CHAPTER XXXVI.
"THE WORLD MAY END TO-NIGHT!"
The black boy's horse was restive, and had never carried a lady. There was nothing for it but that Elsie should be placed on Abatos in front of Blake.
The girl's heart throbbed with a secret and guilty joy as he lifted her up and held her close to him, keeping her firm on the saddle. Abatos seemed almost to relish the burden, so springily did he step forth. They had nearly reached the border of the scrub when the accident happened. Before long there was a breath of wind, the trees widened, and presently they were in the open again, at a point somewhat below that of the camp from which they had started for the Falls. The great mountains rose in their solemn grandeur, and the outline of ridge and gully became distinct.
What a night it was, so still but for that faint breeze which made a mysterious murmur in the gum-trees; the stars glittering and the moon showing a pale milky radiance. There were more sounds here; the dingoes were nearer and more distinct in the river-bed, and by the lagoons there was the noise of wild duck swishing the reeds, and of the sweet plaintive cry of the curlew echoed from the swamps. No need now for Jack Nutty's pilotage. Blake touched Abatos with the spur, leaving the black boy with Elsie's lame horse far behind. They had reached a flat, one of those level tracts by the creek bank, and Abatos flew over it as lightly as a bird. Blake held Elsie closer; her head was against his shoulder, her heart beating with his; she could hear his breath come and go quickly.
"Who knows that the world may end to-night?" he whispered. "Let us be happy, Elsie, for once; for the last and only time."
And holding her so, as they sped along he made many strange confidences. He told her of his wild moods of excitement, during which he was scarcely conscious of anything except the overmastering need of some engrossing action; told her of how he had embarked on his reckless career, of the discovery and planning of their hiding-place, of the extraordinary success which had attended the first of the Moonlight escapades, of the manner in which he had procured his armour, and of how he had first worn it in the desert, of the woman who had followed him in the East, of his curious alliance with Trant, unbroken in harmony till Elsie had come between them, of their joint devotion to the cause of Ireland, of the fund to which their unholy gains were mostly devoted, and the secret society to which they owed their allegiance. "Trant has feathered his nest, and so has Sam Shehan, probably," Blake said; "but I have laid by nothing, Elsie, and so far my hands are free from the spending of ill-gotten gold."
It seemed to Elsie like some wonderful tale of romance. He described the fascination of the double life, the piquancy of dramatic contrast between the outlaw and the lawmaker—Blake, the Colonial Secretary; and Blake, the bushranger. He told her of his gallops through the gorges and the labyrinth of scrub in which he had worked off the fever of his blood, of the mad feats of courage; the fights with the gold escort; the dashes back to their mountain hiding-place and return to decorous existence again. "And oddly enough, Elsie," he said, "I don't regret what I did except for you and for one other thing, which may perhaps seem to you an absurd distinction in morals, that is the robbery of Lady Waveryng's diamonds. I suppose that ethically speaking there is not much difference between robbing a gold escort or a bank or even Peter Duncan, the miser millionaire, and stealing the diamonds of a person who can well afford to lose them, and whose family have for generations been the oppressors of Ireland; but it is the truth that I yielded very reluctantly in that business, and that I would give my right hand to be able to return Lady Waveryng her diamonds."
"Cannot that be done?" Elsie asked.
"I am afraid not. Trant took them to Sydney, and put them, or such part as he thought fit, in the hands of our agent there, who would take means to transmit them to their destination. I have no doubt, as I said, that Trant feathered his own nest well. I was too sick and disgusted with the whole affair to care once the thing was done. That's the one act in Moonlight's career which seems somehow a blot on my honour. The gold was earth's bounty, and it is only fair that some of it should go to redress Ireland's wrongs; and Peter Duncan had been notoriously a screw to the Irish settler, and was an avowed hater of the Irish. He deserved to be bled. Slaney deserved it too, but Slaney was true to his word. He had me in his grip and forebore. Oh, Elsie, do you know that I never enjoyed anything more in my life than that walking into the bank with the almost certainty of being arrested. It was a throw of the dice, liberty the stake."
