Who has lost all hope has also lost all fear.
Among others, it was a strange thing that Jocelyn felt no surprise at
meeting the name of Millicent Chyne on the lips of another man. Women
understand these things better than we do. They understand each other,
and they seem to have a practical way of accepting human nature as it is
which we never learn to apply to our fellowmen. They never bluster as we
do, nor expect impossibilities from the frail.
Another somewhat singular residue left, as it were, in Jocelyn's
mind when the storm of emotion had subsided was a certain indefinite
tenderness for Millicent Chyne. She felt sure that Jack Meredith's
feeling for her was that feeling vaguely called the right one, and, as
such, unalterable. To this knowledge the subtle sympathy for Millicent
was perhaps attributable. But navigation with pen and thought among the
shoals and depths of a woman's heart is hazardous and uncertain.
Coupled with this--as only a woman could couple contradictions--was an
unpardoning abhorrence for the deceit practised. But Jocelyn knew the
world well enough to suspect that, if she were ever brought face to
face with her meanness, Millicent would be able to bring about her own
forgiveness. It is the knowledge of this lamentable fact that undermines
the feminine sense of honour.
Lastly, there was a calm acceptance of the fact that Guy Oscard must and
would inevitably go to the wall. There could be no comparison between
the two men. Millicent Chyne could scarcely hesitate for a moment. That
she herself must likewise suffer uncomplainingly, inevitably, seemed to
be an equally natural consequence in Jocelyn Gordon's mind.
She could not go to Jack Meredith and say:
“This woman is deceiving you, but I love you, and my love is a nobler,
grander thing than hers. It is no passing fancy of a giddy, dazzled
girl, but the deep strong passion of a woman almost in the middle of her
life. It is a love so complete, so sufficing, that I know I could make
you forget this girl. I could so envelop you with love, so watch over
you and care for you, and tend you and understand you, that you MUST be
happy. I feel that I could make you happier than any other woman in the
world could make you.”
Jocelyn Gordon could not do this; and all the advanced females in the
world, all the blue stockings and divided skirts, all the wild women and
those who pant for burdens other than children, will never bring it to
pass that women can say such things.
And precisely because she could not say this, Jocelyn felt hot and sick
at the very thought that Jack Meredith should learn aught of Millicent
Chyne from her. Her own inner motive in divulging what she had learnt
from Guy Oscard could never for a moment be hidden behind a wish,
however sincere, to act for the happiness of two honourable gentlemen.
Jocelyn had no one to consult--no one to whom she could turn, in the
maddening difficulty of her position, for advice or sympathy. She had to
work it out by herself, steering through the quicksands by that compass
that knows no deviation--the compass of her own honour and maidenly
reserve.
Just because she was so sure of her own love she felt that she could
never betray the falseness of Millicent Chyne. She felt somehow that
Millicent's fall in Jack Meredith's estimation would drag down with
it the whole of her sex, and consequently herself. She did not dare to
betray Millicent, because the honour of her sex must be held up by an
exaggerated honour in herself. Thus her love for Jack Meredith tied her
hands, while she stood idly by to see him wreck his own life by what
could only be a miserable union.
With the clear sight of the onlooker, Jocelyn Gordon now saw that, by
Jack Meredith's own showing, Millicent was quite unworthy of him. But
she also remembered words, silences, and hints which demonstrated with
lamentable plainness the fact that he loved her. She was old enough and
sufficiently experienced to avoid the futile speculation as to what had
attracted this love. She knew that men marry women who in the estimation
of onlooking relatives are unworthy of them, and live happily ever
afterwards, without deeming it necessary to explain to those relatives
how it comes about.
Now it happened that this woman--Jocelyn Gordon--was not one of those
who gracefully betray themselves at the right moment and are immediately
covered with a most becoming confusion. She was strong to hold to
her purpose, to subdue herself, to keep silent. And this task she
set herself, having thought it all carefully out in the little
flower-scented verandah, so full of pathetic association. But it must be
remembered that she in no wise seemed to see the pathos in her own life.
She was unconscious of romance. It was all plain fact, and the plainest
was her love for Jack Meredith.
Her daily life was in no perceptible way changed. Maurice Gordon saw no
difference. She had never been an hilarious person. Now she went about
her household, her kindnesses, and unobtrusive good works with a quieter
mien; but, when occasion or social duty demanded, she seemed perhaps a
little readier than before to talk of indifferent topics, to laugh at
indifferent wit. Those who have ears to hear and eyes wherewith to see
learn to distrust the laugh that is too ready, the sympathy that flows
in too broad a stream. Happiness is self-absorbed.
Four months elapsed, and the excitement created in the small world of
Western Africa by the first dazzling success of the Simiacine Expedition
began to subside. The thing took its usual course. At first the experts
disbelieved, and then they prophesied that it could not last. Finally,
the active period of envy, hatred, and malice gave way to a sullen
tolerance not unmixed with an indefinite grudge towards Fortune who had
favoured the brave once more.
Maurice Gordon was in daily expectation of news from that far-off
favoured spot they vaguely called the Plateau. And Jocelyn did
not pretend to conceal from herself the hope that filled her whole
being--the hope that Jack Meredith might bring the news in person.
Instead, came Victor Durnovo.
He came upon her one evening when she was walking slowly home from a
mild tea-party at the house of a missionary. Hearing footsteps on the
sandy soil, she turned, and found herself face to face with Durnovo.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, and her voice thrilled with some emotion which he
did not understand. “Ah, it is you!”
