Aunt Katherine was perhaps the most to be pitied. She had been so sure that by cleverly banishing Juliet to Tyrville she would be putting hundreds of miles between her and Max Ormathon. And now, instead of that, Max was putting hundreds of miles between himself and the Burlett family (at least temporarily), and his sole companion on the journey was to be Juliet.
Verity could hardly bring herself to speak to her mother—much less Juliet—after this piece of miscalculation. And yet, of course, there was the urgent necessity of preventing either her father or Max himself from guessing that she and her mother were anything but good-temperedly indifferent to the new arrangement.
It was all a great strain. And amused though she was by the poetic justice that had punished her cousin and her aunt so appropriately, Juliet was herself glad when all the embarrassing goodbyes had been said.
She was genuinely sorry to have to leave her uncle, for she had a peculiar conviction that he needed some sort of sympathetic help, which she would have been very willing to give if it had lain in her power. But, without knowing him better, she could not, of course, decide what his need was and it seemed now that she was never likely to be in a position to know that—still less to find if she could be of any comfort to him.
All she could do was bid him goodbye in as warm and affectionate a tone as the circumstances permitted. And then she got into the car beside Max Ormathon, and they drove away, threading a path through the welter of early morning traffic that filled Martin Place and King Street.
Not until they were clear of the worst of the traffic and heading for the historic township of Parramatta did Max Ormathon address more than a casual word of explanation or description to her. But when a comparatively open road lay ahead of them, he glanced at her with a dry little smile and said, “Tell me something, will you?”
“If I can—of course.” Though she was faintly put out by his expression.
“Why were you so anxious not to have my company today?”
“But I—I wasn’t!” protested Juliet, blushing, to her great annoyance.
He laughed, skeptically but good-humoredly.
“You said you would much rather go alone,” he reminded her.
“But I only meant...” She hesitated and bit her lip.
“Do tell me what you meant,” he prompted a little maliciously.
“I only meant that I didn’t want to put you, or anyone else, to the trouble of accompanying me when it was unnecessary,” Juliet stated firmly, and was annoyed when he merely went on smiling.
“Don’t you believe me?” she asked sharply, though she would have preferred to have enough self-control not to press the matter further.
“Not altogether,” he said regretfully.
“But why not? It’s the very obvious explanation.”
“Your cousin didn’t seem to think so.”
“Verity?” Juliet was startled and looked it.
“Ah, does that ring a bell?” he inquired, again with that touch of malice.
“No. It does not,” Juliet retorted.
“Sure? It appeared to.”
With an effort she regained full control of her temper.
“Mr. Ormathon, if Verity presumed to interpret any actions or words of mine she was almost certainly wrong.”
“You don’t like Verity, do you?” he said thoughtfully.
“I have no reason to do so,” Juliet replied coldly. And then, knowing that this would probably be construed as a piece of feminine spite, she wished she could have kept quiet.
“Well, of course it’s no business of mine how you get on with your family...”
“None at all,” Juliet agreed dryly.
“Except that I am hoping to become part of that family in the future.”
“Are you?” She was sufficiently interested to turn and look at him then. “You’re going to marry Verity, you mean?”
“I hope so.”
There was an awkward little pause. Then Juliet said, “I’m sorry if I implied criticism of my cousin. I certainly don’t want to do so to you, of all people. I’m not feeling too pleased with her at the moment, but the whole thing may be a case of misunderstanding—” she thought this handsome when she remembered some of the things Verity had said in the hotel bedroom in Singapore “—and I wouldn’t want to emphasize that just now. I hope you’re both—very happy.”
“Thank you. It isn’t absolutely settled yet—” Juliet wondered a little what could be delaying a decision “—but I hope we shall be announcing our engagement soon.”
No good to expect him to believe anything but Verity’s version of the situation, then! Oh, well—it didn’t really matter. In an hour or two she would be with Martin—and Max Ormathon would virtually have ceased to exist.
Determinedly Juliet directed the conversation into other channels. And by now the scenery was becoming a very demanding topic. They had left the plains some little while ago and, by a curiously circuitous route, were beginning to climb the lower slopes of the heavily wooded hills.
“Are these the Blue Mountains?” Juliet demanded eagerly.
“The foothills leading to them,” he amended. “When we’ve climbed considerably higher, you’ll be able to see the characteristic flat tops of the mountains, and the strange blue shade that the atmosphere gives them.”
“Really blue?” asked Juliet.
“Really blue,” he assured her. “More so on some days than on others, of course. I’ve never seen it anywhere else. I think you’ll like it.”
“I’m sure I shall. And I love the way all the trees seem to have kept their leaves, even though it’s wintertime. There’s nothing of the bareness that one associates with winter in the country at home.”
“That’s because nearly all the trees you see here are one or other of the many gums. They don’t lose their leaves at all. They shed their bark instead. Like that—” he indicated a cluster of trees that looked as though some mischievous boys had been peeling the bark from them.
“So if you see bare tree trunks, you know they are gum trees?”
