Chapter I: The Hot-House

“Imagine any one brought up like Iris Dearn actually preferring Australia to London--it is as bad as liking briar-roses better than orchids!” And the speaker allowed her large dark eyes, now cold with scorn, to wander round the crowded reception rooms, decorated with the rare flowers she had just named.

“Yes, it _is_ rather peculiar, Lady Maud,” replied the thin, elderly man she had addressed, moving one of his wrinkled, well-manicured hands. “Still, Australia is a very fascinating country. It is the baby-nation, of course; but the baby is able to toddle now and it has most charming--though perhaps a little wilful and wayward--baby ways. I believe it also shows signs of great intelligence; it is going to make a deep imprint in history--I should not be in the least surprised if Australia turned out to be the genius in the World’s family!”

Lady Maud Townsville made a slight movement with her scantily covered shoulders. “Infant prodigies rarely grow up anything but bores,” she said disdainfully.

“I did not mean to imply that Australia was an infant prodigy--it is far from that! In fact at present it is merely a delightful, healthy child, a little spoilt by rather excessive petting from Providence, but vigorous and lively, with most engaging ways and full of promise for future development!”

Just then all conversation was suddenly hushed into silence, for a famous soprano had made her way to the piano and the accompanist was striking the opening chords of her song.

Her voice was clear, rich and full. She trilled like a bird, and words dropped from her lips like smooth round pearls of sound.

She sang about love, blue skies and purling streams. Her music brought summer with it: soft breezes from the sea, and the lap of drowsy sun-kissed waves. It suggested drifting white clouds, swaying corn, scarlet poppies, new-mown grass and buttercups. It made the swelling tones of exuberant larks tremble into the warm orchid-scented air of the luxurious drawing-rooms. The guests filling them were suddenly carried back to long sunlit days spent in magnificent country places, roaming in green mysterious woods, wandering by silvery lakes, and driving under long avenues of beech, oak, or stately fir trees.

“Her singing has atmosphere,” remarked Sir Edwin Graves when the song was over. “She brought back summer to us in this chilly, foggy November night. Her music has power to do that. But it could not set the air stirring with passion.”

Lady Maud permitted her costly fan to drop to her pale blue silk knees. “Who wants passion in these modern times?--it is out of date. We have outgrown it--with all other savagery.”

“Do you really place love, with its servant, passion, under the category of savagery?” inquired Sir Edwin, turning to his companion with a look in his watery blue eyes as if he were regarding a specimen in a museum which rather interested him.

“Love of what?” asked the woman beside him, with a touch of mockery in her cool voice; “of rank--position--fabulous wealth?” And her fine eyes swept the moving, stirring rooms with their artistic splendour and soft languorous elegance.

He met her derision composedly. “No, I meant love of one human being for another--the kind of love which would lay down life itself for the object of its devotion.”

“Hopelessly ancient sentiments, my dear Sir Edwin! That kind of affection died with Romeo. In these days we flirt with the good-looking men, but we marry the rich ones.” Lady Maud lifted her well-poised head with a touch of defiance. She was marrying one of England’s richest men, whose reputation was as notorious as his wealth.

A little lower down the room sat a beautiful woman with coppery hair, dreamy eyes and a complexion like white and pink rose petals. A tall, dark man, with a well-formed, mask-like face stood beside her. He had just asked her a question and she raised her great limpid eyes to his as if she were merely replying to some casual remark, but her tones were low as she said, “I wish you would not ask me these questions here.”

“May I ask them somewhere else--may I come and see you alone to-morrow afternoon?” He bent over her a little and a curious expression struggled into his mask-like features.

“My husband insists on my motoring down with him to-morrow to look at a new shooting-box he is rather keen on getting; we shall not be back till late,” she replied evenly.

“But will you let me come some other time?”

“I shall be at home on Sunday afternoon at five o’clock.”

“May I come then and--_ask_?”

“Yes, but remember I have not promised to answer you.” And her smooth tones held a soft challenge in their careless banter.

A plain woman, with large, protruding teeth, watched them from the other side of the room. “Lady Langton is going too far in this flirtation,” she commented to herself with a snarling smile; “she will end in the divorce court one of these days, and then--” a gleam of malicious anticipation shot for a moment into her long narrow eyes--“then we shall have some spicy revelations!”

On a rose-coloured settee sat the hostess, Lady Dearn, talking to an elderly Duchess.

Lady Dearn was rather short, but she had a well-proportioned figure and held herself with youthful straightness. Her face was not beautiful, but it pleased. Her rather small china-blue eyes had just the right amount of animation; they looked expressive without betraying the least feeling; they held refined vivacity which never bordered on vulgar excitement.

“How is Iris?” asked the stately Duchess.

Lady Dearn lifted her eyebrows slightly. “She is always happy in Australia. I cannot understand how it is the child has taken such a fancy to that wild place. I am sure it is most extraordinary she should care for that sort of life!”

“There is no talk of her coming home, then?” Iris was a great favourite with the magnificent old lady.

