"THE WHOLE SOUL PRISONER ..."
No more foolish passion was ever implanted in the human breast than that
of jealousy--unless it were that of which it is the direct outcome--nor
is there any which the average human is less potent to resist. The
victim of either, or both, is for the time being outside reason.
Now the first-mentioned form of disease is, to the philosophical mind,
of all others the most essentially foolish--indeed, we can hardly call
to mind any other so thoroughly calculated to turn the average
well-constructed man or woman into an exuberantly incurable idiot. For
what does it amount to when we come to pan it out? If there exist
grounds for the misgiving, why then it is going begging--grovelling for
something which the other party has not got to give; if groundless, is
it not a fulfilling of the homely old saw relating to cutting off one's
nose to spite one's face? (We disclaim any intent to pun.) In either
case it is such a full and whole-souled giving of himself, or herself,
away on the part of the patient; while on that of its object--is he, or
she, worth it?
Now, from a very acute form of this insanity George Falkner was a
chronic sufferer. He had cherished a secret weakness for Lilith, almost
when she was yet in short frocks, but since her return from England,
from the moment he had once more set eyes upon her on the deck of the
_Persian_, he had tumbled madly, uncontrollably, headlong in love. Did a
member of the opposite sex so much as exchange commonplaces with her,
George Falkner's personality would contrive to loom, grim and dark, and
almost threatening, in the background; while such male animal who should
enjoy the pleasure of say an hour of Lilith's society _a deux_, even
with no more flirtatious or ultimate intent than the same period spent
in the society of his grandmother, would inspire in George a fell
murderousness, which was nothing short of a reversion to first
principles. As for Lilith herself, she was fond of him, very, in a
sisterly, cousinly way--and what way, indeed, could be more fatal to
that by which he desired to travel? Nor did it mend matters any that
their mutual relatives were the reverse of favourable to his
aspirations, on the ground of the near relationship existing between the
parties. So, poor George, seeing no light, became morose and
quarrelsome, and wholly and violently unreasonable--in short, a bore.
All of which was a pity, because, this weakness apart, he was, on the
whole, rather a good fellow.
He had come to the Rand, like everybody else, to wait for the
boom--which boom, like the chariots of Israel, though totally unlike the
children of the same, tarried long in coming; indeed, by that time there
were not wanting those who feared that it might not come at all. He had
pleaded with his aunt to invite Lilith at the same time, artfully
putting it that the opportunity of his escort was too good to be missed;
and Mrs. Falkner, with whom he was a prime favourite, although she did
not approve his aspirations, weakly agreed. And so here they were
beneath the same roof, with the addition of his second sister, the
blue-eyed Mabel, whose acquaintance we have already made.
The latter, in her soft, fair-haired, pink and roses style, was a very
pretty girl. She, for her part, could count "coup" to a creditable
extent, and among the latest scalps which she had hung to her dainty
twenty-inch girdle was that of our friend Holmes.
This--idiot, we were going to say, looked back upon that deadly,
monotonous, starved, dusty, flea-bitten coach-ride of three days and two
nights as a species of Elysium, and in the result was perennially
importuning Laurence to take a stroll down to Booyseus, "Just for a
constitutional, you know." And the latter would laugh, and
good-naturedly acquiesce. It was a cheap way of setting up a character
for amiability, he would say to himself satirically; for as yet Holmes
hardly suspected he was almost as powerfully drawn thither as Holmes was
himself--more powerfully, perhaps--only, with the advantage of years and
experience and cooler brain, he had himself more in hand.
"Instead of making a prize gooseberry of me, Holmes, as a very
appropriate item against the 'silly' season," he said one day, "you had
much better go over by yourself. You are getting into Falkner's black
books. He hates me like poison, you know."
"But that's just why I want you along, Stanninghame. While he's trying
to stand you off in the other quarter, I'm in it, don't you see?"
replied the other, with whole-hearted ingenuousness.
