Kitabı oxu: «The Sign of the Spider», səhifə 5

CHAPTER VII.
"THE WHOLE SOUL PRISONER …"

No more foolish passion was ever implanted in the human breast than that of jealousy – unless it were that of which it is the direct outcome – nor is there any which the average human is less potent to resist. The victim of either, or both, is for the time being outside reason.

Now the first-mentioned form of disease is, to the philosophical mind, of all others the most essentially foolish – indeed, we can hardly call to mind any other so thoroughly calculated to turn the average well-constructed man or woman into an exuberantly incurable idiot. For what does it amount to when we come to pan it out? If there exist grounds for the misgiving, why then it is going begging – grovelling for something which the other party has not got to give; if groundless, is it not a fulfilling of the homely old saw relating to cutting off one's nose to spite one's face? (We disclaim any intent to pun.) In either case it is such a full and whole-souled giving of himself, or herself, away on the part of the patient; while on that of its object – is he, or she, worth it?

Now, from a very acute form of this insanity George Falkner was a chronic sufferer. He had cherished a secret weakness for Lilith, almost when she was yet in short frocks, but since her return from England, from the moment he had once more set eyes upon her on the deck of the Persian, he had tumbled madly, uncontrollably, headlong in love. Did a member of the opposite sex so much as exchange commonplaces with her, George Falkner's personality would contrive to loom, grim and dark, and almost threatening, in the background; while such male animal who should enjoy the pleasure of say an hour of Lilith's society à deux, even with no more flirtatious or ultimate intent than the same period spent in the society of his grandmother, would inspire in George a fell murderousness, which was nothing short of a reversion to first principles. As for Lilith herself, she was fond of him, very, in a sisterly, cousinly way – and what way, indeed, could be more fatal to that by which he desired to travel? Nor did it mend matters any that their mutual relatives were the reverse of favourable to his aspirations, on the ground of the near relationship existing between the parties. So, poor George, seeing no light, became morose and quarrelsome, and wholly and violently unreasonable – in short, a bore. All of which was a pity, because, this weakness apart, he was, on the whole, rather a good fellow.

He had come to the Rand, like everybody else, to wait for the boom – which boom, like the chariots of Israel, though totally unlike the children of the same, tarried long in coming; indeed, by that time there were not wanting those who feared that it might not come at all. He had pleaded with his aunt to invite Lilith at the same time, artfully putting it that the opportunity of his escort was too good to be missed; and Mrs. Falkner, with whom he was a prime favourite, although she did not approve his aspirations, weakly agreed. And so here they were beneath the same roof, with the addition of his second sister, the blue-eyed Mabel, whose acquaintance we have already made.

The latter, in her soft, fair-haired, pink and roses style, was a very pretty girl. She, for her part, could count "coup" to a creditable extent, and among the latest scalps which she had hung to her dainty twenty-inch girdle was that of our friend Holmes.

This – idiot, we were going to say, looked back upon that deadly, monotonous, starved, dusty, flea-bitten coach-ride of three days and two nights as a species of Elysium, and in the result was perennially importuning Laurence to take a stroll down to Booyseus, "Just for a constitutional, you know." And the latter would laugh, and good-naturedly acquiesce. It was a cheap way of setting up a character for amiability, he would say to himself satirically; for as yet Holmes hardly suspected he was almost as powerfully drawn thither as Holmes was himself – more powerfully, perhaps – only, with the advantage of years and experience and cooler brain, he had himself more in hand.

"Instead of making a prize gooseberry of me, Holmes, as a very appropriate item against the 'silly' season," he said one day, "you had much better go over by yourself. You are getting into Falkner's black books. He hates me like poison, you know."

"But that's just why I want you along, Stanninghame. While he's trying to stand you off in the other quarter, I'm in it, don't you see?" replied the other, with whole-hearted ingenuousness.

Holmes had stated no more than the truth. Of all the "rivals," real or imaginary, whom the jealous George hated and feared, quâ rival, none could touch Laurence Stanninghame. For by this time it had become patent to his watchful eyes that among the swarms of visitors of the male, and therefore, to him, obnoxious sex, at whose coming Lilith's glance would brighten, and with whom she would converse with a kind of affectionate confidentiality when others were present, and apparently even more so when others were not, that objectionable personage was the said Laurence Stanninghame.

