The soft, mild months of the southern spring were now heralding the less romantic season of the Australian summer. The sun god was daily strengthening his power, without as yet the fierce noonday glare or burning heat. Chiefly precious to them were the moonlight walks by the river side when the shadows of the great willows which fringed the river bank fell over the hurrying tide, when star sheen or moonrays glinted through the close foliage or sparkled diamond bright on the rippling bars. There was a winding path a few feet from the bank, accurately marked by the cattle and horses, which roved unchecked through the great meadows.
Here the lovers were at liberty to indulge in fullest confidences. He told her that he had loved her from the very first moment that his eyes fell upon her, when, not knowing that any other than Mrs. Bruce was in the house he had been almost unconventional in the surprise of the meeting and his instant admiration. “That moment sealed our destiny,” he said, “or rather, would have left me a lifelong regret had I never set eyes on you again. And what was your feeling, Imogen?” looking suddenly into her eyes, which, lit up by a fairy moonray, seemed to his eager gaze to glow with unearthly radiance. So, in old days did the fabled Oread enthrall the heart of the doomed shepherd or woodsman, luring him to follow into her enchanted bower, which he was fated never again to discover, wasting life wandering through the forest aisles, wearing out health, youth and passion, in the ever-fleeting, illusory pursuit.
“I think,” she answered softly, as her eyes fell before his ardent gaze, “that I must have been similarly affected, why, I cannot tell, but the fact remains that if you had never returned—and we had not much time for love-making, had we, between that day and your return to the ‘Lady Julia’ claim, and the fascinating society of Mr. Little-River-Jack?—I should have ‘fallen into a sadness, then into a fast, thence into a weakness,’ and so on. As it was, I was very melancholy and low for a while, and between that and influenza, very nearly ‘went out,’ as my maid, Josephine Macintyre, phrased it. Then, when I was coming round, and reaching the stage of ‘the common air, the sea, the skies, to “her” are opening Paradise,’ and would have written to you, we heard that you had become a millionaire or a ‘silver king’ in Tasmania. It was foolish, I know, but I thought it might look as if I wanted to recall you because of your wealth—a vulgar idea, but still one that works for good or evil in this silly life of ours. But now, all will be forgiven, ‘if this should meet the eye,’ &c., as the advertisements say. You will forgive me, and I will forgive you, and there will never be any more doubts or despair, will there?”
That Mr. Blount made a short but impressive reply to this query may be taken for granted. The river marge, the sighing, trailing willows, the rippling murmuring stream, the friendly moon, all these were conditions eminently favourable to “love’s young dream.” Nor did they fail in this instance to ratify the solemn, irrevocable vow, often lightly, rashly, falsely sworn, but in this instance repeated with all the passion of ardent manhood, responded to with the heart’s best and truest affection, the sacred, intensely glowing flame of the maiden’s love, imperishable, immortal.
“You told me, the last time we met,” she whispered, “that some day I should know why you came here to lead an aimless, wandering life. I always thought there was some mystery about it. Will you tell me now? It is lovely and mild, there could not be a better time. How clearly you can hear the ripple in the shallows. Was there a woman in it?”
“Of course there was, but mind, it all happened seven years ago. So if what I say may be used against me on my trial, I shall be dumb.”
“I’ve copied out depositions now and then, for Edward,” replied the girl, archly. “Having heard the evidence, do you wish to say anything? comes next. So I’ll promise not to take advantage of your voluntary confession, if you make a clean breast of it, once for all. I have no fear of the dear, dead women, whoever they were.”
“You need not,” said Blount, as he drew her more closely to him, “not if Helen of Troy were of the company.”
On their return to the verandah, where they found Mrs. Bruce still occupied with the needlework, which took up (so she said), fortunately, so much of her time, Imogen pleaded fatigue and retired, leaving the field free to her sister and the guest, who thereupon commenced a long, and apparently serious conversation.
Mr. Blount spoke more unreservedly of his private affairs than he had hitherto thought it expedient to do. Independently of his share in the Great Comstock Company, for which he had already been offered a hundred thousand pounds—he had a handsome allowance from his father—as also, thinking it might be needed, a letter of credit upon the Imperial Bank for five thousand pounds.