"DEAD SEPARATE SOULS..."
She turned as he overtook her. For a moment they thus stood face to
face. Then he spoke.
"I have come to say good-bye."
"To say--good-bye?" echoed Mona, dully, staring at him as though she
were walking in her sleep.
"Yes. There is a gulf between us now such as can never be bridged,
never. It is not good that you should even so much as speak with a
murderer. A murderer, I repeat."
The faces of both were white as death. The frames of both were rigid
and motionless, as they stood confronting each other beneath the
willows--there, where they had first met, there, where those passionate
words of undying love had been interchanged, there, where those long,
long kisses had stamped their seal upon that love. And here they had
met again--to part.
"Roden, say it was not true!" she gasped at last. "You were acquitted
at the trial. It is not true; it cannot be true! Say it is not; say it
is not!"
"But, what if it is?"
The words forced themselves out with something of a snarl. His lips
seemed drawn back, and his eyes glowed like those of a cornered wild
beast, as he watched her troubled face.
"But it is not! No, you could never have done such a thing--you! You
could never have been a cold-blooded midnight murderer, and robber. No,
Roden, I will not believe it!"
"But you do believe it. You believed it from the first, because that
half-start away from me when our eyes first met this morning meant
nothing short of belief. That little act of shrinking fixed my mind
irrevocably--reft a gulf between us never to be passed in this life. A
cold-blooded midnight murderer--and robber--_and_ robber!" he repeated;
and now indeed the expression of his face was more than ever like that
of a dangerous animal at bay. "And you believe that!"
"But say it is not true! Oh, Roden, say it! Your bare word will be
sufficient to restore me, to restore us both, to the blissful heaven we
were in before!" she adjured, her voice quivering with anguish.
"Nothing on earth will ever restore that. You killed the possibility
that little lightning-like moment when you half turned away from me,
looked at me with doubting horror. Now I will say nothing--nothing, you
understand. Form your own opinion and hold it, for henceforth it can be
nothing to me. We disappear out of each other's lives for ever."
Mona made no reply; her face half averted, her lips compressed, her
beautiful form erect and rigid. Why was he so terribly strong, with a
strength of purpose that was almost appalling, demoniacal, scarcely
human in its unparalleled inflexibility? Why did he give no sign of
softness, of yielding? She had, as he said, involuntarily, though
half-unconsciously, shrunk from him. That was enough. Never again
would she see those eyes gladden to the light of hers, never again hear
the love tone of that voice. And yet, amid the awful agony of her loss
and its realisation, there was still room for that same feeling of
shrinking as from the perpetrator of a hideous and sordid crime; and
like the mocking whoop of demons in her ears came that cutting,
stinging, gibing refrain--the echo of his words, spoken there:--
"Nothing lasts! Nothing lasts!"
She had reached that point where mental anguish becomes physical pain,
without in any way losing itself therein. Her brain seemed bursting,
her heart refusing to beat. The climax came. She sank down in swooning
unconsciousness.
Even then that human being turned to iron repressed the step which he
had made towards her--repressed it with a shiver, but still repressed
it. Not his the right to touch her--he from whom she had shrunk as from
a murderer and midnight robber. Then another thought struck him.
"Yes, it is better so," he muttered, stepping to the side of the
unconscious form, its nobly moulded lines as beautiful as ever in
insensibility. "It is better so. Looked at thus for the last time, I
can think of her ever as though I had looked upon her in death."
Then he struggled with himself, fought to restrain the overmastering
impulse, for the last time to bend down and press his lips long and hard
to her unconscious ones--fought, and conquered, and refrained.
"It would be a murderer's kiss," he muttered, between his teeth. Then
turning, he lifted up his voice and sent forth a long, loud call.
"Miss Ridsdale has fainted, Suffield," he said, as the latter came
running up. "You had better get her taken to the house. Good-bye,
Suffield!"
"Stop, Musgrave, stop!" cried Suffield, who was now supporting Mona's
head. "Don't go away like that, man. Hang it! after all this time, you
know."
"I won't shake hands with you, Suffield," answered Roden without
pausing, as he was walking rapidly away to where he had left his horse,
still saddled. "You don't want to take the hand of a murderer--_and_
thief, especially the thief. Good-bye, Suffield."
