THE SIGN OF THE HEART

Chapter 8

The share market at Johannesburg was rapidly going to the deuce.

Some there were who ardently wished that Johannesburg itself had gone thither,

before they had heard of its unlucky and delusive existence, and among this

daily increasing number might now be reckoned Laurence Stanninghame. He,

infected with the gambler's fever of speculation, had not thought it worth while

to "hedge"; it was to be all or nothing. And now, as things turned out, it was

nothing. The old story—a fictitious market, bolstered up by fictitious and

inflated prices; a sudden "slump," and then—everybody with one mind eager to

dispose of scrip, barely worth the paper of which it consisted—in fact,

unsaleable. King Scrip had landed his devoted subjects in a pretty hole.

"You're not the only one, Stanninghame—no, not by a long, long chalk," said

Rainsford ruefully, as they were talking matters over one day. "I'm hard hit

myself, and I could point you out men here who were worth tens of thousands a

month ago, and couldn't muster a hard hundred cash at this moment if their lives

depended on it—worse, too, men whose overdraft is nearly as big as their capital

was the same time back."

"I suppose so. Yet most fellows of that kind are adepts at the fine old business

quality of besting their neighbours, one in which I am totally lacking, possibly

owing to want of practice. They can go smash and come up smiling, and in a

little while be worth more than ever. They know how to do it, you see, and I

don't. Smash for me means smash, and that of a signally grievous kind."

Rainsford looked at him curiously.

"Oh, bother it, Stanninghame, you're no worse off than the rest of us. We've got

to lie low and hang on for a bit, and watch our chances."

"Possibly you are right, Rainsford. No doubt you are. Still every donkey knows

where his own saddle galls him."

"Rather, old chap," replied the other, whose hat covered the total of his liability. "The only thing to do is to hold on tight, have a drink, and trust in Providence.

We'll go and have the drink."

They adjourned to a convenient bar. It was about noon, and the place was fairly

full. Here they found Holmes in the middle of a crowd, also Rankin and

Wheeler. The consumption of "John Walker" was proceeding at a brisk rate.

"Hallo, Stanninghame, how are you?" cried Rankin; "haven't seen you for a long

time. I think another 'smile' wouldn't hurt us, eh? What do you say? I'm doing

bitters. Nothing like Angostura—with a little drop of gin in it; gives tone to the

system. What's yours?"

Laurence named his, and the genial Rankin having shouted for it and other

"rounds," proceeded to unfold some wondrous scheme by which he was

infallibly bound to retrieve all their fortunes at least cent. per cent. It was only a

matter of a little capital. Anyone who had the foresight to intrust him with a few

hundreds might consider his fortune made. But, somehow, nobody could be

found to hand over those few hundreds. In point of fact, nobody had got them.

"Here, Rainsford," sung out somebody, "we are tossing for another 'all round.'

Won't your friend cut in?"

Laurence did cut in, and then Holmes, who, being of genial disposition, and very

hard hit too in the scrip line, began uproariously to suggest a further "drown

care."

"Excuse me, eh, Holmes?" said Laurence. "It's getting too thick, and I don't think

this is a sort of care that'll bear drowning. I'm off. So-long, everybody."

"Hold on, Stanninghame," sung out Rankin, who was the most hospitable soul

alive. "Come round to the house and dine with us. I'm just going along. We'd

better do another bitters though, first. What do you say?"

But Laurence declined both hospitalities. A very dark mood was upon him—one

which rendered the idea of the society of his fellows distasteful to the last

degree. So he left the carousing crowd, and betook himself to his quarters.

Now the method of drowning care as thus practised commended itself to him on

no principle of practical efficacy. He had care enough to drown, Heaven knew,

but against any temptation to fly to the bottle in order to swamp it he was proof.

His very cynicism, selfish, egotistical as it might be in its hard and sweeping

ruthlessness, was a safeguard to him in this connection. That he, Laurence Stanninghame, to whom the vast bulk of mankind represented a commingling of

rogue and fool in about equal proportion, should ever come to render himself

unsteady on his feet, and hardly responsible for the words which came from his

brain, presented a picture so unutterably degraded and loathsome, that his mind

recoiled from the barest contemplation of it.

Yes, he had care enough, in all conscience, that day as he walked back to his

quarters; for unless the market took a turn for the better, so sudden as to be

almost miraculous, the time when he would any longer have a roof over his head

might be counted by weeks. And now every mail brought him grumbling,

querulous letters asking for money when there was none to send—bitter and

contentious letters, full of complaint and the raking up of old sores and soulwearying lamentation; gibing reproaches, too, to him who had beggared himself

that these might live. It would have been burden enough had it mattered greatly

to him whether anyone in the world lived or not; but here the burden was tenfold

by reason of its utter lack of appreciation, of common gratitude, of consideration

for the shoulders which, sorely weighed down and chafed, yet still supported it.

