Chapter Seven.
Colonel Grey sat alone on his stoep in the darkness and listened, as once before he had listened, to the quick, measured step of the man whose claim upon his consideration had rested solely on a reputation for valour.
The Colonel had believed strongly hitherto in his own discernment. Now he doubted, not only his judgment in human affairs, but his qualification for the responsible mission he had undertaken to carry successfully through. Twice he had been mistaken in the persons he had employed. He had paid off the one a month before, and had satisfied himself that the boy had taken his passage to Durban, and gone aboard with his broken head still encased in bandages, and with more money in his pockets than was good for him. The other case could not be disposed of in the same manner. In so far as their dealings together went, the man had given no cause either for satisfaction or complaint. Up to the present nothing definite had been accomplished. Colonel Grey doubted that anything would be accomplished. He mistrusted his man—the man whose reputation for courage he now knew to be spurious,—who was further accredited with being a traitor. The thing stuck in the Colonel’s mind and inflamed it. In a quiet, controlled way he was furious that he should have been led into having anything to do with the scoundrel. He was impatient to face him, to confound him with the knowledge of his disgrace. He wondered whether the fellow would try to bluff it, or if he would cave in...
And then the man he was thinking about arrived, and stepping up to the stoep with his firm, decided tread, stood before him, as he had stood on the night of their first meeting, looking at him inquiringly with those strangely penetrating, inscrutable grey eyes.
“You sent for me,” he said briefly, and waited to learn the reason of the summons.
The other man rose without speaking, and led the way into the house, closing the French windows behind them as he had done before.
“You are sure you were not followed?” he asked, as he drew a chair out from the table and seated himself.
“I think not. I saw no one.”
“Ah! ... I fancied I heard footsteps in the road.”
“You have good ears,” Lawless answered. “I heard nothing, and I was on the alert.”
Colonel Grey regarded him attentively. It was an extraordinary thing, but the sight of the purposeful face, with the steady eyes, and the deep, slanting scar, was strangely reassuring. Unaccountably, he felt his resentment dying. Against his reason, against his volition, he had a liking for the man. In face of his liking the charges against him seemed monstrous. It was almost incredible that he should have been cashiered from the Army for cowardice—“misbehaviour in the Field in the face of the enemy,” that was the wording of the indictment. He had received the information from an unquestionable source. Through the same channel he had learnt that subsequently, under another name, he had taken up arms against his country. The first was a grave enough offence in the Colonel’s opinion, the second was unpardonable.
“Have you no news for me?” he asked abruptly, sitting very straight in his chair, his brows drawn fiercely together while he watched his companion from under them with a curiously intent gaze. “It is many weeks since we met.”
Lawless leant back negligently, his knees crossed, one arm, with the hand lying loosely open, resting on the table. At his last remark he looked over at the speaker in his quick, direct way, and said:
“I supposed that was why you had summoned me. You’ve been wondering what I have been doing with your time and your money... Well, not much... I’ve learnt one thing, that Van Bleit carries the papers on his person for their greater safety, and a loaded revolver for his own. Apart from that we are not more forward.”
“You’ve no plan for getting the packet from him?”
“Not so far. The fellow does not give me a chance. If I spent forty-eight hours beneath the same roof with him, I’d manage it... Of course, I could get hold of what you want at any time if I chose to kill the brute; but I’ve a strong disinclination to swing for him.”
“Yes.” Colonel Grey looked thoughtful. “That wouldn’t do,” he said. “No! ... We don’t want murder done... Risky... And awkward too... afterwards... too many questions asked.”
There was silence between them for a space. Inside the room a death-watch ticked loudly against the wainscot, and without a large white moth beat with futile insistence upon the window-pane in its endeavours to reach the light. The noise of its soft body thudding against the glass drew Colonel Grey’s attention to the fact that the blinds were not drawn. He rose promptly and lowered them.
“Quite unnecessary,” Lawless observed. “I saw to it when I took this seat that no one, unless he stood on the stoep and stared deliberately in at the window, could see me sitting here.”
The Colonel wheeled round and faced him.
“Your forethought is quite extraordinary,” he said, “for a novice at the game.”
The other laughed carelessly.
“During an adventurous life,” he replied, “I’ve had rogues to deal with before.”
The speech, as the Colonel heard it, was almost a challenge. His mind reverted to the serious indictment against this man who sat there so coolly, with the half-derisive smile lingering on the thin, handsome face; and the fierce feeling of indignation against him surged up afresh. He walked deliberately back to his seat and sat down.
“Yours has certainly been no ordinary career,” he said bluntly. “For the honour of my countrymen, I’m glad to think that is so... You will be less surprised at my taking this tone when I tell you that I have received information concerning you of a very unsatisfactory nature. Subsequent to our first meeting I instituted inquiries relative to certain matters we touched upon at that interview. The reply to those inquiries reached me by last mail.”
“Yes.” Lawless did not change his lounging attitude, but his face hardened perceptibly, and his voice rang like steel. “After our talk I supposed you would,” he said. “The only thing that surprised me was that you didn’t pursue your inquiries before making arrangements with me.”
