Chapter XIV

"In smoothest terms his speech he wove,
Of endless friendship, faith, and love;
She listened with a blush and sigh,
His suit was warm, his hopes were high."

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

On a beautifully mild afternoon in that loveliest of Australian seasons, the transition between winter and summer, there reclined in an easy chair, on the verandah of the Fern Vale cottage, a young girl whose pale though handsome features seemed to be invested with an angelic air as they were contrasted with the deep mourning in which she was attired. We need hardly explain to the reader that this was Eleanor Rainsfield. At one side of her sat our hero, attempting to relieve the weary hours of the invalid by some light and amusing reading, and on the other side sat his sister, who, while she was listening to her brother, was engaged in some of that description of work which constitutes at the same time young ladies' toil and amusement.

During Eleanor's gradual return to convalescence John Ferguson had been assiduous in his endeavours to keep her mind diverted from the contemplation of her grief; and, forgetful of all his past resolutions to think of her only as a seraph exalted above his possession, their constant contiguity, if possible, more than ever made havoc in his heart, immersed him more than ever deeper in the sea of love, and made him yield a willing sacrifice to the ecstatic delirium of his dream.

The attention of the trio, at the moment we have visited them, was suddenly attracted by the sounds of an approaching horseman, and looking up they perceived Bob Smithers riding wildly towards the house. Eleanor instantly rose from her chair; and, leaning upon Kate, entered the sitting-room, while she said to John: "I expect the object of Mr. Smithers' visit is an interview with me, and if he desires it I will see him." Then addressing her friend, she said: "Leave me, dearest Kate, for the few minutes he is here. I don't expect he will stay long."

In another instant Smithers pulled up before the house; and, throwing his bridle over the fence, he strode up to John, who was waiting for him with a welcome and an extended hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Smithers?" he said. "It is some time since you honoured us with a visit. I hope you're well."

"I wish to see Miss Rainsfield," replied Smithers, without heeding the proffered hand or the inquiry after his health.

John felt rather chagrined at the want of civility on the part of his guest; and, pointing to the half-opened window of the room in which Smithers could find the lady he desired to see, he turned upon his heel and walked out of hearing.

What was the nature of John's thoughts that this visit of Smithers gave rise to we will not attempt to divine, though we may safely assume they were of no pleasing nature from the cloud that came over his countenance as he left the house. And yet a gleam of hope would at intervals attempt to break through the gloom. As he stood leaning over the fence in front of the house, thus ruminating over the circumstance and its contingencies, he was startled by the precipitate approach of Smithers, who, clenching his fist and shaking it at him in a menacing attitude, exclaimed: "This is your work; but, by G--, you shall repent of ever having interfered in my private affairs." After the delivery of this minatory declaration the infuriated individual mounted his horse and galloped from the station.

John remained for a few minutes musing upon the strange address he had just heard until a faint appreciation of the cause flashed across his mind, and, his heart beating with salient palpitations, he entered the house to solve the mystery. With this intent he walked into the sitting-room, but found it empty. Eleanor had retired, and he was about to leave it again in search of his sister when his eye rested on an open note lying on the floor. The superscription, he perceived, was--"To Mr. Robert Smithers;" and in its caligraphy he at once detected the tracing of Eleanor's hand, and saw a solution of the mystery even before he glanced at the epistle's contents. If his heart beat quickly with pleasing apprehensions before his curiosity prompted him to pick up and read the note its proper functions were almost destroyed by the violent palpitations as his eyes devoured the following lines:--

DEAR SIR,--I hardly know how to break to you the subject on
which I wish to address you. When I say it is with regard to
our engagement you will understand what I mean, more especially
when I tell you that I think, for both of our sakes, it were
wise to annul it. To recount to you all the causes that have
actuated me in the establishment of this desire would only be
to reiterate all your various acts of contumely to myself and
friends, and to relate all my daily sufferings. I will not say
that I never loved you. When I was induced to consent to become
your wife I would have endeavoured to have placed my whole
heart at your disposal; but your conduct has not only been such
as to estrange from you the most forgiving nature, but towards
me it has been absolutely cruel.

I say this not to stigmatize you for your ill-treatment of me,
but to endeavour to show you that you can entertain no regard
for me; and, in the absence of all mutual affection, such an
union as ours would only entail misery on both of us. You will
therefore perceive that it will be better for us to forget the
relationship that has existed, and remain independent of one
another.

I bear you no ill-will, and desire to maintain a friendship
for yourself and your kind relatives; but beyond the light of a
friend I never can consent to regard you. So there will be no
use of your attempting to alter my determination; it is already
fixed.--Yours truly,

ELEANOR RAINSFIELD.

John's astonishment when he read this was only equalled by his raptures; and it was not until he had twice re-read the note that he could withdraw his eyes from feasting on the blissful lines. "She has then discarded Smithers," he said to himself, "and there is hope for me." If there needed but one rivet to clench the fetters that bound the captive heart of our hero it was now fastened. He gave himself up like a voluptuary to the indulgence of his greatest earthly pleasure, the dissipation of love's charm, and the realization of his fondest hopes and wildest dreams; and, in the delirium of delight, his spirit ascended in imagination into the seventh heaven. He was, however, speedily brought to a recollection of his existence in this terraqueous globe by his sister shaking his arm while she exclaimed:

"Why, what is making you so absent, John? I have spoken to you four times, and you have taken no notice of me."

