Over the Blue Mountains

by Mary Burchell

  Why here, she thought angrily and with pain. Why here, in Max’s wonderful garden and with him beside me?

  And, as she raised her eyes and looked at him, she knew. Because Verity loved him and he belonged to her, and because, in that moment, Verity’s full possession of him trembled in the balance. Max himself probably hardly knew how he was looking at her, Juliet thought. Something has stirred deep down within him—and it was for her to put it to sleep again, whatever the effort might cost her.

  “Martin more or less asked me that before I left Borralung,” she said slowly. “And I told him I thought... yes.”

  “Then you love him after all—in spite of all that happened in between, I mean?”

  She thought of Martin lying in bed in the hospital—alone, bereft, needing her. And she thought of all the long, lonely hours for her, when Max had entirely disappeared from her life, if she had nothing and no one with which to fill the gap.

  “Yes,” she said, still speaking in that slow deliberate way. “I am fond—I love him still, in spite of everything.”

  “Lucky man,” Max said lightly. “Come and look at our silver wattles, Juliet, and tell me if you don’t think them almost as fine as the ones in the Morialta Reserve.”

  So she came with him and looked at the silver wattles and pretended to be interested in their triumphant equality with the “show” specimens they had seen the morning they visited the Falls. And all the time she was thinking, Why was I quite so categorical? Why did I have to make it sound as though everything were more or less settled? Now he will think of me only as Martin’s fiancée again.

  And though undoubtedly that was all to the good in the present circumstances, she could not make herself believe that she was glad of it.

  “Where is Verity?” she said at last, feeling that even the mention of her cousin’s name might give a salutary reserve to her feelings and conversation.

  “Indoors, writing letters.” He sighed a little impatiently. “I’ve never known Verity to write so many letters as she has since she came here.”

  “She’s probably catching up on all those she had no time to write when she was in Bathurst,” Juliet suggested practically.

  “I suppose so,” he agreed rather moodily.

  And then Juliet created a diversion by pointing away to some distant slopes heavily planted with some leafy growth in geometrically level formation.

  “What are those, Max? Away on the left there. I’ve been trying to identify them.”

  He followed her glance and smiled. “Those are grape vines, Juliet. We have one of the wine-growing centers of Australia right here, and the interesting thing is that it was founded by an act of philanthropy.”

  “Tell me.” She was pleased to see him smiling and interested again and realized, by contrast, how somber he had been looking before.

  “Why, some time in the thirties of the last century, at the time when this part of the country was first being settled, a wealthy Northumbrian by the name of Angas—George Fife Angas—interested himself in emigration to these parts. I suppose he originally thought in terms of British emigrants only. But at that time considerable persecution of certain sections of the Lutheran church was taking place in Prussia, and one enterprising pastor went to London and asked for help from Mr. Angas. His sympathies were so completely captured that he not only supported these people in their request to be allowed to leave their country and go overseas to the new colony of South Australia, he actually paid for the transportation and settlement of the first two hundred himself.”

  “But did he emigrate, too?”

  “Eventually he did. But his first generous gesture founded a settlement of German emigrants who brought with them the knowledge of the wine-growing industry of their own country, and this part of Australia has never ceased to benefit from it.”

  “I hope he has a monument,” exclaimed Juliet warmly.

  “Better than that.” Max laughed. “Angastown is named after him or his family. As a matter of fact, the family still have a very beautiful place not forty miles from here. They are charming people. I expect you will meet—”

  He stopped suddenly. Because, of course, it would not be Juliet who would be meeting any of the families around. It would be Verity—who probably cared nothing for these stories that fascinated and delighted Juliet. For her there was no romance in a country where history and the events of everyday were still so closely intertwined.

  “You must tell Verity that story,” Juliet said firmly.

  “Yes,” Max agreed. But both of them knew that he would not. For what point was there in telling stories to someone who was not interested?

  Not that Verity made no effort to adapt herself to what would be her future life. Within the limits of her disposition, she did her best, Juliet saw. But for too long she had been wont to have what she wanted or else to make herself unpleasant until she did have it. It was singularly difficult for her now to make the best of a situation that contained several elements that displeased her, and more than once Juliet remembered Penelope’s singularly shrewd words: “Can you really see her making herself happy and contented on a country estate?”

  Once or twice Juliet had the impression that Verity wanted to talk to her, but, of course, they had never been close to each other, in the sense that Juliet and Penelope were, and it was difficult to know how to encourage any confidence. If, indeed, it would even be wise to do so.

  In the spell of slightly cooler weather, which they had while they were staying there, Max took the girls out in the car and showed them something of the surrounding countryside. Country so singularly like the north of England that Juliet could not help feeling that the Mr. Angas of the delightful emigration story must have felt very much at home when he finally reached his chosen spot on the other side of the world.

  Verity displayed a certain amount of interest. But Juliet, to whom everything was new and exciting and delightful, could not help feeling that her enthusiasm fell a good deal short of what it might have been.

