Chapter Twenty Two.
What the Hills Hid.
“Life is not a speculation. It is a sacrament. Its ideal is love. Its purification is sacrifice.”
“Death is a great price to pay for a red rose. But love is better than life.”
Brown cotton stockings from Salzar’s General Stores fell into holes before one had worn them twice: yet they cost four and sixpence a pair! Almost as much as spun silk ones at home, I reflected, as I sat mending mine under the thorn tree. But was it possible that I had ever worn silk ones? Could it be true that I had once worn diamonds on my garters, and done many other absurd things! Had I really ever been Deirdre Saurin, the petted and pampered and bejewelled heiress who had announced to her mother, showering laughter:
“Life shall never make a tragedy of me!”
I smiled a little idle smile, that at least was free of regret, for the petted and bejewelled part of the story; but I could find it in my heart to sigh for the girl who came to Fort George and was scratched by all the cats, and scratched them cheerfully back. I should like to have been that girl again, for half an hour, just to see how it felt to be care-free and insouciant, with the whole beautiful world made expressly for one!
“Give me again all that was there,
Give me the sun that shone—”
Ah, that hurt! Better leave that—think of something else quickly. How far off those days were! And the people in them all passed away or passed on! Judy in Australia, happy with her cad. Mrs Rookwood settled in Johannesburg—George had got rich in the mining world and was now a king of finance, and she a leader of society. Elizabeth Marriott was still in England with her boy; gold had been discovered on her property in Matabeleland, and a brother had come out to look after it for her until the boy was old enough to come into his own. Other Fort Georgites were scattered far and wide. I heard sometimes from Colonel Blow, in Buluwayo, and Gerry Deshon at Umtali; but people in Africa are always too busy with the interesting people round them to have much time for remembering those who have passed on elsewhere. Annabel Cleeve’s husband had died in England a few months after their marriage, and left her a rich widow. Mrs Valetta was still living in Mgatweli.
I had never been to call on her, for I made few calls except the official ones required of me. Even if I had not heard that she was too ill to receive visitors, I could not suppose her anxious to renew so painful an acquaintance as ours had been. She had never been well since the Fort George days, they said. Fever! Malarial fever covers a multitude of ills in Rhodesia. Would she get better when—Ah! that hurt—think of something else quick!