of her head, the brilliant eyes, her
vivid smiles, her easy grace, her finished manner, her underlying
dignity! Somehow she made him think of the black thoroughbred he
had ridden at the sports. Before Prince took the jump he had always
come up to the high test in the same light way, aware of contest,
inwardly excited, but always taking the decisive leap with well-bred
ease--sure of himself--never contemplating defeat. Iris dealt with this
difficult situation like that, crossing swords with her friend in that
smiling, self-possessed way, dealing each blow with the same pleasant
graciousness with which she would have handed him a flower.
Mrs. Henderson entered the room just then, and Rees quietly took his
departure.
* * * * *
It was late that evening when Captain Barton followed the ladies into
the dining-room. He was in evening dress and looked strikingly handsome
and distinguished.
Rees watched them taking their seats at the small table on the
opposite side of the room. Peace had evidently been restored between
Iris and her old playmate, and both ladies seemed to be enjoying
his gay spontaneous talk and pleasant banter. Rees also noticed
that the new-comer was in love with Iris; the soft look coming into
his forget-me-not eyes whenever they met her deep sea-blue ones was
unmistakable.
Miss Dearn was looking particularly lovely that night. She wore a
gauzy mauve-tinted ninon gown, thinly veiling her beautiful arms and
shoulders and dropping over her form in soft exquisite folds. The
driver scanned her face carefully to see if he could discover how
the previous evening had affected her. But outwardly there was no
apparent change, except some slight shadow round her lustrous eyes
making them look larger and more brilliant than usual. Was it a mark of
sleeplessness? Had she, too, been awake, spending the long black hours
with tumultuous longing for what might have been? He looked towards
her again; she was not talking or smiling just then, and, suddenly,
as he watched, she looked up at him, and into her eyes came a strange
dew-like softness, a mute appeal--or was it a dumb cry of pain? And for
a second, even across the room, he could see her lips were not quite
steady. It happened in a moment, an instant’s dropping of the surface
mask, a signal flash from her soul to his; then she turned and talked
lightly to her companions again.
“Did you have an enjoyable trip, Ralph?” she asked pleasantly.
“Yes, not bad at all; some quite decent people on board--a great herd
of Australians, of course. How very simple and unreserved they are.”
“They are delightful,” said Iris decidedly. “I love their great, almost
primitive, simplicity; it has something of the same grand force about
it as their immense tangled bush! Australians have lived so near the
heart of Nature that they have retained a wonderful, natural integrity.
I should imagine they are more natural than any other civilised type.”
“Yes, I think you are right,” observed Mrs. Henderson. “Natural
integrity has almost died out in certain parts of Europe, and an
artificial culture has taken its place.”
“Are you, too, advocating barbarism?” asked Captain Barton, slightly
raising his rather straight eyebrows.
“No, I do not favour barbarism, neither do I favour bleeding humanity
to death in order to educate it; such methods are brutal. But that is
just what some sections of our civilisation are doing to-day, draining
humanity drop by drop of all its life-blood and power.”
“Yes,” said Iris, “Australians are so fresh and charming because they
have not been drained; they still have vitality and warm young blood in
their veins.”
“I should have thought you would admire culture,” observed Captain
Barton, delicately dividing an apricot with his fruit-knife.
“I do. I love the silk finish of real culture. But silk finish is of
little use on a material which has already begun to decay. Decadent
Europe has been so busy putting on the silk finish that it has been
rather careless about the material it is ornamenting. Now Australia is
more concerned about the vital substance beneath, and that is why it
appeals to me. I like the durable, undaunted strength it is weaving
before attempting the outer polish.”
* * * * *
“That must be the man Miss Dearn is going to marry,” remarked Miss
Smith to Rees after dinner. “Isn’t he a swell, and doesn’t he look
every inch a soldier? What a handsome pair they will make! I heard
him explaining to the ladies, while I was waiting for Miss Dearn’s
order, that her mother had sent him out--I believe he called her Lady
Dearn. I always knew they were swells, too, though they are so nice
and friendly, and keep it all to themselves. He gave Miss Dearn a
letter from her mother; she evidently wants her to come back at once. I
heard them discussing it all as I was going backwards and forwards. I
don’t think Miss Dearn wants to go home. Captain Barton was trying to
persuade them to return with him; he lives in India and is here for a
holiday. I don’t think you will have to drive the ladies about any more
now,” went on Miss Smith; “I heard Captain Barton making arrangements
to take them everywhere in his car; they are planning to go out a lot;
I do hope they won’t leave us yet awhile.”
Rees went out shortly afterwards.
He strolled up the lane where Iris had walked with him one night, and
his heart was heavy as lead. The elasticity of his step had vanished,
and he moved slowly as if with difficulty.
Only that afternoon before dinner he had stood perplexedly gazing at
the mountains, wondering how he might carry out his determination to
slip quietly out of Iris’s life. Fate had come to his rescue now,
it had taken the initiative and showed him the way. Captain Barton
wanted her; he was of her own world, in a good position, in love
with her, decidedly an attractive man, good-looking, well-groomed
and polished--the kind of man women like. So all Rees had to do now
was simply to stand aside and give the new-comer a chance. Of course
Captain Barton was a bounder and had been very odious to him; he had
not much character or brains; but, if only he really loved the girl,
could make her happy and would be true to her, it was all that really
mattered.
Rees sighed heavily. The man was not worthy of her; but who was?
Certainly not he himself. Captain Barton did not look as if he had any
vices, and even if he were a frivolous, conceited young ass, his faults
were certainly far more harmless than his own shameful failing.
Yes, Fate had stepped in at the right moment to take Iris’s attention
from himself and direct it into another channel; and, as they had not
known each other long, perhaps her feeling for him might be merely a
strong infatuation, which in time and with suitable means might be
cured.
It was only necessary for him to stand aside and let events shape
themselves.
But how was he to endure seeing Iris constantly with another man,
taken out by him, made love to, and finally conquered by him? He
blanched in the dusk. It seemed unendurable; but for her dear sake he
must tolerate it. She deserved that. His cold, pain-stricken heart
warmed as he thought of her magnificent love and loyalty to him. She
had been willing to renounce all worldly prospects, all that women
generally valued, for his sake. Could he not make this sacrifice for
her happiness?
He thought of that one glance from her splendid eyes at dinner. His
pulses throbbed--was she suffering already because he was keeping out
of her way? He could not bear to hurt her, and yet he must continue
to wound her--for her ultimate good. Would she understand, or would
she misconstrue, his conduct? A sharp pain shot through him at the
thought of that. But perhaps, after all, it was best she should not
understand; then she might be ready to turn from him more quickly.
Yet how could he stand the agony of being misunderstood--perhaps
condemned--and appearing cruel and contemptible to her--how was he to
endure that!
A cold perspiration broke out on his forehead, and he breathed heavily.
It was after midnight when he returned to the house. “For your sake,
Iris--for your sake,” he murmured to himself as he went wearily to his
room.
* * * * *
At the other end of the corridor Captain Barton sat in his room with
a book on his knees, smoking and looking ruefully up at the acetylene
gas-jet over a small table in front of him.
“These beastly early hours,” he muttered in disgust. “Fancy going to
bed at this time--it is outrageous! What a hole this is--how on earth
can Iris stand it--actually like it? Ye gods, what a day I’ve had--the
cheek of these confounded Australians is the limit! Imagine being
offered cigarettes by my own chauffeur, being introduced--actually
introduced--to the groom on this place--and by Iris Dearn, and being
told he is a friend of Lord Dearn’s daughter! Good Lord! What a
country! If Lady Dearn knew she would have seven fits--high time little
Iris was brought home and tamed a bit; if she isn’t--by Jingo, the next
thing will be that insolent beggar making love to her!”
CHAPTER II
IRIS AND RALPH
It was not difficult for Rees to carry out his resolution. Captain
Barton wanted to see the sights and the ladies had to accompany him.
He was not interested in caves, he preferred to be in the open air.
But Mrs. Henderson persuaded him to see the largest and most beautiful
of the underground wonders, and when he found that they would not need
Rees to act as guide, as the owner always showed people through it
himself, he decided to go. He also wanted to ascend one of the highest
mountains, but as soon as he heard it would be necessary to take Rees
with them for that expedition he decided not to go. He had evidently
made up his mind not to visit any place where they would need the guide.
But the day they went to the big caves, to his consternation and
annoyance Iris remained outside and no persuasion either from himself
or her cousin would induce her to go in.
So the girl stayed near the entrance, sitting against a large
satin-barked gum-tree, looking into the wonderful Tasmanian sunlight,
which is like no other sunlight in the world! It was warm and
impetuous, yet not fierce; dazzling, but not glaring; full of strength,
yet tender, glad, vigorous, exuberant, but often suggesting an
underlying sadness.
Iris looked into the effulgent splendour with eyes which smiled a
little unsteadily. It was so strange to be near the dear cave again,
where that alluring voice had called to her from the chasm, where
Justin had come to her--and the first soft swellings of love had
stirred in her breast as his arms enfolded her and she lay softly
pressed against his heart.
Her pulses quickened.
Each day, each meeting since that hour, had brought them more
hopelessly under the enthralling powers of love, till at last its
mighty force had swept them into that delirious whirlpool of bliss
when they had stood in the moonlit garden together, and the delicious
strength of his embrace had almost made her faint by its intolerable
sweetness. Then, as they stood by the broken, dilapidated gate, the
awful look of good-bye had come into his dear eyes, and now----
The golden sunlight suddenly seemed to be a long distance away, so did
the tall majestic trees with their glinting shiny leaves.
Within the hill Mrs. Henderson and Ralph made their way through the
many chambers and tunnels of the cave.
“I wonder what made Iris so determined to stay outside,” queried Ralph,
with badly disguised ill-humour.
“I think it was because she had a great fright here last time we came,”
explained Mrs. Henderson, when the guide was a little in front and out
of hearing. “She stayed behind in one of the tunnels; unfortunately
her lamp went out, and if Mr. Rees had not happened to be there and
stayed with her, I don’t know what the poor girl would have done. I
should have died with terror if I had been in her place, having to
spend a whole afternoon in that eerie darkness!”
“Do you mean to say she was here the whole afternoon in the dark with
that man!” There was consternation and horror in his words.
“Yes, it must have been at least a couple of hours before we came back.
But it was all right being with Mr. Rees: he is one of the nicest men I
have ever met, and any woman might trust herself with him, I might say
for ever.”
Captain Barton said no more. He had learnt by this time that both
ladies had such an unbounded admiration for the driver that nothing
seemed able to shake their faith in him, and the knowledge both vexed
and amazed him. Whatever had made them feel about him as they did? He
was only a driver and guide, a social nonentity, a being beneath the
notice of people of their status. Yet both ladies treated him not only
as an equal but as a friend they held in highest esteem. What was the
secret of his unlimited popularity?
Of course he had been told of some of Rees’s heroic deeds. But what
were they? The man was only posing to gain the notice of his superiors;
such actions were only tricks to mount the social ladder. That was all.
Captain Barton felt sure of this in his own mind. Rees must be only
an impostor with high aspirations. What could suit him better than
to win the heart of the beautiful rich Iris Dearn, the daughter of a
peer, belonging to one of the oldest families in England? Iris was
young and inexperienced: she might easily be taken in by his poses of
lofty heroism; and the driver had other attractions as well. Ralph had
to admit that he was an unusually good-looking fellow, slim, strong
and graceful, and there was an air of dignified refinement about him,
in spite of his rough tweed clothes and humble position, which of
course made him all the more dangerous. Captain Barton felt sure he
had come out in the nick of time to save Iris from ruin and disaster.
He must save her. Yet how was he to accomplish this? There was only
one way, to try and belittle Rees in her eyes. But this also would be
difficult, partly because he knew nothing against the man, and partly
because ever since the day he arrived Iris had made no references to
the driver, and had pointedly refused to discuss him every time he had
opened the subject. But if only he could find out something definite
against the man, and produce proofs, then he would make both ladies
listen and convince them that they had been completely taken in by an
unscrupulous, designing impostor.
Captain Barton was so sure that the evidence he wanted could be found,
that he even descended to hint to his chauffeur he could please him
greatly by gaining information about Rees. But alas! he had received
no satisfaction from that quarter; all the man could find out was
only absurdly in his favour. The people in the neighbourhood simply
worshipped him and considered him the whitest man in the district. He
had evidently deceived them too, commented Captain Barton to himself,
as each piece of annoying information regarding the driver’s gallant or
chivalrous behaviour was poured into his unwilling ears.
Captain Barton had come out with the determination to win Iris and take
her back with him. But though he had been with her now for ten days he
was horribly conscious that he had not made any real progress towards
his goal. She was charming; but in spite of her friendliness he was
aware that her whole underlying nature was closed to him. It seemed
impossible to make any advances, and somehow he felt, though he could
not exactly explain why, that Rees was the greatest obstacle to his
suit. He was not ostentatiously in the way, in fact he kept very much
out of it; all the same Captain Barton felt sure that he was the real
cause of his defeat and he hated him accordingly.
“Iris,” he began one day after lunch when they were alone in their
private sitting-room, “do you know your cousin and I are very anxious
about you; you look so pale and you always used to have such a splendid
colour.”
“Oh, I am very well, only a little tired, perhaps a little run
down--every one gets run down sometimes.”
“Well, then, you ought to have a change; there is nothing like a change
when one does not feel fit. You have been here nearly two months, I
believe; and I don’t think the place quite agrees with you. Amy and I
were talking about it this morning--we really can’t bear to see you
looking like this. We both think if we took you for a long tour all
over the island it would set you up again. You would like to see
the whole of the island, wouldn’t you?” he added, knowing how much she
admired Tasmania.
[Illustration: _Photo. Spurling & Son, Launceston._
CRADLE MOUNT.]
“I am afraid travelling would tie me too much just now; but if you
would care to go, please don’t consider me at all--I shall be all
right.”
“Iris, you know we could not possibly leave you here alone.”
“I should not be alone; Miss Smith is always here----”
“Oh, you know that it’s impossible. Besides, Amy and I could not go by
ourselves, and in any case we should not enjoy anything without you.”
“I am sorry, but I cannot possibly go with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to stay here until the end of the summer, as we
arranged.”
Ralph came over and stood facing her. “Iris, why do you want to stay
here?” he demanded.
“Perhaps for the same reason you want to get me away,” she answered,
meeting his eyes steadily.
“What does that mean?” he asked in an agitated voice.
“Why do you want to get me away?” she inquired evenly.
“Because I think the change would do you good and because----”
“Yes?”
“Because I am afraid if you stay here----”
“Yes?” she said again.
“Hang it all, Iris, I am not blind! Don’t you think I can see that you
are under the influence of----? And if it is not stopped, if you don’t
break away at once, you will ruin your life. That is the honest truth,
Iris--I want to save you from ruin.”
The earnestness in his words touched her.
“Ralph,” she said very quietly, “if it is really as you say, do you
think it at all likely that some days’ touring--or even weeks or
months--would make the slightest difference?”
Her seriousness alarmed him. “But, Iris, of course I did not mean to
insinuate that it was anything serious like that. I wouldn’t insult you
by suggesting such a thing.”
“I should not feel at all insulted.”
“Iris, surely--you, a _lady_!”
“Even a lady I believe may sometimes be true to her--friends.” She
spoke a little haughtily now.
“But surely a lady would choose her friends among her own class?”
“She would certainly choose them among congenial spirits.”
“Can there be congenial spirits--_here_?”
“Ralph, I think you and I had better not discuss that subject; we shall
only disagree if we do.”
“You will not come away, then?”
“No.” She looked at him with eyes which did not waver in their
determination.
Captain Barton turned from her impatiently. “Iris, you ought never to
have come to this place.”
“What is the use of discussing that, either?” she said, a little
wearily.
Ralph paced the floor excitedly. Then he came over to the window and
stood before her again. “Iris, why will you allow that man to have such
a hold over you?” his genuine concern touched her once more.
“Do we have power to give or withdraw what you call people’s hold over
us?”
“Yes, most certainly.”
“Ralph, I am afraid you know nothing about it. If some one had a great
influence over you could you stop it at will?”
“Yes, in the first stages; if I didn’t consider the person worthy I
should certainly stop it then.”
“But if you thought your--friend worthy?”
“Of course that would be a different matter. But that is not a case in
point.”
“Yes it is, for I think him worthy.”
“Iris, you can’t honestly think so?”
“I most certainly do. Now, Ralph, I have been frank with you; your
genuine friendship demanded it. But it is not a subject I care
to discuss with you again. I have also told you, so that you may
understand how absolutely useless it is to try and--and--interfere
with--this influence. And now I must leave you and go and read to Mr.
Green: I am afraid I have rather neglected him since you came.”
* * * * *
“It is best he should know,” thought Iris to herself with a sigh,
as she stood before the mirror in her room putting on a picturesque
summer hat. She had noticed little disturbing symptoms in Ralph during
the last few days, which made her fear that he did not merely regard
her as his childhood’s companion and friend; some deeper feeling had
begun to show itself below his smooth, gay exterior. It was partly to
check these disquieting indications that she had spoken so plainly that
afternoon.
She looked more closely at her reflection in the glass. Ralph was
right, she had grown distinctly pale, and there were large shadows
round her deep blue eyes, which made them strangely dark and turned
their sparkle into unearthly radiance.
Love had made this change in her--_Love_!
She smiled a smile which was not a smile.
Ah! how could Justin be so cruel--how could he--how could he? Of course
he thought it was for her good, she quite understood that--she did
not understand his motive as a smaller-minded woman might have done.
But how blind he was--how blind! How utterly ignorant of the deeps
in a woman’s love! And her greatest suffering consisted in seeing
the disastrous effect it was having on him--he too, was growing pale
and thin. Miss Smith had confided her anxiety about him to her that
morning. He had grown listless and hardly spoke a word; she was afraid
he was on the point of a serious illness.
The tall, pale girl looked absently into the mirror as she began to put
on her gloves. What was she to do? He kept out of her way and gave her
no chance to speak to him alone. He made his usual pleasant remarks
as he passed their table, or as they met in the hall going to or from
the dining-room; but not once had she seen him for a moment alone.
Sometimes at meals she caught his eyes fixed upon her when he had
not expected her to look in his direction, and the sorrow and utter
hopelessness she had surprised in the beautiful grey depths on such
occasions had brought an almost intolerable ache to her heart.
But how was she to help him? He seemed so absolutely unreachable at
present. His strange lofty strength, his unrelenting determination,
had somehow placed him in a sphere where even she seemed unable to
touch him. Each day widened the gulf between them, placed him farther
away from her; each day made her cheeks whiter, her eyes larger and
more ethereally beautiful. But she still held her head high, her
lovely young form erect, and as she was whirled about in the car from
one place to another, she talked and laughed in her brilliant light
graceful way.
She had finished buttoning her gloves and she crossed the floor to get
a parasol matching the soft summer tints of her gown. Then she suddenly
stood still in the middle of the room. “Oh Justin! Justin!” she cried,
throwing out her lovely young arms with a tense eager gesture. “How can
you--how can you? Why have you taught me this terribly sweet lesson of
love if you only want me to unlearn it? Why have you made me care for
you in this awful, desperate way, so that I am ready to go through fire
and water, ready to run any risk, make any sacrifice, if I might only
be near you and become utterly yours? Don’t you know I only ask one
thing from life, now: just to be yours--yours absolutely? Why are you
so blind--why don’t you understand--why are you making us both suffer
this torment? Don’t you know it is worse than anything the future could
ever bring, even if you----? Oh Justin!” she finished brokenly, her
lovely face raised imploringly, lips aquiver, large eyes closed and
the long lashes shading her cheeks, suddenly shining wet in the warm
afternoon sunlight.
CHAPTER III
JUSTIN GOES AWAY
The following morning Rees came out of his room at dawn; he wore his
riding suit, and, with a long look towards Iris’s door, made his way
quietly out of the house. He walked a couple of miles along the road
leading to the junction, then he turned into a prosperous looking farm
and walked up a long avenue of pines. A stout middle-aged man met him
at the gate leading into the garden, and said cheerily, “Good morning
to you; Mr. Rees. Prince is all ready for you, I got your message last
night--got up and fed him myself this morning; but come inside and have
a bit of breakfast before you start.” And he led his early visitor
with undisguised pleasure through a long wide hall into the big bright
kitchen, where an appetising breakfast had already been cooked. The
room was filled with the delicious odours of hot coffee, newly baked
bread, eggs and bacon. The family and farm hands were already seated
at the table and Rees was given a seat beside the eldest daughter, a
pretty pink-and-white girl of eighteen, who looked with unmistakable
admiration at the new-comer.
The meal was a pleasant one. The boys made fresh innocent jokes and the
girls laughed heartily. The merriment of healthy buoyant youth flowed
round the driver, yet it failed to draw him into its invigorating
stream. He was glad when breakfast was over and he was free to mount
the beautiful black thoroughbred he had ridden at the sports. He
patted the sleek shiny neck where Iris had stroked it that day, then,
once more thanking his host for the loan of the lovely animal, swung
gracefully into the saddle.
“Never mind,” the genial farmer responded, “I don’t want any thanks; if
there is any thanking to be done I guess it ought to be on our side; we
haven’t forgotten what you did for Rob last year, nor your many other
kindnesses. You are welcome to Prince, my boy, for as long as you like;
though I may as well tell you I would not lend him to any one else in
the world.”
As Rees rode away under the pines the eldest daughter stood by the
window in the front parlour and watched his slim strong figure with
glowing eyes and round burning cheeks. “He will have to bring Prince
back,” she said to herself, “and then perhaps he will stay a little
longer. He was evidently in a hurry this morning, but when he comes
back----”
When Rees had left the farm he took a road leading to a chain of
mountains running at an angle to the great blue western ridges. The
black thoroughbred cantered up narrow tracks on wild tangled hills,
found his way carefully down precipitous paths, climbed higher ascents.
Always the track rose till at last after several hours’ journey they
reached one of the low shoulders of the mountains jutting out above a
wide, deep, thickly wooded gully, where a cataract roared more than a
thousand feet below the narrow unfenced path.
There were no trees at this height and the steep slopes leading to the
rocky crags just above were covered with green and bronze sedges, now
rustling significantly in the light swift breeze.
The sky was vivid, and the sunlight pouring down over the mountainous
world revealed every crack and wrinkle on the great massive stones,
rising in sharp, audacious contours against the opal blue heavens.
Prince was hot, so Justin jumped out of the saddle to give him a rest.
The horse looked round at the austere scenery about him, sniffed in
the cool invigorating breeze, glanced back at his rider, and began to
nibble daintily among the rough shaggy sedges.
