CHAPTER VI.
THE COMING OF THE PRINCE.
Elsie seemed a little depressed for a week after Frank Hallett's visit. She felt that she had committed herself. To be sure she consoled herself with the reflection that she had the fullest right to throw him over if her Prince came. But suppose that no Prince came, and that she had reached no further pitch of romantic ardour than she had at present attained.
"I liked him better six months ago," she said to herself. "I was almost in love with him. I think I was quite in love with him one day when he seemed to like Ina better than he liked me. How horribly selfish, and mean, and small to be jealous! And jealous of one's own sister!"
Lady Horace was a little depressed too, if indeed anyone so equable could be depressed. Elsie accounted for it by the fact that Lord Horace had been aggravating. Lord Horace had occasionally fits of spleen and regret that he had ever left England—fits which were generally brought about by a perusal of his bank-book, and which usually ended in a grumble over dinner, and a reactionary burst of effusion to his wife.
He was away just now, helping Frank Hallett in his electioneering business, and the sisters were alone. They were sitting out in the verandah together one evening. Ina was in a squatter's chair, and Elsie sat on the edge of the verandah, and leaned her head against Ina's knees.
"Ina," she said suddenly, "I wish I wasn't such a wretch."
"What makes you say that, El?"
"I don't know. Frank Hallett, I suppose. It's perfectly horrid of me to want to keep him dangling in a string. Why don't I marry him straight away?"
"Oh, why not?"
"I don't know. That's just it. I like him. He is the only man I have ever been able to imagine kissing me without a shudder."
"Elsie!"
"Well, it always comes to that in time. There was a moment when I was almost in love with him."
"Almost!"
"How tragically you say that! There was a moment when it came over me that I had snubbed him too severely and that he had deserted me for you; and I believe I threw myself on the bed and cried out of grief and mortification."
"I saw you," said Ina, "and I knew from that moment that you cared for Frank Hallett, and that you ought to marry him."
"Did you really see me, Ina? And you never said a word. That was awfully like you. You'd never let me suspect that you knew how abominably petty I had been. It was all vanity."
"No, no, Elsie, don't say that."
"It's true. I've been like that all my life, and I'm ashamed of it. I hate myself sometimes. I can't bear a man who has admired me to take up with anyone else—even my own sister. I'm a mean creature."
"You know you are not. I've seen you take the greatest pains to dress up girls in your own finery, so that they might have as good a chance of getting partners as you. You have dressed me up in the same way. You have exulted in my little conquests. You know you have, Elsie. And if you were jealous for a moment it was because you cared. Do you think I'm not certain of that?"
"Ina, you are trembling. What's the matter?"
"I can't bear to hear you cry yourself down."
"I shouldn't have been so horrid, Ina, if you had cared. It's a mercy you didn't, for I might have had a little trouble in getting up to such a height of heroic abnegation. Frank Hallett wouldn't suit you, Ina, He is too solid and steady, and for two angels to marry is a waste of regenerating material. No, Ina dear, you are clearly intended for a sinner."
The girls laughed, both a little sadly. Elsie went on, "Do you know, Ina, I think it's a pity we weren't taught to earn our own living. I think it's a pity in a kind of way that we are pretty. If we had been ugly there wouldn't have been so much bother about this marrying business. As it is, there's been nothing else for us to do. You are married, and it is all right, or at any rate I hope it is all right for you, but here am I, twenty, too poor—and in three or four years' time I shall be losing my good looks and there'll be nothing for me to fall back upon. Now if we had been governesses, or even plain needlewomen, there would not have been any necessity for falling in love."
"Elsie!"
"Oh, yes, it is a very disagreeable necessity. The only thing more disagreeable would be to marry without it. It is so difficult to fall in love. I have been trying for all these years, and I haven't succeeded yet."
"Not even with Frank Hallett?"
"Not even with Frank Hallett, and yet he has everything for one to fall in love with—good looks, though I don't care for those in a man, nice manners, brains—of a sort—money—you couldn't wish for anything more satisfactory. And I think I could be happy with him."
"Elsie," said Ina with an inflexion almost of passion in her voice, "don't be a spoiled child; caring only for a thing when you can't get it—not valuing what is yours. Don't let it all have been of no use: his love for you; my—my prayers for your happiness with him."
"You are right, Ina; I've been a spoiled child. Mammie has spoiled me, you have spoiled me, though I'm older than you, my poor Ina; and it is I who ought to have spoiled you. It's that which makes me the heartless freakish thing that I am. And yet—and yet there's always the feeling that the Prince might come."
