IX. Engaged

Ce que le flot dit aux rivages,
Ce que le vent dit aux vieux monts,
Ce que l’astre dit aux nuages,
C’est le mot ineffable. Aimons.

Victor Hugo.

A snake crossing the road, a sudden shy on the part of Said, and the whole world is transfigured!

Hector and I start for a ride immediately after breakfast in order to escape the heat. We have not gone far when an unexpected swerve nearly unseats me. Said, startled by a snake darting in front of him, rears and then bolts.

Hector’s voice is powerless to stop him. I lose all control; the reins drop from my nerveless fingers, a sudden shock....

Words of tenderness and love recall me to consciousness. Hector’s face, drawn with emotion, is bending over me. I close my eyes quickly, but a tell-tale rush of blood to my cheeks betrays that I have heard. He assists me to rise. Beyond a little giddiness I am not hurt.

We remain a moment facing each other in a silence fraught with intense feeling, broken by Hector’s grave voice.

“I did not wish to speak so soon, dear, but seeing you lying there unconscious, perhaps dead, the words leapt from my heart. You know it now, Jeanne, I love you.”

All that is good and noble in my nature responds to his words. I place my hands in his. A kiss soft as a sigh brushes my trembling lips.

Then, standing back a little the better to read in my eyes the answer for which he is longing, he says:

“The wife of a minister, dear! It is a serious life for a gay little Parisienne. You are sure that you will regret nothing?”

“Quite sure,” I murmur. And a feeling of infinite calm, of inward rest and contentment pervades me. In the pure atmosphere in which he lives, my little weaknesses and feminine vanities will disappear. I shall become the woman I want to be—a woman worthy of him.

The sun high above the horizon recalls us to the flight of time and to the fact that the Gwylata folk will be getting anxious at our prolonged absence. Hector is unwilling that I should remount Said, who, after his escapade, has come back and is browsing quietly near Sultan.

Throwing the bridles over our arms, we walk slowly home, discussing the plans for our future.

My aunt, evidently uneasy, is watching for us from the verandah. She is quick to divine the news in our altered glances, and calls her husband to share her delight. Both beam with joy. Their greatest desire is realised.

“I am not at all surprised,” says my uncle, teasingly; “since the day I saw a certain portrait wherein Jeanne depicted her ideal, I expected it would end thus.” My menacing frown prevents further disclosures....

Mr. Deslandes, in the exuberance of his joy, is quite unable to keep the secret. Soon the whole station shares it.

I am overwhelmed with congratulations, for Hector is loved by all these honest souls who have known him from childhood.

Mac comes last, and draws me aside in a mysterious manner. Since I am now an important personage, he gives me his confidence.

“Sure, our parson is very lucky to find such a pretty colleen,” he says, sighing dolorously.

“Well, Mac, why don’t you follow his example and look for one too?”

“There is no need to look far, Miss Mam’selle, you know who it is. Ah! if she would only take me as you are taking Master Hector, it would be better for everybody.”

“Including little Bahloo?”

“Yes; Bahloo, too. Though I should set him a shocking example sometimes, I know,” shaking his head with a naive complaisance towards his pet delinquency.

“Well, Mac, you had better go and speak to her at once.”

“I dare not, Miss Mam’selle, she intimidates me just awful.”

I laugh at the picture of my old bushman, six feet high and proportionately broad, trembling with emotion before Meg’s dour face.

But love has opened my eyes, and awakened depths of feelings which I did not suspect. So placing my hand affectionately on my old friend’s arm, I say, “Come, Mac, courage. If you succeed—and I hope you will—we will give you a fine wedding.”

And the big-hearted old man, so weak against himself, squeezes my hand with such vigour that I nearly cry out.

I cannot sleep to-night.

Seated at my open window, I murmur my happiness to the stars which gaze down upon me from their radiant heights.

Hector loves me. Joy, sweet, calm and profound pervades my whole being.

This, then, is love—real love!

There is nothing in it of the wild agitation and excitement I felt under Allan Russell’s strange gaze. When Hector presses my hand my blood keeps its wonted flow. When he kissed me this evening I remained as cool as though it had been a paternal embrace from my guardian.

Nevertheless, I love him. I am sure of it. The thought of passing my life with him is sweet. All my aspirations towards the Good, the Beautiful and the Infinite attract and draw me closer to him. I am happy at the idea of confiding my future to his care. He will be an ideal husband—the friend and brother of my soul.

How glad I am to be able to pay the debt of gratitude which I owe these generous friends who have taken me to their hearts so warmly.

There will be no more danger of seeing the enthusiast start forth on a foolish mission of self immolation. I recall my uncle’s words:

“You have clipped his wings, little girl; he is bound to the old home now, and our two children will remain near us always.”