Читать книгу: «Flower o' the Peach», страница 21
CHAPTER XIX
Upon that surprising morning when Mr. Samson, taking his early constitutional, was a witness to the cloud that rode across the sun and presently let go its burden of wet to fall upon the startled earth in slashing, roaring sheets of rain, there stood luggage in the hall, strapped, locked, and ready for transport.
"Gad!" said Mr. Samson, breathless in the front door and backing from the splashes of wet that leaped on the railing of the stoep and drove inwards. "They 'll have a wet ride."
He flicked at spots of water on the glossy surface of his gray coat and watched the rain drive across and hide the Karoo like a steel-hued fog. The noise of it, after months of sun and stillness, was distracting; it threshed vehemently with uproar and power, in the extravagant fashion of those latitudes. It was the signal that the weather had broken, justifying at length Mrs. Jakes' conversational gambit.
She came from the breakfast-room while he watched, with the wind from the open door romping in her thin skirts, and stood beside him to look out. They exchanged good mornings.
"Is n't it wet?" said Mrs. Jakes resourcefully. "But I dare say it 's good for the country."
"Rather," agreed Mr. Samson. "It 'll be all green before you know it. But damp for the travelers – what?"
"They will have the hood on the cart," replied Mrs. Jakes.
She was not noticeably changed since the doctor's death, three weeks before. Her clothes had always been black, so that she was exempt from the gruesome demands of custom to advertise her loss in her garments. The long habit of shielding Jakes from open shame had become a part of her; so that instead of abandoning her lost position, she was already in the way of canonizing him. She made reverential references to his professional skill, to his goodness, his learning, his sacrifices to duty. She looked people steadily and defiantly in the eyes as she said so, and had her own way with them. The foundations were laid of a tradition which presented poor Jakes in a form he would never have recognized. He was in his place behind the barbed wire out on the veld, sharing the bed of little Eustace, heedless that there was building for him a mausoleum of good report and loyal praise.
"Hate to see luggage in a house," remarked Mr. Samson, as they passed the pile in the hall on their way to the breakfast-room. "Nothing upsets a house like luggage. Looks so bally unsettled, don't you know."
"Things are a little unsettled," agreed Mrs. Jakes civilly. "What with the rain and everything, it doesn't seem like the same place, does it?"
She gave a tone of mild complaint to her voice, exactly as though a disturbance in the order of her life were a thing to be avoided. It would not have been consistent with the figure of the late Jakes, as she was sedulous to present it, if she had admitted that the house and its routine, its purpose, its atmosphere, its memories, the stones in its walls and the tiles on its roof, were the objects of her living hate. She was already in negotiations for the sale of it and what she called "the connection," and had called Mr. Samson and Ford into consultation over correspondence with a doctor at Port Elizabeth, who wrote with a typewriter and was inquisitive about balance-sheets. Throughout the consequent discussions she maintained an air of gentle and patient regret, an attitude of resigned sentiment, the exact manner of a lady in a story who sells the home of her ancestors to a company promoter. Even her anxiety to sell Ford and Mr. Samson along with the house did not cause her to deflect for an instant from the course of speech and action she had selected. There were yet Penfolds in Putney and Clapham Junction, and when the sale was completed she would see them again and rejoin their congenial circle; but her joy at the prospect was private, her final and transcendent secret.
Nothing is more natural to man than to pose; by a posture, he can correct the crookedness of his nature and be for himself, and sometimes for others too, the thing he would be. It is the instinct towards protective coloring showing itself through broadcloth and bombazine.
Mr. Samson accepted his coffee and let his monocle fall into it, a sign that he was discomposed to an unusual degree. He sat wiping it and frowning.
"Did I tell you," he said suddenly, "that – er – that Kafir 's going to look in just before they start?"
Mrs. Jakes looked up sharply.
"You mean – that Kamis?" she demanded. "He 's coming here?"
"Ye-es," said Mr. Samson. "Just for a minute or two. Er – Ford knows about it."
"To see Miss Harding, I suppose?" inquired Mrs. Jakes, with a sniff.
"Yes," replied Mr. Samson again. "It isn't my idea of things, but then, things have turned out so dashed queer, don't you know. He wrote to ask if he might say good-by; very civil, reasonable kind of letter; Ford brought it to me an' asked my opinion. Couldn't overlook the fact that he had a hand in saving her life, you know. So on my advice, Ford wrote to the feller saying that if he 'd understand there was going to be no private interview, or anything of that kind, he could turn up at ten o'clock an' take his chance."
