CHAPTER V.

AN AUSTRALIAN GIRL.

"Charming, no doubt, her face is fair. As dark as night, her curling hair, Her eyes--two stars, her lips--a rose, Whoever saw a prettier nose? Charming indeed,--but Fate to vex, Has given her faults like all her sex, Believe me, she's not worth regret, She'll break your heart, the vain coquette."

What a number of charming old romances begin at an inn. Did not M. Gil Blas commence his adventurous career by being swindled in one? and Don Quixote, blinded by fanatic chivalry, mistake the inns for mediæval castles? Tom Jones became involved in a network of intrigue at a hostelry; the heroes of Dumas invariably meet their enemies of King and Cardinal at the same place, while Boccaccio generally brings about the complications of gallant and donzella at some gay Florentine "osteria." Without doubt all the elements of romance are to be found at these resting places of man and beast; and the most incongruous characters, the most dissimilar ranks of society's adventurers, gallants, priests, bona robas and virtuous ladies all pass and repass, enter and exeunt, under the hospitable signs of inns.

Birds of passage rest momentarily at inns before continuing their flight to the four quarters of the world, and during such rest meet other birds of passage with sometimes curious results. Mr. A, a gentleman of swallow-like tendencies, on his way to the warm south, may linger for a night at an hotel where Miss B, due in some northern latitude, is also resting, with the result that Mr. A will delay his flight for an indefinite period; nay more, the juxtaposition of the two may end in A and B both continuing their journey as man and wife, which is the termination of all romance. Strange that a chance meeting at a place of public resort should alter two lives, but then life is made up of strange events, and a good many people date their happiness or misery from an accidental meeting at an inn.

Gartney was letting his thoughts run on in this somewhat whimsical vein, as he smoked an after dinner cigarette over his coffee on the terrace at Villa Medici.

Before him, huge and indistinct, arose the grand façade of the hotel, glimmering whitely in the moonlight, with its innumerable windows, its broad arcade, and its myriad lamps shining brilliantly on groups of gaily-dressed people who strolled to and fro amongst the pink-blossomed oleanders, or sat chatting gaily round small marble-topped tables, where white-cravated waiters, lithe and active, attended to their wishes.

Beyond lay the lake, dark and solemn, under the shadow of the sombre mountains, at whose base gleamed orange-coloured points of light, telling of the presence of distant villages, while high above in the cold, blue sky, glowed the yellow orb of the moon and the glimmering stars. Through the leaves of sycamore, tamarisk, and magnolia sighed the soft breath of the night-wind, filling the air with cool odours, and the sound of music, rendered thin and fairy-like by distance, floated across the still waters from some slow-moving boat.

An historic place this Villa Medici, with its palatial halls, its innumerable chambers, and its stately flights of white-marble steps; for it was here that the great Emperor intended to rest for a time in his victorious career, an intention never carried out, although everything was prepared for his reception, and the hotel guests now dine in the small saloon hung round with yellow damask stamped with the imperial 'N' and kingly crown.

Then again it was here that unhappy Caroline of Brunswick, who became Queen of England in name only, kept her state as Princess of Wales, and tried to find in the calm seclusion of Como that peace denied to her in the land of her adoption. Ah, yes, the Villa Medici is connected with the lives of some great personages, but now that they all have vanished from the world's stage, whereon they played some curious parts, the Villa is turned into an hotel, and strangers from far America, and still further Australia, reside in the many chambers, and wander with delight through the enchanting gardens which Nature, aided by art, has made a paradise of beauty.

"Poor Caroline," murmured Gartney to himself, as he thought of all this, "no one has a good word to say for her, and yet, I daresay, she was a good deal better than the first gentleman in Europe. It was just as well she died, for George would never have given her any rights as queen-consort. No doubt she passed some of her happiest days here, although she always hankered after the forbidden glories of Windsor and Buckingham Palace."

His meditations were interrupted at this point by a gay laugh, and on looking up he saw Victoria Sheldon coming towards him escorted by the Master of Otterburn, who was evidently telling her some funny story, judging from the amusement his conversation seemed to afford her.

