When Carson left the Portals he did not go home. He turned his face
towards the higher heights of the Berea, and those surmounted, tramped
on--on past darkened blind-drawn, lonely houses, and long stretches of
gardens and vacant lands, until he came at last to the cliff-side that
overlooks Umgeni. Afterwards he tramped and tramped, without knowing or
caring where he went, but always with the light silent feet of the
athlete. Irishmen are natural athletes. Also, if they are _real_
Irishmen, that is, born and brought up through boyhood in their own
land, they have learned to play "Handball"; and so their feet are as
light as their hands are swift to feel and their eyes to observe. For a
man whose lot must be cast in the sinuous paths of Africa--jungle or
money-market--there could be no better training than constant play in
his youthful days in an Irish ball-court, for it teaches quickness of
wit and limb more than any game ever played, as well as developing both
sides of the body, thus making for perfect symmetry. Carson had a
passion for the game, and he went hot with anger when he thought how
neglected and ignored it was amongst the fine sports of the world.
"Pilota," the Spanish national game, has some resemblance to "Handball,"
and is played by men of all classes in Spain. But in Ireland with the
exception here and there of a gentleman enthusiast, who has learnt his
love of the pastime at his college, only the poor fellows play it now,
and those usually the roughest of their class, who are obliged to depend
for their "courts" on the proprietors of public-houses.
All young Irish boys love "Handball," however, and Carson had often
thought it a wistful thing to see little ragged chaps watching a game
with eyes alight, holding the coats of players, on the chance of getting
a chance to play themselves when the "court" was vacated.
In the Protectorate he had established, he meant to build "ball-courts"
and teach the fine stalwart Borapotans to play the finest game in the
world.
But to-night, as he tramped, he did not think of these things. The
sports and pastimes of his boyhood were as far from his mind as was the
innocence of his boyhood from his heart. He was trying to tramp out the
remembrance of a sin. Trying to obliterate from his memory the face of a
woman he did not love, never had loved, never would love--but to whom
honour held him fast. A woman who had nursed him in sickness with
devotion and care--and who, when he was still physically weak, had flung
herself into his arms--at his feet, offering her life, her love, her
honour. And he had weakly fought, weakly resisted, and at the last most
weakly taken--taken just for the love of pity, and the love of love and
all the other loves that Irishmen, above all men, know all about, and
that have nothing to do with Love at all.
The bitter cud to chew now between his gritting teeth was that he had
never reaped anything but soul-misery and sacrifice of fine resolves
from the thing. Yet here it was holding itself up before him like some
pure star that he must never cease from following after: a creed never
to be forsaken; an idol before which to sacrifice the rest of his
life--to sacrifice the most wonderful love that ever thrilled a man's
veins and shook from his life all mean and paltry things.
Oh, Lust past and Love present had a great fight in the heart of Evelyn
Carson, Bart., D.S.O., C.M.G., in the early hours of that April morning.
It must have been close on six hours that he tramped and fought, for
when at last he came by devious ways to Sea House, the shroudy dawn was
breaking over the face of the Indian Ocean.
And Bramham was in his dining-room insanely drinking whiskies-and-sodas.
"What the----?" Carson stood in the doorway staring.
"Waiting up for you, of course! Where have you been?" said the drunk and
dauntless Bramham.
"I can't remember engaging you to wet-nurse me." Carson was too savage
with life to be polite even to the best friend he had ever possessed. He
strode into the room, threw his soft hat rolled into a ball into a
corner, and would have passed through, but Bramham detained him with a
word.
"Miss Chard's house was burnt to the ground last night!"
Carson came back and stood by the table. It seemed to him that a good
thing to do would be to mix a strong whiskey-and-soda, and he did so,
and drank it thirstily.
"What was that you said, Bram?" he asked, later.
"Miss Chard's house is burnt to the ground. The whole town knows now
that she is _Eve Destiny_, the South African novelist----"
"The how much?"
"The South African novelist. The woman who wrote the book of poems that
set all the African mothers flying to lock the nursery doors--and the
plays _In a Tin Hotel at Witpoortje_ and _A Veldt Ghost_. Why, Carson,
you don't seem to know anything! You ought to employ someone to dig you
up every five years."
Because of his desire for further information on this interesting
subject, Carson kept his temper between his teeth and bore as best he
might with Bramham's unusual wit. It was to be remembered, too, that
Bramham was a "good man," and as such permitted a lapse. However, if
the latter had anything more to tell he kept it to himself, and only
gave a repetition of his former statements with a graphic description,
which Carson was not at all interested in, of the fire.
One thing alone, stood out, a salient point in the narrative:
"And I happen to know that everything she has is burnt. With the
exception of a few royalties, she is penniless. All her finished work is
burnt--everything she had in the world. She had a face like a banshee
when I told her," was his complimentary conclusion.
Carson departed and took a bath and shave on this information.
Afterwards he went down and looked at the sea. When he came in to
breakfast, a sane and calm Charles Bramham was seated there before
him--bathed, groomed, dressed, eating an orange with a tea-spoon.
They took breakfast with the appetites and serenity of good men, who
having passed an excellent night, were about to attack the problems of
the day with clear consciences. There was nothing noticeable about
Bramham, except a thirst for tea.
Just before they had finished, Carson casually said:
"I'm going up to the Rand to sell everything I hold."
Bramham regarded him piercingly, and at the moment a _boy_ entered with
the morning papers. Each man reached out for one, and turned with
striking unanimity of interest to the Market reports.
"Good Lord!" cried Bramham instantly. "_East Rands_ at 5.5.0, and still
sinking."
Carson gave a groan, which meant, "Oh, Hades! why didn't I sell at L10?"
Bramham continued his dolorous tale, quoting all the prices in which he
and Carson were interested.
"Main Reefs, Randfonteins, Crown Reefs, Knights--all steadily sagging in
sympathy; if you sell now, Karri, you'll be in the cart."
And Carson knew that Bramham spoke the thing that was. In the state of
the market it would mean ruin to sell. The loss would be so great that
he doubted if he would be able to pay up the inevitable deficiency at
his bank. He reflected that possibly a few of his syndicate shares might
pull him through, but what good was that! He wanted _money_--money to
marry Rosalind Chard and take her with him to Borapota; to free _her_
from the cares of life and money for evermore.
As he stared gloomily at Bramham, the colour of his prospects were of
the same hue as the black scowl on his brow. But like all speculators,
he was not long without a ray of hope. His face suddenly cleared.
"What about my claims on the South Rand?" he demanded blithely.
"Have you still got those?" cried Bramham in surprise. "Good! How many?"
"Half interest in a hundred?"
"By George! Well, you'd better go up and see what Charlie Rosser can do.
If there's anything to be made he'll do it for you."
They rose from the table.
"When shall you go? To-day?"
"No; to-day I have every moment occupied until six o'clock."
"There's a good train to-night at nine."
"I can't go to-night--I have something else to do."
A transforming look flashed across Carson's face. Whatever grace of
heart was his showed in his eyes for a moment as he thought of the girl
who would be waiting for him to-night.