THE SCANDALISING OF SLABBERT'S POORT
"Priests
Should study passion; how else cure mankind,
Who come for help in passionate extremes?"
--ROBERT BROWNING (Caponsacchi).
When Carol Mayne got back to the Mission on the afternoon of the
second day after this, he was told that Oom Pieters and the Boer
Predikant were waiting to see him.
The news they brought fairly staggered him.
Bert Mestaer had, during the night after the funeral, forced an
entrance into Lutwyche's and abducted Millie. That he had done this
by force was evident from the blood-stained floor of her garret and
the evidences of a struggle, the bedding being torn and scattered
about. He had taken her to his own house, and kept her there, in
defiance of all Christian laws, to the crying scandal of the whole
community. Oom Pieters had been insulted when he went to
remonstrate; and the Predikant, who, at his urgent entreaty, had gone
to warn the headstrong girl of the penalties of living in sin, had
been literally, not metaphorically, kicked off the premises by the
lawless ravisher. Putting things together, they would have been
inclined to fear that the girl had actually been made away with, but
for the assurance of Anna to the contrary. They thought that heavy
drinking must be the cause of Bert's outrageous behaviour, since he
had picked a quarrel with Otis earlier in the evening, and so
mishandled him that he had been unable to appear in public since.
Horrible as the news was, Mayne, knowing the violence of Bert's
passion, his fear that Millie was to be taken away, and his
intemperate habits, felt it possible that a great part of what he
heard might be true. His disappointment was keen. He had looked for
better things from Mestaer, whom he liked better than anyone else in
Slabbert's Poort; and the behaviour now attributed to him was that of
a wild beast. He hurried off without rest or refreshment to the High
Farm; and all the way he was trying to piece the story together--to
think how the lover who had always been so tongue-tied and
shamefaced, could possibly have proceeded to such lengths; and the
more he reflected, the more he felt sure that he had heard a
perverted version of what had really happened.
But when he neared the white house, with its pleasant green shutters,
his fears became acute; for the owner was leaning over the little
garden gate, and one glance at his face showed that he was inflamed
with triumph. He had evidently been gathering flowers; his hands
were full of them; the fact impressed the new-comer much as though he
had seen a lion sitting down to tea in a lady's drawing-room.
Bert was dressed with scrupulous care; his linen was fresh. He
looked ten years older; had graduated from boy to man in two days.
There was a steady blaze in his eyes; his mouth wore a defiant curve.
The exaltation and triumph of his aspect affected Mayne strongly.
But no look of guilt or remorse crossed his handsome face at sight of
the approaching guardian.
"Hallo!" he frankly cried; "come in! Things have hummed since you
went away."
Mayne stiffened in fierce wrath.
"Mestaer," he said, keeping himself calm with difficulty, "tell me
that this I have heard of you is a slander--tell me that Millie
Lutwyche is not here!"
Bert's eyes flamed.
"Millie Lutwyche is here," he cried, "and what's more, she'll stay
here. Didn't you leave it to me to see she wasn't murdered? Well, I
managed it, but only just."
Mayne came in through the gate and walked into the house.
"I've heard one side of the story," he said. "It's only fair that I
should hear yours."
Bert followed him in. His style was abrupt but convincing. He told
how Amurrica and Tante Wilma had tried to steal a march on Mayne, and
how the Predikant had been willing to aid and abet. He told how he
had foiled this plan, how he had been sent a message to decoy him out
of the way, how he had gone down to the farm, but too late to prevent
violence. He told how he had brought Millie home, and at once called
in Dr. Fraser, who could corroborate all he said. He spoke without
eagerness, and with an underlying confidence in his voice which
showed how sure he felt of his position.
"If ever a man earned a woman fair, I done it," he remarked simply.
"She's better to-day; but Dr. Fraser was a bit afraid of collapse at
first. Anna's nursed her. I've not been near, except just to pass
the time of day. I done the square thing, as I told you all along I
meant to; an' we'll come to church an' get married, soon as she's up
and dressed."
Mayne slowly shook his head.
"Mestaer," he said, "I have done you an injustice, I freely own it.
I believe all you tell me. You have done better than I thought you
would; now it remains for you to do better than you yourself believe
that you can. You must let Millie go."
Bert flung himself into a chair, and pulling out a tobacco-pouch,
began to fill his pipe. He gave an insolent laugh.
"We're engaged; you can't alter that."
"Under the terms of her father's will, Millie cannot marry under the
age of twenty-one without my consent She is going to England."
Bert looked earnestly at him.
"Look here! I've played the game so far," he said. "Don't you push
me; you'd better not. Hands off Millie; she's going to marry me."
"Perhaps she may, when she is grown up, if you have the courage and
constancy to wait for her; but not now."
"Now, by ----!" His oath made Carol wince.
He sat for a minute in complete silence and close thought; then he
rose.
"I should like to see Millie, if she is awake," he said, very quietly.
