After long, painful thought I fell to trying to form some decision, some wretched plan by which to spare myself more wretchedness. First, I knew that I must see Anthony Kinsella at once. I must find out how deep the wound was he had dealt me before I could burn it out. I must meet him calmly, and calmly demand the truth from him. If these things I had heard were false then he must instantly proclaim the truth to every one, for I would not bear for myself or for him the sneers and suspicions of the world.
If they were true, these things—true that he was married, true that he had been the lover of married women, that he had mocked me with false words—if it were true—ah! God, if it were true! I searched my heart for scorn and contempt to pour upon Anthony Kinsella from my eyes and at least from the expression of my lips, if it were true—and I could find none! I could not find scorn and hatred anywhere in me for the man to whom I had given my heart and soul a few hours before. I could not remember anything that I had ever seen him do or heard him say that merited my scorn. I had nothing against him but women’s scandalous tales. And surely, I thought, a man who was bad to the core as they said he was must have betrayed himself to me by some look or deed. But never, never! I could remember nothing but kind words, wise words, just words, quiet, deliberate, courageous actions (even his punishment of the driver I knew to be just), fearless smiles, straight, intent glances. And then, his burning, passionate words on my lips. Surely no lover’s words were ever more knightly than his. Swearing with our love to cleanse his heart of old sins—vowing by old creeds and lost dreams!
Remembering these things, living them over and over again, I knew at last that I could never scorn Anthony Kinsella. It was not only that I loved as a lover. There was a look in his eyes that pulled at the mother-spirit in me and made my spirit croon a song over him and forgive him for the sake of his boyhood all the sins he had ever committed. There was a look about his mouth that made my spirit kneel to him. There was a note in his voice that when I remembered it saying “Deirdre, I love you!” drove spirit out altogether and left me only a flaming, glowing woman in the arms of the man I loved. I could never scorn him. But I could still doubt, and doubting, scorn myself. That was a new form of torture that assailed me; scorning myself for his easy triumph over my heart and lips. Then I could have torn the heart out of my breast and flung it into the river close by—it hurt so; then I could have crushed beneath the boulders that towered over me the hands that had flown so readily to his clasp—I hated them so; then I could have laid my proud head in the dust for the feet of women to trample over.
Ah! I suffered through the terrible hours of that long day, lying there in the sunshine, my face to the hard brown bosom of the old witch who had already clawed and torn my heart. Over and over the dreary round of words and facts and doubts and fears my mind travelled, until it was sick and numbed and knew only one thing clearly, that I must see Anthony Kinsella. I had a wound that would kill me if it were not treated at once. It could not be covered over with the thin skin of indifference; there was poison in it; it must be seared out with a red-hot iron. Afterwards, perhaps it would heal.
Slowly and vaguely I retraced my steps to the town. It was late in the afternoon. The sun was sinking, but the heat still came up overwhelmingly from under foot, and I felt faint for want of food. I had gone farther than I knew into the veldt, and I was almost fainting with exhaustion when at last I reached the first huts of the township. The sun had gone then, leaving the skies primrose coloured—a pale, lovely light, that yet had something ominous and sinister in it.
To my vague astonishment I found the place humming like a beehive and alive with moving figures. Horses were being walked up and down the streets, saddled and loaded with rolls of blankets and provisions. Waggons stood before the doors of shops and hotels being loaded with boxes and cases of things. Men were rushing in and out of their huts, cleaning straps, shouting to each other and behaving in an odd way. They seemed to be doing everything for themselves. There was not a black boy to be seen. I never thought little Fort George could wear such an air of business, either. What could have happened? Even in my misery of mind I found room for curiosity at these things. Several men we had entertained the night before passed me, but they barely noticed me—merely lifted their hats and passed hastily on. I did not feel annoyed, but I knew there must be something very important in the wind to make them behave so indifferently, and, with such strength as I had left, I quickened my steps and arrived home in a few minutes.
Mrs Valetta met me at the door. Her face was composed and cold as a stone, but very white.
“What is it?” I asked fearfully. “What is the matter?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said, and smiled with a ghostly, bitter smile. “Only the war at last! The final batch of horses have arrived and the men are off to Matabeleland.”
I stood speechless. A vision of Anthony Kinsella’s face flashed across my mind. Now I knew why Mrs Valetta looked like that. I turned away from her, but she followed me into the house.