“Not the slightest. She and her cousin are going to spend the summer in Tasmania, at some terrible out-of-the-way place amongst great lonely mountains, where there are lots of horrid caves and all that kind of thing.” Lady Dearn shuddered a little. “Think of _my_ daughter preferring _that_ to _this_!” And she glanced round her superb home with a puzzled expression on her serene, unlined face.

“But you will surely not allow Iris to stay out there too long? It is perfectly appalling for such a beautiful and charming girl as that to waste her loveliness on gum-trees and kangaroos.”

“It is certainly shocking--but how can I prevent it? When children grow up they please themselves.” She made a pretty little deprecating gesture of helplessness.

“Of course the young must live their own lives, and they have a right to please themselves, if their tastes run along--well----” she hesitated slightly.

“Civilised lines,” suggested the aggrieved parent, “but when they do not, you think mothers should interfere; quite so, I agree with you. But I am powerless; Iris is deaf to reason and persuasion; she is of age, and, as you know, has her own money--what can I do? It is late to restrain her now; I should never have allowed her to go for that first trip with her father--that did the damage; she was never happy in London afterwards.”

As she talked to the Duchess, she caught sight of her second daughter, Helen, standing by a large console mirror, speaking to a dignitary of the Church. She sighed a little. Helen was so plain, and she pined for admiration and attention, while her beautiful sister was so indifferent to these things that, after two seasons of continual social triumph, she had chosen to hide her loveliness in the untamed solitudes of the Australian bush! It was exasperating! And how would it all end? She was losing all her chances of a brilliant marriage, and no girl had better chances than Iris. Her remarkable beauty and delightful personality had taken London by storm.

When she made her début the society papers had been full of her praises. Her photo had appeared in all the magazines. Every one with two eyes agreed about her perfect features, her dazzling colouring, superb figure and elegant bearing. Every one had enthused about the wonderful blue of her eyes, their bewildering expression, the phenomenal length of her black lashes and her enchanting smile! Iris could have married nobility of highest rank, and now--a wave of annoyance flushed Lady Dearn’s smooth face. Why was Iris so different from Helen? Why had she no ambition, no appreciation of the enormous advantages circumstances had placed at her disposal? How could the vast plains of Australia, the rugged mountains of Tasmania, prove a stronger attraction than all London was prepared to shower on this imperious young beauty, who stood aloof and unmoved by all its homage and adulation? Lady Dearn’s vexation increased as she thought of her daughter’s inexplicable choice.

But the Hon. Iris Dearn was being discussed by more people than her mother and her ducal friend that night. In another room, close to a large marble Venus, a small lavender-tinted lady talked in low eager tones about her to a young officer who had just returned from India on furlough. He had evidently expected to see the girl at her mother’s reception, and the woman beside him was pouring very annoying information into his attentive ear. “You know Iris was only eighteen when her father was ordered a long sea voyage,” she was saying, “and dear Lady Dearn was so busy, the winter season just commencing, so of course she could not take him herself, and the dear child begged so hard to be allowed to go--she just adored her father; so eventually her mother yielded, though she did not approve of her going at all, as she was to come out that season.

“They went to South Australia and stayed for some months with a niece of Lord Dearn’s, who had married a squatter there. When Lord Dearn returned to England,” continued the colourless voice, “his health gave way completely, and he died soon afterwards. Poor Lady Dearn was so upset--it was dreadful to lose such a devoted husband, and having to postpone Iris’s coming out, again; for of course she could not be presented while they were in mourning. So dear Iris was nearly twenty when she made her début. She only had two seasons in London, and then, as ill-fate would have it, the cousin they stayed with in Australia lost her husband, came to England for a short trip, and persuaded Iris to go back with her--not that she needed much persuasion; I think she would have gone sooner or later in any case, for she was perfectly in love with the place--such a pity, people simply raved about her here! But--” a sentimental look crept into her small, sharp-featured face, “she doesn’t seem to have any heart for men at all, only an odd infatuation for that far-away, strange land.”

The handsome bronzed face of the young officer relaxed a little.

“I can’t understand it at all,” went on the talkative little woman in lavender; “of course there can’t be any of her own class out there for her to mix with, except her cousin, and _she_ has probably deteriorated by this time, having lived there for years. It is most curious! And Iris was so fastidious, too--no one in London was good enough for her. I believe she had rather a rupture with her mother over some Earl she wanted her to marry, and the girl absolutely refused, because he had once--well, you know what men are--though this was rather an ugly piece of gossip. But Iris would have nothing to do with him on that account, and yet she has gone out to stay for an indefinite time in a country where England sends her--well--the dregs of her families! They used to be sent to America--these unfortunates--but now they send them to Australia instead; so much safer--America was much too close, and the banished ones had a way of returning unexpectedly.”