She was certainly a very pretty girl, one of those feminine beauties who strike the beholder at first sight with a sense of indescribable charm. A brilliantly tinted brunette, overflowing with exuberant vitality, she had all the intense colouring and freshness of a southern rose at that time when the cold rain draws its perfume strongly forth in the chill morning air.

Her eyes, hair, eyebrows and long lashes were dark as night; red as coral the lips, which when parted showed two rows of pearly teeth; full and soft the round of the cheeks, and a peach-like skin with a rosy glow of delicate colour under the velvety surface. She was the modern realization of that vivacious Julia whom Herrick describes so charmingly in his dainty poems. And as a matter of fact the skin of this young girl had all the brilliant colouring of the south, no doubt assimilated by her system under the sultry glow of Australian skies. Having an excellent figure, dainty hands and feet, with a perfect taste in dress, and boundless vivacity, there was no doubt that Victoria Sheldon was a feminine personality eminently attractive to the stronger sex.

As to her nature, it was quite in unison with her outward appearance--bright, sparkling, vivacious, albeit somewhat shallow, yet not without a certain veneer of surface knowledge. Eminently womanly, capricious in the extreme, witty, amusing, tireless, she had one of those attractive natures which charm everyone in a singularly magnetic fashion. Some men, eccentric in their likings, admire those semi-masculine women who have missions, support the rights of their sex on lecture platforms, emulate masculine peculiarities to the best of their abilities, and pass noisy lives in shrieking aimlessly against the tyranny of mankind. Those men who approved of such semi-masculine tendencies, certainly would not have admired the womanly characteristics of Victoria, but the connoisseur of feminine beauty, the judge of a brilliant personality, and the appreciator of a witty nature, would each see in her the realisation of an extremely difficult ideal.

The Master, young and rash, was just at that delightful age when every woman appears a goddess to the uncultured fancy of youth; judge then the effect produced upon his impressionable nature by this riant vision of strongly vitalised beauty. He did not even make an attempt at resistance in any way, but prone as god Dagon on the threshold of his temple, he fell before the powerful divinity of this young girl, and she produced on him the same effect as Phryne did on her judges when she displayed the full splendour of her charms in the Areopagus under the clear blue of Athenian skies. Mactab, severe, ascetic and self-mortifying, opposed to every form of admiration of the flesh, would have blushed for the grovelling idolatory of his quondam pupil; but no doubt the sunny climate of Italy aided in a great measure this worship of Venus, and Angus Macjean, Master of Otterburn, prostrated himself in abject worship before this outward manifestation of carnal beauty.

Eustace saw this, and was selfishly annoyed thereat, because he had taken a fancy to Otterburn, and thought that he (Otterburn) should agree with him (Eustace) in despising the sex feminine, which was foolish in the extreme on the part of such an acute observer of human nature; but then he was blinded by egotism, and that vice distorts every vision. Still he could not deny that physically she was wonderfully pretty, despite his feeling of animosity against her for coming between himself and his friend. Therefore he admired her greatly from an æsthetic point of view, while Victoria, with the keen instinct of a woman, scented an enemy and neither admired nor liked Eustace the cynic in the smallest degree.

"My dear Mr. Macjean," she said in answer to the remonstrances of Angus who wanted everyone to like his friend as much as he did himself. "Your friend is a pessimist, and I don't like that class of people; they always take a delight in analysing one's motives, which is disagreeable--to the person concerned. A flower is charming, but those who pull it to pieces in order to find out how it is made--are not. I don't like analysts--they destroy one's illusions."

This plain-spoken young lady's chaperone was enjoying an after-dinner nap; the Hon. Henry was talking Irish politics with an Irish M.P., who did not believe in Home Rule out of contradiction to the rest of his countrymen who did. So Victoria Sheldon, feeling in a most delightful humour, was chatting gaily with Otterburn, when they thus chanced on the melancholy Eustace, moralising on the mutability of human life.

"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Gartney," said Victoria, pausing before him with a gay smile on her lips.

"They're not worth it," replied Eustace, looking approvingly at the charming girl before him, in her dainty white dinner dress, with a bunch of vividly scarlet geraniums at her breast. "I'll sell them as bankrupt stock."

