Chapter Eight.
Faith Calls.
“We cannot grieve as they that have no hope.”
A cloud of dark and brooding melancholy settled upon Fort George after the departure of the troops. The streets were silent. Many of the huts had their doors padlocked and rough plank shutters nailed over the windows. Never the familiar sound of a native voice was heard, nor the clatter of a horse’s hoof on the roads. The place had an indescribable air of loneliness and desertion. The men who were left behind were busy all day helping to build sand-bag barricades in front of the post-office, which was to be turned into a fort for our safety in case the town should be attacked later on if the fighting went against our men. All the Mashona boys had run away to their kraals, and there were no domestics or boys for public work, so the convicts, who were mostly Cape natives, were let out under a strong guard of white men and told off in gangs to do the work of digging earth to fill the sand-bags.
The Fort George women who had their homes and their children to mind were busier than ever, having no servants; but the wretched Salisbury women, of whom whether I liked it or not I was obliged to consider myself part and parcel, had nothing whatsoever to do from morning to night. Fortunately or unfortunately for us, Mrs Brand in giving Judy a seat in her cart had been obliged to leave her Cape maid Adriana behind, and she had given the woman instructions to divide her services amongst us. On this account we did not feel the loss of servants much, but perhaps it might have been better if we had had something to do, even housework, for a more wretched quartette of idle people it would have been hard to find anywhere. Three of us at least had a secret that we desperately desired to hide from the others, and the fourth—Mrs Skeffington-Smythe—was quite the most maliciously curious woman ever born.
Adriana, a big bustling creature well able to do the work of our small household, came and cooked in our kitchen and served the meals for all four of us in our little hut, and so there we were, everlastingly together, Mrs Valetta and I rarely speaking to each other, and Miss Cleeve and her friend always on the verge of a quarrel.
The latter two professed a great and eternal attachment to each other, but Mrs Valetta disposed of their friendship thus:
“Mrs Skeffy and Anna Cleeve make me tired. They simply stick together because they know so much about each other they daren’t quarrel, but a quarrel is bound to come one of these days and then their secrets will be flying about all over the place and we’ll have something to amuse us. Anna. Cleeve is far too clever a girl not to tire of Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, who is the silliest woman I have ever met. She thinks of nothing all day but polishing her nails and soaking her soul in Swinburne.”
It usually rained heavily all the mornings and cleared up in the afternoons, and the first time we went round to the tennis-court in desperation for something to do we found that every sign of the markings had been washed away. No one had the heart to paint them on again even if the brush and whitewash could have been discovered, so we left it as we found it with the wind sweeping leaves and pieces of stick and paper across it and turning it into the most desolate spot in the town. We went home again and sat sullenly round the tea-table—four idle, wretched women! And I believed myself to be the most wretched of all. I don’t know how I bore the passing of the days. My heart was “a thing of stone in a valley lone.” To the pain of the blow Judy had dealt me, which still benumbed my spirit, was added the strain of waiting for Anthony Kinsella’s return from Linkwater. My tongue did me the service of saying all the everyday necessary things, and I ate and took part in life like the rest of them, but I could not sleep and I could not think, and it seemed to me that life would never be the same again.
“I could never again be friends with the roses—
I should hate sweet music.”
I found myself listening to a conversation about Mrs Geach, which reminded me of nothing so much as an attack by three savage Indian squaws on some helpless victim fastened to the stake. It transpired that no one had seen her since the day before the departure of the Column, and though every one turned their eyes away from her in the street, or looked through her as if die were a spirit, here were three people very much annoyed because she now preferred to stay indoors and not be seen. The most charitable thing to be heard was a remark of Anna Cleeve’s:
“Poor wretch! Life can’t be very interesting for her now George Rookwood has gone.”
“What can she expect?” said Mrs Skeffington-Smythe with an air of the utmost virtue. “If a woman deliberately runs off the rails she must expect a smash-up.”
“The smash-up is not the worst part of it, I imagine,” remarked Mrs Valetta. “No doubt there is plenty of compensating excitement about that. It is in the cold grey years that come after that the full tale of misery is told. However, I don’t think she has reached that point yet.”
“No, wait; some day George Rookwood will meet a girl and fall in love.”
