THE CONVICT AT THE OAR
A long account of Hemming's expedition, sent by a New Zealand
correspondent, appeared in one of the morning papers the next day.
Hemming had travelled a couple of hundred miles further south than
Harry Rames. Then he had been compelled to return. But it was Harry
Rames who had made it possible for him to get so far. For he used
Rames's depots of provisions and was able to save his own for the
stretch of new ice-covered country.
Harry lighted upon the account unexpectedly when he opened his
newspaper at the breakfast table, but the moment he saw the head-line
he folded the sheets quickly again and pushed the paper away from him.
He shrank from reading it, hardly daring to trust himself, and he
began to talk over with Cynthia the names of suitable candidates for
the Hickleton Division.
"The Whips, of course, will have a man ready who will be pledged to
swallow the whole of the Government policy, land bill and all. We must
be beforehand with them. What do you say to young Burrell, Cynthia?"
"Sir James Burrell's son?"
"Yes. His father is anxious that he should do something," said Harry
with a laugh.
"But isn't he rather young and rather insignificant?" asked Cynthia.
"Youth's a good quality in the House of Commons. The older men become
suspicious of change and want life stereotyped as it is. And young
Burrell isn't without brains. I don't say that he's a flyer, but then,
like the Government, I prefer docility to brains in my followers. I
think that I will run round to Sir James when we go back to town on
Monday."
But though Harry Rames neglected his newspaper at the breakfast table,
he came back for it at eleven in the morning. He could keep the drawer
in his bureau locked upon his charts, but he could not quench his
fever to read the details of Hemming's expedition. For an hour he
tried to occupy himself with the business of Cynthia's estate, and
then he gave up the attempt. When and how Hemming failed, how far he
had travelled with his sledges, what new lessons were to be learnt
from his experience--here were questions which he could not silence.
He got the paper and read the account through. "The dogs gave out," he
said to Cynthia. "The dogs are the trouble. You can't carry enough
food for them and for the sledging-party as well. Of course, it's bad
luck on Hemming. But I doubt if he followed the highest traditions of
British exploration."
"Why?" asked Cynthia.
"He should have chosen a different base, converged upon the Pole from
a different angle, and covered ground altogether new. Then, whether he
failed or not, he would have brought back a hundred new facts of
interest to the scientist and the geographer. As it is he adds very
little I should think to our knowledge."
Cynthia was silent for awhile after he had finished. Then she said in
a low voice, bending over some embroidery at which she was working:
"And if you were to go back, Harry, where would you make your base?"
"I?"
Harry Rames sprang eagerly up.
"Oh, I should search for a harbor a long way to the east of my old
one. At least," and he caught himself up, "I think that is what I
should do. I am speaking at random, of course. But I should at all
events have considered that possibility carefully, if I had been going
out again."
Again a spell of silence followed upon his words and Cynthia did not
raise her eyes from her work. She was wearing a hat with a wide brim
and Harry Rames could see nothing of her face.
"Won't you get your charts out and show me?" she asked. She had
mastered her voice so that there was no sound of effort in it.
"I haven't got them here," said Harry, with a fine indifference. "They
are in London I believe, somewhere or other."
Cynthia's needle stopped.
"In London," she said. An idea had occurred to her. "Locked up?"
"Very likely. I may have locked them up. I have done with them
altogether, you see."
"Of course," said Cynthia.
This time it was Harry who did not at once reply. The finality of that
"of course" brought a flush of anger into his face. He almost blamed
her for her blindness, though all his efforts aimed at keeping her
blind.
"I will ride into Hickleton this afternoon," he said, "and make sure
that the chairman of our association has no pet candidate of his own."
"That will be a good plan," said Cynthia; and with a glance at the
crown of that broad hat and a surprise at the obtuseness of the head
which it so effectually concealed, he went out of the room. Not until
the door was closed did Cynthia lift her face from her work. Her eyes
were brimming with tears and she let her hands lie idle on her lap
while the tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks. She was not much
given to tears, but to-day they had their way with her. She was
wretched. Their marriage had been a mistake. From first to last Mr.
Benoliel had been right, but she would not listen to him and be
warned. Even this afternoon he had accused her--for so she now looked
upon his words--with his pitiless truths. It was true that Harry was
discouraged, that his face had grown thin and worn, that despite the
brave show which he was making, he was utterly unhappy. Harry's words,
"The men who go South are driven on by a torment of their souls,"
lived with her night and day. They were written in fire upon every
wall of her house. In that torment Harry Rames was now tossing and
must toss, enduring the anguish of his longing silently--just as
silently as she herself was weeping in the empty room.