“Yes,” he said, holding her hand a little longer than was necessary. “It
is I.”
His journey from Msala through the more civilised reaches of the lower
river, his voyage in the coasting boat, and his arrival at Loango,
had partaken of the nature of a triumphal progress. Victor Durnovo was
elated--like a girl in a new dress.
“I was coming along to see you,” he said, and there was a subtle offence
in his tone.
She did not trouble to tell him that Maurice was away for ten days. She
felt that he knew that. There was a certain truculence in his walk which
annoyed her; but she was wonderingly conscious of the fact that she
was no longer afraid of him. This feeling had as yet taken no definite
shape. She did not know what she felt, but she knew that there was no
fear in her mind.
“Have you been successful?” she asked, with a certain negative kindness
of tone bred of this new self-confidence.
“I should think we had! Why, the lot that Oscard brought down was a
fortune in itself. But you saw Oscard, of course. Did he stay at the
bungalow?”
“No; he stayed at the hotel.”
“Did you like him?”
The question was accompanied by a momentary glance of the dark, jealous
eyes.
“Yes, very much.”
“He is a nice fellow, first-rate fellow. Of course, he has his faults,
but he and I got on splendidly. He's--engaged, you know.”
“So he told me.”
Durnovo glanced at her again searchingly, and looked relieved. He gave
an awkward little laugh.
“And I understand,” he said, “that Meredith is in the same enviable
position.”
“Indeed!”
Durnovo indulged in a meaning silence.
“When do you go back?” she asked carelessly.
“Almost at once,” in a tone that apologised for causing her necessary
pain. “I must leave to-morrow or the next day. I do not like the idea
of Meredith being left too long alone up there with a reduced number
of men. Of course, I had to bring a pretty large escort. I brought down
sixty thousand pounds worth of Simiacine.”
“Yes,” she said; “and you take all the men back to-morrow?”
He did not remember having stated for certain that he was leaving the
next day.
“Or the day after,” he amended.
“Have you had any more sickness among the men?” she asked at once, in a
tone of irony which made him wince.
“No,” he answered, “they have been quite all right.”
“What time do you start?” she asked. “There are letters for Mr. Meredith
at the office. Maurice's head clerk will give them to you.”
She knew that these letters were from Millicent. She had actually had
them in her hand. She had inhaled the faint, refined scent of the paper
and envelopes.
“You will be careful that they are not lost, won't you?” she said,
tearing at her own heart with a strange love of the pain. “They may be
important.”
“Oh, I will deliver them sharp enough,” he answered. “I suppose I had
better start to-morrow.”
“I should think so,” she replied quietly, with that gentle mendacity
which can scarcely be grudged to women, because they are so poorly
armed. “I should think so. You know what these men are. Every hour they
have in Loango demoralises them more and more.”
They had reached the gate of the bungalow garden. She turned and held
out her hand in an undeniable manner. He bade her good-bye and went his
way, wondering vaguely what had happened to them both. The conversation
had taken quite a different turn to what he had expected and intended.
But somehow it had got beyond his control. He had looked forward to
a very different ending to the interview. And now he found
himself returning somewhat disconsolately to the wretched hotel in
Loango--dismissed--sent back.
The next day he actually left the little West African coast town,
turning his face northward with bad grace. Even at that distance, he
feared Jack Meredith's half-veiled sarcasm. He knew that nothing could
be hidden for long from the Englishman's suavely persistent inquiry and
deduction. Besides, the natives were no longer safe. Meredith, with the
quickness of a cultured linguist, had picked up enough of their language
to understand them, while Joseph talked freely with them in that
singular mixture of slang and vernacular which follows the redcoat all
over the world. Durnovo had only been allowed to come down to the coast
under a promise, gracefully veiled, but distinct enough, that he should
only remain twenty-four hours in Loango.
Jocelyn avoided seeing him again. She was forced to forego the
opportunity of hearing much that she wanted to learn because Durnovo,
the source of the desired knowledge, was unsafe. But the relief from the
suspense of the last few months was in itself a consolation. All seemed
to be going on well at the Plateau. Danger is always discounted at
sight; and Jocelyn felt comparatively easy respecting the present
welfare of Jack Meredith, living as she did on the edge of danger.
Four days later she was riding through the native town of Loango,
accompanied by a lady-friend, when she met Victor Durnovo. The sight of
him gave her a distinct shock. She knew that he had left Loango three
days before with all his men. There was no doubt about that. Moreover,
his air was distinctly furtive--almost scared. It was evident that the
chance meeting was as undesired by him as it was surprising to her.
“I thought you had left,” she said shortly, pulling up her horse with
undeniable decision.
“Yes... but I have come back--for--for more men.”
She knew he was lying, and he felt that she knew.
“Indeed!” she said. “You are not a good starter.”
She turned her horse's head, nodded to her friend, bowed coldly to
Durnovo, and trotted towards home. When she had reached the corner
of the rambling, ill-paved street, she touched her horse. The animal
responded. She broke into a gentle canter, which made the little
children cease their play and stare. In the forest she applied the
spurs, and beneath the whispering trees, over the silent sand, the girl
galloped home as fast as her horse could lay legs to the ground.
Jocelyn Gordon was one of those women who rise slowly to the occasion,
and the limit of their power seems at times to be only defined by the
greatness of the need.