“That was where I made my mistake,” the Colonel replied stiffly.
“And how do you purpose rectifying that? ... Do you think that the charges against me, as you have heard them, unfit me for the dirty work you have given me to do? I’ve had some strange billets in my time, and this, in my opinion, is the least honourable of all. A case of blackmail that can’t be entrusted to the proper authorities is a precious shady business.”
“There are reasons,” the Colonel began, and stopped suddenly. Why should he attempt explanations? Whatever the business, the employment was worthy the man.
“Well, no matter!” Lawless said. “Let that pass. But I should like to hear what you have against me... When it is one’s misfortune to only win notoriety through misdeeds it is interesting to know the limit of such publicity... What part of my record have you?”
“I have no interest in your affairs, Mr Lawless, beyond your one-time connection with the Army,” Colonel Grey answered quietly. “When you informed me you had been cashiered, I was curious to know the reason. I am now in possession of the details, and the further discreditable information that you sold your sword arm to the enemies of your country... Have you anything to say to that charge?”
“Nothing... Your information is quite correct.”
“Then, sir, I will tell you to your face you are a damned traitor.”
The Colonel was leaning forward in his excitement, his arm stretched out along the table. The man he addressed, and thus deliberately insulted, drew himself up straighter, his face set and stern, a cold glint in the steel-grey eyes that narrowed dangerously as they met the other’s angry gaze.
“I can excuse your heat, sir,” he replied with amazing control, “in consideration of your ignorance of the circumstances. Had things been otherwise, and it had been my privilege to criticise another’s disgrace, I should probably have made use of the same forcible language that you give utterance to... When we have been through the mire we recognise a different quality in the mud. Men have been reduced to the ranks for the misdemeanour for which I was dismissed the Service... Had I been reduced to the ranks I should have made a good soldier. My punishment, I contend, was unjust.”
“By which specious reasoning, I presume, you excuse the crime of treachery, and seek to justify a spirit of revenge?—or gain, was it?”
Lawless frowned.
“I make no excuses,” he returned curtly. “I don’t recognise that my actions need condoning. And I did not join the Boers’ side with thought either of revenge or gain...”
He halted abruptly, and, for the first time taking his eyes off the other’s face, stared hard at the unshaded lamp.
“It appears,” the Colonel interposed drily, “that you were actuated by blind impulse.”
Lawless drummed on the table with his fingers and said nothing. He felt strangely annoyed. And yet he had known positively that the facts must come to this man’s knowledge before long. In the circumstances it was little likely that he would make no inquiries concerning one he had employed in a secret and confidential matter. That he regretted his haste in having employed him was obvious. It was the term traitor that stuck in the Colonel’s gorge. He found it particularly distasteful to hold further intercourse with one so steeped in dishonour.
“Perhaps it would be as well to bury the past,” he said with an effort after a while. “In the lives of many men there are matters which it is not profitable to discuss. I can only add that I wish I had known of this before.”
Lawless got upon his feet, and stood stiffly upright, his face grim, and colourless under the sunburn, like the face of a man whose blood is at white heat with hardly repressed passion.
“Am I to understand that you dispense with my services?” he asked curtly.
Colonel Grey was somewhat slow in replying. Discretion weighed in the balance against a strong personal objection to working with the man, and won.
“I don’t know as to that,” he replied at last uncertainly. “We’ve gone so far... You have a dangerous knowledge... I prefer to have you on our side.”
“I see.” Lawless’ manner was icy. “Then, you mean me to go on with the job?”
“Yes, I think so... Yes! ... I do.”
“You don’t ask me whether I am satisfied to go on with it.”
His hearer’s eyebrows went up with a jerk.
“Why shouldn’t you?” he asked, surprised. “You’re well paid.”
“True! The pay’s good. It would be absurd to throw away good money for a scruple...”
“I was under the impression that you had buried your scruples,” the other answered, and was amazed at the sudden passion that blazed in the sombre eyes.
“Never in my life before have I permitted a man to insult me as you have insulted me,” was the angry reply. “I’ve swallowed as much as I intend to swallow... Whatever you have learnt concerning my past does not invest you with the right of insulting me.”
“Your complaint is quite reasonable,” Colonel Grey returned with a certain quiet dignity that partially disarmed the other’s math. “I have allowed my feelings to lead me away. I regret it. Will you please be seated, Mr Lawless? There are one or two things which I wish to say to you, if you are satisfied to go on with this business.”
He paused deliberately; and, after a moment’s hesitation, Lawless sat down.
“In the first place,” he added, when Lawless was again occupying the chair from which he had risen, “I think we should have a time limit for the carrying out of this enterprise. Is that agreeable to you?”
“Perfectly,” came the brief response.
“Then, suppose we say six months... How does that strike you?”
“It’s fair enough.”
“You haven’t any suggestion of your own to make on that head?”
“None... Only I shall get the papers before six months are up.”
“You are very confident,” the Colonel said.
Lawless looked thoughtful.
“I take a peculiar personal interest in this affair,” he said. “If I did not I should not go on with it... I told you I would get those papers for you, or kill your man... I mean to do one or the other—or both.”
