MISUNDERSTANDINGS
For some days after the acrimonious conversation that has been
reported, the relations between Leonard and Juanna were not a little
strained, although the necessities of travel brought them into
continual contact. Both felt that they had cause of complaint against
the other, and both were at heart somewhat ashamed of the part which
they had played. Leonard regretted ever having made the agreement with
Soa, and Juanna, now that she had cooled down a little, regretted
having spoken as she did upon the subject. Her pride was offended; but,
after all, how could he know? Besides, he was an adventurer, and it was
natural that he should make terms. Doubtless also his anxiety to win
fortune had to do with the lady whose name was written in the
prayer-book.
Perhaps this lady was only a maiden aunt, but a great desire seized
Juanna to know about her; and when such a wish enters the heart of
woman it is probable that she will find a means to satisfy it. Having
no one else to ask, Juanna sounded Otter, with whom she was on friendly
terms, only to find that the subject of Jane Beach did not interest the
dwarf. He hazarded a remark, however, that doubtless she was one of the
Baas’s wives when he lived in his big kraal over the water.
This disgusted Juanna somewhat, but the allusion to a “big kraal”
excited the curiosity, of which she had a certain share, and very
adroitly she questioned the dwarf concerning it. He rose to the fly
without hesitation, and told her that his master had been one of the
greatest men in the world, and one of the richest, but that he lost his
possessions through the wicked arts of foemen, and was come to this
country to seek new ones.
Indeed Otter enlarged upon the theme, and, anxious to extol his beloved
chief’s worth in the eyes of the Shepherdess, it would not be too much
to say that he drew upon his own imagination. Leonard, he declared, had
owned country as wide as a horse could gallop across in a day;
moreover, he had two hundred tribesmen, heads of families, who fed upon
oxen killed for them—twenty oxen a week; and ten principal wives had
called him husband. Juanna asked for the titles of the wives, whereon
the undefeated Otter gave them all Kaffir names, not neglecting to
describe their lineage, personal charms, and the number and sex of
their children. The tale took about two hours to tell, and after
hearing it Juanna conceived a great respect for Otter, but she saw
clearly that if she wished for reliable information she must obtain it
from Leonard himself.
It was not till the last day of their journey that Juanna found the
opportunity she sought. The voyage had been most prosperous, and they
expected to reach the ruined Settlement on the morrow, though whether
or not they would find Mr. Rodd there was a matter of anxious
conjecture, especially to his daughter. Day after day they rowed and
sailed up the great river, camping at night upon its banks, which would
have been pleasant had it not been for the mosquitoes. But all this
while Leonard and Juanna saw little of each other, though they met
often enough. On this particular occasion, however, it chanced that
they were journeying in the same boat, alone, except for the rowers.
Possibly Juanna had contrived that it should be so, for as a general
rule, in pursuit of his policy of avoiding a disagreeable young person,
Leonard travelled with Otter in the first boat, while Juanna was
accompanied by Francisco and Soa in the second. To the priest, indeed,
she made herself very agreeable, perhaps to show Leonard how charming
she could be when she chose. She conversed with him by the hour
together as though he were a woman friend, and his melancholy eyes
would lighten with pleasure at her talk. Indeed Francisco had something
of the feminine in his nature; his very gentleness was womanly, and his
slight stature, delicate hands and features heightened this impression.
In face he was not unlike Juanna herself, and as time went on the
resemblance seemed to grow. Had he been arrayed in a woman’s loose
attire, it would have been easy to mistake one for the other in the
dusk, although she was the taller of the two.
The accident of his profession caused Juanna to admit Francisco to an
intimacy which she would have withheld from any other man. She forgot,
or did not understand, that she was playing a dangerous game—that after
all he was a man, and that the heart of a man beat beneath his cassock.
Nobody could be more charming in her manner or more subtle in her mind
than Juanna, yet day by day she did not hesitate to display all her
strength before the unfortunate young priest, which, in addition to her
beauty, made her somewhat irresistible, at any rate on the Zambesi.