And then he told her of how his love for her had grown and grown; how at first he had begun his flirtation, believing her to be heartless and deserving of no quarter, and how he had gradually become caught in her toils, and had struggled against her influence, at first from mere pride, and later out of love and consideration for her. "Till I knew that you were securely pledged to Frank Hallett, and that night I let myself go," he said. "I had let myself go once before, but I wanted you to believe that that was only to show my mastery."
"And how is it to end?" she said suddenly.
"To end!" he repeated. "Moonlight's race is run. There will never be another Moonlight robbery in Leichardt's Land. Years and years hence the cave will be discovered, and people will wonder who used it. Everything is settled. Trant goes to Europe next mail."
"He wanted to take me with him," said Elsie.
Blake kissed her in a passionate impulse. "Oh! thank Heaven that you were saved from that—though I don't think he would have carried his purpose, my dear; you have too much pluck. You would have got away from him somehow."
"Yes," said Elsie. "I should have got away. I had made up my mind. I resolved that I would appear to yield, and that if the worst came to the worst I would kill myself on my wedding-day. Are you not afraid of him?" she asked suddenly. "Don't think me conceited, but he must have cared for me in a wild, desperate way, to have planned and managed all that scheme of carrying me off. I think he would stop at nothing. He is dangerous and revengeful. He is capable of betraying you, for having foiled his purpose."
"You forget," said Blake, "that in, betraying me he would be betraying himself—not only to the authorities here, but, what is far more terrible, to the society, who would avenge me. No, my darling, don't think any more of that. Trant will go as he had settled. Sam Shehan wants to try ranching in America; and as for the half-castes, they don't count."
"And you?" asked Elsie.
"I have not decided anything yet," he said, "except that my career is ended in Leichardt's Land. I cannot stay here and risk exposure as Moonlight. My purpose is accomplished. I have done my country some service. I shall go now and fight hor it, in another way and another place. And do you think," he added vehemently, "that after this night I could meet you as Frank Hallett's wife?"
She was silent. She knew that she should never be Frank Hallett's wife, but she would not tell him this now.
The first grey faintness of early morning was paling the stars. They were riding along comparatively easy country, skirting the Luya on the road from Baròlin Gorge to the Dell. In a little time they would have reached the crossing. Elsie asked about her sister. Her heart smote her for having forgotten her.
"She is at the Dell," he said. "They buried Lord Horace in the graveyard at Tunimba, and Lady Horace and the Waveryngs went back to the Dell after the funeral. Poor Lady Horace bore her loss with a curious composure. She seemed far more distressed and broken by her uncertainty about you. But she said that she was convinced you were not dead. She had an extraordinary intuition that Trant had you somewhere in hiding, and she had a belief that I should find you. She will not be surprised when she sees us this morning. Tell her the truth, Elsie, if you please. I mean the truth about your abduction, but keep the secret of Moonlight's lair. But if you take my advice, you will let the rest of the world believe that you and Trant got lost in the mountains, and that it was only by chance I discovered you."
"I will let all the world, including Ina, think so," Elsie answered. "My poor Ina ! She will have no heart for such things. Tell me," she went on hesitatingly, "was there any trouble about Mrs. Allanby?"
"Ah! I see that you know of poor Horace's infatuation; it was very patent to other people. I believe there was some sort of scene, but that it was kept from your sister. Lady Waveryng has behaved like an angel and a woman of the world in one. It was extraordinary the way she watched over both Mrs. Allanby and Lady Horace, keeping them apart, and arranging for Mrs. Allanby to be taken to Leichardt's Town without any suspicion. She was like a sister to that unfortunate woman, from whom it might be supposed that she would naturally shrink as if she were poison. But noblesse oblige," he added with a laugh. "Race tells, after all. Lady Waveryng never seemed to think of her own grief, and it is certain that she was devoted to Lord Horace."
"Yes, Lady Waveryng is good," said Elsie. "I am glad that Ina has got her now."