"Haw! haw! haw!" from the Master, who was in that pleasant frame of mind when everything seems to scintillate with wit--but then it was after dinner, and a pretty woman was at his elbow. Wine, wit, and feminine influence, really the worst-tempered man would feel pleasant with such a delightful trinity.

"My dear Master," said Eustace reprovingly, "your mirth is complimentary, but rather noisy--will you not be seated, Miss Sheldon?"

"Thank you," replied Victoria, sitting down in a chair under the shadow of a myrtle tree, the light from a distant lamp striking full on her piquant face. "I am rather tired."

"Of walking, or the Master?" asked the cynic gruffly.

She flashed a brilliant glance on him out of the dusky shadow, and spread her red feather fan with a grand wave of irresistible coquetry.

"Mr. Macjean," she said lightly as he sank into a chair opposite to her, and leaned his arms on the cold marble of the table, "What do you think?"

"Eh," observed the Master obtusely. "Oh, I think the same as you."

"Then," remarked Eustace, re-lighting his cigarette, "you cannot object to that diplomatic reply. Do you mind my smoking?'

"Not in the least. I hope Mr. Macjean will follow your example."

Mr. Macjean was only too happy to so far indulge himself. So the gentlemen sat and smoked with great enjoyment, while the feminine element of the party smiled serenely and impartially on both; smiles quite wasted on the misogamistic Eustace, but then Victoria, with that unerring instinct of coquetry implanted in every woman's breast, took a delight in behaving thus, simply because she saw Otterburn admired her. He on his part naturally began to grow jealous, and being without the self-control habitual to those who live long in society, would doubtless have shown his irritation very plainly, only Eustace, taking in at a glance the whole situation, and being by no means agreeable to gratifying Victoria's love of conquest, arrested the storm at once by beginning to talk with judicious diplomacy of the first thing that came into his mind.

"Tell me," he said, addressing himself to the volatile Victoria, "Do you not find our narrow English life somewhat irksome after the freedom of Australia?"

"Not so much as you would think," replied Miss Sheldon promptly, "for after all there is a good deal of similarity between home and the colonies."

"You still call England 'home,' I observe," said Eustace with a smile.

"We do, because most of the generation who emigrated are still alive, but even now the term is dying out, and in another fifty years I don't suppose will be in use."

"I should awfully like to go out to Australia," observed Otterburn languidly. "I'm sick of civilisation."

"Oh don't imagine you leave civilisation behind when you come out to us," retorted Victoria sharply, with rising colour, "that is a mistake many English people make. They think Australia is like the backwoods of America, but it's nothing of the sort. Melbourne is just as cultured and wealthy in its own way as London, with the additional advantage of having a better climate and being smaller."

"Do you think the latter quality an advantage then?" asked Gartney with ironical gravity.

"I should just think so, rather," said Miss Sheldon nodding her head emphatically. "London is a delightful place, I grant, but it's a terrible nuisance visiting your friends and going out to amusements."

"We have," observed the Master in an authoritative guidebook tone, "trains, tramways, carriages----"

"So have we--but even with them it takes a long time to get about London. We can get from one end of Melbourne to the other in a reasonable time, but it's like an African exploring expedition to start round London."

"London," remarked Eustace in a judicious manner, "is not one but several cities. There is the West End, which is devoted to wealth and pleasure, the East End, famous for work and poverty. The City of London proper, noted for its mercantile enterprise and its stock-broking fraternity, and finally the huge shipping town which forms the port of the Metropolis. Every person stays in the special city with which his business is connected, therefore there is no difficulty in getting about one's own particular local town, which is much smaller in the aggregate than Melbourne."

"I understand all that perfectly," replied Victoria, who had listened attentively, "but suppose you chose to live on the outskirts of London, so as to get a breath of country air. In that case if you want to go to a theatre you have to travel for over an hour to get to one."

"People who live as you say, are worshippers of Nature, and go to bed with the sun--they don't want the gas and glare of theatres."

"Oh, anyone can argue that way," said Victoria disdainfully, "so I have nothing to say in reply. Let us talk of something else."

"By all means--the weather."

"And the crops. No! I am not an agriculturist."

"Aunt Jelly," suggested Angus wickedly.

Miss Sheldon turned towards him with a mirthful smile in her bright eyes.

