Colonel Grey flung a suit of pyjamas and a few toilet accessories into a
handbag and started out for the station. He was very much perturbed.
Against his judgment he was greatly affected by Mrs Lawless'
forebodings of the previous night; her softly uttered, prophetic--they
seemed to him prophetic--words: "I have always felt those letters would
cost another life."
And as a foundation for this belief, Tom Hayhurst had turned up with his
tale of suspicion and his unreserved misgivings that had insensibly
given rise to similar doubts in his own mind. What a finish to a life
of failure! ... If this, indeed, should prove the end! He recalled his
recently formulated plans for the man's future... the chance he had
thought to give him; and a hard look came into his eyes, his lips
tightened. Those ashes in the grate had indeed cost dear!
Tom Hayhurst was already on the platform when he made his appearance
from the direction of the booking-office. He came forward quickly to
meet him, his boyish face grave and concerned.
"I saw Van Bleit come out of the shipping-office when I passed on my way
here," he said. "I tried to stop him, but he eluded me, and I daren't
give chase for fear of missing the train. I take it he was booking his
passage to England. He means clearing out... Looks queer, eh?"
Colonel Grey nodded briefly.
"It'll take a bigger world than this for him to lose himself in, if he's
killed Grit," the young man said.
They turned and walked the length of the platform side by side. The
train was in the station, and passengers were leisurely selecting their
seats. From the door of the booking-office as they came opposite to it,
among a hurrying group of late arrivals, Mrs Lawless emerged, tall and
composed and very pale, with a cluster of early roses, fresh gathered
with the dew still on them, drooping in her hands. A servant
accompanied her carrying luggage. It was evident that she too was going
by the train.
The Colonel was the first to see her; Hayhurst in his preoccupation had
eyes for no one. He stopped, regarded her in surprise, and raised his
hat.
"Mrs Lawless!" he exclaimed. "You! ... Surely you are not thinking--"
She looked him steadily in the eyes.
"I am going to Kraaifontein, Colonel Grey," she interrupted him--"to
find my husband."
It was not often that the Colonel was startled beyond all power of lucid
expression, but in the extremity of his amazement words failed him.
"Your--Eh?" he said, and stood still on the platform and stared at her.
He felt a touch on his arm.
"Unless you want to be left behind, you'd better take your seat."
Tom Hayhurst stood at his elbow, his blue eyes on the woman's face, with
a mingling of respect in them and wondering resentment. He hurried them
to the train, opened the door of an empty carriage, and shut it on them
with a bang.
"Send me a wire," he said.
The Colonel thrust his head out of the window.
"You're not coming?"
"No." The young man gave an expressive glance in the direction of Mrs
Lawless, seated in the far corner of the carriage with the fragrant
drooping flowers in her lap. "Grit wouldn't thank us for making a
picnic, or a funeral party, of it with her there," he said.
Colonel Grey understood.
"I'll let you know immediately," he promised, and sank back on the
cushions, taking off his hat and mopping his much perplexed and
perspiring brow as the train moved slowly out.
He looked across at Mrs Lawless. She was gazing out of the window at
the sunny country as it swept past her view with eyes that saw nothing
consciously, and with thoughts, he rightly conjectured, far away from
her surroundings. He tried to think of her in this new connection that
she had sprung on him so suddenly and for which he had been so wholly
unprepared; tried, but failed to remember, what Lawless had said in
respect of his relationship with her that had so entirely misled him.
He recalled that he had asked point blank whether he was a connection of
hers, recalled too the ambiguous answer to his question: "By marriage
only." Truly a man may usually be said to be related to his wife by
marriage only. But the answer had been given with intent to deceive.
And Lawless had said other things that had tended to turn his mind from
any such suspicion. For private reasons he had desired to conceal the
fact of his marriage.
It was long before Mrs Lawless turned her face in his direction; when
she did he saw that her eyes were filled with a great hopelessness, and
something that resembled dread. Unconsciously she fingered the roses in
her lap, touching them with a nervous caressing hand.