"The Prince? Do you mean the Prince that is coming this winter? And what use will that be to you? You don't think you can marry him?" Ina alluded to the visit of a certain sprig of royalty, which was expected to take place that year. "You don't think you are like Beatrix Esmond, do you?"
"Yes, I do think I am very like Beatrix Esmond. As for my Prince—well, I should be pleased if he wore a periwig and Court ruffles and carried a sword like Colonel Henry Esmond, but that is out of the question, I suppose, in this nineteenth century Australia, and there are not many Colonel Esmonds in history—or out of it."
"I think Frank Hallett would do quite as fine things as Colonel Henry Esmond."
"Perhaps. But do you know, between ourselves, I always thought Colonel Esmond was ever such a little bit of a prig. Ina, I have told Frank Hallett that if the Prince does not come along within a year's time I will marry him."
"And you are going to flirt with everybody that comes along, with the idea that he may turn out to be your Prince?"
"I think I should know my Prince, without trying experiments. As for flirting, I suppose a poor girl may be allowed to make the most of the last opportunity she will ever have. I sha'n't be able to flirt after I am married, you know."
"I think you would flirt in your grave. You were flirting the other night with that horrid Mr. Trant."
"I am not sure that he is horrid. I think that under some circumstances he might be rather interesting."
"At any rate he is horrid for having sneaked so about the election."
"They say all is fair in love and war. The two must be hard at it now. I wonder that Frank Hallett hasn't written."
"I wonder that Horace hasn't written," said Ina uneasily. "I don't see how you can expect Mr. Hallett to write when you never answered his letter."
"Look here," said Elsie, "I don't think Horace is quite fit to be trusted by himself. He'll go flirting with the barmaids—you know Horace is a horrid flirt."
"Let us go over to Goondi to see about getting some things," said Lady Horace, "but I don't think that would be a good time. We must have a new colonial oven before the Waveryngs come. Oh! Elsie, what shall I do with them?"
Lady Horace took life placidly as a rule, but she was just now seriously discomposed by the news which had arrived by the last mail, that Lord and Lady Waveryng were about to make the tour of the world, and proposed to include the Australian Colonies in their programme.
Elsie laughed. "Never mind. Take them camping out. Let Horace look after them."
"If only the new house were built."
"Well, I expect you'll find that Horace has anticipated Lord Waveryng's remittance, in shouting champagne to the diggers, and there'll be nothing left to pay for the imported bull, let alone the new house. You'd better make up your mind to go to Goondi."
It was nearly a fortnight after Mr. Slaney's death and the sticking up of the coach by Moonlight. The excitement over Moonlight's escapade had paled before that of the election. The police had patrolled the district, and had explored as far as they were able the fastnesses of the Upper Luya. But the Upper Luya was not easily explored. Every trace of Moonlight seemed to have disappeared, and the police returned to headquarters to await the next full moon and be on the lookout for another outrage.
The Tunimba festivities had been postponed in view of the election. They had now been fixed for a date after the polling day, and would, it was supposed, inaugurate the entrance of Frank Hallett into public life. In the meantime young Hallett, accompanied by his supporters, harangued the district and started a reputation for making telling speeches. Lord Horace also made speeches of a somewhat humorous description, and exposed his friend to the risk of being unseated on a charge of bribery, from the lavish manner in which he regaled the electors and distributed champagne. If, however, Hallett and his friends were energetic, Blake of Baròlin and his partner, Dominic Trant, were more energetic still. Elsie read the accounts of Mr. Blake's meetings in the papers and she read his speeches, and contrasted them with those of her lover, not altogether to Frank Hallett's advantage. She began to think that it was perhaps as well she had not been brought into personal relations with the opposing candidate, since she might have found it more difficult to canvass with enthusiasm for Hallett among the Luya selectors. And yet she longed to see Blake. Everything she read about him appealed to her imagination. He was almost a stranger on the Luya, but this was perhaps better for him, since he had come daringly into the country, bold, picturesque, as it seemed irresistible; and had taken it by storm. It was said that he would run Frank Hallett hard, though no one among the squatters doubted that Frank Hallett would win. Blake appealed to the masses. He had the Irish gift of eloquence. He had that terrible Irish passion, and he had the pluck of the typical Irishman, and a certain dash of poetry and pathos and romance that is typical also of Ireland. There was about him, too, a dash of mystery. No one knew quite what he did, where he came from, and where he got the money which he scattered so freely. The women adored him, and women have a powerful voice at election times. He was something of the preux chevalier, though he represented the Radical interest. All this Elsie gleaned from the glowing descriptions in the Goondi Chronicle, which was on his side, and the sneering remarks of the Luya Times, which was on theirs. It was very easy to read between the lines. Frank Hallett was safe, steady, eminently estimable, but he was not picturesque. The other was picturesque, and that was enough to make Elsie wildly anxious to see him. But probably he was not safe, steady, nor eminently estimable. She had her wish on that very day when she had suggested to Ina that they should go to Goondi. She had gone down to the crossing—her own favourite crossing—the place where she had met Hallett. Perhaps she had a lingering fancy that Hallett might ride that way and she would hear some news—something to enliven the deadly dullness of the life at the Humpey. Elsie was getting very tired of life at the Humpey, and was beginning to sigh for her Leichardt's Town parties, and the bank clerks, and young gentlemen in the Government offices, who out of the Parliamentary season made up the roll of her admirers. She had taken her book with her, for, unlike Ina, Elsie was fond of reading. It was a book which Hallett had brought her—a book she had often heard of and had never yet read. The book was a translation—Goethe's Elective Affinities.
