"Oh, well--suppose the world comes to an end to-morrow--we can't help it!"

"Do you think she will?"

"I do think she will--honestly, I do--if you are patient and gentle, and do as I tell you. She will be dull and lonely; she will miss you about her, and not only you, but many pleasant things that are a.s.sociated with you; she will bethink herself that she has treated you badly--as indeed she has--and she is so tender-hearted that it will fret her. And if she sees you occasionally, not in season and out of season, but now and then, at opportune times, and you do her little voluntary services in a delicate and un.o.btrusive way--then some of these days, seeing you still, she will suddenly think that she loves you, and--well, then it will be all right, you know."

"Oh, I hope so!" he broke out, with a deep, impatient sigh--though it was not a great deal to hope for when it came to be reckoned up. "But how long will she be reaching that point?"

"It depends."

"And we were to have been married in a couple of months--three at the most. Upon my honour, it _is_ too bad!"

"I shouldn't be surprised if you were married quite as soon as you arranged to be," Mrs. Reade proceeded calmly, building this comfortable theory upon the conviction that Mr. Dalrymple, in spite of his persistence in calling at Toorak, was not the kind of man to remain faithful to a ball-room fancy, nor to undertake anything so expensive and so respectable as matrimony under the most favourable conjunction of circ.u.mstances; and feeling sure that Rachel, with her clinging, impulsive nature, finding her desires frustrated in this direction, would be under an imperious necessity to seek--or, at any rate, to accept--support elsewhere. "If I had her with me for six weeks, I think I would not mind risking a small bet----"

"_Can't_ you have her with you?" Mr. Kingston interposed eagerly.

"No, I fear not. My mother would not consent to let her go from home just now. The situation is too grave. But even as things are, if you manage the child properly, I don't at all despair of seeing you married--or, at any rate, engaged again--before the year is out. Very far from it."

"I would give a thousand pounds at this moment if I could be certain that that would be," sighed Mr. Kingston, plaintively.

"Only you must do what I tell you. I a.s.sure you, if you _want_ to succeed, that is your best, if not your only chance. Will you do what I tell you?"

"I will see Rachel first."

"Of course. See her and give her plainly to understand what a pain and disappointment it is to you to give her up, and that you only do it for her sake. Perhaps, if you talk it over with her, she will cancel her letter, and it will be all right at once; in which case you had better arrange for your marriage as quickly as possible. But if it should be otherwise--if she should still press for a dissolution of her engagement--let her go for a little while. It need not be for long."

"I think I will," said Mr. Kingston, thoughtfully. And he did.

CHAPTER XI.

UNTIL CHRISTMAS.

Mrs. Reade was accustomed not only to give advice and to see it taken, but to see the wisdom of it justified in the success of its practical application.

Nevertheless, she was more surprised than Mr. Kingston himself at the great and good results which apparently followed her interference in his affairs. Matters were a little critical for a week or two.

Of course he "saw" Rachel, and attacked the position which she had taken up with all the forces at his command. He was, in his Mentor's judgment, indiscreetly zealous and persevering; and the almost fierce obstinacy of Rachel's resistance, which neither science nor brute force could overcome, being an altogether anomalous demonstration of character, was even more portentous.

But when presently Mr. Kingston, in a dignified and graceful letter, accepted his defeat, while at the same time clearly intimating that the withdrawal of his former pretensions in no way indicated any change in his affections and fidelity, then everything seemed to go well.

The girl _was_ touched and grieved to the depths of her tender heart for the wrong and the trouble that she had inflicted upon him, and was in agonies of anxiety for his welfare.

"Do you think he will go back to Miss Brownlow?" she inquired one day of Beatrice, with pathetic eyes full of tears; "and, oh, _do_ you think she will make him happy?"

She was terribly taken aback when her cousin with much asperity upbraided her with the heartlessness of the suggestion.

For a little while, having received her aunt's grudging acquiescence in the dissolution of her engagement, having sent back all her jewels, having surrept.i.tiously despatched a note to her lover in Queensland (which she implored him not to answer) to tell him that she was honourably free, and living in the antic.i.p.ation of his return, Rachel began to blossom in beauty and brightness again, like a flower that night had chilled in the warmth of morning sunshine.

It was, perhaps, a little discouraging to see how very much relieved and refreshed she was in her freedom--that she did not even hanker after her lost diamonds, and the riches and luxuries that had once been so desirable and so precious; but Mrs. Reade, as was her custom, looked below the surface of things, and found her compensations.

