Chapter Seventeen.
What a Jeweller Made.
“The truth is rarely pure, and never simple.”
So Maurice Alexander Stair and I were married.
After the ceremony we drove back to Kentucky Hills, and shared with a few friends the pretty breakfast Judy had arranged for us.
Later they all rode away, and Maurice with them, leaving me to pack for our exeunt that afternoon to a little place called Water-lily Farm. It was the home of a fellow N.C. of Maurice’s; he had just prepared it for his wife who was coming out from home, but with the ready good-fellowship so common in Africa had offered it to Maurice for our honeymoon; and we, both anxious that the world should guess nothing of our strange bargain, had accepted it to stay in and spend the first few days of our married life.
Maurice was delayed in Salisbury, and it was late afternoon before he fetched me at last from my brother’s house.
The pale May sunshine was almost as cheerless as that of an early spring day in England, for the winter was coming on rapidly, and winter in Africa can be very bleak indeed. I was glad to wrap myself in a warm coat and lean back in the shelter of the little tented cart we were to make the journey in. It was only large enough for two, and Maurice, obliged to manage the restive horses, had little time to talk, for which I was curiously thankful. Passing through Salisbury he discovered that he had left his watch at his rooms and asked if I would mind his calling there for it. I made no demur of course, only, knowing that he lived in a row of bachelor chambers almost next door to the Club, I stipulated that he should pull up a few hundred yards away. I had driven and ridden past the Club before, and knew something of the insouciant curiosity of its members, and their happy habit of filling the verandah of sound of a horse or wheels.
“They’re rather fresh,” hesitated Maurice as I took the reins.
“Oh, Maurice! Do you think I can’t manage two old Mashonaland nags?” I smiled.—So he left me, and as I watched him go, tall, nonchalant, and graceful, taking long strides over the knolly ground, I asked myself if it could really be true that I was married, and that—my husband!
Frogs were beginning to croak in the swampy marsh between the Kopje and the Causeway. I could hear far-off voices, and see the smoke of others’ homes against the evening sky. But a terrible soul-sickness crept over me: the sickness of a soul that has lost its mate. At that moment I seemed quite alone in the world. Some words of Gordon’s that a dying man in Fort George had been fond of muttering flitted through my mind:
“Oh whisper, buried Love, is there rest and peace about!
There is little help or comfort here below!
On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed
is straight and cold—”
Voices and the sound of horses coming along the road broke my dreary reverie. A man’s rather sardonic laugh reached me, and a voice I seemed to know, yet could not recall the owner of. The riders were still a long distance off but sounds travel far on the clear high air of Rhodesia, and I presently heard some words as distinctly and plainly as if they were spoken beside me in the cart.
“He is not a fellow I have ever cared about—I found out long ago that he is not straight. Another thing, he’s too fond of his little quiet tot by himself.—I like a man that drinks with his fellows—not one of your soakers in his bedroom.”
“Well! I’ll tell you what I don’t like about him, Bell, he hasn’t the pluck of a louse—there was a little incident here in Salisbury just after he came up—then again, at Fort George, he played sick with a sprained arm rather than go into Matabeleland with the others. Sprained arm! Sprained grandmother—and I told him so! He slunk out of my office like a dog!”
“It makes me sick to think of him marrying that fine girl.”
How careless people are about what they say of others: I mused. Small wonder one’s secrets are not one’s own in a land where a reputation can be damned on the highroad for all the world to hear!
I had heard a man’s honour—all that was worth keeping in this sad old world—dispensed with, in a few cynical but strangely convincing words. How cruel life was! How tragic! I shivered and wished Maurice would come.
I could see the backs of the two men now as they rode blithely upon their way, having saddened me with the sordid tale of a man’s secret sins that were no secret! the story of some poor fellow’s stumbling journey down hill instead of up! Men were very pitiless in their judgments I thought. Perhaps the other man was not so despicable after all. But secret drinking, cowardice! Those were terrible sins—none more revolting to a woman’s mind—and not straight; the hardest thing one man can say of another! Surely there had been no such man in Port George!—I had never heard of one, and I had heard most things in that tragic little town.—I could think of no one whom such condemnation, fitted. Monty Skeffington-Smythe perhaps?—but no; his faults were open and above-board for all the world to see—nothing hidden there, not even his preference for laager in time of war! Anyway it was no business of mine—I ought to have been ashamed to be speculating about it even, and I was. But why did Maurice stay so long? What could be keeping him?
