"Life has always poppies in her hands."
"Salisbury lies behind that big brown hill," said Judy, "about an hour's
drive from here." She was perched with a certain daintiness upon Dirk
Mackenzie's water _fykie_, sipping a cup of coffee, her back crepe
draperies spread round her on the scrubby grass. Mrs Shand and I, very
sunburnt, wearing print bonnets and our oldest skirts, sat of the ground
sharing a striped kaffir blanket with several dozen small brown ants,
who were busy collecting the crumbs left from breakfast and hurrying off
with them to a neighbouring ant-heap. The ox waggon in which we had
taken a fortnight to travel from Fort George was loaded so high with
packing cases and Mrs Shand's furniture that it cast quite a large
patch of shade, in which we sat as in some cool black pool while the
rest of the world, including the dashing Cape cart in which Judy had
just arrived, sweltered in blinding sunshine.
Dirk Mackenzie our transport driver, a big, bearded, Natal man, stood
smoking in his shirt sleeves talking to Mr Courtfield, the man who lad
driven Judy out, and Maurice Stair in riding-kit with his legs twisted,
holding his elbow in one hand and a cigarette in the other, stared
reflectively at a group of kaffir boys who at a little distance off were
squatting round their three-legged pot of mealie-meal pap.
I looked from them to the big brown hill that hid Salisbury, the road of
red-brown dust that led there, the dazzling blue of the morning sky, and
back again to the _chic_ and pretty widow sitting upon the _fykie_ with
her crepe skirts spread so daintily about her.
Her grey eyes were sparkling, there was pink in her cheeks, and _poudre
de riz_ upon her nose; her blond hair, charmingly arranged, shone
softly, and a tiny fair curl lay in the centre of her forehead just
under the white crepe peak of her little widow's bonnet. Quite the most
fascinating widow I had ever seen! I had thought of her all the way up
as the languid, _passe_ little woman who left me at Fort George, and had
longed to reach her and comfort her as best I might. But any one
appearing less in need of comfort than this fresh, smart lady it would
be hard to find. She looked as if she had stepped straight out of
Jays's. All her languor and weariness of life had disappeared. She
seemed to have gone back to the days of her youth before she married
Dick. There was the same pretty, appealing look in her eyes, the same
clinging, helpless manner, mingled now with an alluring little air of
sadness. As for the small white hand that held her coffee cup, nothing
could have been daintier, more eager and alive looking. Certainly a
very different Judy to the one I had last seen in Fort George! I
suppose I ought to have been glad, but I was not. My heart, with
astounding contrariety, yearned after the other little languid, untidy,
almost unkempt Judy, as one longs in sorrow for the old scenes and
surroundings of happier, dearer days.
"Our cart has had a smash-up, but Mr Courtfield lent me his to come and
fetch you, Deirdre," she was saying, "and would insist on driving me
himself. Wasn't it sweet of him? I find that men are so
extraordinarily kind to me in my trouble." Her sad little air deepened,
and my heart stirred to her for the first time. Perhaps after all under
that elegant crepe frock she was just a lonely little miserable
creature!
"Of course they would be," I said. "Any one would be kind to you, Judy;
and all men loved Dick."
"Every one in this country is kind, don't you think?" ventured Mrs
Shand.
"Oh, _every_ one? I'm sure I couldn't say," said Judy, and looked away
over Mrs Shand's head in a way that made that little woman realise that
after all she was only a mere Fort George frump; a faint red colour
stole into her sunburnt face.
"Will you get ready, Deirdre?" continued my sister-in-law. "We ought
not to keep Mr Courtfield's horses waiting in the sun."
"I don't think I care to leave Mrs Shand alone, Judy. I would rather
stay and come in with the waggon to-night. Couldn't I do that?"
She was full of remonstrances for this plan, and Mrs Shand would have
none of it either, saying that a boy had been sent into town for her
husband, and that she expected him out at any moment to stay the day
with her.
"Besides," said Judy, "if you stay out here all day and come crawling in
by waggon to-night there will still be the journey to make from
Salisbury to our place, nearly twelve miles, and I should not be able to
borrow Mr Courtfield's cart again, as he is going away in it to-night
to Umtali. You look a perfect wreck, and ought to get to the end of
your journey and rest. Don't you think so, Mrs Shand?"
"Yes, of course she is tired. We've been _trekking_ all night, and the
waggon is not a very springy one. Mr Mackenzie hoped to get into
Salisbury by the end of this morning's _trek_, but there is no grass,
and the oxen are poor."
I was obliged to go and tidy myself up in the waggon tent, and
thereafter climb into the Cape cart with Judy and sit behind the short,
fat, soft man with the pointed golden beard and confidential eyes, to
whom I had taken an unreasonable but nevertheless poignant dislike. I
hated to get into the cart Mr Courtfield had so kindly placed at my
service, and glanced longingly instead at Maurice Stair's horse as he
slowly mounted and prepared to ride beside us. He looked his best in
riding-kit and sat his horse well, swaying in the rather slouchy,
graceful way that men who have done stock-riding in Australia affect.