Bert looked at him piercingly. Had there been one shade of arrogance
in his tone, or had he seemed to suggest that he doubted Bert's
assent, there might have been open war. But he gave no handle; and
the master of the house, after a very brief hesitation, rose and
tapped at the parlour door.
Anna peeped out, and admitted them, with an anxious glance from one
face to the other. Mayne walked in, and Bert followed him, with his
bunch of flowers in his hand.
The waxen-white Millie lay with her flaxen hair loose upon the
pillows. Her eyes were wide open, and flashed restlessly. Her whole
mien otherwise was so still that one would have hardly thought her
living. A look of expectancy kindled for a moment upon her face when
she saw Mayne, but it soon died down.
He went over and sat down by her, with the naturalness of manner
which frequent visits to sick-chambers give to the priest. Bert felt
a pang of envy; he himself was so completely a fish out of water.
"I am grieved indeed to hear of the way you have been treated," said
Mayne gently. "Poor girl! I wish you had gone away to Leitersdorp
as I suggested."
"So do I," said Millie, under her breath.
"You thought yourself so secure," he went on regretfully, looking at
her bandaged arm.
"Well, I'm paying for it," said the girl distinctly, "and got to go
on doing that all the rest of my life, so I hear."
"Oh, I hope not! You will be all right in a few weeks," he assured
her hopefully.
"Ah!" said she, "but he's got to be paid, you see, for what he did."
She raised her uninjured arm and pointed to Bert, who turned scarlet
as he stood awkwardly dandling his flowers. "Men don't help you for
nothing; I've found out that much," she said, with biting intention.
"I am sure you do Mestaer injustice," said Mayne quietly. "No
Englishman could possibly ask anything in return for the privilege of
helping a woman."
"He says," said Millie, "that I promised to marry him the night he
brought me here. I don't remember; but if I did, I got to do it, I
s'pose."
"Certainly not!" was the emphatic reply. "Get rid of that idea. No
man worthy of the name could hold you to a promise made under such
circumstances. Besides, you are not free to marry for the next five
years. Don't you want to go to England?"
The living blood flooded the white face with lovely colour; the eyes
flashed fire.
"May I? Could I?" she gasped, half raising herself among her
pillows, her face transformed with an energy, a desire for life, most
strikingly at variance with her lethargy of a few minutes before.
"Have they written? Do they want me?"
He drew a letter from his coat-pocket. "They have written, and they
do want you," he said.
She sat quite up, unsupported. "Read it! Read it!"
Bert stood still as a stone, while Mayne unfolded a sheet of paper,
written in a small, niggling, but cultivated hand, and read:
"FRANSDALE VICARAGE, CLEVESHIRE.
"Dear Sir,--I am in receipt of your letter, and note that my
brother-in-law, Arnold Lutwyche, is dying, and leaving my niece,
Melicent, only daughter of my late sister, wholly unprovided for. I
also note that you consider her Boer step-mother is not a fit person
to have the charge of her, and is likely to treat her ill.
"Under these circumstances, my duty seems clear, and my wife and I
have no hesitation in directing you to send my niece to England by
the earliest available boat, and we will give her a home for the
present.
"At the same time, I must acquaint you with the fact that our means
are small, and we have seven children of our own, so that Melicent
will be under the necessity of making herself useful.
"Please send her by the cheapest line of boats, and notify me of her
arrival. I fear that I shall not be able to come to London to meet
her, but if she is fifteen or sixteen years old, she should be able
to make her way to us as far as the railway will bring her--that is
to say, to Birdmore Junction, where she shall be met.
"I note that my brother's estate will be sufficient to meet her
travelling expenses, so conclude that no advance from me is necessary.
"With thanks to you for the trouble you take in the matter, and
remembrances to Mr. Lutwyche, should this letter find him still
alive.--I am, very faithfully yours,
"EDMUND CHETWYND-COOPER."
This letter had chilled Mayne by its formal coldness. No love was
sent to the orphan, no message of welcome. But the frigidity of the
style made apparently no difference to Millie. The great fact was
there. Her way to England lay open, her destination fixed. Of all
safe shelters, a remote English vicarage should have satisfied her
guardian. But somehow, to Carol, the idea of Miss Lutwyche in such a
situation, was not convincing. He could not see her in the part, as
actors say.
No such doubts troubled her. For the very first time since Mayne had
known her, her face beamed and sparkled with joy.
"I can be ready to travel soon," she cried. "In a fortnight--in ten
days--ask the doctor!"
Bert made three strides across the room, hurling with violence the
flowers he carried into the English grate.
"So you'll break your word," he began, and choked
Melicent turned her head towards him languidly.
"Bert Mestaer," said she, "have I ever once, since you knew me, said
one word to make you think I liked you?"
He fought with himself for composure to enable him to bring out the
monosyllable, "No."
"Then what d'you wanter marry me for?" she asked calmly.