Some one who played sick rather than go into Matabeleland—But they were all so keen.—all except baggy old Dr Abingdon. Ah! now I knew whose voice that was—Dr Abingdon’s of course—the blasé old doctor with his goat-like leer, and his pretentions that fear kept him from Matabeleland, when as we had found out afterwards he had absolutely begged to go, and been refused on account of his gout—the dear old doctor! His value had been only too well proved in the hospital work he had done later—in the big fights he had put up for men’s lives, and won out, when every one else despaired... I had heard of his recent arrival in Salisbury, and was hoping to see him before I left.
With the knowledge that it was he who had been speaking, my curiosity was once more aroused by the words I had heard. Against my will my mind persistently went back again to the subject. Who of all his patients in Port George had a sprained arm. Ah!—suddenly I remembered!
Afterwards, all the words I had heard floating so idly on the clear air came back one by one, like little birds of ill-omen, to roost in my memory and sing in my ears. It seemed that my brain had taken down everything in shorthand—there was nothing in that brief conversation that I had forgotten!
When Maurice climbed in beside me and took the reins from my hands he exclaimed at their coldness.
“Good Lord! you’re frozen,” he said. “Why, it isn’t cold!”
As he turned towards me I caught from his lips that faint sickly odour of spirits I had long ago learnt to associate with African scenery.
“I am not cold,” I said in a voice that in spite of my striving must have given some sign of the inquietude of my soul, for he gave me a curious glance as the horses lunged forward.
“Oh! cheer up, my dear girl, for God’s sake! This is not a funeral.”
I was so utterly taken aback at this remark, unlike in tone and words anything I had heard from him before, that for an instant I almost forgot the terror that in the last few moments had crept like a little cold slimy snake about my heart. Suddenly I burst into a convulsive laugh, so strange in sound that it should surely have betrayed me. But no, he did not perceive the genre of my laughter. He was satisfied that I laughed.
“That’s right!” he approved, whipping up the horses. “And as soon as we get round the Kopje I’ll give you a little whiskey to warm you up. I never drink anything myself, but its a good thing to keep the cold out, and I’ve brought a bottle with me in case of accidents.”
I laughed again then, a merry ringing laugh, extraordinarily like Mrs Rockwood’s in the old Fort George days. He lashed at the horses and we tore through the town in clouds of dust. When he made to pull up, almost opposite the cemetery, I clutched spasmodically at his arm.
“Don’t stop, Maurice. I don’t want whiskey,” I stammered. “I—I cannot even bear the thought of spirits. Please, please drive on.”
“Oh, very well!” he said in an impatient voice. “All right, if you don’t care about it. As I said before, I never drink myself but it is a good thing to keep out the cold.”
He turned and observed me with something like suspicion in his manner, and again the faint sickly odour crept past me.
We were travelling now at a slackened speed. There was time and opportunity for conversation, and driven by the cold little snake that wound itself tighter and tighter round my heart, I hastened to make it.
“What detained you, Maurice? You were away a long time!”
“Some brute had been ransacking my room. I found the place in absolute confusion. As far as I could see at a glance not a thing had been stolen, but everything was all over the place—papers, letters, clothes! I picked up the important things and stuffed them in my pockets, no time to put anything away; besides, all the padlocks had been burst off everything. I think I can guess who it was—a nigger I discharged last week, and to punish him took away from him a charm that some witch doctor had given him. That’s what he was after, no doubt, but he didn’t get it, the brute, for I have it on me, that’s some satisfaction. Good God! what a mess the place was in!”
“Why did you take his charm, Maurice?” I asked, not from curiosity but from a wild desire to keep talking.
“Oh, never mind about that! There is one thing I must ask you, Deirdre—never interfere with me and my boys.”
For the second time that night I flushed hotly at the tone he used, resenting its unpardonable rudeness. It was on my tongue to answer him proudly that he would not need to make the request twice; but remembering all the plans and resolutions I had taken to the altar a few hours before, I bit the words back before they could escape, and found courage to say instead, with as much gentleness as I could conjure:
“Of course not. You know that my wish is to help, not hinder you, or interfere in any way.”
