The Crooked Stick Or Pollies's Probation Part 20

'Mother,' said the girl, as they sat together on the verandah in the waning summer-time, when a south wind speeding from the coast had unexpectedly cooled the air, 'I won't say that I was never so happy before; but I don't think I ever was so fully occupied. There is, no doubt, a sense of relief and satisfaction to be gained when one does what one can; I never thought I should feel like this again.'

'Let us have faith and patience, my darling,' said the mother, looking into her child's eyes with the measureless fondness of earlier days, 'and happiness will still come to us. Only persevere in the duties that lie nearest to you. In His own good time G.o.d will reward and bless you.

After all, there are many good things in this life yet remaining.'

It was the late autumn when Harold Atherstone returned from his far, wild journeyings. A long-practised and trained bushman 'to the manner born,' he was familiar with all the exigencies of the wildest woodcraft.

But from his appearance this expedition had been no child's play. Tanned and swart, almost to Indian darkness, both mother and daughter gazed at him in astonishment. He had been down with fever and ague, and was haggard and worn of aspect. He had even had a brush with the blacks, he said, on one of the far out-stations, and had managed to drop in for a spear wound. He was becoming quite a scarred veteran, he averred.

However, save for a cicatrix to mark the trifling occurrence, he was unharmed. Altogether, though he had enjoyed the chances and adventures of his pioneer life, he was very glad to find himself within hail of Corindah again.

'And we are so glad to have our old Harold back, I can tell you,' said Mrs. Devereux. 'We missed him dreadfully all the summer, didn't we, Pollie? To be ill, and weak, and lonely at the same time, is hard to bear.'

Pollie made an inaudible reply to her mother's query, but as her eyes rested upon the bronzed, athletic frame, and met the frank gaze of the Australian, it may be that a comparison, not wholly to his disadvantage, pa.s.sed through her mind.

'It is the first time when there was trouble at Corindah that I have been absent, I think,' he said gently. 'You must manage to have me more available in future.'

'What reason is there for your risking your life in that terrible Never Never country?' said Mrs. Devereux. 'It is not as if you needed to make any more money, or had no one to care for you.'

'One must do something with one's life,' he said simply. 'I don't know that it greatly mattered if that Myall's spear _had_ gone through me, as it did through poor Williamson. I had got very tired of an easy life at Maroobil. I needed a strong change, and I got it, I must say.'

'It's positively wicked to talk in that way,' said his hostess.

'However, now you have come back, your friends must take care of you and keep you among them. You look dreadfully thin; but I suppose you're not ill, are you?' And then the kind creature looked at him with the same anxiety in her face that he remembered so well when he was a boy, over whose accidents and offences she had always mourned maternally.

'If it comes to that, it seems to me that no one looks very pink,' he returned playfully. 'Pollie's not what she used to be. You look as if you had gone through another night attack. And Bertram Devereux has gone home? What has happened? I feel abroad.'

'You are going to stay to-night, and your old room is ready for you, of course,' Mrs. Devereux answered. 'Do not allude to it when Pollie comes down. (This young lady had retired temporarily to her room.) I will tell you all about it after tea.'

Harold Atherstone looked searchingly at her, but held his peace. In a minute afterwards Pollie appeared, looking, in spite of her illness, so delicately lovely and overpowering, after his long sojourn in the desert, that all doubts and conjectures were put to flight or lost in the regained pleasure of seeing her smile of welcome and hearing the well-remembered tones of her voice.

It was a happy evening. Apart from 'love and love's sharp woe' there _is_ such a thing as friends.h.i.+p, pure and unalloyed, between people of differing s.e.xes. The sentiment of these friends was deep and sincere--founded upon sympathy, congenial tasks, and the long experience of mutual truth, loyalty, and affection. They were honestly glad to see each other again. Love temporarily divides friends, and, as it were, elbows out all other claimants. But as its fervour declines, the purer flame burns with a deeper glow. As the years advance, the fires of pa.s.sion wax dim; the altar reared to friends.h.i.+p regains its votaries; while the more ornate and ephemeral edifice is too often deserted, empty, and ungarnished.

Thus, at their pleasant evening meal, all was mirthful interchange of news and adventures since last the little party had met. Harold's favourite wine of the remembered brand was brought out as of old; then Pollie was persuaded to sing some of her oldest songs, while Mrs.

Devereux and their guest talked confidentially in the verandah. It seemed as if the happy old Corindah days had come again, when no malign influence intervened; when, in Mrs. Devereux's eyes, all things were peacefully tending towards the cherished aspiration of her life.

Finally, when the parting hour--later than usual--arrived, each secretly confessed to a sensation so nearly akin to the joy long since departed from their lives, that not only wonder but even a _soupcon_ of hope was commingled with its formation.

Harold Atherstone had been placed fully in possession of facts by Mrs.

