It is a generally accepted fact that the social life of the Colonies is
less conventional than the social life of England. It is broader in
outlook, wider in sympathy, not less critical, perhaps, but certainly
more understanding. This is to be accounted for by the continual
inpouring of fresh blood, the infusion of fresh ideas. The Colonies
adapt themselves more readily to change than the older civilisation;
they represent a younger, more vigorous generation, and, if behind the
mother country in many respects, are ahead of her in others of quite
vital importance. But though life in South Africa is unconventional,
strenuous, and--as is inevitable in a land that attracts to its shores
the more ardent and adventurous spirits--more impulsive, more passionate
and unrestrained, it has its fixed code of morality, and the man or
woman who defies its laws must be prepared to accept the reward of
ostracism.
Lawless' sudden leap to popularity suffered an equally sudden rebound
when it became apparent how utterly contemptuous he was of public
opinion, as it concerned his private life. His life became an open
scandal. The woman who had visited him at his hotel late one night was
installed in rooms that he had taken for her, and regularly every day he
visited her, and frequently took her driving in the public
thoroughfares. The women of his acquaintance cut him, and not a few of
the men. His behaviour was too flagrant to be passed over. Van Bleit
alone was interested and sympathetic. He coveted an introduction to his
friend's handsome inamorata, and on occasions when he deemed it quite
safe put himself deliberately in the way. But Lawless was blind to
these devices. He cared neither for the disapproval of the many, nor
for Van Bleit's furtive approbation. He was entirely indifferent to
outside criticism. It pleased him to do this thing, and he did it.
Society had not treated him so well as to give it a right to be
exacting; and, in any case, he had no intention of considering it in
this or any other matter.
There were two women in Cape Town who were most unhappily affected by
this sordid intrigue, Mrs Lawless, and the girl who had made a hero of
the man, and who worshipped him with the extravagance of a youthful,
unsophisticated mind. For a long while Julie Weeber refused to admit
that there was anything unusual in Lawless' friendship with the handsome
demi-mondaine; but in her heart she was jealous of the friendship, and
when she saw them together she hated the woman with the complacently
smiling, painted lips, and the mocking eyes. Her distress was primarily
due to the knowledge that by his actions he was separating himself from
her. She would have condoned anything for the gratification of seeing
and talking with him occasionally. But intercourse was out of the
question; not only did her mother assert that she would neither receive
him in future nor permit her daughters to acknowledge him, but Lawless
himself held aloof. Once when she passed him in the street driving with
the woman, although she knew he had seen her, he deliberately turned his
face aside. It wounded the girl deeply.
"Why should he treat me like that?" she asked herself passionately...
"It isn't fair to me."
She encountered him again a few days later. He was alone, walking
towards the city. Julie had been to see a friend some distance out, and
was cycling homeward when she overtook him. It was evening. The sun
had dipped below the horizon; where it had disappeared the sky still
glowed with changing colours that paled perceptibly before the oncome of
precipitate night which in Africa follows rapidly on the path of the
vanished day. A shaft of the fading colour in the sky glanced
earthwards and glowed in Julie Weeber's cheeks when she recognised the
solitary pedestrian striding along the middle of the road. She
slackened speed as she drew near to him, and glanced swiftly about her.
No one was in sight, not even a Kaffir; though had a crowd been there to
witness her actions she would probably have behaved in exactly the same
way. She pedalled her machine alongside the tall, familiar figure, and
slipped to the ground. Lawless glanced round. He looked surprised, he
also looked--Julie observed it--pleased.
"How do you do?" she said, deliberately holding out her hand. "Isn't it
a beautiful evening?"
He smiled involuntarily at this determined effort at conversation, and
answered that such was his opinion also.
"Are you walking into town?" she asked. "I am, too."
"You mean, you are riding," he corrected.
"I'm not," the girl returned imperturbably. "I hate cycling against the
wind. I only stuck to my machine because it's lonely walking by
oneself."
