Frank rode back to the hut. The mother and daughter had stood at the door watching him flog the Parson. He was in their eyes a hero; he had scourged their savage enemy, and had driven him to the rocks. They were weeping beauties--at least the daughter was a beauty in Frank's eyes--but now they wiped away their tears, smoothed their hair, and thanked their gallant knight over and over again. Two at a time they repeated their story, how they saw the blackfellow coming, how they bolted the door, and how he battered it with his club, threatening to kill them if they did not open it.
Frank had never before been so much praised and flattered, at least not since his mother weaned him; but he pretended not to care. He said:
"Tut, tut, it's not worth mentioning. Say no more about it. I would of course have done as much for anybody."
Of course he could not leave the ladies again to the mercy of the Parson, so he waited until the shepherd returned with his flock.
Then Frank rode away with a new sensation, a something as near akin to love as a rough stockman could be expected to feel.
Neddy, the shepherd, asked Mr. Calvert for the loan of arms, and he taught his wife and daughter the use of old Tower muskets. He said, "If ever that Parson comes to the hut again, put a couple of bullets through him."
After that Frank called at the hut nearly every day, enquiring if the Parson had been seen anywhere abroad.
"No," said Cecily, "we haven't seen him any more;" and she smiled so sweetly, and lowered her eyes, and spoke low, with a bewitching Tasmanian accent.
Frank was in the mud, and sinking daily deeper and deeper. At last he resolved to turn farmer and leave the run, so he rented the land adjoining Philip's garden and the forty-acre. There was on it a four-roomed, weather-board house and outbuildings, quite a bush palace. Farming was then profitable. Frank ploughed a large paddock and sowed it with wheat and oats. Then while the grain was ripening he resolved to ask Cecily a very important question. One Sunday he rode to the hut with a spare horse and side saddle. Both horses were well groomed, the side saddle was new, the bits, buckles, and stirrup-irons were like burnished silver. Cecily could ride well even without a saddle, but had never owned one. She yielded to temptation, but with becoming coyness and modesty. Frank put one hand on his knee, holding the bridle with the other; then Cicely raised one of her little feet, was lifted lightly on to the saddle, and the happy pair cantered gaily over the plain to their future home.
Frank showed his bride-elect the land and the crops, the cows and the horses, the garden and the house. Cecily looked at everything, but said next to nothing. "She is shy," Frank thought, "and I must treat her gently." But the opportunity must not be thrown away, and on their way over the plains Frank told his tale of love. I don't know precisely what he said or how he said it, not having been present, but he did not hook his fish that day, and he took home with him the bait, the horse, and the empty side-saddle. But he persevered with his suit, and before the wheat was ripe, Cecily consented to be his bride.