She was afraid of herself and dissatisfied with herself. Afraid,
because she had been perilously near to one wild outcry, "Since your
heart is set on it, go!" Dissatisfied, because she had stifled the
words before they were spoken, because she could not bring herself to
speak them, and never would.
From that day a change came over her. She flung herself with a
veritable fever of energy upon those opportunities which enable a
woman to identify herself with politics. The work she had undertaken
in Ludsey, she undertook in London on a wider scale, and with
infinitely greater effort. She was elected upon the central committees
of the various women's associations connected with her husband's
party; she travelled far and wide throughout the country on the
business of organizations; she made speeches; she sought the presence
of Cabinet Ministers at her dinner-table; she lost her color, her
buoyancy. What she did was done doggedly. To go to bed each night
tired out, that was her ambition.
"If Harry wears himself out, why should not I?" she said when any of
her friends remonstrated with her, but not one of them was allowed to
guess that the secret of all her energy was remorse. She was seeking
her rest in fatigue. For her remorse grew. Night after night Harry sat
faithfully, as he had promised to Hamlin, in his seat on the front
bench below the gangway. He took his part in the debates, he recovered
the ground which he had lost. He was once more a man marked for high
office. But it was all labor now, and unloved labor. And the strain of
it was visible. He went out and in without that happy mien of
confidence which once Cynthia had been wont to resent, but for which
she vainly hungered now.
There was one Friday evening toward the end of June when she was
impelled to approach the dangerous subject of her own accord. She and
Harry had been dining with the Prime-Minister in Downing Street. All
that week the House had been sitting into the small hours. The
Prime-Minister himself had taken her aside and given her a warning.
They returned home soon after eleven, and as they sat over a final
cigarette in Harry's study, Cynthia could not shut her eyes to his
restlessness, the nervous flickering of his fingers, the unsteady
intonations of his voice.
"Aren't you doing too much, Harry?" she asked.
"Not more than you, Cynthia," he replied as he poured himself out a
whiskey and soda.
"Much more. And women who are doing what they want to do can stand a
great deal more than men who are not."
Harry looked across at her quickly.
"But, of course, I am doing just what I have always planned to do,
just what you are helping me to do--just what I sought your help to
enable me to do."
"Sure?"
"Of course."
Cynthia had crossed the room to his side and was standing with a hand
upon his shoulder. She was in a mood of indecision and the touch of
her hand revealed her mood to Rames. A change came over him. She felt
a tremor of his body, a sudden quickening of the muscles beneath her
hand. He became intensely expectant. She could read the question in
his mind. Was she by some wonderful inspiration going to release him
from the torment of his soul? But the mere sensation of his movement
was enough for Cynthia. She withdrew her hand. She repeated
unconsciously words which he had once used to her.
"After all we get some fun out of it, don't we, Harry?" she said; and
Harry rose quickly from his chair.
"We get much more out of it, Cynthia," he said with a face which had
suddenly grown very grave and tender; and the next moment she was in
his arms, held there tightly, clasped against him. Cynthia was carried
out of herself. She was swept away unexpectedly upon a swirl of
passion.
"Harry! Oh, Harry!" she whispered in a low voice of happiness. His
right hand touched and stroked her hair. Then he tilted her chin
backward and he looked into her eyes and a smile transfigured his
face.
"Oh, much more, Cynthia," he cried, and he bent his head and kissed
her. He put her away from him and looked her over from her delicate
feet to the fair crown of her hair. She wore a satin gown of white
with her diamonds in her hair, and a rope of pearls about her neck.
"There! That's that!" he said, and Cynthia with a laugh and the blush
of a girl answered, "Thank you." Harry Rames lit a cigarette and
Cynthia's eyes followed each movement and followed it with
incredulity. The change so ardently longed for by her had come then?
He loved--he actually loved!
"Since when?" she asked gently.
"Do you remember one evening when you stood there by the door, very
wistful, and told me something about yourself which I did not know?"
"Yes, I remember. I was unwise."
"You were not. For it began then."
"Really?"
She went up to him, and he caught her hand in his and held it tightly
clasped.
"I looked at you to-night as we sat at dinner. There was no one but
you at the dinner-table. How on earth you could have brought yourself
to marry me, I can't think."
"I told you," said Cynthia, "I was afraid," and there was a note of
exultation in the confession as though now at last she was freed from
fear. Harry Rames lifted her suddenly from the ground and held her
close to him. She hung inert in his arms.
"That's over," he said.
"Quite."
"I love you, Cynthia."
Cynthia threw her head back and closed her eyes, giving to him her
face, her throat.
"I wanted to hear you say that," she whispered. He carried her over to
the sofa and laid her down.