Mrs Skeffington-Smythe spoke in a pleasant gentle tone and her eyes took on the rapt look of one contemplating the tenderest kind of romance. Just about this time the doctor paid his daily visit, and one of his items of news concerned Mrs Rookwood. The men were charitable enough not to grudge her the name of the man for whom she had staked her all on the great chess-board of life.
“As no one had seen anything of her since the departure of Rookwood,” said Dr Abingdon, “and the house showed no sign of being occupied, Blow thought it his business to call there this morning, and when he couldn’t make any one hear he proceeded to break in, and—what do you think?”
Every one had put on a frozen face at the first mention of Mrs Rookwood, giving the doctor to understand that they considered it insufferable impertinence on his part to speak of such a person in their presence at all; but at his dramatic pause curiosity could not be restrained.
“Well? What?” said Miss Cleeve.
“Has she committed suicide?” cried Mrs Skeffington-Smythe.
Mrs Valetta had the decency to curl her lip at them.
“Not at all,” chuckled the doctor, delighted with his effect. “She’s simply not there. Everything was found in tip-top order, and a note on the table addressed to Blow telling him not to bother or make any search as she was perfectly all right but had made up her mind to go on a journey. What do you think of that?”
“But where can she be gone to?”
“That’s the question! No one saw her go, but it now turns out that her horse was not commandeered because Rookwood reported that it had a sore foot. Well, sore foot or no sore foot it’s gone, and she’s gone with it.”
“Well, she’s both clever and lucky to be out of this desolate hole,” commented Mrs Valetta.
And she was right. For us the days grew greyer, emptier, and more forlorn. Walks outside the town were forbidden by the Commandant, who was Colonel Blow grown unrecognisably cross and surly. There were no walks inside the town except from house to house, and as we had never been on calling terms with the Fort George women there were no houses for us to go to.
Mrs Skeffington-Smythe used to lie on the sofa most of the day, either polishing her already over-polished nails with a silver polisher or reading Swinburne’s Poems and Ballads, a copy of which she carried about with her eternally.
Anna Cleeve would sit by her embroidering on linen, or writing up her journal, which she kept faithfully, saying she would some day write a history of the war. It should have made interesting reading if her pen was half as biting as her tongue.
I wrote letters, and sometimes sketched—anything to appear to take in life the interest I had ceased to feel, and to get through the days until the patrol came back from Linkwater. Mrs Valetta sat always in Mrs-Pat-Campbellish attitudes, biting her lips and watching the world stand still, through half-closed eyes. When the others were not there I was sometimes obliged to listen to her acrid comments on them, and the world in general, and life grew a little greyer and drearier in the listening.
I learned that Anna Cleeve was staying on a visit with some rather well-off cousins in Salisbury. Her uncle was an official of the Company. She had come out to Africa, said Mrs Valetta, with the pure and simple purpose all women have from their cradles up. She purposed to marry—and to marry well—some one with money enough to take her back to the country she loved.
“A London girl! You know what that means. They never see any beauty away from Bond Street or outside of the Royal Academy. However, she is going to marry Herbert Stanfield, and he is well off enough to take her back. But she had better hurry up. She is twenty-five now, and looks thirty when things go wrong. I dare say you know she imagines herself in love with Anthony Kinsella.”
Her oddly-coloured eyes flashed like a searchlight over me; but though my heart came into my throat in a suffocating way, I had my mask on and I think she could read nothing.
“Do you think it quite fair to discuss other people’s private and rather sacred affairs, Mrs Valetta?”
“Oh, fair? Perhaps not, but it will always be done while there are men and women in the world, and if you think that anything can be kept private and sacred in this country, my dear girl, you are greatly deluded. Every one knows and has discussed the matter of Anna Cleeve’s infatuation for Anthony Kinsella. Some people will even supply you with the conversation that occurred when she taxed him with being already married.”
I felt the blood leaving my face. I dared not speak for fear of betraying to this cruel woman how much I was suffering.
“Of course friendships between men and women are everyday affairs in this country. We are nearly all married and bored and trying to find some interest in life. But the married women don’t care about the girls annexing their privileges. And then there are some men with whom friendship is forbidden; Anthony Kinsella is one of them. However, Anna Cleeve’s friendship with him came to a wise end, and she is now engaged to her rich man. But I haven’t the slightest doubt as to where her heart is.”