"I am afraid," she said, and looked at him wistfully. "I have never
imagined anything like this... I thought I was going Home without ever
seeing his face again. I had reconciled myself to that. And now... It
ought not to be more difficult to part from the dead than to part
irrevocably from the living. But it is."
She looked down suddenly at the roses, and lifted them gently, and laid
them against her face.
"I brought them for him," she said simply.
"I think it would be wiser," he returned, "not to make up your mind to
misfortune. It is quite possible that when we arrive we shall find Mr
Lawless in perfect health. There are absolutely no grounds for
supposing otherwise."
"I have a feeling that all is not well," she answered quietly. "That
feeling was with me throughout the night; and in my sleep I heard him
call me... My own imagination! ... Yes, I know. He wouldn't ask for
me."
She turned her face away and gazed out of the window again.
"Do you think," she asked presently, after a further lengthy silence,
and in her tone and manner it was apparent how great was the effort it
cost her to touch upon the subject, "that she will be with him? ... that
woman?"
Colonel Grey sat up suddenly as though a bomb had been flung at him. He
had forgotten since his knowledge of Tottie's identity that this thing
had been an open scandal, and that she must know of it.
"Good Lord, no!" he answered. And added quickly: "There wasn't any
woman."
He moved down to her end of the compartment, and leaning forward took
both her hands and held them firmly.
"You haven't allowed that to come between you?" he asked gently.
The tears rose in her eyes.
"It didn't help," she whispered... "But you see--I am going to him in
spite of it."
"It was a cruel thing to let you believe that," he said, and dropped her
hands, and sat back against the cushions, watching her. "I'll tell you
the story as I heard it myself yesterday."
And he related to her unreservedly the history of Tottie and her
connection with Lawless in the recovery of the letters. When he had
finished he found that she was quietly weeping with her face hidden in
her gloveless hands.
He left her to herself and returning to his former seat sat stiffly
upright, staring out of the window with unseeing eyes beneath their
knitted brows. It would seem that those letters had more to answer for
than even he had supposed. He wondered whether, could he have foreseen
all that this enterprise would involve, he would have consented to its
undertaking.
There was a prolonged silence. Mrs Lawless rose after a while, moved
by what impulse he failed to understand, and dropped the sweet scented
roses from the window. She turned round and faced him after doing so,
and he felt that already she regretted the act.
"They were dying," she explained, and went nearer to him and sat down
opposite. "It was a foolish thought to pick them."
"It was a kind thought," he returned.
She looked at him gravely.
"Colonel Grey," she said, "a man must hate a woman when he can let her
believe--what my husband allowed me to believe. Nothing less than hate
could be so cruel as that."
He looked her straight in the eyes.
"Dear lady, don't you know," he asked, "how closely love and hate are
allied so that it is difficult to separate the one from the other? It
is possible for a man to hate the woman who is dear to him. I've known
such cases."
"I can understand," she said, and looked thoughtfully out upon the
passing country, "moments of impulsive hate. But systematic hate...
That's different."
She pulled at the strap of the window absently, and continued to gaze
out at the scenery, while the shadows darkened the sun-flecked eyes, and
memories stirred in their troubled depths that, far away now but still
unsoftened, covered over a space of hopeless years. She had loved her
husband with such an intensity of passion, and yet she had failed
somehow to satisfy him. She had failed him most at the moment he
particularly needed help and sympathy--at the time of his disgrace. Her
love for him had had its root to a great extent in her pride in him.
The fall of her pride was tremendous. His dismissal from the Service
cut her more deeply than at that time of hysterical patriotism his death
could have. The blow hardened her. Instead of loving encouragement,
unsympathetic silence was all she offered. And he turned from her and
sought comfort elsewhere. Another woman came into his life. Zoe
Lawless did not know how brief had been that interval of madness. She
had refused to hear explanations, had withheld forgiveness. He had
written to her, offering facilities for her release. To that she had
replied that if he wished it, if he desired to give the woman the
protection of his name, she would submit to the humiliation of having
their affairs dragged through the courts. He had answered that he was
merely considering her, that he had no wishes in the matter, and should
certainly not re-marry if she divorced him.
