After passing the Bo Peep the road ran out into treeless open country, slightly undulating. There were a few trickling rock-strewn creeks to cross, and Harry rushed Click through them like a man riding for his life. Half an hour’s gallop brought the vehicle in sight, and ten minutes later he came abreast of the buggy and brought his foaming horse to a trot. “Stop!” he cried; and Summers, much amazed, pulled up his pair.
Harry threw himself from the saddle, leaving the horse his freedom, and, going to the buggy, seized Chris by the hand and drew her down towards him.
“Chris, I want to speak to you. You must, you must!”
He helped her from the vehicle. His attitude was stern and masterful, and Chris yielded with a sense of awe. Summers regarded the pair for a moment with pursed lips and bent brows; then a grim smile dawned about his mouth, and he touched his horses with the whip and drove slowly away down the road.
Harry and Chris stood upon the plain facing each other, the girl’s hands clasped firmly in those of the man. Harry was dressed just as he had come from the mine; her neat black frock was marked with the grey dust from his clothes. He was flushed; his eyes had more of power than of love in them. She still strove, but felt his strength greater than hers, and her heart beat painfully. She whispered a pitiful protest when he drew her to his breast and clasped her closely in his irresistible arms.
“I won’t let you go, my dear love—I swear I won’t!” he whispered vehemently.
“You must. Oh, why do you make my task so hard?”
“I won’t let you go from me, Chris.”
She looked into his glowing eyes, and struggled a little, murmuring incoherently.
“Never, Chris, never!” he continued. “You love me! Look into my face an’ deny it if you can. You can’t!” he cried, with a flush of triumph.
“I have never denied it, Harry; but I must go. ’Tis because I love you—”
He laughed suddenly with the elation of a conqueror, and stopped her mouth with kisses.
“You love me, an’ you’d leave me. Why? Tell me why, my darling, my dear love!”
She threw back her head and gazed into his eyes. “I will tell you,” she said. “I would leave you because I am the daughter of Ephraim Shine, the man whose memory is hated everywhere; the man whose crimes you and yours can never forget; the man who sent your innocent brother to prison, who whitened your mother’s hair with grief, who left you to die in the waters of the mine—who was a triple thief and a hypocrite. He was my father and I loved him. I cannot do anything else but love him now, but you must hate and loathe him. Think of me as your wife—me, the thief’s daughter, whispered about, pointed at. Think, as I have done, of that possible time when you might love me less because of him and the wrong he did you, when you might be ashamed to be seen with me. People don’t forget crimes like his, Harry; they talk of them to their children. Think of your mother and your brother. Think, think—oh, Harry, think, for my strength is gone.”
He only clasped her closely and kissed her cheek.
“Think of your mother,” she continued. “Harry, I would die to serve her. I would rather die than bring shame or grief into her life.”
“I love you! I love you!” he said.
“Think, think of the people pointing at us, whispering about my disgrace.”
“No, dear, you think. Think of me without you—cursed, ruined, without a care for anything on earth. Chris, there’s not for me one ray of sunlight, not one smile in the world without you.”
Her forehead was bent upon his shoulder. He felt her strength leaving her, and continued with low vehement words:
“Dear, you love me, an’ you think it’s your duty to leave me. I tell you there’s no man on God’s earth here’d be so desolate. I’d rather be dead than lose you. To lose you is the only sorrow I can imagine. I care more for one smile of yours, one touch of your dear fingers, than for anything else in all the world. If you hate me an’ want to ruin my life, you’ll go. Chris, if you love me, can’t you see what the loss of you would mean? I tried to think of it last night an’ couldn’t, it was too terrible. I was like a child facing a great black cavern peopled with devils.”
His words, his earnestness, brought her new light; she had not realised the depth of his love, she had thought that the blow might be heavy at first, but that he would soon learn to forget. She understood him better now; his love was like her own, and she knew that to be imperishable. She no longer struggled, but clung to him with trembling fingers.
“I did not think you loved me like that, dear,” she said softly.
“I worship you! And you, my wife, my sweet wife?”
She slid her arms about his neck and drew his face to hers.
They stood in the centre of an open plain above which the yellow sun hung gleaming like a ball of gold; there was silence everywhere: Harry’s horse stood still with his nose to the ground, at a distance Summers’ buggy dipped slowly down into the bend of an old watercourse, and far off in the dim simmering background there was a hazy suggestion of trees. The solitude was complete.
“Then you won’t go, Chris?” he said.
“Yes,” she answered, smiling into his face, “but not for ever.”
He drew her closer at the suggestion.
“But why must you go? Why should we part?”
