"The truth is rarely pure, and never simple."
So Maurice Alexander Stair and I were married.
After the ceremony we drove back to Kentucky Hills, and shared with a
few friends the pretty breakfast Judy had arranged for us.
Later they all rode away, and Maurice with them, leaving me to pack for
our exeunt that afternoon to a little place called Water-lily Farm. It
was the home of a fellow N.C. of Maurice's; he had just prepared it for
his wife who was coming out from home, but with the ready
good-fellowship so common in Africa had offered it to Maurice for our
honeymoon; and we, both anxious that the world should guess nothing of
our strange bargain, had accepted it to stay in and spend the first few
days of our married life.
Maurice was delayed in Salisbury, and it was late afternoon before he
fetched me at last from my brother's house.
The pale May sunshine was almost as cheerless as that of an early spring
day in England, for the winter was coming on rapidly, and winter in
Africa can be very bleak indeed. I was glad to wrap myself in a warm
coat and lean back in the shelter of the little tented cart we were to
make the journey in. It was only large enough for two, and Maurice,
obliged to manage the restive horses, had little time to talk, for which
I was curiously thankful. Passing through Salisbury he discovered that
he had left his watch at his rooms and asked if I would mind his calling
there for it. I made no demur of course, only, knowing that he lived in
a row of bachelor chambers almost next door to the Club, I stipulated
that he should pull up a few hundred yards away. I had driven and
ridden past the Club before, and knew something of the _insouciant_
curiosity of its members, and their happy habit of filling the verandah
of sound of a horse or wheels.
"They're rather fresh," hesitated Maurice as I took the reins.
"Oh, Maurice! Do you think I can't manage two old Mashonaland nags?" I
smiled.--So he left me, and as I watched him go, tall, nonchalant, and
graceful, taking long strides over the knolly ground, I asked myself if
it could really be true that I was married, and that--my husband!
Frogs were beginning to croak in the swampy marsh between the Kopje and
the Causeway. I could hear far-off voices, and see the smoke of others'
homes against the evening sky. But a terrible soul-sickness crept over
me: the sickness of a soul that has lost its mate. At that moment I
seemed quite alone in the world. Some words of Gordon's that a dying
man in Fort George had been fond of muttering flitted through my mind:
"Oh whisper, buried Love, is there rest and peace about!
There is little help or comfort here below!
On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed
is straight and cold--"
Voices and the sound of horses coming along the road broke my dreary
reverie. A man's rather sardonic laugh reached me, and a voice I seemed
to know, yet could not recall the owner of. The riders were still a
long distance off but sounds travel far on the clear high air of
Rhodesia, and I presently heard some words as distinctly and plainly as
if they were spoken beside me in the cart.
"He is not a fellow I have ever cared about--I found out long ago that
he is not straight. Another thing, he's too fond of his little quiet
tot by himself.--I like a man that drinks with his fellows--not one of
your soakers in his bedroom."
"Well! I'll tell you what _I_ don't like about him, Bell, he hasn't the
pluck of a louse--there was a little incident here in Salisbury just
after he came up--then again, at Fort George, he played sick with a
sprained arm rather than go into Matabeleland with the others. Sprained
arm! Sprained grandmother--and I told him so! He slunk out of my
office like a dog!"
"It makes me sick to think of him marrying that fine girl."
How careless people are about what they say of others: I mused. Small
wonder one's secrets are not one's own in a land where a reputation can
be damned on the highroad for all the world to hear!
I had heard a man's honour--all that was worth keeping in this sad old
world--dispensed with, in a few cynical but strangely convincing words.
How cruel life was! How tragic! I shivered and wished Maurice would
come.
I could see the backs of the two men now as they rode blithely upon
their way, having saddened me with the sordid tale of a man's secret
sins that were no secret! the story of some poor fellow's stumbling
journey down hill instead of up! Men were very pitiless in their
judgments I thought. Perhaps the other man was not so despicable after
all. But _secret drinking, cowardice_! Those were terrible sins--none
more revolting to a woman's mind--and _not straight_; the hardest thing
one man can say of another! Surely there had been no such man in Port
George!--I had never heard of one, and I had heard most things in that
tragic little town.--I could think of no one whom such condemnation,
fitted. Monty Skeffington-Smythe perhaps?--but no; _his_ faults were
open and above-board for all the world to see--nothing hidden there, not
even his preference for _laager_ in time of war! Anyway it was no
business of mine--I ought to have been ashamed to be speculating about
it even, and I _was_. But why did Maurice stay so long? What could be
keeping him?
Some one who _played sick rather than go into Matabeleland_--But they
were all so keen.--all except baggy old Dr Abingdon. Ah! now I knew
whose voice that was--Dr Abingdon's of course--the _blase_ old doctor
with his goat-like leer, and his pretentions that fear kept him from
Matabeleland, when as we had found out afterwards he had absolutely
begged to go, and been refused on account of his gout--the dear old
doctor! His value had been only too well proved in the hospital work he
had done later--in the big fights he had put up for men's lives, and won
out, when every one else despaired... I had heard of his recent arrival
in Salisbury, and was hoping to see him before I left.