After that there had been unbroken silence between them, and she lost
sight of him for many years. During those years, in the lonely watches
of the night, she had often lain awake thinking of him, wondering about
him; and her conscience had reproached her for throwing that
undisciplined nature back upon itself. When, unexpectedly, under the
will of an eccentric relative she inherited a comfortable fortune she
determined to follow after him. She had heard from her cousin in Cape
Town that Lawless was in Africa; and so she came to Africa to find him,
with some vague idea in her mind that they might possibly pick up the
dropped strands of their lives and interwind them anew. She had
earnestly desired this until she met him. When they met she realised
how vain had been her hope. And now it was all over... There remained
only the bitterness of the empty years.
When they reached Kraaifontein, and the Colonel got out of the train and
turned to offer her assistance, she hung back, white and nervous, and
caught at the luggage bracket as though to save herself from falling.
He took her by the arm and assisted her on to the platform.
"In a little while," he said, with a view to encouraging her, "you will
be smiling at your fears. Come now! be brave."
He left her for a moment on the platform while he went to speak to an
official. When he returned he endeavoured without success to mask his
gravity behind a reassuring smile.
"We'll walk," he said, "it's close here. I've arranged about the
luggage."
She looked at him swiftly.
"You've heard something," she said.
"Nothing definite," he answered,--"and nothing very alarming. There is
a visitor at the hotel who has met with an accident. That tells us
little, but at least it proves he is not dead."
She took his arm and they started to walk.
"If he's only slightly hurt," she said, as they proceeded, "I'll go back
again. It would only anger him, my being here. But if he's too ill to
notice--then surely I may stay? ... You don't think that I should do
him harm by staying, then?"
Tears suddenly rose in her eyes, her voice broke.
"Oh! I'm so afraid," she whispered. "Afraid most of all of his
coldness."
"I think," he said gently, "you may rest assured he can only feel
grateful to you for your consideration."
But notwithstanding his words of comfort she grew more nervous with
every step they advanced. Death she could have faced, and faced
bravely; she had had to face worse things than that; but the thought of
his further coldness--his displeasure, perhaps, at being followed--
completely unnerved her.
When they reached the hotel and entered from the sunshine into the
small, plainly furnished hall, she sat down on one of the chairs inside
the door and left it to Colonel Grey to make inquiries. The first
person he saw to put a question to was Mr Burton. It chanced to be a
holiday, and Mr Burton was spending his leisure in attendance on the
man whom, brief though the acquaintance was in respect of time, he had
come to regard with an esteem beyond the ordinary. He crossed the hall
at the moment of Mrs Lawless' entry with the Colonel on his way to the
sick man's room, and seeing visitors, and one a lady, bowed with his
customary courtesy as he passed. The Colonel waylaid him, and taking
him aside, stated the object of their visit. Mr Burton looked puzzled.
"His wife, you say! Strange that he did not mention her. I asked him
if there was anyone he would wish informed of his condition; I was
prepared to communicate with his friends; but he said no, and I knew no
address to telegraph to. He probably feared to alarm her. Does Mrs
Lawless realise what has happened? He's badly hurt."
"What's the damage?" the Colonel asked gruffly. "We know nothing. It
is only surmise that has led us here. We've heard no details."
Mr Burton's mild eyes blinked their astonishment behind their glasses.
He had never happened across such an extraordinary sequence of
remarkable incidents in all his life before. It fully bore out his
oft-repeated assertion that it is not only in big cities that the great
events occur.
