LIFE IS THORNY, AND YOUTH IS VAIN.
When Quamina can be quieted and her fears calmed, the truth is
gradually drawn from her. She has seen a man in a black mask prowling
on his hands and knees in the bushes round the house. She leant out of
her window and screamed, whereupon he sprang on to a horse, and
galloped up the hill like a madman.
Quamina cannot be persuaded it is not the devil himself haunting their
domain, and is petrified with terror for the rest of the evening.
"I should feel inclined to put the masked man down to Quamina's vivid
imagination," declares Eleanor, "if you had not personally encountered
him, Carol. He is like a sort of 'troll,' one of Ibsen's 'helpers and
servers.'"
Quinton has given Eleanor "The Master Builder" to read, himself being a
believer in the strange theory of will power. He is much upset by
Quamina's story, bewildered at the mystery shrouding this evil demon.
His life is becoming a purgatory on earth; he goes in daily dread of
some fresh disaster. He says little to Eleanor, but she notices he
does not sit out in the verandah, preferring the shelter of four walls,
as if in mortal fear of something.
"Does he picture a phantom shooting in the dark?" she wonders.
She offers to sing, but he silences her with a petulant movement and
gruff word. He is not in the mood for music. The loaded revolver he
always keeps in his room is brought down and laid beside him as he
smokes and reads.
Eleanor is grieved to see him so unhinged. It is a pitiable thing when
a man loses his pluck, and the woman must play the part of consoler and
encourager.
The following morning, to her surprise, Quinton seems no less
frightened than on the previous night. He refuses to go out, and sits
in moody silence or paces the room--both equally trying to the patient
Eleanor. At last the idea seizes her that, if she shows daring and
goes out alone, leaving him to brood in solitude, it may spur Quinton
to rouse himself and cast off his apprehensions. Surely he will not be
outdone by a woman!
"I am going for a stroll," she announces calmly.
"Oh! Are you?"
His lips twitch nervously. He does not volunteer to accompany her.
She takes up a large shady hat, and winds a long white veil over her
face.
"Won't you come, too?" she asks mildly.
"No, certainly not, and I think you are very foolhardy to go."
She stares at him in amazement.
"My dear boy, are we to stay in for ever because of old Quamina and her
ugly sayings? If the devil is coming for me, he'll come in whether I
hide or not; besides, I do not believe in devils!"
"No, but living assassins, modern highwaymen, who scout the country to
shed blood, seeking whom they may devour. If you take my advice you
will stay safely indoors."
But, for the sake of example, Eleanor shakes her head. If she gives in
to him now their life will be one of cowering seclusion. There is
something convincing in the light of day that drives from her heart all
qualms and misgivings.
"I see no reason why we should not walk abroad just the same as
Elizabeth or any other person. You were only attacked once, and that
was at night. Look, for instance, at the white woman on the charger.
She was alone. I don't think even a highwayman, though, would tackle
her," with a low laugh. "She'd be a pretty good handful for anybody.
I could imagine her mesmerising a lion with those eyes. I have no
doubt she is a crack shot, too, from the bold way she carried her gun.
She was a regular Amazon."
"You forget I have never seen the white stranger you allude to."
"Of course not. She passed when you were looking for the dog on that
unfortunate day. Well, good-bye for the present, dear. Take care of
yourself, and if you like to come and meet me I shall be delighted."
She leaves the house singing, hoping her bravado will have the effect
of re-assuring Carol.
As she goes he flings his book on the ground, stretching out his arms
like a caged bird beating its wings against the bars.
"It can't last much longer," he hisses between his teeth; "it _won't_
last much longer. Thank goodness I can see the end."
Eleanor's mind is so full of thought that she does not heed the
direction in which her steps turn. She walks like one in a dream, busy
with her own thoughts. A thousand ideas flit through her brain. She
lives over her miserable past. Even the early days at Copthorne return
vividly. She is a merry child swinging on a gate; a lazy girl lolling
on a hayrick; a frivolous wife, sporting her gay attire in the Brussels
Bois; a weary woman sighing at her lot in the house on Richmond
Terrace; and then the realisation of the present rushes over her, and
she starts as if suddenly awaking from sleep.
There are steps at her side; she turns, remembering Carol's warning.
Elizabeth Kachin stands before her, they are face to face.
From sheer force of habit Eleanor stretches out her hand in greeting,
but draws it back sharply, gathering her scattered wits together.