Devereux, as they sat on the verandah in the hushed southern night, while Pollie's sweet voice trilled nightingale-like through the odorous breath of the rose and the orange bloom. He heard how she had been deceived, wounded in her tenderest feelings, and was now deserted and left desolate. When he thought of her lying wearily on a bed of sickness, wan and wasted, heart-sore and despairing, he could not repress a malediction upon the head of the man who had received such unstinted kindness at the hands of the speaker, and had thus repaid it.

When the tale was finished he took her hand and pressed it silently.

'The poor child has suffered deeply,' he said; 'but matters are best as they are. Who knows but that deeper, more irrevocable misery might have been her lot had she not been warned in time? I mourn over the change in her, but she is returning to her old ways, and the memory of her sorrow will become yet more faint. Her youth and pride, with the resources at her command, will enable her to divest herself of all trace of what was one of the inevitable mistakes of youth.'

'You think then that she acted rightly in refusing to see him again?'

'Unquestionably; no other course was possible. I never thought him worthy of her. But he was her choice, and as a man of honour I could not disparage him, even had I any other grounds than those of mere taste and prejudice, which I had not. The event has proved that my instinctive distrust was correct. I need not tell you how I rejoice that she is again free and unfettered.'

He said no more. The summer had pa.s.sed. The nights became longer, colder. The calm, peaceful, autumnal season, which in this south land brings no fall of the leaf, commenced to herald the mild but well-marked winter of the plains. It was the Indian summer of their old, peaceful Corindah life. They rode, and walked, and drove together, the three friends, much as in the old days before the advent of the disturbing stranger from beyond the sea. Then Harold Atherstone had been the favourite companion of the girl, the trusted friend and counsellor of the elder woman. The _bon vieux temps_ had returned. Once more the heavens were bright, and the storm-cloud had disappeared with the tempest which had so nearly wrecked the frail bark of a woman's happiness.

And yet both were changed. The girl, mild and pensive, was almost humble in mien. All her wilfulness and obstinacy had departed. A deeper, more reasoning spirit of advance and inquiry seemed to possess her, to mould her every action and thought. He, on the other hand, had acquired broader views of life, and had seriously modified many of his earlier opinions.

But their parting was near. Harold received a telegram, without warning or notice, which necessitated instant action. His presence was again required at the far North, where everything was going on as badly as could be imagined. The chief manager lay dying of fever, the blacks were troublesome, and becoming emboldened, had commenced to scatter off the cattle. To mend matters, a drought of unprecedented severity had set in.

'If Mr. Atherstone did not go out,' the telegram stated, 'the whole enterprise might be wrecked, and ruinous loss accrue to shareholders.'

At first he rebelled, swore stoutly, indeed, that he would not go. He would let things take their course. He was happy where he was, and there was no reason why he should risk his life and tempt again the dangers of the Waste. However, cooler reflection decided him to take the field as a duty to his comrades in the enterprise, as well as to the shareholders, who had risked their money perhaps on the guarantee of his known judgment and reputation for management.

He made his preparations quickly, as was his wont, bade farewell to Corindah and its inmates, and set off on the long, hazardous journey.

Somehow Corindah seemed more lonely than ever. He had been very kind and thoughtful as a brother, but no word of warmer admiration had pa.s.sed his lips. Pollie pursued her tasks and occupations with accustomed regularity, but was more unequal in her spirits than ever. One day her mother surprised her in tears. A letter had been received from Harold, and the tone of it had aroused her from habitual indifferentism.

'Why is he always so studiously cool and brotherly?' she said, with something of her old impetuosity. 'Does he think that I am likely to misconstrue his feelings? That he requires to keep a guard over his expressions? But I know how it is. He has met some one else in that far country. He spoke of some English families settled there. I have lost his love, which once was so truly mine. I despised it then. Now I am rightly punished by contempt and desertion.'

Mrs. Devereux gained from this little speech a fresh and accurate insight into the state of her daughter's heart. It went to confirm the suspicion which she had lately entertained that the recent companions.h.i.+p of Harold Atherstone, the daily experience of his strong, true character, had not been without its effect. He had come most opportunely to cheer their loneliness. His manner had somewhat altered, too, of late, they had remarked; had become more gay and carelessly mirthful, more easy and conventional. His travels and adventures had supplied him with a larger field of observation, had added to his conversational powers, or else he had exerted himself exceptionally for their entertainment.

His sense of humour seemed to have developed, and withal there were occasional touches of tenderness and deep feeling which, always latent, had been rarely exhibited. Both women confessed that they had never done justice to the versatile force of his character; never had they dreamed he could exert fascination in addition to his power of compelling respect.

And now he was gone thousands of miles away--the true friend, the gallant gentleman, the loyal lover--to brave the risks of the Waste, perhaps die there, as had done many a brave man before him; perhaps to be attracted by some newer, fresher face, never to return to his old allegiance. The thought was bitter. No wonder that Pollie's tears flowed fast.

Harold Atherstone had exhibited his habitual self-control in quitting Corindah for a long absence without making sign or giving expression to his feelings. He had carefully considered the situation, had come to certain conclusions, had decided upon his course of action. His feelings were unchanged with respect to Pollie. It had been hard to bear, almost unendurably torturing, to know that she preferred another; to witness her bright glances and hear her tender tones directed towards one whom in his heart he deemed unworthy of her. In his chivalric generosity he felt this to be the crowning bitterness of the whole. Unable to bear it longer, he elected to join this dangerous enterprise, reckless of life and health, hoping only for 'surcease of sorrow' in peril and privation.