"But," said Mrs. Jakes hopefully, "supposing the police —
"Bless you, that 's all right," Mr. Samson assured her. "The police don't want to see him again. Seems that old Bill Winter – you know I wrote to him? – seems that old Bill went to work like the dashed old beaver he is, and had Van Zyl's head on a charger for his breakfast. The Kafir-man 's got a job of some sort, doctorin' niggers somewhere. The police never mention him any more."
"Well," said Mrs. Jakes, "I can't prevent you, of course, from bringing Kafirs here, Mr. Samson, but I 've got my feelings. When I think of poor Eustace, and that Kafir thrusting himself in – well, there!"
Mr. Samson drank deep of his coffee, trying vaguely to suggest in his manner of drinking profound sympathy with Mrs. Jakes and respect for what she sometimes called the departed. Also, the cup hid her from him.
It was strange how the presence of Margaret's luggage in the hall pervaded the house with a sense of impermanence and suspense. It gave even to the breakfast the flavor of the mouthful one snatches while turning over the baffling pages of the timetable. Ford, when he came in, was brusk and irresponsive, though he was not going anywhere, and Margaret's breakfast went upstairs on a tray. Kafir servants were giggling and whispering up and down stairs and were obviously interested in the leather trunks. A house with packed luggage in it has no character of a dwelling; it is only a stopping-place, a minister to transitory needs. As well have a coffin in the place as luggage ready for removal; between them, they comprise all that is removable in human kind.
"Well," said Mr. Samson to Ford, attempting conversation; "we 're goin' to have the place to ourselves again. Eh?"
"You seem pleased," replied Ford unamiably.
"I 'm bearin' up," said Mr. Samson. "You seem grieved, though."
"That," said Ford, with venom, "is because I 'm being bored."
"The deuce you are." Mr. Samson was annoyed. "I don't want to talk to you, you know. Sulk all you want to; doesn't affect me. But if you could substitute a winnin' smile for the look you 're wearin' at present, it would be more appetizin'."
"Er – the rain seems to be drawing-off, I think," remarked Mrs. Jakes, energetically. "It might be quite fine by-and-by. What do you think, Mr. Samson?"
Mr. Samson, ever obedient to her prompting, made an inspection of the prospect through the window. But his sense of injury was strong.
"There are things much more depressing than rain," he said, rancorously, and occupied himself pointedly with his food.
Ford made his apology as soon as they were free from Mrs. Jakes. She had much to do in the unseen organization of the departure, and apologized for leaving them to themselves. It was another adjunct of the luggage; not within the memory of man had inmates of the Sanatorium sat at table without Mrs. Jakes.
"Sorry," said Ford then, in a matter-of-fact way.
"Are you?" said Mr. Samson grudgingly. "All right."
And that closed the incident.
Soon after breakfast, when the stoep was still uninhabitable and the drawing-room unthinkable and the hall uncongenial, Margaret came downstairs, unfamiliar in clothes which the Sanatorium had not seen before. Mrs. Jakes made mental notes of them, gazing with narrow eyes and lips moving in a soundless inventory. She came down smiling but uncertain.
"I didn't know it could rain," was her greeting. "Did you see the beginning of it? It was wonderful – like an eruption."
"I saw it," said Mr. Samson. "I got wet in it. It 'll be cool for your drive to the station, even if it 's a bit damp."
"There 's still half an hour to wait before the cart comes," said Margaret. "Where does one sit when it 's raining?"
"One doesn't," said Mr. Samson. "One stands about in draughts and one frets, one does."
"Come into the drawing-room," said Ford briefly.
Margaret looked at him with a smile for his seriousness and his manner of one who desires to get to business, but she yielded, and Mr. Samson ambled in their wake, never doubting that he was of their company. Ford, holding the door open for Margaret, surprised him with a forbidding scowl.
"We don't want you," he whispered fiercely, and shut the affronted and uncomprehending old gentleman out.
The drawing-room was forlorn and very shabby in the cold light of the rainy day and the tattoo of the rain-splashes on its window. Margaret went to the hearth where Dr. Jakes had been wont to expiate his crimes, and leaned her arm on the mantel, looking about the apartment.