Rees threw himself at full length on the sloping ground. How lonely,
how wild it was up here among the barren dauntless peaks, with the roar
of water ascending from the huge gaping valley and the loud rustle of
the harsh reeds about him. It seemed as if he had strayed far beyond
the safe haunts of men into some strange realm where Nature is no
longer shy, lisping in unobtrusive whispers, afraid to be heard by
men; but where it was unreserved, forward, speaking in loud passionate
tones, laying bare its savage emotions, its wild, indomitable strength,
staring at him with wide, bold, fearless eyes.
Something came suddenly between him and the sun. He glanced up
wonderingly, knowing it could not be a cloud. Just above him was a
great eagle, his pinions outspread, gliding silently towards one of
the sharp splintered crags.
He watched the majestic bird for a moment, then he looked far down in
the direction of the township he had left that morning; but the safe
little clustering haven was completely blotted out by the stern rocky
crest he had mounted.
Prince stopped nibbling at the dried-up grass growing scantily between
the rustling sedges. He came over to Rees slowly, and put a soft muzzle
down to his shoulder, as if he felt lonely in this immense solitude
and wanted companionship. Justin rose wearily and began to stroke the
glossy coat. Then he put his hand over the satin neck and laid his pale
face against the spot where Iris’s cheek had once rested. He closed his
eyes and tried to imagine he was living again the dear day when he and
Iris had patted Prince side by side.
He had left her. What would she say when she heard he had gone? Miss
Smith would be sure to tell her during the day. What a brute she must
think him! How he had made her suffer! Her pale sweet face with its
shadowy eyes had clearly shown him all she was passing through. Seeing
her pain had been his worst torture--but in Heaven’s name, what else
_could_ he do? Surely it would be a thousand times more cruel, more
dastardly selfish, to allow her to link her life to his. He had been
torn asunder with misgivings when her large glistening eyes with their
silent yearning appeal had met his. It had maddened him to distraction
to be forced to go on wounding her by denying all she asked by her mute
sorrowful glances. His own longings for her had become unendurable,
and, added to that passionate anguish, was the torture of seeing the
girl he loved constantly in the society of another man; always at
his side, at table, in the car for long excursions, in the house,
talking, walking together, spending long cosy evenings in their private
sitting-room. In spite of his noble resolutions, his fine reasonings,
the sight of that wakened a fierce jealousy within him. He was willing
to give up his own happiness, all his claims upon her life for her
ultimate good; and he might have endured it perhaps if she had left him
at once and her friendship with another man could have been unfolded
somewhere else. But to be daily, almost hourly, called upon to see all
her time spent with a rival had become so unbearable that he could
neither eat nor sleep, but was driven into a frenzied despair. He felt
his physical strength ebbing. He knew he could not endure the strain
much longer, and it was the consciousness of this which had made him
ask Miss Smith for a short holiday to go to a neighbouring township.
He must have respite or lose his reason. Now he was on his way for his
holiday. But oh, what a hollow mockery it was! The phantoms of Iris
beside the other man pursued him; they came with him, and in addition
his own heart ached with a crushing pain to be near again.
As he stood beside the docile thoroughbred he was seized with a fierce
longing to return,--a longing so forcible that it almost dragged him
back in spite of himself; and it was only by a sudden, swift mounting
into the saddle and starting quickly on his way that he conquered it.
He arrived at the other township in the middle of the day and inquired
for the boarding-house he had heard was there; but to his dismay
he was told it was closed, and that there were only two hotels for
accommodating visitors. A little reluctantly he made his way to the
better one, and as he did so it seemed as if he saw Iris’s eyes looking
at him, large, horrified. But he could not draw back now.
He engaged a room, and went to the dining-hall for lunch. As he walked
down the passage he noticed a door on the left on which the significant
word “Bar” was painted in thick black letters. He finished his meal and
then began to wonder what he should do with himself for the rest of the
day. He felt restless and lonely. How he missed the sight of Iris at
the far-off table! How foolish he had been to leave her! Where could
he go--what could he do? Once more he made his way through the front
passage. But this time the door with the fatal word upon it was half
open and the scent of liquor had crept into the hall.
One whiff of those ghastly odours and his old thirst leapt upon him.
It seemed as if it had decoyed him away from Iris, away from his place
of shelter, to spring upon him here far from all that upheld and
restrained him. An ashen look came over his face. He passed the door
and strode swiftly away. But though the fumes were out of the air, they
had not been swept out of his senses. In his mind the odours hung like
a heavy fog on a winter day. They clung close, insidiously spreading
to every cell of his brain, to every nerve in his body, till his whole
being was one mad, burning craving for the drink, beckoning him from
behind the half-opened door.
He felt suddenly ill and giddy. _One_ agonised yearning had seemed
intolerable; but _two_ such fiery longings--one in his heart, the other
scorching every nerve in his body--were past endurance! If only he had
been near Iris--if only he could have gone and told her what he was
suffering, there might have been hope then. One cooling touch of her
hand, one loving, encouraging look from her eyes and he might have
been saved. But now---- He hurried down the road as one in a frenzy.
A sudden impulse came to him to spring on Prince and gallop back to
safety as fast as the horse could carry him. But the thoroughbred had
already done a long distance and it was cruel to take him back without
a proper rest. Besides--there was Captain Barton. He would still be
there with Iris when he returned. No, he could not go back; that was
out of the question. He must stay and fight the temptation alone.
He walked about the district all the afternoon and did not return to
the hotel till dinner-time. He plunged past the bar door; it was still
open. In the dining-room he ordered the first thing he saw on the menu,
drank cup after cup of strong tea--but the tea could not allay his
mad craving; it only seemed to increase it. He could hardly swallow
the food on his plate, but he forced himself to eat some of it. Then
at last he rose from his chair, a deadly sinking in his heart at the
thought of what awaited him in the hall.
One more desperate struggle and he passed the door. But only to sink
down on a bench in the verandah outside the bar window. His craving
had him in its relentless grip now, it made ferocious assaults upon
his will. His powers of resistance were ebbing away. He could not hold
out much longer. After battling all the afternoon with the remorseless
desire he was weak with the struggle, the aimless walking, and the
terrible strain he had undergone. He was white to the lips, his face
worked. Men passed by him. They were joking and laughing as they made
their way into the large room behind him. Some awful power seemed to
lift him from the seat and drag him after them. He gripped the back of
the bench as if imploring it to save him. But the wood had no power to
hold him. He fought desperately, for the issues of this struggle were
stupendous. Iris respected him now, she loved him. But if he fell again
she would turn from him in loathing and disgust. Of course she could
never be his, but he could not bear that she should regard him as an
abhorrent and revolting thing, and she would naturally do so if he fell
so soon after his arms had held her, and the lips which burnt now for
the insidious thing had clung to hers.
He ground his teeth in agony.
How long he sat there on the bench he did not know. It seemed to him an
eternity. Darkness had long ago stolen over the township. Then all at
once some one opened the window behind him.
As the subtle odours sprang out upon him he rose. His resolve was
made. He would take the consequences, but he must have the drink he
craved. All the fighting within had ceased and he walked with calm
dignity towards the fateful door. His old enemy had won, he recognised
his defeat; so, with set face and slow step, he turned into the hall,
crossed the threshold and--entered the bar.
CHAPTER IV
THE BAR OF DESTINY
The atmosphere was heavy with smoke and liquor odours. Behind the
glass-filled counter stood the smiling, amiable barmaid, a shapely
woman with auburn hair, powdered cheeks and liquid brown eyes. Rees
made his way to the left side of the bar, where there was more room,
ordered his drink, then took it to a small table by the window and sat
down. The coarse voices of the men, the vulgar thick laughter, the
smoke from bad cigars and foul pipes, filled him with instant loathing.
So this was what he had come to--sunk to now! He was in the gutter
again. His face grew paler; his lips set harder. Then he looked round
the room once more. The rough crowd about him were miners and men from
the township; some had a fair amount of education and some had none.
But they all seemed to meet on an equal footing there; some strange
bond had drawn them to a common level. They gathered round the littered
besplashed counter, elbowing, pushing, joking, laughing, hiccoughing.
As Justin watched them his mind went back to scenes he had witnessed
in the long past in London at railway stations, whence trains went to
the worst slums of the East End. There had been jostling crowds round
the ticket office, sordid, untidy, battling poverty-stricken masses of
humanity, with sallow faces, fiery eyes, loud harsh voices, insolent
ways--with a look of brutal determination to get tickets and board
the trains rushing towards the destination: that abyss of squalor,
foulness, iniquity, gloom, despair; that whirlpool of anguish, hatred,
pollution; that blemish on civilisation and humaneness--the East End of
London, as it was in the “’nineties.”
Justin thought of these scenes now as he watched the men crowding at
the bar. It seemed to him as if they, too, were thronging some great
station, and with the same look of brutal determination as the East
Enders demanded tickets to some repellent horrible destination, which
the smiling barmaid dealt out in her pleasing, bantering way.
Suddenly his attention was drawn to a young Irishman, who was
evidently the centre of interest in the room just then. He was a big,
fine-looking fellow, with pale blue eyes, now looking foolish and
expressionless through over-indulgence in the insidious liquid filling
his glass.
“I am going to see the Premier,” his ridiculously high-pitched voice
was saying, “and I’ll give him my vote at the General Election if he
will put me on the Bench and make me a Justice of the Peace--not many
Irishmen on the Bench--time they put on a few more--he shall have my
vote at the General Election if he will make me a----”
“Pity your mother didn’t make anything better of you, sonny,”
interrupted a loud voice from the thronged counter.
The Irishman smiled vacuously. “My mother said to make me a priest.
But I--think--she--would--rest--in--her--grave, if her son was made a
Justice of the Peace in the little island of Tasmania.”
“You a priest!” roared the others. “Guess you haven’t any propensities
that way, me boy! What about celibacy--that suit you--eh?”
The silly smile lingered on the flushed young face. “Gosh no!--no
celibacy for me! Give me a girl every time--a pretty girl too,” and he
glanced meaningly at the gorgeously dressed barmaid.
But she was not looking at him. Her attention was occupied just then
with the handsome stranger in the riding suit sitting apart, frowning
over his untasted glass. What was he doing in this room? She was
certain he was out of his element.
“Let them make _me_ a Justice of the Peace,” and the young Irishman
threw out his chest, put his thumbs in his waistcoat and blinked round
on his noisy listeners.
“Get out with you! Who is going to make you Justice of the Peace?
Reckon you know more about breaking it!” hiccoughed a burly-looking
miner.
“I’ll tell the Premier he shall have my vote at the Election if he puts
me on the Bench----” reiterated the monotonous high-pitched voice.
The barmaid saw a look of utter loathing and contempt pass over the
stranger’s lean set face. Then as if he made some terrible resolution,
he lifted the glass to his lips and dashed the contents down his
throat. The expression of disgust gradually disappeared and a burning
look came into his large grey eyes. He rose, went over to the counter
quickly and asked for his glass to be refilled. She attended to his
demands. This time he did not return to the small table, but drank at
the counter like the others. His manner changed. He no longer regarded
the rough crowd with disdain; all at once they seemed to amuse him and
he even smiled at the absurd voice of the young engineer as he babbled--
“Great thing to be on the Bench--you just wait till I get there--great
honour that.”
The others roared afresh. Rees glanced up at the barmaid and asked for
another whisky. All his aloofness had vanished and there was an eager
friendliness in his eyes as they met hers.
She glanced at him archly, but behind the archness which had become
second nature to her by this time was something else, something which
held pathos, sadness, almost entreaty as she said: “If you have any
more you will want to be made a Justice of the Peace too.”
“Would you like to be made a Justice of the Peace?” asked the foolish
high voice, as the youth turned to Rees.
“What about making a priest of you, boss?” suggested a man with fierce
black whiskers and closely set bleary eyes.
The others laughed boisterously. “Make a priest of him--oh golly, he
isn’t the bloke for ce-li-ba-cy either!”
“Like a kiss or two and a pair of arms round your neck--don’t blame
you--a man is not a man if he can’t take his glass and a kiss!”
But Rees did not hear the gibes; he was absorbed in the barmaid, who
was constantly filling his glass; and somehow, to his benumbed and
muddled brain, it seemed as if it were Iris standing there before him,
pouring the amber fluid a little reluctantly into his tumbler.
When he had drained it he made a lurch forward towards the woman
leaning slightly over the counter, and looking into her eyes he
suddenly began to sing--
“Drink to me only with thine eyes!”
There was instant silence. All laughter, the shuffle of feet, the
clink of glasses, the thick talk, ceased--even the young Irishman
forgot his ambition for the moment--as they all listened spellbound to
the marvellous voice ringing out its exquisite tones into the heavy
atmosphere. It was just a little louder than usual, a little thicker,
but it still held its wonderful melting sweetness. When he had finished
there was a tense pause; it seemed as if the music had subdued the
sordidness, the coarseness pervading the room. But only for a few
seconds, then the absurd voice rang out--
“I’ll give him my vote at the General Election if he----”
“Shut up, you blooming young idiot!” a voice shouted to the engineer,
then, turning to Rees, the man said, “Sing us another song, boss?”
The driver had been looking at the barmaid all the time he was singing
and his handsome grey eyes had regarded her with a tenderness which
made her breathe unevenly and fast. “Sing again,” she urged, with a
touch of earnestness.
Rees felt certain now that it was Iris pleading with him. Why shouldn’t
he sing to her? They loved each other, and, after all, other things did
not matter. Yes, he would sing to her the song from the cave--the song
which had made her quiver in his arms. But before he commenced he asked
for more whisky. The woman behind the counter shook her head a little
sadly. “Men who sing like you should not drink,” she said, but she
refilled his glass all the same.
He drank hastily, then began--
“I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”
His tones were a little husky now, but they were still touchingly
beautiful. He had forgotten the men and the place he was in; he was
only there with Iris, alone with the woman he loved, and when he sang
the words--
“And all my soul shall strive to wake
Sweet wonder in thine eyes,”
he suddenly laid his hand on the firm plump arm of the barmaid and
looked longingly and deep into her brown eyes.
She caught her breath and lifted her face nearer to his, and, as she
did so, all at once he bent over and kissed her after the last note of
the song.
Uproarious laughter pulsated through the room. The spell the music had
cast over the rough listeners was immediately broken.
“By gad! He won’t do for a priest!” cried a miner, and hiccoughed
painfully. “That kind of life’s no good to him!”
During the song two men had made their way to the hotel, and, hearing
the remarkable voice, stopped outside the bar and looked in through the
open door.
“Good Heavens, what a voice! Whoever is he, do you know?” the
bank-manager asked, turning to his companion.
“No, I haven’t the faintest idea,” replied his friend, a solicitor from
the township.
The older man looked hard at Rees for a few seconds, then recognition
dawned in his eyes.
“Great Scott! that is Miss Smith’s driver down at the caves; what in
the name of fortune is he doing here? Always thought him a decent
chap--but what a voice! Look, he has just kissed the barmaid, and he is
as drunk as that young Irish fool.”
“If he’ll make me a Justice of the----” droned on the high-pitched
voice.
The tall bank-manager strode through the crowded room to the counter
where Rees was standing and his eyes shot cold fire at the barmaid as
he thundered: “Don’t give that man another drop; can’t you see he has
had far too much already? Is he staying here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is the number of his room?” he demanded.
“Number eighthen, sir.”
Saying a few words to Rees and laying a firm hand on his shoulder the
manager led him quietly out of the room.
The high-pitched voice of the engineer floated up to them as they
ascended the stairs: “I think my mother would rest in her grave if
they make her son----”
“Good God!” murmured the bank-manager as he steadied the driver’s
swaying footsteps along the upper corridor. “Why doesn’t the law close
these hellish saloons and save our men from this revolting degradation?”
Downstairs in the middle of the room stood the young Irishman, drinking
and hiccoughing between the words, “I--think--my--mother--would--rest--
in--her--grave----”
CHAPTER V
REMORSE
It was five o’clock the following afternoon when Rees woke from his
long, heavy sleep. He opened his eyes wearily, they felt so oddly
weighted and a strange dull pain racked his head. He looked round the
room slowly--how did he come to be there, he wondered vaguely. Then
memory came back to him. The previous night and all which had taken
place rose in grotesque reality before him. He saw the smoke-laden
bar, the crowd of drinking men; he heard again the foolish voice of
the young Irishman. Was his absurd clamor to be made a Justice of the
Peace only a pitiful clutch at respectability, an attempt to retrieve
all he had lost? Or was it only an idiotic fancy conceived in numbed,
befooled brain cells? Rees saw again the woman he had mistaken for Iris
and--kissed! A dull red mounted to his pale face. Great God! What havoc
that liquor had wrought with his senses! He had kissed another woman, a
stranger and a _barmaid_; and he had been so steeped in drink that he
had actually imagined she was his beautiful Iris! A half-stifled moan
escaped his slightly parted lips.
Ah, how he had sunk during that one irretrievable night! Three years
of soberness, of fierce struggle to keep on the straight path, seemed
suddenly to have been swept away and he was back again in the old life
of misery and degradation, back once more in pollution and despair!
What had been the use of all his striving, his hard work, and his
constant renunciation of all that belonged to the past? Now he had
fallen. He had again slipped down among the sordid, repugnant things.
How he hated to be there and how he loathed himself! Yes, that was one
of the worst results of his debauchery, this hideous self-loathing!
During the last three years he had climbed out of the revolting past
and had in a measure recovered his self-respect; but now--it had
vanished again. He was back once more in the old miry, slippery place,
and he must begin the dreary climb afresh. But could he climb? Was it
possible for such as he? All confidence had gone. A terrible despair
distorted his white, quivering features.
Oh, if only he might climb back to the foothold he had reached during
the last few years! They had been hard, humiliating years, but they
had at least been clean, fresh and useful. If only this writhing,
torturing self-accusation could be silenced and he could win back
his self-respect. But that respite might not be his now--only utter
hopelessness stared back at him wherever he looked.
And there was Iris. What would she say when he returned and confessed
all? Would she not turn from him in abhorrence and disgust? Her love
might forgive the past--had forgiven it; but no love could or would
forgive this unpardonable fall. She was lost to him for ever now. She
had really been out of his reach all the time; there always had been
an impassable gulf between them. But before, the gulf was narrow enough
to be bridged by her kindness. Now it had widened so vastly that no
bridging was possible. Of course all had really been over between them
when he had given her up to Captain Barton. He had made that supreme
sacrifice to guard her from the possible degradation that a life united
to his might involve, and in doing this there had at least been the
consciousness that he had voluntarily renounced all she was willing to
give. He might have married her, but he had relinquished this wonderful
joy for her sake. But now it was no more a case of renunciation. He had
hopelessly disgraced himself, and his conduct would for ever cut him
off from all contact with her life.
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a gentle knock at the door,
and, in response to his toneless “Come in,” the barmaid entered with a
tray.
He looked at her wonderingly with heavy, sad eyes. She was still
powdered, but her hair looked less red in the daytime, and small lines
round her lips and eyes were visible now.
“Mr. Rees,” she began, “we haven’t disturbed you all day because we
thought a long sleep would do you good, but you must have something to
eat now.”
The driver protested, and said he had no appetite. But the woman
insisted and at last he sat up, more to relieve her of the tray than
from any intention of taking what was on it.
“Try this fish, and drink this hot coffee, and you will feel much
better,” she said brightly.
His hand went up to his head as if the effort of sitting up was causing
him excruciating pain. His companion noticed it at once, and piled up
pillows behind him, making him lean comfortably back against them. “Now
you must have your meal,” she coaxed with an indulgent smile.
But he was not ready for his meal yet. “I am afraid I behaved
disgracefully last night,” he said looking at her steadily. “I owe you
an apology.”
She looked away from his quiet gaze and said a little confusedly, “Oh,
you were not too bad, Mr. Rees.”
“I thought I--kissed you?”
“Yes,” she admitted, turning her auburn head a little away, “but
then----”
“It was a detestable thing to do, and my only excuse, if it is one, is
that I was not--myself.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she stammered, finding the steady gaze
from those sad, grey eyes extraordinarily disconcerting. What a strange
man to apologise to her for his conduct! Lots of men had kissed her;
but they had not apologised afterwards. She had never met any man like
this handsome stranger before. Even last night she had felt sure he was
not a bad man; now she was certain he was a good one.
She watched his weary form reclining languidly among the pillows. The
air of refined aloofness had come back to him. As she stood beside him,
he looked up at her again and there was infinite sadness in his large
eyes as he said gently--
“Thank you for being so forgiving and kind.”
She blushed a little. “Oh, that’s nothing at all, but you must have
your meal at once or your fish will be quite cold,” and, with another
pat to his pillows, she left the room. But there was a curious flutter
somewhere within her as she went downstairs. The stranger’s sorrowful
eyes haunted her. They were such beautiful eyes, shaded by long dark
lashes, and there was a wonderful expression of purity in them.
They looked so unsullied, as if they belonged to a white soul who
had suddenly fallen into the mire and was in deep distress at being
smirched.
* * * * *
The next morning Rees was up at sunrise, and after a hasty breakfast
went to the stable to get Prince. It was very early, but the barmaid
was awake. Hearing the light footsteps of the horse, she jumped out of
bed, and, from behind lace curtains, watched his rider swing into the
saddle.
“That is the only gentleman and the only real man I have ever met,” she
said, dabbing a highly scented handkerchief to her dark eyes, while the
black thoroughbred bore the handsome stranger quickly away.
CHAPTER VI
HER RESOLVE
Iris stood by the window in her room looking out on the sea-blue
mountains with strangely glowing eyes and flushed cheeks. Her tense,
nervous fingers held a letter which had been slipped under her door
while they were at lunch, and she had found it there a little while ago
when she came back to rest before starting for a long ride in the car.
She stood for some time absolutely motionless; her form might have been
lifeless if it had not been for her curiously vivid face. Then she
moved suddenly, crossed the floor, opened the door, and went along to
her cousin’s room.
“Amy,” she said when she entered, “please go without me this afternoon;
I--can’t possibly come.”
“Why, dearest--what is the matter?” she asked, catching sight of the
girl’s face.
Iris smiled bravely. “I just want the afternoon to myself, that is all.”
“Are you grieving about anything, dear?” asked Mrs. Henderson. “Your
eyes look so blue--as blue as the hills when it is going to rain.”
The girl smiled again; and, under her thick black lashes, electric-blue
fires burned.
“Dearest, you are not ill, are you?” her cousin said with concern.
“Your lips are so red and you look so oddly brilliant, as if you were
in pain.”
“No, darling,” the tall girl replied, stooping down to kiss the woman
who had given her the only mother-love she had ever known. “I am not
going to be ill--not at all. Just let me have this afternoon to myself,
and I shall be all right when you come back. You can explain to Ralph,”
and with another warm embrace she left her cousin.