With the knowledge that it was he who had been speaking, my curiosity
was once more aroused by the words I had heard. Against my will my mind
persistently went back again to the subject. Who of all his patients in
Port George had a sprained arm. Ah!--_suddenly I remembered_!
Afterwards, all the words I had heard floating so idly on the clear air
came back one by one, like little birds of ill-omen, to roost in my
memory and sing in my ears. It seemed that my brain had taken down
everything in shorthand--there was nothing in that brief conversation
that I had forgotten!
When Maurice climbed in beside me and took the reins from my hands he
exclaimed at their coldness.
"Good Lord! you're frozen," he said. "Why, it isn't cold!"
As he turned towards me I caught from his lips that faint sickly odour
of spirits I had long ago learnt to associate with African scenery.
"I am not cold," I said in a voice that in spite of my striving must
have given some sign of the inquietude of my soul, for he gave me a
curious glance as the horses lunged forward.
"Oh! cheer up, my dear girl, for God's sake! This is not a funeral."
I was so utterly taken aback at this remark, unlike in tone and words
anything I had heard from him before, that for an instant I almost
forgot the terror that in the last few moments had crept like a little
cold slimy snake about my heart. Suddenly I burst into a convulsive
laugh, so strange in sound that it should surely have betrayed me. But
no, he did not perceive the _genre_ of my laughter. He was satisfied
that I laughed.
"That's right!" he approved, whipping up the horses. "And as soon as we
get round the Kopje I'll give you a little whiskey to warm you up. I
never drink anything myself, but its a good thing to keep the cold out,
and I've brought a bottle with me in case of accidents."
I laughed again then, a merry ringing laugh, extraordinarily like Mrs
Rockwood's in the old Fort George days. He lashed at the horses and we
tore through the town in clouds of dust. When he made to pull up,
almost opposite the cemetery, I clutched spasmodically at his arm.
"Don't stop, Maurice. I don't want whiskey," I stammered. "I--I cannot
even bear the thought of spirits. Please, _please_ drive on."
"Oh, very well!" he said in an impatient voice. "All right, if you
don't care about it. As I said before, I never drink myself but it is a
good thing to keep out the cold."
He turned and observed me with something like suspicion in his manner,
and again the faint sickly odour crept past me.
We were travelling now at a slackened speed. There was time and
opportunity for conversation, and driven by the cold little snake that
wound itself tighter and tighter round my heart, I hastened to make it.
"What detained you, Maurice? You were away a long time!"
"Some brute had been ransacking my room. I found the place in absolute
confusion. As far as I could see at a glance not a thing had been
stolen, but everything was all over the place--papers, letters, clothes!
I picked up the important things and stuffed them in my pockets, no
time to put anything away; besides, all the padlocks had been burst off
everything. I think I can guess who it was--a nigger I discharged last
week, and to punish him took away from him a charm that some witch
doctor had given him. That's what he was after, no doubt, but he didn't
get it, the brute, for I have it on me, that's some satisfaction. Good
God! what a mess the place was in!"
"Why did you take his charm, Maurice?" I asked, not from curiosity but
from a wild desire to keep talking.
"Oh, never mind about _that_! There is one thing I must ask you,
Deirdre--never interfere with me and my boys."
For the second time that night I flushed hotly at the tone he used,
resenting its unpardonable rudeness. It was on my tongue to answer him
proudly that he would not need to make the request twice; but
remembering all the plans and resolutions I had taken to the altar a few
hours before, I bit the words back before they could escape, and found
courage to say instead, with as much gentleness as I could conjure:
"Of course not. You know that my wish is to help, not hinder you, or
interfere in any way."
"_That's_ all right then," said he in a tone so extremely domineering
and self-satisfied, that my spirits drooped even a little lower than
before. But I picked them up again, I forced myself to be gay and
sociable, I laughed (like Saba Rookwood), and talked of anything and
everything that could have any possible interest for him, even while the
knowledge began to push itself into my mind that there were strangely
few subjects of common interest between us; and the wonder began to make
itself felt that I had never before noticed how little he had to say on
any subject. He had always been so quiet, so chivalrously, gently
silent, that I had perhaps given him credit for depth and feeling that
were not there. No, no, I struggled against that thought, and jested
on, occupying my tongue with incessant remarks.
At last the lights of our temporary home beaconed across the veldt and
the interminable drive came to an end.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Water-lily Farm consisted of three thatched rooms, and a few straggling
huts dumped on the wide and rolling plain with horizon all round. As we
drove up in the chilly gloom we saw that the beaconing lights came from
lamps with green glass shades that gleamed like anaemic stars from the
windows of the bungalow. A dog barked fretfully in the verandah, and a
boy came running out with some information in the native language.
"He says there's a letter from Bingham on the table," remarked Maurice.
