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