“That love affair will be the death of Iris, if it doesn’t turn out
right,” thought Mrs. Henderson when the girl had left the room. “She
has not been herself since he went away; it is not like her to be so
listless and quiet. She was pale before, but since he left---- Why on
earth did he go? I suppose the poor fellow was driven crazy seeing
her so much with Ralph! But if she really cares for him, why on earth
has she allowed Ralph to come between them?” She sighed. “I don’t
understand--love affairs are incomprehensible things!”
Iris returned to her own room and sank into a chair by the window; then
she took Justin’s letter from the envelope and began to read it again.
This was his first letter to her, his first and only one, and--such a
letter! The small sheet of notepaper held only a few lines, telling her
of his fall, its extent, even to the kissing of the barmaid. He made
no extenuating excuses for himself, not one; he only stated facts. He
did not say he was sorry, did not ask to be forgiven; his despair was
too deep for that. Iris read between the lines, read all the unsaid
important things, and--understood.
But, though she understood, an awful stillness came into her face as
she re-read the words--
“I sang our song from the cave to the barmaid, and then I kissed her.”
She sat for a while in a death-like quiet, her wide eyes looking
unseeingly into space. Then she shuddered visibly and the corners of
her mouth began to quiver. His _failing_ had made him do that--a man
with his code of honour, his ideals--the ghastly, appalling horror of
it!
She rose quickly from her chair and paced about the room restlessly,
moving one object on the dressing-table after another; then came back
and sat down by the window again, looking absently at the rose-garden
below. And there was no help for such as he--no safeguard, no shelter?
She glanced up at the long chain of lofty mountains with their glowing,
sun-kissed faces rising out of a deep blue haze; then she placed her
elbow on the window-sill, and, chin in hand, she said half aloud:
“_You_ have been kind to him, you dear, blue, beautiful things! You
have sheltered him and kept him safe; but--” a strange glitter flashed
under her lashes--“humanity has not been kind. It has had no pity. It
has placed stumbling-block after stumbling-block in his way. His only
chance has been to keep away from the haunts of men and live near the
heart of great, merciful Nature. Nature is kind, it has more heart than
man; it pities!” A passionate wistfulness glistened in her magnificent
eyes. “My poor boy!” she whispered, now shading her face with her
hand. “You are in the depth of despair because of--this. Humanity has
found the one weak spot in your otherwise perfect armour of strength,
and has wounded you mercilessly through it. Oh, Justin--the sorrow of
it!” Her superb young head sank down on the window-sill and long, dry
sobs shook her splendid form.
“Oh, Justin!” she whispered brokenly. “The worst of all is, that I
drove you from your place of shelter. I thought you blind--but I was
blinder; I thought you cruel--but I was ten times more cruel myself! I
allowed you to see me daily, hourly, with another man, till you must
have been driven mad with the strain of it! If I had thought myself
called upon to give you up to another woman and had to see you together
every day--constantly.” She rose hastily and began to pace the floor.
“How could I have done such a thing? How could I have allowed you to
bear such cruel, horrible pain? It is I who have sinned against you.
I knew how unselfish, how noble your sacrifice was in giving me up to
Ralph, and you bore seeing me with him all that time; you suffered this
because you thought it was for my good. You might have come any day
and claimed me, and you would have had all I was waiting to give! You
could have relieved your own pain, but you chose to suffer instead--ah!
the great, lofty strength of you! But at last your powers of endurance
became exhausted, and rather than do anything you thought might harm my
life you chose to go away from your shelter and expose yourself to the
most hideous danger--oh, the nobility of you! And now you are in the
depths of remorse, all because you tried to save me.” She picked up his
letter and pressed it vehemently to her lips.
“But,” she continued, a grand resolve flashing in her eyes, “you shall
suffer no more; I will go to you, I will comfort you--nothing shall
keep me from you any longer--no shyness, no reserve, no convention! I
will give my life to protect you; you shall not be allowed to slip back
into the awful degradation which engulfed you in the past. If you will
not marry me, I will live somewhere near you, hover over your life,
shelter you--I will stand between you and your awful foe!”
Then she heard the buzz of the motor. Amy and Ralph had gone at last.
Very quietly she went down the corridor and knocked at Justin’s door,
but there was no answer. So she ran downstairs and asked Miss Smith
about him, and was told that he had left immediately after lunch and
gone to a farm some miles away, where he would stay till the following
morning, when he would return to work.
Iris was disappointed; she had kept the afternoon free to talk to him,
but she could go and read to Mr. Green instead.
* * * * *
“I must wait till to-morrow night; I _will_ see him then, whatever
happens; he must not be allowed to suffer any more--my poor, noble
boy!” she thought as she walked along the road to see the invalid.
CHAPTER VII
CONSOLED
Justin had been to see Turner, the old drunkard, and was on his way
home the following evening, when he saw some one coming towards him
in the soft, starlit darkness. His heart gave a sudden leap when he
recognised Iris’s tall, erect figure as she came nearer. She was
evidently expecting him, for she came right up and stood before him.
“Justin,” she began in a voice which trembled a little, “I cannot
stand this any longer--you must talk to me,” she added with a touch of
desperation.
“Didn’t you read my letter?” he said with evident effort.
“Of course. But why didn’t you come and talk to me instead? That would
have been ever so much better,” she said, a slight hurt creeping into
her words in spite of herself. “I saw you come up here after dinner
and I have been waiting for you for some time; now I am going to talk
to you. There is a log just here under the hedge; come and let us sit
down.”
“But, Iris, you don’t mean to say that you will have anything more to
do with me after--that?” he asked in toneless incredulity.
“Justin! Don’t talk such utter nonsense--as if that or anything else
could ever make any difference!”
She led the way to the log under the hawthorn and sat down. But Rees
did not seat himself near her; he threw himself on the grass a little
distance away.
However, Iris had started out with the intention of comforting her
despairing lover and she was not going to be thwarted in her purpose.
She moved a little further down the log till she was so near him that
her gown brushed his shoulder.
“Justin,” she whispered, “why are you trying to get away from me?” And
she leant slightly towards him and placed one hand shyly on his head.
She knew exactly what she had come out to say--do; but it was not quite
so easy to carry out her intention now she was actually near him. His
presence always made her feel extraordinarily shy and had a confusing
effect on her senses. However, she had determined to overcome her own
emotions in order to comfort him. So now she moved her hand caressingly
through his thick, smooth hair and gradually drew his head down to her
lap.
“Oh, Iris!” he murmured, drawing a long, shuddering breath as he rested
against her.
A soft, fragrant hand played soothingly with the hair round his temple,
then very timidly it stole down over his cheek.
She felt him thrill to her touch. His stony despair was breaking up;
life was coming back to him.
“Iris--you are too miraculously good to me,” he whispered brokenly.
“No, I am not, dearest,” she breathed, bending over him. “You have been
so sad--so sad; now I am going to comfort you.”
He heaved another great sigh.
“My poor, dejected boy!” she murmured faintly.
He laid one arm over her knees and there was anguish in his clinging
touch. “Oh, Iris, hanging is too good for me, and you--treat me
like--this.” Suddenly he buried his face in her lap, and she felt his
strong frame shake.
“Oh, Justin!” she breathed, stooping closer over him and stroking the
back of his head with tremulous fingers. “Don’t grieve like that--I
can’t bear you to be so sad. Really, you must not grieve so--it was not
your fault at all, really it was not--it was all mine--_I_ drove you to
it.”
He raised his face at once. “No, no, you are not to say that; it was
quite my own fault. I should have been strong enough to stay here
and----”
Iris’s head dropped lower, and there was infinite contrition in her
voice as she said: “I have been so cruel to my poor boy; I have made
you suffer what I could never have borne myself if I had been in your
place.”
The arm round her knees clasped her closer. “Iris, you must not blame
yourself--I ought to have been strong enough to----” His frame shook
again.
She breathed more quickly; then all at once she drew his upturned face
to her breast. “My poor, broken-hearted boy,” she whispered with
tremulous tenderness, “you must let me comfort you; your dear head
shall rest here.” And she pillowed it gently over her fluttering heart.
Gradually his sighs subsided and his head nestled closer to her softly
moving bosom.
“Iris--this is--Heaven!” he faltered at last.
“Does it make you feel better?” she asked eagerly.
“I couldn’t possibly tell you how much. But oh, darling--I am too
unworthy to be near you.” His voice was beginning to quaver again.
Iris drew him more tenderly towards her. “You are not to talk like
that, and you are not to think about--that time--away; it was just an
unfortunate accident and something which will never happen again; and
we are both going to bury it for ever and forget that it ever took
place.”
“Sweetheart, you are an angel!”
“No, I am not. But remember, you are never to think of it again--will
you promise?”
“How can I?”
“Easily--think of something better,” and she allowed her face to drop
down to his head and rest there.
His arm stole diffidently round her waist. “Iris, you are too
marvellous.”
They sat for some time in silence. It was so wonderful to be together
again, speaking to each other, resting in one another’s embrace,
feeling the exquisite joy of contact. The sadness fell away from them;
the torment they had suffered during the last two weeks--all fell away
at the bliss of being together, as nightly shadows flee away at dawn.
“Do you feel happy again?” asked Iris, after a long, blissful pause.
“Sweetheart, how can I help it--when I have you so close to me?”
She moved her cheek gently to and fro against his hair. “I am so deeply
glad.”
“Oh, Iris, you don’t know what you have done for me to-night; you have
lifted me right out of--that awful place I--had sunk into, and I feel
now as if I could be what I--was--before.”
“Of course you can; the--other was just an accident, and--we are going
to keep clear of all such danger in future.”
“We?” he queried.
“Yes.” She pressed her head closer to his. “Oh, Justin! Can’t you
understand that I cannot leave you--now? I am going to live somewhere
in the district, and then I shall always be on hand in case you want
me.”
“You darling, are you really going to do that?” he said, drawing
her nearer. “But--I shall _always_ want you,” he added with a long,
yearning sigh.
“Well, then, I shall be in the neighbourhood and you may come to me
whenever you want to,” she said, trying to speak lightly. “And if by
any chance,” she continued hesitatingly, “you should feel that--that
temptation,” she added bravely, “you could come to me and I should give
you--this--instead.”
Suddenly they heard voices and footsteps.
“I don’t think she could have come up here in this lane,” Mrs.
Henderson was saying not far away from them. “You must have made a
mistake, Ralph--what could she be doing here all this time?”
“Mr. Rees came up here shortly after dinner,” replied Captain Barton in
annoyed tones.
Justin felt Iris start a little, then she rose slowly and walked to the
road with her most dignified air. “Have you come out to look for me?”
she asked with cold hauteur. “There was not the slightest need: I am
well taken care of--I am with Mr. Rees.”
“Ah, that is all right,” replied Mrs. Henderson pleasantly; “we were
just afraid you were wandering about alone and might get lost. Well,
Mr. Rees,” she said, turning to the driver, “what an age since we have
seen you; you have hardly had a moment to spare for your old friends
lately! I suppose we ought to be offended, but no doubt Iris has
already dealt with you on that point, so I will pass it over.”
Behind them walked Iris, tall, dignified, silent; and, if it had not
been for the darkness, her soldierly companion would have seen angry
flashes in her velvet blue eyes.
CHAPTER VIII
CAPTAIN BARTON’S PLAN
Captain Barton did not go to bed early that night. He strode up and
down the road excitedly, smoking a big cigar. So this was what the
Hon. Iris Dearn had come to, the girl he loved, the girl who might
have married the highest noble in England--sly meetings in lanes
with--a groom! His strides grew longer and more savage. What power the
confounded beggar had over her to make her sink so low! And, of course,
he would make full use of that influence. He would marry her presently,
unless things were stopped immediately. But how was this to be done? If
only he could have summoned Lady Dearn and had her as his ally now! But
even if he cabled the following day it would take at least five weeks
before she could arrive, and much could happen in that time.
He kicked a stone lying on the road, viciously. If only he could
go to Rees and deal with him as he deserved. The hand on his cane
tightened. But what was the use? It would perhaps only make Iris hate
him, and--deep down in Ralph’s shallow, enraged heart there were grave
doubts as to whether he really could mete out justice in that form to
the driver. He had the advantage in size, certainly; all the same he
did not quite relish the task of attacking Rees.
But how in the world was he to save his childhood’s companion? He
could not stand by and see her life ruined; besides, it was so beastly
humiliating to be beaten, knocked clean out of the running, by a common
groom! He bit his cigar fiercely. What could be done? What a fool
Amy had been to allow a thing like this to go to such a length. She
could so easily have taken Iris away when the first dangerous symptoms
appeared. She was not fit to be a chaperone; he would inform Lady
Dearn clearly on that point. But how was he to deal with this complex
situation? He had felt deeply concerned when Iris had spoken so plainly
to him the other afternoon. He had realised how far-reaching the
fellow’s influence must be, but even then he had not supposed it could
have come to real love-making between them. He thought he might have
saved it from ripening into that. But now the thing looked as if it had
already done so.
If only he could find some weapon against Rees, something
discreditable, some secret fault in this posing hero! But so far he had
been unable to do so, and, till evidences were forthcoming, how was he
to act? Iris had definitely refused to leave the place and go touring.
So there seemed only one course open to him at present--to try and keep
the girl out of the driver’s way as much as possible and write to Lady
Dearn by the next mail and tell her to come out at once. Of course he
could cable, but on second thoughts decided he would not do that. It
would be impossible to explain a situation like this in a wire. No, he
must write, and in the meantime do all in his power to keep Iris away
from the man who held such sway over her.
Another course presented itself to him: he would tell Iris that he
loved her and implore her to become his wife. Perhaps, after all, her
attachment to Rees was only a love of romance. Iris was so accustomed
to be made love to that perhaps she had found it irksome to be without
an admirer, and for want of a better man had accepted the driver’s
homage. Yes, in all probability this was the only reason for the
intimacy. Now he would step in and make open love to her, and tell her
frankly he had come out to win her. He would pour his ardent affection
upon her and show her how vastly superior his love was to the driver’s.
Women were often turned from one man to another; he had noticed that
many times, and the most ardent man generally won. But it was difficult
to let himself go under Amy’s unromantic eye and she rarely left Iris
with him for any length of time. She had really done her duty as a
chaperone where he was concerned--a thousand pities she had not been
equally conscientious in the other direction! But, of course, Amy could
never have given a thought to the possibility of an intimacy springing
up between her cousin and a groom. She could not be expected to be
prepared for such a preposterous emergency; only, when she did see
danger signals, as, of course, she must have done, she ought to have
taken Iris away immediately.
But how was he to get Iris away by herself so that he would have
plenty of time to tell her of his love?
Suddenly an idea dawned upon his not too quick intelligence. He would
arrange a trip to the mountains with Amy and Iris. Of course, it would
be a little difficult to persuade them to go without the guide, but he
would tell them of all his mountaineering exploits, and they would soon
be willing to trust him. If he could arrange the trip for the following
day circumstances would play into his hands, for he remembered hearing
Miss Smith telling Amy that Rees was taking a big party to a waterfall
many miles away, and that they were starting early in the morning.
That would be his opportunity to go without the guide--he would be
elsewhere and not available. Yes, he must arrange it for the following
day, and once they were on the way he could easily manage the rest. The
mountains were extremely steep, and Amy, who was too stout to climb,
always avoided it; she would wait in the car while they went to the
top of the ridge. He would take the chauffeur up with them, so that
Amy would not think he and Iris were by themselves--he had a feeling
that Amy objected to his being alone with the girl. Of course, as soon
as they had climbed a little way he would send the man ahead and then
he would have the chance he desired; and he would make full use of it,
too! His steps slackened. His rage died down. His chances would come
to-morrow, and he would at least make such an impression on Iris that
she would be willing to listen to him again.
Girls had always liked him. He was a fine, good-looking chap; he had
often been told so and his own mirror corroborated the fact. His hand
moved up to his perfectly shaved, dented chin--girls liked dimpled
chins, he had noticed. Iris might not be so hard to win after all,
once he came into the open and showed her his real intentions. He had
hidden too much in the trench of their childhood’s friendship. Now he
would come out from that and declare himself her lover. This would at
once put a different tone to the relationship between them. He had been
foolish not to do so long before. But surely it was not too late yet.
What chances could a common driver have against a man like himself!
Captain Barton walked back to the house, calm and content. He had
solved the difficulty, after all. Women loved fervour--he could be
fervent; experience had proved that. He would begin to-morrow, and even
if Iris did not respond straight away--he hardly expected this--he
would make an impression, and as the days went by it would deepen,
until gradually--she would succumb. Women could never resist real
ardour! He made his way to his room, pacified, and in a hopeful frame
of mind.
He was blissfully ignorant of the fact that ardent love-making by
the wrong man would be most trying and repellent to a girl of Iris’s
temperament. But Captain Barton slept the peaceful slumber of a man who
thinks he is on the road to victory. It was characteristic of him that
never once had his fervid devotion kept him awake for more than ten
minutes after he put his head on the pillow.
CHAPTER IX
TO THE RESCUE
Rees was galloping along the steep road leading to the mountains. He,
who was generally so kind to animals, rushed the bay horse under him
at a most unmerciful speed. But his willing beast did not misjudge
him and think him harsh; he seemed instinctively to understand that
there was some appalling need for this breakneck pace up and down the
steep hills guarding and making it difficult to reach the precipitous
mountains beyond. The horse stretched out his quivering bay limbs,
barely touching the chocolate-tinted track in its excited eagerness to
comply with the wishes of its beloved rider.
As Justin flew over the ground his eyes were fixed on the wide, flat
marks of motor tyres plainly visible in the reddish-brown dust.
He had breakfasted early that morning, taken a large party of visitors
to some waterfalls, returned home shortly before lunch, and found that
Captain Barton had carried Mrs. Henderson and Iris off immediately
after breakfast to the mountains. He had reproached Miss Smith for
allowing them to go without a guide; she had replied that she had done
her best to dissuade Captain Barton from going, but he had waved all
her objections aside, told her he was used to mountaineering and that
the ladies were perfectly safe with him. He had not taken her warnings
kindly, and finally she had been forced to pack their luncheon-basket
and see them start off in the beautiful dark red car. Strange to say,
neither Mrs. Henderson nor Miss Dearn had seemed afraid to trust
themselves with their self-confident friend.
Now Rees was racing as fast as the splendid bay would carry him to
reach the summit in time to prevent their descending the wrong turning
on their way back. To find the way to the top was not difficult, for
the path was well defined; but, after they had wandered about on the
high, trackless plateau with the numerous peaks rising at erratic
intervals from the rocky plain, the danger would begin, as the ravines
leading downwards were all so much alike and it would be hard to strike
the right one; and, should they descend the wrong one--the rider urged
on his horse at the thought--almost certain death awaited them--an
aimless wandering about for days amid never-ending slopes, densest
bush, barren rocks; or, if they should make a false step on a loose
boulder, a hurling into a dizzy chasm.
It was about three o’clock when he arrived at the spot where the track
narrowed into a small path and the car had stopped. Mrs. Henderson sat
in the motor, reading; she heard the thud of the galloping hoofs a
little distance away and recognised Rees instantly; no one else rode
like that. She looked at him in surprise as he drew rein and pulled up
the panting, trembling horse.
“Mr. Rees, you don’t mean to say you have come after us?” she said
with evident astonishment.
“Yes, of course,” he replied unevenly, and went on to explain to her
the danger in a few words. “How long is it since they left you?” he
finished, with undisguised concern.
“Quite two hours,” she answered, beginning to feel uneasy as she looked
at his anxious, strained face.
She watched him as he hastily unsaddled the horse and let him go;
then he threw his long blue overcoat over his shoulder, strapped the
bag he carried on his back a little tighter, turned to speak to her
again; then, after a few words, hurried along the steep little path
winding its way up the dense bush and was soon lost among the great
overshadowing trees.
Mrs. Henderson’s healthy face paled. She suddenly realised the horrible
seriousness of the situation. It was really too bad of Ralph to have
been so obstinate about not taking the guide with them, and so run such
awful risks with Iris. She had argued the point with him that morning,
but as he had been so confident and reassuring she had weakly given in.
However, Rees was on the spot now, and that thought brought relief.
In the meanwhile the driver was climbing as he had never climbed
before. He was as reckless with himself as he had been with his horse.
The perspiration rolled from his forehead, his veins swelled and his
breath came in rapid gasps.
He passed through beautiful gorges where huge tree ferns spread out
alluring, detaining fronds, and gigantic dark green myrtles almost
barred the way. Higher up he crossed barren slopes dotted with stunted
wind-swept bushes and long, wiry-looking grass, where the wild cry of
crow-shrieks mingled with the hoarse, fitful whispers of the breeze.
Once a big, mole-tinted kangaroo leapt by him on its rapid, bounding
way. But he hardly noticed it; his eyes were fixed on the ground, his
lips set.
At last he entered the long, narrow ravine leading to the top of the
ridge, and, after half-an-hour’s strenuous climbing through the steep,
dark, tunnel-like passage, he stood panting on the immense plateau, his
burning eyes scanning the vast scene before him. The late afternoon
sunshine flooded the endless plain, and made the crags and peaks rising
from it look like great, curiously shaped pyramids springing from some
huge, billowy desert.
Rees shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed intently on the rocky
stretches before him. But no one was in sight. Then he walked on,
coo-eeing loudly as he went. After a time a faint response came to his
call. He hurried on in the direction of the sound, and presently he saw
two men standing by a tremendous boulder which, till then, had hidden
them from view. But there was no lady visible; however, Iris might be
sitting down behind the stone.
“Where is Miss Dearn?” asked the driver without ceremony, as he came up
to the men and looked eagerly for the missing figure. As there was no
immediate answer to his question he glanced quickly at his companions,
and, for the first time, noticed that there were marks of distress
on their faces.
[Illustration: _Photo. Beattie, Hobart._
MOUNT PICTON.]
He repeated his question more peremptorily.
The chauffeur gave his master an odd look and waited for him to reply.
“Miss Dearn will come along presently; she must have gone to look at
some of the curious rocks about here,” said Captain Barton, stroking
one of his smooth cheeks and trying not to betray his uneasiness.
“Man, you don’t mean to say you don’t know where she is?” broke out
Justin indignantly.
“I think you are forgetting yourself, Mr. ----” replied Ralph, with an
attempt at dignity.
“Tell me where you lost her;” demanded Rees, ignoring his thrust.
Captain Barton’s fears were getting the better of him and he felt in
sad need of Rees as an ally, so he swallowed his pride and said: “She
was sitting here when we went to climb that peak over there. She did
not want to go any farther and I am sure she said she would stay here
till we returned. I thought perhaps she might have gone back to Mrs.