He rode away in the broad glare of noontide, the shimmer of heat from
the scorching plains rising mirage-like in the distance. The screech of
cricket vibrated shrilly upon the burning, glowing atmosphere, to cease
abruptly in a silence that was well-nigh as oppressive; then bursting
forth again with a strident suddenness which brought back the
nerve-racking din tenfold. In the cloudless blue of the heavens, high
overhead above the brink of the rock-embattled crest of the mountain
range, something black was wheeling and soaring. He looked up, drawn by
the distant and raucous cry of the huge bird. It was a _dasje-vanger_
of noble size, like that which he had shot on the eventful day whereon
the secret of this new love had been opened to him, and now, in his
fierce and hard despair, it seemed that the great eagle was the sprite
of the one which he had slain, shrieking forth its hate and exultation.
This then was love! A thing that could take sides with the spiteful
clamour of the mob against its object. This then was the Ever
Endurable! The first adverse blast had scattered it to the winds.
"Mine for ever, throughout all the years," had been the declaration of
that love, yet the course of but a few months had sifted the passionate
vow, and had left--a few husks of chaff!
He had gained the "neck" where the waggon road crossed it, and beneath
lay the unprepossessing little township. There not a friendly hand
would be extended to him, not a friendly voice be lifted in greeting.
Those who looked on him would turn their backs, any group he approached
would quickly melt away. Yet, for such as these what cared he? Hugging
themselves in the security of their sordid daily swindles, in whose very
pettiness lay their safety, they would thank God devoutly they were not
as he, not as one who had struck down life, sacred life! No, not for
the good word, the good fellowship of such as these, cared he. But his
mind, seared beyond all further capacity for feeling, reverted to that
one heart which was shut towards him, to the pallid death-like face upon
whose lips he had refrained from pressing that last kiss, upon those
eyes into whose depths he had looked his last upon earth, as surely as
though the dull echo of the clods was sounding above a coffin. Yet
now--now, while realising the ever-impassable gulf which lay between, he
loved her as he had never loved. Yet now he would have given all the
world for the one consoling memory of that last kiss, which he had
refrained from, had refused. The sterility of those long pent-up
springs of love had lent tenfold force to the effort by which at last
they should burst their rock-prison--only to end thus. Yet towards the
eternal ruling of things it was that all bitterness of feeling was due,
not towards her, for had not his uttered premonition from the very first
been, "Nothing lasts, nothing lasts?"
That afternoon he sought out his official superior. The latter looked
coldly surprised, also a little uncomfortable.
"I desire to say, Mr Shaston, that I have changed my mind. I am
prepared to resign my position in the public service, and I have no
doubt it will save you a good deal of trouble. If I adopt this course,
however, it is subject to one stipulation. I wish to leave at once."
"When do you desire to leave, Mr Musgrave?" said the other, unbending
somewhat, for he was overjoyed. He could get his wife's relation into
the berth now, and would be rid of a subordinate whom he thoroughly
hated and at times feared.
"To-morrow at midday, if it can be managed. I shall be prepared to
submit everything to your inspection, and formally hand over the keys."
Shaston readily assented, hardly able to conceal his misgivings lest
Roden might think better of it in the interim. He began, however, a
pompous commendation of the very proper wisdom displayed in deciding
upon such a course, which at once put an end to a very unpleasant state
of affairs, and so forth, but found himself ruthlessly but very politely
"shut up." He had got his way, however.
The next day, accordingly, having formally handed in his resignation "on
the ground of very urgent private affairs," and delivered over all that
had to be delivered over, Roden prepared for his start. He placed his
effects in the hands of an auctioneer, except such few as he cared to
remove, and these could follow him at leisure. His intention was to
leave the country which had brought him nothing better than an
irremovable curse, the curse of a mind roused to feeling again after
many years of cold, philosophical quiescence.
In his desolation, his hardly acknowledged longing for one friendly
word, the lonely and shunned man thought of Peter Van Stolz. Would he
too have turned against him--he with his open, generous nature? Alas,
and alas! When love failed, what was friendship? The voice whose
quivering whisper had entranced his ear, had irradiated his heart, had
been lifted against him in cold condemnation. The head which had lain
upon his breast was averted in repulsion. The lips which had kissed his
were hardened in scorn. Where then was there room for friendship?
Nothing lasts!
Leaving his private quarters, he rode over to the Barkly Hotel, to
settle up his score at that sumptuous caravanserai. A group of men were
on the _stoep_, smoking their after-dinner pipe in noisy discussion.
His arrival was the signal for a sodden silence. Of this he took no
notice--standing in the doorway, with his back to the street, while
Jones went inside to receipt the bill.
"And how are ye, Mr Musgrave? It's a long time since I've seen ye,
anyway, and me only just back."
Roden turned quickly. The jolly voice with its touch of brogue, the
rusty black coat and stove-pipe hat, the kind face and thick white hair,
could belong to no other than Father O'Driscoll. And--he was advancing
with outstretched hand. Roden stared, first at that very substantial
member, then at its owner. But he did not respond, beyond a stiff bow.