“Unless it’s a very thorough job and extends over a great area. Then you know that a fire has passed that way,” he told her dryly.
“And does that often happen?”
“Much too often.”
“In this district?”
“It can happen in almost any open district, unfortunately. Sometimes through carelessness, but more often through the sheer heat of the sun acting on some odd piece of glass or an old tinder-dry tree.”
“It must be ... terrifying. The fires travel very rapidly over these great spaces, don’t they?”
“Yes. Particularly if there is a strong wind blowing.” He made a slight face, and Juliet thought he was recalling some unwelcome personal experience.
“Have you ever been in one?” she asked curiously.
“I’ve helped to fight one or two. The worst are the kind that travel over the treetops.”
“Over the treetops?” repeated Juliet in consternation.
“More or less.” He smiled slightly at her tone. “There are two kinds of bushfire. The kind that travels along the ground, consuming everything in its path, but traveling at a manageable pace usually, if one gets fair warning. Then there’s the kind that catches the tops of the trees and scrub. That fairly whips along, not pausing to consume everything underneath, but just leaping from tree to tree, with sparks and odd bits of burning twig dropping along the path and setting fresh fires going. That’s almost impossible to deal with, so long as it’s raging in a heavily wooded area.”
“And is there any possibility of escape if one is caught in one?” Juliet asked fearfully.
“Not to outdistance it, if that’s what you mean. But people have been known to escape by taking shelter in a stream, particularly if it happens to run through a deep gully. Then the fire literally passes over them.”
“But what a frightful experience!”
“Pretty unpleasant,” he agreed, with considerab
le understatement.
“Did you ever know anyone to whom it happened?” She was passionately eager for every personal detail of this new and unknown life.
For answer he smiled and, taking one strong brown hand off the wheel of the car, he held it out, palm downward, for her to see. All along the back ran a smooth, irregular white scar that continued over the wrist and apparently beyond where the edge of his coat sleeve hid it.
“That’s a reminder of such an occasion,” he told her.
“It happened to you!” She looked at him with such a mixture of horror and respect that he laughed aloud—a thing she had never heard him do before.
“Cheer up! It was twenty years ago,” he assured her amusedly, “when I was a schoolboy. The warning system is better nowadays.” And then he changed the subject and pointed to their left. “There—what do you think of that?”
The ground fell away at this point, and as he drew the car to a standstill Juliet was able to gaze in wonder and delight across a great valley—almost a chasm—to the towering, flat-topped mountains that held in the depths of their shadows an unmistakable shade of misty, purplish blue.
“How wonderful!” Juliet said on a long breath of admiration and satisfaction. For it was amid scenes of such beauty that she would now be living.
“You’ll have plenty of views like that as we climb,” he promised.
And sure enough, during the final hour’s drive before they came to Katoomba, Juliet was able to drink her fill of mountain views and clear, sweet air, and a range of beauty that was exhilarating and uplifting in its completeness.
At Katoomba they lunched in the surprisingly good hotel that stood on a slope overlooking the wandering, hilly, rather raw township. And here again—particularly from the rooftop where they were invited to go—they were able to look across the wonderfully wooded valley to the three curious peaks known as The Three Sisters, and the beautiful Leura Falls.
It was Max who finally said, “I think we should be pushing on now.”
And then Juliet remembered that she was actually only an hour or two’s drive from Martin, and she wondered how she could have lingered, even for the most beautiful views in the world.
“Oh, yes! Let’s go,” she agreed eagerly.
And he smiled slightly and asked, “How long is it since you saw your fiancé?”
“Just over a year. And now I can hardly wait,” she admitted with a laugh and a quick flush.
Max Ormathon had not struck Juliet as an imaginative man, but he seemed to understand that during the last hour of the drive her thoughts were sufficient for her, without the necessity of talking. At any rate, he made no attempt at conversation. He just drove steadily onward, leaving her free to luxuriate in the fact that her long, long journey was almost over, and it was to end in the traditional “lovers’ meeting.”
Juliet was almost supremely happy in that last hour. All the troubles and anxieties that had beset her at various points during the journey from England seemed so many pinpricks now. In an hour—half an hour—quarter of an hour—she would be with Martin and what else mattered? The future seemed as clear and bright as the mountain air around her, and she could not imagine now why she had worried, even over that horrid incident with Aunt Katherine and the check.
They were coming to the lower slopes of the mountains again now, and every time they approached one of the small townships that dotted their path, Juliet looked at the wooden, verandaed houses and the straggling main street of very new, bright shops, and thought, with beating heart, Is this it? Is this my new home?
She felt she could hardly wait now to be with someone who knew her, someone to whom she was really close in thought and feeling. Not since her mother died had she known the supreme mental and spiritual comfort of being with someone who was part of her life. She had been among strangers—albeit sometimes kind strangers—and she was in a strange land. But now she would be with Martin, and the dear familiarity of his presence would make everything else familiar, too.