Friendship and ignorance of the world were doubtless at the bottom of
this reprehensible conduct, but it is also possible that unconscious
pique had something to do with it. She was determined to show Leonard
that she was not always a disagreeable person whom it was well to
avoid, or at least that others did not think so. That all these airs
and graces might have a tragic effect upon Francisco never occurred to
her till too late.
Well, for once the order of things was changed; Leonard and Juanna sat
side by side in the first boat. The evening was lovely, they glided
slowly by the reed-fringed bank, watching the long lights play upon the
surface of the lonely river, listening to the whistling wings of the
countless wildfowl overhead, and counting the herds of various game
that roamed upon the plains beyond.
For a while neither of them spoke much. Occasionally Juanna would call
her companion’s attention to some water-flower or to a great fish
darting from the oars, and he would answer by a word or nod. His heart
was wroth with the girl, as Otter would have said; he wondered why she
had come with him—because she was tired of the priest perhaps. He
wished her away, and yet he would have been sorry enough had she gone.
For her part Juanna desired to make him speak, and did not know how to
break through his moody silence. Suddenly she leaned back in the boat
and began to sing in a rich contralto voice that moved him. He had
never heard her sing before, had never heard any good singing for many
years indeed, and he was fond of singing. The song she sang was a
Portuguese love-song, very tender and passionate, addressed by a
bereaved lover to his dead mistress, and she put much expression into
it. Presently she ceased, and he noticed that her beautiful eyes were
full of tears. So she could feel!
“That is too sad,” she said with a little laugh, and then burst into a
Kaffir boat-song, of which the Settlement natives, joyous in the
prospect of once more seeing their home, took up the chorus gleefully.
Presently she wearied of the boat-chant. “I am tiring you,” she said;
“I dare say that you do not care for singing.”
“On the contrary, Miss Rodd, I am very fond of it. Your voice is good,
if you will allow me to say so, and it has been trained. I do not quite
understand how you can have had the opportunity to learn so many
things—music, for instance.”
“I suppose, Mr. Outram, you think that I should be a sort of savage by
rights; but as a matter of fact, although we have lived on the Zambesi,
I have had some chances. There is always a certain amount of trade on
the river, by means of which we often obtain books and other things,
and are brought into occasional contact with European merchants,
travellers, and missionaries. Then my father is a gently born and
well-educated man, though circumstances have caused him to spend his
life in these wild places. He was a scholar in his day and he has
taught me a good deal, and I have picked up more by reading. Also, for
nearly three years I was at a good school in Durban and did my best to
improve myself there. I did not wish to grow up wild because I lived
among wild people.”
“Indeed, that explains the miracle. And do you like living among
savages?”
“I have liked it well enough hitherto, but this last adventure has
sickened me. Oh! it was dreadful. Had I not been very strong I could
never have endured it; a nervous woman would have been driven mad. Yes,
I have liked it well enough; I have always looked upon it as a
preparation for life. I think that the society of nature is the best
education for the society of man, since until you understand and are in
sympathy with the one, you cannot really understand the other. Now I
should like to go to Europe and see the world and its civilisations,
for I know from what stuff they were evolved. But perhaps I never
shall; at any rate, I have to find my dear father first,” and she
sighed.
Leonard made no answer; he was thinking.
“And you, Mr. Outram, do _you_ care for this life?”
“I!” he exclaimed bitterly. “Like yourself, Miss Rodd, I am the victim
of circumstances and must make the best of them. As I told you I am a
penniless adventurer seeking my fortune in the rough places of the
earth. Of course I might earn a livelihood in England, but that is of
no use to me; I must win wealth, and a great deal of it.”
“What is the good?” she said. “Is there any object in wearing out one’s
life by trying to grow rich?”
“That depends. I have an object, one which I have sworn to fulfil.”
She looked at him inquiringly.
“Miss Rodd, I will tell you. My brother, who died of fever some weeks
ago, and I were the last male survivors of a very ancient house. We
were born to great prospects, or at least he was; but owing to the
conduct of our father, everything was lost to us, and the old house,
which had been ours for centuries, went to the hammer. That was some
seven years ago, when I was a man of three-and-twenty. We swore that we
would try to retrieve those fortunes—not for ourselves so much, but for
the sake of the family—and came to Africa to do it. My brother is dead,
but I inherit the oath and continue the quest, however hopeless it may
be. And now, perhaps, you will understand why I signed a certain
document.”