"In that case," he said, stepping behind her and relieving her of the
charge of the cycle, "you must let me wheel this."
Julie walked along beside him for a few yards without speaking. Then
abruptly she turned her face towards him. He was looking down at the
machine, a very old one with well-worn tyres and rusty handlebars of a
pattern quite out of date. His face was grave and somewhat preoccupied.
"You cut me the other day in Adderly Street," she said bluntly... "You
saw me..."
"Yes," he admitted.
It did not seem to occur to him to turn the speech aside. During their
brief, but rapid, acquaintance they had always been extraordinarily
frank with one another.
"Why did you?" she asked almost fiercely. "It wasn't kind."
"In that I differ from you," he replied. "It was the only kind act I
have ever performed towards you."
A pained flush leapt to her cheeks. She looked away from him down the
dusty road, along a vista of flowering gum trees, with eyes that were
clouded and misty and rebellious, and a mind that for all its
youthfulness dimly discerned his meaning.
"I thought we were--friends," she said falteringly.
And then he made use of one of the remarks that were responsible for the
development of her understanding.
"There is no such thing as friendship between the sexes."
The flush in her cheeks deepened. There was a strained air of
embarrassment about her, noticeable even in her walk.
"And so... you don't wish to know me?" she said with an effort.
"My dear child!" He looked at her earnestly. "It's not a matter in
which I am entitled to consider my wishes."
"And what of mine?" she asked in a low voice that was tremulous, as
though the speaker were on the verge of tears.
He looked down awkwardly, and fidgeted with the handle of the brake.
"I don't consider that I am entitled to consult your wishes either," he
replied. "My friendship, according to the accepted standard, is neither
good nor safe for you... Haven't you been so informed?"
"Yes," she answered, and added sullenly: "I don't care... I want your
friendship more than I want anything. It has meant so much to me...
And I miss... things so. You never come to the house now... You never
go anywhere."
"No," he returned briefly.
There was silence between them for a while. Then suddenly Julie put out
a hand and touched his hand where it hung at his side.
"You won't--cut me again?" she pleaded.
"No," he answered as briefly as before, but in a kinder tone with a ring
of determination in it that carried conviction.
"I want to see you sometimes," she said... "to talk with you sometimes.
I know that I'm not intellectual, that I'm undeveloped and silly, and
altogether too young to be companionable to you; but you have taken
pleasure in my society--you have," she exclaimed with vehemence,
"haven't you?"
"Yes," he acknowledged, "I have... I do. And it's just because of that
I deem it best to let the thing end."
"Oh no!" she cried quickly... "No!"
"When you talk like that," he said, smiling at her pleasantly, "you
convince me that my judgment is right... Oh! don't worry," he added in
response to a quick gesture of protest; "I'm not going to rely on
anything so stodgy. I'm going to follow inclination. Remain my dear
little friend... If there is no great good to you in it, there shall be
no great harm in it either... And, in any case, it won't matter much...
I am going away shortly."
"Going away!" she echoed blankly. "Leaving Cape Town, do you mean?"
"Yes."
She turned to him with a swift abandonment that proved how strong was
the influence he already exerted over her, and with white face, and
distressful, tear-filled eyes, cried out--
"Oh! don't go! don't go! ... Or--couldn't you--take me with you?"
He came to an abrupt standstill, and leaning towards her, with his hand
resting on the saddle of the cycle, looked steadily into the shamed,
young, piteous face. His look brought the colour flaming back into the
white cheeks.
"Ah! now you think me unwomanly," she said, and her voice shook
pitifully... "You won't like me any more..."
"My dear!" he replied, "you are talking nonsense."
Her head drooped lower and lower like a flower that is beaten down in a
storm. She stared down at the strong, sunburnt hand gripping the
saddle, and the slow tears overflowed and fell, big, shining drops, into
the dust of the road. She made no effort to stay them or to wipe them
away; and the man, watching her with his keen, observant eyes, was
stirred with an unwonted sense of compassion, and a swift self-hatred
because of what he had in idle selfishness done.