“That’s all right then,” said he in a tone so extremely domineering and self-satisfied, that my spirits drooped even a little lower than before. But I picked them up again, I forced myself to be gay and sociable, I laughed (like Saba Rookwood), and talked of anything and everything that could have any possible interest for him, even while the knowledge began to push itself into my mind that there were strangely few subjects of common interest between us; and the wonder began to make itself felt that I had never before noticed how little he had to say on any subject. He had always been so quiet, so chivalrously, gently silent, that I had perhaps given him credit for depth and feeling that were not there. No, no, I struggled against that thought, and jested on, occupying my tongue with incessant remarks.
At last the lights of our temporary home beaconed across the veldt and the interminable drive came to an end.
Water-lily Farm consisted of three thatched rooms, and a few straggling huts dumped on the wide and rolling plain with horizon all round. As we drove up in the chilly gloom we saw that the beaconing lights came from lamps with green glass shades that gleamed like anaemic stars from the windows of the bungalow. A dog barked fretfully in the verandah, and a boy came running out with some information in the native language.
“He says there’s a letter from Bingham on the table,” remarked Maurice. “Wait a moment, I’ll go and see.” He sprang from the cart, catching his coat on some projection and sending a shower of papers and things flying from his over-crammed pockets. I collected them as best I could in the darkness, while he went within, and found the letter. He presently came out again calling to me:
“That’s all right. It’s only to say he is sorry he had to go off on duty and couldn’t wait to welcome us; but our boxes of provisions have arrived and everything is O.K. Go inside, dear, while I see about the horses with the boy. If anything happens to them I shall have to pay.”
He helped me down, and I went into the homely little living-room lighted by the pale-green lamps. The supper-table was carefully laid out with an attempt at grace that was more touching than successful. As I looked at the clumsy little bunches of wild flowers arranged in tumblers, I felt that Bingham was a pleasant fellow. There was an honest, serene air about the simple room with its canvas deck-chairs, cane lounge, white-wood book shelves and framed photographs of English people on the walls. The woman who was coming from England to her man here should be very happy, I thought.
A light from the door of an adjoining room drew me thither, but before I reached it I passed some boxes piled against the wall—open packing cases full of provisions: canned beef, biscuits, bottles of preserved fruits, loose potatoes, a case of champagne. There was another case also, nailed up and branded with the name of John Dewar and Sons. I had lived long enough in Rhodesia to know that these were not the names of gentlemen-philanthropists who lived in the Imperial Institute and provided packing-case seats in the open air for the public. I now recognised a case of whiskey when I saw one. I fled from the room and from my thoughts.
The next room had nothing in it but a wholesome smell of pipe-tobacco, a rough desk with many papers piled on it, some racks of shelves, and a chair: obviously Mr Bingham’s office.
More simplicity in the bedroom: white mats, a white dressing-table of unpainted wood, a sheet of mirror in a white frame, a large white double bed. I gazed at that large white bed, fascinated, while the knowledge crept slowly over me that there was no other bed in the house. At last I turned away, and then I saw that in the mirror there was a woman who matched all the other white things in the room—a deathly white woman with a gay-tragic face, standing very still, her clutching hands full of papers. I stared at the papers for a moment wondering what they were, then remembered picking them up in the cart. I was holding a little green leather case too, that I had gathered up with them—something Maurice had dropped. I recalled having heard the little dull thud of it as it fell. It was a jewel-case, a small, new-looking, green leather box, and when I saw that it was half open I wondered if anything had been lost out of it. My mind turned to that question as though it was of importance far greater than the one that was blanching my cheeks and chilling my blood. It was imperative that I should fasten my mind on something outside itself, and I fastened it with avidity on the little green jewel-case half open in my hand.
“Perhaps something is lost out of it,” I repeated mechanically; something of Maurice’s—something of my husband’s!
I opened it entirely, looked in, and found that it contained one blue turquoise ear-ring.
It was a very new little box, with the name of the same Durban jeweller to whom I had sold my rings, printed in bright gold letters on the white satin lid. (Of course! I remembered it was Maurice who had given me the man’s address.)
The one ear-ring was stuck into a dent in the white velvet cushion; by its side was another little dent—empty.
“The other ear-ring must have been lost,” I said to the woman in the glass. She made no reply.