  One evening, when they had returned from one of these expeditions, Max was called out almost immediately to attend to some matter on the estate and the two girls were left alone together. They were not on terms where they could be companionably silent together and, feeling that what they had just seen formed the most obvious topic of conversation, Juliet said, “This is a lovely part of the country, Verity. I expect you will grow really fond of it after a while.”

  “I don’t like living in the country,” Verity replied flatly. “I’d rather live in town.”

  “But if one has to make the best of it...”

  “Oh, yes.” Verity shrugged impatiently. “I’ll make the best of it, I suppose.”

  This sounded so extraordinarily unpromising for a young bride-to-be considering her new home that Juliet looked slightly put out.

  “Verity, can’t you manage something a little better than mere resignation?” she said tentatively. “You simply couldn’t have a more beautiful home of its kind.”

  “It doesn’t happen to be the kind I like.”

  “But you knew you would live somewhere like this when you agreed to marry Max, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Don’t look so shocked and worried, Juliet. I’ll do the best I can, and give Max a—a perfectly fair deal. Only, since we’re on our own and letting down our hair, I almost hate it here.”

  “But you can’t hate it,” Juliet protested in genuine distress. “You can’t use a word like ‘hate’ in connection with anything so essentially beautiful.”

  “Don’t be sentimental,” retorted Verity a little scornfully. “Be realistic for once. I don’t say that I shall ever let Max know that I hate it. But I do. It’s almost a relief to say so to someone, and I suppose you’re as safe a person to choose as any.”

  “Well—well, yes,” Juliet agreed rather helplessly. “If by that you mean that you suppose I have the sense and decency to keep it to myself.”

  “That’s what I mean
,” Verity said with a slight, grim smile.

  “But, Verity, haven’t you any—any affection for the place simply because it is Max’s home?”

  “No. My mind doesn’t work that way. I tell you—I’m not sentimental, and you are.”

  “Well, then,” Juliet said slowly, “I suppose you think it’s sentimental to have some regard for the old saying that home is where the heart is?”

  Verity made a slight face, almost as though something hurt her.

  “Yes,” she said shortly, “I think that’s sentimental, too. But it’s one of those sentimental sayings which have an inconvenient grain of truth in them. I suppose one can be happy almost anywhere if the one person who matters is there.”

  “You see!” cried Juliet triumphantly. “You know that is basically, fundamentally true. Only one has to make some effort about it, too, otherwise—”

  “Well, I’ve made some effort, haven’t I?” Verity cut in impatiently. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the past week?”

  “I’m—sorry. I must sound so smug and certain. I’m not, really. But I honestly want Max and you to be happy. To tell you the truth, Verity, I did you a considerable injustice in the beginning. I was nearly sure you didn’t care about Max at all—only about the position he could give you. But, now that I know you do—”

  “How do you know?” asked Verity with genuine curiosity.

  “From the way you reacted the day of the fire.”

  “O-oh, I see. Well, go on.”

  “I don’t think I’ve anything else to say,” Juliet declared. “What I was really meaning was that if you didn’t love Max and didn’t want to live on a country estate, you couldn’t either of you be anything but miserable in the long run, however much you valued the money and social position he could give you. But since you do love him—”

  “Oh, Juliet, is that really the magic touch that changes everything in your opinion?” Verity looked at her cousin, amused, exasperated and yet with an almost desperate question in her eyes.

  “Why—yes,” Juliet said slowly. “I don’t see how any other single element can be half so important. But one has to let it have its effect, Verity. I mean—you can’t keep the two things apart. You can’t just say ‘I love Max, but I hate the house and the way I shall have to live when I’m married to him.’ ”

  “What,” inquired Verity a little contemptuously, “do you suggest I should say, then?”

  “Well, I suppose—something more like—‘I love Max, so that anything to do with him must have a special meaning and value for me. This is his house, the place where he was born. In a way it is part of him and he loves it passionately. I can never be indifferent to it—’ ”

  She stopped suddenly and passed her hand nervously over her hair.

  “You said that,” Verity told her quietly, “as though you meant it.”

  “No, I—” Juliet gave a nervous little laugh “—I was only suggesting the way you might look at the situation. If you start from the essential fact that you love Max—”

  “Stop repeating that!” exclaimed Verity suddenly in uncontrollable, nervous agitation. “I don’t love him. What about that?”

  Juliet stared at her in stupefaction.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said at last. “You’ve quarreled or something and feel badly about him for the moment.”

  “Oh, no. Sometimes I wish I could quarrel with him. It would be so much simpler.”

  “But, my dear, think what it means to you if he is in trouble or in danger. I’ll never forget you on the night of the fire. You moved and spoke and looked like someone whose whole happiness was in danger. You can’t pretend now that he doesn’t really mean much to you.”

  “Oh, Juliet!” Verity laughed impatiently. “How can you see so much so clearly, and yet be stupid enough to be blind to the one essential fact. It wasn’t for Max that I was tearing myself to pieces. It was for Elmer. I hardly gave a thought to Max. I knew he would be all right—he always is. It’s Elmer I’ve loved almost from the first moment I knew him.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Juliet sat down slowly and regarded her cousin in silent amazement.

