CHAPTER XIX.

Bulinda Creek once more—Mat again asks Tabor’s advice—The parson “on matrimony”—Annie’s little arbour.

Many weeks again passed over, and once again the travellers reined up at Bulinda Creek, travel-stained and weary, but otherwise as well as when they had quitted that station.

They arrived during the night, whilst all the inmates were asleep, so turned out their horses, and retired to their quarters.

Mat was up and out again by daylight, and, seeing no one about, thought that he would stroll down and look at Annie’s garden, but early as he was he found by the tracks that some one had preceded him, and passing through the little gate, he came face to face with Tabor.

“Why, Mat, I _am_ right glad to see you,” was the cheery greeting as he grasped his hand; “I guessed it was you last night when I heard the horses. I have been doing a bit of weeding and looking after Annie’s plants, for she says that her gardener is away, and that the whole place is going to ruin.”

Mat longed to ask about her, anything and everything, but he controlled his impatience until an opportunity should arise.

“Let us sit in the arbour whilst I rest my old back,” said the parson, “and you can tell me of your travels until breakfast-time.”

Mat was only too pleased to have a quiet chat with his good old friend, but the account of his late overland journey gradually drifted into questioning Tabor concerning events which had taken place at Bulinda during his absence; from this he led up to talking of the family, and eventually said,—

“Mr. Tabor, I must tell you now of what passed between the squire and me after I had been to consult you once,” and having detailed the conversation that had taken place, Mat continued,—

“And now, sir, tell me, am I wrong in presuming to think of asking Miss Bell to be my wife? And please give me your opinion about marriage generally; it may seem a strange question, but I never _could_ and I never _would_ ask any one but yourself.”

His companion sat with face hidden in his hands, and head bowed in deep thought for several minutes, without opening his lips; then, raising himself, he faced round so as to meet Mat’s gaze, and at length thus spoke Tabor, the oracle,—

“My lad, as you tell me that you have appealed to the squire, who has never said a word to me on the subject, and that on the whole he was not unfavourable to you as a possible suitor for the hand of Annie, I may now advise you according to my lights; at the same time I warn you not to raise your hopes through any words that may drop from my lips; for though I do not mix myself up in these matters, I cannot have failed to notice the great attention that has been paid to Annie during your absence, upon the few occasions on which I have accompanied her and her parents to Sydney.

“First you ask my opinion as to your _presuming_ to the hand of Miss Bell.

“This question I will at once dismiss by saying that I think you may, for whatever the difference in your respective stations may have been at home, _here_, circumstances have brought you on more level terms,—and if I may so express it without violating family secrets, for it _is_ no secret, though not a matter to be proclaimed from the house-tops,—Mrs. Bell’s father was master of a small collier, in fact a very small collier or barge, with which he navigated the canals; a very worthy man, for I happen to have known him personally.

“From what you have told me of your father as chief of his clan, so I understood, I fail to see a very great difference between the respective stations of these two men.

“Mind you, Mat, gipsies have _not_ got a very good name in the old country, chiefly from their habits of poaching, I suspect.

“I have no doubt you were a sad poacher,” added the parson, with a sly smile.

Mat shook his head, and laughed.

“However that may have been, there is not much encouragement for the same line of business in this country; but I am wandering.

“Your other question is a solemn one. I have never been asked it before. A dissertation upon marriage embraces many wide and different questions and arguments; and if you asked fifty men, and they answered you truthfully, you would probably get about fifty different statements or ideas.

“However, I will answer you to the best of my ability, drawing my experience from the lives of many good, true, and loyal friends of mine, and—I will give you my own experience, for I am a widower, Mat.”

The parson paused, and seemed to be revolving thoughts of long ago in his mind.

At length, he resumed,—

“Courtship and married life _usually_, mind I say _usually_, resolve themselves into _three_ phases, or, as you will understand the expression better, three _periods_.

“The first is the young lover, who once having gained the affections of a girl, thinks that there can be no other like her in all the world. _He_ sees not the imperfections in her that others do; she must have faults, who has not? but _his_ goddess is absolutely without _one_ fault in his eyes, and who would dare to tell him that she is not perfect? Certainly not _his_ friends, or _her_ friends; more especially not those women who, fancying that the young people are suited to each other in the main points of character—in a case which we may _suppose_—urge on the courtship by many little innocent devices. Thus these perfect beings, for the man has equally no fault in the eyes of the girl who has chosen him—are brought up or rather carried along in an atmosphere of mutual bliss and affection. Then follows the marriage. So far the first period.