"If you knew me for what I am," he said gravely, "you would not honour
me with your friendship. I'm not the hero your fancy has painted. A
man rates himself at a higher valuation usually than his deserts, but as
high as I can place the standard it leaves me still unworthy of your
regard."
"And you don't feel... contempt for me?" she faltered.
"No... The only contempt I feel is for myself." He held out his hand
to her. "We are coming to the more frequented part," he said. "I would
prefer that you mounted and rode into town."
She gave him her hand shyly, but still she hesitated.
"You promise not to withdraw your friendship?" she pleaded. "I--I don't
know what I should do if--if you wouldn't let me be--just a friend."
Her eyes as well as her voice implored him; they dragged a reluctant
consent from his lips. When she had mounted and cycled out of his
sight, turning at the bend of the road to wave him a last farewell, he
regretted that he had allowed his better judgment to be overruled by her
girlish pleading. Public opinion was right in this instance; there was
danger in the friendship. There had been danger for the girl from the
beginning; since intercourse in the future could only be by stealth that
danger was considerably increased. The secret friendship of a young
girl for a man of notorious character must be disastrous in its results
even if the man act towards her honourably according to his lights.
When Lawless reached his hotel he found two letters waiting for him in
the rack. He carried them to his room. The first, so ill-written as to
be scarcely legible, was signed "Tottie." The writer stated that she
was bored to death, and commanded him to come round and amuse her. The
second was also in the nature of a command. It was very short--only one
line.
"Will you come to see me?--Zoe."
He read the second note twice, and then remained for a long while
motionless with the letter in his hand, staring at the big, firm
characters thoughtfully, his brows puckered in a heavy frown. Why had
she written to him? ... Why should she wish to see him, when all
self-respecting women held their skirts aside? ... The frown deepened.
He was baffled by the very simplicity of the brief message, the meaning
of which was so purely conjectural and obscure. He read the note for
the third time, seeking enlightenment from a greater familiarity with
the words. But the purpose of the message still eluded him. He could
not imagine what was in the writer's mind to move her to pen such a
note. It was inconsistent with her attitude in the past. He felt
strangely irritated, even suspicious, as he stared at the sheet of paper
in his hand. It was a little late in the day for her to think of
starting an "influence."
He seated himself at a writing-table in a corner of the room and
answered the note. His reply was laconic in its brevity. "No," he
wrote, and signed it simply, "H.L." Then he addressed it and slipped it
into the pocket of his coat with the idea of posting it himself. She
would probably expect him that evening, he decided, and smiled
ironically, thinking of the writer of the other letter, who was also
expecting him, and whom he had no intention to disappoint. In the
morning she would receive the answer to her note; then she would
understand.
But the answer was not posted. Lawless was delayed as he was leaving
the hotel; when later he set forth his mood had changed, and he tore the
reply he had written into fragments and scattered them on the pavement,
to be further scattered by the boisterous wind that swept them into
corners, only to dislodge them and scatter them anew. A few of the
fragments fluttered under his feet as he strode along. He trod them
heavily underfoot and walked on. Would she conclude from his silence
that he would obey the summons? ... He was not quite sure whether by
his action in destroying his answer he meant to accede to her wish, or
simply to ignore it. A strong curiosity as to her reason for wishing to
see him strove against his disinclination to comply with the request.
Finally he decided to leave the matter in abeyance. If the humour took
him he would go to her the following day. But the humour did not take
him. The next day came and passed, and the note remained in his pocket
still unanswered.
Mrs Lawless waited at home each day in the hope of his coming, and
denied herself to other visitors. On the third day she made an
exception in favour of Mrs Smythe.