I had long ago learned from him that he had spent several years in
Australia before coming to Africa. But it appeared that Mr Courtfield
was the real thing from that country--an Australian born and bred, not
just a man who had learned to ride there. Judy told me this in a low
voice, perhaps to account for the extraordinary accent and bad manners
of the man in front of us. I was not very interested. I only wondered
vaguely how she could reconcile herself to accept favours from a man who
was so obviously not a gentleman. Dick used to say there were some
women who had no discrimination about men, and absolutely didn't know
the difference between a gentleman and a cad, even when they had the
advantage of knowing and living with gentlemen all their lives.
Opportunity had never discovered this trait in Judy; and I vaguely hoped
she was not going to develop it now. Life is difficult enough spent
among nice men: I could not tolerate the thought of what it might be
with a few Mr Courtfields about. Under cover of his talk to Maurice
Stair, riding beside us, Judy now addressed me:
"Dearest girl, how awful that you are not in mourning. I suppose you
could not get any black in Fort George."
"I did not try," said I, looking down carelessly at my grey velveteen
coat and skirt, which had certainly seen hard wear and tear in the seven
months I had spent in Mashonaland. "I never thought about it, to tell
the truth, Judy. Besides, Dick always hated to see people dressed in
black."
"Surely that has nothing to do with it, dear," said my sister-in-law
gently. "One must respect the conventions."
"I daresay there are some black frocks in my packing cases. They
arrived just as we were leaving, so I brought them on."
"How fortunate!" said Judy, looking cross for the first time, but
quickly recovering herself after a searching glance at me. "Still, I
don't suppose you will look well in black, Deirdre. It is such a trying
colour for any one but the very blond, and you are so very brown, aren't
you? What a pity you didn't take more care of your skin on this
journey. I never knew anything like a waggon journey to turn one's
complexion to leather!"
"What place is that on the right, opposite the the hill?" I asked. "It
seems to be all dotted with white things."
"That is the cemetery, dear. Poor darling Dick is buried there."
A grey veil seemed to come down before my face at that, and presently
through blurred eyes I saw that the white things were indeed little
crosses and headstones.
"I should like to get down," I said in a low voice, as we reached a wide
path that showed the way to the cemetery gate. "But don't let this man
come."
"Oh, no, he won't. He buried his wife here a few months ago," was
Judy's strange answer.
I hoped she would let me go alone, but she expressed a wish to accompany
me, so we stood together by my brother's grave. There were no trees
anywhere, and very few flowers, just one or two sturdy scarlet geraniums
and some green runners clambering carelessly over the wooden fence.
Lines of dusty graves lying in the brilliant light, coarse veldt grass
growing about them, and above them the little white crosses, with the
oft-repeated phrase, "Died of fever!"
There they lay, sleeping in the sunshine: Cecil Rhodes's "boys!" The
men who had helped to open up the country, light the first fires, and
turn the first sods to let the malaria out of the ground for others to
build towns on. Of such as these was written:
"Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet!
Where is our English chivalry?
Wild grasses are their burial sheet,
And sobbing waves their threnody."
"Let us go quickly," said Judy. "There is a funeral coming."
So we went back to the cart, and drove slowly so as not to smother with
dust a little _cortege_ that passed us, taking a short cut over the
grass. If Judy had not said it was a funeral I should not have
recognised one, though I had seen many since I came to Mashonaland. The
coffin was placed on a Scotch-cart drawn by two bullocks, and had a
black cloth flung over it. But some kind hand had redeemed the sordid
loneliness by putting a little bunch of wild flowers and a green branch
on the black cloth. Three men followed behind, and a woman on
horseback.
"Isn't it awful?" said Judy. "That is the way they buried my poor Dick
too. A Scotch-cart with bullocks! But Dr Jim and every one came to
Dick's funeral. He was one of the `old crowd.' This must be some
stranger."
"Fellow from Lomagundis', died of the jim-jams last night," said Mr
Courtfield pleasantly. "Anderson's barmaid was sweet on him. That's
her behind, hanging on to Browne's grey. The horse will have a raw back
before it gets back to Police quarters." He finished his informing
remarks with a cheerful snigger, seeming to take some _kudos_ unto
himself for discovering that the bunched-up, red-eyed woman could not
ride.
Having at last got round the brown hill we came suddenly upon the town.
In a moment we were in the main street, which was called Pioneer Street,
and the shops of galvanised iron were blinking and winking at us from
either side. There were a few brick buildings, and many thatched roofs.
All had the conventional verandah, which at the sound of our cart
rapidly filled with the usual brown-faced, shirt-sleeved men. Judy
dispensed a number of queenly bows and one or two charming smiles, all
gratefully received. I smiled too, sometimes, when I saw a face I knew,
for many old Fort Georgians were in Salisbury; but my heart was aching,
aching, as the sight of brown-faced, shirt-sleeved men now always made
it ache.
It was explained to me that this was the business part of the town,
known as the Kopje; the residential quarter was on the other side of a
large green swamp, and was called the Causeway. A number of
squat-looking houses were scattered far and wide over the veldt.