“How can you say such things?” I said, quivering with indignation. “What has it to do with you or me? You are probably doing Miss Cleeve a great injustice.”
She answered in her usual dry and weary manner:
“I may or I may not be. But I think it would be easier to fall in love with Tony Kinsella than out of it, don’t you?”
I advanced no opinion. I had learned to expect her thrusts and to receive them without testifying. Nevertheless they added to my pain which was already more than I could bear.
After four days the relief column returned from Linkwater.
A watcher stationed in the tower told of its approach one afternoon, and in less than ten minutes the whole community was out too, watching and waiting. I went with the rest; it was impossible to do otherwise without making myself conspicuous, but I tied a big veil round my face for fear my mask should fail me at the moment I saw Anthony. Mrs Valetta came too and Anna Cleeve, pale as a bone, the former with her teeth dug into her lip in a way that was painful to watch. Not that I watched her. One look was enough to tell me not to look again, and I was occupied with my own misery.
Anthony Kinsella riding carelessly with his right arm turned in on his hip was all I saw. A dark face with two blue points in it under a slouched felt hat: eyes that with one swift look dragged my glance to his over the heads of everybody, long before he rode in amongst us with his little band. In the midst of them was an untented cart drawn by oxen containing several women and children and a sick man. Every one crowded round the riders shaking hands, questioning, welcoming. The Commandant without delay had his arm round Anthony Kinsella’s shoulders and drew him into his office, closing the door. They were officials and had to attend to the business of the country. We were left to welcome the poor people in the cart—two sullen, sunburnt, colonial women, very Dutch and disagreeable, and a tribe of small brats. Huts had been prepared for them and the doctor had the sick man carried off to the hospital.
Gerry Deshon and the rest of them hailed us cheerfully and dismounting proceeded to recount their adventures, which it transpired had not been of a wildly exciting order. They had seen nothing of the enemy, and instead of being pleased thereat were full of weariness and wrath.
“Devil an impi!” they bitterly announced. “Not the scrag end of one. All we got for our pains was the pleasure of being chewed up by flies and skeeters, Dennison’s horse gone dead lame, and Stair with a sprained arm.”
“Yes, and those blessed Dutchmen didn’t want to be rescued. They kicked at being taken away from their farms. Kinsella had his work cut out making them quit. The women cursed and the brats howled. Oh, it was dreamful!”
“The most awful flat frosty business you ever saw!”
“Never mind,” said the American, who had been called away to join the conclave in the office and now reappeared. “Never mind, my dears. We’re away off to the woods to-night.”
“To-night!” Disgust and fatigue departed from the tea-coloured, begrimed visages.
“To-night?”
“Yea-bu, verily, verily, this very night. Kim has said it. If we get a big move on us we’ll be in time for the shine at Buluwayo yet. If we can’t catch up with the other column maybe we can cut across country and do a little stunt of our own. Kim knows this old map like the palm of his hand. Excuse me—I must go and look after the commissariat.”
“And I must go and get some sleep or else I’ll freck.”
“Me too.”
Every one began to disappear in a great hurry.
“Aren’t we going to get a word with Major Kinsella?” said Mrs Skeffington-Smythe to the postmaster, who stood sulking in the verandah. “I want to ask him to look after my husband and see that he is not too reckless.”
“He has a forty-foot pile of letters and telegrams to go through with the Commandant. He won’t get much sleep before they start tonight.”
Every one returned home, except Dr Marriott, who after listening to all that had been said went and leaned against the door of the office which enclosed Anthony and Colonel Blow. I would have liked to go and lean there with him.
It was the custom for Anna Cleeve and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe to spend the early part of the afternoon resting in their tent, rejoining us later for tea, and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe was for this plan now for the heat was intense and one longed for shade and rest, but Miss Cleeve turned on her irritably.
“Don’t talk to me about lying down, Nina, when every one else is standing up doing something. Let us go back to the hut. I suppose you’ll give us some tea, Nonie?”
