CHAPTER I
The sun sank like a bird into its nest. A pink flush spread upwards and melted in the deep blue; the dappled clouds caught the warm glow and spread themselves out to bask in the lingering rays. Soon a rosy red, deepening every moment, shot higher and higher, then suddenly began to pale and shrink, until the sun had drawn every bit of colour after him and said "good night."
It was a quiet, peaceful spot. Hills all around—east, west, north, and south. A mountain, in a sheet of ghostly white, stood afar off. A valley filled the foreground with grey mist, creeping down. A burnt-sienna track wound about "One Tree" hill like a snake, and led to Borombyee homestead, which could be seen on the banks of a little creek.
The soft footfall of a horse was heard behind some boulders. A merry snatch of song floated on the still air. A horse and its rider came round a bend of the track. They were on their way to Borombyee. The rider was Alec Keryle of Glengo Station.
Alec was in love, as any one could see at this moment. The mask was off. When not alone the visor was down. There are times when a face can be read like a poster on a hoarding. At other times it is a blank wall. He gazed long and fondly at the homestead: a light streamed from the dining-room window. "There sits my darling Elsie!" he said, as he patted his horse's neck.
He was a laggard in love, and had never told her that he loved her. He had shown her that he cared for her when they had once or twice been alone, and he thought she cared for him—that was all the length he had got on the "primrose path"; but he had screwed his courage up to-night, and was going to tell her that he loved her and would ask her to be his.
He was a shapely young fellow, and sat his horse to perfection. He had a long, straight nose, firm mouth, solid chin, black eyes and hair, and an olive complexion. He was about six feet in height, and carried all his inches without a stoop.
Elsie McLean was the elder daughter of Donald McLean of Borombyee Station. Her father was a dark, gloomy Scotchman, with never a ray of sunshine in his nature. She was fair, with golden hair, blue, dancing eyes, a rosebud mouth wreathed in smiles, a Grecian nose, and with a dimple in each cheek. She was born under Australian skies; he among Scotia's grey, frowning mountains.
They had been coloured by their surroundings. Her mother was dead, and she had one sister, named Maggie, aged fourteen.
Meanwhile, during this digression, Alec was guiding his horse down the gravelly track. His eyes were still on the homestead, but they ranged from point to point when the dining-room window became hidden from view. As he turned into the main road which ran up the valley, he saw a light streaming from the kitchen door and a thin column of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney. When he opened the home-paddock gate a light in Elsie's room caught his attention, and he threw a kiss in its direction. Just then her ears began to tingle and grow red, for some one was surely thinking of her. Shutting the gate, he went off at a quick canter, and did not draw rein until he clattered across the sapling bridge, which spanned a small dry water-course within fifty yards of the house. Four or five dogs rushed out, barking furious defiance, until Alec said, "Down, Rover," to the leader, who began to caper and wheel with his tail in the air in a whirl-wind of welcome; and the younger dogs followed suit when they were assured, on the best of authority, that the new-comer was a friend, and not a stranger to be barked at, and bitten if need be, or at least sworn at as a trespasser. They accompanied the horse to the stable door, and when Alec alighted Rover jumped up and put his nose under an outstretched hand which patted the rough head. Then the other dogs made themselves acquainted with Alec's trousers, so that they might know him again, anywhere and everywhere.
A man came out of the shadows.
"Good evenin', sor," said the groom, or man-of-all-work, whose duty it was to attend to the stable, milk the cows, chop wood, and do such odd jobs as were required.
"Good evening, Pat; all well here?" said Alec.
"All well! Glory be to God, masther Keryle, an' Miss Elsie bloomin' an' gay, an' wishin' to see somebody I don't mane to name for the wurld."
"Now, Pat, none of your blarney!" said Alec, as he slipped half a crown into the man's hand. Pat took the reins, and led the horse into the stable, where a munching of teeth soon followed.
Alec went round to the front of the house, turned the button of the little gate at the end of the verandah, and knocked. The McLeans were at dinner. Maggie jumped from her seat, and opened the door.
"How do you do, Mr. Keryle?" she said, taking his two hands, and pulling him into the room, which opened on the verandah. Her father rose solemnly, with the expression of a mute at a funeral. He squeezed Alec's hand with a warm grip. That was his one sign of welcome. He had not a word for it in his dictionary, or he could not find it at a moment's notice, so he left it unsaid and sat down.
Just then Aggie, the housemaid, whispered to Elsie that Mr. Bond, who was a neighbour, had just ridden up and was coming in.
Meanwhile, Maggie, who had been sitting next to Elsie, hurriedly shifted her plate, and motioned to Alec to take her place. He, nothing loth, did as he was told, and sat down.
Elsie was not pleased with Maggie, and she thought Alec was too presuming. He had no business to sit down beside her at the invitation of a mere girl. He took it for granted that he had a right to sit by her, and she resented it. Besides, what would Mr. Bond think? She would teach Alec a lesson. Her smiles vanished, as sunshine before a thundercloud. She retired within herself, and answered him in monosyllables. He did not know where the machinery had gone wrong, but he saw there was something out of gear. A knock was heard, and the housemaid opened the door. She looked over her shoulder, and said, "Mr. Bond."
