"Off thro' the dark with the stare to rely on,
(Alpha, Centauri, and something Orion)."
When we met at the breakfast table the bloom of the dawn was on none of
us. Mrs Valetta was pale and haggard as a murderess. Judy, cross and
dishevelled, had a black smudge on her nose and was utterly out of tune
with life because the boys had all mysteriously disappeared during the
night, and she had been obliged to get the breakfast herself. I was not
left long in ignorance of my own worn and unlovely appearance.
"You look like a ghost, Deirdre," said my sister-in-law. "No more
midnight revels for you! Really, dear, you are dreadfully white and
your lips have quite a blue tint. What on earth is the matter?"
"I should think Miss Saurin's heart must be seriously affected," said
Mrs Valetta dryly, but though she smiled her eyes gave me a look like a
flash of lightning--so blue and angry and burning it was. I knew at
last why she hated me. Judy glanced at me again with a shade of
anxiety.
"Oh, I hope not. Do you think you ought to see a doctor, Deirdre? Dr
Abingdon here is quite clever they say, though he does look such an old
_roue_. But Jand, in Salisbury, is the best man. Even Dr Jim goes to
him when he is ill."
"I am quite well, Judy." I got up from the table and looked out of the
window. I felt as if I could die of weariness and the sick blankness of
life. Across the square near Anthony Kinsella's hut a group of men
stood talking animatedly. I turned away with my hand to my head. I
wished I might never see any more men for a thousand years--and yet--
"I am quite well, Judy, but my head aches. I think I will go for a long
walk. Perhaps that will do me good."
"Well, I can't offer to come with you, my dear. Apparently I am to have
the pleasure of doing my own housework to-day--but I shall go out first
and see if Colonel Blow can't spare me one of the Government boys. It
is ridiculous to be left like this."
Mrs Valetta was still standing in the dining-room with that dry smile
on her lips when I passed through with my hat on, but she did not offer
to accompany me.
I walked and walked and walked--over the stubbly bleached grass, through
the township, past the outermost huts, across the rutted dusty main road
to the river that wound itself halfway round the town. When the
freshness of the morning was long past, and the fierce heat of midday
was beating down on me from above, and surging up through the soles of
my shoes from the earth, I found at last a place of shelter on the
sweeping sunlit plain. Between two upright boulders almost on the river
bank there was a little cleft of shadow lined with moss and small,
harsh-leaved fern, and there I flung myself down and unburdened my heart
of its weight of tears. I wept until I had no more tears, until it
seemed that last night's moonlit madness must be washed away, all
Anthony Kinsella's scorching kisses from my lips, all his treachery from
my memory. Only the young know the exquisite tragedy and solace of
tears: of broken sobs that come shuddering up from the soul to the lips;
that are of the body and yet most terribly of the spirit; that rack and
choke and blur out the beauty of life; that afterwards bring a brief but
exquisite peace.
Yes, afterwards a certain peace stole over my wretched spirit; I could
watch in an impersonal way a tiny purple lizard which lay flat upon a
near stone searching me with beady, curious eyes; and I could feel my
unprotected feet and ankles which had not found the shade aching and
burning in the sun's heat.
But I knew it to be only the peace of utter weariness--the peace of a
twilight hour after the first black, bitter rain of a stormy season that
must be faced. The struggle, the pain, the strain would reassert
themselves later. Still, I was glad of the respite. It gave me time to
think, at least; to consider desperately what I should do, how I should
bear myself, how I could best hide my pain from the world.
It seemed to me then that I was very friendless and alone in that wide
sun-scorched land of pale grasses and turquoise skies--far from my dead
mother and my brother and the friends of my life. Fate had dumped me on
the African veldt and suffering had overtaken me. All the things I had
known and loved--pictures, books, marbles, dim churches, and magnificent
music--seemed useless to help or comfort me. These things do not matter
to Africa; and when one is dumped on a burning African plain they do not
seem to matter to life.
After long, painful thought I fell to trying to form some decision, some
wretched plan by which to spare myself more wretchedness. First, I knew
that I must see Anthony Kinsella at once. I must find out how deep the
wound was he had dealt me before I could burn it out. I must meet him
calmly, and calmly demand the truth from him. If these things I had
heard were false then he must instantly proclaim the truth to every one,
for I would not bear for myself or for him the sneers and suspicions of
the world.
