In the Whirl of the Rising Part 19

Woman the apostle--woman the missioner--felt moved to say, "Why don't you examine her claims to do so, and then aid in furthering them?" But Clare Vidal, looking at the speaker, only quoted to herself, "Thou art not far from the kingdom of heaven."

"As a matter of fact," went on Lamont, "I find among Catholics far more tolerance--using the word in its broad, work-a-day sense--than among those belonging to any other creed. By the way--are you one, may I ask?"

"Why, of course."

"I didn't know. Well, you must take my opinion--given in utter ignorance of the fact--for what it's worth. There's a sort of a Catholic colony near my place at home, and the priest is one of my most valued friends."

Clare brightened.

"Really?" she said. "How nice. But, Mr Lamont, how is it you live over here? Do you prefer this country to England?"

"I think it prefers me. You see, I can't afford to live in my own place. It's dipped--mortgaged, you understand--almost past praying for.

So it's let, and here I am."

"So that's why you are here?"

"Yes. The life suits me too. I believe if a miracle were to be worked, and my place started again clear for me, I should still stick out here, or at any rate come out every other year."

Clare looked at him, and the beautiful Irish eyes, their deep blue framed by thick dark lashes, were sympathetic and soft. She was thinking of the abominable stories Ancram had been spreading about this man; how he had been hounded out of his county for cowardice, and so on.

She repeated--

"So that is why you are out here?"

"Of course," he answered looking at her with mild astonishment. "Why else should I be?"

"Oh no. I hope you don't think me very inquisitive, Mr Lamont. Why, it really seems as if I were trying to--to 'pump' you--isn't that the word?"

"But such a thought never entered my head. Why should it?"

Clare felt uncomfortable. There was manifestly no answer to be made to this. So she said--

"By the way, who is this Mr Ancram? You knew him at home, didn't you?"

"Oh yes. Slightly, and didn't care for him at that. He turned up at my place here one night. Peters had picked him up in woeful plight down Pagadi way--and gave me the idea he had come to stay. I've nothing to say against the chap, mind, but I don't care for him."

Clare was no mischief-maker, still she could not help saying--

"Well, I don't think he's any friend of yours, from what I've heard."

"No? I suppose not. He's been putting about a yarn or two of his own here with regard to me, with just that substratum of truth about it that makes the half lie the most telling. But--good Lord, what does it matter?"

Clare's eyes opened wide. There was no affectation about this indifference--and how different this man was to the general ruck.

Instead of getting into a fume and promising to call the delinquent to account, and so forth, as most men would have done, this one simply lay back against the hard cold stone, puffed out a cloud of smoke, and said, "What does it matter?"

"Then you are indifferent to the opinion of other people about you?" she said.

"Utterly. Utterly and entirely. I look at it from this point of view.

If anything is said to my discredit, those whose opinions are worth having won't believe it. If they do, their opinions are not worth having--from my stand-point. See?"

"Yes, I do. You are a practical philosopher."

"I don't aim at being. The conclusion is sheer common-sense."

Then there fell silence. The rays of the newly risen sun poured down hotter and hotter upon the parched-up land, but the air was wonderfully clear. Behind lay the township, its zinc roofs flashing and shimmering in the unstinted morning radiance. Before lay roll upon roll of billowy verdure, and, on the right, a vast expanse stretching away, blue with distance, to the far skyline. Bright, peaceful and free, yet at that moment seething with demoniacal hate and the planning of demoniacal deeds. Yet here they sat, these two, conversing as unconcernedly as though such things were as completely impossible, as completely of the past, as one of them, at any rate, had up to half an hour ago imagined.

"I must be going back," said Clare. "This is only a before breakfast const.i.tutional."

"I'll go too. I've found out all I want to. I shall start back home this evening."

"This evening? Why, you are never going back to that lonely farm again, with these savages plotting to murder us all?"

"Yes, I am. They won't do it yet I am persuaded of that."

Clare's eyes dilated, as he walked beside her, leading his horse. The 'coward' again, she could not help thinking to herself. How many of those who so decried him, knowing what he did, would have started on a long solitary ride across the country to return to a solitary, and practically defenceless, dwelling at the end of the journey?

"But get Fullerton to take you into Buluwayo for a time," he repeated, as they neared the township. "This place is too small, and straggling, and might be rushed."

"But he won't. He'd laugh at the idea, if I put it to him."

"Yes. I know. Fullerton's a pig-headed chap--very. Still you needn't put it on its true grounds. Make out you want to shop, or see a dentist, or something, and get your sister to back you up. It'll be strange if you can't work it between you. Only--do it--do it."

She was impressed by his earnestness, and duly promised.

"Do look in and see us before you go out, Mr Lamont," she said, as they regained the township. "When do you start?"

"About sundown. There's a nice new moon, and it's pleasanter to ride at night, also easier on one's horse."

"Well, we shall be at home all the afternoon, Lucy and I. Good-bye for the present."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A COUNCIL OF WAR.

When the strokes of the horse's hoofs told that he had mounted and was riding away, Clare could not resist turning to glance back at him. How well he looked in the saddle, she thought, and then the calm strength of the almost melancholy face as he talked to her, the easy indifference to what would have irritated and stung most men, came back to her. This was an individuality absolutely new to her experience, and one of vivid interest, so vivid indeed that she began to recognise with a sort of wonder that she could not get it out of her thoughts. She recalled their conversation. If he had laid himself out to say exactly the right thing all through it, he could not have pleased her more, and yet it was obvious that he was talking perfectly naturally, and without premeditation--certainly without an idea of pleasing anybody. But--was she going to make a sort of hero of the man? Well, it certainly began to look something like it. So when at the breakfast-table Fullerton remarked--

"Didn't I see you talking to Lamont just now, Clare, over by the Sea Deep stands?" she felt that the mere question evolved within her quite an unexpected degree of combativeness.

"Yes, you very probably did," she answered. "We met during my morning const.i.tutional while you lazy people were snoring. He's very interesting."

"Is he?"

The tone, savouring of curt incredulity, whipped up the combative instinct still more, as she answered, with quite unnecessary crispness--

"Certainly. He's got ideas, anyhow. So there's that much interesting about him, if only for the scarcity of those who have."

"Ideas or not, he funked again yesterday. When Jim Steele wanted him to take his coat off," sneered Fullerton. Then the acc.u.mulated combativeness broke its barriers and fairly overwhelmed the incautious sneerer.