This being the case, it followed that George Falkner, looking out on the stoep one fine afternoon, and descrying the approach of his bugbear, stifled a bad cuss-word or two, and then exploded aloud in more approved and passworthy fashion.

"There's that bounder coming here again."

"'Bounder' being Dutch for somebody you detest – eh, George?" said Lilith sweetly.

"Confound it! That everlasting trying to be sharp is one of the most deadly things a man has to put up with. It's catching – eh, Lilith?" was the sneering retort.

"But who is it?" said Mrs. Falkner, who was short-sighted, or affected to be.

"Oh, the great god, Stanninghame, of course, and his pup, Holmes."

Now the ill-conditioned George had stirred up a hornet's nest, for his sister took up the parable.

"Well, there are lessons to be learned even from 'pups,'" said Mabel scathingly. "They are not always growling, at any rate."

"Oh, you're on the would-be smart lay, too? Didn't I say it was catching?" he jeered.

"Yes, and you say a great many things that are supremely foolish," retorted Mabel, turning up her tip-tilted nose a little more, in fine scorn.

"Well, I'm off to the camp," said George, with a sort of snarl, reaching for a hat. "Clearly, I'm not wanted here."

"You're not, if you're going to do nothing but make yourself fiendishly disagreeable," rejoined his sister, pertly pitiless. In reality she was very fond of him, and he of her, but he had trampled on a tender place; for she liked Holmes.

George banged on his hat, strode angrily to the door, and – got no farther. He did not see why he should leave the field clear to all comers, even if he were out of the running himself; a line of irresoluteness which affords an excellent exemplification of the remarks wherewith we have opened this chapter.

By all but George, who was excusably undemonstrative, the two new arrivals were greeted with customary cordiality.

"Why, Mr. Stanninghame, it seems quite a long time since we saw you last," said Mrs. Falkner, as they were all seated out on the stoep. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

"The usual thing – studying the share market, and – talking about it."

"And is the outlook still as bad as it was?"

"Worse. However, we must hope it'll go better."

"I hear that you and that queer man, Mr. Hazon, have become such friends, Mr. Stanninghame."

This was the sort of remark with which Laurence had scant patience, the more so that it met him at every turn. What concern was it of the Rand collectively who he chose to be friendly with, that every third person he met should rap out such kind of comment?

"Oh, we get along all right, Mrs. Falkner," he answered. "But then I have a special faculty for hitting it off with unpopular persons – possibly a kind of fellow-feeling. Besides, accepting ready-made judgments concerning other people does not commend itself to my mind on any score of logic or sound sense. It is just a trifle less insane than taking up other people's quarrels, but only just."

"I dare say you're right; only it is difficult for most of us to be so consistently, so faultlessly logical. No doubt most of the things they say about him are not true."

"But what are most of the things they say, Mrs. Falkner? Now I, for my part, never can get anybody to say anything. They will hint unutterables and look unutterables, but when it comes to saying– no, thank you, they are not taking any."

"But he is such a very mysterious personage. Not a soul here knows anything about him – about his affairs, I mean – and who he is."

"Perhaps that enhances his attractiveness in my eyes, Mrs. Falkner. There is prestige in the unknown."

"Not of a good kind, as a rule," she replied, and then stopped short, for a dry malicious cough on the part of George brought home to her the consciousness that she was putting her foot in it pretty effectively. For the same held good of the man to whom she was talking; about Laurence Stanninghame and his affairs not a soul there knew anything.

Not a soul? Yes, one, peradventure. For between himself and Lilith the interchange of ideas had been plenteous and frequent, and the subtile, sympathetic vein existing between them had deepened and grown apace. About himself and his affairs he had told her nothing, yet it is probable that he could tell her but little on this head that would be news in any sense of the word. Lilith's aunt, however, who was a good-hearted soul, without a grain of malice in her composition, felt supremely uncomfortable and quite savage with George, who was now grinning, sourly and significantly.

