THE SIGN OF THE HEART

Chapter 7

No more foolish passion was ever implanted in the human breast than that of

jealousy—unless it were that of which it is the direct outcome—nor is there any

which the average human is less potent to resist. The victim of either, or both, is

for the time being outside reason.

Now the first-mentioned form of disease is, to the philosophical mind, of all

others the most essentially foolish—indeed, we can hardly call to mind any other

so thoroughly calculated to turn the average well-constructed man or woman

into an exuberantly incurable i***t. For what does it amount to when we come to

pan it out? If there exist grounds for the misgiving, why then it is going begging

—grovelling for something which the other party has not got to give; if

groundless, is it not a fulfilling of the homely old saw relating to cutting off one's

nose to spite one's face? (We disclaim any intent to pun.) In either case it is such

a full and whole-souled giving of himself, or herself, away on the part of the

patient; while on that of its object—is he, or she, worth it?

Now, from a very acute form of this insanity George Falkner was a chronic

sufferer. He had cherished a secret weakness for Lilith, almost when she was yet

in short frocks, but since her return from England, from the moment he had once

more set eyes upon her on the deck of the Persian, he had tumbled madly,

uncontrollably, headlong in love. Did a member of the opposite s*x so much as

exchange commonplaces with her, George Falkner's personality would contrive

to loom, grim and dark, and almost threatening, in the background; while such

male animal who should enjoy the pleasure of say an hour of Lilith's society à

deux, even with no more flirtatious or ultimate intent than the same period spent

in the society of his grandmother, would inspire in George a fell murderousness,

which was nothing short of a reversion to first principles. As for Lilith herself,

she was fond of him, very, in a sisterly, cousinly way—and what way, indeed,

could be more fatal to that by which he desired to travel? Nor did it mend

matters any that their mutual relatives were the reverse of favourable to his

aspirations, on the ground of the near relationship existing between the parties.

So, poor George, seeing no light, became morose and quarrelsome, and wholly and violently unreasonable—in short, a bore. All of which was a pity, because,

this weakness apart, he was, on the whole, rather a good fellow.

He had come to the Rand, like everybody else, to wait for the boom—which

boom, like the chariots of Israel, though totally unlike the children of the same,

tarried long in coming; indeed, by that time there were not wanting those who

feared that it might not come at all. He had pleaded with his aunt to invite Lilith

at the same time, artfully putting it that the opportunity of his escort was too

good to be missed; and Mrs. Falkner, with whom he was a prime favourite,

although she did not approve his aspirations, weakly agreed. And so here they

were beneath the same roof, with the addition of his second sister, the blue-eyed

Mabel, whose acquaintance we have already made.

The latter, in her soft, fair-haired, pink and roses style, was a very pretty girl.

She, for her part, could count "coup" to a creditable extent, and among the latest

scalps which she had hung to her dainty twenty-inch girdle was that of our friend

Holmes.

This—i***t, we were going to say, looked back upon that deadly, monotonous,

starved, dusty, flea-bitten coach-ride of three days and two nights as a species of

Elysium, and in the result was perennially importuning Laurence to take a stroll

down to Booyseus, "Just for a constitutional, you know." And the latter would

laugh, and good-naturedly acquiesce. It was a cheap way of setting up a

character for amiability, he would say to himself satirically; for as yet Holmes

hardly suspected he was almost as powerfully drawn thither as Holmes was

himself—more powerfully, perhaps—only, with the advantage of years and

experience and cooler brain, he had himself more in hand.

"Instead of making a prize gooseberry of me, Holmes, as a very appropriate item

against the 'silly' season," he said one day, "you had much better go over by

yourself. You are getting into Falkner's black books. He hates me like poison,

you know."

"But that's just why I want you along, Stanninghame. While he's trying to stand

you off in the other quarter, I'm in it, don't you see?" replied the other, with

whole-hearted ingenuousness.

Holmes had stated no more than the truth. Of all the "rivals," real or imaginary,

whom the jealous George hated and feared, quâ rival, none could touch

Laurence Stanninghame. For by this time it had become patent to his watchful

eyes that among the swarms of visitors of the male, and therefore, to him, obnoxious s*x, at whose coming Lilith's glance would brighten, and with whom

she would converse with a kind of affectionate confidentiality when others were

present, and apparently even more so when others were not, that objectionable

personage was the said Laurence Stanninghame.

This being the case, it followed that George Falkner, looking out on the stoep

one fine afternoon, and descrying the approach of his bugbear, stifled a bad cussword or two, and then exploded aloud in more approved and passworthy fashion.

"There's that bounder coming here again."

"'Bounder' being Dutch for somebody you detest—eh, George?" said Lilith

sweetly.

"Confound it! That everlasting trying to be sharp is one of the most deadly

things a man has to put up with. It's catching—eh, Lilith?" was the sneering

retort.

"But who is it?" said Mrs. Falkner, who was short-sighted, or affected to be.

"Oh, the great god, Stanninghame, of course, and his pup, Holmes."

Now the ill-conditioned George had stirred up a hornet's nest, for his sister took

up the parable.