There is a cold look in Elizabeth's eyes. Eleanor shivers though the
sun scorches, for the frosts of sin are very bitter. Mrs. Kachin
averts her head, and passes her without a word. Little Tombo, who is
following in the rear, runs up and raises his face for a kiss, but his
mother calls to him quickly, while Eleanor pushes him away. "Why is
she angry with me?" he asks Elizabeth; "why doesn't she come and see us
now?"
Eleanor hears the words. They cut deeper than an assassin's knife.
Carol was right. Retribution is on the road, waiting to devour her
body and soul. She paces on with bent head, the hot blood in her
cheeks, and a lump in her throat.
A third shadow crosses her path, this time it is Big Tombo. Her eyes
meet his fearlessly. He bares his head, bows low, and Eleanor smiles
sadly.
"Men are kinder than women," she thinks, as she wanders on. "They
judge less harshly. When their companions sin they do not cast them
out to sink lower in the mire, they give them a hand, instead of a
kick! But women take upon themselves to dash their sisters with cruel
force upon the stones."
It was good to be alone with her sorrow, her shame.
She breathed a prayer from the depths of her soul--a wordless
invocation. She is close to the jungle now, and the pleasant shade of
the foliage cools her feverish brain.
She steps fearlessly into the thick undergrowth. Then pauses, for the
sound of a horse attracts her attention. It is the heavy tread of the
huge charger, on which that handsome white stranger, gun in hand, is
seeking prey.
Eleanor watches the flash of those wonderful eyes, there is something
unholy, devilish, in their unusual splendour. Her full red lips are
drawn in and compressed.
She raises her gun, and before Eleanor can cry out the woman has fired!
The bullet whizzes past her head, for a moment her heart stops beating,
the narrow escape fills her with horror!
She fancies the stranger saw her before she pulled the trigger, and let
off her gun out of sheer devilment, to show her accuracy.
But scarcely has she recovered from the fright when a second report is
heard from the bushes close by, and the great charger, on which this
reckless sportswoman is seated, falls dead beneath her. She rolls off
the saddle, and stands like a fury over the body.
"What villain has killed my horse?" she cries aloud, in a deep voice,
which even in its anger sounds strangely fascinating, despite the
masculine slang.
[Illustration: "What villain has killed my horse?"]
Eleanor rushes forward.
"The unseen hand!" she exclaims, hardly knowing what she says.
"How do you mean?" asks the tall woman.
"Someone shot from the bushes; didn't you see? First of all you nearly
hit me, it was the closest shave I ever had, and immediately your horse
fell----"
"I'll soon find out who has been making a target of me," muttered the
stranger.
So saying, she fires recklessly into the bushes, but there is no sound,
no cry.
Eleanor watches this wild creature curiously. Surely she will
apologise for nearly killing her through inexcusable carelessness.
But she says no word, only watches the smoke rise, and anathematises
the fate that has slain a useful beast.
Eleanor forgets her own grievance, and sympathises with the stranger's
loss.
"It could not have been done intentionally," she declares.
"I don't believe in chance; it was a dead aim, depend upon it."
Eleanor's eyes expand at this remark.
"Who are you?" she asks. "What is your name?"
"I am a woman," replies the other, with a mocking smile; "my name is
Paulina."
She shows no wish to be acquainted with Eleanor's identity.
"What will you do without your horse?"
"Get another, of course."
"But now?"
"Walk."
"Then you live in these parts? I hope in the future you will be more
careful how you shoot at random. It would not have been very pleasant
for either of us if you had hit me."
"What are you doing walking about by yourself?"
Eleanor looks up and laughs.
"Not risking other people's lives, at any rate."
"I wish I could unravel the mystery of my unknown assailant! Have you
any idea who watches your movements and revenges himself on my
carelessness?"
A new light flashes across Eleanor at these words. This weird
adventure becomes more interesting and amazing at Paulina's suggestion.
"I don't understand you."
"All the better, perhaps."
The abrupt answer startles Eleanor, a puzzled look creeps over her face.
"Why can't you say what you mean?" she asks hotly, looking at Paulina
with sudden dislike and repugnance.
The stranger laughs, shoulders her gun, and turns away.
"Where would you have been now," she cries in parting, "if I had shot
you down by mistake like a jungle fowl?"
There is a taunting sneer in the words.
