Free Over the Blue Mountains by Mary Burchell Page A

many pinpricks now. In an hour—half an hour—quarter of an hour—she would be with Martin and what else mattered? The future seemed as clear and bright as the mountain air around her, and she could not imagine now why she had worried, even over that horrid incident with Aunt Katherine and the check.
    They were coming to the lower slopes of the mountains again now, and every time they approached one of the small townships that dotted their path, Juliet looked at the wooden, verandaed houses and the straggling main street of very new, bright shops, and thought, with beating heart, Is this it? Is this my new home?
    She felt she could hardly wait now to be with someone who knew her, someone to whom she was really close in thought and feeling. Not since her mother died had she known the supreme mental and spiritual comfort of being with someone who was part of her life. She had been among strangers—albeit sometimes kind strangers—and she was in a strange land. But now she would be with Martin, and the dear familiarity of his presence would make everything else familiar, too.
    She smiled at her own thoughts. And as she did so, Max spoke at last.
    “Feeling happy?” he asked, apparently in comment on her smile.
    “Yes. I feel wonderful! ”
    “Good.” That rather grim line of his mouth relaxed into something faintly indulgent. “I imagine your—Martin, isn’t it—is feeling much the same.”
    “I expect so. I sent him a wire from Sydney last night, so that he’d know roughly when to expect me.”
    “Well, that’s Tyrville just below us, so you haven’t long to wait now.”
    Juliet stared unbelievingly at the pretty little township in the valley, and ridiculously she felt the tears come into her eyes.
    Martin is there, she thought. One of those red or green roofs is his—wilt he mine. And when, five minutes later, they drove along the tree-bordered main street, she thought, I’ve come home.
    “What did you say the address was?”
    She told him, though she was herself eagerly looking from side to side, trying.to catch sight of the familiar name that she had written so often on letters during the past year.
    “There it is!” they exclaimed together, and he turned the car down the short street, which had pretty, unpretentious wooden bungalows on either side.
    “Here you are—number ten.” He stopped the car.
    “Oh, thank you so much! And thank you for bringing me.” She turned and held out her hand to him. “Goodbye.”
    “Well, I think I’ll wait and see you safely received,” he replied amusedly.
    “No—there’s no need.” Nervousness and excitement lent a sudden impatience to her tone. “He’ll be waiting for me...” She cast a glance at the house as she spoke, because she felt Martin might come running out at any moment, and she had no wish for their first rapturous meeting to take place under the faintly cynical observation of Max Ormathon. “And even if he isn’t home, I can wait. Please don’t bother to wait.”
    “I’m sorry, my dear. I shouldn’t be carrying out my promise to your uncle if I didn’t see you safely handed over to your fiancé.”
    “Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” she cried impatiently. “I’m not a parcel of jewelry.”
    “You have a certain value nevertheless,” he replied, with that characteristic air of amusement deepening. “Run along, there’s a good child. I’ll look the other way, if you like.”
    And, since there was nothing else to be done, and it would be ridiculous to prolong the argument, Juliet jumped out of the car and ran up the short path to the bungalow.
    Her hand trembled as she knocked, and her heart began to beat heavily as she heard footsteps approaching.
    But they were not Martin’s footsteps, and the door was opened by a woman Juliet recognized immediately as his landlady, from the description he had given of her in one of his earlier letters.
    “Good afternoon...” Juliet’s voice sounded shallow and faintly breathless and not