In the bleak grey dawn I unlocked the door and sought my husband.
He was sleeping, sprawled in a canvas chair beside the table frowsy now, and littered with empty tins, spilt wine, and overturned flowers. His mouth hung open, and I saw that it was weak and loose; that his dark skin was yellowed, not tanned; that his eyes were set with a sinister closeness to his handsome thin nose; that under them lay the mean lines of secret sins; that his hands were not the staunch, square hands of a man that could work for a woman and take hold of her heart and keep it for himself against all comers; they were long and cruel and womanish, and looked as though they knew only how to tear and wring and destroy.
While he snored I drank to the dregs the bitterness of my cup. I was bound to this drunkard and liar for all my days. And Anthony Kinsella was alive. I knew, that he was alive. If all the angels in Heaven had come down to tell me now that he was not living I would not have listened. I knew that he was living and breathing somewhere in this land that he loved. I had always known it. But I had let this man blunt my instinct and blur my soul’s vision with his base lies; and he had profited by the blindness of suffering to trick me with a lie and an ear-ring dipped in mud to convince me of my lover’s death! It seemed to me a shameful thing that I should have been so easily convinced. Now that my faith had come back in a great sweeping tide I convicted myself of base treason in the haste I had made to believe the false tale. But faith, reproaches, discovery—all came too late, for me. Anthony was living—somewhere; but not for me. Here was the mate I had given myself, snoring before me in drunken slumber! Lest I should strike him on his open lying mouth, I fled from the room.
In the verandah the austere, sweet air of dawn greeted my burning temples and lulled the fever of my burning cheeks and hands. The stars were paling to whiteness and falling away into lemon-tinted distance. Shadowy hands tipped with faintest rose reached down from the skies, gathering the mists of night back into the bosom of the clouds; and the land, like some subtly tinted Japanese map on which was traced streams, grasses, and flying birds, swiftly unrolled itself to the eye, yard by yard, mile by mile. A line of mauve-tinted hills appeared suddenly on the horizon, as though sketched in by some rapid, skilful hand.
A strange thing about the veldt is that if you stare long at it when you are happy your eyes will fill with tears, and an indefinable sorrow surges in your veins. But go to it when you are wretched, and its beauty will lay shadowy hands on you and bless you and enfold you, and something will wing its way into your heart like a white heron of peace, and nestling there give you comfort and courage.
As I re-entered the room the man in the chair opened his eyes and regarded me stupidly. We looked at each other in silence for a while. I was surprised to see that the eyes I had always thought to be a deep and rather beautiful brown were really as yellow as an eagle’s: the effect of darkness was given by a number of brown spots scattered closely on the iris. When the eyes were opened the little mean lines disappeared, and a curious deferential expression took their place. His colouring was dusky, almost mournful, but he had beautiful teeth that lit up his face when he smiled, and the effect was that fleeting suggestion of chivalrousness that had impressed me so deeply and was so false. He was smiling now, but the chivalrous engagement was absent. His gaze had quickly changed from stupidity to one of sneering anger.
“So you have deigned to come forth at last! Would it be troubling you too much to ask for an explanation of your charming behaviour?”
With an affectation of carelessness which his furtive glance and shaking hand denied, he took out a cigarette and lit it.
Without speaking I laid upon the table the little green jewel-case, open—with the blue stones smiling on their satin cushion.
For a few seconds there was silence, and as I watched him with disdain and hatred I could not control, I saw that he was not taken unawares. He knew what I had found, and had his tale ready. Incredible as it may seem, he was ready to burden his soul with fresh lies. I had yet to find that this was ever his way. He never confessed a fault, but lied to cover it, and if the lies were not long enough or broad enough he lied again; and if you still did not believe he lied on and on—useless, futile lies.