A hateful thought steals into Eleanor's mind. This woman, who swears
and treats her with such abominable coolness, knows something of her
past or present, possibly from Elizabeth, with whom she may be
acquainted. This last remark is an insinuation of her unfitness to
die, and that her soul is ripe for perdition. The implied slur
gradually increases and exaggerates itself in Eleanor's brain,
sensitive to a degree. She sees in it a deliberate insult, and
following Paulina, she demands:
"Before you go, please apologise for your carelessness. I am not
accustomed to be made a mark of, either for bullets or jests."
Paulina stops, and looks her up and down in a manner that makes Eleanor
feel like a pigmy facing a giant.
She takes out a cigarette, places it between her teeth, and hands her
case to Eleanor.
"Have one?" she asks, with insouciance. Eleanor is staggered. She
does not know whether to take this as a fresh slight or a very lame
apology.
Faint pulses of quivering sunbeams glance through the trees, playing
round the dead body of Paulina's horse. The old oaks rear their heads
to a sky of purest turquoise, but Eleanor has no heart to notice the
beautiful aerial effects. She is wondering if the proffered cigarette
is meant as an olive branch or otherwise.
She gazes in mute disgust.
"Have you never seen a weed before?" asks Paulina vivaciously. "You
are the type of woman, I suppose, who sits at home and arranges
flowers, very artistically, no doubt. You would pose in limp gowns of
gauzy drapery, like a pictured saint, and expect your husband or your
lovers to grovel and worship. But you are dangerously near to the
borderland separating the sublime from the ridiculous. You expect me
to apologise for a shot at random, which cost a valuable horse its
life. Some savage black who worships your fair form at a distance,
most likely paid it back with interest."
"You are a very vulgar woman," exclaimed Eleanor. "I hope I shall
never see you again."
"Don't use that word 'vulgar,'" she replies, "it's so low class."
"You don't mind what you say to me because I am alone and unprotected,"
cries Eleanor with almost childish petulance, the tears glistening in
her angry eyes. "If Carol was here, he would defend me."
"Carol," she laughs, "who is the staunch and gallant Carol?"
But Eleanor will not answer; she feels desperately affronted, and turns
away.
The women walk in opposite directions; the day is dying.
"Well! you are back safely; any adventures?" asks Quinton, as she
enters the house pale and weary.
Eleanor sinks into a chair, slowly unwinds her veil, and flings her hat
impatiently upon the sofa. She is so seriously put out, that for the
moment she dares not trust herself to speak.
"Anything the matter, eh?"
Eleanor clears her throat.
"Yes."
Quinton sits bolt upright from his lounging attitude.
"What?" he says, staring at her intently.
Then she recounts her scene with Paulina, word for word, while Quinton
listens breathlessly.
"Her horse _shot from under her_?" he cries, as if that is of far more
importance than Eleanor's narrow escape.
"Yes, dear, wasn't it awful? It might have been you or me! I do
believe the masked man is on the warpath, only he went for _her_ this
time instead. It may be a lunatic, for every act seems so perfectly
motiveless."
"I told you not to venture out," he says, his face reddening with
annoyance. "You _would_ go against my wishes, and suffered for it
accordingly. The idea of getting into conversation, and actually
deigning to quarrel with a stranger. It was most humiliating and
lowering. Another time if you meet this 'Paulina,' as you call the
white Amazon, kindly avoid her. This merely confirms me in the
conviction which has grown upon me lately, that this place is no longer
fit for us to dwell in. I, for one, am sick of it, and long for a
taste of clubdom and life again."
"Oh! Carol!" she exclaims, and the words are wrung from her like a
sharp cry.
"Don't look so absurdly miserable, my dear," he says hastily, dreading
a scene with all the shrinking of his cowardly nature. "I won't say
anything to vex you again. I was only cross; forgive me."
Eleanor's heart goes out to him with all the old yearning tenderness.
Forgive him! Why, she would forgive Carol anything--he is her all.
She falls on her knees at his side, and draws down his face for a kiss.
As she does so, the sound of a loud, rich, stirring voice, swelling out
on the evening air, reaches them. They exchange hurried glances, start
to their feet, and look cautiously out.
It is "Paulina," swaggering down the hill with a devil-may-care mien,
her gun still over her shoulder, her hands in her pockets.
They catch the words, which ring full and clear:
"And constancy lives in realms above,
And life is thorny and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain."
"She _is_ like a 'troll,'" murmurs Eleanor, "shrieking in the night."
"A magnificent creature," says Carol. "Quite a picture!"
His eyes are riveted on the retreating form!