Holmes had stated no more than the truth. Of all the "rivals," real or
imaginary, whom the jealous George hated and feared, _qua_ rival, none
could touch Laurence Stanninghame. For by this time it had become patent
to his watchful eyes that among the swarms of visitors of the male, and
therefore, to him, obnoxious sex, at whose coming Lilith's glance would
brighten, and with whom she would converse with a kind of affectionate
confidentiality when others were present, and apparently even more so
when others were not, that objectionable personage was the said Laurence
Stanninghame.
This being the case, it followed that George Falkner, looking out on the
_stoep_ one fine afternoon, and descrying the approach of his bugbear,
stifled a bad cuss-word or two, and then exploded aloud in more approved
and passworthy fashion.
"There's that bounder coming here again."
"'Bounder' being Dutch for somebody you detest--eh, George?" said Lilith
sweetly.
"Confound it! That everlasting trying to be sharp is one of the most
deadly things a man has to put up with. It's catching--eh, Lilith?" was
the sneering retort.
"But who is it?" said Mrs. Falkner, who was short-sighted, or affected
to be.
"Oh, the great god, Stanninghame, of course, and his pup, Holmes."
Now the ill-conditioned George had stirred up a hornet's nest, for his
sister took up the parable.
"Well, there are lessons to be learned even from 'pups,'" said Mabel
scathingly. "They are not _always_ growling, at any rate."
"Oh, you're on the would-be smart lay, too? Didn't I say it was
catching?" he jeered.
"Yes, and you say a great many things that are supremely foolish,"
retorted Mabel, turning up her tip-tilted nose a little more, in fine
scorn.
"Well, I'm off to the camp," said George, with a sort of snarl, reaching
for a hat. "Clearly, I'm not wanted here."
"You're not, if you're going to do nothing but make yourself fiendishly
disagreeable," rejoined his sister, pertly pitiless. In reality she was
very fond of him, and he of her, but he had trampled on a tender place;
for she liked Holmes.
George banged on his hat, strode angrily to the door, and--got no
farther. He did not see why he should leave the field clear to all
comers, even if he were out of the running himself; a line of
irresoluteness which affords an excellent exemplification of the remarks
wherewith we have opened this chapter.
By all but George, who was excusably undemonstrative, the two new
arrivals were greeted with customary cordiality.
"Why, Mr. Stanninghame, it seems quite a long time since we saw you
last," said Mrs. Falkner, as they were all seated out on the _stoep_.
"What have you been doing with yourself?"
"The usual thing--studying the share market, and--talking about it."
"And is the outlook still as bad as it was?"
"Worse. However, we must hope it'll go better."
"I hear that you and that queer man, Mr. Hazon, have become such
friends, Mr. Stanninghame."
This was the sort of remark with which Laurence had scant patience, the
more so that it met him at every turn. What concern was it of the Rand
collectively who he chose to be friendly with, that every third person
he met should rap out such kind of comment?
"Oh, we get along all right, Mrs. Falkner," he answered. "But then I
have a special faculty for hitting it off with unpopular
persons--possibly a kind of fellow-feeling. Besides, accepting
ready-made judgments concerning other people does not commend itself to
my mind on any score of logic or sound sense. It is just a trifle less
insane than taking up other people's quarrels, but only just."
"I dare say you're right; only it is difficult for most of us to be so
consistently, so faultlessly logical. No doubt most of the things they
say about him are not true."
"But what are most of the things they say, Mrs. Falkner? Now I, for my
part, never can get anybody to _say_ anything. They will hint
unutterables and look unutterables, but when it comes to _saying_--no,
thank you, they are not taking any."
"But he is such a very mysterious personage. Not a soul here knows
anything about him--about his affairs, I mean--and who he is."
"Perhaps that enhances his attractiveness in my eyes, Mrs. Falkner.
There is prestige in the unknown."