She smiled at her own thoughts. And as she did so, Max spoke at last.
“Feeling happy?” he asked, apparently in comment on her smile.
“Yes. I feel wonderful! ”
“Good.” That rather grim line of his mouth relaxed into something faintly indulgent. “I imagine your—Martin, isn’t it—is feeling much the same.”
“I expect so. I sent him a wire from Sydney last night, so that he’d know roughly when to expect me.”
“Well, that’s Tyrville just below us, so you haven’t long to wait now.”
Juliet stared unbelievingly at the pretty little township in the valley, and ridiculously she felt the tears come into her eyes.
Martin is there, she thought. One of those red or green roofs is his—wilt he mine. And when, five minutes later, they drove along the tree-bordered main street, she thought, I’ve come home.
“What did you say the address was?”
She told him, though she was herself eagerly looking from side to side, trying.to catch sight of the familiar name that she had written so often on letters during the past year.
“There it is!” they exclaimed together, and he turned the car down the short street, which had pretty, unpretentious wooden bungalows on either side.
“Here you are—number ten.” He stopped the car.
“Oh, thank you so much! And thank you for bringing me.” She turned and held out her hand to him. “Goodbye.”
“Well, I think I’ll wait and see you safely received,” he replied amusedly.
“No—there’s no need.” Nervousness and excitement lent a sudden impatience to her tone. “He’ll be waiting for me...” She cast a glance at the house as she spoke, because she felt Martin might come running out at any moment, and she had no wish for their first rapturous meeting to take place under the faintly cynical observation of Max Ormathon. “And even if he isn’t home, I can wait. Please don’t bother to wait.”
“I’m sorry, my dear. I shouldn’t be carrying out my promise to your uncle if I didn’t see you safely handed over to your fiancé.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” she cried impatiently. “I’m not a parcel of jewelry.”
“You have a certain value nevertheless,” he replied, with that characteristic air of amusement deepening. “Run along, there’s a good child. I’ll look the other way, if you like.”
And, since there was nothing else to be done, and it would be ridiculous to prolong the argument, Juliet jumped out of the car and ran up the short path to the bungalow.
Her hand trembled as she knocked, and her heart began to beat heavily as she heard footsteps approaching.
But they were not Martin’s footsteps, and the door was opened by a woman Juliet recognized immediately as his landlady, from the description he had given of her in one of his earlier letters.
“Good afternoon...” Juliet’s voice sounded shallow and faintly breathless and not much like her usual voice. “Is Mr. Eland in?”
“No. I’m afraid he’s away.” For a moment the woman looked at her with the oddest expression. An expression in which embarrassment and curiosity and—yes, a sort of pity—were mingled. Then she added, as though she knew only one way of carrying out an unpleasant task, “He’s away on his honeymoon. Went two weeks ago. I guess you’re his girl from back home, aren’t you?”
CHAPTER FOUR
For a moment Juliet thought she would faint. She told herself that what this woman had just said could not possibly mean what those words had always meant before. There was some terrible, monstrous mistake somewhere. Or else she was dreaming and would wake up presently in her bed, at home in London.
But, at the thought of that distant, safe place of her own—now lost forever—Juliet felt as though an icy breath of reality pierced mists of illusion that had clung to her for weeks.
This was no dream, after all, no mistake, no fantastic situation from which there would be some equally fantastic but easy escape. She was right in the midst of
a real and dreadful problem. One with which she must deal—alone, and at once.
“I don’t think ... I quite ... understand you,” she said faintly at last. “We can’t be speaking of the same person.”
But she knew they were, and the woman at the door quickly dispelled any doubt on that point.
“Oh, yes,” she insisted, embarrassed but firm. “Martin Eland. I knew just as soon as your telegram came, of course, that you couldn’t have got his letter explaining things.”
Even at that moment, in the depths of her despair, Juliet felt her pride revolt at the thought that this perfect stranger apparently knew so much more about her affairs—and Martin’s—than she did herself. But she swallowed her pride, and when the woman said, not unkindly, “Would you like to come in,” she was about to step over the threshold when suddenly she remembered her luggage, left behind in the car—and then Max Ormathon—and then, inevitably, the larger aspect of her own appalling situation.
As that particular chasm seemed to yawn in front of her, again Juliet experienced a wave of sick faintness. But again she fought it down.
“Would you—wait just a minute, please.”
She turned and went rather slowly out to the car once more. Max was still at the wheel, apparently a good deal occupied with a group of children who were playing on the veranda of one of the bungalows opposite. As she came up to the car, however, he turned his head and then made to get out.
“Hello. Shall I bring up the luggage for you?”
“No—wait a moment...” She put out a hand to stop him, and as she did so, she stared at him with more shocked misery in her eyes that she knew. “Could you please wait just a little while? Something has—happened, and I want to hear about it.”
In spite of the detaining hand, he got out of the car, and stood looking down at her. Big, dominating and somehow faintly consoling.
“What’s the matter, my dear? Has there been some sort of accident?”
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