Grit Lawless Part 12

A pained flush leapt to her cheeks. She looked away from him down the dusty road, along a vista of flowering gum trees, with eyes that were clouded and misty and rebellious, and a mind that for all its youthfulness dimly discerned his meaning.

"I thought we were--friends," she said falteringly.

And then he made use of one of the remarks that were responsible for the development of her understanding.

"There is no such thing as friendship between the s.e.xes."

The flush in her cheeks deepened. There was a strained air of embarra.s.sment about her, noticeable even in her walk.

"And so... you don't wish to know me?" she said with an effort.

"My dear child!" He looked at her earnestly. "It's not a matter in which I am ent.i.tled to consider my wishes."

"And what of mine?" she asked in a low voice that was tremulous, as though the speaker were on the verge of tears.

He looked down awkwardly, and fidgeted with the handle of the brake.

"I don't consider that I am ent.i.tled to consult your wishes either," he replied. "My friendship, according to the accepted standard, is neither good nor safe for you... Haven't you been so informed?"

"Yes," she answered, and added sullenly: "I don't care... I want your friendship more than I want anything. It has meant so much to me...

And I miss... things so. You never come to the house now... You never go anywhere."

"No," he returned briefly.

There was silence between them for a while. Then suddenly Julie put out a hand and touched his hand where it hung at his side.

"You won't--cut me again?" she pleaded.

"No," he answered as briefly as before, but in a kinder tone with a ring of determination in it that carried conviction.

"I want to see you sometimes," she said... "to talk with you sometimes.

I know that I'm not intellectual, that I'm undeveloped and silly, and altogether too young to be companionable to you; but you have taken pleasure in my society--you have," she exclaimed with vehemence, "haven't you?"

"Yes," he acknowledged, "I have... I do. And it's just because of that I deem it best to let the thing end."

"Oh no!" she cried quickly... "No!"

"When you talk like that," he said, smiling at her pleasantly, "you convince me that my judgment is right... Oh! don't worry," he added in response to a quick gesture of protest; "I'm not going to rely on anything so stodgy. I'm going to follow inclination. Remain my dear little friend... If there is no great good to you in it, there shall be no great harm in it either... And, in any case, it won't matter much...

I am going away shortly."

"Going away!" she echoed blankly. "Leaving Cape Town, do you mean?"

"Yes."

She turned to him with a swift abandonment that proved how strong was the influence he already exerted over her, and with white face, and distressful, tear-filled eyes, cried out--

"Oh! don't go! don't go! ... Or--couldn't you--take me with you?"

He came to an abrupt standstill, and leaning towards her, with his hand resting on the saddle of the cycle, looked steadily into the shamed, young, piteous face. His look brought the colour flaming back into the white cheeks.

"Ah! now you think me unwomanly," she said, and her voice shook pitifully... "You won't like me any more..."

"My dear!" he replied, "you are talking nonsense."

Her head drooped lower and lower like a flower that is beaten down in a storm. She stared down at the strong, sunburnt hand gripping the saddle, and the slow tears overflowed and fell, big, shining drops, into the dust of the road. She made no effort to stay them or to wipe them away; and the man, watching her with his keen, observant eyes, was stirred with an unwonted sense of compa.s.sion, and a swift self-hatred because of what he had in idle selfishness done.

"If you knew me for what I am," he said gravely, "you would not honour me with your friendship. I'm not the hero your fancy has painted. A man rates himself at a higher valuation usually than his deserts, but as high as I can place the standard it leaves me still unworthy of your regard."

"And you don't feel... contempt for me?" she faltered.

"No... The only contempt I feel is for myself." He held out his hand to her. "We are coming to the more frequented part," he said. "I would prefer that you mounted and rode into town."

She gave him her hand shyly, but still she hesitated.

"You promise not to withdraw your friendship?" she pleaded. "I--I don't know what I should do if--if you wouldn't let me be--just a friend."

Her eyes as well as her voice implored him; they dragged a reluctant consent from his lips. When she had mounted and cycled out of his sight, turning at the bend of the road to wave him a last farewell, he regretted that he had allowed his better judgment to be overruled by her girlish pleading. Public opinion was right in this instance; there was danger in the friendship. There had been danger for the girl from the beginning; since intercourse in the future could only be by stealth that danger was considerably increased. The secret friendship of a young girl for a man of notorious character must be disastrous in its results even if the man act towards her honourably according to his lights.