"Ah, an' is it like ye, to wish to cut an old friend?" said the old man,
his hand still held forth, and a look in his eyes that there was no
mistaking. For it said, as plain as words, "I know all--all. But
understand, _I_ am not called upon to judge you, however some here may
reckon themselves to be, God forgive them!"
Roden's hand closed upon that of the old priest in a warm grasp.
"An old friend, did you say, Father? I am proud of the word as coming
from you; of the thing as existing between us."
"Ah, and what'll I do now without all our talks about the ould counthry
and the fishing? Sure they've brought back the chimes of Shandon bells,
and the days when I was a bit of a gorsoon a whippin' the trout out of
the Shournagh, wid a long shtick and a crooked pin, faster than the
garrison officers could get at 'em with their grand new rods. See now,
I've only just got back, and the moment I heard ye were leavin' us I
hurried off to find ye. Now come and have a bit of dinner with me
before ye leave, and a parting tumbler of punch."
This in the face of all Doppersdorp, for the benefit of those who had
condemned and shunned him. No one was more capable than Roden of keenly
appreciating the manner in which his old friend had come forward to
stand by him, combining as it did a rare delicacy with the maximum of
effectiveness. But this last invitation he could not but decline. To
delay his departure even for an hour could serve no good purpose, and he
shrank from laying bare so much as a corner of his heart, even to the
sweet-natured old Irishman.
The latter, quick to read thoughts, saw through his motive, and did not
press him.
"Well, if you've got to go I won't be detaining you. Good-bye, Mr
Musgrave," shaking his hand heartily. "We don't profess the same creed;
but it'll do ye no harm to know that wherever you go, and wherever you
are, there's an old man's blessing following you. Good-bye now!"
Such was the end. And as the great spur of the mountain, glowing green
and gold in the afternoon sunlight, shut out the last of Doppersdorp
behind him for ever, Roden Musgrave was conscious of a feeling of
starting forth once more into the world, destitute and alone. Since the
day which witnessed his entry into that sordid little township, he had
gained that which he had never thought to win again--a restored faith in
that marvellous mystery, which, while it lasts, avails to make a very
paradise of the heart in which it takes up its most inexplicable abode.
Was it a gain? Well, he had lost it now. Never, never could it be
restored. Had he done wrong in refusing to speak that word which should
exculpate himself? No. Whatever others might think, however
circumstances might point most conclusively to the truth, Mona ought to
have stood firm. Not for a moment could he admit that he ought to have
conceded. Rightly or wrongly that one falling away was enough. Even
had he yielded, that would have stood between them for ever.
Now he began to feel strangely aged as he went forth once more into that
most dreary of exiles to the man who is no longer young, and whose means
are too scanty even for his barest needs--to face the world afresh, that
is. In the braced-up strength, and freshness of mind, and elasticity of
spirits, of youth, such a prospect is not one to shrink from; on the
contrary, it is one which is welcomed with many a buoyant laugh. But
later, when strength is waning, and all things pall, and hopes and
illusions are laid to rest for ever, buried in a grave of corroding
corruption and bitter ashes;--ah! then it is a dark and craggy desert
prospect indeed. And as these thoughts started up spectre-like in
Roden's mind, he began to think of death.
Not of the suicide's death. Oh no. Putting it on the lowest grounds,
such an act would be a feebleness, an imbecility, such as found no part
within his nature; for it would be a concession to the unutterably
contemptible tenet that there existed such a reality as love. Not in
him was it to afford such a triumph as that to his enemies, let alone to
her who, when tried, had been found so pitiably wanting. No, it was
death in its natural order that now filled his mind. Would all things
be at rest then? or would it be indeed, as the jarring tongues of
striving sects and hair-splitting 'ologies all agreed--the one point on
which they did agree--that that death, not so very formidable in itself,
was only to open the gate of woe, endless, unutterable, to those who had
eaten their full share of the bread of affliction in life--namely, the
vast bulk of human kind?
He passed his hand over his eyes. Had it all been a dream? No, no! and
yet in a way it had; but a dream from which he had now thoroughly
awakened. Nevertheless, as he paced his horse steadily on, mile after
mile over the glowing, sunlit landscape, the torment which seethed the
soul of this outwardly cool and imperturbable wayfarer might have moved
the pity of angels and men. For strive and reason as he would, the love
which burnt within his heart flamed more strongly than it had ever
done--yet now he had renounced it--and its object he would never again
behold in life.