“Yes. Thank God for Adriana!” said Mrs Valetta fervently. “We may as well make use of her while we have her. Perhaps she too will scoot off in the night soon.”
So we went back and sat down in the old sweet way—Mrs Skeffington-Smythe on the sofa, Anna on the stool by her side embroidering, and Mrs Valetta rocking herself in the rocking-chair. I with my everlasting sketch-book sketched a figure that sat carelessly on horseback with one hand turned in on the hip. But I kept my book out of the reach of other eyes.
Adriana laid tea. There was a tense feeling in the room and expectation hung in the air. Anna Cleeve and I avoided each other’s glance, and when Mrs Skeffington-Smythe began to whine about her Monty once more, her friend gave her a look that was like the flash of a knife in the air.
“Don’t begin that, Nina, for God’s sake—wait till you’re hurt.” Surprise dried Nina Skeffington-Smythe’s tears, and at the moment a man’s step was heard approaching. Anna Cleeve’s teeth dug into her lip again and I put my hand to my throat, for it seemed to have suddenly grown a great pulse there that was suffocating me. Mrs Valetta rushed to the door, and Dr Abingdon walked in bestowing a surprised leer upon her for this unusually ardent welcome. She would not or could not conceal her disappointment.
“Oh! it’s only you,” said she brutally, and even such a hardened old sinner was dashed for a moment. But I invited him to sit by me and have some tea, and he immediately regained his aplomb. Nonie Valetta turned her back on us and stood by the window staring out. I poured the tea, and flat expressionless small talk circulated for a moment or two, but the doctor had some news for us.
“From what Kinsella reports, Blow has given orders for the barricades to be finished to-night, and every one is to sleep in laager.”
“What! Leave our beds?” screamed Mrs Skeffington-Smythe rolling her striped eyes.
“No, take them with you,” said the doctor.
Mrs Valetta turned angrily on him.
“Ridiculous! I don’t believe there is the faintest chance of an attack.”
“It’s what they’re doing in Salisbury and Victoria. We’re very lucky if we don’t have to be shut up all day as well as all night. Pickets have been thrown out round the township, and at the first alarm every one is to sprint for laager. Upon such an occasion I shall be the first man in.”
He was interrupted by the footsteps of a new arrival—a boy called Curry this time—with an official document from which he read us the information that we had just received viva voce. We were instructed that the place was now under martial law, and that every one must explicitly obey the word of the Commandant or take the consequences. Furthermore, we were all to be in laager before sundown every evening. After reading his document very grandly Mr Curry invited himself to a cup of tea, which he swallowed hastily. He then departed in a bustling manner and the doctor followed in his wake. We were left to cogitate upon the charms of laager.
“Frightfully jolly!” said Anna Cleeve. “To be penned in every night with a lot of women and old men and screaming babies. I wish I had hung on to the back of Connie Brand’s cart.”
We had heard that morning of the latter’s safe arrival with Judy in Salisbury.
“It’ll be just as bad in Salisbury,” said Mrs Valetta gloomily. Mrs Skeffington-Smythe was rapidly making a calculation of the likely accommodation in the laager.
“There’s the court-house room, and the R.M.’s office, and the postmaster’s den behind the post-office—yes, and the Mining Commissioner’s room and that other little den behind the Magistrate’s office—the N.C.’s room. I suppose every one will crowd into the big court-room—thank Heaven I brought down my tent; we’ll have it pegged out in the yard, Anna, and lace ourselves in at night and be perfectly cool and comfy.”
“E’um!” agreed Anna, whose thoughts were obviously elsewhere.
“And if you secure the N.C.’s office, Mrs Valetta, we shall have a retiring-room as well for the evenings. I don’t see why we should have such a bad time after all.”
“It’s six o’clock now,” said Mrs Valetta. “I should think we had better begin to collect our things and make arrangements, shouldn’t you, Miss Saurin?”
I agreed, and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe stirred, but Anna Cleeve pushed her back into her place.
“Oh, not yet, not yet. What’s the use of rushing? There’s tons of time. Let’s talk things over.”
For a reason which we all very well knew, she was determined not to go.
“I expect some one else will be in directly with more instructions—we might just as well wait and see.” She suddenly turned to Mrs Valetta. “You and Miss Saurin get ready, Nonie—never mind us.”