“Yes,” she said, “I understand now. It is a strange history. But tell
me, have you no relations left?”
“One, I believe, if she still lives—a maiden aunt, my mother’s sister.”
“Is she Jane Beach?” she asked quickly. “Forgive me, but I saw that
name in the prayer-book.”
“No,” he said, “she is not Jane Beach.”
Juanna hesitated; then curiosity and perhaps other feelings overcame
her, and she asked straight out—
“Who is Jane Beach?”
Leonard looked at Juanna and remembered all that he had suffered at her
hands. It was impertinent of her to ask such a question, but since she
chose to do so she should have an answer. Doubtless she supposed that
he was in love with herself, doubtless her conduct was premeditated and
aimed at the repression of his hopes. He would show her that there were
other women in the world, and that one of them at any rate had not
thought so poorly of him. It was foolish conduct on his part, but then
people suffering under unmerited snubs, neglect, and mockery at the
hands of a lady they admire are apt to lose their judgment and do
foolish things. So he answered:
“Jane Beach is the lady to whom I was engaged.”
“I guessed it,” she replied with a smile and a shiver. “I guessed it
when I saw that you always carried the prayer-book about with you.”
“You forget, Miss Rodd, that the prayer-book contains an agreement
which might become valuable.”
Juanna took no heed of his sarcasm, she was too intent on other
thoughts.
“And are you engaged to her now?”
“No, I suppose not. Her father broke off the match when we lost our
fortunes.”
“She must have been very sorry?”
“Yes, she was very sorry.”
“How interesting! You must not think me curious, Mr. Outram, but I have
never come across a love affair—that is a _white_ love affair—out of a
novel. Of course she often writes to you?”
“I have never heard from her since I left England.”
“Indeed! Surely she might have written or sent a message?”
“I suppose that her father forbade it,” Leonard answered; but in his
heart he also thought that Jane might have written or sent a message,
and could well guess why none had come.
“Ah! her father. Tell me, was she very beautiful?”
“She was the loveliest woman that I ever saw—except one who is sitting
at my side,” he added to himself.
“And do you love her very much?”
“Yes, I loved her very much.”
If Juanna heard the change of tense she took no note of it; it was such
a little thing, only one letter. And yet what a vast gulf there is
between _love_ and _loved_! It is measureless. Still, most people have
crossed it in their lives, some of them more than once. He told her the
exact truth, but after a woman’s fashion she added to the truth. He
said that he had loved Jane Beach, and she did not doubt that he still
loved her more than ever. How was she to know that the image of this
faraway and hateful Jane was fading from his mind, to be replaced by
that of a certain present Juanna? She took it all for granted, and
filled in the details with a liberal hand and in high colours.
Juanna took it all for granted. Again she shivered, and her lips turned
grey with pain. She understood now that she had loved him ever since
the night when they first met in the slave camp. It was her love, as
yet unrecognised, which, transforming her, had caused her to behave so
badly. It had been dreadful to her to think that she should be thrust
upon this man in a mock marriage; it was worse to know that he had
entered on her rescue not for her own sake, but in the hope of winning
wealth. In the moment of her loss Juanna learned for the first time
what she had gained. She had played and lost, and she could never throw
those dice again; it was begun and finished.
So Juanna thought and felt. A little more experience of the world might
have taught her differently. But she had no experience, and in such
novels as she had read the hero seldom varied in the pursuit of his
first love, or turned to look upon _another_. Ah! if all heroes and
heroines acted up to this golden rule, what an uncommonly dull world it
would be!
Juanna gathered her energies, and spoke in a low steady voice. “Mr.