Colonel Grey scrutinised him earnestly. His lips parted as though he would say something, and then shut with a snap on the unspoken words. Lawless sat up suddenly.
“There isn’t any use in your seeing me,” he said. “Give me my head, the funds to go on with for a few months, and then leave the matter in my hands. You shall have those papers... It’s not that I take a particular interest in them, or in your client, but it pleases me to do this thing. When I make up my mind to carry a thing through I do it. You may call that tall talking—but it amounts simply to this, that I hold life cheaply; the only law I recognise is the unwritten law. I’ve lived among the social outcasts—I’m one of them, and so, perhaps, I am well suited to carry through a matter that is outside the law. You don’t trust me... Because of what you have heard you doubt even that I have the courage which this affair may demand. It’s natural that you should doubt. But if you can bring yourself to accept my word, this matter is safe in my hands.”
There was a long silence. Then the Colonel spoke abruptly, and, as it sounded, greatly against his inclination. But in spite of himself, in spite of all the evidence against him, he liked and trusted this man. Perhaps the fact that he had not attempted to explain, or to excuse an inexcusable crime, prejudiced him favourably.
“I do accept your word,” he said bluntly. “I confess I have entertained misgivings... That is hardly surprising, I think, considering how much is at stake. But I’ll take your word, Mr Lawless... And I accept your conditions. When you have anything of importance to communicate you will let me hear from you...”
When Lawless got back to his hotel that night he was astonished to find a visitor waiting for him—a woman. She had been shown into a private room. The hour was unusual, so were the circumstances; but the management had no wish to offend so good a client as Lawless; therefore the lady was, after a little difficulty, admitted; and Lawless on his return was discreetly informed of her presence. He received the information in silence, betraying none of the astonishment that moved him, which was considerable. He could not for the life of him imagine who the lady could be.
He was no wiser on entering the room where she was. She was a tall woman of commanding presence, very fashionably dressed—almost too fashionably to suggest a perfect taste. There was—Lawless was quick to observe it—the unmistakable stamp of the demi-mondaine about her. She looked round as he entered and closed the door behind him, and then very slowly got up from the sofa on which she had been seated. Her movements were extraordinarily languid for a woman of such splendid physique, and less graceful than deliberately sensuous, Lawless decided. Something about the woman stirred a chord of memory in his mind, as he stood critically surveying her with a look of cool inquiry in his eyes. The figure was vaguely familiar. The face he could not see; she was so heavily veiled that he could only trace a shadowy outline of her features.
“This is an unexpected honour,” he said, with ironical politeness. “May I ask to what I am indebted, and to whom, for this amazing condescension?”
She held out a pair of well-gloved hands towards him.
“You have forgotten... so soon?” she said in a low voice, the deep tones of which sounded nervously tremulous.
“I’ve a memory no longer and no shorter than most men’s,” he retorted, not touching the outstretched hands. “If you’d raise your veil...”
She put up one hand to the dense folds that concealed her face, but she did not lift them. She waited, looking at him through their disfiguring thickness with wide, smiling, observant eyes.
“And this is your welcome after all this while! ... your welcome to me! ... No wonder those tiresome people downstairs were so reluctant to admit me! ... I only got round them by telling them I was your wife.”
“The devil you did!” ejaculated Lawless.
He did not speak loudly His voice had dropped to a low note of caution. He approached nearer. Astonishment had driven the irony out of his eyes, and left in its stead an expression of strong curiosity.
“Oh, Hughie!” she said reproachfully... “To think that you could forget...”
Lawless seized her by the arm. Then quickly, almost roughly, he lifted the disguising veil and stared hard into the handsome, painted face, with the smiling vermilion lips, and the mocking eyes.
“Oh, Lord!” he exclaimed, and fell back a step or two in sheer amazement.
The woman laughed suddenly.
“I thought I should surprise you, Hughie,” she said.
Chapter Eight.
It is a generally accepted fact that the social life of the Colonies is less conventional than the social life of England. It is broader in outlook, wider in sympathy, not less critical, perhaps, but certainly more understanding. This is to be accounted for by the continual inpouring of fresh blood, the infusion of fresh ideas. The Colonies adapt themselves more readily to change than the older civilisation; they represent a younger, more vigorous generation, and, if behind the mother country in many respects, are ahead of her in others of quite vital importance. But though life in South Africa is unconventional, strenuous, and—as is inevitable in a land that attracts to its shores the more ardent and adventurous spirits—more impulsive, more passionate and unrestrained, it has its fixed code of morality, and the man or woman who defies its laws must be prepared to accept the reward of ostracism.