"He has been shot in the breast," he answered gravely. "His condition
is not critical, but it is sufficiently serious. It was the most
dastardly attempt upon his life. I witnessed the whole affair,--indeed,
Mr Lawless and I had but a few minutes previously parted company. I am
not a vindictive man, I hope, sir; but I should wish the man who was
responsible for that cowardly attack to suffer punishment. But I cannot
persuade Mr Lawless to furnish me with a clue as to his identity, and I
was too far away to see clearly. Perhaps when Mr Lawless recovers he
may speak of the matter, at present it is not wise to refer to it before
him. We have orders to keep him as quiet as possible."
"Who's attending him? ... Got a decent medical man?" Colonel Grey
asked, with some idea in his mind of sending to Cape Town for skilled
advice and nurses.
"Oh! we have an excellent man... Out from England for his health. Mr
Lawless is quite well looked after in that respect."
"And nurses?"
The little man looked surprised.
"The landlady does what is necessary," he explained. "I help a
little... Yes."
"But--good Lord, man!--he wants trained nursing."
Colonel Grey turned round and spoke to Mrs Lawless, and she rose from
her seat and approached them. The pathos of her expression, her pallor,
and her great personal charm, made a direct appeal to Mr Burton's
kindly nature. Her singular beauty impressed him vividly. While
sympathising strongly with her anxiety, he was none the less glad that
she had come; it would be such an agreeable piece of news to break to
the sufferer.
"Tell me," she said. "I have watched you talking till I am half afraid
to ask. He's ill... He's very ill... I know he is. You are not going
to tell me that he will die?"
"God forbid!" Mr Burton cried, and was slightly ashamed of his
excitement. "He is badly hurt, Mrs Lawless. But he has a wonderful
spirit. He will get over this all right. And with you here to nurse
him, why, bless me! he'll enjoy being ill."
She smiled, but so wanly that it was in his idea infinitely sadder than
tears.
"What do you think?" she said, and looked inquiringly at Colonel Grey...
"Ought I to let him know that I am here?"
"Well, he's got to know some time, I suppose," he answered, and appealed
to the schoolmaster. "He isn't so ill but that he can stand a little
excitement, eh?"
"Excitement of that nature would not be likely to hurt him," Mr Burton
answered confidently out of his profound ignorance. "I was just about
to visit him. I'm sitting with him to-day. If it is agreeable to you I
will break it to him that you are here."
He left them and went upon his errand cheerfully, pleasantly
anticipating Lawless' satisfaction in the news. The patient's reception
of his wonderful intelligence was an added astonishment to the many
surprises of that day. It chilled his gladness as completely as cold
water flung upon a cheerful blaze. There was a little spluttering, and
the blaze was finally extinguished.
"Help me into my clothes, Burton," the man in the bed said querulously.
"No," Mr Burton refused. "It would be the death of you."
"Then, get out of this, and I'll dress myself."
The schoolmaster deliberately approached the bed, and looked down kindly
into the tormented eyes that stared up at him out of the pallid face
upon the pillow. He put out a restraining hand as the patient pushed
the bedclothes fretfully aside and attempted to sit up.
"You can't do it. Lawless," he said, endeavouring to soothe him,
fearing that he had been over hasty with his news. Delirium alone could
account in his opinion for this rash determination to get up.
"Lie still," he entreated. "They will come to you."
"They will do nothing of the sort," Lawless replied, with a lucidity
only to be equalled by his determination. "You're an old fool, Burton,
and you don't understand. Hand me my clothes, there's a good chap, and
so make this matter easier for me."
In response Mr Burton gathered up the garments and made for the door.
"Very well," Lawless answered grimly, "then I must make my appearance as
I am."
The other came back and stood, perplexed and troubled, with the clothes
bundled together in his arms, and a guilty look in his eyes as though he
had been surprised in the act of stealing.
"You don't mean it?" he said.--"Not seriously?"
"I'm perfectly serious, and entirely rational," Lawless replied quietly.
"If you are really anxious that I shouldn't overtax my strength you'll
stay and help me dress."
And so it was that the Colonel and Mrs Lawless were kept waiting for
the expected summons.