"How I wish," said Judy, "that Dick had bought a place in town instead
of going so far out. Kentucky Hills is still twelve miles away, on the
Mazoe Road."
Mr Courtfield agreed with her that it was very annoying she should have
to ride twelve miles for society, or society for her. My head and heart
ached dully. I was thankful when at last Maurice Stair rode up to tell
me that Kentucky Hills, my brother's place, was just round the next
kopje.
It looked very homelike as we suddenly came upon it, lying in a wide
green kloof with low hills winging away from it on either side--a big
square bungalow house, painted green, with verandahs all round, and the
beginnings of a charming garden about it. At one side of the house a
tennis-court had been laid out, and a summer-house put up. It was
certainly far ahead of most of the Mashonaland houses, but Dick had
begun to build it as soon as he came up, and having the advantage of a
little capital had been able to do more than most people.
The verandahs were blinded and full of ferns growing in native pots, and
the inside of the house was charmingly comfortable: big airy rooms and
windows looking out on the ever-changing changelessness of the red-brown
veldt and the far-off hills. The furniture consisted chiefly of deep,
comfortable lounge chairs, and tables of polished brown wood that I took
for oak, but was really teak, a wood of the country. Judy had her
English things scattered about, and photographs of Dick and home-scenes
that brought blinding tears to my eyes. There was also a piano, the
first that had come into the country, Judy told me; a hotel-keeper had
brought it up to make his bar more alluring, but Dick offered him a
hundred and fifty pounds for it, though it was only a simple instrument
of no particular make. Since the war plenty of pianos have come into
the country, but in those days one in hand was worth ten _en route_.
Judy had asked the men to stay to lunch, and while they were in the
dining-room and we were taking off our veils in her room, a boy brought
in little Dickie, a darling wee man of five with his father's eyes and
his mother's blond colouring.
"This is your Auntie Deirdre," said Judy, and he lifted a shy face to be
kissed. At the touch of his innocent cherubic lips the great loneliness
that filled me dispersed a little. My world was not so empty after all.
Here was Dick's son for kinsman!
Later in the day when the men were gone and we were resting in the cool,
pretty drawing-room, I broached the subject of the future to. Judy.
"What is there I can do?" I asked. "I want to stay in this country.
What can I do to earn my living here?"
"Earn your living, Deirdre? My dear girl, what on earth are you talking
about? If you really wish to stay in this country you must live with
me, of course. Dick especially wished it. But I can't think why you
should want to stay here. I certainly shall not, if I can strike a good
bargain with some one for the property here, and sell Dick's farms and
claims in Matabeleland."
"Oh, Judy! you surely wouldn't sell the Matabeleland property that Dick
practically paid for with his life?"
She stood looking at me in surprise so plainly mingled with resentment
that I swallowed indignation and addressed her with all the gentleness I
could at the moment command.
"You know Dick had set his heart on that country. He was full of plans
for turning his property there into a beautiful heritage for Dickie and
at the same time helping on Mr Rhodes's great scheme of Empire by
developing the land to the utmost. Dear Judy, I implore you to keep
that for the boy."
She turned away from me, answering peevishly:
"That is all very well, Deirdre. But what kind of life is this for a
woman? I have, with what Dick settled on me and his insurance, four
hundred a year. With that and what the property realises I could be
quite snug and comfy in London; but here it is nothing at all; one is
poor on it. Besides, what is there to keep one in a place like this?"
Strange that the remembrance of that peaceful dusty grave in the
sunlight was not enough to keep her! That any one would rather be snug
and comfy in London than live in this wide, open land where you had but
to go to your window to see plain and sky touching on the horizon! Ah!
well, what was the use of trying to make her feel what she could never
feel? I returned drearily to the subject of my own future.
"But what is there _I_ can do, Judy? I can not and will not live on
you. How can I earn a living?"
"The only women who earn their living up here are barmaids and
domestics, my dear," she answered dryly. "I don't know if you
contemplate doing anything of that sort. All the rest are busy minding
their husbands and their homes. I advise you, if you are really bent on
staying here, to do the same as soon as possible."
"What do you mean, Judy?"
"You must marry, of course. When you have once lived down that scandal
about Anthony Kinsella I dare say you will have plenty of offers."
I did not speak, but perhaps something in my face answered for me, for
she flushed a little and when she spoke again it was somewhat
apologetically, though her words were of much the same tenor.
"I'm afraid you don't realise how much you have been talked of, Deirdre.
Mrs Valetta and Anna. Cleeve both have terrible tongues, and Mrs
Skeffington-Smythe simply doesn't mind what she says about anybody.
Every one is outraged at the story of your infatuation."
"That will do, Judy," I interrupted violently. "I refuse to hear
another word, and do not ever speak to me on this matter again. Don't
you understand that it is sacred; that the memory of that man is the
only thing I have left? Haven't you eyes to see and ears to hear
anything else but gossip? Don't you realise yet that I have never for
one moment believed those lies about Anthony, that nothing can shake my
belief in his honour? Dick believed in him too. Thank God Dick
believed in him too. I have _that_ at least."