Lawless’ sudden leap to popularity suffered an equally sudden rebound when it became apparent how utterly contemptuous he was of public opinion, as it concerned his private life. His life became an open scandal. The woman who had visited him at his hotel late one night was installed in rooms that he had taken for her, and regularly every day he visited her, and frequently took her driving in the public thoroughfares. The women of his acquaintance cut him, and not a few of the men. His behaviour was too flagrant to be passed over. Van Bleit alone was interested and sympathetic. He coveted an introduction to his friend’s handsome inamorata, and on occasions when he deemed it quite safe put himself deliberately in the way. But Lawless was blind to these devices. He cared neither for the disapproval of the many, nor for Van Bleit’s furtive approbation. He was entirely indifferent to outside criticism. It pleased him to do this thing, and he did it. Society had not treated him so well as to give it a right to be exacting; and, in any case, he had no intention of considering it in this or any other matter.
There were two women in Cape Town who were most unhappily affected by this sordid intrigue, Mrs Lawless, and the girl who had made a hero of the man, and who worshipped him with the extravagance of a youthful, unsophisticated mind. For a long while Julie Weeber refused to admit that there was anything unusual in Lawless’ friendship with the handsome demi-mondaine; but in her heart she was jealous of the friendship, and when she saw them together she hated the woman with the complacently smiling, painted lips, and the mocking eyes. Her distress was primarily due to the knowledge that by his actions he was separating himself from her. She would have condoned anything for the gratification of seeing and talking with him occasionally. But intercourse was out of the question; not only did her mother assert that she would neither receive him in future nor permit her daughters to acknowledge him, but Lawless himself held aloof. Once when she passed him in the street driving with the woman, although she knew he had seen her, he deliberately turned his face aside. It wounded the girl deeply.
“Why should he treat me like that?” she asked herself passionately... “It isn’t fair to me.”
She encountered him again a few days later. He was alone, walking towards the city. Julie had been to see a friend some distance out, and was cycling homeward when she overtook him. It was evening. The sun had dipped below the horizon; where it had disappeared the sky still glowed with changing colours that paled perceptibly before the oncome of precipitate night which in Africa follows rapidly on the path of the vanished day. A shaft of the fading colour in the sky glanced earthwards and glowed in Julie Weeber’s cheeks when she recognised the solitary pedestrian striding along the middle of the road. She slackened speed as she drew near to him, and glanced swiftly about her. No one was in sight, not even a Kaffir; though had a crowd been there to witness her actions she would probably have behaved in exactly the same way. She pedalled her machine alongside the tall, familiar figure, and slipped to the ground. Lawless glanced round. He looked surprised, he also looked—Julie observed it—pleased.
“How do you do?” she said, deliberately holding out her hand. “Isn’t it a beautiful evening?”
He smiled involuntarily at this determined effort at conversation, and answered that such was his opinion also.
“Are you walking into town?” she asked. “I am, too.”
“You mean, you are riding,” he corrected.
“I’m not,” the girl returned imperturbably. “I hate cycling against the wind. I only stuck to my machine because it’s lonely walking by oneself.”
“In that case,” he said, stepping behind her and relieving her of the charge of the cycle, “you must let me wheel this.”
Julie walked along beside him for a few yards without speaking. Then abruptly she turned her face towards him. He was looking down at the machine, a very old one with well-worn tyres and rusty handlebars of a pattern quite out of date. His face was grave and somewhat preoccupied.
“You cut me the other day in Adderly Street,” she said bluntly... “You saw me...”
“Yes,” he admitted.
It did not seem to occur to him to turn the speech aside. During their brief, but rapid, acquaintance they had always been extraordinarily frank with one another.
“Why did you?” she asked almost fiercely. “It wasn’t kind.”
“In that I differ from you,” he replied. “It was the only kind act I have ever performed towards you.”
A pained flush leapt to her cheeks. She looked away from him down the dusty road, along a vista of flowering gum trees, with eyes that were clouded and misty and rebellious, and a mind that for all its youthfulness dimly discerned his meaning.
“I thought we were—friends,” she said falteringly.
And then he made use of one of the remarks that were responsible for the development of her understanding.
“There is no such thing as friendship between the sexes.”
The flush in her cheeks deepened. There was a strained air of embarrassment about her, noticeable even in her walk.
“And so... you don’t wish to know me?” she said with an effort.
“My dear child!” He looked at her earnestly. “It’s not a matter in which I am entitled to consider my wishes.”
“And what of mine?” she asked in a low voice that was tremulous, as though the speaker were on the verge of tears.
He looked down awkwardly, and fidgeted with the handle of the brake.
“I don’t consider that I am entitled to consult your wishes either,” he replied. “My friendship, according to the accepted standard, is neither good nor safe for you... Haven’t you been so informed?”
“Yes,” she answered, and added sullenly: “I don’t care... I want your friendship more than I want anything. It has meant so much to me... And I miss... things so. You never come to the house now... You never go anywhere.”
“No,” he returned briefly.
There was silence between them for a while. Then suddenly Julie put out a hand and touched his hand where it hung at his side.
“You won’t—cut me again?” she pleaded.
“No,” he answered as briefly as before, but in a kinder tone with a ring of determination in it that carried conviction.
“I want to see you sometimes,” she said... “to talk with you sometimes. I know that I’m not intellectual, that I’m undeveloped and silly, and altogether too young to be companionable to you; but you have taken pleasure in my society—you have,” she exclaimed with vehemence, “haven’t you?”