“Now the second is like unto it, excepting that after the honeymoon—yes, usually _after_ that term of bliss—during the first months of married life _he_ has sobered down a bit, _she_ is much the same, and expects the same ardent attentions as she received during courtship; _he_, though just as fond of the girl as his wife, thinks a little more of himself, is more selfish—how shall I put it?—perhaps now and then absents himself for the whole of the day; if in the country, it may be for purposes of sport; if in town, he may remember that he has neglected his club of late, and, rejoining his companions there, returns home somewhat later than his wife thinks there is occasion for.

“In this conduct the wife sees a change, considers herself neglected; and her spouse, for not quite the first time, notices upon his return home, a little ‘mou’ in her mouth.

“The fact is that the man before he met this woman was perfectly free in all his works and ways, was selfish—that is, regarded his own interests _solely_—he now finds that he has surrendered his liberty, this he never foresaw, or never dwelt upon during the intoxication of courtship.

“Granting that they are people imbued with common sense, they soon find that they must give in to each other a little if they wish to live happily together.

“Let us suppose, in the case we are picturing, that they _have_ succeeded in giving way to each other, the years then roll on to the—

“Third period.—A new feeling has been springing up between them, a _better_ feeling, a better understanding exists, there is more _real_ reliance upon each other than ever truly took place during the days of courtship. That long past event _he_ never regrets, though perhaps sometimes the thought has crossed his mind for a brief instant that when he lost his heart he lost his head too; but _now_ he feels that he has gained a faithful and gentle companion, who has helped to render _him_ more gentle, and to think more of others, and, we will hope, Mat, to help him to think and to _know_ that there is a world beyond this, where ‘they two may meet again.’”

The parson stopped, and fixed his honest, grey eyes on Mat, who, however, was lost in thought, and did not respond.

Presently he resumed,—

“And now, my boy, I have, as you see, pictured a case where they lived happy ever afterwards, Mat, I have told you _my own experience_, and though, if it were necessary, I could tell you of many matrimonial careers, where the ending has _not_ been as related in various fairy tales, yet believe me that _my_ picture, the one I now tell you of, is drawn from _my_ life, my very own. And before I quit the subject I will give you a theory of mine which I stand by, and against which I am positive there are few exceptions, and that is, that in ninety-nine cases out of every hundred, when two young people are thrown together for any length of time into each other’s society, it invariably ends by their feeling that they are necessary to each other, that they cannot part, that they are, in fact, what is generally understood as being in love with each other.

“My boy, I have given you a long enough sermon, but I am inclined to give you one or two more of my ‘notions,’ as I find you such a patient member; these ideas I likewise stand by, and have given forth publicly, and by so doing I am aware that I have made many enemies.

“I have tried hard to preach down the frightful expenditure of money that is spent when people marry; the parents and the young heads forgetting how useful that money would be in after years; and, turning to a very different subject, but one that must come to the minds of all men, I have the same ‘down’ on the hundreds of pounds which I have seen squandered on a funeral.

“In conclusion, to sum up, I have long thought that Annie is one of the sweetest and frankest girls I ever met. I have seen her temper severely tried many times by one who should have been the last to so test her, and though she was not aware that I was looking at her, I never saw that ‘mou’ in her mouth of which I have spoken, but always a bright smile on her face.

“And though I am sure it will make you jealous,” added Tabor with a smile, “I have been in love with her myself ever since I first knew her. As for her faults, I have yet to learn them; though I once overheard a prattling old woman say that ‘she has no character.’ You need not start, Mat, I will explain another time what that means; suffice it that for the present you may bear in mind that a woman with a great deal of ‘character’ very often means with a great deal of _temper_.

“As for you, Mat, well, you are not a bad fellow; so now let us go in to breakfast, unless you wish to continue pondering, and—God bless you!”

The parson got up, and walked towards the house; not so Mat; he remained sitting in the arbour, and puzzling over what he had heard; as for breakfast, it never entered his head; but let us follow his train of thoughts as he sat on that wooden bench.