None of this by-play was lost upon Laurence, but he showed no consciousness. He knew that George Falkner detested him – detested him cordially, yet he in no wise reciprocated this dislike. He did not blame George. Probably he would have felt the same way himself, had he been in George's place and at George's age; for the latter had the advantage of him on the side of youth by at least ten years. He was inclined to like him, and at any rate was sorry for him, perhaps with a dash of pity that came near contempt. Poor George did give himself away so, and it was so foolish – so supremely foolish. Yet not for a moment did it occur to Laurence to efface himself in this connection. Duty? Hang duty! He had made a most ruinous muddle of his whole life through reverencing that fetich word. Honour? There was no breach of honour where there was no deception, no pretence. Consideration for others? Who on earth ever dreamt of considering him – when to do so would cost them anything, that is? Unselfishness? Everybody was selfish – everything even. What had he ever gained by striving to improve upon the universal law? Nothing – nothing good; everything bad – bad and deteriorating – morally and physically.

And now, should he put the goblet from his lips? Not he. This strong, new wine of life had rejuvenated him. Its rich, sweet fumes, so far from clouding his brain, had cleared it. It had enwrapped his heart in a glow as of re-enkindled fire, and caused the stagnated blood to course once more through his veins, warm and strong and free. His very step had gained an elasticity, a firmness, to which it had long been strange. And yet with all this, his judgment had remained undimmed, keen, clear, subject to no illusions. The logic of the situation was rather pitiless, perchance cruel. He was under no sort of illusion on that score. Well, let it be. Here again came in the universal law of life, the battle of the strong. There was no weakness left in him.

"For my part, I like Hazon," cut in Holmes decisively; "he only wants knowing. And because he doesn't let himself go for the benefit of every bounder on the Rand, they talk about him as if he'd committed no end of murders. It's my belief that half the fellows who abuse him are ten thousand times worse than him," he added, with the robust partisanship of hearty youth.

Further discussion of Hazon and his derelictions, real or imaginary, was cut short by the arrival of more visitors, mostly of the sterner sex; for Mrs. Falkner liked her acquaintance to drop in informally – a predilection her acquaintance, if young and especially of the harder sex aforesaid, for obvious reasons, delighted just at present to humour. George, however, in no wise shared his aunt's expansiveness in this direction, if only that it meant that Lilith was promptly surrounded by an adoring phalanx, even as on the deck of the Persian.

Now it was voted cool enough for lawn tennis – for which distraction, indeed, some of the droppers-in were suitably attired – and there was keen competition for Lilith as a partner; and Holmes, being first in the field, resolutely bore off Mabel Falkner as his auxiliary. And George, realizing that he was "out of it" for some time to come, perhaps, too, taking a vague comfort in the thought that there is safety in numbers, actually did proceed to carry out his threat, and betook himself townwards.

Laurence remained seated on the stoep, talking to Mrs. Falkner and one of the visitors; but all the while, though never absent-minded or answering at random, his eyes were following, with a soothing and restful sense of enjoyment, every movement of Lilith's form – a very embodiment of grace and supple ease, he pronounced it. The movement of the game suited her as it suited but few. She never seemed to grow hot, or flurried, or dishevelled, as so many of the fair are wont to do while engaged in that popular pastime. Every movement was one of unstudied, unconscious grace. In point of hard fact, she played indifferently; but she did so in a manner that was infinitely good to look at.

"Don't you play at this, Mr. Stanninghame?" said the other visitor, "or have you got a soul above such frivolities?"

"That doesn't exactly express it," he answered. "The truth is, I don't derive sufficient enjoyment from skipping about on one or both legs at the end of a racket, making frantic attempts to stop a ball which the other side is making equally frantic and fruitless efforts to drive at me through a net. As a dispassionate observer, the essence of the game seems to me to consist in sending the ball against the net as hard and as frequently as practicable."

At this the visitor spluttered, and, being of the softer sex, declared that he must be a most dreadful cynic; and Lilith, who was near enough to hear his remarks, turned her head, with a rippling flash of mirth in her eyes, and said "Thank you!" which diversion indeed caused her to perform the very feat he had been so whimsically describing.

Presently, growing tired of talking, he withdrew from the others. It happened that there was a book in the drawing room which had caught his attention during a former visit; and now he sought it, and taking it up from the table, stood there alone in the cool shaded room turning from page to page, absorbed in comparing passages of its contents. Then a light step, a rustle of skirts, a lilt of song – which broke off short as he raised his eyes. Lilith was passing through, her tennis racket still in her hand. Slightly flushed with her recent exercise, she looked radiantly sweet, in her dark, brilliant beauty.