Henderson and we were just going down to see, but as you did not meet
her I suppose she is still up here somewhere.”
The driver’s hot face had suddenly blanched. “So you left a lady,
entrusted to your care, to amuse yourself climbing peaks!” There was
deep scorn and anger in his low, quiet voice. Then his tones changed.
“But there is no time to lose; we must begin to look for Miss Dearn at
once.”
The driver soon organised the little search party. The chauffeur was
to go up the western range, Captain Barton was told to go towards the
south, and he himself took the long, interminable ridges stretching to
the east. He arranged with the others that they were to search till
sundown if Miss Dearn was not found before, but to descend then, as
they could do no good after dark and would only become a new anxiety to
him. He would stay on the mountains all night. He planned that whoever
found Miss Dearn should go down below the ravine where there was plenty
of wood and light a huge fire, so that the others might see the smoke
and return. The guide also advised that they should take Mrs. Henderson
home when they returned at sundown and come back the following morning
at dawn to resume the search.
So the three men parted and went in their various directions.
Rees saw the others start and then began to walk quickly along his own
allotted region. He heard them calling as they went; at first their
voices sounded loud and clear, but gradually they grew fainter and
were at last lost to his ears altogether. He, too, began to coo-ee
at intervals and listen intently for some distant response. But none
came. He walked on more rapidly as the sun sank lower in the west. The
warm, slanting sunbeams grew golden. The sun hung over the western
crags as a huge ball of fire which was about to drop on them and endow
each stately peak with volcanic flames. The brilliant globe sank lower
till it touched the crest of far-away summits, and then suddenly a
flood of fire leapt over the plateau, lighting up every rock with
amber radiance. In another moment the sun had disappeared, the amber
glow deepened to rose, and the whole vast plateau was turned into a
wilderness of dazzling fire, making every crag glisten with fierce red
splendour!
Justin looked at the amazing beauty and breathed hard. To him it only
meant just then that before long it would be too dark for further
search. There was no moon, and in the nightly gloom he would not
even know if he were walking in the right direction. He went on
with increased vigour. Iris was alone and frightened somewhere up
here in this endless desert of peaks. If only she would stay on the
plateau there might be some hope of finding her; but if she, by any
chance, should attempt to descend by any of those trackless, terrible
gullies---- He shuddered and quickened his pace. But it was not easy to
walk fast; there were great boulders to climb, huge, rocky protrusions,
deep gorges to be bordered, yawning chasms to be avoided. But he made
his way resolutely onwards in spite of all hindrances, coo-eeing
repeatedly as he went.
The roseate light faded. A deep, dark gloom crept up from the valleys,
enfolding the plateau and stealing slowly towards every summit. The
plain became shadowy and blurred. The glow died out of the sky. The
distant views grew dim. Night stole over the world. It advanced all
round the lonely figure walking with desperate determination in the
gathering dusk. Hope was fading from his soul, despair began to clutch
at his heart. How was he to find his darling when it grew dark? Would
he ever find her? He might walk on the top of the mountains for days,
for weeks, for months, and yet never catch a glimpse of her beloved
form, even if it were possible for her to exist all that time without
food and shelter. He often turned round and looked in the direction of
the downward track for the smoke which was to indicate she had been
found. But no curling wreaths rose from the valley below. The others
would have returned by this time. They would not find her now; if she
was to be found _he_ must do it. He hastened on again.
As he looked towards the western peaks he noticed with a sudden fear
that small clouds had begun to gather on one of the highest peaks.
After walking a short distance he looked back again; the small
cloudlets had united into a big, fleecy mass which was sinking low over
the towering crests. Justin’s heart almost stood still at the sight.
Should the vapoury mass descend and envelop all, then there would not
be one ray of hope; each step would be fraught with danger, and, if
Iris were trying to walk, then---- Rees shivered visibly. The awful
clouds were drawing closer. A terrible anguish seized him. All seemed
lost. He would never be able to reach Iris now. If only she had stayed
in the same place where she found she had lost her bearings! If only
she had not tried to descend any of the gullies! But she could not have
remained stationary, or one of the three searchers would have found her
long ago.
Justin staggered on. The hopelessness in his heart had robbed his step
of its buoyancy, and he was very tired. He had not waited for lunch
when he heard the party had gone to the mountains. He had not touched
food since his early breakfast; he had been through a dreadful strain
and it was telling on him now. He reeled with exhaustion and misery,
and suddenly sank down on the cold, rocky ground. What was he to do?
There were plenty of sandwiches in the bag strapped on his back, yet he
felt he could not eat; food would choke him. There was also a flask in
the bag; one draught of that liquid fire and he would revive!
But something in him rose in quick revolt. No, that flask must not be
touched by him. Iris might need it all, and besides, he could not greet
her with the scent of _that_ on his lips.
The gloom gathered thicker all around him; the fleecy masses crept
nearer and nearer. They came towards him softly, insidiously, blotting
out all hope and possibility of finding the girl he loved.
A moan of desperation escaped his drawn lips.
He would be lost himself if he attempted to move; he was even now cut
off from stumbling onward in the dark and pursuing his search.
He leant back against the boulder behind him with closed eyes.
Ah, where was Iris this dark, terrible night? Was she huddled together
somewhere behind grim, relentless stones, afraid of the great, vast
solitude, the awful, mute loneliness? If only he could have found
her and stayed with her during the long, dark hours! His splendid
Iris--Iris, who had treated him with such magnificent generosity, who
had looked at him with eyes shimmering with love; who had forgiven
his fall with such boundless generosity; who had put aside shyness,
conventionality, and come out into the lane the night before to comfort
him; his beautiful Iris, who had been willing to risk all and unite her
life to his, she was lost now--somewhere terribly alone in this great,
ruthless expanse!
He moaned again, and bit his lip. Then into his burning brain came a
vision of Turner’s cabin, which he had visited the evening before. He
saw the small, tidy gate where years ago the old drunkard had painted
the name “Hope” on the slender woodwork. He saw the gaunt, white-haired
man and heard him speak in his cracked, rasping voice: “There is always
hope, my lad; that is why I painted that name on my gate twenty years
ago; some day I shall win. Hope comes by way of--God.”
Apparently the old man had not reached God’s help all these years, but
yet the drunkard was confident that He _would_ help him before it was
too late.
Would that same God help him? Rees asked himself. His end had come--the
end of his own efforts, his own powers. Would not God step into a
breach as terrible and as urgent as his? All at once he felt, in his
extremity, that God was his only hope.
He sat up suddenly, then he covered his white face with his cold hands,
and, his very soul crying out, began to pray. He besought God, with an
intensity which warmed him and made his body tingle with its vehemence,
to guard the girl he so passionately longed to protect! His spirit
lighted him on and he found the only Being who could meet his need,
and laid hold on Him with hands which would not relax, entreating Him,
with all the force of his distracted, agonised soul, to lead him to the
girl he would give his life to rescue!
A strange peace came to him. His despair vanished. Hope returned, and
with it came back his strength and accustomed vigour. He rose quickly.
Surely his stumbling feet would be guided to the spot where the
darkness and the relentless rocks hid the woman he loved.
As he made his way in the murky gloom an odd desire to sing stole over
him. His singing had reached Iris in the cave; might it not reach her
again? It had drawn them together in the hollow hill; might it not draw
them together now?
He began to sing, and his voice, powerful and irresistibly sweet,
floated into the wild, brooding loneliness. Song after song trembled
into the listening spaces. After each verse he stopped and waited
eagerly for some response. But there was no answer.
Then at last he began the song which was always now symbolical of the
birth of their love, and his clear, exquisite tones rang out the words--
“I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”
He sang with a strange, throbbing pathos; all his love, his tenderness,
his desperate anxiety, his anguish, pulsated in every quivering note,
saturating the darkness with its exquisite sweetness.
He stopped and listened, then started violently--was it the mockery
of the rising breeze or some conjury of the echoing rocks? It seemed
as if there was a faint, far-away response. He made his way blindly,
frantically, in the direction of the sound, and after he had walked
awhile he repeated the song and then waited breathlessly.
His heart gave a terrible bound; this time the response was quite
distinct, and it was the voice he was craving to hear!
In his impetuous haste he stumbled over some protruding stones; but the
fall did not delay him long, and he blundered on again. Once more he
sang a phrase of their song, and the answer came, astonishingly close
to him.
Then his burning eyes saw a tall, slender form emerge from the soft
dimness, and make its way towards him.
CHAPTER X
THE SUMMIT
He sprang forward; the next moment Iris was locked in his arms.
“Iris--my precious darling--are you all right? Thank God I have found
you at last!” he ejaculated in broken, passion-laden tones.
“Oh, Justin--Justin, how did you find me?” sobbed the girl, pressing
her arms convulsively round him.
For some time they stood silent, overcome by emotions too deep, too
torrential, to find vent in words.
At last the girl broke the long, tumultuous pause. “But how did you
find me--how did you know so soon?” she questioned, her cheek against
his.
He explained it all to her, and when he had finished he added: “But you
must not be standing out here in the cold any longer. I must try to
find a sheltered spot where you can rest for the night.”
“I suppose we shall have to stay here--till the morning?”
“Yes, Sweetheart. Are you afraid?”
“Not now, when you are here,” she whispered, letting her head drop to
his shoulder. “But I was afraid before. Everything is so dreadfully
big up here--the sky, the earth, the peaks, the valleys, and those
awful ravines.” She shivered a little. “It all looks so lovely and
romantic in the daylight and at a safe distance; but, when you are here
all alone in the dark, the loneliness is so huge--like the great sky
overhead!”
“Poor little sweetheart! But you won’t feel so lonely now, will you?”
he said, laying his lips against her hair.
“No, never when you are with me. Justin,” she continued after a pause,
“do you know, I have never really believed in angels or anything like
that, but just now, when I heard your dear voice singing our beloved
song of the cave, it seemed as if Heaven itself had opened and sent you
to me?”
There was deep reverence in his voice as he replied: “Iris, Heaven
really did open to-night and Hands not visible guided me to you.”
“I am sure that is true,” she said in hushed tones.
“But, dearest one, you must not be standing any longer,” he said with a
great tenderness as he released her.
“Justin, I can’t let you go--I can’t ever let you go,” she said,
clinging to him desperately.
He caught her to him afresh. “Iris, you do not need to let me go; I
shall hold you to me all night,” he murmured in a tense, low voice.
“But we must find a sheltered little nook and you shall rest close to
me there.”
With his arm still round her, the girl led him to a little cave-like
enclosure where she had been sitting since it grew dark. Together they
stooped through the aperture and found themselves in a small cavern
beautifully sheltered from the wind.
Rees lit a match and looked round approvingly. “Yes, this is the very
place we need; and now we must have some supper.”
He put down his overcoat to soften the rocks, undid the bag, and
unpacked its contents. Then they sat down close together and began
a very happy meal. There was no wood to make a fire, but Justin had
prepared for this emergency by bringing a large thermos with hot tea,
and they both enjoyed the warm drink and delicious sandwiches Miss
Smith had prepared.
During a short pause they heard a weird, hollow sound rising up to them
from one of the nearest valleys. Iris started a little. “Whatever is
that?” she asked, nestling closer to her companion.
“Don’t be afraid; it is only the native devil barking. He always comes
out at night; isn’t it weird!”
“Yes, what a queer noise! It sounds so mysterious, as if it came from
some dog-ghost that couldn’t rest in the nether world and had come back
to earth for a little respite.”
“What an imaginative little girl you are!” he said, drawing her nearer.
“But you must have some more tea; there are still plenty of sandwiches
and scones.”
“What a thoughtful dear you are, bringing all these things such a
tremendous distance,” she said, stroking his hand caressingly.
“That was nothing; I did not feel the weight at all. I brought you
something else,” he went on in a strained voice, “which I am glad to
say you don’t seem to need. It is this,” and he handed her the flask.
She felt it and--understood. He had carried it all that way--untouched,
and for her!
“Justin,” she said unsteadily, “fancy bringing that for me! But do you
think I should have touched it even if I had been dying? No; what has
brought you all that sorrow and distress shall never cross my lips. I
would rather lose life itself than pain you with the scent of it from
my breath; but,” she added, laying her cheek against his sleeve, “it
was just wonderful of you to carry it all that time without----”
“Without touching it--I was horribly tempted once----”
“Never mind, you resisted bravely.”
When the remains of their meal were packed away, and they were
comfortably settled against the rocky wall, Rees said: “Tell me,
however did Captain Barton come to leave you? I can’t imagine how he
could do such a thing.”
The girl stirred a little uneasily. “Well, you see, he was very angry
with me, and that made him want to climb that peak just to cool his
rage.”
“Angry with you--whatever for?” asked Rees in surprise.
“Because--well, I was horribly angry with him.”
“You angry with him, too--why?” Her companion was decidedly mystified.
Iris did not reply at once; she was evidently considering the best way
of telling him.
Rees repeated his question, and she answered him--
“You see, Ralph had sent the man on ahead as we came up, and he made me
rest so often, and then--he talked to me.”
“I see--and you didn’t quite like the subject of his conversation?”
“No.”
“I suppose he asked you to marry him?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! and he was a little insistent?”
“Yes, very.”
“Isn’t it nice to be proposed to?” She felt his eyes upon her in the
dimness.
“It is awful,” she said with slight confusion.
“Is it as bad as that--_always_?” His face bent close to hers.
“Perhaps not quite--always,” she stammered, turning slightly away.
“But you did not like it this afternoon?”
“Justin, how can you ask such a question? You know!” She turned to him
suddenly and rested her hand on his.
He took it and pressed it to his lips. “Still,” he went on after a
pause, “that should not have annoyed you; after all, a man can’t honour
a woman more than by asking her to be his wife; it may not be much, but
it is the best he has to offer.”
“Oh, it wasn’t _that_!” said Iris quickly.
“What, then, dearest?”
“Please don’t ask me.”
“Iris, haven’t I a right to know about a thing that makes you angry?”
“Of course,” she said, patting his sleeve; “only it is so horrid to
talk about this.”
“Then I think it is all the more reason why I should know. A thing
which is horrid to talk about is generally worse when it takes place.”
“But it didn’t take place--he only tried----”
“What did he try to do?” He thought a moment, then added in very quiet
tones, “Did he try to--kiss you?”
“Yes,” she admitted, turning a little from him.
His fingers tightened on her hand, but he did not speak for awhile.
Then he said: “But why did you go away from the place where Captain
Barton left you? That was a very dangerous thing to do.”
“Yes, I know I should not have done it, but I wanted to go down to Amy.
The path is unmistakable, and I scribbled a line to Ralph to explain,
and placed it on the top of the big, flat rock where I was supposed to
stay, and put a stone on it. But I remember it was only a small, round
one--all I could find--and it must have been rolled off by the force
of the wind. Anyhow, he did not get the note. Then I went along to the
place where I thought the downward track started, but I must have gone
in the wrong direction, for I could not find it anywhere, and,” she
added, with a little break in her voice, “I went about looking for it
all the time till it got dark----”
“Poor little girl,” he murmured in tenderest sympathy. “But you must
not be sad any more--we are going to be happy together to-night.”
“Yes,” she said, a brightness coming into her voice; “now that you are
here nothing else matters.”
There was a new, glad silence--a silence pulsating with deep, wonderful
meaning. It made them each strangely conscious that they were alone
up there in the huge, wild mountains, far away from other human
beings--all vastly, absolutely, gloriously alone!
“Poor Captain Barton! It must have been hard for him to-day--you are
such an adorable little girl, you know, that no man can possibly resist
you,” said Justin, bending towards her. “I suppose the unfortunate
fellow was simply desperate.”
“No, you need not pity Ralph; he is very insistent, but not desperate.
I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word.”
“I wonder if _you_ know the meaning of it?” said her lover in an odd
voice.
In the dimness he saw her head droop a little.
“Yes,” she replied very softly, “I know.”
“I wonder--will you tell me when you felt--desperate?”
She stirred slightly. “I suppose there are to be no reserves between us
to-night?”
“No,” he answered, “there are to be no reserves nor conventionalities
between us to-night; we can speak freely to each other, heart to heart.
So tell me, Iris.”
“I felt--like--that, when you would not speak to me, and left me so
horribly alone.”
“My precious one,” he began in a voice vibrating with remorse and
tenderness, “I can’t forgive myself for having hurt you, and--and--it
was just torment to do it. But you know why I did it, don’t you?”
“Yes, I understood; I knew you were only doing it for my sake; all the
same it was mistaken kindness.”
“But, don’t you see, I thought if I kept out of the way----”
“Yes, I know how you felt; but however could you imagine for a moment
that passing me on to Ralph in that wholesale way could make the
faintest difference?”
“Darling, you must have thought me a perfect brute!” he exclaimed with
a groan.
“No, I didn’t think that.”
“Iris, you are marvellous; and after it and--that----” He shuddered.
She turned to him quickly. “Justin, you are not referring
to--that--forbidden subject, are you? Because I will not have it; it is
buried, and you are not even to _think_ about it.”
“Oh, Iris, you are wonderful!” he groaned again. “I just can’t tell you
how I feel about your coming out and comforting me last night.” There
was a break in his voice; he could not continue, but his head dropped
on her strong young shoulder, and then he felt a soft arm steal about
him and a tender hand creep soothingly through his hair.
“My poor, sad boy!” she said, pressing her cheek against his head. “How
could I leave you to grieve alone? I simply _had_ to try and comfort
you.”
“_Try!_” he repeated. “Why, you comforted me in the most heavenly way!
You don’t know how much you did for me last night; you simply lifted me
out of all the misery and disgrace and made me feel there was hope
that I could climb once more.”
[Illustration: _Photo. Spurling & Son, Launceston._
ON THE DU CANE RANGE.]
A little timidly she laid her soft palm against his cheek and drew
his face close to her own. “My dear, dear Justin,” she murmured
caressingly. “I can’t ever bear you to be sad--if you are I must
comfort you.”
“Iris, your love is divine! And I shall never forget the bliss of
resting in that dear place----” Again there was a break in his voice,
and he buried his face on her shoulder.
Gently, without a word, she drew his head down to her soft, warm bosom,
and pillowed it there as she had done the night before.
He drew a long, tremulous breath. “Iris--you are too good to me,” he
said huskily.
“Not half as good as you are to me! Oh, Justin, think of your coming
all this way to look for me--no one else in the world would have found
me but you!”
“Sweetheart, I couldn’t possibly have done anything else, for if
anything had happened to you----” she felt a shudder pass through
him--“I should have gone mad, absolutely mad.”
For a moment her lips touched his hair.
He stirred immediately. “Darling, for Heaven’s sake, don’t waste a kiss
like that!” He raised his face. “Let it be mine as well as yours.”
She drew back quickly. “I--I--didn’t think you--felt it,” she stammered
confusedly.
“Of course I did--I felt it in every part of me--but let me take it and
return it at once.” His upturned face still entreated her.
Very timidly, very shyly, she moved forward and laid her lips against
his, and then--the darkness receded, the cavern, the mountains, the
past, the future--all were forgotten.
“Oh, Justin,” breathed Iris at last, “why have you made me love you
like--_this_?”
“Iris, might I not ask you the same unanswerable question?” he said,
steadying her trembling form with the steely strength of his arm.
They sat for some moments in stillness, Iris beside him, her slim
form leaning against his, her head close to his. At last she said, in
a voice faint with the sweetness overwhelming her: “I did not know
that--love could be like this; is it a madness, or is it an invisible
avalanche from some other colossal world sweeping over us? Justin, what
is it?”
“I don’t know; only I am afraid if I don’t go out into the cool air for
awhile I shall lose my head.”
“I thought it--was lost and--mine too--it felt like it.”
“No, not quite; but for your dear sake I must go away and get calm.”
“But you won’t go far, or leave me long?” she asked with a half-stifled
sigh as he rose.
“No, dearest, I will come back very soon.”
As his shadowy form stooped through the aperture Iris covered her face
with her hands and sat absolutely motionless. She did not know how long
he was away, but when he stood before her again she was all at once
aware that she was cold.
“Iris,” he was saying in quiet, tender tones, “you must rest now; you
need a good sleep, for there is a long walk before you to-morrow. Come
over to this far corner, the wall is a little slanting there, so that
you can almost lie down if you rest against it.” He helped her to her
feet and felt the coldness of her hand. “Why, you are frozen--I am so
sorry; you must put on my bluey.”
But she would not hear of it; he would be chilled if he stayed on the
icy stones for the rest of the night without it, and she was absolutely
final in her refusal.
“Very well,” he acquiesced after a good deal of argument, “I will put
it on if you will share it with me; it is very large, big enough for
both. I will lean against the slanting wall, and if you just come into
my arms the coat will go round you too.”
* * * * *
“Are you comfy, darling?” he asked a minute later, when they were
cosily settled against the rock.
“Yes, absolutely,” she breathed from the shelter of his arms, his coat
enfolding her.
“Now you must go to sleep.”
“Are you going to sleep?”
“I am going to try.”
“Do you think you will?”
“I shall try hard; now you must not talk any more; close your dear eyes
and go into dreamland till the morning.”
“Justin, you are very hard on me: I must neither talk nor listen.”
“Sweetheart, I don’t mean that,” he said with infinite gentleness;
“only you are needing sleep after this hard day.”
For a time she lay quite still, then she stirred restlessly.
“Not asleep yet?” he said quietly.
“No,” she replied. “Justin, couldn’t you relent just a little and--talk
a while longer?”
“Iris, I mustn’t--don’t you understand?”
“Yes,” she sighed; “but--but you haven’t said good-night.”
He kissed her hair. “Good-night, my beautiful Iris-flower--good-night!”
“Good-night,” she said, a tinge of disappointment creeping into her
tones in spite of her efforts to keep it out.
A great stillness settled around them; neither of them moved. His arms
held her to him with a gentle tenderness. She closed her eyes and
tried to sleep; but all the time she was confusedly conscious of his
nearness, the touch of his tweed coat, his breathing and the not too
tranquil beating of his heart.
“If only he would hold me a little differently--as he held me before;
if only he had kissed me good-night properly,” thought Iris, as she
made strenuous efforts to sleep; but now--oh, why did his closeness,
his breathing, affect her in this perturbing way? Why did his heart
beat in that strange manner, as if it longed to throb fiercely, madly,
but was held in check by some restraining curb?
The dark silence was terrible as she listened to the fierce thumping
of his heart. His breathing grew uneven and hard, and she felt herself
tremble in response to the turmoil within him. Her throat tightened.
“Justin, I can’t sleep, neither can you--won’t you talk to me?”
“I don’t think talking will make it any easier,” he replied in strange,
shaking tones.
“It might.”
“Why can’t you sleep?” he asked suddenly.
