Harry, who up to the
time of meeting Chris after his return to Waddy, had been even more
unromantic and lacking in poetry than the average bush native, had, under
the influence of his passion, evolved a strong vein of both romance and
poesy; and the sudden development of this unknown side of his nature
induced novel sensations. He thought of his previous self almost as a
stranger, for whom he felt some sentiment of pity not untouched with
contempt, and even when hope was feeblest he hugged his love and brooded
over it secretly with the devotion of a tender girl.
He was at the trysting-place a quarter of an hour before the time
appointed, but Christina was already there. Her greeting chilled and
subdued him. He went towards her, smiling, elate, with eager arms,
calling her name; she put him back with extended hands.
'No, no, Harry; not that,' she said, and he noticed in her voice the
strength of some resolution, the firmness that had jarred upon him when
last they met.
'Not that!' he repeated. Chris, you love me. For God's sake say it! You
have said it. You told me so, an' it was true--oh, my darling, it was
true!
He could see her distinctly: she stood in a shaft of moonlight falling
between the sombre firs, and her face was marble-like; her whole pose was
statuesque, all the girlish gentleness of the other days seemed to have
fled from her, and her hour of tribulation had invested her with a
dignity and force of will that sat well upon her stately figure.
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