Chapter XIII. 'Have you Nothing to say to me Before You Go?'

With all her virtues, Mrs. Retlam had one grave fault. She was inveterately addicted to early rising. I consider it the one flaw in an otherwise blemishless character; but she and many other people refuse altogether to view it in that light. It has teen a standing subject of dispute between Mrs. Retlaw and two or three of her friends for many years; but she still adheres to her habit and they to theirs, and in point of radiant health she has the advantage of them unmistakably.

'Look at me!' she says triumphantly, and they look at her and admire, and that is all they can do.

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Philiberta was not averse to early rising; her habit of life in the bush had used her to it; so every fine morning, and indeed often on mornings that were not fine, these two would go out together for long rambles over the hills before breakfast. I maintain that it was a villainous practice, but they did it, and it agreed with them. Mr. Retlaw generally stayed in bed until they returned, and that agreed with him.

The morning after Edgar Paget's advent was a grand bright exhilarating one; and the two ladies came downstairs at almost the same moment, both looking exceedingly fresh and cheerful. William—the inestimable William, about whose virtues as steward, manager, butler, and generally right-hand man in the house of the Retlaws, one could write whole columns and yet fail to do the subject justice—William awaited them in the dining-room with a cup of hot coffee ready for each.

'Where is Mr. Paget?' inquired Mrs. Retlaw, looking round. 'He said he would get up if the weather were fine.'

'So he did, ma'am; he's in the little parlour now.'

At that moment he entered the dining-room, suppressing a very positive yawn as he caught sight of the ladies.

'Fie!' exclaimed Mrs. Retlaw, pointing her finger at him derisively. 'I thought you said you liked early rising

'Did I say so, Mrs. Retlaw? Then it must have been after that last whisky brew of Harry's, I think.'

'And do you recant now, then?'

'Well, if you will run me so close—yes, I recant.'

'Then off you go back to bed. We will not be disgraced with you.'

'Come now, that is hard. After I've got through all the worst of it too, the cold water and the dressing, etc. Please let me go.'

'But you ought to delight in early rising.'

'So I do; on a happy incidental occasion like this. At home on the station I have to do it, and manage to do it pretty willingly. But if you would have my real confidential opinion, it is that early rising is a baleful and pernicious thing, and calculated to develop crime to an awful extent.'

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'Oh, you dreadful man! But now I begin to understand the bond of sympathy between you and Harry. You both hate early rising.'

'Yes, but instead of being a bond linking us together, it went very near to dividing us in the days when we bachelorised together on the diggings, and couldn't agree as to whose duty it was to get up first and boil the billy.'

'How I should like to have seen you then! But come, if you have finished your coffee. The sun has risen.'

'Which gives me a poor opinion of him,' said Paget.

'I am surprised at anything rising if it is always as cold as this in Dunedin.'

'Oh, you will be warm enough when you have got to the top of yon hill,' said Mrs. Retlaw. And so he was—so were all of them. Climbing a hill 'as steep as the side of a house,' up a cobbly zigzag path, may be backed as a heat-generator in the system of man against anything else invented.

When they were at the summit, they paused to take breath, and Mrs. Retlaw called the attention of the others to the glorious loveliness of the eastern sky.

Philiberta was strangely quiet and subdued in manner that morning, and without any reason, she told Mrs. Retlaw, when that lady made remarks and inquiries anent it. She was not so sure-footed as usual either, for she stumbled over a boulder in a certain rocky fern-grown glen, and sprained her ankle. Not very severely, but still quite badly enough to disable her page 95from walking for two or three days; and at the moment there was nothing for it but that Edgar Paget should carry her home. It was nothing for him, in his great strength, to bear her in his arms and against his heart; but it was a great pity it happened. But for that accident everything might have gone on differently; as it was, it was the beginning of great love and great sorrow for both of them. Gently and tenderly as he bore her, the pain was so intense that she almost fainted on the way, and they were all more than glad when she was safely packed up on Mrs. Retlaw's softest couch, and the doctor said she would be on her feet again as if nothing had happened within a week.