“Yes,” he acknowledged, “I have... I do. And it’s just because of that I deem it best to let the thing end.”
“Oh no!” she cried quickly... “No!”
“When you talk like that,” he said, smiling at her pleasantly, “you convince me that my judgment is right... Oh! don’t worry,” he added in response to a quick gesture of protest; “I’m not going to rely on anything so stodgy. I’m going to follow inclination. Remain my dear little friend... If there is no great good to you in it, there shall be no great harm in it either... And, in any case, it won’t matter much... I am going away shortly.”
“Going away!” she echoed blankly. “Leaving Cape Town, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
She turned to him with a swift abandonment that proved how strong was the influence he already exerted over her, and with white face, and distressful, tear-filled eyes, cried out—
“Oh! don’t go! don’t go! ... Or—couldn’t you—take me with you?”
He came to an abrupt standstill, and leaning towards her, with his hand resting on the saddle of the cycle, looked steadily into the shamed, young, piteous face. His look brought the colour flaming back into the white cheeks.
“Ah! now you think me unwomanly,” she said, and her voice shook pitifully... “You won’t like me any more...”
“My dear!” he replied, “you are talking nonsense.”
Her head drooped lower and lower like a flower that is beaten down in a storm. She stared down at the strong, sunburnt hand gripping the saddle, and the slow tears overflowed and fell, big, shining drops, into the dust of the road. She made no effort to stay them or to wipe them away; and the man, watching her with his keen, observant eyes, was stirred with an unwonted sense of compassion, and a swift self-hatred because of what he had in idle selfishness done.
“If you knew me for what I am,” he said gravely, “you would not honour me with your friendship. I’m not the hero your fancy has painted. A man rates himself at a higher valuation usually than his deserts, but as high as I can place the standard it leaves me still unworthy of your regard.”
“And you don’t feel... contempt for me?” she faltered.
“No... The only contempt I feel is for myself.” He held out his hand to her. “We are coming to the more frequented part,” he said. “I would prefer that you mounted and rode into town.”
She gave him her hand shyly, but still she hesitated.
“You promise not to withdraw your friendship?” she pleaded. “I—I don’t know what I should do if—if you wouldn’t let me be—just a friend.”
Her eyes as well as her voice implored him; they dragged a reluctant consent from his lips. When she had mounted and cycled out of his sight, turning at the bend of the road to wave him a last farewell, he regretted that he had allowed his better judgment to be overruled by her girlish pleading. Public opinion was right in this instance; there was danger in the friendship. There had been danger for the girl from the beginning; since intercourse in the future could only be by stealth that danger was considerably increased. The secret friendship of a young girl for a man of notorious character must be disastrous in its results even if the man act towards her honourably according to his lights.
When Lawless reached his hotel he found two letters waiting for him in the rack. He carried them to his room. The first, so ill-written as to be scarcely legible, was signed “Tottie.” The writer stated that she was bored to death, and commanded him to come round and amuse her. The second was also in the nature of a command. It was very short—only one line.
“Will you come to see me?—Zoë.”
He read the second note twice, and then remained for a long while motionless with the letter in his hand, staring at the big, firm characters thoughtfully, his brows puckered in a heavy frown. Why had she written to him? ... Why should she wish to see him, when all self-respecting women held their skirts aside? ... The frown deepened. He was baffled by the very simplicity of the brief message, the meaning of which was so purely conjectural and obscure. He read the note for the third time, seeking enlightenment from a greater familiarity with the words. But the purpose of the message still eluded him. He could not imagine what was in the writer’s mind to move her to pen such a note. It was inconsistent with her attitude in the past. He felt strangely irritated, even suspicious, as he stared at the sheet of paper in his hand. It was a little late in the day for her to think of starting an “influence.”
He seated himself at a writing-table in a corner of the room and answered the note. His reply was laconic in its brevity. “No,” he wrote, and signed it simply, “H.L.” Then he addressed it and slipped it into the pocket of his coat with the idea of posting it himself. She would probably expect him that evening, he decided, and smiled ironically, thinking of the writer of the other letter, who was also expecting him, and whom he had no intention to disappoint. In the morning she would receive the answer to her note; then she would understand.
But the answer was not posted. Lawless was delayed as he was leaving the hotel; when later he set forth his mood had changed, and he tore the reply he had written into fragments and scattered them on the pavement, to be further scattered by the boisterous wind that swept them into corners, only to dislodge them and scatter them anew. A few of the fragments fluttered under his feet as he strode along. He trod them heavily underfoot and walked on. Would she conclude from his silence that he would obey the summons? ... He was not quite sure whether by his action in destroying his answer he meant to accede to her wish, or simply to ignore it. A strong curiosity as to her reason for wishing to see him strove against his disinclination to comply with the request. Finally he decided to leave the matter in abeyance. If the humour took him he would go to her the following day. But the humour did not take him. The next day came and passed, and the note remained in his pocket still unanswered.
Mrs Lawless waited at home each day in the hope of his coming, and denied herself to other visitors. On the third day she made an exception in favour of Mrs Smythe.