Mrs Valetta made no move, but I presently rose and with an indifferent smile left them. What did it matter? If he did come I was only in the next room. I could hear his voice, at least, and perhaps it would be best so. Could I after all bear to meet him there, casually, under all those women’s eyes—Anna Cleeve’s searching glance, Nonie Valetta’s ice-cold stare?
Perhaps it would be best after all, I thought, only to hear his voice; an opportunity would come later to speak to him. Surely he would make one!
Even while I faltered, standing before the broken mirror and staring at my own pale reflection there, his hand was on the door, and he came in amongst them with a gay greeting for every one. Afterwards it seemed to my aching ears there was a moment of expectation, an almost imperceptible pause—as though he had glanced round the room looking for some one else. His words seemed to verify my thought.
“I thought I should find every one here,” he said, and my heart leapt. Was there a curious inflection on the word everyone, or did I only imagine it? I could hear him stirring the tea they had given him, and the jingle of his spoon in the saucer afterwards, and the showers of questions and exclamations that fell upon him as he stood drinking. Very clearly I heard Mrs Valetta’s question, though it was in a soft and entreating voice I had never heard her use before:
“Why are you going, Kim? Surely it is your duty to stay here and mind us.”
“Yes, do stay,” implored Mrs Skeffington-Smythe. “It will make such a difference. How safe we’ll all feel!”
Anna Cleeve said nothing, but I could feel her looking. He laughed at their fears and fancies, waved off their compliments, and made light of everything.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, only do as Blow tells you. I don’t for a moment suppose there’s to be any fighting here or I wouldn’t go; there won’t be any fighting anywhere; the brutes are sure to run as soon as we come up with them; we shall be back in a week or two—you’ll see. I must go now. This is ‘Hail and Farewell!’ for the time being. We leave in about an hour’s time and I’ve a power of work to do yet.”
Still he did not go. Still I stood staring into the mirror.
“Oh, of course we shall come out and see you off,” they said.
There was a little pause. He appeared to be on the point of leaving; a chain jingled and the creak of some leather strap he wore about him could be plainly heard. He struck his riding-boot with something he held in his hand. I stood rooted to the ground, staring—staring—at the pale passionate waiting face in the glass before me. What was I waiting for so passionately?
“Where is Miss Saurin?” he said.
At this a wave of pure happiness seemed to sweep over me and recede again, leaving me as weak and faint as if a real great wave of the sea had dashed itself against me. I leaned upon the dressing-table, trembling and helpless to move, and dimly in my throbbing head I heard the answers carelessly given that I was about somewhere, getting my things ready to go into laager—busy doing something or other.
A moment later he was gone, with I know not what thought in his heart. Those women had the wisdom not to come and look for me afterwards. I think my eyes would have struck them dead as they entered the room.
In a little while I had recovered myself and went calmly on with my preparations. Judy’s rouge box, forgotten, stood open on the table. I had never used paint in my life, but at the sight of my white face in the mirror I dipped my finger into the red powder and made two little smears on my face before I re-entered the sitting room. Nonie Valetta was at the window again; the other two had gone.
At seven o’clock ten horses were standing saddled and bridled in the square, and speculation was rife as to who the tenth was for. Maurice Stair had been put out of business by his sprained arm, so it had been decided that he could not go to the front, evidently some one had been chosen in his place. Wrath and envy mingled with curiosity was written upon the face of every stay-behind.
Was it possible that Clinton (the man most unwillingly left in charge of our guns) was breaking away after all? they fiercely asked. Had Stair’s arm miraculously recovered? Was Bleksley an open rebel? Had the doctor suddenly become inspired with a lust for war?—but that was too far-fetched a supposition even for Mashonaland!
The horse was gravely examined: an ancient beast with gnarled hocks, no tail, and a dappling of tiny dark blue pits on his grey hide, as though he had suffered with small-pox in some long-past year. But there was spirit in his eye, and some one murmured over him the mystic word “salted.”
“He won’t die of dik-kop this journey!” was prophetically announced.
The men were “riding light”; all that was on the horses was a blanket, a mackintosh sheet, and a wallet with food enough for two or three days.