It was strange, now that the novelty of the situation had worn off a little, how quietly and composedly they talked. Blake gave no hope, no hint of union. They might have been parting with a scaffold before one of them, for all the hoping or planning there was in their talk about the future. But notwithstanding the gloom and tragedy which surrounded their lives—the terrible discovery that had come upon her, the utter hopelessness of any happiness before them, this early morning on which she rode clasped in his arms seemed the opening of a new life for Elsie. Her whole being was filled with a curious calm certainty. She knew the worst. She knew his crime, she knew the bar between them. But she knew also that he loved her supremely, she knew that in life or in death she must belong to this man and no other. Her mind was made up, her course was clear.
The east was aglow when they reached the crossing, and the birds had begun to twitter, and the cockatoos to chatter. It was a strange, wonderful world, bathed in dew and suffused with the radiance of sunrise. Blake dismounted. He had reluctantly unfolded his arms from Elsie's form. Their kiss had a great solemnity, as was fitting after this most sad yet sweetest night in the lives of either. Blake settled Elsie on the saddle and walked beside her, holding the rein. Abatos was very quiet, and as if in sympathy rubbed his sleek beautiful head against his master's shoulder. Elsie stooped and kissed the creature's shining mane. "Dear Abatos!" she said. "Do you remember," she added, turning to Blake, "how I once wished that Moonlight might carry me off on Abatos? I have had my wish."
"Not quite," he answered. "I am bringing you home. You don't know the mad longing that seized me last night as we rode together—the longing that it might be to some far-off place, where we should be together to our lives' end."
"Why did you not take me?" she murmured.
"Because I love you, Elsie, too well to sacrifice your life to mine."
"And if I asked you to take me?" she said.
"If you asked me I should say No—I should say, 'Go and marry the man who is more worthy of you than I.'"
"And if I told you that I could never marry that man— never, never; that I should feel it a crime to marry him when my heart and soul belonged to you?"
"Then I would say, 'Go back, Elsie, and wait a year, two years, till you are sure of yourself—till I have made a new life and a new home away from the shadow of old sin, and sorrow, and disgrace.' I should say, 'Give yourself the chance of repenting'".
"And if I gave myself the chance, and if I did not repent, but longed more ardently than now that I might make your happiness as you would make mine, what then?"
"Then I would take you in my arms, and bid you never leave them more."
They crossed the river silently, and he led her to the house. No one was stirring. He lifted her down at the log steps of the verandah. A kangaroo hound barked, and presently a sleepy. Islander came slouching out of the back premises. Blake took Elsie's hand.
"I will leave you now and ride back to Baròlin. I am to be there for a week, making final arrangements. If you wish to communicate with me, that address would find me at once. But we part, Elsie, for ever."
"Do we part?" she cried, with a wild, half tearful laugh. "I will write to you. We shall see."
"Good-bye," he said, afraid of her weakness, tearing himself away lest his presence should influence her against what was best for her future; "Good-bye, my dear love. God bless and keep you."
He mounted Abatos and rode away.
Elsie went straight to Ina's room. Ina was wide awake. It had not occurred to Elsie that her unexpected appearance might give her sister a shock which might be hurtful. Ina gazed at her at first as though she were a ghost. Poor Ina had the look of one who had become used lately to seeing ghosts. She said not one word, did not utter a cry.
"Ina," said Elsie, going to the bed and taking the young widow in her arms. "Oh, my poor Ina! my darling Ina! I have come back again. I am quite safe. I have come back to be with you in your trouble."
"I knew that you were not dead," Ina said, in an odd dulled voice. "I knew that God would not be so cruel as to take you from me. I knew that you would have come to me if you had been dead. Horace has come to me often. We have talked together. He has told me—we have forgiven each other every thing."
"Oh!" my dearest Ina, he had nothing to forgive you."
"You don't know. Oh! wasn't it sad about poor Horace?" Ina went on quite calmly. "Mr. Blake has told you, I suppose, Elsie, all that has happened."
"Yes, I know all that happened. My heart ached for you, Ina."
"But it was much best that God should have taken him," Ina went on. "Horace feels that now. It was such a bright, joyous life, Elsie—that's what makes it seem so hard, and he cared so for the things of life—poor Horace! But God will remember all that, and we don't know what the other life is like, dear. I think it must be like this one, only without the sin. Horace was taken away just in time to save him from sin. I told her that. I told her I was glad; and I think she understood. Poor woman, I was sorry for her. It was harder for her than for me."