If they were true, these things--true that he was married, true that he
had been the lover of married women, that he had mocked me with false
words--if it were true--ah! God, if it were true! I searched my heart
for scorn and contempt to pour upon Anthony Kinsella from my eyes and at
least from the expression of my lips, _if it were true_--and I could
find none! I could not find scorn and hatred anywhere in me for the man
to whom I had given my heart and soul a few hours before. I could not
remember anything that I had ever seen him do or heard him say that
merited my scorn. I had nothing against him but women's scandalous
tales. And surely, I thought, a man who was bad to the core as they
said he was must have betrayed himself to me by some look or deed. But
never, never! I could remember nothing but kind words, wise words, just
words, quiet, deliberate, courageous actions (even his punishment of the
driver I knew to be just), fearless smiles, straight, intent glances.
And then, his burning, passionate words on my lips. Surely no lover's
words were ever more knightly than his. Swearing with our love to
cleanse his heart of old sins--vowing by old creeds and lost dreams!
Remembering these things, living them over and over again, I knew at
last that I could never scorn Anthony Kinsella. It was not only that I
loved as a lover. There was a look in his eyes that pulled at the
mother-spirit in me and made my spirit croon a song over him and forgive
him for the sake of his boyhood all the sins he had ever committed.
There was a look about his mouth that made my spirit kneel to him.
There was a note in his voice that when I remembered it saying "Deirdre,
I love you!" drove spirit out altogether and left me only a flaming,
glowing woman in the arms of the man I loved. I could never scorn him.
But I could still doubt, and doubting, scorn myself. That was a new
form of torture that assailed me; scorning myself for his easy triumph
over my heart and lips. Then I could have torn the heart out of my
breast and flung it into the river close by--it hurt so; then I could
have crushed beneath the boulders that towered over me the hands that
had flown so readily to his clasp--I hated them so; then I could have
laid my proud head in the dust for the feet of women to trample over.
Ah! I suffered through the terrible hours of that long day, lying there
in the sunshine, my face to the hard brown bosom of the old witch who
had already clawed and torn my heart. Over and over the dreary round of
words and facts and doubts and fears my mind travelled, until it was
sick and numbed and knew only one thing clearly, that I must see Anthony
Kinsella. I had a wound that would kill me if it were not treated at
once. It could not be covered over with the thin skin of indifference;
there was poison in it; it must be seared out with a red-hot iron.
Afterwards, perhaps it would heal.
Slowly and vaguely I retraced my steps to the town. It was late in the
afternoon. The sun was sinking, but the heat still came up
overwhelmingly from under foot, and I felt faint for want of food. I
had gone farther than I knew into the veldt, and I was almost fainting
with exhaustion when at last I reached the first huts of the township.
The sun had gone then, leaving the skies primrose coloured--a pale,
lovely light, that yet had something ominous and sinister in it.
To my vague astonishment I found the place humming like a beehive and
alive with moving figures. Horses were being walked up and down the
streets, saddled and loaded with rolls of blankets and provisions.
Waggons stood before the doors of shops and hotels being loaded with
boxes and cases of things. Men were rushing in and out of their huts,
cleaning straps, shouting to each other and behaving in an odd way.
They seemed to be doing everything for themselves. There was not a
black boy to be seen. I never thought little Fort George could wear
such an air of business, either. What could have happened? Even in my
misery of mind I found room for curiosity at these things. Several men
we had entertained the night before passed me, but they barely noticed
me--merely lifted their hats and passed hastily on. I did not feel
annoyed, but I knew there must be something very important in the wind
to make them behave so indifferently, and, with such strength as I had
left, I quickened my steps and arrived home in a few minutes.
Mrs Valetta met me at the door. Her face was composed and cold as a
stone, but very white.
"What is it?" I asked fearfully. "What is the matter?"
"Oh, nothing," she said, and smiled with a ghostly, bitter smile. "Only
the war at last! The final batch of horses have arrived and the men are
off to Matabeleland."
I stood speechless. A vision of Anthony Kinsella's face flashed across
my mind. Now I knew why Mrs Valetta looked like that. I turned away
from her, but she followed me into the house.
"Where is Judy?"