During the next fortnight, Paget and Philiberta spent a good deal of time together. Station life in Australia formed one prime subject of mutual interest to them; and then they soon discovered that they had many others equally pleasant and available for conversation and the exchange of ideas. And by-and-by the talk between them became often dangerously personal. For instance: 'What is the colour of your eyes?' said he one day, coming very close to her that he might ascertain. 'Let me look right into them and see. I believe they change every day. Yesterday they were brown; clear, bright brown; a little while ago they seemed grey; now as I look, they are deep dark purple.'

'Perhaps it is that they reflect the changes of colour in yours,' said Philiberta, averting hers when she had spoken.

'Do mine change colour, then?'

'Sometimes I think so.'

He bent over her still nearer, until she could feel his warm breath on her face, and he could see that her heart was throbbing hard and fast beneath the two hands that she had clasped upon her breast.

'When I look into your eyes like this,' he said, putting one of his hands upon both hers, and with the other turning her face upwards, 'I feel something in them drawing me down—down—nearer and nearer, until——'

'Mrs. Retlaw's compliments, and she is going to drive out to St. Kilda, and would Miss Campbell like to go?'

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It was William.

'Yes—no—tell Mrs. Retlaw I will be ready in a moment,' and then Philiberta escaped; hot, breathless, and fluttering.

Paget drew a deep breath and fell back against the wall.

'God forgive me!' he said, 'I must be a villain. I had nearly told her; God forgive me!'

The opening of the door caused his heart to leap like a nervous woman's.

'I thought I should find you in here, Paget.'

'Oh, is that you, Retlaw? Have the ladies gone?'

'Yes. And the Melbourne mail is just delivered; here are two or three letters for you.'

Paget took them, glanced briefly at each, and thrust one pink-enveloped one in his pocket. The others he opened and read.

'Damnation!'

'Why, what's wrong, Teddy?'

'Oh, not much; only a scamp of a fellow I lent money to on a mortgage has swindled me.'

'Well, that's bad enough. It won't make much difference to you, Teddy, I hope.'

'Oh, no; not much,' said Paget, passing his hand across his eyes with a gesture of weariness. He walked over to the window and looked out upon the street a while in silence. His face had a set, hard expression, though the lips twitched emotionally, and the eyes wandered from point to point of the street below and the hills beyond. He looked like a man fighting a hard battle with himself, and a little reckless as to the result. Presently he turned round.

'When does the next steamer go, Harry?'

'Go where, old boy?'

'Oh, anywhere—no—to Melbourne, I mean.'

'Melbourne mail goes to-morrow,' said Mr. Retlaw.

'That will do, then.'

'You don't mean to say you're going, Teddy?'

'Yes, I do, old man; I must.'

'On account of this mortgage affair?'

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'Well—partially.'

'But your going won't get the money back, Ted.'

'No, Harry; but it may prevent further mischief. In fact, it will prevent a big mischief that's bound to happen if I don't go.'

'I say, Teddy.'

'Well!' said Paget, looking at his friend half in alarm, half in defiance. When one's mind and heart and soul are full of one thing, it seems as if everything said or thought by every one else must bear upon that. He thought Retlaw was going to speak about Philiberta. Retlaw was not thinking of her at all. All his present interest was concerned in Paget's monetary affairs.

'Look here, old mate, between friends, are matters very bad with you?'

Paget looked puzzled.

'I mean—are you short of money?'

'Of money? Oh no.'

'But you were saying the other night that things had gone badly with you of late years.'

'So they have. Damned badly. But it is all my own fault. I have neglected the station grossly. I have burnt the candle at both ends. I have lent money when I knew I had no right to and should never get it back. Finally, and maddest of all, I have speculated and gambled till all was blue. Some Yankee fellow says that when a man begins to go downhill he finds everything greased for the occasion, and by Gad! that's so. I am going to the deuce as fast as I can.'

