The bushrangers were to attack them three times, and be defeated with immense slaughter.Or, no.He was not to go to the gold-fields at all.They were horrid places, where men got intoxicated, and shot each other in bar-rooms, and used bad language.He was to be a nice sheep-farmer, and one evening, as he was riding home, he was to see the beautiful heiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse, and give chase, and rescue her.Of course, she would fall in love with him, and he with her, and they would get married, and come home, and live in an immense house in London.Yes, there were delightful things in store for him.But he must be very good, and not lose his temper, or spend his money foolishly.She was only a year older than he was, but she knew so much more of life.He must be sure, also, to write to her by every mail, and to say his prayers each night before he went to sleep.God was very good, and would watch over him.She would pray for him, too, and in a few years he would come back quite rich and happy.
The lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer.He was heart-sick at leaving home.
Yet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose.Inexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the danger of Sibyl's position.
This young dandy who was making love to her could mean her no good.He was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated him through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account, and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him.He was conscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother's nature, and in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl's happiness.Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.
His mother! He had something on his mind to ask of her, something that he had brooded on for many months of silence.A chance phrase that he had heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears one night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of horrible thoughts.He remembered it as if it had been the lash of a hunting-crop across his face.His brows knit together into a wedgelike furrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip.
"You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim," cried Sibyl, "and I am making the most delightful plans for your future.Do say something.""What do you want me to say?"
"Oh! that you will be a good boy and not forget us," she answered, smiling at him.
He shrugged his shoulders."You are more likely to forget me than I am to forget you, Sibyl."She flushed."What do you mean, Jim?" she asked.
"You have a new friend, I hear.Who is he? Why have you not told me about him? He means you no good.""Stop, Jim!" she exclaimed."You must not say anything against him.I love him.""Why, you don't even know his name," answered the lad."Who is he? I have a right to know.""He is called Prince Charming.Don't you like the name.Oh! you silly boy! you should never forget it.If you only saw him, you would think him the most wonderful person in the world.Some day you will meet him--when you come back from Australia.You will like him so much.Everybody likes him, and I...love him.I wish you could come to the theatre to-night.
He is going to be there, and I am to play Juliet.Oh! how I shall play it! Fancy, Jim, to be in love and play Juliet! To have him sitting there!
To play for his delight! I am afraid I may frighten the company, frighten or enthrall them.To be in love is to surpass one's self.Poor dreadful Mr.Isaacs will be shouting 'genius' to his loafers at the bar.He has preached me as a dogma; to-night he will announce me as a revelation.Ifeel it.And it is all his, his only, Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces.But I am poor beside him.Poor? What does that matter?
When poverty creeps in at the door, love flies in through the window.Our proverbs want rewriting.They were made in winter, and it is summer now;spring-time for me, I think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies.""He is a gentleman," said the lad sullenly.
"A prince!" she cried musically."What more do you want?""He wants to enslave you."
"I shudder at the thought of being free.""I want you to beware of him."
"To see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him.""Sibyl, you are mad about him."
She laughed and took his arm."You dear old Jim, you talk as if you were a hundred.Some day you will be in love yourself.Then you will know what it is.Don't look so sulky.Surely you should be glad to think that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than I have ever been before.Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and difficult.
But it will be different now.You are going to a new world, and I have found one.Here are two chairs; let us sit down and see the smart people go by."They took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers.The tulip-beds across the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire.A white dust-- tremulous cloud of orris-root it seemed--hung in the panting air.The brightly coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous butterflies.
She made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects.
He spoke slowly and with effort.They passed words to each other as players at a game pass counters.Sibyl felt oppressed.She could not communicate her joy.A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all the echo she could win.After some time she became silent.Suddenly she caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open carriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past.
She started to her feet."There he is!" she cried.
"Who?" said Jim Vane.
"Prince Charming," she answered, looking after the victoria.
He jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm."Show him to me.
Which is he? Point him out.I must see him!" he exclaimed; but at that moment the Duke of Berwick's four-in-hand came between, and when it had left the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park.