"Not of a good kind, as a rule," she replied, and then stopped short,
for a dry malicious cough on the part of George brought home to her the
consciousness that she was putting her foot in it pretty effectively.
For the same held good of the man to whom she was talking; about
Laurence Stanninghame and his affairs not a soul there knew anything.
Not a soul? Yes, one, peradventure. For between himself and Lilith the
interchange of ideas had been plenteous and frequent, and the subtile,
sympathetic vein existing between them had deepened and grown apace.
About himself and his affairs he had _told_ her nothing, yet it is
probable that he could tell her but little on this head that would be
news in any sense of the word. Lilith's aunt, however, who was a
good-hearted soul, without a grain of malice in her composition, felt
supremely uncomfortable and quite savage with George, who was now
grinning, sourly and significantly.
None of this by-play was lost upon Laurence, but he showed no
consciousness. He knew that George Falkner detested him--detested him
cordially, yet he in no wise reciprocated this dislike. He did not blame
George. Probably he would have felt the same way himself, had he been in
George's place and at George's age; for the latter had the advantage of
him on the side of youth by at least ten years. He was inclined to like
him, and at any rate was sorry for him, perhaps with a dash of pity that
came near contempt. Poor George did give himself away so, and it was so
foolish--so supremely foolish. Yet not for a moment did it occur to
Laurence to efface himself in this connection. Duty? Hang duty! He had
made a most ruinous muddle of his whole life through reverencing that
fetich word. Honour? There was no breach of honour where there was no
deception, no pretence. Consideration for others? Who on earth ever
dreamt of considering him--when to do so would cost them anything, that
is? Unselfishness? Everybody was selfish--everything even. What had he
ever gained by striving to improve upon the universal law?
Nothing--nothing good; everything bad--bad and deteriorating--morally
and physically.
And now, should he put the goblet from his lips? Not he. This strong,
new wine of life had rejuvenated him. Its rich, sweet fumes, so far from
clouding his brain, had cleared it. It had enwrapped his heart in a glow
as of re-enkindled fire, and caused the stagnated blood to course once
more through his veins, warm and strong and free. His very step had
gained an elasticity, a firmness, to which it had long been strange. And
yet with all this, his judgment had remained undimmed, keen, clear,
subject to no illusions. The logic of the situation was rather pitiless,
perchance cruel. He was under no sort of illusion on that score. Well,
let it be. Here again came in the universal law of life, the battle of
the strong. There was no weakness left in him.
"For my part, I like Hazon," cut in Holmes decisively; "he only wants
knowing. And because he doesn't let himself go for the benefit of every
bounder on the Rand, they talk about him as if he'd committed no end of
murders. It's my belief that half the fellows who abuse him are ten
thousand times worse than him," he added, with the robust partisanship
of hearty youth.
Further discussion of Hazon and his derelictions, real or imaginary, was
cut short by the arrival of more visitors, mostly of the sterner sex;
for Mrs. Falkner liked her acquaintance to drop in informally--a
predilection her acquaintance, if young and especially of the harder sex
aforesaid, for obvious reasons, delighted just at present to humour.
George, however, in no wise shared his aunt's expansiveness in this
direction, if only that it meant that Lilith was promptly surrounded by
an adoring phalanx, even as on the deck of the _Persian_.
Now it was voted cool enough for lawn tennis--for which distraction,
indeed, some of the droppers-in were suitably attired--and there was
keen competition for Lilith as a partner; and Holmes, being first in the
field, resolutely bore off Mabel Falkner as his auxiliary. And George,
realizing that he was "out of it" for some time to come, perhaps, too,
taking a vague comfort in the thought that there is safety in numbers,
actually did proceed to carry out his threat, and betook himself
townwards.