"Have you, Kate?" replied John. "Well, I did not hear you, for I was thinking when you addressed me."

"That was evident," replied the girl. "But tell me, John, what could have brought that man Smithers here? He has terribly upset poor Eleanor, and she has been obliged to go and lie down. I quite hate that horrid fellow, and wish he would never show his face here again."

"I don't think it is very probable he ever will again, Kate," replied her brother.

"Well, I hope not. But what letter is that you have got in your hand?" said the girl as she glanced over the epistle that hung listlessly in the hand of her musing brother, who had attempted to conceal it, but not before Kate had spied the address. "Oh, show me the letter, John, dear John!" she continued. "I see it is addressed to that man, and from Eleanor I am sure; so it will explain all about it. Do show it to me."

Her brother put it into her hands, and she read it with unqualified delight. Then looking up into his face, she exclaimed: "I am so delighted, John;" and, throwing her arms around her brother's neck, she kissed him in the exuberance of her joy, after which she bounded from the room, retaining possession of the cherished note.

For the remainder of that day Eleanor confined herself to her room, but on the following forenoon she came out, with her pale, marble features, looking in John's eyes more lovely than ever. They were presently seated together, as was their wont, in the shade of the verandah; but somehow, on this occasion, the reading was not prosecuted with such spirit as usual, nor listened to with the accustomed interest, while the conversation was equally vapid. Eleanor and John thus sat for some time alone, Kate being absent on her household duties, and William out on the station, without hardly uttering a word, until John, mustering sufficient courage to enter upon the subject that wholly engrossed his mind, without any preface, said:

"I picked up a letter of yours in the room yesterday, Eleanor, after Mr. Smithers' departure."

A deep crimson mantled the cheek of his pale companion as she replied: "I know it John; Kate has told me all."

John gazed upon the features of the dear girl at his side, and met her eyes as they were raised from her lap to rest upon his face. He rapturously exclaimed: "Dear Eleanor if I could but tell you how dearly I love you I--" But he proceeded no further; a glance from the lustrous orbs of his companion had penetrated his heart, and he was silenced. Was it in fear? No! he had understood the glance, and comprehended its hidden secret. He was silenced, but it was to impress a virgin kiss upon the lips of his fair enslaver; and there for a little let us leave them in the full enjoyment of inamoratos' bliss.

We have said that John interpreted by a look the secret of Eleanor's heart; and let not loves' sceptics think such is only a figure of our imagination. Such glances have been read from the earliest eras of the world, and will continue to be so to the latest. Lovers' eyes are to each other like telegraph-dials, and reflect in their own mysterious characters the messages from the heart as the electric needle indicates the wishes of some unforeseen communicant. Their flashes are instantaneous, and they impress upon the hearts' tablets of their correspondents, with unmistakeable accuracy, the sentiments of the inosculated spirits. Theirs is a language secret and unknown but to the souls communicating, and unmeaning and unnoticeable to mortals, until made neophytes to the creed of Cupid.

John and Eleanor for some time enjoyed uninterruptedly the commune of their plighted hearts, each discovering in the other a reciprocity which heightened the ardour and enhanced the raptures of their own loves. Their tongues were no longer tied. John was all volubility and animation; while the colour that the excitement of her affection called forth irradiated the cheeks of Eleanor, and imparted to her features a loveliness that John gazed upon with ecstacy. Their privacy, however, was at length broken in upon by William, who bounded into their presence in a state of high glee, while he exclaimed:

"I've got some news to astonish you. Our friend Captain Jones has bolted, and has swindled his much-respected father-in-law to the tune of about five hundred pounds."

"Bolted, has he!" exclaimed John; "what is that for?"

"Simply because it has pleased the gentleman on two previous occasions to enter the matrimonial state, and that both better halves, and sundry little pledges, are all living to attest to his identity. One of his former helpmates," continued William, "traced him to his late retreat, and claimed him as her lawful spouse; and he, thinking, I suppose, a _denoument_ would be rather unpleasant, has deemed it expedient to abscond."

"And will the poor girl he last married have no redress?" asked Eleanor.

"Very little, I fear," replied John.

"I expect from what I have heard," continued William, "that old Sawyer intends to keep it as dark as possible. From Jones' bigamy the quondam Mrs. Jones becomes again Miss Mary Ann Sawyer, and he purposes looking out for another match for her."

"But she surely," said Eleanor, "would not lend herself to so base a deception and gross impropriety."

"I am not so sure of that," said William.

"I suppose," remarked John, "if they can't punish the _soi disant_ Captain Jones they think the wisest thing they can do is to make the best of it by keeping it as quiet as possible; and I have no doubt they will find many a swain who will not scruple to offer the lady a name."

"Well that is dreadful!" exclaimed Eleanor.

"So it is," replied John, "but it is partly their own fault. They were so blinded by the notion of getting a gentleman to marry their daughter that they took no trouble to investigate the man's character, or even to ascertain anything about him; consequently they fell into the trap of a base scoundrel."