'Oh, Teddy; Teddy, old man. This sounds awful.'

'Does it?'

'But look here! This is just what I was trying to get at. And now the way is clear for what I have to say. Teddy, old mate, I've got plenty for both of us.'

Paget rose hastily, with the natural instinct of a man to hide tears.

'Thanks, old fellow,' said he, when he had mastered himself page 98again, 'but it hasn't come to that yet. I think I shall pull through.'

'But if I can make it easier, Ted?'

'Yes, I know. Don't say any more, Harry; it weakens me. The fact is, I am a little put out just now about several things. But I'll get back and set everything right. I'll turn over a new leaf.'

'Why don't you get married?' said Retlaw.

Paget started forward with an impulse to tell everything; and just then Mr. Retlaw was called suddenly away.

'Never mind; I will tell him. I must tell all, and I can do that much better by letter. Now I'll go and pack for to-morrow.'

At dinner he and Retlaw met again alone at the table. 'Where are the ladies?' he asked in surprise.

'I expect Mrs. Jones has kept them,' said Mr. Retlaw. 'The night has come up misty; and Mrs. J. is glad of any excuse to detain them. It is not likely that they will get back before morning now.'

'Better so,' muttered Paget, but William heard him and was very much annoyed. He had spread a very special banquet that evening, knowing that the ladies would be hungry after a cold drive. He had got a few fresh flowers too, and he had placed the daintiest bouquets in the napkins beside Mrs. Retlaw's and Philiberta's plates. As he told Mrs. Retlaw himself next day, speaking in the familiar fashion excusable in so old and precious a servant, 'When I looked at it all, ma-am, and felt that you weren't coming home to see it, I could have catched hold of the blessed table-cloth and dragged the whole thing to the floor and trampled on it. I could indeed, I was that mad!'

Mrs. Jones not only kept her friends with her that night, but insisted upon their going with her for a breath of salt air to Ocean Beach next morning; the weather having, with its usual changeableness in that latitude, taken a turn to 'warm and fine, with light breezes, as the weather-gaugers put it.

The consequence was that the day was well advanced to afternoon when Mrs. Retlaw drew rein before her own door.

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And then before they were two minutes in the house they heard that Edgar Paget was gone.

'Gone!' cried Philiberta, her heart giving one wild bound and then ceasing to beat for a few seconds.

'Child, you are falling,' exclaimed Mrs. Retlaw, catching her quickly in her arms. 'Harry, help her into my room, and then go away, please. My poor child!' she continued, when Philiberta, recovering from the blindness and deathly giddiness that had beset her, sat up and looked round bewilderedly.

Then the girl, seeing that they were alone, leaned upon her friend and broke into a passion of weeping. There was no need of words between the two. Mrs. Retlaw went quietly out, when Philiberta had sobbed herself into calmness, to see if no letter or message had been left. No. Not a line, not a word, save his kindest remembrances to both, and his regret that he had not seen them once again before his departure. So she went back just as quietly, and sat down with some trifle of needlework beside Philiberta, and made up her mind that if Edgar Paget did not write, before getting finally away from the New Zealand coast, a full explanation and proposal of marriage to her friend, then he was an unprincipled heartless scoundrel, and she no judge of character after all. She consulted a newspaper furtively, and found that that particular steamer would make the whole round of the ports, and at this she took heart to speak, and told Philiberta that she would stake everything she had in the world that all would come right within forty-eight hours.

The girl only sighed.

'You are very good to me,' she said.

'And if not,' said Mrs. Retlaw, putting on an air of philosophy, 'there are more good men than one in the world, let us hope.'

'There may be,' said Philiberta sadly, 'but I think there can be but one man in the world for me.'

Mrs. Retlaw nearly said 'Fudge!' but considered that it might sound heartless, so let it alone. The day closed with a brilliant display of gold and ruby and opal harmonies; the page 100moon rose over the hills, a rich and radiant disc, bathing all the lovely land and sea in mellow tender light.

