Part 11 (1/2)

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 partisans.h.i.+p 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 s.e.x; for Mrs. Falkner liked her acquaintance to drop in informally--a predilection her acquaintance, if young and especially of the harder s.e.x 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 compet.i.tion 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 dispa.s.sionate 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 s.e.x, 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 pa.s.sages 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 pa.s.sing 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 const.i.tuted 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 n.o.body 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 ”pa.s.ses” 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 fict.i.tious market, bolstered up by fict.i.tious 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,”