Outram,” she said, “I am so much obliged to you for telling me all
this. It interests me a great deal, and I earnestly hope that Soa’s
tale of treasure will turn out to be true, and that you may win it by
my help. It will be some slight return for all that you have done for
me. Yes, I hope that you will win it, and buy back your home, and after
your years of toil and danger live there in honour, and happiness,
and—love, as you deserve to do. And now I ask you to forgive me my
behaviour, my rudeness, and my bitter speeches. It has been shameful, I
know; perhaps you will make some excuse for me when you remember all
that I have gone through. My nerves were shaken, I was not myself—I
acted like a half-wild minx. There, that is all.”
As she spoke Juanna began to draw the signet-ring from her left hand.
But she never completed the act. It was his gift to her, the only
outward link between her and the man whom she had lost—why should she
part with it? It reminded her of so much. She knew now that this mock
marriage was in a sense a true one; that is, so far as she was
concerned, for from that hour she had indeed given her spirit into his
keeping—not herself, but her better half and her love; and those solemn
words over her in that dreadful place and time had consecrated the
gift. It was nothing, it meant nothing; yet on her it should be
binding, though not on him. Yes, all her life she would remain as true
to him in mind and act as though she had indeed become his wife on that
night of fear. To do so would be her only happiness, she thought,
though it is strange that in her sorrow she should turn for comfort to
this very event, the mere mention of which had moved her to scorn and
bitterness. But so it was, and so let it be.
Leonard saw the look upon her face; he had never seen anything quite
like it before. With astonishment he heard her gentle words, and
something of the meaning of the look and words came home to him; at any
rate he understood that she was suffering. She was changed in his
sight, he no longer felt bitter towards her. He loved her; might it not
be that she also loved him, and that here was the key to her strange
conduct? Once and for all he would settle the matter; he would tell her
that Jane Beach had ceased to be more than a tender memory to him, and
that she had become all.
“Juanna,” he said, addressing her by her Christian name for the first
time.
But there, as it was fated, the sentence began and ended, for at that
moment a canoe shot alongside of them, and Francisco’s voice was heard
hailing them through the fog.
“Peter says that you have passed the camping place, senora. He did not
stop you because he thought that you knew it well.”
“It was the mist, Father,” Juanna answered with a little laugh. “We
have lost ourselves in a mist.”
A few minutes and they were on the bank, and Leonard’s declaration
remained unspoken. Nor did he make any attempt to renew it. It seemed
to him that Juanna had built a wall between them which he could not
climb. From that evening forward her whole attitude towards him
changed. She no longer angered him by bitter words; indeed, she was
gentleness itself, and nothing could be kindlier or more friendly and
open than her manner, but there it began and ended. Once or twice,
indeed, he attempted some small advance, with the result that instantly
she seemed to freeze—to become cold and hard as marble. He could not
understand her, he feared her somewhat, and his pride took alarm. At
the least he could keep his feelings to himself, he need not expose
them to be trampled upon by this incomprehensible girl.
So, although they were destined to live side by side for months, rarely
out of each other’s sight or thoughts, he went his way and she went
hers. But the past and secret trouble left its mark on both. Leonard
became sterner, more silent, watchful, and suspicious. Juanna grew
suddenly from a girl into a woman of presence and great natural
dignity. She did not often laugh during those months as had been her
wont, she only smiled, sadly enough at times. Her thoughts would not
let her laugh, for they were of what her life might have been had no
such person as Jane Beach existed, and of what it must be because of
Jane Beach. Indeed this unknown Jane took a great hold of her mind—she
haunted her. Juanna pictured her in a dozen different shapes of beauty,
endowed with many varying charms, and hated each phantasm worse than
the last.
Still, for a while she would set it up as a rival, and try to outmatch
its particular fancied grace or loveliness—a strange form of jealousy
which at length led Otter to remark that the Shepherdess was not one
woman but twenty women, and, therefore, bewitched and to be avoided.
But these fits only took her from time to time. For the most part she
moved among them a grave and somewhat stately young lady, careful of
many things, fresh and lovely to look upon, a mystery to her white
companions, and to the natives little short of a goddess.
But wherever Juanna moved two shadows went with her—her secret passion
and the variable image of that far-off English lady who had robbed her
of its fruit.