For a week or two after that evening Cynthia walked in a dream. The
great trouble which had weighed upon her thoughts incessantly was
altogether gone. Mr. Benoliel had been right in his conjectures. He
must still be right, she reasoned. He had foreseen the trouble
accurately. "You will be living with your enemy or living quite
alone." But he had added a saving clause. If on both sides there was
love, then salvation would be found. Cynthia did not enquire very
deeply into Mr. Benoliel's meaning. The salvation would come
automatically, following upon love. She was content to think that and
she walked in a world of roses as in the days of her girlhood in the
estancia before James Challoner had come to claim her.
But after a fortnight she waked from her dream. Life was different: it
was intensified. There was a little more sunlight on a sunny day, a
little more sparkle in the summer, one walked to music. But the
trouble was not gone, in spite of the fact that on both sides there
was love. For with love, contentment had not come to Harry Rames. He
watched himself, but she watched him closer and she knew. His sleep
grew disturbed. The torment of his soul was not appeased. Daily he
became more and more the convict at the oar. There grew up between
them a loving enmity.
A morning came in the middle of July when to Cynthia the strain became
intolerable. She was riding under the trees in the Row. It was not yet
half-past nine and the air was still fresh with the dews of the night.
A light haze hung near to the ground, the sunlight touched the green
alleys of trees to gold, and far off across the Park soldiers were
marching to the drums and fifes. She had reached the cross-road which
leads to the Albert Gate when an impulse seized her. Mr. Brook was
riding at her side, dilating enthusiastically on the importance of
their group in the House of Commons, while Cynthia from time to time
said mechanically "yes," and again "yes," and wished with her whole
heart that all the bores in London would not take their exercise at
half-past nine in the morning. Mr. Brook was in full swing when
Cynthia abruptly reined in her horse.
"Good-by," she said, "I am afraid I have something I must do," and to
Mr. Brook's astonishment she turned and cantered quickly back to Hyde
Park Corner. Thence she rode to Grosvenor Square, gave her horse to
her groom, and burst into Mr. Benoliel's dining-room where he sat
breakfasting delicately amidst his silver and flowers. She waved the
butler from the room and sat down at the table at right-angles to Mr.
Benoliel.
"I am very unhappy," she said. "I was riding in the Park. It seemed
ridiculous to be unhappy on a day like this. Yet I am. So I put my
pride in my pocket."
She spoke with a kind of petulance, like one aggrieved and surprised
at the contrariness of things. But Mr. Benoliel recognized that her
distress was very real. His face clouded over; he laid his hand upon
her arm.
"Have some breakfast, Cynthia."
"Food!" cried Cynthia in contempt. Then she changed her tone. "Well, I
haven't had any breakfast. Perhaps--yes."
She was a girl with a healthy appetite and very unhappily she ate a
big breakfast.
"Now light a cigarette and tell me about it."
He pushed over a silver box lined with cedar wood from which Cynthia
took a cigarette. She tapped the end upon the table and lighted it.
Mr. Benoliel's cigarettes were famous for their freshness and the
delicacy of their aroma. Cynthia inhaled the tobacco and was a little
comforted.
"No," she said. "I can't tell you all about it. I just want to ask you
a question."
"Yes?"
"You remember the warning you gave me at Culver when you didn't know
that I was married?"
"Quite well," said Mr. Benoliel regretfully. "It came too late."
"I am glad that it came too late," Cynthia observed quietly. "For I
might have taken it."
Mr. Benoliel looked perplexed.
"Yet you are unhappy, Cynthia?"
"Very. None the less I wouldn't go back. But I don't want you to ask
me questions. I will tell you at once that you were right--quite right
up to a point. And the happiness both of Harry and myself depends upon
your being right all through."
Mr. Benoliel's eyes flashed into life.
"There is a chance then?"
"Oh yes! If you are right."
"Let me hear!"
Cynthia put her question.
"What did you exactly mean when you said that even if the change you
feared should come and some latent ambition should spring to life and
snatch him back, separation need not follow, provided that on both
sides there was love?"
A gravity overspread Benoliel's face.
"I meant, my dear, that sooner or later," he said gently, "after much
tribulation, much revolt, one of the two will make the necessary
sacrifice, and will make it whole-heartedly."
Cynthia was silent for a little while.
"Yes," she said at last in a low voice. "Of late I have begun to think
that that is what you meant."
She dropped her cigarette upon a plate and rose. "Thank you, Mr.
Benoliel," she said, and she walked with a trailing step to the door.
At the door she paused.
"And is it always the woman who must make the sacrifice?" she asked;
and Mr. Benoliel lost in a moment all that second-hand aspect of the
dilettante which habitually cloaked him.
"Always," he said, with a ringing gravity of voice. "That is the law
of the world, and neither man nor woman shall change it."
Cynthia opened the door and went out.