"I came to inquire if you were ill," Mrs Smythe exclaimed as she
entered the drawing-room. "You were not at the Frenches' the other
evening, and we missed you yesterday at the Admiral's At Home. You
aren't ill, Zoe... I don't think I ever saw you look better."
She surveyed her friend critically. There was no indication of
ill-health in the dark splendour of Zoe Lawless' face, nor in the
graceful, beautiful body, but in the sun-flecked eyes was a hint of
sadness which Mrs Smythe detected.
"You are tired," she said.
"No." Mrs Lawless drew her to the sofa and sat down beside her... "At
least not physically tired," she added... "I'm feeling old. I'm
thirty-three to-day, Kate." She lifted the dark hair at her temples.
"Grey hairs there already, plenty of them. I spent some time this
morning pulling them out, until it occurred to me as rather trivial...
and futile, too. It's like stripping the red leaves from the trees in
autumn in a poor pretence that the summer is not past... It only
advances winter."
"My dear girl!" Mrs Smythe said briskly, "when you are sixty-three you
will be privileged to talk like that... Don't say too much about your
age; I'm thirty-five."
Zoe laughed, and as suddenly grew grave again.
"With you age doesn't signify," she said. "You've had your years, and
lived them, and each one has brought its past year's satisfaction; but
with me there has been waste." She leant back against the cushions,
with one arm flung out over the head of the sofa. "The years that the
locusts have eaten!" ... she murmured... "It's when you have let the
locusts eat into the precious years that you feel the bitterness of the
loss of the golden hours. If I'd had my golden hours--if I'd enjoyed
them, I shouldn't feel sorrowful at the coming of silver hairs. Youth
that is wasted is like a day when the sunshine has been obscured by
clouds. Towards evening the clouds pass, and the sun shines forth,
perhaps, for a few minutes before it sets. But the clouds have spoilt
the morning and rendered the tardy radiance ineffectual... The time has
passed."
"Your philosophy would be less painful if it were not so
incontrovertible," Mrs Smythe returned quietly. "But if there has been
waste, Zoe, isn't it adding to it to spend the hours mourning over those
already gone? It would be far more sensible if you were to get out of
that ridiculously becoming tea-gown and come out driving with me. I'm
not surprised at your depression if you have spent the last few days
dwelling on uncomfortable things."
Mrs Lawless smiled faintly.
"It's not so bad as that," she answered. "I'm a creature of moods. Had
you called yesterday you would have found me quite cheerful."
"Then I'm glad that my visit has fitted in with the heavier mood.
Cheerfulness needs no distraction. Change your gown, Zoe, and come out
with me."
Mrs Lawless shook her head in response to her friend's inquiring look.
Her fingers were playing absently with one of the heavy tassels of a
sofa cushion, twisting and pulling at it, and entwining themselves with
the silky strands. She looked down at the tassel pensively, and at the
busy fingers fidgeting with it continually as though their purposeless
occupation held an interest for her.
"Thank you for suggesting it," she said slowly. "I would have been glad
to go; but I am expecting Mr Lawless."
Mrs Smythe stared at her. Amazement bereft her of her customary tact.
"Expecting him! ... this afternoon?... Why, my dear, I passed him
driving with--"
She came to an abrupt halt, and gazed at her quiet companion with
dismayed and apologetic eyes.
"His mistress," Zoe finished for her, looking up. "You needn't mind
saying it... I have accustomed myself to the idea. He may not come
this afternoon, of course... But--I think I prefer to stay at home."
Mrs Smythe was silent for a while.
"I never was so disappointed in anyone in my life as I am in him," she
remarked at length.
Zoe's big eyes showed a faint surprise.
"No!" she said.
"Aren't you disappointed in him?" Mrs Smythe asked wonderingly.
"Oh! I don't know..." She sat up suddenly. "I try not to think of
it," she said... "It's another instance of waste... waste and failure.
All the years I've known him--"
She looked at the other woman, and her eyes softened. "Perhaps if he
had felt the influence of a good woman he might have made a better thing
of life."