It was popularly stated that this little crowd had an excellent chance of meeting a Matabele impi, and being cut off before they had gone twenty miles. However, they came out of Swears’s, where most of them had been snatching a last hasty meal, laughing like schoolboys, and all the stay-behinds hung and clamoured after them, eyeing the horses wistfully, giving grandiloquent advice about everything, and complaining bitterly of their lot.
To every one’s amazement it was seen that the tenth man was no other than Dr Marriott. Suddenly appearing he shambled on to the grey horse, mounted awkwardly and sat there, a moody drooping figure, looking as though he belonged to some other world than that of the gay jesting crowd around him; possibly he did; probably he was lost in strange dreams of the strange lands of which De Quincey has told us.
Swift enquiries were as swiftly answered, and the whispered news flew round that, obsessed by his desire to go to the front, he had pleaded with Anthony Kinsella and not pleaded in vain. Anthony, against all advice, had consented to take him in the place of Stair. There was no lack of criticism on the mistaken weakness of Kim.
“The fellow’s a waster—”
“He will only be a drag—he’s a good-for-nothing!”
“He’s dopey now—lost in pipe dreams.”
“And he rides fourteen stone—his horse will freck by the way.”
“No, that’s a mistake—he only rides eight and a half—he’s all leather and bones since he took to the juice of the poppy.”
I looked round for Mrs Marriott, fearing she might overhear some of these frank comments, low-spoken as they were, but she was nowhere to be seen and at that moment Anthony Kinsella came on to the court-house verandah with Colonel Blow and another man. He was smiling at some remark of the latter, but as he ran down the steps the smile fell from him and his face took on the hard, dark, hawk-like look habitual to it. He strode in amongst the horses and seized his own. Laughter and good-byes still hung on the air, but he bade good-bye to no one; abruptly in that rough voice with a crake in it that thrilled and filled me with longing to be a man too, to spring upon a horse, and ride with him into the night, he terminated their laughter and farewells.
“Cut this short, you fellows!”
A moment later every one was in the saddle ready to start. He was the only one left standing. He stood there amongst them, suddenly still as though he had forgotten something and was trying to remember what it was; and he was staring, staring, over heads, past faces, through the scarlet rays of the sinking sun, straight into my eyes; and I was staring back into his.
We took a long, long look at one another, and I think he read all that was in my heart for him; while what I saw told me that if all the world said otherwise I was to know that Anthony Kinsella was a true man and no knave. Those straight steady eyes were never the windows of a false soul. I had given myself to no traitor and liar, but to a brave and upright man, gentle and strong and fine.
And he was going from me: only God and the old blind hag Fate knew if I should ever see him again. Mayhap this was our farewell, this passing of hearts through the eyes; and it was not enough. Body and spirit cried out for more—a touching of hands at least. His eyes called me, dragged me; it was as though he thrust his hand into my breast and laid hold of my bare heart drawing it out towards himself, and with it me. For I felt my feet moving—moving, and swiftly and straight I walked to him, into his open arms, and he kissed me on the lips, there before every one.
“God keep you, my heart! Wait for me—and believe in me,” he said, and though his voice was low the words rang out clear and strong on the still air, for all to hear who listed. In that moment misery and distrust was wiped from my heart and from my life, as though it had never been.
An instant later all was over, he was riding ahead of his little band, away into the sunset: and the men and the children were cheering, hands were waving, hats and handkerchiefs fluttering. Cheer upon cheer rang through the air, and voices came ringing back, until they grew fainter and fainter, and at last only the far-off thud of the horses’ feet was heard.
Later I became aware that I was standing alone. The women I had come with had disappeared, and the few men left were looking at me curiously. None of them were men I knew. Suddenly I heard a woman laugh in a strange fashion. It was one of the sullen Dutch women Anthony had brought back from Linkwater. She stood amongst her Dutch friends and made a remark, speaking coarsely and pronouncing her words in a strangely raucous way:
“Yah vot!... he’s very faskinating, darie Kinsella... Too bad he’s married already!”