There was a nook of the creek, set back from Lord Horace's bridge, and out of sight of any passer-by who might cross the bridge. A gnarled ti-tree jutted into the stream—a little tree peninsula. It had great twisted roots covered with ferns, with pale tufts of the scentless mauve violet. The branches of the ti-tree bent down and dipped their red bottle-brush blossoms into the stream, which just here was dark and rather deep, and swirled in tiny eddies round the twigs and bowed roots. There was just room for one person to sit on the islet. The back of the tree and the twisted roots made a famous arm-chair. A log spanned the stream above the islet, and was used by foot-passengers. Elsie had crossed upon it. Lower down, the creek ran shallower over a bed of stones and rock crystals, and made a pleasant brawling. There was an intense dreaminess in the air, and there was no other sound but the chirping of grass-hoppers, the occasional caw of a cockatoo, or cry of a bird in the scrub close by, and the footsteps of cattle or horses coming down to drink. Elsie was reading the scene in which Edward and Ottilie first discover their love. She put the book down and leaned back against the tree, her cheeks flushed, and a tender smile was upon her lips. She had often read about love, but none that she read of seemed to her so real as this! Should she ever know such love? Was it so rare? Was it possible that in this manner Frank Hallett loved her? Why then was it that she felt no returning throb? Elsie wondered vaguely with some dim faint realization of the greatest of life's mysteries. But it was quite true that she had never loved. People had loved her, but she had never taken much account of what they felt and suffered. It occurred to her now that, perhaps, they had suffered a good deal, and that, perhaps, she might have been kinder.
"I have never taken life seriously enough," Elsie said to herself. "I have never taken love seriously either." And then she laughed softly, as the thought flashed across her how impossible it would be to take some of those bank clerks from the serious standpoint. Life and love had only been a game to Elsie. And yet in the background of her consciousness there had always been a tremendous ideal—so Elsie herself would have phrased it—an image which was sacred, an image of a prince. Only a prince. The Prince had not ridden through the enchanted forest where the princess slept.
There was a sound of horse's feet now, a more definite tramp than that of the stray animal making for water. A traveller. Could it be Hallett? Elsie would not move. From where she sat she could not see him as he crossed the bridge; but she would see him when he mounted the bank, and if it were Hallett, she would give him a "Coo-ée" and surprise him. The tramp came nearer. Another odd fancy came into Elsie's mind. She remembered Hallett's rather contemptuous remark when she had described the ideal lover."A Jane Eyre-ish ideal." The tramp on the hard ground made her think of the metallic clatter of Rochester's horse rising above the murmuring of rills and whisperings of the wintry afternoon. There was no similitude between this dreamy southern afternoon and the grim frost-bound landscape of the book, but the fancy was in her mind. And there was a dog—another Gytrash—a human-looking shaggy creature with intelligent eyes and a huge mask-like head. She could see the dog as it bounded up the bank and turned back to bark. She knew the dog quite well. It was the big collie that belonged to one of the Tunimba stockmen. Of course the rider was Frank. She coo-éed. The horse was pulled back and turned on the threshold of the bridge. A mettlesome animal. She could hear it snort and quiver. Pioneer was like that. This was Pioneer's colour. She had caught a glimpse of a black hind quarter. Elsie bent forward and coo-éed again, at the same time she plucked an verhanging bottle-brush blossom of the ti-tree and flung it at the rider.