“I suppose for the same reason that you can’t.”
There was a long, blinding silence.
“Oh, Justin--Justin--we cannot part--I simply could not endure it!” she
sobbed.
His arms relaxed and he suddenly moaned aloud. “Darling, how can I make
you my--wife? If I had worlds they should be yours; I would give you
my life, myself, my all; there is no risk I would not run for you, no
danger I would not face! But to drag you into humiliation and ruin,
after all your amazing generosity and goodness--how could I do such a
preposterously selfish thing? Besides, I love you; and that is----”
“But, dearest,” she entreated, her tears falling on his cheeks, “there
would be no ruin and degradation; you will keep out of the way of
danger and--there will never be any cause for unhappiness again.”
“How do you know?” he asked, as if his very soul was being rent.
The agony in his tones roused her from her own grief; she must comfort
him immediately.
She thought a moment, then lifted her face and said, with a great,
inspired tenderness: “Because my dear captive singer has been set free!
He is no longer singing from the abyss of the caves; his voice came to
me from the top of the mountains--he is there now.”
He heaved a deep sigh. “Oh, Iris, if that could only be so!”
“It _is_ so. My beloved singer is no longer in the caves, far away
from freedom and gladness; he came to me to-night,” she went on in a
soft, tremulous voice, “as a messenger from Heaven, and found me in my
loneliness and sadness. Justin,” she added a little shyly, “don’t you
believe in Heaven and in angels?”
“I have not thought much about those things,” he replied sadly, “till
to-night, but now I know there is a--God.”
“What makes you know that now?”
“Because when I had almost given up all hope of finding you; when it
was so dark that I could hardly stumble along and the clouds came down
over the mountains; when I had come to the end of my own efforts and
felt absolutely hopeless: then I remembered my talk with old Turner
last evening.” He went on to tell her about their conversation and how
it had led him to the place of hope and thence to the place of prayer;
how he had prayed that he might find her, and that shortly afterwards
he had been guided to her in the darkness.
Iris had listened breathlessly. Now she raised herself a little and
said in very low tones: “But, Justin, if He can help you to find
me--couldn’t He help you about--the other difficulty?”
Rees started slightly. “I suppose He could, but----”
“Then why not ask Him? He heard you before; that shows that He hears,
and does as people ask.”
“I wonder--would He? He did not help me before.”
“No, but perhaps you never asked Him, and it seems He only does things
when He is asked--and in the right way.”
“Oh, Iris--if only He would! That would solve all our difficulties.”
“Yes, and when you are helped you could show old Mr. Turner and others
how they can be helped too. Do ask Him,” she urged.
“But I feel so unworthy, so----” He raised himself a little, leaning
sideways against the rock. “Iris,” he continued, with a new shyness in
his voice, “won’t you ask Him for me?”
“Of course I will--I will keep on asking till He does it.”
“But--won’t you ask Him now? It seems as if prayers are heard quicker
on mountains. I remember as a child my nurse telling me that Christ
went up to the mountains to pray.”
“Yes,” she replied thoughtfully, “I believe He did.”
“Precious one, ask Him for me while we are here together.”
Her head sank down on his breast again. He felt her hands clasped
round his neck as if she were lifting him in her arms as she offered
the first real prayer of her life. He felt her quick breathing and the
tension of her soul as she pleaded passionately for his great, burning
need!
Presently her hold loosened. “He is going to do it,” she cried
confidently. “I am sure He meant to do it ever since you sat out there
in the dark and prayed so strongly for me--that was so absolutely
_dear_ of you! It was then you were set free and became the heavenly
messenger sent to save me; and, Justin,” she whispered with reverent
adoration, “you will always be that heavenly messenger to me now, who
came to help me in my need and saved my life----”
“It is the other way about,” he whispered huskily: “it was you who
found me in the dark cave and came to lead me out. But, my own precious
one, it must be very late, and you ought not to talk any more; you
really must have some sleep--do you think you feel more like sleeping
now?”
“Yes, I feel much better.”
Once more he folded her to his heart, kissed her long and tenderly;
and gradually, as he soothingly stroked her hair, she sank into a soft
sleep.
After a time Rees slept too, and did not waken till the first faint
glimmer of dawn quivered in the East.
As he stirred, Iris moved too, and looked round in the dimness,
wonderingly.
“Darling, don’t you remember where you are?” he said, pressing her to
him gently.
“Am I really here with you, or is it only another dream?”
“No, it is not a dream this time,” and as she was going to speak he
closed her lips with his own.
Iris was then suddenly conscious that her hair had come down; its
thick, wavy masses billowed over her lover’s shoulder. “Oh, Justin,”
she cried in dismay, “all my hairpins have fallen out!”
“Never mind, I will soon find them.”
He lit a few matches, and gathered a handful from the ground.
“Is that all?” asked the girl in consternation.
“Yes, all that were on the ground--but I believe there are a few down
my neck,” he remarked, with a happy smile on his face. Then, handing
her a pocket comb, he added: “This is rather inadequate, but it may be
a help to you”; and, with a caressing pressure, he left her; he was
going to fill his lungs with the morning air and to take their bearings
on the plateau. Presently she heard him singing joyously from the top
of a rock outside.
A few moments afterwards they were on their way along the stony ridges
towards the place of descent.
The great crags were deep blue as the sea, and, far below, the valleys
lay wrapped in slumbrous shadows; while, above the awakening earth, the
sky pulsated with saffron, carmine and pansy-purple splendour.
“How wonderful to see the world waking!” exclaimed Iris under her
breath.
“Yes,” replied her companion, coming closer to her, “the sky is waking
it with a--kiss.”
He gazed long and ardently at the girl beside him. The soft half-light
of dawn seemed curiously to accentuate the loveliness of her face with
its exquisite curves, its mobile, scarlet lips and the great starry
eyes, now flashing like dusky jewels in the illumined dimness.
He caught his breath as he watched her.
The sun was just rising behind them, and as it crept above the far-away
eastern hills a long shaft of apricot-tinted light swept over the
towering peaks, making them look like huge, ethereal portals leading to
some celestial world.
“Those are the gates to the place where the angels live!” said Iris, a
great, soft beauty shining in her lustrous eyes.
“Yes,” replied her lover with reverent tenderness, “and we came near
those portals last night; this time we have spent together has brought
us to--them.”
As they walked on amongst rocky crests skirting sombre ravines opening
at their feet, like huge jaws ready to swallow them into their
sepulchral throats, they passed a calm mountain lake lying submissively
at the foot of a tall, imperious crag, mirroring its rocky, dauntless
features in its adoring heart, every crevice, every outline, every
touch of shadowy bloom liquefied, mellowed in the translucent silky
waters.
“Iris, do you see how that peak is reflected in its every detail in the
breast of that pool? How the lakelet seems to exist merely to mirror
its every mood, its varying shadows? That is just as your image is
stamped on my heart, blotting out all else, making it only exist to
receive the imprint of your beauty, the shades of your every mood.”
“Justin, your heart is too beautiful to hold such a faulty picture,”
she whispered, with a catch in her voice.
“My darling,” he murmured, tightening his arm about her, “you must not
say that, for your dear image is the most lovely, the most inspiring
thing this world holds!”
He could not draw his eyes away from her. “Iris,” he continued, “do you
know you are looking most radiant this morning--more radiant than I
have ever seen you?”
“That is because I have been so long with--you,” she breathed, with
downcast lashes. “Justin, it has been simply wonderful,” she added,
glancing up at him for a moment.
“You have been really happy?”
“It has been--bliss!” she said tremulously.
He faced her, and drew her into his embrace. Her arms slipped about his
neck, and she clung to him.
“Justin,” she whispered from his shoulder, “I shall never be able to
exist without you, and the future will be--safe, for last night we
found our way to those everlasting gates; we knocked for help, and no
one who really finds those great portals knocks in vain.”
CHAPTER XI
WHAT THE FIELD-GLASSES REVEALED
Captain Barton sat on the top of a ridge near the descending ravine,
scanning the huge stretch of scenery before him with his excellent
field-glasses. He had been smoking, but the cigarette had gone out
though it was still between his lips. He had arrived at the foot of
the mountains at dawn as arranged, and had at once commenced the steep
climb, leaving breakfast baskets halfway up the track, for he expected
Rees to turn up with Iris shortly, and, as it was not so steep at that
part and there was plenty of wood, it would be a more comfortable place
to light a fire and have a meal. In spite of his hatred of Rees he
felt an unaccountable trust in the man, which made him expect that the
driver would prove equal even to this dire emergency. Ralph was not
aware of this trust, but it existed all the same and revealed itself in
his decision to leave the substantial refreshment baskets on the lower
slopes.
He had been on the top of the mountains for some time, looking
expectantly around him, when suddenly through his binoculars he
discovered two figures approaching the place of descent. They had
evidently not the slightest idea that they were being observed, for the
man had his arm round the girl, and after walking a short distance
they stood still, and came so close together that the exasperated
watcher dropped his glasses with an oath.
The chauffeur, sitting a little distance away, looked up in amazement,
for of course he had not seen the offending figures.
So this was how matters stood between them, thought the infuriated
Ralph; this was how they had spent the long dark hours his stupidity
had given them! He swore again and with such vehemence that his
companion looked aghast. “My word,” he commented to himself, “thought I
was a decent hand at the language myself, but this English toff beats
me hollow!”
However, his perturbed master did not give him any more time for
reflection, but ordered him to go down, light the fire immediately and
get breakfast ready. The man started at once, while Captain Barton went
to meet the others.
* * * * *
Breakfast might have been a rather distressing meal, but for the fact
that Iris and Justin were so saturated with the deep joy the hours
together had brought them, that nothing, not even Ralph’s sullen gloom,
could mar their stupendous happiness. He had not seemed overjoyed at
seeing Iris again, and he had certainly not expressed any enthusiastic
gratitude to her rescuer.
When they arrived at the foot of the mountain Captain Barton ignored
Rees entirely and did not even offer him a seat in the car.
“Are you sure the horse is all right, so that you can ride him?” asked
Iris. “You had better make certain before we go, and come with us
if there is anything wrong.” She glanced at her lover with that new
softness in her eyes that their time together had brought there.
He assured her the horse was all right; then, as the car began to move,
their glances met in a lingering good-bye.
Ralph sat glum and cold all the way home; he spoke only at rare
intervals, and then in the iciest tones. But Iris was glad to be able
to lean back in the luxurious car, close her eyes and rest in her newly
found bliss.
* * * * *
It was half-past eleven when they reached the township. Both Mrs.
Henderson and Miss Smith were watching anxiously for the car, and Iris
was more carried than led into the house, and bombarded with questions.
The girl had to give a lengthy account of her experiences, in which
of course she carefully left out embarrassing details. But she dwelt
with pride and undisguised exultation on the splendid way Rees had
rescued her. She pictured to them the darkness, the vastness, the awful
solitude amongst the lofty peaks and terrible chasms, and how good it
was to be found at last.
“I am so thankful Mr. Rees discovered you fairly early last night,”
said Mrs. Henderson, when she had Iris to herself in the girl’s room;
“he really is a treasure! I nearly went mad thinking of you all alone
up there in the cold and dark, and it was only the thought that
somehow he would be sure to find you which kept me sane! He really
is marvellous, he never fails one--I felt sure he would find you.
But, Iris,” she continued, her kind brown eyes brimming with fond
banter, “you really are an awful fraud. I was tossing and turning all
night--couldn’t get a wink of sleep, worrying over you and expecting
you home to-day tired, exhausted and faint; but, instead of returning a
complete wreck, you come back like a radiant young Diana--all my pity
and sympathy have really been wasted! By the way, did you get any sleep
at all? How did you pass all those dreadful hours?”
“Well, to begin with, we had an excellent supper, and then we talked
and talked, and finally we both had a good sleep.”
“But you must have been dreadfully cold?”
“No, I wasn’t cold; we were in a cosy little cave, you know; and Mr.
Rees insisted on sharing his bluey with me. But now, dear,” she said,
rising and once more kissing her cousin, “I really must go and have a
bath and dress; it will soon be lunch-time and I am starving.”
Mrs. Henderson sat for some time looking fixedly at the door through
which the girl had disappeared.
“Iris doesn’t look like that for nothing,” she said to herself. “The
first part of the experience was dreadful, no doubt, but the other--she
looks happier than I have ever seen her. I believe that bluey is
responsible for a good deal! Dear me! If I did not _know_ Iris I should
be scandalised. It’s obviously a really pure, genuine case--that’s what
it is! I’m sure he is an honourable man, of good breeding; and I’d
wager a winning horse to a pair of gloves that his blood is as blue as
hers.”
When she and Iris came down to the dining-room they found a stranger
standing by their table with Ralph.
Captain Barton introduced the new-comer, and asked if he might join
them at luncheon.
Mr. Stanwell was a middle-aged, well-preserved man, who had known Ralph
three years ago in India, and had now unexpectedly come across him on
the verandah while he was waiting for the gong to sound.
“Mr. Stanwell lives in one of the neighbouring townships and is a
bank-manager there,” explained Ralph, as they took their seats at the
small table.
Captain Barton was a little more talkative now, and the visitor proved
a pleasant and interesting companion.
Ralph had already told him of Miss Dearn’s unfortunate experience on
the mountains, but he had not thought it necessary to add that it
was Rees who found her, and Mr. Stanwell had somehow received the
impression that Ralph himself had been the brave rescuer.
When the exciting episode had been thoroughly discussed, and other
general topics had been touched on, the bank-manager said after a short
pause--
“I have come down to-day on business, and while I am here I am going
to have a talk to Miss Smith on a matter I am afraid will rather pain
her.” He glanced carefully round the room as if afraid some one might
overhear his remarks, but the proprietress had just gone to the kitchen
with some orders and there were no other guests present, so he went
on: “I want to speak to her about her driver--always thought him such
a fine fellow, but the other night he was at our township and I saw
him myself, absolutely incapable through liquor--even to kissing the
barmaid, and----”
When he first began to mention her lover Iris had been looking out of
the window in gentle abstraction and she had not realised that he was
speaking of Justin till he had uttered that last awful sentence. Then
the radiance suddenly faded from her face and an awful pallor crept
over it, robbing even her lips of their scarlet beauty.
The effect on Ralph was equally striking, though it was of an entirely
different nature. A vivid animation had come to his face, his eyes
glistened and his hands moved in excited eagerness as he waited for
the bank-manager to finish his remarks, and perhaps make even more
gratifying revelations. Fate had at last been kind to him and with one
stroke for ever spoilt his opponent’s chances. So the driver _was_ a
posing humbug, pretending to be a hero before the people there and
going away to indulge in low debauches and vulgar intrigues. Ralph had
kissed girls himself, even since he had fallen in love with Iris’s
picture, but then he was not drunk when he did it, and the environment
had been entirely different. Of course now both Iris and her cousin
would drop the driver immediately, and not have anything more to do
with him.
Mrs. Henderson had at first been too utterly astonished to think of
anything but the ghastly news she had just heard; now she looked round
at her companions and noticed the change in them.
Mr. Stanwell had been looking at his plate while speaking, and was
utterly unconscious of the effect his words had produced. He was going
to finish his sentence when Miss Dearn suddenly interrupted him.
“Mr. Stanwell,” she began, looking at him with fine dignity, “before
you go any farther I think it is only fair to tell you that Mr. Rees
is a friend of ours--a _great_ friend. We have been here quite a long
time, and got to know him well, and he is the finest man I have ever
met. I owe him a huge debt of gratitude, for it was he who saved my
life last night. As for that unfortunate--accident at your township, he
told me all about it directly he came back. He is deeply ashamed of it,
and I am sure such a thing will never happen again! So I don’t think it
necessary to mention the incident to Miss Smith or any one else.”
She was still white to the lips, but her clear eyes gazed with grand,
dauntless courage at the man opposite to her, now leaning back in his
chair very much disconcerted and ill at ease.
“I am awfully sorry, Miss Dearn; most awfully sorry,” he began
apologetically; “hadn’t the least idea he was a friend of
yours--wouldn’t have mentioned it for the world had I known! As you
say, Mr. Rees is a splendid fellow, a man respected and liked by all;
in fact, the people in the district simply worship him!”
During this conversation Ralph had turned livid, then red with rage;
so, after all, this intervening stroke of fate would prove useless to
advance his interests. Iris had known all the time, and yet--his face
grew a darker red as he thought of the figures the field-glasses had
revealed to him that morning.
“I don’t agree with Miss Dearn that it is unnecessary to warn Miss
Smith,” he said, with a wrathful gleam in his blue eyes. “She certainly
ought to know the kind of man she is employing.”
“I think she is quite aware what a treasure she has in him--we all know
and trust him accordingly,” said Iris, with freezing hauteur.
Miss Smith had just returned to the dining-room, and the little party
lapsed into silence. Miss Dearn was the first to break the awkward
pause, entirely changing the subject by asking the bank-manager
what places he had visited in India, so keeping the conversation on
impersonal topics till the end of the meal.
Iris stood at the sitting-room window and watched Mr. Stanwell drive
away early in the afternoon. When he had said good-bye he apologised
once more, and assured her he would never repeat the incident about the
driver to any one again. Now she heard Ralph’s quick step along the
corridor; he had turned the handle of the door, and the next moment he
was in the room. She nerved herself for the inevitable interview.
“Iris,” he said, standing a little distance away from her and regarding
her from under sullen half-closed lids, “what are you going to do about
it?”
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked, without turning to him, her
cool fingers playing carelessly with the cream tassel of the blind.
“It is your plain duty to give him up, of course; it is a disgrace to
be friendly with a man like that; you owe it to your mother and your
friends to drop him immediately.”
“And what do I owe him?” she replied, turning inquiring, steady eyes
upon him.
“Owe him indeed! What could you owe such a fellow?” exclaimed Ralph
indignantly.
“I owe him more than I owe any one else in the world; I owe him--my
life.”
“That is all nonsense----”
“Now look here, Ralph; I know what you are going to say and I want to
spare you the trouble of saying it, because--it will be useless.”
“You mean you won’t give him up?”
“I most certainly do.” She met his angry gaze unflinchingly.
“Iris, you are on the brink of ruin and disgrace.”
“I will gladly face what you call ruin and disgrace for the man
I--love,” she replied, with a sweep of her regal head.
“But, Iris, you surely could not _love_ such a creature, who drinks and
spoons with----”
She winced a little, then said with great decision: “I shall never love
any one else.”
“But, Iris, you don’t mean to say that you are so infatuated that you
will go to the length of--marrying him?” he asked incredulously, taking
a step towards her.
“I will go to any length--any extreme that honour and love can carry
me.”
“Iris!” There was exasperation in the word. She did not speak, so
he continued: “But, Iris, I will not allow you to marry him; I will
prevent it. You shall not ruin your beautiful young life over a
contemptible drunkard!” He made an excited gesture with his hands.
“Ralph, be careful what you say. I will not allow you or any one else
to insult Mr. Rees in my presence.”
Her companion was completely losing his temper. “He is only a shameless
blackguard playing the hero before you and going away to booze and make
love to the lowest----”
“Ralph, I will not listen to you,” she said, with steely, flashing eyes.
“That is because you know I am speaking the truth,” he sneered.
“It is because the friend you are trying to blacken is the best, the
noblest, man I have ever met,” she replied, with fine pride.
Captain Barton laughed an ugly laugh. “The best, the noblest, man you
have ever met--good heavens, Iris! Do you call a fooling drunkard,
kissing barmaids----”
The blue fire in her eyes silenced his unfinished gibe.
“Let us part friends, Ralph,” she said, making an effort to speak
calmly. “I will try to believe you meant well, but we must part now.”
“Do you mean to say that you--want me to--leave?” he asked, turning
livid again.
“After insulting my best friend you surely cannot do less. But I am
willing to forgive you before you go.”
“Forgive me!” he mocked, turning to her fiercely. “Do you think I want
your forgiveness? I’ll clear out at once, but mark my words: you shall
never be allowed to marry that infernal drunkard--I will see to that!
I will----”
She measured him with a cold, haughty glance. “Ralph,” she began
evenly, “you had better not try to injure him, because if it comes to
that I believe _you_ would suffer most.”
He laughed scornfully. “You need not be afraid. I shall not do anything
like that, gentlemen do not lay hands on--grooms.”
With this parting shot he strode to the door, and as he touched the
handle he turned round and looked at her with a spiteful gleam in his
infuriated eyes as he said: “I may as well tell you before I go that
I saw you this morning through my field-glasses, and you were--in his
arms----”
He banged the door and was gone.
Ralph walked downstairs rapidly and told his chauffeur to get his
things together and be ready to start for Launceston in an hour’s time.
Then he went to the post office and sent a wire to Betty, after which
he returned to his room and rammed his clothes into the neat leather
suit-cases with savage haste.
When he left her, Iris went to her own rooms. She suddenly felt tired,
and sank limply down on the bed. It had been a strenuous day, holding
some very unpleasant hours. A shiver passed through her as she thought
of what had taken place at lunch. If only she had not given way to
that alluring abstraction she would have been able to prevent a full
disclosure of poor Justin’s unfortunate experience; she would have
given a great deal to have stopped the bank-manager blurting out the
bald facts in that merciless way, before her cousin and Ralph. However,
she had prevented him from telling Miss Smith and any one else. She was
glad Justin was so long in reaching the township and that Ralph was
leaving immediately; he would not be pleasant to encounter just then,
and, if he should come across her lover in his present mood, he would
certainly make use of the information he had obtained and be odious
and insulting. If only Ralph would start before Justin came back, so
that he would be saved the horrible humiliation of his rival’s taunts!
Ralph had been blustering and objectionable to her and had threatened
to prevent her marriage with Rees. But how could he do this? She was
not easily frightened. The worst he could do was to go home and give
her mother an exaggerated account of what had taken place. She could
imagine the highly coloured story he would concoct. Her mother would be
horrified and send her frantic cables, perhaps come out and by force
try to separate her from her lover. But she would be true to Justin at
all costs; nothing should prevent that.
Her reflections were interrupted as Amy entered the room.
Iris suddenly decided to take her cousin into her full confidence. Mrs.
Henderson had heard about Justin’s failing, and the revelation had been
an awful shock to her. Now Iris decided to explain the extenuating
circumstances; so, drawing her cousin down beside her, with her head
resting on the firm, massive shoulders, she told her what Justin had
confessed to her the night in the garden. She brought out how bravely
he had resisted temptation for years, and that it was the misery of
seeing her daily with Ralph which had driven him away from his place
of shelter, and that in his excited and despairing condition he was an
easy prey to his old craving.
When the girl had finished, her cousin’s eyes were moist and her voice
trembled a little as she said: “Poor, dear fellow, what a cross for him
to bear--no wonder he has looked so sad at times! And he has struggled
so bravely all these years; it was just cruel for Ralph to come and
drive him into danger and temptation!” She wiped her eyes quickly.