  But the amazement was not all for Verity. Some of it was for herself. For how, as Verity said, could she possibly have missed the one essential fact about her—the circumstance that had altered Verity so inexplicably and been at the root of almost everything she had done during the past few weeks?

  “I can’t imagine,” Juliet said at last, “how I have been so incredibly dense.”

  And at that Verity laughed in a slightly shaken way, and the tension relaxed.

  “Of course—that’s why you were so changed.”

  “Was I so changed?” Verity looked at Juliet curiously. “For the better, I hope.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. You were like a different person. Like someone who had learned what living and loving meant and—I’m sorry, Verity. That sounds ridiculously critical of you as you were before. But you’re so much nicer now. I can’t help saying it.”

  “All right. I don’t see how I can quarrel with that,” Verity said dryly. “But, you see, I haven’t—improved so far that I’m willing to give up Max and all he means.”

  “But you say you love Elmer!” Juliet looked bewildered.

  “Of course. And I don’t take it back. But I don’t think he thinks of me as more than a charming friend.”

  “He thinks of you as Max’s fiancée. If you mean that he hasn’t shown the least sign of being in love with you, the answer is—how could he? He’s a very decent fellow, I should say. Not at all the kind to poach on a friend’s preserves.”

  “Oh—” Verity gave a scornful shrug for what she obviously considered Juliet’s quixotic notions. “If he loved me he would let me know somehow.”

  “But, Verity, I don’t know that he would. In any case—” Juliet looked at her cousin in something like horror “—do you mean that you would actually go on with your marriage to Max, feeling as you do about another man?”

  “Of course. And I wouldn’t be the first girl—or the last—to take a very good social second-best and make a reasonably happy life out of it.”

  “I think it’s indecent even to talk so!” cried Juliet, with such passion that Verity looked startled as well as amused. “Don’t talk about my being sentimental because I think that being in love is the thing that matters most. I’m not such a fool as not to know that many people marry for less than love and make quite a good success of it. But to be deeply in love with one man and to talk about marrying another, all in the same breath, is—is immoral.”

  “But, Juliet, if I can’t have the man I do want...”

  “You’ll make do with someone else. I know, I know. All the arguments are so well-worn and so specious that I can recite them to you just as well as you can to me. But surely there should be a decent timing about these things, if nothing else? I suppose anyone can have the misfortune to lose the man she loves in one way or another, and after a time the loss grows less and perhaps she makes a happy life with someone else. But it’s the deliberate calculation of what you suggest. You must see that it’s dreadful, Verity.”

  “How long,” asked Verity deliberately, “do you intend to give yourself to get over Max before you decide to marry Martin?”

  Juliet passed the tip of her tongue over suddenly dry lips. “What ... did you say?”

  “What you thought I said.”

  Juliet stared away out of the window and for a long time she was silent. Then at last she said, “Well, I suppose I deserved that. How did you know?”

  “About Max, you mean? Oh, I don’t know. I imagine you had a weakness for him from the beginning...”

  “No. That isn’t true. You had no reason to be jealous of me on the journey out.”

  “Is that so? Well, I take your word for that now, though I wouldn’t have then. But after he brought you to Melbourne—oh, I couldn’t say when I became pretty certain. Since we’ve come here I haven’t
had much doubt. And when you spoke just now of the way you thought I ought to argue myself into liking life here, you spoke in a way that could only mean that you loved him yourself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? You don’t owe me any apology. On the contrary, I suppose I owe you one for taking the man you want. But he isn’t interested in you romantically,” Verity added, with careless candor.

  Juliet thought of the way he had looked at her that evening in the garden. But that had been a hint of what might have been, rather than what was. And so, after a moment, she said,

  “I know.”

  “So that eventually you will make do with Martin?”

  “I don’t know about that. I told you—it’s only in time that one can judge whether one—recovers sufficiently. To think of someone else. Of course in Martin’s case there has been and always will be a sympathetic affection between us. Maybe that will prove enough. I just don’t know. And to try to work out something deliberate at the moment would be...”

  “Indecent?” inquired Verity amusedly, quoting back Juliet’s own words.

  “Well, at least it’s something I must leave to the future. The unforeseeable future,” she added rather somberly.

  “But, meanwhile, you still want to argue me out of my engagement to Max.”

  “Oh,” Juliet cried, “I can’t argue about that objectively anymore. You’ve put into words something I tried hard not to admit even to myself. But, now it’s been said, I no longer have the right to say what should or should not be done about Max. You know. Don’t tell me that you don’t know in your heart what is right and wrong about these things. But there’s nothing more I can say about it. And anyway—” her voice took on a note of alarm “—I think I hear him coming. For heaven’s sake don’t let’s say any more.”

  “Well, perhaps we have said enough,” Verity agreed, and her tone was such that Juliet longed to ask her what she meant.