“I came to inquire if you were ill,” Mrs Smythe exclaimed as she entered the drawing-room. “You were not at the Frenches’ the other evening, and we missed you yesterday at the Admiral’s At Home. You aren’t ill, Zoë... I don’t think I ever saw you look better.”
She surveyed her friend critically. There was no indication of ill-health in the dark splendour of Zoë Lawless’ face, nor in the graceful, beautiful body, but in the sun-flecked eyes was a hint of sadness which Mrs Smythe detected.
“You are tired,” she said.
“No.” Mrs Lawless drew her to the sofa and sat down beside her... “At least not physically tired,” she added... “I’m feeling old. I’m thirty-three to-day, Kate.” She lifted the dark hair at her temples. “Grey hairs there already, plenty of them. I spent some time this morning pulling them out, until it occurred to me as rather trivial... and futile, too. It’s like stripping the red leaves from the trees in autumn in a poor pretence that the summer is not past... It only advances winter.”
“My dear girl!” Mrs Smythe said briskly, “when you are sixty-three you will be privileged to talk like that... Don’t say too much about your age; I’m thirty-five.”
Zoë laughed, and as suddenly grew grave again.
“With you age doesn’t signify,” she said. “You’ve had your years, and lived them, and each one has brought its past year’s satisfaction; but with me there has been waste.” She leant back against the cushions, with one arm flung out over the head of the sofa. “The years that the locusts have eaten!” ... she murmured... “It’s when you have let the locusts eat into the precious years that you feel the bitterness of the loss of the golden hours. If I’d had my golden hours—if I’d enjoyed them, I shouldn’t feel sorrowful at the coming of silver hairs. Youth that is wasted is like a day when the sunshine has been obscured by clouds. Towards evening the clouds pass, and the sun shines forth, perhaps, for a few minutes before it sets. But the clouds have spoilt the morning and rendered the tardy radiance ineffectual... The time has passed.”
“Your philosophy would be less painful if it were not so incontrovertible,” Mrs Smythe returned quietly. “But if there has been waste, Zoë, isn’t it adding to it to spend the hours mourning over those already gone? It would be far more sensible if you were to get out of that ridiculously becoming tea-gown and come out driving with me. I’m not surprised at your depression if you have spent the last few days dwelling on uncomfortable things.”
Mrs Lawless smiled faintly.
“It’s not so bad as that,” she answered. “I’m a creature of moods. Had you called yesterday you would have found me quite cheerful.”
“Then I’m glad that my visit has fitted in with the heavier mood. Cheerfulness needs no distraction. Change your gown, Zoë, and come out with me.”
Mrs Lawless shook her head in response to her friend’s inquiring look. Her fingers were playing absently with one of the heavy tassels of a sofa cushion, twisting and pulling at it, and entwining themselves with the silky strands. She looked down at the tassel pensively, and at the busy fingers fidgeting with it continually as though their purposeless occupation held an interest for her.
“Thank you for suggesting it,” she said slowly. “I would have been glad to go; but I am expecting Mr Lawless.”
Mrs Smythe stared at her. Amazement bereft her of her customary tact.
“Expecting him! ... this afternoon?... Why, my dear, I passed him driving with—”
She came to an abrupt halt, and gazed at her quiet companion with dismayed and apologetic eyes.
“His mistress,” Zoë finished for her, looking up. “You needn’t mind saying it... I have accustomed myself to the idea. He may not come this afternoon, of course... But—I think I prefer to stay at home.”
Mrs Smythe was silent for a while.
“I never was so disappointed in anyone in my life as I am in him,” she remarked at length.
Zoë’s big eyes showed a faint surprise.
“No!” she said.
“Aren’t you disappointed in him?” Mrs Smythe asked wonderingly.
“Oh! I don’t know...” She sat up suddenly. “I try not to think of it,” she said... “It’s another instance of waste... waste and failure. All the years I’ve known him—”
She looked at the other woman, and her eyes softened. “Perhaps if he had felt the influence of a good woman he might have made a better thing of life.”
Chapter Nine.
Mrs Lawless stood on the stoep in the fading light and watched her friend drive away. In the east the intense blue of the sky had deepened to purple, and here and there a pale star lay, like a jewel in its azure setting, ready to adorn the sombre robes of night. The light breeze had dropped at sundown. There was no stir, no movement anywhere, no sound to awake the stillness. The strong scent of many flowers perfumed the languid, sensuous air which as yet gave no sign of the near approach of winter... if there can be any winter in a land where there is always sunshine, where the trees never bare their branches, and the flowers are ever in bloom.
She leaned her arms on the broad rail, and stared unseeingly before her through the foliage of the mimosa trees into the blue distance. The expression of her face was troubled, and a gleam of resentment shone in the proud eyes. So her summons was to be disregarded! His mistress claimed all his leisure, and he had no time to spare for anyone else. She had waited in three days in the hope that he would come, had spent three lonely evenings so that if he chose to call on her at night he would find her ready to receive him. And he had neither come nor sent a message. She had almost ceased to expect him, had almost ceased to wish to see him. The mood that had moved her to write to him had passed. She felt cold now, and indifferent; and the futility of the task she had thought to undertake struck her in a new and more forcible light. Was it worth it? ... Was she not wasting time that might be more profitably employed? ... Was she not harrowing her feelings to no purpose?