Elsie listened in silent wonder. It seemed a relief to Ina to go on.
"Yes, it was much best so. It wasn't her fault, and it wasn't his. If I had loved him he might have cared for me. That was the wrong, from the beginning. He had a loving nature, poor Horace. People cannot help caring for one person more than for another, Elsie. They ought not to be judged hardly. The sin is in marrying one person when you love another. You may think you will get over it, but you never do, you never do. It is always a canker in the heart."
And now Elsie knew what Ina had done for her. She had vaguely suspected it as a possibility, but she had not allowed herself to think of it as a fact.
"Elsie," Ina said suddenly, "I have learned a good deal while I have been sitting quiet here since Horace died. I have been wrong, wrong from the beginning. There is no use ever in trying to go against nature and one's heart. I was wrong in helping to persuade you to marry Frank. You don't love him; you love Mr. Blake. And Mr. Blake loves you. I saw that very well when he talked to me after you were lost. I knew that he would find you. Love always finds the way to the one that is dearest. Elsie, don't marry Frank if you love Mr. Blake. Only harm will come of it. And God may not be merciful and take him away, as he took Horace. But I ought not to tell you now. You won't understand." And the poor thing burst for the first time into hysterical sobbing.
"Yes, I do understand," Elsie said, taking Ina in her arms and soothing her like a child. "I understand everything, Ina. I made up my mind last night, dear, last night, when we rode together, and it was all so sad and solemn; don't ask me about it. I can never speak of it as it really was to anybody in the world. But I knew that he loved me, and I knew that I would rather die than be any other man's wife. I have been a vain, thoughtless girl all my life, and I never knew what love meant, the sacredness and the wonder and mystery of it, and how it is the one thing in the world that comes next to God and heaven. But I know now, and I know what you feel—that it is a crime, when we know, to marry without love. I don't love Frank; he is no more than a brother to me. And I do love Morres Blake with all my soul. We shall never marry, perhaps. I don't know, not for a long time, if ever; but if I do not marry him, I will die without having been the wife of any other man. I am going to tell Frank that, Ina, as soon as I can see him."
"He is here," said Ina. "He came very late last night. He was worn out. He had been searching for you through the scrub and the gorges. I told him that Mr. Blake had gone to look for you, and it seemed to relieve him. He had a feeling like me, that Mr. Blake would find you. But oh! Elsie, I never noticed before how pale you are—how different. My dear have you been wandering all this time—did you have food to eat? How did you lose yourself? Where is Mr. Trant?"
"He—he had an accident," Elsie said. "Shehan is with him. Don't ask me about him, Ina; try and keep them from asking too many questions. Some day I will tell you all about it, but not now. You're not fit for it, nor am I. The very thought of it makes me shudder."
"Did he lose you on purpose, then?" said Iua. "I hated that man. He wanted to marry you, Elsie. He loved you in a wrong way. Where were you all this time?"
"We were in a cave in the mountains. I was quite safe. We lost ourselves. Mr. Trant did not behave badly on the whole, Ina. It wasn't his fault, perhaps. Oh, is nothing anybody's fault?" she cried, and became hysterical with fatigue and excitement.
Lady Waveryng came in just at the right time, and forbore, at Ina's request, to worry Elsie with questions, but, like the tender practical lady she was, took Elsie to her room, and a bath and hot coffee, and Miss Briggs' ministrations, and then when she had seen that Elsie was all right, and had said a few reassuring words about Ina, and spoken with tears of Horace and her own love and regret for him, and intention that Ina should henceforth take his place in her heart, Lady Waveryng went to tell her lord the good news of Elsie's return, and to see that Frank Hallett was likewise informed.
Lady Waveryng was the stay of everybody in those days, shrewd, practical, dignified, and full of womanly sympathy, which she continued to manifest in the course of that miserable episode of Mrs. Allanby. Later on, when the way was smoothed for her return to social life, Mrs. Allanby had cause to bless "Em" Waveryng.