"Oh, I didn't know anyone was here; least of all, you," she said. "You startled me."

"Sorceress, remove those unholy spells; for thou art indeed good to look upon this day."

She flashed a smile at him, throwing back her head with that slight, quick movement which constituted in her a very subtile and potent charm.

"Flatterer! Do you think so? Well, I am glad."

She dropped her hand down upon his, as it rested on the table, with a swift, light, caressing pressure, and her eyes softened entrancingly as they looked up into his. Then she was gone.

He stood there, cool, immovable, self-possessed, outwardly still to all appearance intent upon the book which he held. But in reality he saw it not. His whole mental faculties were called into play to endeavour imagination to retain that soft, light pressure upon his hand. His resources of memory were concentrated upon the picture of her as she stood there a moment since, – lovely, smiling, enchanting, – and then the sombre brain-wave, reminding of the hopelessness, the mockery of life's inexorable circumstance, would roll in upon his mind; and heart would seem tightened, crushed, strangled with a pain that was actually physical – of such acuteness indeed, that, had that organ been weak, he would be in danger of falling dead on the spot. And this was a part of the penalty he had to pay for his well-nigh superhuman self-control.

He loved her – this man who loved nothing and nobody living, not even himself. He loved her – this man whose life was all behind him, and whose heart was of stone, and whose speech was acrid as the most corrosive element known to chemistry. But a few "passes" of sweet Sorceress Lilith's magical wand and the stone heart had split to fragments, pouring forth, giving release to, a warm well-spring. A well-spring? A very torrent, deep, fierce, strong, but not irresistible – as yet. Still there were moments when to keep it penned within its limits was agony – agony untold, superhuman, well-nigh unendurable.

He loved her – he who was bound by legal ties until death. With all the strong concentrative might of his otherwise hard nature, he loved her. The dead dismal failure of the past, the sombre vistas of the future, were as nothing compared with such moments as this. Yet none suspected, so marvellously did he hold himself in hand. Even the most jealous of those who saw them frequently together – George Falkner, for instance, and others – were blind and unsuspecting. But – what of Lilith herself?

CHAPTER VIII.
DARK DAYS

The share market at Johannesburg was rapidly going to the deuce.

Some there were who ardently wished that Johannesburg itself had gone thither, before they had heard of its unlucky and delusive existence, and among this daily increasing number might now be reckoned Laurence Stanninghame. He, infected with the gambler's fever of speculation, had not thought it worth while to "hedge"; it was to be all or nothing. And now, as things turned out, it was nothing. The old story – a fictitious market, bolstered up by fictitious and inflated prices; a sudden "slump," and then – everybody with one mind eager to dispose of scrip, barely worth the paper of which it consisted – in fact, unsaleable. King Scrip had landed his devoted subjects in a pretty hole.

"You're not the only one, Stanninghame – no, not by a long, long chalk," said Rainsford ruefully, as they were talking matters over one day. "I'm hard hit myself, and I could point you out men here who were worth tens of thousands a month ago, and couldn't muster a hard hundred cash at this moment if their lives depended on it – worse, too, men whose overdraft is nearly as big as their capital was the same time back."

"I suppose so. Yet most fellows of that kind are adepts at the fine old business quality of besting their neighbours, one in which I am totally lacking, possibly owing to want of practice. They can go smash and come up smiling, and in a little while be worth more than ever. They know how to do it, you see, and I don't. Smash for me means smash, and that of a signally grievous kind."

Rainsford looked at him curiously.

"Oh, bother it, Stanninghame, you're no worse off than the rest of us. We've got to lie low and hang on for a bit, and watch our chances."

"Possibly you are right, Rainsford. No doubt you are. Still every donkey knows where his own saddle galls him."

"Rather, old chap," replied the other, whose hat covered the total of his liability. "The only thing to do is to hold on tight, have a drink, and trust in Providence. We'll go and have the drink."

They adjourned to a convenient bar. It was about noon, and the place was fairly full. Here they found Holmes in the middle of a crowd, also Rankin and Wheeler. The consumption of "John Walker" was proceeding at a brisk rate.