The speaker sighed becomingly. “You remember young Strathfell--the second son? Terrible about him, wasn’t it? His father has never got over it. Ah, perhaps you were in India when it happened. He must have had a wild strain in him, poor boy, for he actually quarrelled with his father because he wanted to become a professional singer, and of course the old man would not give his consent to such a thing. But he really had a marvellous voice, quite the most touching I have ever heard; and he was so handsome and delightful! Still, it was really too foolish to quarrel with his father, be disinherited, and never be allowed to visit his home again--all for the sake of singing! His father made him promise never to use his own name either. He had the decency not to appear in public in England, but he created a perfect furore on the Continent and in America! However it all came to a sad end; he nearly drank himself to death, and finally went to Australia, and has not been heard of since. Then there was General Foulsham’s son----”

But her listener was not interested any longer, and, making some excuse of wishing to speak to their hostess, he left her.

After his departure, a lady sitting on her right in a smart black gown, with a huge scarlet poppy fastened at the point where gauzy shoulder-straps met in front of her low-cut bodice, said to Miss Marshall, “I heard you telling Captain Barton all about Iris. I don’t wonder you are mystified; it is really tragic! And she had such brilliant offers! But goodness knows what will happen to her now. I suppose she will end by marrying some bushranger!” prophesied the Hon. Mrs. St. Hill Cresden, turning her rather well-shaped head to watch an American multi-millionaire who had just passed.

“A bushranger?” repeated her companion questioningly, “There are no bushrangers in Australia nowadays.”

“Oh, dear Miss Marshall, don’t take me so literally; I didn’t mean a bushranger, of course, but a bushman, or whatever you call them; they are really all the same, you know--Iris will end by marrying one of them. I shall write and warn her.”

“How dreadful! But after she has been mixed up with the people there I shall not be surprised at anything she does. It must be most demoralising never meeting any one of her own class, except the failures we send out. I wonder if Iris will come across young Foulsham. He was so clever and had his share of good looks too; but they say his debts were terrible! No wonder, for his fancy for actresses was on a large scale too, I believe; debts and actresses generally go together, don’t you think? He had to be sent out; it is just as well Australia was discovered! I wonder what they are all doing now? Minding sheep, I suppose--such a nice, healthy occupation for prodigals; all the men seem to do that out there;--what an alarming number of sheep there must be when it takes everybody in the country to look after them!”

The famous soprano began to sing again.

Her guitar-like tones pulsated through the sumptuous rooms. They floated into the hot brilliant spaces as soft moonbeams float into night. They brought dream-like radiance; the liquid splendour of silent lakes caressed by silver rays from a rising moon; the faint echo of boatmen lilting softly as shiny oars glided over the limpid deep.

“She has been to Italy,” said a young diplomatist to Lady Maud, when the singer had withdrawn.

They were standing in a small alcove sheltered by a profusion of palms and ferns.

“Very likely,” replied Lady Maud, beginning to move her fan languidly to and fro.

“Why don’t you come to Italy for Christmas? The climate is most delightful in the winter,” said the man in the foreign service, turning to his companion questioningly.

Lady Maud stopped the swaying movement of her fan and regarded the toes of her pale blue silk slippered feet with a speculative air. “I had thought of going to Rome for the winter; but after all I think I had better reserve Italy for my honeymoon.” She glanced up at him now.

She was not disappointed, for she saw him wince.

“Maud,” he began, a dark look coming into his bright eyes, “you can’t possibly--you don’t mean to say that you really will----”

“My dear Cecil, of course I will--nothing is surer.”

“It’s preposterous!” he replied with some heat.

“What is preposterous--his fortune?” she asked with gracious derision.

He looked between her lashes. “I was thinking of his--reputation.”

Lady Maud’s eyelids flickered a little; then she answered with defiant composure: “You don’t suppose notorious wealth can exist without correspondingly notorious other things, do you? I am afraid your experience of the world is too limited to permit you to rise high in the diplomatic service.”

The man bent over her suddenly. “Maud, for heaven’s sake throw him over--and--marry for--”

“How stiflingly hot it is here.” She stepped out from the sheltering palms and stood in full view of the crowded rooms. “Please take me to my aunt, I believe she wants to go home early. Ah, there she is coming towards us. It has been so nice to see you again, Cecil--I hope to meet you in Rome--some day--good-night.” She made a little gracious movement towards him with her fan and joined an old lady in black velvet, wearing a magnificent diamond tiara.

* * * * *

“What a confounded nuisance that Iris is away just now,” muttered Captain Barton to himself, as he sat frowningly in a corner of a taxi on his way to his club. “I shall call on Lady Dearn to-morrow and get her permission to go out and persuade the girl to come back--it is outrageous for her to be out there! I believe I shall just be able to do it in the time.”

Then he glanced out on the crowded streets. It was a dreary looking night. The pavements glittered dully with moisture and mud. The noise of the traffic was muffled by a chilly fog. Yet he loved the place. To one coming from the glare of India the thick cold atmosphere was exhilarating. It was really hard luck having to leave London so soon. But some months ago he had seen his old playmate’s photograph in her court dress in a magazine, and the lovely picture had sent the blood tingling through his veins and made him determined to marry her. Of course others had been determined about the same thing, and failed; but then--Ralph Barton straightened his tall, well-knit figure--girls could never resist him: he was a great favourite in India; so, if he really meant business, and made Iris aware of it, of course it would be all right--of course--of course.