"You know," he cried, terribly, wildly, in his frantic emotion. "You
know I love you--you know I don't care for anything else, but just to
have you! Where'd you be now, if it wasn't for me? Tell me that! I
wish to God I'd never seen you! I'll--I'll kill you with my own
hands before I'll let you go now! I'll do worse--I'll..."
He stopped himself suddenly, meeting the steady contempt of Mayne's
eyes.
There was a moment of awful silence, broken only by two dry, tearing
sobs from the furious lover; then Millie, who had turned chalk-white
once more, fell back among her pillows with an impatient motion of
the hand.
"Oh, get away; you make me sick," she said.
Before Bert could speak or move, Mayne went up to him, took him by
the arm, and led him out of the room. Then, handing him his hat, he
drew him as passively out of the house.
Neither spoke till they had walked half a mile. Mayne was half in
fear that Bert, in his rage, might set upon him bodily, and
congratulated himself, not for the first time in his missionary
career, upon the possession of thews and sinews. But no ebullition
came. Bert's face had gone grey, and he looked worn and shrunken in
the strong sunlight.
At last, smitten by the despair in his altered manner, the elder man
ventured to speak.
"Mestaer, you must come and put up at my place till Miss Lutwyche is
well enough to travel. You did the best you could for her--you did
well; but the strain is too great, and it must cease. I shall wire
for one of the Sisters from Leitersdorp to come and help Anna to
nurse her. As to you, you have to fight and win a man's hardest
battle; and I'll give you a bit of advice--"
"Go to h-- with your advice!"
"I'm not far away now, to judge by the sulphur in the atmosphere,"
retorted Mayne drily, and said no more.
They walked on until they came to the little Mission, and turned in
to the sparsely-furnished living-room, with its crucifix and Albrecht
Dürer _fac-similes_, and the Da Vinci Virgin on the rude mantel.
Bert walked across the room, planted both elbows on the shelf, and
stared with blank eyes at the ineffable smile of the pictured face.
Suddenly he wheeled round.
"Well, what's your blasted advice?" he said rudely. "A black-coated
prig that doesn't know what it means to be..."
"Tempted," suggested Mayne drily. But he pushed a chair for his
discourteous guest, and got down the tobacco-jar. "No man can fight
the flesh and win, if he's living in idleness," he said reflectively,
standing before the hearth and filling his pipe. "But there's
another consideration. Do you realise that we are on the brink of
war?"
"Kruger, perhaps."
"Steyn, too. You heard the news the other day? All the men ordered
out on commando. What does that mean? The Orange Free State is
going in against England."
"Well, they can fight their own blank battles without my help."
"That's rubbish, Mestaer. You'll have to fight on one side or the
other. Now is the time to show yourself an Englishman. England
wants men. They think at home that this war is to be a walk over.
You and I know better. Go and enlist. There's a career for you."
"I'll be d--d if I do."
"That's a condition that seems to me far more likely to supervene if
you don't," was the temperate reply.
Bert laid down his miserable head upon his arms.
"You don't see, and I can't explain," he said haltingly, "that it's
not a thing--not a question of what you call the flesh. If there's
such a thing as spirit anywhere in me, I've put it all in my love for
her. If you take her away, I shall go to the devil."
"If I take her away! My dear chap, you cannot seriously mean to
pretend that you think Millie wants to marry you?"
Sulky silence.
"I know you better than to believe you would be cad enough to marry
her against her will. Were you to do so, I fail to see in what
respect you would be any better than Otis."
No reply.
Mayne stood up, searching his book-shelves for the "Divina Commedia."
"Bert, did you ever hear of Dante?"
"No. Nobody as lives hereabouts, is he?"
Mayne did not smile.
"I'll tell you something of him--how all his life he lived for the
memory of a dead woman--a woman of whom he knew even less than you
know of Millie, and lived in hope, and cleanly, for her sake. Now,
Millie is not dead. You are but a boy, and she a girl. Five or six
or seven years hence, if you make a career for yourself what is to
prevent you from trying again? By that time she would at least
realise the enduring nature of your love; whereas now, neither you
nor I nor she could say that it will last. It is just a boy's hot
flame."
Bert stamped.
"You don't believe me capable of it," he stormed. "You just think
that if you can get her out of my way now, that'll be the end of it
all. You don't think I've the manhood or the pluck to stick to the
thing through years of absence--"
He broke off, staring at the kindled face of the priest, who had
risen, and stood facing him.
"That's just where you make your mistake, Bert," said his friend
earnestly. "I do believe you capable of the best. Listen! When I
came first to Slabbert's Poort, I found you a loafer. You were idle
and good-for-nothing and intemperate. Now you have shown me what you
are capable of. Your love for Millie has made you a different man.
You have fought for her, saved her, respected her! ... I rather wish
you had heard tell of one Caponsacchi; but never mind. It's better
to do knightly deeds than to read about 'em. Anyhow, you have set
your foot on the road to become a true gentleman; why turn back now?
Hubert Mestaer"--his voice took on the deep note it sometimes had in
the pulpit--"by the memory of your mother, I ask you, why turn back
now?"