"Well, there are lessons to be learned even from 'pups,'" said Mabel scathingly.

"They are not always growling, at any rate."

"Oh, you're on the would-be smart lay, too? Didn't I say it was catching?" he

jeered.

"Yes, and you say a great many things that are supremely foolish," retorted

Mabel, turning up her tip-tilted nose a little more, in fine scorn.

"Well, I'm off to the camp," said George, with a sort of snarl, reaching for a hat.

"Clearly, I'm not wanted here."

"You're not, if you're going to do nothing but make yourself fiendishly

disagreeable," rejoined his sister, pertly pitiless. In reality she was very fond of

him, and he of her, but he had trampled on a tender place; for she liked Holmes.

George banged on his hat, strode angrily to the door, and—got no farther. He did

not see why he should leave the field clear to all comers, even if he were out of the running himself; a line of irresoluteness which affords an excellent

exemplification of the remarks wherewith we have opened this chapter.

By all but George, who was excusably undemonstrative, the two new arrivals

were greeted with customary cordiality.

"Why, Mr. Stanninghame, it seems quite a long time since we saw you last," said

Mrs. Falkner, as they were all seated out on the stoep. "What have you been

doing with yourself?"

"The usual thing—studying the share market, and—talking about it."

"And is the outlook still as bad as it was?"

"Worse. However, we must hope it'll go better."

"I hear that you and that queer man, Mr. Hazon, have become such friends, Mr.

Stanninghame."

This was the sort of remark with which Laurence had scant patience, the more so

that it met him at every turn. What concern was it of the Rand collectively who

he chose to be friendly with, that every third person he met should rap out such

kind of comment?

"Oh, we get along all right, Mrs. Falkner," he answered. "But then I have a

special faculty for hitting it off with unpopular persons—possibly a kind of

fellow-feeling. Besides, accepting ready-made judgments concerning other

people does not commend itself to my mind on any score of logic or sound

sense. It is just a trifle less insane than taking up other people's quarrels, but only

just."

"I dare say you're right; only it is difficult for most of us to be so consistently, so

faultlessly logical. No doubt most of the things they say about him are not true."

"But what are most of the things they say, Mrs. Falkner? Now I, for my part,

never can get anybody to say anything. They will hint unutterables and look

unutterables, but when it comes to saying—no, thank you, they are not taking

any."

"But he is such a very mysterious personage. Not a soul here knows anything

about him—about his affairs, I mean—and who he is."

"Perhaps that enhances his attractiveness in my eyes, Mrs. Falkner. There is prestige in the unknown."

"Not of a good kind, as a rule," she replied, and then stopped short, for a dry

malicious cough on the part of George brought home to her the consciousness

that she was putting her foot in it pretty effectively. For the same held good of

the man to whom she was talking; about Laurence Stanninghame and his affairs

not a soul there knew anything.

Not a soul? Yes, one, peradventure. For between himself and Lilith the

interchange of ideas had been plenteous and frequent, and the subtile,

sympathetic vein existing between them had deepened and grown apace. About

himself and his affairs he had told her nothing, yet it is probable that he could

tell her but little on this head that would be news in any sense of the word.

Lilith's aunt, however, who was a good-hearted soul, without a grain of malice in

her composition, felt supremely uncomfortable and quite savage with George,

who was now grinning, sourly and significantly.

None of this by-play was lost upon Laurence, but he showed no consciousness.

He knew that George Falkner detested him—detested him cordially, yet he in no

wise reciprocated this dislike. He did not blame George. Probably he would have

felt the same way himself, had he been in George's place and at George's age; for

the latter had the advantage of him on the side of youth by at least ten years. He

was inclined to like him, and at any rate was sorry for him, perhaps with a dash

of pity that came near contempt. Poor George did give himself away so, and it

was so foolish—so supremely foolish. Yet not for a moment did it occur to

Laurence to efface himself in this connection. Duty? Hang duty! He had made a

most ruinous muddle of his whole life through reverencing that fetich word.

Honour? There was no breach of honour where there was no deception, no

pretence. Consideration for others? Who on earth ever dreamt of considering

him—when to do so would cost them anything, that is? Unselfishness?

Everybody was selfish—everything even. What had he ever gained by striving to

improve upon the universal law? Nothing—nothing good; everything bad—bad

and deteriorating—morally and physically.

And now, should he put the goblet from his lips? Not he. This strong, new wine

of life had rejuvenated him. Its rich, sweet fumes, so far from clouding his brain,

had cleared it. It had enwrapped his heart in a glow as of re-enkindled fire, and

caused the stagnated blood to course once more through his veins, warm and

strong and free. His very step had gained an elasticity, a firmness, to which it had

long been strange. And yet with all this, his judgment had remained undimmed, keen, clear, subject to no illusions. The logic of the situation was rather pitiless,

perchance cruel. He was under no sort of illusion on that score. Well, let it be.

Here again came in the universal law of life, the battle of the strong. There was

no weakness left in him.

"For my part, I like Hazon," cut in Holmes decisively; "he only wants knowing.

