Part 53 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXVII

When Carson left the Portals he did not go home. He turned his face towards the higher heights of the Berea, and those surmounted, tramped on--on past darkened blind-drawn, lonely houses, and long stretches of gardens and vacant lands, until he came at last to the cliff-side that overlooks Umgeni. Afterwards he tramped and tramped, without knowing or caring where he went, but always with the light silent feet of the athlete. Irishmen are natural athletes. Also, if they are _real_ Irishmen, that is, born and brought up through boyhood in their own land, they have learned to play ”Handball”; and so their feet are as light as their hands are swift to feel and their eyes to observe. For a man whose lot must be cast in the sinuous paths of Africa--jungle or money-market--there could be no better training than constant play in his youthful days in an Irish ball-court, for it teaches quickness of wit and limb more than any game ever played, as well as developing both sides of the body, thus making for perfect symmetry. Carson had a pa.s.sion for the game, and he went hot with anger when he thought how neglected and ignored it was amongst the fine sports of the world.

”Pilota,” the Spanish national game, has some resemblance to ”Handball,”

and is played by men of all cla.s.ses in Spain. But in Ireland with the exception here and there of a gentleman enthusiast, who has learnt his love of the pastime at his college, only the poor fellows play it now, and those usually the roughest of their cla.s.s, who are obliged to depend for their ”courts” on the proprietors of public-houses.

All young Irish boys love ”Handball,” however, and Carson had often thought it a wistful thing to see little ragged chaps watching a game with eyes alight, holding the coats of players, on the chance of getting a chance to play themselves when the ”court” was vacated.

In the Protectorate he had established, he meant to build ”ball-courts”

and teach the fine stalwart Borapotans to play the finest game in the world.

But to-night, as he tramped, he did not think of these things. The sports and pastimes of his boyhood were as far from his mind as was the innocence of his boyhood from his heart. He was trying to tramp out the remembrance of a sin. Trying to obliterate from his memory the face of a woman he did not love, never had loved, never would love--but to whom honour held him fast. A woman who had nursed him in sickness with devotion and care--and who, when he was still physically weak, had flung herself into his arms--at his feet, offering her life, her love, her honour. And he had weakly fought, weakly resisted, and at the last most weakly taken--taken just for the love of pity, and the love of love and all the other loves that Irishmen, above all men, know all about, and that have nothing to do with Love at all.

The bitter cud to chew now between his gritting teeth was that he had never reaped anything but soul-misery and sacrifice of fine resolves from the thing. Yet here it was holding itself up before him like some pure star that he must never cease from following after: a creed never to be forsaken; an idol before which to sacrifice the rest of his life--to sacrifice the most wonderful love that ever thrilled a man's veins and shook from his life all mean and paltry things.

Oh, l.u.s.t past and Love present had a great fight in the heart of Evelyn Carson, Bart., D.S.O., C.M.G., in the early hours of that April morning.

It must have been close on six hours that he tramped and fought, for when at last he came by devious ways to Sea House, the shroudy dawn was breaking over the face of the Indian Ocean.

And Bramham was in his dining-room insanely drinking whiskies-and-sodas.

”What the----?” Carson stood in the doorway staring.

”Waiting up for you, of course! Where have you been?” said the drunk and dauntless Bramham.

”I can't remember engaging you to wet-nurse me.” Carson was too savage with life to be polite even to the best friend he had ever possessed. He strode into the room, threw his soft hat rolled into a ball into a corner, and would have pa.s.sed through, but Bramham detained him with a word.

”Miss Chard's house was burnt to the ground last night!”

Carson came back and stood by the table. It seemed to him that a good thing to do would be to mix a strong whiskey-and-soda, and he did so, and drank it thirstily.

”What was that you said, Bram?” he asked, later.

”Miss Chard's house is burnt to the ground. The whole town knows now that she is _Eve Destiny_, the South African novelist----”

”The how much?”

”The South African novelist. The woman who wrote the book of poems that set all the African mothers flying to lock the nursery doors--and the plays _In a Tin Hotel at Witpoortje_ and _A Veldt Ghost_. Why, Carson, you don't seem to know anything! You ought to employ someone to dig you up every five years.”

Because of his desire for further information on this interesting subject, Carson kept his temper between his teeth and bore as best he might with Bramham's unusual wit. It was to be remembered, too, that Bramham was a ”good man,” and as such permitted a lapse. However, if the latter had anything more to tell he kept it to himself, and only gave a repet.i.tion of his former statements with a graphic description, which Carson was not at all interested in, of the fire.

One thing alone, stood out, a salient point in the narrative:

”And I happen to know that everything she has is burnt. With the exception of a few royalties, she is penniless. All her finished work is burnt--everything she had in the world. She had a face like a banshee when I told her,” was his complimentary conclusion.

Carson departed and took a bath and shave on this information.

Afterwards he went down and looked at the sea. When he came in to breakfast, a sane and calm Charles Bramham was seated there before him--bathed, groomed, dressed, eating an orange with a tea-spoon.