“Please, please, dear, for a time. I—I want to be away for a little while, till I can bear it better—you know what I mean. Ah!” she cried with sudden warmth, “I thought was going to be strong and brave and bear it all alone; but I was only a girl, not a heroine—my heart was crying out against it by day and night.”
“We’ll be very happy, Chris, in spite of those silly terrors. ’Twas Mrs. Haddon sent me after you.”
“I’m glad. Oh, I’m glad!”
He gathered her to his heart, and kissed her again and again.
“Chris,” he said, “you’re not quite fair to the people of Waddy; not a man or woman of them thinks a mean thought of you.”
“But I cannot bear to face them. Let me go for a time, and I will come back.”
“An’ be my wife?”
“Yes, if you still want me.”
“If! You’ll write often.”
“Every day if you wish it, dear.”
“Every day then. Good-bye, my darling. I’ll let you go, but not for long. If you don’t come to me soon, I will come to you.”
The parting was long and loving, and then Harry recalled Jock Summers with a loud cooey. After Chris had been helped into the buggy the old man glanced sharply at Harry.
“Well, Maister Highwayman?” he said.
“She has promised to be my wife, sir,” said Harry.
Summers looked into the girl’s brimming eyes, and his face softened.
“I’m right glad,” he said simply.
Harry rode by the trap as far as the town; then there was another parting, and he returned to Waddy like a man in a dream. That evening he told his mother that Christina Shine had promised to be his wife. Her answer surprised him.
“She is a brave, beautiful, genuine woman, and I would not have it different.”
“She said you were the best woman in the world, mother, and I believe she was right.”
“No, no, Henry; I will be content now to have you think me the second best,” said his mother, smiling.
Chris, who was staying with a relation of Summers’ in Melbourne, wrote to say their parting should be for six months; but it did not last more than half that time, and meanwhile two or three matters of interest had happened in Waddy. There had been several crushings from the Native Youth, and the yields justified the highest expectations; Frank Hardy and Mrs. Haddon had been married, and Joel Ham had departed from Waddy under interesting circumstances. One evening when reading the Mercury in the bar at the Drovers’ Arms, Ham looked up from his paper and addressed several members of the School Committee who were present:
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ll have to get you to fill my position within a fortnight.”
“What,” cried Peterson, “throwin’ up your billet?”
“I’m wanted in England,” said the master, tapping the paper.
There was a roar at this, which Joel treated with sublime indifference, but curiosity prompted Peterson to examine the paper closely when the teacher had set it aside, and he found the following advertisement:
| “If this should meet the eye of Joel Hamlyn, second brother of Sir Just Hamlyn, of Darnstable, he is hereby informed of the death of his brother and of his succession to the title and estates. Any information respecting the above Joel Hamlyn will be thankfully received.” |
Then followed a description of Joel Hamlyn that was decidedly applicable to Joel Ham, and the address of a firm of Melbourne solicitors.
The schoolmaster said nothing to satisfy the curiosity of his committee, but was more communicative in the presence of Frank Hardy.
“I am Sir Joel Hamlyn now,” he said, grinning down at his white moleskins and broken boots. “Just and I hated each other like brothers. He was eminently respectable, I was eminently otherwise. We parted with mutual satisfaction, but he had two boys when I left England, both of whom have since died, or there would have been no anxious and respectful inquiries for my disreputable self.”
“Well, I congratulate you,” said Frank. “It will be an agreeable change.”
“I do not know,” said Sir Joel; “I have got drunk on beer here, I shall get drunk on champagne there That’s all the difference.”
Later, when parting with Frank for good, he said:
“I have a long journey before me, and I have got to make up my mind in that time in what useful capacity I shall figure in Darnstable teetotal circles, whether as a shining light or a shocking example—whether, in short, it is better to live respectable or die drunk.”
The people of Waddy never heard what Sir Joel’s conclusion was, but they had an emphatic opinion about his end; which conclusion, however reasonable it may have been in the light of past events, let us hope was the wrong one.
Harry wrote to Chris before twelve weeks had passed: “I can stand this parting no longer. I am coming to you.” Chris answering him said, “Come,” and he went; and when he returned to Waddy Chris accompanied him. They were married very quietly at Yarraman a few months later, and Dick Haddon was the only absentee amongst their immediate friends who have figured in this story. When Harry and Chris were restored to happiness, his interest in them lost its keen edge, but he was considerate enough to send an apology to the bridegroom.
“Dear Harry,” he wrote, “I’m sorry I can’t come and be best man at your wedding, but there is to be a great race to-day—my grey billy, Butts, against Jacker Mack’s black billy, Boxer, for two pocket-knives and a joey ’possum, owners up—and of course I couldn’t get away.—Your mate, Dick.”