Again she laughed that coarse, rankling laugh, and this time one or two of her men friends joined her. I stood perfectly still as though I had heard nothing, as though I had been turned to stone. I was realising with a terrible coldness at my heart that the look of truth and honour I had read in Anthony Kinsella’s eyes had not been so plain to others. A message had come to me from his very soul; but it was to me only. I knew that all was well between us, that the way was open and fair before us, that I could believe and trust him to the death. But these others did not. They thought I had been kissed by some other woman’s husband!
Well! It had to be so. They only thought—I knew. And I could afford to wait and prove my faith. He would be back soon. At that thought colour came back into my cheeks and blood to my heart. I lifted my head proudly and walked from them all.
One of the Dutchmen made a remark in a loud, astonished voice:
“Maar! ek ser for yoh! these Engelsch women have a damned cheek.”
Before the next hour was out I was face to face with the fact that all the women I knew in the place meant to cut me. Mrs Valetta did not leave me long in doubt as to her intentions. On my return to the house, to collect my things for the night in laager, she came to the door with a tempestuous face and over her head the eyes of Annabel Cleeve, with the gleam of a knife in them, met mine.
“As your most unwilling chaperon,” Mrs Valetta burst out, “I have some right to ask you, Miss Saurin, for an explanation of your scandalous behaviour.”
Tempest began to rage in me also, but I answered her civilly.
“I do not for a moment admit that I have behaved scandalously, Mrs Valetta, but as you say that you have a right to an explanation will you kindly tell me what it is you want explained?”
“Explained!” she cried violently. “You can never explain away your infamous conduct of the last half-hour—not if you live to be a hundred. Kissing a married man in that open and shameless manner! Your reputation is gone for ever.”
“You think it would have been more pardonable if I had done it secretly?” I was driven to saying. She glared at me with the utmost fury.
“You can’t jest it away, so don’t mislead yourself. You are done for forever in Mashonaland.”
“I’m frightfully sorry for your poor sister-in-law,” Mrs Skeffington-Smythe chimed in pleasantly from her seat on the sofa. “She is so peculiarly sensitive about scandal.”
Annabel Cleeve now contributed her little damnatory verse to the commination service.
“It must be admitted that we live in a free and easy fashion up here: but neither the manners or morals of the Quartier Latin are ever likely to become popular.”
I surveyed them with such calmness as I could for the moment command, this three-cornered attack being quite unexpected.
“You are all exceedingly kind and charitable,” I said, “and your solicitude for my reputation is quite touching—”
“Don’t talk of what you have not,” broke in Mrs Valetta vindictively. “If you ever had a reputation it is gone. You can’t kiss Tony Kinsella with impunity.”
“I never do anything with impunity,” I said with burning cheeks but making a great effort to control my anger. “I kissed Anthony Kinsella as any girl may kiss the man she is going to many.”
Anna Cleeve gasped as though she had received a blow, then she laughed and Mrs Valetta joined her, but their laughter made a jarring and unlovely jangle.
“A man may not have two wives—even in the Quartier Latin, I believe,” sneered Miss Cleeve with her mouth awry, and Mrs Valetta broke in harshly:
“It is ridiculous to pretend to be unenlightened on that point. I warned you that he was married and I shall let every one know that you were not in ignorance of the fact.”
“I do not believe what you told me. It is not true,” I said, my anger breaking out at last. “And I refuse to discuss the matter further. There is not a grain of generosity amongst the three of you. You prefer to believe the worst; do so.” As I turned to leave the room and the house I stopped for an instant and faced them. My passionate words seemed to have stricken them dumb. “But do not believe that I do not know what my real crime is.”
Nonie Valetta sat down suddenly on a chair and passed her handkerchief across her dry mouth. She looked like a haunted thing, and I was sorry for her. But Anna Cleeve faced me with sneering lips. Malice and some other bitter passion stared from her eyes, and she half whispered, half hissed, a word at me across the darkening room.
“What?”
“That Anthony Kinsella loves me.” The words had formed on my lips and I was ready to fling them at her: but I did not. I left the words unsaid and anger died down within me, for I could recognise despair when I saw it. It was not hard for me to imagine the torment of a woman who loved Anthony Kinsella and was passed by. I could afford to be generous: generosity was demanded of me.
“Let it all pass,” I said gently, and turning from them opened the door and went out of the house.