But if the refuge which is the resort of the weak held out no temptation to him,

there was another refuge of which the exact opposite held good. In weird and

gloomy form all the recollections and failures of his past life would rise up and

confront him. What an unutterable hash he had made of it and its opportunities!

It did not do to run straight—the world was not good enough for it; so he had

found. That for the past; for the future—what? Nothing. For some there was no

future, and he was one of these. He saw no light.

Lying on his bed, in the heat of the early afternoon, he realized all this for the

hundredth time. The temptation to end it all was strong upon him. Stronger and

stronger it grew, as though shadowy demon-shapes were hovering in the shaded,

half-darkened room. It grew until it was well-nigh overmastering. His eyes

began to wander meaningly towards a locked drawer, and he half rose.

Against this temptation his hardened cynicism was no safeguard at all; rather did

it tend to foster it, and that by reason of a corrosive disgust with life and the

conditions thereof which it engendered within him. Then, in his half-dreamy

state, a sweet and softening influence seemed to steal in upon his soul. He

thought he would like to see Lilith Ormskirk once more. Was it foolishness,

weakness? Not a bit. Rather was it hard, matter-of-fact, logical philosophy. He

had made an unparalleled hash of life. If he were going to leave it now it was

sound logic to do so with, as it were, a sweet taste upon his mental palate. Was it an omen for good, an earnest of a turn in the wheel of ill-luck? On

reaching Booyseus he was so fortunate as to find Lilith not only at home but

alone. Her face lighted up at the sight of him.

"How sweet of you to toil out here this hot afternoon," she said, as he took

within his the two hands she had instinctively held out to him. For a moment he

looked at her without replying, contrasting the grim motive which had brought

him hither with this perfect embodiment of youth, and health, and beauty, with

all of life, all of the future yet before her—all of life with its possibilities. She

was in radiant spirits, and the hazel eyes shone entrancingly, and the slight flush

under the dark warmth of the satin skin, caused by the unaffected pleasure

inspired by his arrival, rendered even his strong head a trifle unsteady, as though

with a rich, sweet, overpowering intoxication.

"Well, the reward is great," he answered, still retaining her hands in a lingering

pressure. "Are you all alone, child?"

"Yes," she said, that pleased flush mantling again, the diminutive sounding

strangely sweet to her ears as coming from him.

"But you—we may not be much longer. People might drop in at any moment,

and I want to be alone with you this afternoon. I am spoiling for one of our long

talks, so put on a hat and come for a stroll across the veldt. Or is it too hot?"

"You know it is not," she answered. "Now, I won't be a minute."

She was as good as her word, for she reappeared almost immediately with a hat

and sunshade, and they set forth, striking out over the bare open veldt which

extended around and behind the Booyseus estate. The heat was great, greater

than most women would have cared to face, but the blue cloudlessness of the

sky, the sheeny glow of the sun upon the free open country was so much delight

to Lilith Ormskirk. In her love for all that was bright and glowing she was a true

daughter of the South.

"Oh, Laurence, how good it is to live!" she exclaimed, as they stepped out at a

brisk pace in the glorious openness of the warm air. "Do you know, I feel at

times so bright, and well, and happy in the very joy and thankfulness of being

alive, that it almost brings tears. Do you understand the feeling? Tell me." "I think so."

"But did you ever feel that way yourself?"

"Perhaps—in fact, I must have, because I understand so thoroughly what you

mean; but it must have been a very, very long time ago."

His tone was that of one gravely amused, indulgently caressing. Heavens! he

was thinking. The contrast here was quite delicious; in fact, it was unique. If

only Lilith could have seen into his thoughts at that moment, if only she had had

the faintest inkling as to their nature an hour or so back. Still something in his

look or in his tone sobered her.

"Ah, Laurence, forgive me," she cried. "How unfeeling I am, throwing my lightheartedness at you in this way, when things are going so badly with you."

"Unfeeling? Why, child, I love to see you rejoicing in the bright happiness of

your youth and glowing spirits. I would not have you otherwise for all the

world."

"No, I ought not to feel that way just now, when you—when so many all round

us—are passing through such a dreadfully anxious and critical time. Tell me,

Laurence, are things brightening for you even a little?"

"Not even a little; the case is all the other way. But don't you think about it,

child. Be happy while you can and as long as you can. It is the worst possible

philosophy to afflict yourself over the woes of other people."

Now the tears did indeed well to Lilith's eyes, but assuredly this time they were

not tears of joy and thankfulness. One or two even fell.

"Don't sneer, Laurence. You must keep the satire and cynicism for all the world,

if you will, but keep the inner side of your nature for me," said she, and in the

sweet, pleading ring in her voice there was no lack of feeling now. "You have

had about ten times more than your share of all the dark and bitter side of life.