"It 's queer," she said; "I shall miss this."
"Margaret," said Ford.
She turned to him, still smiling. She answered nothing, but waited for him to continue.
"I wanted to tell you something," he went on steadily. "You know I love you, don't you?"
"Yes," she answered slowly. "You – you said so."
"I said it because I do," he said. "Well, Dr. Van Coller was here yesterday, and when he had done with you, I had a word with him. I wanted to know if I could go Home too; so he came up to my room and made an examination of me, a careful one."
Margaret had ceased to smile. "Yes," she said. "Tell me: what did he say?"
"He said No," replied Ford. "I mustn't leave here. He was very clear about it. I 've got to stay."
The emphasis with which he spoke was merely to make her understand; he invited no pity for himself and felt none. He was merely giving information.
"But," said Margaret, – "never? It isn't as bad as that, is it?"
"He couldn't tell. He isn't really a lung man, you know. But it doesn't make any real difference, now you 're going. Two years or ten years or forever – you 'll be away among other people and I 'll be here and the gap between us will be wider every day. We 've been friends and I had hopes – nothing cures a chap of hoping, not even his lungs; but now I 've got to cure myself of it, because it's no use. I would n't have told you, Margaret – "
"Yes, you would," interrupted Margaret. "You wouldn't have let me go away without knowing, since you – you love me."
"That's it, exactly." He nodded; he had been making a point and she had seen it. "I felt you were entitled to know, but I can't say why. You understand, though, don't you?"
"Yes," she said. "I understand."
"I knew you would," he answered. "And you won't think I 'm whining. I 'm not. I 'm so thankful that we 've been together and understood each other and that I love you that I don't reckon myself a loser in the end. It 's all been pure gain to me. As long as I live I shall be better off for it; I shall live on it always and never let any of it go. If I never see you again, I shall still be to the good. But perhaps I shall. God knows."
"Oh, you will," cried Margaret. "You 're sure to."
He smiled suddenly. "That's what I tell myself. If I get all right, it 'll be the easiest thing in the world. I 'll come and call on you, wherever you happen to be, and send in my card. And if I 'm not going to get well, I shall have to know it sooner or later, and then, if you 'd let me, I 'd come just the same.
"I shouldn't expect anything," he added quickly. "Not a single thing. Don't be afraid of that. Just send in my card, as I said, and see you again and talk to you, and call you Margaret. I would n't cadge; you could trust me not to do that, at least."
"You must get well and then come," said the girl softly. "And if you call me Margaret, I will call you – "
She stopped. "I never heard your Christian name," she said.
"Just John," he answered, smiling. "John – not Jack or anything. I will come, you can be sure. Either free or a ticket-of-leave, I 'll come. And now, say good-by. I mustn't keep you any longer; I 've hurt old Samson's feelings as it is. Good-by, Margaret. You 'll get well in Switzerland, but you won't forget the Karoo, will you? Good-by."
"I won't forget anything," said Margaret, with eyes that were bright and tender. "Good-by. When your card comes in, I shall be ever so glad. Good-by."
There was a fidgety interval before the big cart drove up to the house, its wheels rending through the gritty mud and its horses steaming as though they had been boiled. Mr. Samson employed each interlude in the talk to glare at Ford in lofty offense; he seemed only to be waiting till this dull business of departure was concluded to call him to account. Mrs. du Preez, who had come across in the cart to bid Margaret farewell, was welcome as a diversion.
"Well, where 's the lucky one?" she cried. "Ah, Miss Harding, can't you smell London from here? If you could bottle that smell, with a drop o' fog, a drop o' dried fish and a drop o' Underground Railway to bring out the flavor, you 'd make a fortune, sellin' it to us poor Afrikanders. But you 'll be sniffin' it from the cask in three weeks from now. Lord, I wish it was me."
"You ought to make a trip," suggested Margaret.
"Christian don't think so," declared Mrs. du Preez, with her shrill laugh. "He knows I 'd stick where I touched like a fly in a jam-pot, and he 'd have to come and pull me out of it himself."
She took an occasion to drop a private whisper into Margaret's ear.
"Kamis is outside, waitin' to see you go. He 's talkin' to Paul."
