Grit Lawless Part 13

Mrs Lawless smiled faintly.

"It's not so bad as that," she answered. "I'm a creature of moods. Had you called yesterday you would have found me quite cheerful."

"Then I'm glad that my visit has fitted in with the heavier mood.

Cheerfulness needs no distraction. Change your gown, Zoe, and come out with me."

Mrs Lawless shook her head in response to her friend's inquiring look.

Her fingers were playing absently with one of the heavy ta.s.sels of a sofa cushion, twisting and pulling at it, and entwining themselves with the silky strands. She looked down at the ta.s.sel pensively, and at the busy fingers fidgeting with it continually as though their purposeless occupation held an interest for her.

"Thank you for suggesting it," she said slowly. "I would have been glad to go; but I am expecting Mr Lawless."

Mrs Smythe stared at her. Amazement bereft her of her customary tact.

"Expecting him! ... this afternoon?... Why, my dear, I pa.s.sed him driving with--"

She came to an abrupt halt, and gazed at her quiet companion with dismayed and apologetic eyes.

"His mistress," Zoe finished for her, looking up. "You needn't mind saying it... I have accustomed myself to the idea. He may not come this afternoon, of course... But--I think I prefer to stay at home."

Mrs Smythe was silent for a while.

"I never was so disappointed in anyone in my life as I am in him," she remarked at length.

Zoe's big eyes showed a faint surprise.

"No!" she said.

"Aren't you disappointed in him?" Mrs Smythe asked wonderingly.

"Oh! I don't know..." She sat up suddenly. "I try not to think of it," she said... "It's another instance of waste... waste and failure.

All the years I've known him--"

She looked at the other woman, and her eyes softened. "Perhaps if he had felt the influence of a good woman he might have made a better thing of life."

CHAPTER NINE.

Mrs Lawless stood on the stoep in the fading light and watched her friend drive away. In the east the intense blue of the sky had deepened to purple, and here and there a pale star lay, like a jewel in its azure setting, ready to adorn the sombre robes of night. The light breeze had dropped at sundown. There was no stir, no movement anywhere, no sound to awake the stillness. The strong scent of many flowers perfumed the languid, sensuous air which as yet gave no sign of the near approach of winter... if there can be any winter in a land where there is always sunshine, where the trees never bare their branches, and the flowers are ever in bloom.

She leaned her arms on the broad rail, and stared unseeingly before her through the foliage of the mimosa trees into the blue distance. The expression of her face was troubled, and a gleam of resentment shone in the proud eyes. So her summons was to be disregarded! His mistress claimed all his leisure, and he had no time to spare for anyone else.

She had waited in three days in the hope that he would come, had spent three lonely evenings so that if he chose to call on her at night he would find her ready to receive him. And he had neither come nor sent a message. She had almost ceased to expect him, had almost ceased to wish to see him. The mood that had moved her to write to him had pa.s.sed.

She felt cold now, and indifferent; and the futility of the task she had thought to undertake struck her in a new and more forcible light. Was it worth it? ... Was she not wasting time that might be more profitably employed? ... Was she not harrowing her feelings to no purpose?

She went indoors and sat down at the piano and played to herself. She was a brilliant pianist, and it was a custom of long standing to soothe herself with music when her mind was disturbed. It was in her sad moments--occasionally also in her moods of anger--that she oftenest played.

The light outside faded; it grew dark in the room. A native entered, lighted the shaded lamps, and noiselessly retired. Zoe Lawless played on. She did not hear the ring at the bell that followed shortly on the servant's exit; she was not aware that anyone had come until the door was thrown open by the same quiet servitor, who ushered in Mr Lawless, and then again retired and closed the door behind him.

Mrs Lawless turned slowly on the stool, and then stood up. She gave the visitor no greeting, and, beyond a slight bow, he made no move to greet her either. But he looked at her curiously as she stood facing him, and she observed with failing courage that his eyes were stern and hard.

"I had almost given up expecting you," she said.

"You sent for me," he answered curtly... "Whenever you send for me I will come."