You will not refuse my sympathy—my deepest, most heartfelt sympathy—will

you, dear? Ah, would that it were only of any use at all!"

"Your sympathy? Why, I value and prize it more than anything else in the world

—in fact it is the only thing in the world I do value. 'Of any use at all?' It is of

some use—of incalculable use, perhaps." A smile lit up the clouded sadness of her face.

"If I only thought that," she said. "Still it's more than sweet to hear you say so.

Tell me, Laurence, what was the strange sympathetic magnetism that existed

between us from the very first—yes, long before we talked together? I was

conscious of it, if you were not—a sympathy that makes it easy for me to follow

you, when you talk so darkly that nobody else could."

"Oh, there is such a sympathy, then?"

"Of course there is, and you know it."

"Perhaps. Tell me, Lilith, do you still cherish certain fusty and antiquated

superstitions which make that good results and beneficial can never come out of

abstract wrong? Abstract wrong being for present purposes a mere

conventionality."

She looked at him for a moment. The interchange of that steady silent glance

was sufficient.

"No, I do not," she said.

"I thought not. Well, that being so, you can perhaps realize of what 'use,' as you

put it, that sweetest gift of your deepest, most heartfelt sympathy may be to its

object, and in its results wholly beneficial. Do you follow?"

"Why, of course. And is it really in my power to brighten life for you ever so

little? Ah, that would be happiness indeed."

"Continue to think so, then, for it is in your power to do just that, and you are

doing it at this moment. And, child, when you feel that sense of boundless

elation with the joy of living, add this to the happiness you are feeling, not to

lessen but to enhance it."

"I will do that, Laurence," she said. "And if the consciousness that you have

what you say is of use to you, let it be to strengthen you. Clear-headed, strong as

you are, dear, there must come hours of terrible gloom, even to you. Well, when

such come on, think of our talk to-day and strive to throw them off because of it

—because of the strengthening influences of it."

Thus she spoke, bravely, but beneath her outwardly sweet serenity a hard battle

was being waged. She was fighting with her innermost self; striving hard to retain her self-control. She would not even raise her eyes to his lest she should

lose it, lest she should betray herself. And all the while the chords of her

innermost being thrilled and quivered with an indescribable tenderness, taking

words within her mind: "My Laurence, my love, my ideal, what would I not do

to brighten life for you—you for whom life is all too hard! I would draw down

that life-weary head till it rested on my breast; I would wind my arms round your

neck and whisper into your tired ear words of comfort, and of soothing, and of

love. Ah, how I would love you, care for you, shield your ear from ever being

hurt by a discordant word! And I would draw your heart within mine to rest

there, and would feel life all too blissfully, ineffably sweet to live."

His voice broke in upon her meditations, causing her a very perceptible start, so

rapt were they.

"What is the subject of your very deep thought, my Lilith? Are you wreathing

some strange and hitherto unsuspected spell, sorceress?"

The tone, playful, half sad, nearly upset her self-control then and there. Was it

with design that, after the first keen penetrating gaze, he half averted his glance?

"I am afraid I am poor company," she said rather lamely. "I must have been silent

quite a long time. I was thinking—thinking out some knotty problem which

would draw down your superior lordship's indulgent pity," with a flash of all her

former bright spirits.

"And its nature?"

"If you will promise not to sneer I'll tell you. You will? Well, then, I was

thinking whether I would have that gold-yellow dress done up with mauve

sleeves or black, for Wednesday week."

Whether he believed her or not it was impossible to determine from the

demeanour wherewith this statement was received. She was inclined to think he

did, which spoke volumes for his tactfulness; and is it not of the very essence of

that far too uncommon virtue to impress your interlocutor with the conviction

that you believe exactly as he—or she—wants you to? In point of fact, there was

something heroically pathetic in the way in which each mind strove to veil from

the other its inner workings, while every day showed more and more the

impossibility of keeping up the figment.

Yet, for all this, there were times when the possession, the certainty of Lilith's "sympathy" she had called it, would fail to cheer, to strengthen. Darker and

darker grew the days, more hopeless the prospect, and soon Laurence

Stanninghame found himself not merely face to face with poverty, but on the

actual verge of destitution. Grim, fell spectres haunted his waking hours no less

than his dreams. Did he return from a few hours of hard exercise with a fine

appetite, that healthy possession served but to remind him how soon he would be

without the means of gratifying it. He pictured himself utterly destitute, and

through his sleeping visions would loom hideous spectres of want and

degradation. Day or night, waking or sleeping, it was ever the same; the horror

of the position was ever before him and would not be laid. His mind was a hell

to him, his heart of lead, his hard, clear brain deadly, self-pitiless in its purpose.

Obviously, there was no further room in the world for such as he.