'Put on your cloak and hood,' said Mrs. Retlaw, 'and we will go up the hill. The worst troubles in life give way before the grandeur and glory we shall see from up there. The sight of it will lift your soul high above the sense of personal sorrow. It will lift anyone as near to heaven as men and women are ever likely to get, I think. Come.'

Presently they stood high on a hill, looking down on the city and the bay, on the church spires and white houses, on the patches of dark foliage set in between, on the pearly mist that clung lovingly about everything, on the rows of yellow gleaming lamps that studded the streets.

'Is it not lovely?' said Mrs. Retlaw.

'Beyond all conception lovely,' replied Philiberta, and then they stood silent a long while.

Presently they saw a man coming up the path with swift, firm strides. It must have been nervousness that made Philiberta's heart beat so, because it stands to reason that she could not have recognised him at that distance and in that light. But nearer he came, and nearer yet, and—

'Edgar Paget, as I live!' cried Mrs. Retlaw joyfully.

Not for her whole salvation could Philiberta have uttered a word; but her hands went out to him with an involuntary movement, and he caught them both in his own.

'And what is the meaning of all this?' inquired Mrs. Retlaw, herself half crying from excess of sympathy.

'The steamer is delayed till to-morrow,' he said, his voice strained and husky, 'and I could not help coming back to say good-bye to you.'

'And to look once more upon your face, beloved,' he added under his breath, as he gazed still at Philiberta.

Her face was blanched to extreme pallor, and the moon made it look still whiter. Her eyes were haggard, yet full of the new gladness his return had brought her. The short curls on her forehead clung there with moisture. Oh, she had suffered! And for him, as he felt, with a glad thrill of every page 101pulse of his being. He would have given his life just then to have saved her a single pang; and yet he was full of joy to see that she had suffered through him. It would be something to remember—this love of hers—through all the years that he had yet to live, lacking it. Then a sudden great pity came into his heart for her.

'Poor little girl! Poor lonely little girl! it will be very hard for her too.'

Hard!

'So the steamer goes to-morrow,' said Mrs. Retlaw.

'Yes, I must get back to her to-night.'

'But that is impossible; you cannot.'

'But I must—and can. The steamer sails at daybreak. I hired a horse and guide at the port and rode over the hills. When I leave you I shall ride straight back.'

'I never heard of such a thing,' exclaimed Mrs. Retlaw.

'Berta, I must hasten down to the house at once to see about some supper. You can take care of each other, you two; but don't be long coming down.'

So they were left alone together, and Berta trembled so that she could not walk steadily, though she leaned upon his arm. Minute after minute was passing, and they were getting further and further down the path, and yet he did not speak. As for her, what could she say? A wild thought rushed into her mind. It was her money prevented him from telling her. He loved her; she had never a doubt of that now; but Mr. Retlaw had spoken of his bad fortune lately. That was it. Poverty had come upon him suddenly, and he was proud. As if money could matter—as if anything could matter—but losing him! And now they were nearly at the house, and he had said never a word.

'Then must you go to-morrow?' she said chokingly.

'I must go to-night,' he replied, pulling up suddenly and standing before her. 'And I cannot go back to the house yonder. I cannot bear any more. Let me say good-bye to you here, Berta, here in the light of the moon. Shake hands, page 102will you? and wish me God-speed. Let me go. I ought never to have come back.'

'And why—why?' she cried, clinging wildly to his hands. How could she let him go, with so small a matter separating them? How could he be so cruelly proud, seeing how she loved him? What a desolation of life was this he was condemning her to!

'Oh, Edgar, Edgar!' she wailed, 'have you nothing to say to me before you go?'

Then he had her in his arms in a moment, kissing her face and hands and hair.

'My soul! my darling! I love you. That is all I have to say.'

'And that is all I want,' she said, sobbing and panting with the pain of gladness. 'That is all I ever shall want in my life.'