“And Ralph actually asked me to give him up----”
“What did you say, dear?”
“I told him the honest truth, of course--that I loved Justin and would
be true to him whatever happened.”
“And do you really mean to marry him?”
Mrs. Henderson felt a deep sigh pass through Iris’s slender form as she
said in very low tones: “He will not marry me.”
Her cousin turned to her in horror. “Good gracious, Iris, you don’t
mean to say that you’ve asked him?”
“Yes,” replied the girl, with grave candour, “I am afraid I have.”
Amy shook her head as she said in a troubled voice: “I always knew you
would get it badly when you fell in love.”
“Do you think I have behaved _very_ shockingly?”
“Your mother would think so; what a lovely story Ralph will tell her!”
But Iris was gazing in abstracted seriousness into space, as the buzz
of the departing car floated up to them from the road.
* * * * *
It was five o’clock that afternoon when Justin turned the corner which
brought the township into view, and he saw the dark red car with
luggage strapped on the back whirl away in a cloud of dust toward the
junction. He was not altogether surprised. Captain Barton had shown a
smouldering anger that morning which he felt sure would soon burst into
flames. Rees was sorry there had evidently been an open rupture; all
the same, he breathed a sigh of intense relief.
CHAPTER XII
HER OFFER
When Justin came in to dinner that evening the ladies were already in
the room, and he hurried to their table to inquire how Iris felt after
her mountain experience. From the door he noticed that she looked
rather pale and tired, but as soon as she saw him a vivid flush mounted
to her cheeks, and their eyes met in a quick, embracing glance.
“How late you are, Mr. Rees!” observed Mrs. Henderson, as soon as he
had asked after her cousin and received her smiling reply. “Miss Smith
expected you back much earlier.”
“Yes,” he answered, “I should have been here sooner, only the horse
went lame and I had to walk nearly all the way home.”
“Any horse would go lame after the furious way you rode yesterday,”
commented Amy. “It is a wonder you did not kill the poor animal and
yourself too! But,” she added, her manner changing, “I simply don’t
know how to thank you for finding Iris last night and looking after her
so splendidly! I shall never forget your kindness. I don’t know what I
should have done if it had not been for the comforting thought that you
were up there on the mountains too, and I felt sure that somehow you
would be able to find her; if you had not been there I think I should
have gone quite mad!”
“I was most deeply thankful to be there,” he replied, with profound
solemnity, “and if I had not found Miss Dearn I think I should have
lost my reason too.”
“You are a perfect dear,” said Mrs. Henderson, with undisguised
enthusiasm. “And,” she went on, “now that Captain Barton has left us,
we should both love it if you would come and sit at our table at meals.”
A happy light sprang into Justin’s grey eyes.
“Do you really mean that, Mrs. Henderson? You are far too good to me. I
shall be simply delighted.”
A very enjoyable meal followed. Iris and Justin were ideally happy;
to be together again, able to talk to one another, and drink deep of
each other’s love, was a joy which brought a glow to their faces and a
bright sparkle to their eyes.
When dinner was over Mrs. Henderson invited Rees to spend the evening
in their private sitting-room.
There had been a cold change in the weather; clouds had gathered over
the mountains and covered the sky with chilly, billowy masses.
Their room looked very cosy and inviting. A bright log fire burned on
the open hearth and the light from the gas came through a crimson silk
shade, tinting the warm flower-scented air with a rosy sheen.
“Ah, how cosy!” exclaimed the driver, with a deep glad note in his
voice.
“Yes, it is very comfortable,” replied Mrs. Henderson, taking up the
paper and sitting down on a Chesterfield some distance away from the
blaze.
Iris took a low chair close to the fire. She liked the warmth and glow
from the flames, and, with a sense of happy languor, she sank back
among the cushions Justin had piled behind her.
He stood on the hearthrug glancing round the changed apartment. It
had never looked as it did now, till Iris and her cousin had taken
possession of it. They had given it an atmosphere of well-being and
comfort, of culture and luxury. He wondered vaguely what they had done
to give it this air of delicious refinement. It was not merely due to
the number of books, the profusion of soft-toned silk cushions they had
brought to it; not only to the artistic rearrangement of the velvet
moss-green furniture and the abundance of vases filled with fragrant
roses; it was something above all these, yet showing itself through
them, which dominated the rooms and brought to it a delicate perfumed
breath from another world.
Justin glanced at Iris again and met her shining, smiling eyes. How
radiant she looked, and how lovely as she lay luxuriously back in the
low chair, the reflection of the fire playing caressingly over the
satin texture of her skin, the crimson light behind her casting a red
glow on the waves of her golden-brown hair.
Mrs. Henderson had been hidden behind the daily paper. Now she put it
down and rose as she said: “I think I really must write some letters
to-night; the English mail is going out to-morrow and I never can
settle down to write in the daytime. I am sure you two can entertain
each other for a while.”
When Justin had closed the door behind her he came over to Iris, held
out his hands, and, as she placed her own in his clasp, he drew her to
her feet and for a few seconds stood gazing at her.
“Iris,” he said in a low voice, “is it really true?”
“True about--last night?” she faltered.
“Yes. I was thinking as I stood watching you if--it really could be
true--it seems too beautiful!”
“I was wondering about that too,” she admitted, her fingers responding
to the pressure of his.
“But it _was_ true; you did sleep in my arms, your lovely head did rest
on my breast, for look,” there was a strange smile in his eyes as he
freed one of her hands, dived into an inner pocket and brought out a
tortoise-shell, gold-mounted back comb. “Look,” he said, his eyes upon
her face, “I found this when I left you early this morning, caught in a
pocket.”
A pink flush spread over her face. “Was that really clinging to your
coat pocket?” she said, slightly confused.
“Not the coat one. This one here.” And he touched his left breast.
“Oh, Justin!” Her confusion increased.
He folded her to him. “Never mind, dearest, don’t be distressed about
it. But I am going to ask you if I may keep it, so that whenever I am
in doubt about the reality of that sacred night, it will always assure
me it was not a dream; and--” he added in lower tones, “I also want to
keep it till I may have the right to remain with you always, and as
close to you as I was when this little comb fell out.”
He glanced down at her splendid young form pressed to his, the proud
head bent to his shoulder, her lovely neck curved as if in unutterable
surrender. Ah, the amazing wonder of it! Could this really be Iris
Dearn, standing there, submissive, wholly yielding her charms to a poor
driver, an insignificant nobody?
He suddenly bent down and kissed her neck, where little golden-brown
curls stole over its snowy whiteness. He felt her thrill to his caress.
“Iris,” he murmured, “may I kiss that entrancing spot again?”
In response a pair of bewitching white arms crept over his shoulders
and clasped him closer.
He returned the embrace. The room suddenly reeled with him. He could
see nothing, be conscious of nothing but the soft silken texture under
his lips.
She drew a long, quivering breath.
There were footsteps in the corridor.
“Sit down, Iris,” he said, putting her gently into a chair and taking
another beside her.
The footsteps without passed their door.
Iris leant back against the cushions, closing her eyes in delicious
languor, and resting one long, slim ankle across the other.
“Are you very tired?” asked Justin, bending over her anxiously. “I
should not have kept you standing so long.”
She turned her head to him without opening her eyes, her lashes
shadowing her paled cheeks. “Perhaps I am a little tired, but it is not
that--only to have you with me again,” she whispered in faint trailing
tones, not finishing her sentence.
“I am afraid you are very tired after all you have been through, and
this long, unpleasant day.”
She looked up at him quickly and the colour came back to her face
again. Had Justin heard about the bank-manager’s visit, and all he had
said--that horrible humiliation she wished to spare him? Her pulses
quickened with sudden fear; could he have seen Ralph after all?
“How do you know it has been unpleasant?” she asked, trying to speak
calmly.
“Well, as I saw Captain Barton leaving so suddenly, I knew there must
have been a scene beforehand; he seemed on the verge of an outbreak
this morning. I suppose the thought of our spending--all that time
together, upset him. Still, it was very unreasonable of him to be
angry, when he was really the cause of our being there.”
“No, it was not only that.”
“What was it, then?”
“He saw us through his field-glasses when I--when you----” The
vermilion in her cheeks told him the rest.
“When you were in my--arms?”
“Yes,” she replied, evading his eyes; “of course that made him very
angry; he tried to make me give you up; and when I wouldn’t, he was
most unpleasant, so--I sent him away.”
“My poor little girl, how terrible for you to have to go through all
that for me.”
She smiled at him tenderly. “I would go through much more than that for
you.”
She closed her eyes again. There was no doubt about it, she was very
tired, and for some moments he sat watching her exquisite face with its
adorable drooping lashes. He sighed as he thought how he had rested her
the night before, and a great yearning shone from his anxious grey eyes.
“Iris, you are utterly exhausted,” he said, bending over her; “if only
I could take you and hold you as I did last night, and soothe you off
to sleep, you would wake up as rested and as radiant as you were this
morning.”
The blue eyes opened for a moment and a look of intense longing came
into them as they met his.
He drew a laboured breath. “Oh, Iris, why can’t we always be together?”
he broke out vehemently. “Why should you have to do without all the
comfort, the rest--all that my love could give you? I hate the hour I
am barred from being with you; Iris, I want you all the time--don’t
you understand? Don’t you know what it means to me to be without you?
Iris, I do not want to be merely your lover; I want the tender, sacred
privileges of a husband.” He had risen and stood by the fire, his eyes
burning upon her face.
Now he suddenly turned, placed his arms upon the mantelpiece, his face
on his sleeve, and Iris saw that his shoulders were moving in deep
agitation.
She rose too--all her tiredness had vanished. How well she understood
all he was going through!
She touched his shoulder gently; he stretched out one arm and clasped
her to him without lifting his head.
“Justin,” she breathed, in quick sympathy, “I cannot bear you to suffer
like this; you must not grieve! Don’t put your dear head there, come
over to the sofa and I will rest it near my heart.” And she led him to
the Chesterfield and gently drew his head down to her gauzy shoulder.
“Now, Justin,” she continued, “I am going to say something to you
I meant to say last night. I wanted to say it then, but--somehow I
couldn’t. However, I am going to say it now. But I want you not to stir
nor look at me while I am speaking; nor interrupt, but listen until I
have quite, quite finished. I am going to give you all--no, don’t move;
I have only just begun and you must keep quiet.”
She stroked the black hair tenderly till he was still again.
“I am going to fulfil your every wish, you darling boy; you shall have
all you want, and I have a lovely plan for making us both ideally
happy. You are not to do that hard work any more----No, I haven’t
nearly finished yet, and you are not to say a word till I stop. You
have been so brave about everything, and now your hardships must
end. We shall have the dearest home near the mountains, where no--no
danger can touch you. You must have a car, so that you can run into
the township whenever you wish to, and help all your friends here;
and----Now, Justin, didn’t I say you were not to attempt to look at
me,” and she pressed his face back to the folds of her gown. Then she
went on, in lower tones: “I am going to be all yours, myself and--all
I have too. I am going to make everything over to you; I want you to
have it. Then you will certainly have to provide for me! Oh, Justin, it
will be simply adorable to be dependent on you! You will be generous to
me, I know, and not insist on my frocks lasting too many seasons; and,
Justin, think how lovely it will be to have a home of our very own, and
be always----”
Her lover had not stirred or tried to protest for some moments; he had
been suspiciously quiet--so quiet that Iris lifted his face from her
shoulder, and looked at it a little anxiously. It had grown very white;
his lashes were moist, and so were his cheeks.
“Oh, darling!” she whispered, with deep concern, “have I hurt you? Do
tell me! I did not mean to make you sad, I only wanted to make you
happy--oh, so happy! You will allow me to do it, won’t you?”
He looked at her from behind the moist lashes, his grey eyes brimming
with an overwhelming emotion. “Iris,” he said very unsteadily, “you are
too wonderful, too touchingly sweet; I can’t tell you how I feel about
your amazing suggestion, but----”
“No, no, Justin, there are to be no buts.”
He gazed at her in wistful adoration. “Dearest,” he began, “you shall
build the house----” He stopped speaking, as if afraid of wounding her.
“And won’t you come and--live there, too?” she breathed a little
anxiously.
“Yes, some day, when I have myself in hand----”
“That is now--remember how we knocked at the gate of the Angels’ Home
last night! You _will_ come, then, and let me do what I ask? Think how
lovely it will be! We can spend our days together--go about and help
all the people in the district; you will be able to give them lots of
money, and I will take them great baskets of things! Justin, you will
let me carry out my plan, won’t you?”
The long black lashes shading the large grey eyes grew moister. “You
blessed little girl! It is just like you to want to do things like
that! When I am sure of myself, and if you will let me work, I will
come to you--it will be bliss to come,” he said, with a break in his
voice.
Her face dropped. “Won’t you come--the other way?”
“No, Iris, I cannot take your--money.”
“But, Justin, if I were poor and you rich, wouldn’t you want me to have
yours?”
“Yes, of course--that would be a different thing.”
“I can’t see the difference.”
“That is only because you are so generous and good, and don’t want to.”
She sighed deeply. “If only you knew how much I wanted to do what I’ve
told you!”
“Yes, I know, Iris, and to my dying day I shall never forget your
loving offer!”
“But couldn’t you just take half?”
“No, my heart’s treasure; not that either.”
“Justin, you are horribly proud,” she said, with quivering lips.
He kissed the tremulous mouth. “I am dreadfully proud of you, if that
is what you mean,” he said, with a not too steady smile; “and now tell
me: when I am sure of myself, may I come to you then as your--husband?”
The lovely white arms stole about his neck again. “Yes,” she breathed,
“I shall always be ready for you, waiting for you.”
Footsteps came along the hall, and there was a sharp knock on the door.
Justin walked over and opened it. The little kitchen-maid had come up
with a message from Miss Green saying her father had a very bad heart
attack, and she would be glad if Mr. Rees could come and help her.
The girl went away and Justin came back to say good-bye to Iris.
“Please let me come with you,” she said, “there might be lots of things
I could do.”
“No, you are far too tired; I couldn’t allow you to stir.”
“But you are tired too.”
“Oh, I shall be all right; but, Iris,” he went on, “if you are still
here when I come back, may I come in and say--good-night?”
“Of course--I will wait till you come.”
“No, you must not do that; I might be late, and you need a good sleep.”
She glanced down on the moss-green hearthrug as she said: “Justin, I
want you to come and say good-night, and you know I can’t sleep if
I’m--unhappy.”
Her eyes were still on the rug, so she did not see the expression on
the face watching her; she only knew there was a perceptible pause;
then a clinging arm lay for a moment round her shoulders, and a low
voice said: “I will be sure to come to you, darling.” And he was gone.
CHAPTER XIII
THE GOLDEN ROAD
After Rees had left the room Iris stood absolutely motionless by the
fire, as if some magic spell was holding her. She was still there when
Amy came up shortly afterwards to tell her she was going to bed. “I am
too tired to write any more letters to-night,” she said, coming up to
her cousin. “Mr. Rees came and told me he had been sent for by Miss
Green. Poor man, they never can leave him one evening in peace, and he
looked so happy here! I suppose he will be there for most of the night
now. Iris, I am most awfully sleepy after not closing my eyes last
night; I really must go to bed at once. Good-night, dear; don’t sit up
late--I don’t know how you have kept awake all this time.”
“I shall go to bed as soon as ever I am really sleepy,” the girl said,
smiling.
Her cousin kissed her affectionately and went off to her room.
When she had gone Iris sank into the chair she had used before, where
the imprint of her slender form still rested on the cushions. How much
there was to think about! How much had taken place during the last two
days! What experiences she had passed through, and how her love for
Justin had grown by leaps and bounds! She had wondered about love
before, been deeply perplexed at the blinding joy his arms brought
her, the almost agonising rapture of his lips. The thought of her
own helplessness had staggered her. But now she ceased to wonder. It
was useless. She could only acquiesce in the forces placing her so
completely in Justin’s power; after all, it was deliciously sweet to
be so absolutely dominated by him. How completely he had conquered!
Love had not only laid cords about her, chaining her; it had entered
her inmost soul, vanquished every emotion, every thought; crept into
every corner of her being, till the smallest nerve, veriest particle
of tissue, was fused with its mighty glow! She had offered him herself
and all she possessed. He had accepted herself, but he had refused the
rest. A cloud passed over her face as she remembered this. However, it
soon lightened; had he not said she might build the house? She would
build it, and how beautiful it should be! She glanced round the room;
this would be nothing to the cosiness with which she would surround
him! How comfortable she would make him; how happy! What delicious
meals she would always have ready for him!
All at once she remembered she knew nothing about housekeeping; and, in
Australia, domestic arrangements were not as they were in London. But
she would send for her maid she had left with Amy’s servants; she was
a most capable woman, and between them they would soon manage to have
everything as she wished. Justin’s home should be the most artistic,
the most delightful and luxurious place money and refined taste could
make it! In such surroundings she would pour her love upon him and
make up to him for all his sad, distressing past. He liked dainty,
beautiful things; his hard life had not destroyed his fastidious taste;
he was warm-hearted and loved the soft touch of clinging arms, cool,
soothing hands playing through his hair; he should have all he cared
for now.
Her face glowed with a splendid rapture as she looked into the flames.
He had refused to give up work, but she would have a very large orchard
laid out; she loved orchards since she had seen the great stretches of
fruit-trees in fertile Tasmanian valleys; it would be quite impossible
for her to manage it herself; Justin would have to come to the rescue
as he always did; he would have to stay at home and help her. She would
see that the orchard was big enough to require that. He would never
allow her to struggle with workmen, and, besides, dealing with them
would occupy his time. Ah, yes, she would soon make life easier for
him! How she looked forward to carrying out her plans and making up to
him what he had missed in the sad, lonely years! His beautiful grey
eyes should be filled with smiles and happy laughter; all melancholy
should be chased from them. There would be no wanting and longing any
more; she would give all he had asked for. She remembered what he had
said that evening and all at once a fine blush suffused her face. She
had never realised that the word “husband” could mean so much till she
had heard him utter it that night. She knew now. She understood what
it implied; the privileges it would grant to the man she should call
by this comprehensive, all-embracing name; privileges small, tender,
close, large, great, stupendous! She stopped, and drew a tremulous
breath; no, she could not think any farther; it was too overwhelming,
too astounding! She could not even allow her thoughts to explore this
region of intimacy. This inmost shrine should be closed against all
intrusion till the time came when Justin was ready to enter it, taking
her with him and locking the door behind them.
Then her mind turned to the unselfish way he had responded to the call
from Miss Green. How good he was, how chivalrous, how tender! He had
left her, given up their blissful evening, to go to a stuffy cottage
and help with a fractious invalid. How bare and cheerless the rooms had
been on her first visit there; but since then many things, bringing
comfort and brightness, had found their way to the gloomy home. The
Greens had learned to love her almost as much as they honoured and
loved Justin. Their eyes brightened when they saw her pass or come in
to talk and read to the sad-faced sufferer. She meant to do much more
for them, would have gladly done it all, at once, but she was afraid of
embarrassing them with too many gifts till they knew her better.
Suddenly the glow died out of her cheeks as she remembered something
Justin had told her on their way home from the moonlit garden. When Mr.
Green had heart attacks he was always given brandy, and her lover had
sorrowfully confessed what it meant to him, sitting in a small room
tainted with the odour of spirits.
While she sat cosily by the fire, was her dear, splendid Justin
fighting with that relentless foe which had threatened to ruin his life?
She could not endure the thought! How was she to help him? Then the
cavern where they had spent the previous night came before her: the
great, brooding darkness, Justin encircled by her arms, while she
prayed desperately that he might be delivered from his cruel enemy.
She had promised to pray till the answer came; there had been no quiet
during the day, but she could pray now. And she did.
She knelt by the big, velvet armchair where her lover had been sitting.
Her lover’s need was imperative; might he not even at this moment be
engaged in a death struggle with the foe which had conquered him times
without number?
* * * * *
Iris prayed till her whole being quivered with the intensity of her
ardent petition. She did not know how long she was on her knees, nor
did she hear a soft knock, the gentle opening and shutting of the door,
and the quiet footsteps of her lover. He stood by the fire gazing at
her superb young form kneeling by the dark chair where he had been
sitting, her head lifted, her upturned profile white with intensity
and passion, sensitive nostrils dilating, mobile lips quivering, the
delicate hands tightly clasped. Her face seemed luminous with a light
shining from within, and her entreating figure was bathed in the
roseate light pouring through the crimson shade.
Involuntarily Justin started, and drew a sharp breath.
She heard him, turned and looked up at him, the unearthly radiance
still shining in her starry eyes. Then a quick smile parted her lips
and she rose blushingly. The man on the hearthrug stood spellbound.
“Iris--Iris!” he murmured.
She came up and laid her hand gently on his sleeve without speaking.
“Iris, were you--praying for--me?” he said huskily.
“Of course,” she replied with sweet candour.
“So it was your prayers that worked--the miracle.”
“Was there a miracle?” she asked eagerly.
“The--the--temptation has--lost its power! It was in that little room
to-night--Mr. Green had a larger dose of spirits than usual and--the
odour was terrible--to me. I was dreading going into the house because
I was tired, and that always makes it harder to--resist. But, though
the fumes and their associations were so strong that they would have
saturated and nearly maddened me another time, this evening they had no
power. I felt them, but somehow they did not seem to penetrate right
into me as they have always done before. They seemed to remain outside,
as if some great power had barred the door to my senses and shut them
completely out. Oh, Iris!” He stopped abruptly, turning his face away.
She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. “Justin,” she
whispered with deep emotion “isn’t it lovely?”
“Iris, it is wonderful, and your prayers have done it!” There was dewy
splendour in the grey eyes as they turned to her now.
“_God_ did it,” she said, with sweet simplicity. “He alone is
wonderful, Justin; He helps people when He will; and who are we, to
question Him when and why He does not?”
He drew her down on the sofa and for some time they sat talking in
reverent, hushed tones about things sacred, things spiritual, which
had suddenly become absorbingly interesting to them. They talked about
God, His wonderful goodness in listening to their prayers and His great
power to answer them. They spoke of their own carelessness in having
entirely disregarded Him before; they made many plans about the future,
how they could show Him their gratitude, learn to please Him and live
the kind of lives He meant them to live. They made up their minds that
in the future they would specially seek out those who were struggling
and suffering as Justin had struggled and suffered, and make them
understand there was hope even for them. God was waiting to help every
one; He could aid all.
Though Justin was sure that victory was his at last, all the same he
felt that he ought to test himself thoroughly before linking Iris’s
life to his own; so he decided to go to town for a month and there,
amid temptation, prove he could safely live an ordinary life again.