"Hallo, Stanninghame, how are you?" cried Rankin; "haven't seen you for a long time. I think another 'smile' wouldn't hurt us, eh? What do you say? I'm doing bitters. Nothing like Angostura – with a little drop of gin in it; gives tone to the system. What's yours?"

Laurence named his, and the genial Rankin having shouted for it and other "rounds," proceeded to unfold some wondrous scheme by which he was infallibly bound to retrieve all their fortunes at least cent. per cent. It was only a matter of a little capital. Anyone who had the foresight to intrust him with a few hundreds might consider his fortune made. But, somehow, nobody could be found to hand over those few hundreds. In point of fact, nobody had got them.

"Here, Rainsford," sung out somebody, "we are tossing for another 'all round.' Won't your friend cut in?"

Laurence did cut in, and then Holmes, who, being of genial disposition, and very hard hit too in the scrip line, began uproariously to suggest a further "drown care."

"Excuse me, eh, Holmes?" said Laurence. "It's getting too thick, and I don't think this is a sort of care that'll bear drowning. I'm off. So-long, everybody."

"Hold on, Stanninghame," sung out Rankin, who was the most hospitable soul alive. "Come round to the house and dine with us. I'm just going along. We'd better do another bitters though, first. What do you say?"

But Laurence declined both hospitalities. A very dark mood was upon him – one which rendered the idea of the society of his fellows distasteful to the last degree. So he left the carousing crowd, and betook himself to his quarters.

Now the method of drowning care as thus practised commended itself to him on no principle of practical efficacy. He had care enough to drown, Heaven knew, but against any temptation to fly to the bottle in order to swamp it he was proof. His very cynicism, selfish, egotistical as it might be in its hard and sweeping ruthlessness, was a safeguard to him in this connection. That he, Laurence Stanninghame, to whom the vast bulk of mankind represented a commingling of rogue and fool in about equal proportion, should ever come to render himself unsteady on his feet, and hardly responsible for the words which came from his brain, presented a picture so unutterably degraded and loathsome, that his mind recoiled from the barest contemplation of it.

Yes, he had care enough, in all conscience, that day as he walked back to his quarters; for unless the market took a turn for the better, so sudden as to be almost miraculous, the time when he would any longer have a roof over his head might be counted by weeks. And now every mail brought him grumbling, querulous letters asking for money when there was none to send – bitter and contentious letters, full of complaint and the raking up of old sores and soul-wearying lamentation; gibing reproaches, too, to him who had beggared himself that these might live. It would have been burden enough had it mattered greatly to him whether anyone in the world lived or not; but here the burden was tenfold by reason of its utter lack of appreciation, of common gratitude, of consideration for the shoulders which, sorely weighed down and chafed, yet still supported it.

But if the refuge which is the resort of the weak held out no temptation to him, there was another refuge of which the exact opposite held good. In weird and gloomy form all the recollections and failures of his past life would rise up and confront him. What an unutterable hash he had made of it and its opportunities! It did not do to run straight – the world was not good enough for it; so he had found. That for the past; for the future – what? Nothing. For some there was no future, and he was one of these. He saw no light.

Lying on his bed, in the heat of the early afternoon, he realized all this for the hundredth time. The temptation to end it all was strong upon him. Stronger and stronger it grew, as though shadowy demon-shapes were hovering in the shaded, half-darkened room. It grew until it was well-nigh overmastering. His eyes began to wander meaningly towards a locked drawer, and he half rose.

Against this temptation his hardened cynicism was no safeguard at all; rather did it tend to foster it, and that by reason of a corrosive disgust with life and the conditions thereof which it engendered within him. Then, in his half-dreamy state, a sweet and softening influence seemed to steal in upon his soul. He thought he would like to see Lilith Ormskirk once more. Was it foolishness, weakness? Not a bit. Rather was it hard, matter-of-fact, logical philosophy. He had made an unparalleled hash of life. If he were going to leave it now it was sound logic to do so with, as it were, a sweet taste upon his mental palate.

Was it an omen for good, an earnest of a turn in the wheel of ill-luck? On reaching Booyseus he was so fortunate as to find Lilith not only at home but alone. Her face lighted up at the sight of him.