She went indoors and sat down at the piano and played to herself. She was a brilliant pianist, and it was a custom of long standing to soothe herself with music when her mind was disturbed. It was in her sad moments—occasionally also in her moods of anger—that she oftenest played.
The light outside faded; it grew dark in the room. A native entered, lighted the shaded lamps, and noiselessly retired. Zoë Lawless played on. She did not hear the ring at the bell that followed shortly on the servant’s exit; she was not aware that anyone had come until the door was thrown open by the same quiet servitor, who ushered in Mr Lawless, and then again retired and closed the door behind him.
Mrs Lawless turned slowly on the stool, and then stood up. She gave the visitor no greeting, and, beyond a slight bow, he made no move to greet her either. But he looked at her curiously as she stood facing him, and she observed with failing courage that his eyes were stern and hard.
“I had almost given up expecting you,” she said.
“You sent for me,” he answered curtly... “Whenever you send for me I will come.”
She regarded him long and earnestly. There was that in his speech which, despite the harshness of his manner, inclined her towards a softer mood. She no longer saw the picture which Mrs Smythe had unconsciously drawn for her of him driving with his mistress, instead she recognised a man whom life had dealt hardly with accepting obligations which another man in similar circumstances would have ignored.
“Thank you,” she said at last gently, and with a faintly wondering hesitation. “I did not know... I—felt scarcely justified in writing my request... But,”—she put self-consciousness behind her, and spoke from her heart simply, and with great earnestness—“I could not look on in silence while you deliberately spoilt your life. You were making your way in Cape Town... You could, if you chose, make it anywhere. But you are so indifferent to the world’s opinion.”
“I have never found the world’s opinion especially intelligent,” he answered bluntly. “If it were worth studying, I might study it.”
“Is it not, rather,” she returned unexpectedly, “that you are over prone to yield to the influence of the hour? ... The opinion of others has never counted for much with you.”
“You are mistaken,” he said. “It is the opinion of others that has made me what I am. In the past I have been far too susceptible of public criticism. Had I been as indifferent as you imagine I should not be the failure that you see to-day.”
She threw out a protesting hand.
“You always speak as though there was nothing ahead, as though you had shuttered all the exits of the soul... When you talk like that I feel that I cannot breathe.”
“It’s only a first impression,” he answered sarcastically; “respiration becomes easier when you grow accustomed to the shutters... There is nothing ahead. I reconciled myself to the want of outlook years ago; now I adapt,—not myself to circumstances, but circumstances to suit me. It’s astonishing how one can bend events to one’s service. The doing so contrives to add a peculiar satisfaction of its own. I don’t wish you to suppose that I’ve been sitting all these years with my head between my hands—the image is depressing. My hands have been otherwise employed. I’ve had them on the throat of life, and when it has used me spitefully I’ve pressed it hard in return. I’ve had some bad knocks, I admit; but, believe me, I’m not beaten yet. And the bruises have healed. The marks may be apparent, but there is no soreness... And those blows served a purpose too. They confirmed me in a resolve I made more than eight years ago,—to live my life independently of my fellows,—to enjoy such pleasures as the moment offered,—to deny myself no single desire that I had the means of gratifying. I have not gone back on that through all these years.”
“Not a very lofty resolve,” she said, as she sank into a chair.
“No... Not from your point of view... I suppose not.”
“And from your point of view?” she asked.
He laughed.
“You forget the shutters,” he said. “My view is enclosed. I am unable to gaze up at the heights.”
“You could open the shutters if you would,” she said in a voice that was only a little louder than a whisper.
“Perhaps I don’t wish to,” he answered.
He moved nearer to her. He did not sit down, but he leant with his arms on the back of a chair, looking at her, as he had leant the night of the ball when they had talked together on the stoep.
“I’m satisfied with things as they are,” he said. “I’ve got used to the rough and tumble of my lot. And I’ve become so thoroughly saturated with the belief that it is no concern of anyone’s what I do that it’s very unlikely I will submit to interference. I’m behaving quite abominably, I know,” he added, in response to the quick, pained flush that warmed the pallor of her skin from the smooth brow to the slender white column of her throat; “but it would be a satisfaction to me if you would only realise that I’m not worth your distress. I understand what your idea is—most good women fall into the same error. But when a man has no desire to be influenced it is waste of time to attempt it.”
Her glance fell under his direct, steady look, and the embarrassed colour that had flamed into her cheeks retreated and left them whiter than before. She put up a hand for a second as if to screen her eyes from the light, and he knew that she was pressing back the starting tears.
“I know,” she said very low, and without looking at him, “that I’ve no right to interfere. But whatever you say,—whatever you think, we can none of us act independently of our fellows. When we do wrong we are bound to hurt someone—as well as ourselves.”
There was a brief silence during which both still figures remained so rigidly quiet that the subdued ticking of the dresden clock on the mantelpiece sounded intrusively loud in the stillness. Then Lawless moved abruptly.