She regarded him long and earnestly. There was that in his speech which, despite the harshness of his manner, inclined her towards a softer mood. She no longer saw the picture which Mrs Smythe had unconsciously drawn for her of him driving with his mistress, instead she recognised a man whom life had dealt hardly with accepting obligations which another man in similar circ.u.mstances would have ignored.

"Thank you," she said at last gently, and with a faintly wondering hesitation. "I did not know... I--felt scarcely justified in writing my request... But,"--she put self-consciousness behind her, and spoke from her heart simply, and with great earnestness--"I could not look on in silence while you deliberately spoilt your life. You were making your way in Cape Town... You could, if you chose, make it anywhere.

But you are so indifferent to the world's opinion."

"I have never found the world's opinion especially intelligent," he answered bluntly. "If it were worth studying, I might study it."

"Is it not, rather," she returned unexpectedly, "that you are over p.r.o.ne to yield to the influence of the hour? ... The opinion of others has never counted for much with you."

"You are mistaken," he said. "It is the opinion of others that has made me what I am. In the past I have been far too susceptible of public criticism. Had I been as indifferent as you imagine I should not be the failure that you see to-day."

She threw out a protesting hand.

"You always speak as though there was nothing ahead, as though you had shuttered all the exits of the soul... When you talk like that I feel that I cannot breathe."

"It's only a first impression," he answered sarcastically; "respiration becomes easier when you grow accustomed to the shutters... There _is_ nothing ahead. I reconciled myself to the want of outlook years ago; now I adapt,--not myself to circ.u.mstances, but circ.u.mstances to suit me.

It's astonishing how one can bend events to one's service. The doing so contrives to add a peculiar satisfaction of its own. I don't wish you to suppose that I've been sitting all these years with my head between my hands--the image is depressing. My hands have been otherwise employed. I've had them on the throat of life, and when it has used me spitefully I've pressed it hard in return. I've had some bad knocks, I admit; but, believe me, I'm not beaten yet. And the bruises have healed. The marks may be apparent, but there is no soreness... And those blows served a purpose too. They confirmed me in a resolve I made more than eight years ago,--to live my life independently of my fellows,--to enjoy such pleasures as the moment offered,--to deny myself no single desire that I had the means of gratifying. I have not gone back on that through all these years."

"Not a very lofty resolve," she said, as she sank into a chair.

"No... Not from your point of view... I suppose not."

"And from your point of view?" she asked.

He laughed.

"You forget the shutters," he said. "My view is enclosed. I am unable to gaze up at the heights."

"You could open the shutters if you would," she said in a voice that was only a little louder than a whisper.

"Perhaps I don't wish to," he answered.

He moved nearer to her. He did not sit down, but he leant with his arms on the back of a chair, looking at her, as he had leant the night of the ball when they had talked together on the stoep.

"I'm satisfied with things as they are," he said. "I've got used to the rough and tumble of my lot. And I've become so thoroughly saturated with the belief that it is no concern of anyone's what I do that it's very unlikely I will submit to interference. I'm behaving quite abominably, I know," he added, in response to the quick, pained flush that warmed the pallor of her skin from the smooth brow to the slender white column of her throat; "but it would be a satisfaction to me if you would only realise that I'm not worth your distress. I understand what your idea is--most good women fall into the same error. But when a man has no desire to be influenced it is waste of time to attempt it."

Her glance fell under his direct, steady look, and the embarra.s.sed colour that had flamed into her cheeks retreated and left them whiter than before. She put up a hand for a second as if to screen her eyes from the light, and he knew that she was pressing back the starting tears.

"I know," she said very low, and without looking at him, "that I've no right to interfere. But whatever you say,--whatever you think, we can none of us act independently of our fellows. When we do wrong we are bound to hurt someone--as well as ourselves."

There was a brief silence during which both still figures remained so rigidly quiet that the subdued ticking of the dresden clock on the mantelpiece sounded intrusively loud in the stillness. Then Lawless moved abruptly.

"You mean," he said, "that I am hurting you."

"Yes... You are hurting me."