With the first warm flush of morning Alice was away on her favourite lonely walk by the river. The day opened, like almost all days in West Australia, with a glorious richness of light, colour, and life. The grand shadowy stretches in the bush were neither silent nor humid, as in tropical countries. Every inch of ground sent up its jet of colour, exquisite though scentless; and all the earth hummed with insect life, while the trees flashed with the splendid colours of countless bright-necked birds.
Alice breathed in the wondrous beauty of her surroundings. Her heart, so long unresponsive, had burst into full harmony with the generous nature of the Australian bush.
Down by the river, where the spreading mahogany trees reached far over the water, she loved to walk in the early morning and at the close of the day. Thither she went this morning; and an hour later someone followed her steps, directed where to find her by Mrs. Little.
That morning, as she left the house, Mrs. Little had told her that Mr. Sheridan was to call early, and had asked to see her.
"I shall be home very soon," Alice said, as she went out.
But she did not return soon; and when Mr. Sheridan called, much earlier than he was expected, Mrs. Little told him where Miss Walmsley usually spent her mornings, and he, leaving his horse in the stable, walked down through the bush towards the river.
The shadows and the flowers and the bright-winged birds were as beautiful as an hour before, but Will Sheridan, though he loved nature, saw none of them. He walked rapidly at first, then he slackened his pace, and broke off a branch here and there as he passed, and threw it away again. When he came to the river, and stood and looked this way and that for Alice, all the determination with which he had set out had disappeared.
But Alice was not in sight. He walked along by the river bank, and in a few minutes he saw her coming towards him beneath the trees.
He stood still and waited for her. She walked rapidly. When within ten yards of where he stood she turned from the river, to cross the bush towards the house. She had not seen him, and in a minute she would be out of sight. Sheridan took a few paces towards her and stopped.
"Alice," he said aloud.
She turned and saw him standing with an eager face, his hands reached out to-wards her. Every premeditated word was forgotten. She gave one look at the face, so little changed; she felt the deep emotion in voice, and act, and feature, and her heart responded impulsively and imperatively. She only spoke one word.
"Will!"
He came forward, his eyes on hers, and the eyes of both were brimming. Without a word they met. Alice put out both her hands, and he took them and held them, and after a while he raised them, one after the other, to his lips, and kissed them. Then they turned towards the house and walked on together in silence. Their hearts were too full for words. They understood without speech. Their sympathy was so deep and unutterable that it verged on the bounds of pain.
On the verandah, Alice turned to him with the same full look she had given him at first, only it was clear as a morning sky, and with it she gave him her hand. Sheridan looked into the cloudless depths of her eyes, as if searching for the word that only reached his senses through the warm pressure of her hand.
It was a silent meeting and parting, but it was completely eloquent and decisive. They had said all that each longed for in the exquisite language of the soul. As Sheridan was departing, he turned once more to Alice.
"I shall come here this evening."
She only smiled, and he went away with a satisfied heart.
On that morning Mr. Wyville had started early for Fremantle, his mind revolving two important steps which he meant to take that day. Since the arrival of the ship he had been disquieted by the presence of Draper in the colony. He questioned his own wisdom in bringing him there, or in keeping him there when he might have let him go.
But, in his wide experience of men and of criminals, Mr. Wyville had never met one who was wholly bad; he had discovered, under the most unsightly and inharmonious natures, some secret chord that, when once struck, brought the heart up to the full tone of human kindness. This chord he had sought for in Draper. He had hoped that, in the day of humiliation, his heart would return to her he had so cruelly wronged.
There was only one step more to be taken—to release Harriet, and, if she would, let her seek her husband, and appeal once more to his humanity.