“Tabor is a good man and speaks out; ain’t afraid of his opinions; what a lot he knows! I don’t believe he ever _was_ selfish, not he. I’m glad now I didn’t have my name put down for that club when they wanted me to in Sydney; but if _she_ would have me; I don’t believe she would mind; well, I’d be sure to be away all day amongst the cattle, but I don’t think when I came back she’d have a—what did the parson call it?—a ‘mou’ in her mouth; no, I never saw any sulks in her sweet mouth. No, before I go in, I will try and reason all the parson’s words out, and I’ll talk to my lock of golden hair, first.”

Mat’s hand stole into his breast, and, drawing forth a small leathern pouch, he took out of it a little lock of dark auburn hair, which he was in the act of reverently placing to his lips, when a light step sounded under the heavy creepers, which, twining their tendrils together, almost covered the entrance to the arbour, and, looking up, his eyes encountered those of Annie.

Mat sprang up, blushing to the roots of his hair, and in the first moment of surprise attempted to return his keepsake to his breast.

Annie was equally unnerved at thus unexpectedly finding Mat in her arbour, but was the first to find her tongue.

“I _am_ so glad that you have all come home safely,” she said; “but, Mat, we have all had breakfast; Tom is still asleep, I thought that you were too. I—”

But Annie saw when she had got thus far, that Mat’s thoughts were not of breakfast, and something in his look caused her to stop. This little speech had given him time to recover himself.

“Annie,” said our hero softly, as his dark eyes looked into hers, “come and sit down, and let me tell you my story in your own arbour,” and gently leading the unresisting girl by the hand, he placed her on the rustic seat which he had just vacated.

“My story is not long,” he pleaded, “but oh, listen to it patiently; and honestly will I lay my thoughts and feelings before you.”

Here Mat came to a pause, for both thoughts and feelings were so surging through his brain, that for a moment he was at a loss how to proceed, but only for one brief moment; for suddenly taking up the lock of Annie’s hair, he placed it in her lap.

Annie was not looking at him, but gazing out far away, with a soft, dreamy look towards the distant blue hills which could be seen through an opening in the creepers. Encouraged by something he saw in her face, our forester proceeded,—

“Annie, when you were a little girl, and I was a rough lad, you gave me a little book which I showed you the other day; _you_ thought nothing of this; I did. I kept it through all my wanderings, as sacredly as I did my old mother’s Bible, and I confess looked at it a great deal more than my Bible. I escaped to Sydney, and saw you again. I _thought_ of you in the wild bush, I have _loved_ you here at the ‘Creek,’ and I have felt a better man since. Annie, will you take the forest gipsy as your husband; to help you, to love and honour you as he always has loved and honoured you? I cannot say more, except, _forgive me_.” And as he concluded the last sentence, in tender, faltering tones, Mat fell on one knee, and buried his face in Annie’s lap.

A few more moments passed of perfect silence, broken only by the chirruping of the tree-crickets around them, when Mat felt the touch of a gentle hand on his head, and the sweet breath of the girl as she whispered in his ear,—

“Dear Mat, I have nothing to forgive; let us go home; let me go to father.”

Two minutes later, and Annie was telling her story, interrupted by little sobs, on the breast of her father. That worthy man told her that he had been searching for Mat all the morning, and had then applied to Tabor to help him. “And what do you think the parson said?” he continued. “Why he answered me quite rudely, said that Mat might be engaged—or asleep; better not be disturbed, and that he, Tabor, could not be bothered looking for him, as his back ached from weeding the garden, and that I might send Annie to fetch a pruning-knife which he had left in her arbour, ‘to save his old legs’—old legs indeed!—artful old chap!

“And then, lassie, I looked for you. Couldn’t find you amongst your poultry; had not even visited ‘Robin Hood,’ as you do every morning; so I came back here, and here you are.

“And to think that that rascal, Mat, had not even had his breakfast, bless my soul! In my time, we managed these little affairs much more conveniently.

“But seriously, child, I am glad, relieved, that now, and afterwards, when I am gone, I can leave my little girl to the care of as honourable a man as ever trod forest heather or Australian bush.”