Blue Aloes Part 19

"Oh, I'll keep it," said Emma grimly. "Once his bandages are off, we'll let the hornets buzz, but not before."

"Meantime," remarked Tryon, "if you like to make me a present of the information, I will promise to use it carefully and for nothing but Druro's benefit."

Guthrie gave him a long, expressionless glance.

"There are worse things than having your eyes clawed out by a leopard,"

continued d.i.c.k enigmatically.

"What worse?"

"You might, for instance, have your heart plucked out by a vulture while you're lying helpless."

"Poison the carca.s.s!" Emma elegantly advised. "That'll finish the vulture before it has time to gorge full." And, as he straddled his battered bicycle, he added a significant remark, which showed that he very well knew what he was talking about. "Lundi'll always be blind about women, anyway."

Tryon did not return to Druro's room, but went thoughtfully toward that wing of the hospital in which he knew the quarters of the young and pretty matron to be situated. Having found her, he put before her so urgent and convincing an appeal for an interview with Mrs. Hading that she went herself to ask that lady to receive him. A clinching factor was an adroit remark about his brother's interest in Druro's chances.

He guessed that such a remark repeated would bring him into Marice Hading's presence quicker than anything else, and he was right. Within five minutes, he was in the softly shaded, violet-scented room where Druro had groped his way some nights before--the difference being that he could see that which Druro had mercifully been spared.

The beauty of the woman sitting in the long chair had been torn from her like a veil behind which she had too long hidden her real self.

Now that she was stripped, a naked thing in the wind, all eyes could see her deformities and read her cold and arid soul. The furies of rage and rancour were grabbling at her heart, even as the leopard had scrabbled on her face. It was not the mere disfigurement of the angry, purplish scars that twisted her mouth and puckered her cheeks. A shining spirit, gentle and brave in affliction might have transformed even these, robbing them of their hideousness. But here was one who had "thrown down every temple she had built," and whose dark eyes were empty now of anything except a malign and bitter ruin. It was as though nothing could longer cover and conceal her cynical dislike of all things but herself. The face set on the long, ravaged throat, once so subtly alluring, had turned hawklike and cruel. It seemed shrivelled, too, and, between the narrow linen bandages she still wore, it had the cunning malice of some bird of prey peering from a barred cage.

Tryon looked once, then kept his eyes to his boots. He would have given much to have fled, and, in truth, he had no stomach for his job.

It seemed to him uncommonly like hitting at some wounded creature already smitten to death. But it was not for himself he was fighting.

It was for Gay's sweet, upright soul, and the happiness of a man too good to be thrown to the vultures of a woman's greed and cruelty. That thought hardened his heart for the task he had in hand.

Marice came to the point at once. It seemed that, with her beauty, she had lost or discarded the habit of subtle attack.

"What does Sir Charles think of his chances?"

It was Tryon who had to have recourse to subtlety. Juggling with his brother's professional name was a risky business, and he did not mean to get on to dangerous ground.

"He can't tell yet--he was afraid to be certain, tonight--is going to have another go at them tomorrow. But----"

"But?" She leaned forward eagerly. "There is not much hope?"

There was no mistaking her face and voice. It was as he had guessed; _she did not want Druro to recover_. Tryon had no further qualms.

"_I_ am not going to give up hope, anyway," he said, with that air of dogged intent which is often founded on hopelessness. She gave a little sigh and sat back among her cushions, like a woman who has taken a refreshing drink.

"Dear Druro, it is very sad for him!" said she complacently, and presently added, "but I shall always see that he is taken care of."

Something in Tryon shuddered, but outwardly he gave no sign, only looked at her commiseratingly.

"It is that we are thinking of--Guthrie and I. Are you strong enough physically and well-enough off financially to undertake such a burden?"

She regarded him piercingly, a startled look in her eyes. "Doubtless you are a rich women--and, of course, no one could doubt your generosity. Still, a blind man without means of his own----"

"_What?_" She fired the word at him like a pistol-shot.

"He does not know," said Tryon softly. "We are keeping it dark for some days yet. The two shocks together might----" He paused.

"What--_what_?" she panted at him, like a runner at the end of his last lap.

"The mine is no good. They are dropping back into it every penny they ever made, and the reef has pinched out. Guthrie told me this tonight on his oath." The woman gave a long, sighing breath and lay back painfully in her chair. But Tryon had a cruel streak in him. He would not let her rest. "He is a ruined man, and may be a blind man, but, thank G.o.d, he has you to lean on!"

"You are mad!" said she, and burst into a harsh laugh. Tryon's face was full of grave concern as he rose.

"Shall I send your nurse?"

She pulled herself together sharply.

"Yes, yes; send her--but, before you go, promise me, Mr. Tryon, never to let Druro know you told me."

("Is it possible that she has so much grace in her?" he pondered.)

"Never!" he promised solemnly. "He shall find out the greatness of your love for himself."

Like fate, Tryon knew where to rub in the salt. As he went down the veranda, he heard the same harsh, cruel laugh ringing out, somewhat like the laugh of a hyena that has missed its prey.

After Sir Charles had gone, Druro sat for a while silent, elbows on the table, thinking. He had insisted upon getting up as usual, though they had tried to keep him in bed. He was not going to take it lying down, he said. So now he sat there, alone, except for Toby, who sat on his knee and, from time to time, put out a little red tongue and gently licked his master's ear.

The nurses who came softly in to congratulate him slipped away softlier still, without speaking. They could understand what it meant to him to know that he would see the sunshine again, the rose and primrose dawns, the great purple shadows of night flung across the veld. What they did not know was that, in spirit, he was looking his last on the land he loved and seeing down a vista of long years greyer than the veld on the greyest day of winter. His lips were firmly closed, but they wore a bluish tinge as he sat there, for he was tasting life colder than ice and drier than the dust of the desert between his teeth; and the serpent of remorse and regret was at his heart.

But not for long. Presently he rose and squared his shoulders, like a man settling his burden for a long march, and said quickly to himself some words he had once read, he knew not where.

"'A man shall endure such things as the stern women drew off the spindles for him at his birth.'"

His nurse, who had been waiting in the veranda, hearing his voice, now came in and greeted him gaily. "Hooray, Mr. Druro! Oh, you don't know how glad we all are! And the whole town has been here to wish you luck and joy on the news. But Sir Charles made us drive them all away. He says you may see no more than two people before you have lunched and rested, and he has selected the two himself."

"What cheek!" said Druro. "And what a nice soft hand you've got, nurse!"

"Be off with you now!" laughed the trim Irish nurse. "And how can I read you the letter I have for you with one hand?"

"Try it wid wan eye instid," said he, putting on a brogue to match her own. She laughed and escaped, and, later, read the letter, at his wish.

LUNDI DEAR:

I grieve to hurt you, but it is no use pretending. I can never live in this atrocious Africa, and I feel it would be cruel to tear you away from a country you love so much. Besides, after deep consideration, I find that my darling husband's memory is dearer to me than any living man can be. Forgive me--and farewell.

MARICE.

"She left by the morning's train," said the nurse. "You know she has been well enough to go for more than a week."

As Lundi did not answer, she went away and left him once more sitting very still. But with what a different stillness! The whole world smelled sweet in his nostrils and spoke of freedom. His blood chanted a paean of praise and hope to the sun and moon and stars. An old cry of the open surged in him.

"Life is sweet, brother! There is day and night, brother, both sweet things, sun, moon, and stars, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath!"

The voice of Tryon broke in on his communings.