Laurence remained seated on the _stoep_, talking to Mrs. Falkner and one
of the visitors; but all the while, though never absent-minded or
answering at random, his eyes were following, with a soothing and
restful sense of enjoyment, every movement of Lilith's form--a very
embodiment of grace and supple ease, he pronounced it. The movement of
the game suited her as it suited but few. She never seemed to grow hot,
or flurried, or dishevelled, as so many of the fair are wont to do while
engaged in that popular pastime. Every movement was one of unstudied,
unconscious grace. In point of hard fact, she played indifferently; but
she did so in a manner that was infinitely good to look at.
"Don't you play at this, Mr. Stanninghame?" said the other visitor, "or
have you got a soul above such frivolities?"
"That doesn't exactly express it," he answered. "The truth is, I don't
derive sufficient enjoyment from skipping about on one or both legs at
the end of a racket, making frantic attempts to stop a ball which the
other side is making equally frantic and fruitless efforts to drive at
me through a net. As a dispassionate observer, the essence of the game
seems to me to consist in sending the ball against the net as hard and
as frequently as practicable."
At this the visitor spluttered, and, being of the softer sex, declared
that he must be a most dreadful cynic; and Lilith, who was near enough
to hear his remarks, turned her head, with a rippling flash of mirth in
her eyes, and said "Thank you!" which diversion indeed caused her to
perform the very feat he had been so whimsically describing.
Presently, growing tired of talking, he withdrew from the others. It
happened that there was a book in the drawing room which had caught his
attention during a former visit; and now he sought it, and taking it up
from the table, stood there alone in the cool shaded room turning from
page to page, absorbed in comparing passages of its contents. Then a
light step, a rustle of skirts, a lilt of song--which broke off short as
he raised his eyes. Lilith was passing through, her tennis racket still
in her hand. Slightly flushed with her recent exercise, she looked
radiantly sweet, in her dark, brilliant beauty.
"Oh, I didn't know anyone was here; least of all, you," she said. "You
startled me."
"Sorceress, remove those unholy spells; for thou art indeed good to look
upon this day."
She flashed a smile at him, throwing back her head with that slight,
quick movement which constituted in her a very subtile and potent charm.
"Flatterer! Do you think so? Well, I am glad."
She dropped her hand down upon his, as it rested on the table, with a
swift, light, caressing pressure, and her eyes softened entrancingly as
they looked up into his. Then she was gone.
He stood there, cool, immovable, self-possessed, outwardly still to all
appearance intent upon the book which he held. But in reality he saw it
not. His whole mental faculties were called into play to endeavour
imagination to retain that soft, light pressure upon his hand. His
resources of memory were concentrated upon the picture of her as she
stood there a moment since,--lovely, smiling, enchanting,--and then the
sombre brain-wave, reminding of the hopelessness, the mockery of life's
inexorable circumstance, would roll in upon his mind; and heart would
seem tightened, crushed, strangled with a pain that was actually
physical--of such acuteness indeed, that, had that organ been weak, he
would be in danger of falling dead on the spot. And this was a part of
the penalty he had to pay for his well-nigh superhuman self-control.
He loved her--this man who loved nothing and nobody living, not even
himself. He loved her--this man whose life was all behind him, and whose
heart was of stone, and whose speech was acrid as the most corrosive
element known to chemistry. But a few "passes" of sweet Sorceress
Lilith's magical wand and the stone heart had split to fragments,
pouring forth, giving release to, a warm well-spring. A well-spring? A
very torrent, deep, fierce, strong, but not irresistible--as yet. Still
there were moments when to keep it penned within its limits was
agony--agony untold, superhuman, well-nigh unendurable.
He loved her--he who was bound by legal ties until death. With all the
strong concentrative might of his otherwise hard nature, he loved her.
The dead dismal failure of the past, the sombre vistas of the future,
were as nothing compared with such moments as this. Yet none suspected,
so marvellously did he hold himself in hand. Even the most jealous of
those who saw them frequently together--George Falkner, for instance,
and others--were blind and unsuspecting. But--what of Lilith herself?