That the girl had recovered her balance, so to speak, and was in sound health, mentally and physically, was of the first importance in this sensible young woman's view of the case; and her eager friendliness to Mr. Kingston whenever she met him--eager in proportion to the modesty of his demands of course, and sometimes warm with impulsive tenderness such as she had never voluntarily manifested in the days of her engagement--seemed to foreshadow the most hopeful possibilities. Indeed, if Mr. Kingston behaved well, Rachel, apart from her specific misdemeanour, behaved even better.

Mrs. Hardy, outwardly conforming to her daughter's scheme, would not, or could not, disguise her resentment at the failure of the original enterprise, and visited it upon the girl, as perhaps was natural, more roughly than she would have done had Rachel been her own child or less deeply indebted to her.

She was ostentatiously cold and indifferent, or she was sarcastic, and harsh, and rude; she was rigorous to the verge of tyranny in her determination to allow no other man the smallest opportunity for improving the occasion in the manner that Mr. Kingston had indicated--withdrawing her niece from all the gay a.s.semblies where she had hitherto disported herself with so much enjoyment and _eclat_, and keeping her to a petty routine of study and household duties that was made as dull and irksome as possible.

Yet Rachel, always so sensitive to both kindness and unkindness, and as much hurt by a snub as she would have been by a blow, took it all with the sweetest patience and temper.

She devoted herself to her aunt's service as she never had done before, compa.s.sing the sombre woman with every possible delicate attention that tact and thoughtfulness could devise; and she not only persevered in this amiable conduct, but kept a certain placid and gentle brightness about her, under all discouragements, for weeks and weeks together.

Mrs. Reade, as a matter of course, was greatly touched and pleased; for it was evident--as far as her sharp eyes could see--that Mr. Dalrymple was not the source of inspiration _now_, seeing that he had been effectually circ.u.mvented on his first attempt to renew her acquaintance, and had never been seen or heard of since. It seemed to the anxious little woman that the girl had only wanted her freedom for awhile, and that, by and bye, by the mere drift of the current, she would be borne back to the arms that were waiting for her.

Things seemed to be going on so well that Mrs. Reade, when the gaieties of the "Cup" season were over, thought she might venture to leave town for a few weeks. She wanted very much to pay a long-deferred visit to Adelonga.

She had not been there since Lucilla was a bride, and of course she had not seen the baby. She was also anxious to find out for herself "the rights" of the story that her mother had told her concerning Rachel's conduct and experiences while sojourning under her sister's roof, and if possible to make the acquaintance of some of Mr. Dalrymple's people.

So, with customary prompt.i.tude, she made her preparations. She sent for Mr. Kingston and gave him judicious advice and encouragement to direct and uphold him in her absence.

Then she interviewed Mrs. Hardy, and expressed herself so strongly on behalf of her own views as to what was right and proper in the management of Rachel's case, that they nearly came to "words."

And, finally, having fortified the position to the best of her power, she sought out Rachel herself, and, in the privacy of that little chamber at the top of the house, bade her an affectionate and reluctant good-bye.

"I don't know if my mother has told you, dear, that Lucilla wanted me very much to bring you with me," she said, when they were sitting together by Rachel's window, hand in hand.

"Did she? Dear Lucilla, how I should like to see her!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Rachel, but not in the tone of voice that Mrs. Reade had expected.

"And I begged very hard for permission, but mamma thought it better not to interrupt your music and painting lessons again so soon. It is a great disappointment to you not to go, isn't it? At first I thought I would not tell you anything about it."

"Ah, but I am glad you told me," said Rachel; "for I must send a message to Lucilla to thank her. She knows how I loved to be at Adelonga--I think it is the sweetest place in the wide world."

"I wish I could take you," said Mrs. Reade; "but----"

"Oh, no, Beatrice, I cannot go, I know. Indeed, I would rather not. I would rather stay with Aunt Elizabeth, and go on with my lessons."

Mrs. Reade was considerably astonished and disconcerted by this evidently genuine sentiment. There was _something_ in so ready a relinquishment of the pleasures of Adelonga, which had always been so great, and also in the tremulous eagerness with which the girl put the proposal from her--a proposal which Mrs. Reade had feared would be cruelly tantalising at this time; but it was not immediately apparent.

Rachel could not stand the silent scrutiny of her cousin's brilliant eyes. Blushing violently, she rose from the couch on which she had been sitting, and rested her arms on the window-sill, and looked out upon the sombre pine trees that stood perfectly motionless in the golden summer air.

"Do you see how that house is getting on?" she said, breaking an awkward pause. "The walls are simply _rushing_ up. They will be ready for the roof directly."

Mrs. Reade stood on tiptoe and peeped over her shoulder.

"I wonder you have the heart to look at it," she replied.

"Oh, Beatrice!"