“The other—must have been lost!” I repeated, but I did not hear my voice, and though I saw that the lips of the woman in the glass were moving, no sound came from them.
Then I noticed an odd thing. The woman in the glass was tearing open the front of her gown: tearing it open with shaking frantic hands to get at something that she wore against her heart in a little silken bag.
I did not see her again for a long while. When I looked up at last she was still standing there: only the white lips in the gay-tragic face were smiling, a brooding subtle smile, that had in it a strange mingling of triumph, despair, hatred—and some other desperate element that might have been hope or madness; and the little leather jewel-box in her hands contained two ear-rings. The lost one had been found.
Steps in the verandah dragged me away from the glass and the fascinating things I saw there. I crossed the room swiftly, and closing the door locked it; there was also a wooden button to turn, and a large bolt which slid into its socket soundlessly.
I returned to the dressing-table and my contemplation of the contents of the pretty new box from Durban. I examined them as carefully as if I were a jeweller; as if I had never seen a turquoise ear-ring before and might never see one again. The gold setting of one was tarnished with mud; tiny particles of dirt were still clinging to it; but the stone was undimmed blue, and resembled in every particular its radiant mate which had plainly never left a white velvet bed to make acquaintance with mud. They were screw earrings, meant to pass through a hole in the ear and screw behind the lobe with a little gold washer like a miniature bicycle-nut. Both nuts were in place and the hold wire thread on which they were screwed was quite unworn. When I had removed all traces of mud and stain from the one and polished it with a handkerchief, they were both as flawless and new as when they left the jeweller’s; you could not tell one from the other.
The only interruptions I suffered in my engrossing occupation were the sounds of tins and bottles being opened and occasional shouts to me to hurry up and come to supper. To these I paid no attention until they were accompanied by thumpings on the door.
“What have you locked yourself in for? Do hurry up, for God’s sake! I’m as hungry as the devil. Deirdre! what on earth are you doing?”
I was considering with her the fate of the woman in the glass.
“Are we or are we not going to eat anything to-night?”
“You may eat without me,” I called out in a clear voice. “I do not need any food.”
“The devil you don’t!” There was a pause.
“But—What on earth is the matter with you, my dear girl. Of course you must eat—what’s the matter? Are you angry about anything?—Damn it! what kind of behaviour is this? Open the door.”
“I do not intend to open the door, Maurice, until—I have come to a decision. You had better go away and not waste your breath speaking to me.”
He wasted a good deal more breath, however, before he went away. The next sound was the pop of a champagne cork hitting the ceiling, and the little water-fall rush of wine into a glass. Afterwards the boy was roughly and loudly told to “Hambeela and get out.” Later a knife and fork clattered on plates, and there were more pops and water-fall rushes. At length a silence. The scent of a cigarette crept into the room.
“What now?” I wondered dully. Having finished considering the problem of the future with my reflection, I went and sat on the large white bed which no longer had any terrors for me. I heard the front door being locked, then steps across the room to my door once more.
“Is this a game, Deirdre?”
I did not answer.
“If you do not unlock the door I will break it in!” he said in the same loud bullying voice he had used to the boy, but which did not alarm me at all. I knew now that it was a coward’s voice—a coward’s and a liar’s: my husband’s!
I looked at the stout, unpainted deal door and then at some kaffir curios fastened to the wall on either side of it in rather picturesque groups. There was quite a collection of strangely shaped knives and assegais.
“Do you hear? I shall break in the door.”
“You may do what you wish. But if you come in here I will kill you.”
My voice was very low and quiet, but the hatred in it carried through the door like a dagger aimed at his heart, and he drew away as if it had reached him. A moment later he laughed—a coward’s laugh—uncertain at the beginning, then, taking courage from its own loud sound, blustering at the end. Afterwards he sought in more champagne courage to fulfil his threat: but he found what was better for him at that time—oblivion.
As for me, I lay on the great white bed with crushed face and clenched hands, and asked God for death. At first I was a woman in agony, a tortured and tricked woman whose sorrows were too many for her, whose right was death as the only solution of the sordid problem. But afterwards I was only a weeping child, sobbing over the wreckage of my life, and crying out in the words of my childhood’s prayers:
“Oh, gentle Jesus!... Oh, Mary!... have pity on me!”