And because he doesn't let himself go for the benefit of every bounder on the

Rand, they talk about him as if he'd committed no end of murders. It's my belief

that half the fellows who abuse him are ten thousand times worse than him," he

added, with the robust partisanship of hearty youth.

Further discussion of Hazon and his derelictions, real or imaginary, was cut short

by the arrival of more visitors, mostly of the sterner s*x; for Mrs. Falkner liked

her acquaintance to drop in informally—a predilection her acquaintance, if

young and especially of the harder s*x aforesaid, for obvious reasons, delighted

just at present to humour. George, however, in no wise shared his aunt's

expansiveness in this direction, if only that it meant that Lilith was promptly

surrounded by an adoring phalanx, even as on the deck of the Persian.

Now it was voted cool enough for lawn tennis—for which distraction, indeed,

some of the droppers-in were suitably attired—and there was keen competition

for Lilith as a partner; and Holmes, being first in the field, resolutely bore off

Mabel Falkner as his auxiliary. And George, realizing that he was "out of it" for

some time to come, perhaps, too, taking a vague comfort in the thought that

there is safety in numbers, actually did proceed to carry out his threat, and

betook himself townwards.

Laurence remained seated on the stoep, talking to Mrs. Falkner and one of the

visitors; but all the while, though never absent-minded or answering at random,

his eyes were following, with a soothing and restful sense of enjoyment, every

movement of Lilith's form—a very embodiment of grace and supple ease, he

pronounced it. The movement of the game suited her as it suited but few. She

never seemed to grow hot, or flurried, or dishevelled, as so many of the fair are

wont to do while engaged in that popular pastime. Every movement was one of

unstudied, unconscious grace. In point of hard fact, she played indifferently; but

she did so in a manner that was infinitely good to look at. "Don't you play at this, Mr. Stanninghame?" said the other visitor, "or have you

got a soul above such frivolities?"

"That doesn't exactly express it," he answered. "The truth is, I don't derive

sufficient enjoyment from skipping about on one or both legs at the end of a

racket, making frantic attempts to stop a ball which the other side is making

equally frantic and fruitless efforts to drive at me through a net. As a

dispassionate observer, the essence of the game seems to me to consist in

sending the ball against the net as hard and as frequently as practicable."

At this the visitor spluttered, and, being of the softer s*x, declared that he must

be a most dreadful cynic; and Lilith, who was near enough to hear his remarks,

turned her head, with a rippling flash of mirth in her eyes, and said "Thank you!"

which diversion indeed caused her to perform the very feat he had been so

whimsically describing.

Presently, growing tired of talking, he withdrew from the others. It happened that

there was a book in the drawing room which had caught his attention during a

former visit; and now he sought it, and taking it up from the table, stood there

alone in the cool shaded room turning from page to page, absorbed in comparing

passages of its contents. Then a light step, a rustle of skirts, a lilt of song—which

broke off short as he raised his eyes. Lilith was passing through, her tennis

racket still in her hand. Slightly flushed with her recent exercise, she looked

radiantly sweet, in her dark, brilliant beauty.

"Oh, I didn't know anyone was here; least of all, you," she said. "You startled

me."

"Sorceress, remove those unholy spells; for thou art indeed good to look upon

this day."

She flashed a smile at him, throwing back her head with that slight, quick

movement which constituted in her a very subtile and potent charm.

"Flatterer! Do you think so? Well, I am glad."

She dropped her hand down upon his, as it rested on the table, with a swift, light,

caressing pressure, and her eyes softened entrancingly as they looked up into his.

Then she was gone.

He stood there, cool, immovable, self-possessed, outwardly still to all

appearance intent upon the book which he held. But in reality he saw it not. His whole mental faculties were called into play to endeavour imagination to retain

that soft, light pressure upon his hand. His resources of memory were

concentrated upon the picture of her as she stood there a moment since,—lovely,

smiling, enchanting,—and then the sombre brain-wave, reminding of the

hopelessness, the mockery of life's inexorable circumstance, would roll in upon

his mind; and heart would seem tightened, crushed, strangled with a pain that

was actually physical—of such acuteness indeed, that, had that organ been weak,

he would be in danger of falling dead on the spot. And this was a part of the

penalty he had to pay for his well-nigh superhuman self-control.

He loved her—this man who loved nothing and nobody living, not even himself.

He loved her—this man whose life was all behind him, and whose heart was of

stone, and whose speech was acrid as the most corrosive element known to

chemistry. But a few "passes" of sweet Sorceress Lilith's magical wand and the

stone heart had split to fragments, pouring forth, giving release to, a warm wellspring. A well-spring? A very torrent, deep, fierce, strong, but not irresistible—

as yet. Still there were moments when to keep it penned within its limits was

agony—agony untold, superhuman, well-nigh unendurable.

He loved her—he who was bound by legal ties until death. With all the strong

concentrative might of his otherwise hard nature, he loved her. The dead dismal

failure of the past, the sombre vistas of the future, were as nothing compared

with such moments as this. Yet none suspected, so marvellously did he hold

himself in hand. Even the most jealous of those who saw them frequently

together—George Falkner, for instance, and others—were blind and

unsuspecting. But—what of Lilith herself?