The missile did not hit its mark, but she was wholly unprepared for the effect of her heedless action. There was a plunge, a kick, a rear forward, and the horse and rider darted past, the creature swerving blindly up the bank, cannoning against a she-oak and then dashing under the low branch of a white cedar. The rider stooped to save himself, but too late. A projecting boss of the tree caught his shoulder and almost dragged him from his seat. He was a good horseman, and a man of nerve, and gripping the bridle checked the horse and dismounted. He staggered a little and put his hand to his shoulder. The coat had been torn, and he was evidently severely bruised. The pain of the blow made him turn for a moment quite white. What struck Elsie in the midst of her consternation was that he never uttered a sound.
She herself had given a cry of alarm and self-reproach. She had seen as the horse rushed past that it was not Pioneer, and that its rider* was not Frank Hallett. This was a much more spirited and highly-bred animal. The thing was all quivering now, its nostrils distended, and the whites of the eyes gleaming. The stranger patted it with his left hand—it was the right arm that had been hurt. "Whoa, old man! Quiet, old boy!" he said, and turned and saw Elsie.
She had left her islet and was standing—an image of dismay. "Oh, I am so sorry ! I hope you are not hurt."
The stranger took off his hat. He raised his right arm to do so, and winced with pain.
"Oh, you are hurt. Please let me see. I can't tell you how sorry I am." He came down to the little plateau where she stood, leading the horse, which though still restive followed him.
Elsie saw the torn coat. She went close to him and touched his shoulder.
"It's nothing," said the stranger—"only a knock. It doesn't hurt at all—at least nothing to speak of."
"It hurts horribly; I can see that, and it is my fault. I hadn't the faintest notion—I thought you were Frank Hallett."
The stranger laughed. "No, I am certainly not Mr. Frank Hallett, I am Blake of Baròlin."
Elsie did not laugh. It seemed to her that she had known from the first moment that this was Blake of Baròlin.
He was picturesque. Oh yes, there was no doubt of that. She could imagine him swaying a crowd. There was something kingly about him. He was tall, and straight, and powerful. He had eyes like the eyes of an eagle, they were so piercing and so steadfast. And there was a Napoleonic suggestion about his firm mouth and chin—a certain combined sweetness and dignity and resolution—a fire and force in the expression of his features and the carriage of his head. Very handsome. But a great deal more than handsome.
"I can feel that it is swelling," she said in deep distress, taking away her hand. "It ought to be bathed and seen to at once, or you will be horribly bruised. I don't know what to do. Shall I run up to the house and send the black boy for your horse? You can't lead it like that. It hurts you every time it tugs. Give me the bridle. What's its name?"
"His name—oh," he paused and laughed rather oddly though—"he's called Osman. No, you couldn't hold him. He's a young horse, and there's something up with him today. I was off guard or he wouldn't have shied at you like that. I can't think what startled him."
"It was I. I threw some of these things at him," she twitched off a ti-flower. "I threw it at you—at you—at least I threw it"—she laughed nervously, "at Mr. Frank Hallett."
"I am sorry for your sake that I am not Mr. Frank Hallett."
"You needn't be sorry. Will he stand?" Blake had strapped his horse round a sapling.
"Yes, I'll just wait a minute or two, if you don't mind, till the twinge has gone off. Then I'll get on to Baròlin."
"Oh, won't you come up to the house and have it seen to? My sister will be pleased."
"Your sister?"
"Lady Horace Gage. I am Miss Valliant, I am staying with her."
"Yes, I heard that." Mr. Blake made her a bow. "I beg your pardon for having frightened you."
"Oh, it isn't—I mean it was all my fault. Please come up to the Humpey!"
"I don't think I ought to do that. You see Lord Horace and I have been doing nothing but hurl abuse at each other for the last week or so, and I'm on a canvassing expedition to the Upper Luya."
"Do you think you are going to beat Frank Hallett?" asked Elsie.
"I hope so. Yes, I think I shall beat him. If I do I suppose you will hate me?"
"I don't know why you should say that. Mr. Hallett is not my brother or—or any other relation."
"But you wish him to get in?"
"Yes—I wish him to get in."
"Because he is a friend, or because you are in sympathy with his politics?"
"Oh, his politics! I don't know anything about politics. I don't care in the least whether the squatters get their Land Bill, or whether the agriculturists get things their way. It doesn't matter."