McLean rose as before, dumb as usual, but he gripped Bond with two hands, and held him as in a vice. This was his warm welcome, for Bond was a great favourite, and the eldest son of an old friend.
Aggie, out of pure mischief, placed a knife and fork for him on the other side of Elsie, and he sat down. She shook hands, and entered into an animated conversation at once. Alec's spirits fell to zero as Elsie's rose. Her face flushed, and she seemed brimming over with pleasure.
"Confound Bond!" thought Alec; "what business has he to come here interfering with me? I'll give him a piece of my mind on the first opportunity."
Maggie came to the rescue, and talked to Alec. She saw that the team did not pull together, and were kicking over the traces. This was her way of putting the case. She knew a good deal about horses, and thought they had much in common with men and women. Her own pony always shied at a particular tree on the track to the woolshed, but when grazing in the paddock she would often be found rubbing herself against its rough bark. Elsie was shying off from Alec, whom she liked, and giving all her attention to Mr. Bond, whom she did not like one bit. Maggie would coax the pair into better behaviour, and see if they could not pull together.
Aggie, on her way to and from the kitchen, could be seen stuffing the corner of her apron into her mouth, and swallowing a burst of laughter which was just about to break out.
"When did you leave home, Alec?" said Maggie.
"About four o'clock."
"A.m., or p.m.?"
Alec made no reply. He was listening to what Elsie was saying to Bond. Jealousy was rioting in his heart, and he had no ears but for the woman he loved.
"Morning or afternoon?" persisted Maggie.
Alec turned a perplexed face to her, and said, "It's night, of course."
"Oh, I know that," she said, in a low voice, "and very dark and gloomy."
The sarcasm did not hit the mark. He confined his attention, apparently, to his plate; but his ears were lent to his right-hand neighbours, whose conversation never flagged. They rattled on at a good pace over the familiar tracks of station topics.
By-and-by dinner was over. The room in which they were seated was dining-room and drawing-room combined. The McLeans had primitive ways, and money was scarce, so the old house had not been added to. Everything was plain and simple. McLean would not allow anything to be changed. The whole place reminded him of his wife, and he would not alter or add to the house.
The front door was thrown open; the family and the two visitors trooped out on the verandah. Elsie sat on a short seat, and Bond placed himself beside her. There was only room for two. Alec had not bargained for this. He had thought that Elsie would relent, and, when they were out of the glare of the lamps, return to her old manner with him. He could not imagine what had offended her; but evidently something had started up between them—some misunderstanding on her part, some rumour; some busybody's poisonous tone; something he had unwittingly said or done. Just now it was plain he was not wanted. He was out of the running. He wasn't in the swim. He was out of his reckoning, and among the breakers. He thought all the billows were going over him.
McLean retired to a corner of the verandah, and spun his own troubles out of himself, and wound them about him in solitary companion-lessness.
Maggie put her arm into Alec's, and drew him to the end of the verandah, and pointed to the Pleiades, which were shining with their ghost-like light.
"Father was reading to us yesterday in the Bible where Job said, 'Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades?' and I asked Elsie to show them to me last night. Are they seven sisters, do you think? Elsie says they are. I wonder whether they are happy. We are only two sisters, and I am not happy."
"Neither am I," said Alec.
"Elsie is not happy either. She does not like Mr. Bond one little bit."
"She seems happy enough. Canst thou bind the sweet influences of a laugh? They are sweet to one and bitter to another. I can't bear to hear her laughing like that with Charlie Bond. He and I are not very good friends. I have a good mind to saddle my horse and ride home in the starlight."
"Oh, do not do that!" said Maggie in alarm. "Elsie would be sorry. I am sure she would. I won't let you go. I'll hold you tight. You are angry, and you will require to be answered out of the whirlwind, like Job."
Alec shook his head. He was calming down under the spell of wise little Maggie. No, he would not saddle his horse and ride away just yet. That would be too much of a telltale. Elsie would understand, and gloat over his trouble. Bond would triumph, and take his scalp. He looked upon himself as wiped out, and not fit to cumber the ground any longer. He would go away somewhere, anywhere, and make no sign. He would henceforth be dead to Elsie, but not buried. He would get over it. He would not let any one dance over his grave, or jeer at his tombstone.
The morbid thoughts that flit through the brain of the slighted lover are amazing and wonderful. The figments and pigments are all wrong. It is a mad world! and love is akin to madness.
There was a little bedroom at the end of the verandah, which the local clergyman occupied when on his visits to Borombyee. It was called the "prophet's chamber"; partly for this reason, and partly because Elsie pencilled the name on the door after hearing her father read in the Bible about the woman of Shunem, who asked her husband to make a little chamber on the wall for the prophet Elisha.
When the clergyman was not at Borombyee Alec always had the "prophet's chamber."
He could not stay on the verandah any longer, so he cudgelled his brains for an excuse to get away. He would go to bed; that was the best place for him.
"I have a dreadful toothache, Maggie," he said. "Please make my excuses to your father and Elsie. I can hardly speak. I shall come to prayers when the bell rings, if I am better; but do not expect me."
"I am so sorry," said Maggie; "and I hope you will soon get better."
"Good night, Maggie," he whispered.
"Good night, Alec."
He went into the "prophet's chamber," and shut the door.