Dorothy Eden Read Online Free

countryside. It was the sound of the wind that made it so lonely, and the occasional glimpse of a polar white mountain crest.
    “And who,” she said suddenly, in the midst of an account of the voyage out from France, “do you think would write me stupid anonymous letters? You know the kind of thing. “Beware! You are playing with fire.’”
    At last she had his full attention.
    “Did someone write that to you?”
    “Not exactly those words, but the meaning was similar. It’s awfully like cheap melodrama, isn’t it? The Black Hand sort of thing.”
    “How long has this been happening?”
    “Oh, only since yesterday. I got one letter in Wellington, and one this evening in Timaru. I thought at first it was from someone on the ship who was playing a joke. But the one tonight made me think I was being followed. Is there anyone who would be jealous of my marrying Paul?”
    “A woman?”
    “Who else?”
    He hesitated. “I would hardly know. I have only been at Heriot Hills for three months.”
    “Isn’t three months long enough to notice things?” she said lightly.
    “I have my work to do.”
    “You’re very non-committal, Mr. Macauley.”
    “Am I? By the way, most people call me Davey.”
    Julia supposed that after one had flung oneself, practically unclad, into a man’s arms, the basis of first names was inevitable. But Davey Macauley hadn’t made the suggestion with any show of friendliness. It was almost as if being addressed formally made him uncomfortable. Perhaps he thought Macauley was an unlikely name for a shepherd. If it came to that, he did not behave in the least the way she had imagined a shepherd would. He was too alert and contained. For all his aloofness and appearance of disinterest she felt that he would miss nothing. So he must know all about the household at Heriot Hills. “Would this person in a crude sort of way be trying to frighten me off?” she persisted.
    “I wouldn’t know about Mr. Blaine’s private affairs.”
    “Oh, come! Wouldn’t you have noticed if some silly girl was breaking her heart over him. Although from what I remember of Paul he wouldn’t be that kind of person. He was too shy. But I suppose in three years one can change.”
    Again she was surprised at herself for talking in this confiding way to a man whom she had only just met, and who was merely an employee at Heriot Hills. But Paul had casually entrusted her to his care. So he must be someone of some standing. Anyway, his voice and his manner showed that. And, like someone drunk with words after a long silence, she had talked too much to stop.
    “My Uncle Jonathan was the only person who thought I wasn’t crazy to come to New Zealand to marry a man I had known only for a few days. I suppose it was really because of him that I came. There might have been too many difficulties to overcome otherwise.”
    “You mean you might not have had a trousseau?”
    She caught the flavour of sarcasm in his voice.
    “That is something,” she said blithely. “Nice clothes mean a lot to a girl. You think I’ve come out to have a smart wedding and show off my things?”
    “It could look that way,” he said indifferently.
    She laughed good-humouredly.
    “I suppose it could. But I do happen to be in love. That would be something, too, wouldn’t it?”
    “Oh, indeed.”
    He couldn’t be a shepherd, not with that neat sardonic manner. She was enjoying this dry interchange of words. She would tell Paul about it, saying, “At first I was mad with you for sending your shepherd to fetch me, but then I realised you knew I would have an amusing journey.”
    “Uncle Jonathan has a passion for French writers,” she said, “Balzac, Anatole France, Flaubert. He lives in them. You know, the French still have marriages of convenience. Uncle Jonathan thinks that is so tidy and civilised. He felt he was arranging one with Paul and me when he helped me to come. But of course he realised the difference with us was that we were in