"How sweet of you to toil out here this hot afternoon," she said, as he took within his the two hands she had instinctively held out to him. For a moment he looked at her without replying, contrasting the grim motive which had brought him hither with this perfect embodiment of youth, and health, and beauty, with all of life, all of the future yet before her – all of life with its possibilities. She was in radiant spirits, and the hazel eyes shone entrancingly, and the slight flush under the dark warmth of the satin skin, caused by the unaffected pleasure inspired by his arrival, rendered even his strong head a trifle unsteady, as though with a rich, sweet, overpowering intoxication.

"Well, the reward is great," he answered, still retaining her hands in a lingering pressure. "Are you all alone, child?"

"Yes," she said, that pleased flush mantling again, the diminutive sounding strangely sweet to her ears as coming from him.

"But you – we may not be much longer. People might drop in at any moment, and I want to be alone with you this afternoon. I am spoiling for one of our long talks, so put on a hat and come for a stroll across the veldt. Or is it too hot?"

"You know it is not," she answered. "Now, I won't be a minute."

She was as good as her word, for she reappeared almost immediately with a hat and sunshade, and they set forth, striking out over the bare open veldt which extended around and behind the Booyseus estate. The heat was great, greater than most women would have cared to face, but the blue cloudlessness of the sky, the sheeny glow of the sun upon the free open country was so much delight to Lilith Ormskirk. In her love for all that was bright and glowing she was a true daughter of the South.

"Oh, Laurence, how good it is to live!" she exclaimed, as they stepped out at a brisk pace in the glorious openness of the warm air. "Do you know, I feel at times so bright, and well, and happy in the very joy and thankfulness of being alive, that it almost brings tears. Do you understand the feeling? Tell me."

"I think so."

"But did you ever feel that way yourself?"

"Perhaps – in fact, I must have, because I understand so thoroughly what you mean; but it must have been a very, very long time ago."

His tone was that of one gravely amused, indulgently caressing. Heavens! he was thinking. The contrast here was quite delicious; in fact, it was unique. If only Lilith could have seen into his thoughts at that moment, if only she had had the faintest inkling as to their nature an hour or so back. Still something in his look or in his tone sobered her.

"Ah, Laurence, forgive me," she cried. "How unfeeling I am, throwing my light-heartedness at you in this way, when things are going so badly with you."

"Unfeeling? Why, child, I love to see you rejoicing in the bright happiness of your youth and glowing spirits. I would not have you otherwise for all the world."

"No, I ought not to feel that way just now, when you – when so many all round us – are passing through such a dreadfully anxious and critical time. Tell me, Laurence, are things brightening for you even a little?"

"Not even a little; the case is all the other way. But don't you think about it, child. Be happy while you can and as long as you can. It is the worst possible philosophy to afflict yourself over the woes of other people."

Now the tears did indeed well to Lilith's eyes, but assuredly this time they were not tears of joy and thankfulness. One or two even fell.

"Don't sneer, Laurence. You must keep the satire and cynicism for all the world, if you will, but keep the inner side of your nature for me," said she, and in the sweet, pleading ring in her voice there was no lack of feeling now. "You have had about ten times more than your share of all the dark and bitter side of life. You will not refuse my sympathy – my deepest, most heartfelt sympathy – will you, dear? Ah, would that it were only of any use at all!"

"Your sympathy? Why, I value and prize it more than anything else in the world – in fact it is the only thing in the world I do value. 'Of any use at all?' It is of some use – of incalculable use, perhaps."

A smile lit up the clouded sadness of her face.

"If I only thought that," she said. "Still it's more than sweet to hear you say so. Tell me, Laurence, what was the strange sympathetic magnetism that existed between us from the very first – yes, long before we talked together? I was conscious of it, if you were not – a sympathy that makes it easy for me to follow you, when you talk so darkly that nobody else could."

"Oh, there is such a sympathy, then?"

"Of course there is, and you know it."

"Perhaps. Tell me, Lilith, do you still cherish certain fusty and antiquated superstitions which make that good results and beneficial can never come out of abstract wrong? Abstract wrong being for present purposes a mere conventionality."

She looked at him for a moment. The interchange of that steady silent glance was sufficient.