“You mean,” he said, “that I am hurting you.”
“Yes... You are hurting me.”
He straightened himself and walked away to the window, where he stood looking out at the quiet night. A young moon shone like a white curved flame in the purple dome, casting its pure reflection on the misty beauty of the garden that, like a picture painted without colour, lay motionless under the starry heavens,—patches of black shadow, and splashes of white where the pale flowers showed in clusters in the uncertain light.
“I never thought of it touching you,” he said after a pause. “I suppose... the scandal—”
“Oh! the scandal!” She looked up with a quick resentment in her eyes. “Can’t you get deeper than just the part that shows?”
“In this instance,” he returned quite quietly, “it’s the part that shows which matters—only the part that shows. If I were doing this thing secretly I should be reckoned decent living, and be well considered of my fellows. And it would never have offended your susceptibilities, nor disgusted other women whose feelings I have not a jot of respect for. You simply wouldn’t have known... It appears to me that it is the part that shows which means everything.”
She answered nothing. She sat still, watching him, with her fine eyes clouded and disapproving, and her lips closed in a thin, determined line of scarlet that looked the more brilliant because of the set whiteness of her face. He swung round suddenly and faced her.
“I might have anticipated this,” he said. “But, oddly enough, I never took you into consideration. After all, you’ve a right to complain... The same name! ... Yes, it’s awkward—very... and unpleasant.”
He crossed the room and stood in front of her chair, looking down at her with an almost hostile expression in his sombre eyes.
“In your opinion,” he asked, a hard resentment in his voice, “is there any reason why I should especially consider you?”
She looked back at him steadily. “Have I not already acknowledged that my interference is unjustifiable?”
“True!” he allowed, and thought for a moment.
“One condition alone would give you any right to take exception at anything I do,” he added—“and that is such an unlikely condition that we need not reckon it in... But, however dead I may be to all sense of honour and decency, I have still sufficient perception to realise that the situation is—uncomfortable for you. It shall cease to annoy you. I leave Cape Town this week.”
The expression of glad hopefulness that had momentarily lighted her eyes died out as suddenly as it had kindled. She understood him perfectly. Because this thing was humiliating to her he was going to remove it from her path. That much he would concede—and that was all.
“You are going away?” she said in a low voice, leaning towards him.—“And you will take your mistress with you?”
“And I take my mistress with me,” he answered firmly... “Yes.”
She winced. He was standing so close to her chair that she could not rise without touching him. She sat farther back, and leant her dark head against the cushions as a woman who is weary might do. This was but another of the many bitter moments she had endured on his account. An icy coldness crept over her and seemed to grip her heart. She had battled with her pride so fiercely and persistently, setting up an ideal of duty to be followed despite every difficulty, with this man’s salvation as its ultimate aim; and at the very outset she owned herself defeated. She could not plead with him; a certain intolerant hardness in her nature awoke and set a seal on her lips. If he was so lost to all fine thinking, to all sense of decent living and restraint, let him go with this woman who was a fitting companion for the ill-spent hours. She would not undertake so futile a mission as to attempt to dissuade him.
“If that is final,” she remarked at last, “there is nothing more to be said.”
“It is final,” he answered.
He moved away. She did not rise, but she turned her head and looked after him, the proud eyes darkened with trouble that was not caused only by distress at what he purposed doing, but by her lack of power to hold him back.
At the door he paused, and glanced quickly in her direction.
“This interview has been unsatisfactory,” he said abruptly. “I have disappointed you. I regret it, because on a former occasion when I solicited an interview you were more considerate. If you didn’t send for me solely with a view to improving my morals, but were content to accept me as I am, the result might be more satisfactory for both of us. Good-night.”
He went out and shut the door sharply behind him, and Mrs Lawless, sitting still where he had left her, listened to the bang of the hall door, and to the crunching of his steps upon the gravelled path as he walked past the drawing-room windows to the gate. She heard the gate open and swing to after him, and then followed silence—silence so profound, so prolonged, that to the woman seated alone in the quiet room it was an immense relief when presently the sound of a concertina floated in through the open windows from the direction of the servants’ quarters. The sound broke the tension. She moved slightly, and her eyes lost their fixed expression. She plucked at a soft fold of the silken tea-gown with nervous fingers, and listened absently to the strains that drifted towards her on the evening air. A Kaffir was singing in a rich, deep voice to his own untaught accompaniment.
“All de world am sad an’ dreary everywhere I roam.”
The haunting, familiar air with its tender pathos, its hopelessness, its strange beauty, moved her to an extraordinary degree, perhaps because she was so deeply moved already. A sob caught her throat, and the unaccustomed tears started to her eyes for the second time that evening. As before, she put up a hand to press them back, but they pushed their way under her lids and between the restraining fingers, and coursed rapidly down her cheeks...
“Oh! darkies, how my heart grows weary!”
The sob was louder this time...
“Oh! darkies, how my heart grows weary!”
Swiftly she turned and buried her face in the cushion of the chair and wept unrestrainedly.