"Don't you think it matters that the squatters monopolize a great deal of land to which they have no right, and of which poor people ought to have a share?"
"There is plenty of room in Australia," said Elsie.
"Yes, there is plenty of room, and all the more reason for legislators to see that justice is done. I mean to go against your Squatters' Land Bill, Miss Valliant. I mean to fight Mr. Hallett on all his points tooth and nail. I am fighting him now. We are enemies in open field, and you and yours are on his side of the battle."
"Oh, we are sisters of mercy—Ina and I," said Elsie, laughing. "In common charity one may bind up one's enemy's wounds."
"I think my wounds will keep till I get to Baròlin," he said, laughing, too. "They are not very serious: I will not put your and Lady Horace's loyalty to so severe a test. I am glad you call yourself a sister of mercy, and that you take up so disinterested a position—perhaps I ought rather to say so womanlike a position."
"Why womanlike?"
"You confess that it is for the sake of friendship, not from political conviction that you are on Mr. Hallett's side."
Elsie laughed. He went on, "Well, at any rate, though naturally Mr. Hallett has your best wishes, I may hope that you will not owe me any serious grudge if I am returned." He looked down at Elsie with a half smile. Where was all her self-confidence gone?
To anyone else she would have made a jesting reply into which she would certainly have infused a spice of coquetry. Their eyes met. Hers dropped and she flushed slightly. He thought her wonderingly pretty.
"No," she said weakly.
"Thank you. I'm very glad of that. I'm afraid we shall not have the chance of seeing much of you in the Luya, but if I do get in, we shall meet at the Leichardt's Town balls, perhaps."
"Don't you mean ever to come to the Luya? Do you always leave everything to Mr. Trant?"
"Oh, no. I do come to the Luya occasionally—I have been up here several times."
"We haven't heard of you coming."
"No, I suppose you haven't heard of my coming. But then you have such big excitements on the Luya that it is not surprising."
"You mean Moonlight?"
"Ah ! He seems to be an excitement. What do you think of Moonlight, Miss Valliant?"
"I admire him. I would give anything to have been in the coach when he stuck it up."
"Shouldn't you have been afraid?"
"No. Why? I have no money to be robbed of—not even a watch. And Moonlight only robs misers and the gold escort. I suppose he thinks he has a right to the spoils of the earth. And," she added, "that's your principle, Mr. Blake."
"It's the principle of the oppressed. And so you sympathize with Moonlight?"
"I should like to see him," said Elsie dreamily. "Do you know that I told Mr. Hallett, the day after the robbery, that I wished Moonlight would carry me off to his lair."
"You wished to be carried to Moonlight's lair. Well, more unlikely things have happened. I can quite imagine that if Moonlight, as they call him, heard you say that, he might be inclined to act upon your suggestion. What did Mr. Hallett say?"
"I should have to be ransomed, you know—some of the squatters here would try and buy me back."
"I haven't the least doubt of that. The district would rise in search of you, and they would probably be more successful than Captain Macpherson and his men seem to have been. And—well so much the worse for Moonlight. Goodbye, Miss Valliant."
"You are going?"
"Yes." He unbuckled his horse's bridle. "It will be late before I get to Baròlin, especially if I stop at the cedar-cutters' on the way."
"Ah, we have been beforehand with you. They have promised us their vote."
"So you have been canvassing for Mr. Hallett? He is very fortunate. I wish I had been the lucky candidate who secured your partisanship." He raised his hat again. Elsie held out her hand.
"Is your shoulder very painful?"
"A little: but it is not worth thinking about. I am glad of the accident since it has given me the opportunity of making your acquaintance. I have wished for a long time to meet you."
"Why?"
"I will tell you some time, when I know you better. It is rather a long story, and it might be disagreeable to you to hear it."
"I don't understand." She looked at him wonderingly.
"No? never mind. It will keep. You are leaving your book behind you." He picked the volume up and handed it to her, glancing at the title as he did so.
"The Elective Affinities! Do you believe in that theory?"
"No. I can't tell. I have had so little experience"
"I should have thought that you had had a considerable experience."
"You mean"—she stopped and blushed.
"Well," he said, "I mean that you must have tested some of the laws of human chemistry, and are at least in a position to judge what kind of qualities you yourself are most likely to attract."
"Oh, no," she exclaimed with child-like candour which amused him. "I can't judge in the least. They are all so unlike."
"They must at any rate have one common quality."
"That of being commonplace," she said.
He laughed and slipped the bridle over his left arm. "Come, Osman. Good-bye, Miss Valliant."