"What do you know of Aunt Jelly, Mr. Macjean?" she asked, putting her fan up to her lips to hide a laugh.

"I know nothing; absolutely nothing," he replied, with mock humility, "beyond the fact that Gartney and Errington have both mentioned her as an eccentric character, so I wish to know more about her."

If he did, his curiosity was not destined to be gratified at that moment, for, with the whimsical caprice of a woman, Victoria suddenly began to talk on quite a different subject, suggested by the casual mention of a name.

"Do you like Lady Errington?" she demanded, looking from one to the other.

"She is a very charming woman," said Eustace evasively. "She knows you, I believe."

"Slightly! I met her at Aunt Jelly's, when she called one day."

"And what is Aunt Jelly's opinion?"

The girl laughed, and then, composing her features into a kind of stern severity, spoke in a harsh, measured voice:

"Not what I approve of; limp! washed out, no backbone, but no doubt she'll make Guy a good wife. Not a hard thing for any woman to do seeing he's an idiot. So was his father before him, and he did not take after his mother, thank God."

"The voice is the voice of Miss Sheldon," murmured Eustace, delicately manipulating a cigarette, "but the sentiments are those of my beloved aunt."

"How mean you are," said Victoria, rewarding Otterburn with a bright look for having laughed at her mimicry. "I thought I did her voice to perfection.'

"Nothing but a saw-mill could do that," retorted the irreverent Eustace. "So that is Aunt Jelly's opinion. It isn't flattering."

"Neither is Aunt Jelly."

"I'm dying to know Aunt Jelly," declared Angus mirthfully, "she must be as good as a play."

"She is! tragedy."

"No! No! Miss Sheldon, excuse me, comedy."

"I should say burlesque, judging from your descriptions," said the Master, gaily. "How did you drop across her, Miss Sheldon?"

"I didn't drop across her," said Miss Sheldon, candidly, "she dropped across me. My father left me to her guardianship, and I was duly delivered in due course like a bale of goods."

"Why isn't Aunt Jelly fulfilling her guardianship by seeing you through the temptations of the Continent?" asked Eustace, severely.

"Oh, she placed me under the wing of Mrs. Trubbles."

"I'm glad she didn't place you under the eye of Mrs. Trubbles," observed Otterburn, with the brutal candour of youth, "because both her eyes are invariably closed."

"What a shame--I wonder where she is?"

"Asleep! don't disturb her," said Gartney, as Miss Sheldon arose to her feet. "Physicians all agree that sleep after dinner is most beneficial to people of the Trubbles calibre."

Victoria laughed at this remark, and as she showed a desire to stroll about, the gentlemen left their chairs and escorted her through the grounds, one on each side, the lady being thus happily placed between the sex masculine.

A good many of the promenaders had retired for the night, evidently worn out by the heat of the day; but some indefatigable pianist was still hard at work in the music saloon, and the steady rhythmic beat of the last new valse, "My heart is dead," sounded tenderly through the still night air, broken at intervals by the light laughter of young girls, the deeper tones of men's voices, and the melancholy sound of the waters washing against the stone masonry of the terrace. Beyond on the lake all was strange and mystical, filled with cold lights and shadows, vague and dreary under the gloom of the distant mountains; but here, by the garish lights of the hotel, the pulse of life was beating strongly, and the indescribable tone of idle frivolity seemed to clash with the silent solemnity of Nature.

Perhaps Eustace felt this incongruity as his eyes strayed towards the steel-coloured waters, for after a time the shallow conversation of Victoria jarred so painfully on his ears that with a hurried excuse he left the young couple to their own companionship, and wandered away alone into the fragrant darkness of the night.

"He's awfully fond of his own company," observed Victoria, indicating the departing Eustace. "Such a queer taste. I hate being left to myself."

"So do I," asserted Otterburn eagerly. "I always like to be with someone----"

"Of the opposite sex," finished Miss Sheldon, laughing. "Well, yes I women have always been my best friends."

"You answer at random."

"I dare say; one is incapable of concentrated thought on a perfect night."

"You are also growing poetical, then indeed it is time for a prosaic individual like myself to retire."

"No don't go yet, you can't sleep here if you go to bed early."