When Lawless reached his hotel he found two letters waiting for him in the rack. He carried them to his room. The first, so ill-written as to be scarcely legible, was signed "Tottie." The writer stated that she was bored to death, and commanded him to come round and amuse her. The second was also in the nature of a command. It was very short--only one line.

"Will you come to see me?--Zoe."

He read the second note twice, and then remained for a long while motionless with the letter in his hand, staring at the big, firm characters thoughtfully, his brows puckered in a heavy frown. Why had she written to him? ... Why should she wish to see him, when all self-respecting women held their skirts aside? ... The frown deepened.

He was baffled by the very simplicity of the brief message, the meaning of which was so purely conjectural and obscure. He read the note for the third time, seeking enlightenment from a greater familiarity with the words. But the purpose of the message still eluded him. He could not imagine what was in the writer's mind to move her to pen such a note. It was inconsistent with her att.i.tude in the past. He felt strangely irritated, even suspicious, as he stared at the sheet of paper in his hand. It was a little late in the day for her to think of starting an "influence."

He seated himself at a writing-table in a corner of the room and answered the note. His reply was laconic in its brevity. "No," he wrote, and signed it simply, "H.L." Then he addressed it and slipped it into the pocket of his coat with the idea of posting it himself. She would probably expect him that evening, he decided, and smiled ironically, thinking of the writer of the other letter, who was also expecting him, and whom he had no intention to disappoint. In the morning she would receive the answer to her note; then she would understand.

But the answer was not posted. Lawless was delayed as he was leaving the hotel; when later he set forth his mood had changed, and he tore the reply he had written into fragments and scattered them on the pavement, to be further scattered by the boisterous wind that swept them into corners, only to dislodge them and scatter them anew. A few of the fragments fluttered under his feet as he strode along. He trod them heavily underfoot and walked on. Would she conclude from his silence that he would obey the summons? ... He was not quite sure whether by his action in destroying his answer he meant to accede to her wish, or simply to ignore it. A strong curiosity as to her reason for wishing to see him strove against his disinclination to comply with the request.

Finally he decided to leave the matter in abeyance. If the humour took him he would go to her the following day. But the humour did not take him. The next day came and pa.s.sed, and the note remained in his pocket still unanswered.

Mrs Lawless waited at home each day in the hope of his coming, and denied herself to other visitors. On the third day she made an exception in favour of Mrs Smythe.

"I came to inquire if you were ill," Mrs Smythe exclaimed as she entered the drawing-room. "You were not at the Frenches' the other evening, and we missed you yesterday at the Admiral's At Home. You aren't ill, Zoe... I don't think I ever saw you look better."

She surveyed her friend critically. There was no indication of ill-health in the dark splendour of Zoe Lawless' face, nor in the graceful, beautiful body, but in the sun-flecked eyes was a hint of sadness which Mrs Smythe detected.

"You are tired," she said.

"No." Mrs Lawless drew her to the sofa and sat down beside her... "At least not physically tired," she added... "I'm feeling old. I'm thirty-three to-day, Kate." She lifted the dark hair at her temples.

"Grey hairs there already, plenty of them. I spent some time this morning pulling them out, until it occurred to me as rather trivial...

and futile, too. It's like stripping the red leaves from the trees in autumn in a poor pretence that the summer is not past... It only advances winter."

"My dear girl!" Mrs Smythe said briskly, "when you are sixty-three you will be privileged to talk like that... Don't say too much about your age; I'm thirty-five."

Zoe laughed, and as suddenly grew grave again.

"With you age doesn't signify," she said. "You've had your years, and lived them, and each one has brought its past year's satisfaction; but with me there has been waste." She leant back against the cushions, with one arm flung out over the head of the sofa. "The years that the locusts have eaten!" ... she murmured... "It's when you have let the locusts eat into the precious years that you feel the bitterness of the loss of the golden hours. If I'd had my golden hours--if I'd enjoyed them, I shouldn't feel sorrowful at the coming of silver hairs. Youth that is wasted is like a day when the sunshine has been obscured by clouds. Towards evening the clouds pa.s.s, and the sun shines forth, perhaps, for a few minutes before it sets. But the clouds have spoilt the morning and rendered the tardy radiance ineffectual... The time has pa.s.sed."

"Your philosophy would be less painful if it were not so incontrovertible," Mrs Smythe returned quietly. "But if there has been waste, Zoe, isn't it adding to it to spend the hours mourning over those already gone? It would be far more sensible if you were to get out of that ridiculously becoming tea-gown and come out driving with me. I'm not surprised at your depression if you have spent the last few days dwelling on uncomfortable things."