Iris objected strongly at first, but after a time she gave in, as she
thought it would make her lover’s mind easier if he had undergone this
severe test.
They sat talking, the fair head close to the black one, cheek often
pressing cheek, fingers entwined.
“And now, Iris,” said Justin, “I want you to promise me something. If
I keep quite all right in town, will you marry me _as soon as ever I
come back_?”
The girl lowered her head to his firm, strong shoulder. “Oh, Justin, I
should love to,” she whispered with fluttering breath.
“You would really?” he asked happily, drawing her closer.
“You know I would.”
“I am going to have a good talk to your cousin to-morrow, and, if she
thinks it is fair to you, we shall be married as soon as I return.”
She raised her face once more to his. “Justin,” she said, a deep
devotion shining in her eyes, “you have made me happy beyond this
world. My love for you has enabled me to win to the Golden Gates, and
every step onwards can only be taken in the strength of that love.”
He sat gazing at her, his face aglow with adoration. “Dearest one, then
your love will draw me there too--I shall be with you on the Golden
Road.”
“Yes,” she said, her face illumined by the light of her pure soul. “We
shall walk there for the rest of our lives together till we win right
to the dwelling-place of God.”
“May it be so!” said Justin in very low tones. “And, Iris, do you
realise that this is our betrothal night? It has begun on the shining
road.”
“Yes,” she said, pressing closer to him, “from to-night we are each
other’s and--His.”
A few minutes later two figures knelt in the soft, roseate light; they
were clinging to each other, but their souls were turned towards--God,
the Giver of Love.
CHAPTER XIV
“HOPE”
Iris sat beside Turner in his small, tidy cabin. The old drunkard was
ill; he had sent for Rees, but as the driver was away Iris and her
cousin had come instead, bringing with them a large basket of good
things. The patient had just been given a big basin of hot, delicious
chicken broth they had brought in the thermos. The old man was feeling
refreshed and lay back in his clean, though rather crumpled-looking,
bunk.
Mrs. Henderson had brought some flowers from the garden and placed
them in a bowl on the table; now she sat by the little window looking
out on the small gate on the outside of which the drunkard had years
ago painted the pathetic word “Hope.” It was still plainly visible,
though the paint had peeled off in places. The man living behind its
shelter seemed doomed; he had never risen above his craving; it had
always bested him, even in this secluded spot, when men had been to
neighbouring townships and brought the noxious liquor to his door. But,
in spite of a lifetime of failure, he still clung almost tenaciously to
the small word on his wooden gate.
He watched Miss Dearn with wonder and admiration. Never had a girl
of her type been in his little hut before. Her beauty, her air of
refinement and breeding, her simple naturalness, appealed to him.
How easy it was to talk to her in spite of the unconscious grandeur
emanating from her. She had crossed his threshold, introduced her
cousin and herself, talked to him, given him soup, smoothed his pillow,
as if she had known him for years and been in the habit of visiting
such cabins, sitting on such hard wooden chairs, all her life.
While she talked to him now, she was making mental notes of all this
little home needed to make it comfortable for the white-haired owner.
It must have some carpet, two cosy chairs, new warm blankets, and many
other things. She would go to the shop on her way home and order them
and have the things procurable in the township sent up at once.
“When will Mr. Rees be back?” inquired Turner during the conversation.
“I think it will be a fortnight before he returns,” replied Iris. “He
will be so sorry to know you are ill, but I will tell him we are trying
to look after you in his absence.”
“You will write to him, then?”
“Yes,” replied the girl, the pink in her cheeks increasing a little.
“Give the dear lad my love when you do.” A great, soft lustre came into
his pale brown eyes as he continued: “That’s a fine fellow, if ever
there was one! I don’t know what we should do in this district without
him--there is hardly a family he hasn’t helped in some way. He has
saved my life twice: the other week when my horse bolted and a year
ago when I was bad after a spell----” He looked shamefacedly down on
the worn, threadbare quilt as he went on: “I dare say you know I have
these--spells--been the curse of my life, broke my old mother’s heart,
bless her!” He looked up again. “Ah, I did have a mother any boy could
be proud of, but I----” He stopped and wiped his misty eyes with a
crumpled red handkerchief. “It was the sorrow of her life that I should
have these here spells. Many times she went on her knees begging me to
give them up, but”--he shook his white head--“may I be kept from them
awhile, but all unexpectedly the old feeling came back, and then I
simply couldn’t resist.”
A tender light illumined the girl’s beautiful face as she said softly,
“I notice you have ‘Hope’ written on your gate.”
“Yes,” he said in quavering tones, “I painted it on there because--it
was hard to keep up heart when I felt it was no use, that help would
never come my way; then I went out on the road and stood looking at
that little word, and I remembered my mother’s prayers--ah! they were
prayers, prayers with tears in them, prayers that seemed to bleed her
heart; she prayed for her poor drunken boy like that.”
“Those prayers will be answered yet,” whispered Iris, laying her smooth
white hand on the old wrinkled one.
He looked up at her and smiled through tears. “You think so--you don’t
think it is too late?”
“No, it is not too late,” said the girl with profound conviction.
“Prayers like that must be answered; it could not be otherwise. I have
a friend,” she continued in a different voice, “who had a--failing like
yours--it mastered him for years, but suddenly he was cured; some one
began praying for him, prayers with tears and--heart-blood in them, as
you say, and--he was cured. The awful craving left him and he has never
had it again.”
“Was it his mother that prayed for him?” asked the old man with deep
interest.
“No,” said Miss Dearn very gently, looking down on the rough,
carpetless floor; “it was not his mother.”
“Really--I didn’t know any one else could love a man enough to pray for
him like that.”
“Sometimes another woman can love strongly enough for that,” Iris
replied, still not looking up.
The gaunt form of the drunkard moved a little closer to her. “I beg
your pardon if I am too bold--just tell me if I am--but I should so
like to know: was it--_you_ who prayed like that?”
A delicate flush crept over the girl’s fair face. “Yes,” she said very
quietly, “it was.”
“And you say he is quite, quite cured?”
“Yes,” she answered, meeting his faded, eager eyes, “the craving has
left him; he can go near even hotels and--and--not feel the least
tempted to--go in.”
“That is marvellous!” He moved to the very edge of the bed and began
to fidget with the dilapidated fringe on the quilt. “Miss Dearn,” he
said falteringly, “my mother has been dead many years, but no doubt she
is praying in Heaven for her poor, degraded boy; only it seems so far
away and--it would be so nice to have some one praying for me down
here on earth--I have no one to do that for me now--I wonder would it
be too much if I asked you to--pray for me as you prayed for--your
friend?” His withered, freckled hands still moved nervously on the edge
of the counterpane.
Iris suddenly imprisoned one of the hard hands between her dainty, slim
ones. “Of course it is not! I should just love to help you and see you
quite cured too,” she replied with a radiant smile.
The old man looked up at her with a new light in his eyes; it seemed
as if Hope, so long brooding over his gate, had leapt into his soul at
last.
“Then you will?”
“Yes, I will!”
* * * * *
“Iris,” said Mrs. Henderson on their way home, “the sweet way you
talked to that old man just broke me up; I couldn’t say a word, but
simply had to sit and listen to you; and, if I had not known for
a certainty that it was you, I should have felt sure it was some
Celestial Being from another world coming straight from the Presence of
God. Your prayer will be answered--I know it will! Iris,” she continued
huskily, “I can understand how Justin was cured, now.”
PART III
CHAPTER I
THE EARL’S VISIT
The Earl of Strathfell’s luxurious limousine had just stopped before
Lady Dearn’s big mansion in Park Lane. The owner got out of the car and
made his way with graceful dignity up the easy flight of granite steps.
He was a tall, erect man with an imposing figure, a proud handsome
face, thickly waving white hair and large grey eyes. His clothes were
immaculate, from his silk hat to his perfectly shaped boots.
He pressed the bell deliberately. The door opened, and, when he asked
to see Lady Dearn, a footman in purple uniform told him that her
ladyship was “not at home.”
But Lord Strathfell was not easily turned away. He took out his
card, wrote a few words on it and handed it with a sovereign to the
expressionless servant as he said, “Kindly take my card to Lady Dearn
at once.”
The man ushered him into a small reception room and disappeared. He
returned some minutes afterwards and said that her ladyship would see
him; then he led the visitor upstairs to one of the large drawing-rooms.
The earl took an armchair, though not a low one--he hated low
chairs--then looked about him absently. It was a white and gold room,
sumptuously furnished, containing priceless statues and pictures. But
his experienced eye did not enjoy the great works of Art surrounding
him; he was impatient for the door to open and the interview he desired
to begin. At last there was the soft rustle of silk, and Lady Dearn
entered.
Lord Strathfell rose and a look of surprise came for a moment into his
fine grey eyes as he saw his hostess. She approached him with head
slightly bent; her eyes were swollen with weeping and she was still
clutching a small lace handkerchief convulsively.
“I would not have seen any one else to-day but you,” she began in
trembling tones, “and not even you unless you had urged it. I have
had an awful blow this morning--I am in terrible trouble--it is
about--Iris.” She sank into an easy chair, rested her elbow on its arm
and shaded her eyes with her white, well-formed hand.
“Is she ill?” asked her guest with deep concern.
“Oh no!” Lady Dearn replied, waving the inquiry impatiently aside.
“Iris is never ill, I don’t think she could be if she tried.”
The earl looked distinctly relieved, the girl was a great favourite of
his. “Ah, I am glad of that!”
“But the other thing is far, far worse--it is absolutely appalling!
To think a child of mine could have sunk so--low,” and she dabbed the
fragment of linen and lace against her eyes.
“I cannot imagine Miss Iris doing anything--very dreadful,” said Lord
Strathfell, filling up an awkward pause.
“Yes, it is so unexpected, and it has all come through her going to
that awful country; she ought never to have been allowed to go in the
first place.”
“I thought Australia was rather a fine place.”
“Oh, I daresay the place is all right; but it is the atmosphere, people
are so lax out there--it is most deteriorating to pride and morals.”
“Morals?” queried her handsome guest. “You don’t mean to insinuate that
Miss Iris’s fault lies in that direction?”
The distracted mother began to weep again. “Ah, my poor wayward child,”
she almost moaned, “if only I could be there beside you and save you
from that awful fate! Isn’t it ghastly?” she continued turning to her
companion. “It takes six weeks to get there--of course I shall have to
catch the next boat, but even then I may be too late--ah, too late!”
“I don’t quite understand,” said Lord Strathfell, his smooth brows
puckering slightly. “Has your lovely daughter done anything really----?”
“Yes, a most shocking thing--I hardly like to tell you about it; but I
suppose you will be sure to hear of it later on, so you might as well
be told now--I must try to get used to the idea of it,” she wailed
piteously.
“If I could be of any help--the least assistance----”
“No, no; thank you all the same, but you cannot do anything; no one
can.”
“Is it really as bad as that? Dear me!”
“Yes, Iris has fallen in love with a--a--groom,” she said in the same
horror-struck tones she would have used if she had been announcing that
her daughter had committed a murder.
“Oh, surely----” began Lord Strathfell.
“I assure you it is true. The man is a common groom, employed by the
proprietress of the boarding-house where Iris and her cousin have been
staying, and the foolish child has fallen most violently in love with
him--and she is actually going to--_marry_ the awful creature! Think
of it, _my_ daughter, who has had the most brilliant offers, to sink
so low as to marry a common--groom! I shall never have a peaceful
moment again, never hold up my head any more; it is too terrible, too
dreadful--a disgrace! I am glad her poor father did not live to see
this day; it would have killed him if he had, for in spite of his
gentle, kind ways he was a very proud man; he could never have endured
such a disaster to his favourite daughter! And my poor child--think
what a life she will have with such a man! Of course he is only
marrying her for her position and money.”
“I should have thought Miss Iris was quite attractive enough to make
any man want to marry her for herself,” observed the earl sententiously.
Lady Dearn shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “That sort of man would
not have taste enough to appreciate Iris’s beauty. Any pink-and-white
dairymaid would have done as well. I tell you he is a designing
villain, an unscrupulous impostor, who has taken advantage of my
child’s inexperience and waywardness. I had a long letter from Captain
Barton this morning telling me all about it; he went out there for
part of his furlough, you know.”
“I suppose he went out to marry Iris himself,” commented the earl dryly.
“Yes--he did wish to marry her--if only she had accepted him--instead
of this common man.”
“But the--man might not be so bad after all; he might even turn out to
be a--gentleman.”
“A gentleman!” sniffed Lady Dearn. “He is a dreadful creature of the
most vulgar type! Captain Barton writes of an awful scene in a common
bar, where the man was disgustingly intoxicated--kissing the barmaid!
I believe Ralph had to drag him out and put him to bed.” Lady Dearn
shuddered. “Think of Iris falling in love with such a low creature--I
can’t make it out--a child of mine to have such depraved tastes--it is
the influence of that country with its careless laxity.” The distraught
mother wept afresh.
Lord Strathfell sat looking down on the rich pattern of the luxurious
carpet. Kissing a barmaid! What an awful crime! Really! But perhaps in
Australia things were different. He rubbed his smooth cheek once or
twice. “I am sorry about that--very sorry. Still the young people have
not done anything along the lines--you indicated. As far as I can see
they have only fallen a--little hotly in love with each other.”
“As far as you can see! Why, you don’t know anything about it--I
haven’t told you half! But I suppose I might as well let you know
all--such scandal soon leaks out; I tell you Iris has behaved most
disgracefully, most shockingly! They have spent afternoons together
in dark caves, terribly wet places where you prowl about under hills
and what not; think of my daughter in that awful blackness for hours
together with such a man! However she comes to like these things is
past my comprehension! And they have had secret meetings in lanes at
night, and----” Lady Dearn’s voice lowered to a horrified whisper,
“and Captain Barton writes of some trip to the mountains where he saw
the man, with his arms round Iris, actually--kissing her! He is a
double-dyed villain, and Iris must be mad. Whatever is a mother to do
with such a daughter?” She closed her eyes and made a despairing little
gesture.
“I tell you what you can do, Lady Dearn; let her--marry him!”
His hostess sat up quickly. “Let her marry the impostor, the villain,
the groom--never! Lord Strathfell, how can you suggest such a thing? I
am going out by the next boat, and, even if they are married, if there
is any law or any kind of force which can separate them, they shall be
dragged apart!” She said it with a cold glitter in her china-blue eyes.
When Lady Dearn first began to confide the cause of her trouble to her
friend, a curious expression had come into Lord Strathfell’s handsome
features, but it had only remained a few moments and afterwards
his face had become as inscrutable as ever. Now, however, the odd
expression returned while he said, in very even distinct tones: “Lady
Dearn, I have come to--plead the cause of--of--that young man----”
His companion looked up quickly.
“The groom?” she inquired incredulously.
“Yes--for he is my--son.”
Lady Dearn’s red-rimmed eyes opened wide in amazement. “The groom, the
villain, the impostor--_your son_?”
“The groom if you like, though I believe his real position is that
of guide and driver; but villain and impostor--never!” The earl drew
himself up as he spoke. “Justin has been wild and done most foolish
things, but I know he has never done a mean or dishonourable one----”
“But I don’t understand,” interrupted Lady Dearn, who was not
interested in the ethical side of his nature. “Do you mean to say Mr.
Rees, as Ralph calls him, is really your son? How----”
“My dear Lady Dearn, don’t you remember my second son, Justin, went to
Australia a few years ago, and the painful circumstances which led to
the--exile?” Lord Strathfell lowered his eyes to the rich Axminster
carpet for a few seconds before continuing. “I had requested him never
to use his own name, so he called himself Rees. I wanted to make him an
allowance when he went away, but he refused to take it as I wouldn’t
allow him to use his own name, so he had to work when he reached
Tasmania. Miss Smith, the boarding-house proprietress, needed a driver
and guide, and he took the post.”
So the man was no common groom after all, but a son of one of England’s
most distinguished peers! And now Lady Dearn remembered that the
eldest son had died six months ago, so Justin would be the heir, come
in for the titles and all the estates, and, if father and son were
reconciled, as they seemed on the point of being just now, he would
inherit the earl’s enormous private fortune as well. Suddenly things
had taken an entirely different aspect. The groom Ralph had written
about so slightingly, so contemptuously, was turning out to be a
fairy prince in disguise; one of the best matches in the land! He had
been a little wild, and, if Captain Barton could be believed, he was
evidently a little wild still; but then, what was that? What young
man had not his little deviations from the straight path? It was only
natural; poor, dear fellow, shut away in exile--no wonder he might be a
little--indiscreet!
But how appalling of Ralph to give her the impression that Justin was
a common groom! And she had been speaking about him to the proud earl
in the most depreciating terms; he might easily become offended, and
all through Ralph’s annoying bungling! She would drop the soldier in
future; he should never be invited to her home again. She thought of
all this as Lord Strathfell explained the situation to her more fully.
He had heard from Justin a fortnight ago, telling him how Iris and he
had met, that they had fallen in love with each other, but that of
course it was impossible for him to ask her to marry him under the
circumstances. However, he wanted to tell her his real identity and
asked his father to allow him to do so. Justin told him how he had
spent his time during the last three years, and how he had kept his
failing in abeyance by living by the lonely mountains, far away from
temptation. The earl had received another letter from him that morning
telling him of his fall during his visit to a neighbouring township.
Ralph had arrived. Justin had thought that Captain Barton, being more
fortunately situated, might make Iris happy, so had withdrawn to give
him a fair chance of winning her. But he could not endure seeing them
constantly together, and, while he was away, the fall had taken place.
He had gone back and told Iris about the lapse; she had forgiven him
in the most angelic way, and--well, they had discovered they could not
live without each other.
“Now if you will give your consent to their marriage,” went on the
earl, “I am going to cable to Justin that he can disclose his identity,
come back and live at Strathfell Court and I will allow him £10,000 a
year and all shall be right between us. As Strathfell Court is in the
country, he can live there as quietly as where he is at present--if
that should be necessary; but I have no fear at all about his future
if Iris becomes his wife. I want to cable to-day, but came to see you
first to ask for your consent to their marriage; if you will give it,
perhaps you yourself will send a cable to Iris and tell her so?”
Lady Dearn had quite recovered from her weeping. “Yes, certainly--if--he
is your son, of course, I most gladly give the young people my
blessing,” she beamed in her most gracious way.
“And you will not be angry with Iris any more--quite forgive her, in
fact?”
“I suppose I shall have to,” Lady Dearn smiled again; “though the
dear child really has behaved very badly. I am afraid she is most
unbecomingly, most shockingly in love with your son.”
“If only more women loved their husbands like that, men would be a
happier race,” commented the earl. “But,” he continued, rising, “I must
not detain you any longer. I am going to send my cable at once--may I
take yours for Iris at the same time? It would be nice if they received
them simultaneously, don’t you think?”
Lady Dearn heartily agreed.
She went over to a small inlaid writing table, wrote out her message,
then handed it to her companion to read. “Will that do?” she asked with
her most winning smile.
“Yes, splendidly! Now our young people will be happy.”
* * * * *
Half-an-hour afterwards both telegrams had been despatched to Australia.
On his way home the Earl of Strathfell leant comfortably back in his
magnificent car, and there was a glad light in his handsome grey eyes
as he looked out unseeingly on the noisy traffic-laden streets.
CHAPTER II
THE CABLES
Autumn had made its colorous advance in Tasmania, scattering vermilion
and coppery tints into gardens, orchards, and along mirroring streams
shadowed by graceful, weeping willows and glistening poplars. It had
dropped fleecy clouds into brooding valleys and trailed long ribbons of
mist on the electric-blue hills.
Iris was sitting in the little creeper-covered summer-house at the
lower end of the garden, waiting for Justin. He had returned the night
before, but she had only seen him then for a little while; now he was
coming for a long talk.
She sat gazing at the mountains and saw their bold rocky forms framed
by the doorway, where yellow vines hung motionless in the still morning
air.
Justin was home again! He was coming to her shortly, and then--a
stupendous joy would be hers; it was on the point of pouring itself
into her life! She sat quite still, waiting--waiting till the huge
tidal wave of bliss should roll in upon her and carry her far, far out
to sea, to the unmeasured deeps of a fathomless rapture.
She glanced through the doorway again. The great ecstasy was coming
to her in this ideal place--it had given her--Justin! Tasmania had
brought them to each other and was now on the point of linking their
lives together with the sweetest chain in the world. How appropriate
that they should have met in this romantic island, with its great wild
beauty of dense tangled bush, cornflower-blue hills, lofty mountains
lifting bold undaunted crags into azure skies; with its wondrous caves,
its immense solitudes, its untamed loneliness, its deep melancholy;
its riotous, exuberant sunshine: Tasmania with its flaming sunsets and
pearly dawns, its violet-hued twilights, its tall majestic trees and
green-matted undergrowth; its weird animals and lovely birds: this
island with its many moods, sometimes silent, brooding, reflecting,
profound; at others smiling, dazzling, laughing; some days tender,
exquisitely yielding; on others, convulsed with passion, impetuous,
ungoverned; but always beautiful, always alluring in its bewildering
waywardness!
There were light, quick steps on the path leading to the summer-house.
A rich colour suffused the fair face of the girl waiting there. Justin
was coming! She rose, a strange, glad confusion numbing her senses. She
knew what he had come to say. He was at the doorway; for a second she
saw him under the trailing yellow vines; she noticed the detail of his
new navy-blue suit. Then she took a step towards him, would have taken
another and been clasped by his arms, but a curious look of suppressed
excitement in his face arrested her movement.
He held out an envelope to her. “This wire has just come; you had
better open it at once,” he said with forced calmness.
The bright flush on Iris’s cheek subsided a little. A wire--who could
it be from--surely only from her mother. Ralph could be in London by
this time; he would have gone to her mother and told his own story. He
would not spare her; she could expect no mercy from him; and, if he had
not gone to England, he would have written, which would be just as bad.
Perhaps her mother was so upset that she was coming out immediately and
had cabled to say so.
She sank down on a low chair, tore open the envelope and read hastily.
Rees watched her with an odd expression in his grey eyes. He saw her
smooth brow pucker as she evidently read the message again and again.
At last she allowed the paper to drop to her knees. “Really,” she
said at last, “I think my good mother must have taken leave of her
intelligence! Look at that!” And she passed him the telegram.
He read:--
“Heartiest congratulations on your engagement to Lord Lennox have
wedding in London fondest love.
“YOUR MOTHER.”
Her lover kept his eyes on the cable for a long time; if he had lifted
them from the paper, Iris would have seen a very bright twinkle under
the long lashes.
“Well,” she said a little impatiently at length, “I suppose you can’t
make any sense of it either; whatever can it mean?”