"Oh, that is your experience," said Miss Sheldon, as a bell from a distant campanile, showing white and slender against the sky, sounded the hour of nine o'clock. "Well, I'll stay for a few minutes longer, though I'm afraid Mrs. Trubbles will be dreadfully shocked."

They leaned over the iron balustrade of the terrace, and watched in charmed silence the dark waters rising and falling in the chill moonlight. The valse still sounded silvery in the distance, with its sad tone of regret and hopeless despair, and after a time Victoria began to hum the melancholy refrain in a low voice:

"My heart is dead, And pleasure hath fled, But the rose you gave me blooms fresh and red."

"What nonsense," she said contemptuously, breaking off suddenly. "I daresay the rose was quite withered, only his imagination saw it was blooming."

"Like his love for the girl."

"A bad shot, Mr. Macjean. How could it be so? His heart was dead, his pleasure fled, so under these discouraging circumstances the rose must certainly have been dead also."

"You said Gartney was cynical," said Angus slowly, "what about yourself?"

"What about myself," she repeated with a sigh, turning round and leaning lightly against the balustrade. "I'm sure I don't know. I've never thought about the subject. Very likely it's not worth thinking about."

"Believe me," began the young man earnestly, "you are----"

"Everything that's charming," interrupted Victoria, crossing her hands. "Do spare me any compliments, Mr. Macjean, I'm so tired of them. I wonder if you men think we women believe all the lies you tell us."

"But they're not lies."

"Not, perhaps, for the moment, but afterwards."

"Don't trouble about afterwards, the present is good enough for us."

He was getting on dangerous ground, for his voice was soft, and his young eyes flashed brightly on her face, so as Victoria had only known him twenty-four hours, even with her reckless daring of coquetry this was going too far, and with the utmost dexterity she changed the subject.

"By the way," she said lightly, "do you know I'm a relation of yours?"

"Impossible."

"Well, perhaps it is. Still you can judge for yourself. My mother's maiden name was Macjean."

"The dev--ahem! I mean good gracious. You must certainly belong to the family somehow or other. I dare say--yes--I am sure you must be my cousin."

"Such a strained relationship. In what degree?"

"Oh, never mind. Scotch clan relationships are so difficult to unravel. Besides, we're all brothers and sisters by the Adam and Eve theory, according to Gartney. But fancy you being a Macjean. It gives me a kind of claim on you."

"As the head of the clan, I suppose. Never! I am a free-born Australian, so hurrah for the Southern Cross and the eight hours system of labour!"

"I haven't the least idea of what you're talking about?

"Very likely. Born amid the effete civilization of a worn-out land, you have no knowledge of our glorious institutions, which render Australia the Paradise of Demos."

"Sounds like a Parliamentary speech."

"It is a Parliamentary speech," asserted Victoria, demurely, "an effort of my father's when he was elected for the Wooloomooloo constituency."

"I beg your pardon, would you mind spelling it?"

"No you would be none the wiser if I did."

"As to my obeying you," said Otterburn, reverting to the earlier part of the conversation, "I think the opposite is more likely to happen."

Dangerous ground again.

"Mr. Macjean," said Victoria in a solemn tone, "the night is getting on to morning, the tourists are getting off to bed. You are chattering in a most nonsensical manner and I'm going to retire, so good-night."

He did not make any effort to retain her, although he felt very much inclined to do so, but then their friendship was still in its infancy and the proprieties must be observed.

"Good-night, and happy dreams," he replied, shaking the hand she held out to him.

"Thank you, but I leave that to poets--and lovers," she responded, and thereupon vanished like a fairy vision of eternal youth.

And lovers.

"Now I wonder--oh, nonsense! What rubbish! I've only known her one circle of the clock; Love isn't Jonah's gourd to spring up in a night. Still--well she's a most delightful girl and I--Confound the valse! I do wish they'd stop playing at this hour. It isn't respectable. Awfully pretty!--and she's a Macjean too--ah, if I--bother, it's gone out. I shan't smoke any more. I wonder where Gartney is. Mooning about by himself, I suppose. I'll go and look him up. She's got lovely eyes and such pretty feet. Eh! oh, here's Eustace--I say Gartney, I'm going to bed. Come and have a hock and seltzer before ta-ta."