But on his return he found that the enchanted portal had been opened, the captive princess liberated. The glamour had fallen from her eyes.

The magic fetters had been unloosed. He could picture the scorn and indignation with which she had renounced Bertram Devereux for ever. From his lifelong knowledge of her character he believed that she had freed herself from the memory of his treason as from something foul and revolting; that it had fallen from her pure soul as earth from a golden robe; that she had returned instinctively to the simple loyalty and freedom of her youth. From his experience of life and woman's nature he foresaw that she would turn to him as to one of the lost ideals of her girlhood, if only he were not precipitate and premature. These were not the faults with which men charged Harold Atherstone. So he returned silent and self-contained to the far North.

His unswerving courage and iron will stood him in good stead in this supreme hazard.

When Harold returned from the far country, his friends at Corindah were unaffectedly glad to see him. Pollie especially was so radiant in renewed health and beauty that he felt irresistibly impelled to ask the momentous question.

He chose an appropriate time and place--one of the star-bright, cloudless nights which in the southern hemisphere so glorify the majestic solitude of nature. Low-toned and musical was the whispering breeze which, stealing over the 'lone Chorasmian waste,' stirred the slumbering lemon sprays and murmured to the love-fraught roses as they walked by the margin of the lakelet, all silver-bright in the wondrous transparent atmosphere. It seemed as though, after the rude experiences of his desert life, he had re-entered paradise. He was so delighted to return, so charmed with the warm welcome accorded to him, that he would never more return to the wilderness. He would indeed promise and guarantee to do so, but on one condition only. Need we say what that was, or that the concession was made?

'Are you sure that you think me worthy of your love, after all my folly?' murmured she. 'But I have suffered--you will know how much. I have repented, and, dearest Harold, I will try to be the woman you would have me to be.'

'There has been but one woman in the world for me,' he said, clasping her to his heart. 'She is mine now for ever; life holds no other prize henceforth that I will stretch out my hand to seize.'

What more remains to tell? Pollie's probation was ended. Her wayward, errant woman's heart, 'with feelings and fancies like birds on the wing,' had found rest, relief, and safety on the manly breast of Harold Atherstone. Henceforth there was no fear, uncertainty or anxiety. She felt a wavering dread at times lest he, requiring so much love (as she had gauged his temperament), would find her nature unequal to the demand. But, as generally happens in similar cases, this proved to be a groundless apprehension.

As for Mrs. Devereux, she was prepared to sing '_Nunc dimittis._' Her cherished hope had been realised. Maroobil and Corindah in conjunction would make a princely property, no matter how many there might be to inherit it. In every relation of life Harold was a tower of strength.

Now she had a son whom she had loved since the days of his fearless childhood. Now was she proud, happy, thankful. Providence _did_ sometimes settle affairs of mortals aright. She had only to thank G.o.d humbly on her bended knees that night, to pray with tears and sobs for her darling's happiness, believing in her inmost heart that it was now a.s.sured and lasting.

And she was happy--perfectly, utterly, completely, if there be such a thing in this world below. They lived for the greater part of the year at Maroobil or Corindah, choosing by preference the quiet home life, where they had full enjoyment of each other's society, varied only by the ordinary demands upon their hospitality, which they were careful to recognise fully as of old. Maroobil was voted to be the pleasantest visiting-place in the West, and Mrs. Harold Atherstone the most perfect hostess.

'What a fortunate thing that you were able to sell out of that horrid Queensland country so advantageously!' said Mrs. Atherstone a month after their marriage, when, resting under the shadows of Mount Wellington, they absorbed rather than admired the charms of the varied Tasmanian landscape. 'I shall never forget my fears on your account during that last journey.'

'I take great credit for not committing myself before I started,' he said. 'It grieved me sore, but I held out. I was mortally afraid, too, that you might have another proposal in my absence. I suppose you hadn't?'

'Well, not quite a proposal, only from Mr.----.'

'Why, you insatiable woman, you don't mean to say that? Tell me this moment who it was. Why didn't I know before?'

'Don't look so fierce, and I'll confess everything. It is not much. But Mr. Courtenay, the Rev. Cyril, _did_ call while you were away.'

'Confound him! The smooth-faced humbug!' growled Harold, twirling his moustache. 'However, "Better men than he," etc. Well, go on, Circe----'

'None of your heathen innuendoes, or I stop. But really, love, the poor fellow said he had been left a competence by an uncle, and that as he could not now be accused of mercenary feelings, he wished me to know, etc.; we should be able to do so much good with his means and those Providence had gifted me with. Of course I explained gently that it could not be. I felt quite clever, I a.s.sure you. I had only to alter what I said to Mr. MacCallum a very little. It would have served you right, sir, if I had taken him after your leaving me in that way.'