"Wait a moment, I'll go and see." He sprang from the cart, catching his
coat on some projection and sending a shower of papers and things flying
from his over-crammed pockets. I collected them as best I could in the
darkness, while he went within, and found the letter. He presently came
out again calling to me:
"_That's_ all right. It's only to say he is sorry he had to go off on
duty and couldn't wait to welcome us; but our boxes of provisions have
arrived and everything is O.K. Go inside, dear, while I see about the
horses with the boy. If anything happens to them I shall have to pay."
He helped me down, and I went into the homely little living-room lighted
by the pale-green lamps. The supper-table was carefully laid out with
an attempt at grace that was more touching than successful. As I looked
at the clumsy little bunches of wild flowers arranged in tumblers, I
felt that Bingham was a pleasant fellow. There was an honest, serene
air about the simple room with its canvas deck-chairs, cane lounge,
white-wood book shelves and framed photographs of English people on the
walls. The woman who was coming from England to her man here should be
very happy, I thought.
A light from the door of an adjoining room drew me thither, but before I
reached it I passed some boxes piled against the wall--open packing
cases full of provisions: canned beef, biscuits, bottles of preserved
fruits, loose potatoes, a case of champagne. There was another case
also, nailed up and branded with the name of John Dewar and Sons. I had
lived long enough in Rhodesia to know that these were not the names of
gentlemen-philanthropists who lived in the Imperial Institute and
provided packing-case seats in the open air for the public. I now
recognised a case of whiskey when I saw one. I fled from the room and
from my thoughts.
The next room had nothing in it but a wholesome smell of pipe-tobacco, a
rough desk with many papers piled on it, some racks of shelves, and a
chair: obviously Mr Bingham's office.
More simplicity in the bedroom: white mats, a white dressing-table of
unpainted wood, a sheet of mirror in a white frame, a large white double
bed. I gazed at that large white bed, fascinated, while the knowledge
crept slowly over me that there was no other bed in the house. At last
I turned away, and then I saw that in the mirror there was a woman who
matched all the other white things in the room--a deathly white woman
with a gay-tragic face, standing very still, her clutching hands full of
papers. I stared at the papers for a moment wondering what they were,
then remembered picking them up in the cart. I was holding a little
green leather case too, that I had gathered up with them--something
Maurice had dropped. I recalled having heard the little dull thud of it
as it fell. It was a jewel-case, a small, new-looking, green leather
box, and when I saw that it was half open I wondered if anything had
been lost out of it. My mind turned to that question as though it was
of importance far greater than the one that was blanching my cheeks and
chilling my blood. It was imperative that I should fasten my mind on
something outside itself, and I fastened it with avidity on the little
green jewel-case half open in my hand.
"Perhaps something is lost out of it," I repeated mechanically;
something of Maurice's--something of my husband's!
I opened it entirely, looked in, and found that it contained one blue
turquoise ear-ring.
It was a very new little box, with the name of the same Durban jeweller
to whom I had sold my rings, printed in bright gold letters on the white
satin lid. (Of course! I remembered it was Maurice who had given me
the man's address.)
The one ear-ring was stuck into a dent in the white velvet cushion; by
its side was another little dent--empty.
"The other ear-ring must have been lost," I said to the woman in the
glass. She made no reply.
"The other--must have been lost!" I repeated, but I did not hear my
voice, and though I saw that the lips of the woman in the glass were
moving, no sound came from them.
Then I noticed an odd thing. The woman in the glass was tearing open
the front of her gown: tearing it open with shaking frantic hands to get
at something that she wore against her heart in a little silken bag.
I did not see her again for a long while. When I looked up at last she
was still standing there: only the white lips in the gay-tragic face
were smiling, a brooding subtle smile, that had in it a strange mingling
of triumph, despair, hatred--and some other desperate element that might
have been hope or madness; and the little leather jewel-box in her hands
contained two ear-rings. _The lost one had been found_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Steps in the verandah dragged me away from the glass and the fascinating
things I saw there. I crossed the room swiftly, and closing the door
locked it; there was also a wooden button to turn, and a large bolt
which slid into its socket soundlessly.
I returned to the dressing-table and my contemplation of the contents of
the pretty new box from Durban. I examined them as carefully as if I
were a jeweller; as if I had never seen a turquoise ear-ring before and
might never see one again. The gold setting of one was tarnished with
mud; tiny particles of dirt were still clinging to it; but the stone was
undimmed blue, and resembled in every particular its radiant mate which
had plainly never left a white velvet bed to make acquaintance with mud.
They were screw earrings, meant to pass through a hole in the ear and
screw behind the lobe with a little gold washer like a miniature
bicycle-nut. Both nuts were in place and the hold wire thread on which
they were screwed was quite unworn. When I had removed all traces of
mud and stain from the one and polished it with a handkerchief, they
were both as flawless and new as when they left the jeweller's; you
could not tell one from the other.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The only interruptions I suffered in my engrossing occupation were the
sounds of tins and bottles being opened and occasional shouts to me to
hurry up and come to supper. To these I paid no attention until they
were accompanied by thumpings on the door.
"What have you locked yourself in for? Do hurry up, for God's sake!
I'm as hungry as the devil. Deirdre! what on earth are you doing?"