Since the night that Dick's lantern had crossed the flats for the second time, she had kept her mind strapped to the present moment, fiercely contented in her passion for Dick, refusing regret, denying foresight.
Archie, whose memory her mind, like a tongue with a sensitive tooth, shunned but could not avoid, had failed her; Dick had come to the rescue. Dick was her slave; Archie was the slave of the farm. She loved Dick ... she was almost sure. She was surer she did not love Archie.
What would come of it all? The preliminaries she faced with contempt. Scandalous tongues, slights to be met, the ostrich-like antics of the Law, details in the Press (for she realised she would be good copy and might even run to posters). She would pass through this indifferently for what lay beyond.... If anything lay beyond. Romance had fooled her before. Was Life Repetition and Cycle? 'The thing that has been, is that which shall be: and that which is done is that which shall be done; and there is no new thing under the sun.'
She knew Dick's mind no better than the day he had come to the farm, than the day he had entered her ward seven years ago. She did not seem to penetrate the brilliant skin and glorious plumage. What lay behind? ... But surely Dick loved her, and why haggle over the endurance or value of that love? Why chill the warmth of the present by brooding over a future as fathomless as the lake, whose bottom had never been plumbed?
She left the chattering group of carriers to rejoice at the sight of their journey's end and sat down under the mulombwa tree to wait for Dick, who had found the path too steep and rough for his bicycle.
What Dick was feeling I can only guess. I had met him at the beginning of his shooting trip, or 'voyage of exploration,' as he preferred to see it, dining with the District Commissioner at rail-head. But that was before he fell into the meshes of Norah's beauty.
She, of course, told me what he said, and did, and looked like, but a woman's evidence for or against her lover isn't worth much.
Love-making is largely bluff. To get yourself taken, you must appear, if not a fine fellow, at least an interesting one. (It's true she'll probably love you for some absurdity you've forgotten to cover up, but that's not your fault.) Then, especially if love's illicit, men and women begin with different rules. As different as big game and bird shooting.
Your big game shot and your woman do the trick by stalking. They locate the victim, crawl up, taking cover behind each blade of grass, aim long and carefully with one eye shut. Your bird shot fires with both eyes open, by instinct rather than aim, before or behind him at birds which beaters, or circumstances, drive. Then he waits for the next covey. Some men even like pigeon shooting.
Dick, I suspect, started with the ideas of the bird shot. Since he left the railway, he had hardly seen a white woman, and he still carried the newcomer's prejudice against black. He would be in a susceptible mood, when he came on Norah that morning in the forest. If Joseph had been a month or two alone in the bush, and if Potiphar's wife had been in the same street with Norah, Holy Writ would have been altered. And, as the Americans say, Dick's second name wasn't Joseph. Nor for that matter was Norah's surname Potiphar. But circumstances, the uncongenial life, the errant husband's absence were all beating for Dick. His wits, quick where women were concerned, divined this and whispered that this loveliness was not unapproachable. And in the matter of rushing in, Dick was never on the side of the angels.