The farewells accomplished themselves. That of Mrs. Jakes would have been particularly effective but for the destructive intrusion of Mrs. du Preez.
"Er – a pleasant voyage, Miss Harding," she said, in a thin voice. "I may be in London soon myself – at Putney. But I suppose we 're hardly likely to meet before you go abroad again."
"I wonder," said Margaret peaceably.
It was then that Mrs. du Preez struck in.
"Putney," she said, in a loud and callous voice, in itself sufficient to scrape Mrs. Jakes raw. "South the water, eh? But you can easy run up to London from there if Miss Harding sends for you, can't you?"
Kamis came eagerly to the foot of the steps as Margaret came down, and Mr. Samson, with a loud cough, posted himself at the head of them to superintend.
"I am glad you came," said Margaret. "I didn't want to go away without seeing you."
He glanced up at Mr. Samson and the others, a conscientious audience ranged above him, deputies of the Colonial Mrs. Grundy, and smiled comprehendingly.
"Oh, I had to come," he said. "I had to bid you good-by."
There was no change in his appearance since she had seen him last. His tweed clothes were worn and shabby as ever, and still strange in connection with his negro face.
"And I wanted to thank you for what you did for me that night," said Margaret earnestly. "It was a horrible thing, wasn't it? But I hear – I have heard that it has come all right."
Mr. Samson coughed again. Mrs. Jakes, with an elbow in each hand, coughed also.
"All right for me, certainly," the Kafir answered. "They have given me something to do. There 's an epidemic of smallpox among the natives in the Transkei, and I 'm to go there at once. It couldn't be better for me. But you. How about you?"
The Kafir boys who were carrying out the trunks and stacking them under Paul's directions in the cart were eyeing them curiously, and the audience above never wavered in its solemn watch. It was ridiculous and exasperating.
"Oh, I shall do very well," said Margaret, striving to be impervious to the influence of those serious eyes. "You have my address, have n't you? You must write me how you get on."
"If you like," he agreed.
"You must," she said. "I shall be keen to hear. I believed in you when nobody else did, except Paul."
A frightful cough from above did not silence her. She answered it with a shrug. She meant to say all she had to say, though the ground were covered with eaves-droppers.
"I shan't forget our talks," she went on; "under the dam, with Paul's models. You 'll get on now; you 'll do all you wanted to do; but I was in at the beginning, wasn't I?"
"You were, indeed," he answered; "at the darkest part of it, the best thing that ever happened to me. And now you 've got to go. I 'm keeping you too long."
Mr. Samson coughed again as they shook hands and came down the steps to assist Margaret into the cart.
"Remember," said the girl; "you must write. And I shall always be glad and proud I knew you. Good-by and good luck."
"Good-by," said the Kafir. "I 'll write. The best of luck."
Paul put his rug over her knees and reached for his whip. The tall horses leaned and started, and the stoep and its occupants, and the Kafir and Mr. Samson, slid back. A thin chorus of "good-bys" rose, and Margaret leaned out to wave her hand. A watery sun shone on them feebly between clouds and they looked like the culminating scene in some lugubrious drama.
When next she looked back, she saw the house against the gray sky, solitary and little, with all the Karoo for its background. It looked unsubstantial and vague, as though a mirage were left over from the months of sun, to be the abode of troubles and perplexities that would soon be dim and remote also. Paul pulled his horses to a standstill that she might see better; but even at that moment fresh rain drummed on the hood of the cart and came threshing about them, blotting the house from view.
"That 's the last of it, Paul," said Margaret. "No more looking back now."
Paul smiled slowly and presently found words.
"When we come to the station," he said, "I will find a Kafir to hold the horses and I will take you to the train. But I will not say much good-by."
"Why not?" inquired Margaret.
"Because soon I am coming to London too," he answered happily, "and I will see you there."
Mr. Samson and Ford were the last to reënter the house. The Kafir had gone off unnoticed, saying nothing; and Mrs. Jakes could not escape the conversational attentions of Mrs. du Preez and was suffering in the drawing-room. The two men stayed to watch the cart till the rain swept in and hid it. Then Mr. Samson resumed his threatful glare at Ford.
"Look here," he said formidably. "What d'you mean by your dashed cheek? Eh?"
"Sorry," said Ford calmly.
Mr. Samson snorted. "Are you?" he said. "Well – all right!"