“Oh, the meaning is clear enough; there is no mistaking that. Your
mother wants to let you know that she quite approves of your engagement
to Lord Lennox.”
“But, Justin, how utterly foolish----” she stopped and began to think
again. Was this her mother’s method of dealing with her after hearing
Ralph’s story? Instead of coming herself was she sending this new man
and indicating that she commanded her to marry him? That after the
episode with the driver (Ralph was sure to have made a sensational
story of it) she was to pay the penalty of marrying this man to avoid
open scandal and disgrace--was this her mother’s scheme? How unwise she
had been not to have written by the same mail and explained that she
really loved Justin and would not marry any one else! She had written
since, of course, but her mother would not receive that letter till a
week later. It was the only mail she had missed; in her excitement and
perplexity that week she had not written. It was a great pity and the
result might be that she would have another man landed on her hands. It
was really most appalling! A cloud of vexation swept over her face. “I
suppose mother has seen Ralph by this time,” she said, thinking aloud,
“and this is her way of dealing with me. I expect this man will be
arriving presently. But,” she continued in a different tone, “I will
have nothing to do with him--I shall not even see him!”
“Would you really object to becoming Lady Lennox instead of
simply--Mrs. Rees?”
She looked up into his smiling eyes with a hurt look in her own.
“Justin--how can you say such a thing even in fun--I hate jokes of
that kind!” she said straightening a little; then she looked away and
added, the perplexity coming back to her voice: “But I really can’t
understand this, for, now when I come to think of it, I don’t know the
man--that is, I believe I met him years ago when I was still in the
schoolroom; but I remember he was delicate, and I think he has been in
the south of France ever since.”
“That was the elder brother, but he died six months ago, and the second
son has taken his place.”
“Is he really dead? I didn’t know, I haven’t read half the papers
mother sends out. So it is the second son; that is worse--he was the
wild one, wasn’t he? So that is the kind of man mother wants me to
marry!”
Justin winced a little; then he said, the odd expression on his face
deepening: “Yes, he was rather wild; but he has been trying to mend his
ways----”
Iris stopped him with a look. “You plead his cause well,” she said
coldly, her face as white as marble.
“Naturally, seeing that you have already done him the honour of
promising to become his wife.”
Iris had suddenly risen. She took an uncertain step towards him.
“Justin,” she began, amazement, indignation and scorn in her tones,
“you don’t mean to say----” But his face told her something. The
indignation gave place to incredulity; and then, slowly, the lovely
colour mantled to her cheeks and swept away the scorn. “Justin!” she
pleaded now, “Do you mean to say--that--you are----”
“Yes, Sweetheart. That is just what I was trying to tell you.”
“You are--Lord Lennox--the Earl of Strathfell’s son?”
“Yes, darling.”
She turned pale again, her eyes shining like stars; then the colour
came vividly back to her face. “And you have been Lord Lennox all this
time and I did not know--oh! Justin--I can’t realise it--and fancy the
way all those people have treated you--it is awful!”
“I could not expect anything else in that position, but your sweet
gentleness has made up for it all.”
At his words she sank into the chair where she had been sitting, and
covered her face with her hands.
Her lover sat down beside her. “Whatever is the matter, dearest?” he
asked, trying to move her hands from her flushed face.
“Oh, Justin, to think of all the things I have said to you!”
“Iris, you have never said anything but the dearest, loveliest things
in the world.”
“But, Justin, I actually asked you to----”
He slipped his arms about her and drew her to him. “Sweetheart, it was
exquisite, beautiful of you to be so amazingly kind to poor obscure
Justin Rees. I can’t tell you how I loved the way you treated him! I
shall never forget, and it was worth being an insignificant driver all
this time, just to have your unselfish goodness poured upon me!” He
spoke in moved tones.
“But it seems so awful--now.”
“Iris, it is just as beautiful now as it was, and I do hope you are not
going to change your way of treating me.”
“Why?” she asked, looking up at him again.
“Because if you are I shall stay plain Justin Rees for the rest of my
life.”
“Would you really?” she inquired, a happy smile parting her red lips.
“Most certainly, now that I have known your delightful ways of dealing
with the poor driver I shall certainly not be satisfied with anything
different.”
“There mustn’t be any difference then.”
“But, sweetest, I haven’t told you, though I daresay you guessed that
I had a cable from my father this morning; it came just before yours.
He told me my brother had died and that he wanted me to come back; that
all was right between us and that I could disclose my identity. He sent
heartiest congratulations on my having won your love, said we could
live at Strathfell Court and that he would allow me £10,000 a year.
He also cabled me quite a fortune, so now,” he added with a humorous
twinkle, “I shall be able to keep you, and I promise not to insist on
your frocks lasting too many seasons!”
“Justin, what a fatal memory you have!” She blushed again.
“Father is evidently very anxious to have us back--he adores you so. I
wrote to him after our night in the garden, explained how we had met
and that we loved each other, and I felt sure when he heard about my
altered life--I wrote before I went away that time, but I have written
since and told him all about that too and he would have had that
letter also before he cabled--that he would allow me to use my own name
in future when he heard you were the girl I loved. He has always had
the deepest affection for you. Even years ago, when you were quite a
child, whenever he came back from London he was full of your praises,
and once I even heard him remark to mother that he wished you would
marry one of his boys some day.”
The girl’s face glowed with pleasure. “Your father was always so good
to me; I just loved him to come and see us--I was always sent for then
and allowed to stay in the drawing-room and talk to him. But, Justin,
wasn’t it strange you and I did not meet in London?”
“Yes, it does seem rather odd. Only you see when I was in London you
were still in the schoolroom, and when I had broken with my father I
did not go back to our own set again.”
There was a short pause. Then Iris said: “Dear, what waste it was your
going away! I knew it would be all right; you should have had more
faith and you could have been here all this precious month instead of
wasting it in town.”
“Yes, I felt it was going to be all right before I went. But I had
another reason for going. You see, if I had stayed here and we had been
together, we could not have kept our engagement a secret: it would have
been impossible!”
“But would it have mattered so--very much if--people had found out?”
“It would.”
“But why--were you ashamed of me?”
Justin laughed heartily. “Try again, darling; that guess of yours
was not even warm! But,” he went on more seriously, “though you were
willing to be openly engaged to poor Rees, I had no intention that the
Hon. Iris Dearn should suffer the indignity of being publicly engaged
to such a social nonentity. So I wanted to delay the announcement
until I heard from my father, for I was certain, after he had read my
letters, even if he did not make everything right between us, that he
would at least permit me to use my own name; and, as I was proving I
could live among temptations, I could go to Sydney or Melbourne and get
something much better to do. But, Iris, aren’t you glad about father’s
changed attitude?”
“Yes, of course, for your sake--very.”
“Not for your own?”
“I should have been quite as happy if you had remained Justin Rees,
and--all my plans could have been carried out.”
“Yes, I know; you have been so sublimely sweet to me, so divinely
generous! But now I shall be able to carry out _my_ nice plans for
_you_. Strathfell Court is such a fine old place in such beautiful
surroundings--just the sort of place you and I could be most ideally
happy in, darling.”
Iris sighed a little. “I shall be happy anywhere you are, dearest.”
“You sighed?” and he lifted her face and looked long and tenderly into
her eyes.
“That was only at the thought of leaving this. We have been so
wonderfully happy here!”
“Yes, but we can be just as wonderfully happy there. And Iris,” his
tones lowered, “can’t you understand the joy it is to me to be able to
offer you a proper home?”
“You dear boy, of course I can; and I shall love to be there with you!
But what about all our plans?”
“They can be carried out just as well in that part of the world; there
are any amount of poor people in the villages and in London; and think
how many there are in our own class who have the same--failing as--I.
We can help them.”
“Yes, we will.”
Justin gazed at her with deep fondness. “Iris, what a lot you have been
doing in my absence. Miss Smith told me before breakfast this morning
how good you have been to poor old Turner--he simply worships you! She
said I would not know his little cabin; it is so nice and cosy, and the
poor old fellow has everything to make him comfortable now! Those are
just the things I have always wanted to do for him, but have not been
able; a driver’s salary is small, and all I could spare went to a poor
widow living right in the bush with twelve children to bring up, so I
have not been able to do much for other people in the district. But you
have sent Turner all I wanted him to have and Miss Green’s father is
surrounded with comforts too--what a treasure you are!” And he kissed
her hand lingeringly.
A rich colour leapt into her cheeks. “I have done so little, and
that little only because of--your influence. But about Turner--as I
told you in my letter, he is so happy; and wasn’t it touching about
the bottle those men brought him, keeping it all the time--a whole
night--_untouched!_ and then giving it to me the next day! He said
it was the first time he had ever been able to pass on a bottle he
had not emptied to the dregs! I don’t think I have ever valued a gift
more--except one.”
“What was that?”
She moved her head close to his. “The flask you gave me the night on
the mountains--untouched: I am treasuring that!”
“Do you mean to say you are keeping it?”
“Of course I am, it is packed away among my treasures.”
He drew a deep breath and folded her closer. “Darling, if a man did not
keep straight with you as his wife--he would deserve the worst torments
in the universe.”
She pressed her cheek against his. “But, Justin, what shall we do about
old Turner? He is so lonely, we can’t possibly leave him behind--he
likes the cold and he was only saying the other day how much he would
like to see the Old Country again.”
“You want to take him Home with us?” he smiled down at her tenderly.
“Yes--couldn’t you find a nice little cottage for him near us where we
could look after him?”
“I will find a dozen if you like. Anybody else you would like to
take--the Greens and the little cripple girl you have been visiting
lately?” He spoke seriously.
“Yes,” she replied equally seriously; “I should like to take them all,
but Mr. Green would never stand the climate, nor would little Janet;
yet we can see they have everything they want before we go, can’t we?
And we must send Miss Smith and her mother for a trip; they have been
so awfully good to us.”
“Yes, we must see to them all before we go. But what about your cousin?
She will be so lonely without you; we must make her come and stay with
us as often and for as long as she likes; she has been so delightfully
kind to me; our home must always be open for her too. And now, Iris,”
he added in a different voice, “I am going to remind you of the promise
you made me before I left--you will fulfil it at once, won’t you?”
The girl picked up the cable and looked down on it. “Mother asked me to
have the--wedding in London,” she said, the drooping lashes hiding the
smile in her eyes.
Justin rose and walked to the doorway, and looked out into the autumn
glory in the garden for a moment; then he turned round and looked
at her sadly as he said, “Iris, how can you ask me to wait all that
time? If we are not married before we go, you will need a chaperon
and I shan’t be able to have you to myself; it will be just awful!
Besides--you promised!”
She went over to him quickly. “You dear, foolish boy, I didn’t ask you
to wait; I was only reminding you of what mother said. Of course I
shall marry you--any time you--wish,” she said with heightened colour.
He clasped her to him. “Any time?” he whispered. “To-morrow?”
“Yes, dearest,” she breathed.
He raised her face and pressed his lips long and closely to hers.
Shimmering golden minutes glided by in the glinting autumn silence.
Love counted them as seconds.
Then Justin lifted his head a little and began to lilt very softly in
his smooth faultless tenor to the girl in his arms--
“I’ve sometimes thought it was your eyes,
Sometimes your voice bade my enchanted heart arise
And make its choice.
I’ve counted over all your ways, my sweet, my mate,
And wondered which the sep’rate grace that holds my fate,
Vain task, I love you, dearest one for all you are,
The charm of Heav’n hangs not upon a single star.”
She trembled in his embrace. “Oh, Justin,” she half sobbed, her arms
stealing about his neck in rapturous abandonment, “your voice simply
tears my heart out--it is all just too beautiful--too heavenly! Do
you really love me like that?” She clung to him while he pressed her
yearningly to him.
“Yes, darling, I love you like that and--infinitely more,” he said;
“but to-morrow and--ever afterwards, I shall be able to show you the
never-ending depths of it.”
She closed her eyes as if blinded, and suddenly leant more heavily
against him.
“To-morrow,” he whispered, “to-morrow----”
* * * * *
From one of the trailing vines over the doorway a yellow leaf fluttered
silently to the ground, and, from a large, copper-tinted oak near the
summer-house, came the soft note of a bird, calling to its mate.
CHAPTER III
THEIR GOAL
The Duchess of Groseville was holding a large reception at her
magnificent house in Queen’s Gate, and all London was there. The
stately, flower-laden rooms were crowded with guests.
Languorous strains of music floated through the air, at times drowned
by laughter and the hum of voices, and at others rising timidly,
tremblingly above them with alluring, haunting sweetness.
By the pillars of an archway stood a middle-aged man with rather
corpulent curves, talking to a retired General. He had commented on
a statue a little distance away, and his companion grunted a rather
unintelligible reply; he was not a lover of Art and knew very little
about it. His taste had developed on quite different lines.
“Fine crowd here to-night,” observed the first speaker, dropping the
subject of sculpture.
The soldier straightened a little. “Yes, very fine indeed; these
London crowds know how to dress--not any real beauties about though.”
He looked round with the fastidious eye of a connoisseur. “I am going
round to the Club presently--I suppose you will be coming along too?”
he added, turning questioningly to his companion.
But the latter was paying little heed to the General; his face had
suddenly lightened and his eyes were fixed on some new arrivals talking
to the hostess in the doorway.
“There are Lord and Lady Lennox--thought they would put in an
appearance to-night,” he said, still watching the group at the door.
The General put on his pince-nez with less deliberation than usual,
and looked in the same direction. “Ah!” he said at last, adjusting the
glasses more perfectly; then he gave another long-drawn “Ah!”
“Can’t say London has no beauties now, eh?”
“By Jove, no! She is ripping--got the right air about her too.” After
a pause he added: “But how in the name of thunder did Lennox come to
marry her? Wasn’t she Dearn’s daughter, the girl all the men went mad
about a year or two ago, but were all turned down? How in the world did
Lennox get her?”
“My dear fellow, surely you read the story--why, the papers were full
of it a couple of months ago.”
“Of course I heard something about it--I never bother about Society
columns though. Now when I come to think of it, didn’t they meet
in a cave in Australia, or was it a coal-mine where there was
no light?--some dark place, I believe; and it was love at first
sight--wasn’t it?”
The other man laughed. “How could they fall in love with each other in
the dark? But they are coming in this direction; I think I shall go and
speak to them.”
Iris and Justin were making their way through the thronged rooms. It
was slow progress, as they were constantly being arrested by people
speaking to them. They stood now by a tall marble pedestal laden with
exquisite roses, a circle of friends around them. Wherever they moved,
they immediately became the centre of interest and conversation.
Iris was looking irresistibly lovely in an exquisite ivory-tinted
gown. The famous Strathfell diamonds flashed from her snowy throat and
glittered among the bright waves of her hair. The superb dignity of her
regal bearing had increased, and there was a new, subtle charm in her
presence--a charm born of a joy which was unearthly in its greatness.
Her large blue eyes shone with bewildering radiance, and the smile
curving her lips was dazzling.
“Lady Lennox is even more lovely now than she was as Iris Dearn!”
exclaimed an Ambassador’s wife in black, with some priceless emeralds
round her rather thin neck; “and isn’t he handsome? I don’t wonder she
fell so desperately in love with him! It was quite a romance--fancy
meeting out there in the wilds, and he was only a driver; but she fell
in love with him all the same, and would have married him long before
she knew he was Lord Lennox. It was real love, there is no doubt about
that! But then he is so delightful; I don’t think any girl could resist
him if he made love to her--he always had that charm about him!”
“But wasn’t there some--reason for his going out there and hiding as
a driver?” inquired her companion, an American woman who had lately
arrived in London Society.
The Ambassador’s wife lifted her thin shoulders with an indulgent
movement. “Nothing serious at all--just a little unmanageable, a little
headstrong, wanted to have his own way--quarrelled with his father
because he wanted to be a singer. But that wonderful wife of his has
tamed him. Did you notice the way he looked at her just then? They are
most delightfully in love still! But he is charming to every one; he is
quite the most popular man in London, though they don’t go into Society
much. Look at the way he is smiling at her now--did you ever see such
teeth and such eyes?”
The American watched Iris and Justin with an ill-suppressed hunger in
her not very large eyes. “Ah,” she thought to herself, “they are the
real thing; only England can produce such types! Lucky woman to have a
handsome man like that--with his charm and delightful, easy grace, his
air of distinction and stamp of breeding--making love to her!” The girl
from New York stifled a sigh. “Don’t they really go into Society much?”
she inquired after a pause.
“No, they spend most of their time in their beautiful home in
Yorkshire. They do a great deal for the poor; people say they know
every man, woman and child personally on their estate; the villagers
simply worship the ground they walk on! They are specially interested
in--well, men with failings; I believe they have had quite a number
staying with them, and have had some wonderful cures. Do you see
that tall, fair man standing next to Lady Lennox, smiling at her now?
That is Lord Westwood; it is only lately he has appeared again; he
used to be quite too impossible--disgraced himself at every function,
till he was--dropped! Now he is quite cured; never drinks at all
since he stayed at Strathfell Court--it is miraculous! Lord Lennox
had a weakness that way once, though you would never think so to look
at him now, would you? But they never allow intoxicants in their
home. That is the Earl of Strathfell standing over there--the tall,
distinguished-looking man with the white hair, talking to the Princess.
The difference in him since his son returned is wonderful! Before that
he shut himself up in Strathfell Castle and wouldn’t go anywhere; but
Justin always was his favourite son, and he simply adores Iris--he is
lucky to have such a daughter-in-law.”
The girl from Fifth Avenue looked at the earl, then her mind returned
to the other information she had just received. “I wonder how they
manage to cure these people,” she reflected thoughtfully.
“You had better ask Lady Lennox herself; I will introduce you if
you like; I am going to speak to her presently before they go--they
never stay late anywhere--and she will tell you herself; I couldn’t
do justice to the subject. It is rather wonderful. They are very
religious, you know--no, not in the ordinary way, just going to church
a lot and all that kind of thing; they have a kind of new religion, or
rather they seem to have gone back to the old one--the kind you read
about in the Bible. But you must hear Lady Lennox explain it herself;
she will do it far better than I.”
* * * * *
It was still early when Lord Lennox helped his wife into their electric
brougham. He tucked the fur rug carefully about her, for the nights
were chilly; and then, with a sigh of content and relief, switched off
the light and leant back in the car. It did not take long to reach
their house in Eaton Square, and, after a few moments, the car stopped
and the footman in blue livery opened the door.
Iris dropped her cloak in the hall and entered the drawing-room. It
was a large, pale blue room strewn with snowy bearskins. She sank
into a deep armchair piled with sea-blue silk cushions, and her eyes
rested dreamily on the autumn leaves and roses decorating the sumptuous
apartment.
But she was not left alone long: the door opened gently and Justin
entered. He glanced at her happily, then made his way to the grand
piano a little distance away from her. His fingers ran over the keys
lightly, haltingly; and, keeping his eyes upon her, he began to sing in
an undertone--
“I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”
Every note caressed her, every tone seemed like a clinging kiss from
his lips. As he sang the old familiar words, lingering tenderly on the
haunting phrases, Iris paled and suddenly caught her breath.
As the last muted words had trembled towards her he rose and held out
his arms.
She came to him, and something soft and misty blinded her eyes as he
clasped her to his breast.
For some minutes they stood together in deep, rapturous silence; then
he lifted her face and their lips met in a long kiss.
He felt the thrill that always passed through her yielding form when
his lips touched hers. “Iris,” he whispered, “you care just--just the
same as when we were first married?”
“Oh, Justin, it is worse now--I mean--I am more helplessly----” she
faltered.
“In love?” he inquired, as he gathered her closer.
“And you?”
“Deeper than the sea,” he murmured; “higher than the stars. These
six months with you have been--Paradise! And, dearest, you are so
wonderful, too, in helping all these people.”
“But you help them just as much; and it is lovely to be able to do it,
isn’t it? And what a good thing we brought old Turner with us! He says
he has never been so happy in his life before!”
“Yes, it was a dear thought of yours. By the way, what are you going to
take him when we go back to-morrow?”
“I thought of getting him a warm coat with a big fur collar; the
weather is getting so cold, and it would keep him comfortable in the
winter.”
He stroked her pink cheek tenderly. “My kind-hearted little sweetheart!”
“You taught me,” she said softly. “Do you know, Justin, I often have
a feeling when I leave Turner’s bright little cottage, and he looks
so cheerful and happy, that his mother is looking down on us from
somewhere, and that her eyes shine like stars because her prayers for
her poor boy are answered at last?”
“I don’t think it is only Turner’s mother who is looking down on you
from Angel-land; I believe my own mother watches you with the same
starry eyes because you saved her poor, sad boy as well,” he said a
little huskily.
She glanced up at him with glowing, splendid eyes. “My beloved Captive
Singer is set free--quite free!” she murmured rapturously.
“Yes, thank God! Once he was entombed in the dark caves, far away from
all sunshine and gladness. But you found him and led him back to life
and--freedom.”
There was a long pause while soul gazed into soul; then a strange look
of pain sprang into the grey eyes.
“Oh, Iris,” he whispered, a half-sob in his tones, “it is all too
amazing--think of it, for _me_ to have you for my very own--it is
miraculous!”
“Not more miraculous than for me to have--you.”
“Yes, Iris, a thousand times more so! Remember what I was--my past, and
even--what I did out there----” He shuddered.
“Justin, I will not have you referring to that subject! You know I----”
She suddenly drew his face down to her own and kissed his cheek in
tenderest sympathy. “My darling boy,” she continued, “you must not
think or grieve over it now; after all, it was this sorrow which made
you realise your need of God and made us both turn to Him for help.
Remember the words you so often sing to me--
“Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee;
_E’en though it be a cross_
That raiseth me;
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!”
“Sing it now!” she said gently.
Once more he sat down at the piano, his fingers striking the chords of
the tune Iris loved best, written by a young Australian composer; then
his rich, mellow voice rang out a little tremulously--
“There let my way appear
Steps unto Heaven,
All that Thou sendest me
In mercy given.
_Angels to beckon me_
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee.”
As he sang the words, “Angels to beckon me,” his eyes looked with a
sudden, wonderful exultation at his wife; and, when the last beautiful
note faded into silence, he lifted one of her hands with deep adoration
to her lips.
“Justin,” she said, a slight quiver at the corners of her scarlet lips,
“Justin!” and her eyes shone with divine splendour.
[Music: Nearer, my God, to Thee.
CECILY EDDY.
Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee!
E’en though it be a cross That raiseth me;
Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee,
nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee.]
“Yes, Sweetheart; so, after all, this was our way to--God.”
It was no longer the Captive Singer that spoke: the Truth that dwells
in Love had made him free!
THE END
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