Part 45 (1/2)
She did not lift her eyes to his--she did not move from her fixed, rigid position; but, hoa.r.s.ely her lips framed a single small word:
”Go.”
With a quick shudder, as one who feels the stab of a knife, Claverton heard it. And he knew there was no disputing the decree.
”Lilian, for the love of my whole life which I have laid down before you--for the sake of the time that is past--give me one more kiss before we part for ever.”
He bent down to her, and she did not resist. He took her to his heart, but the burning eyes, dilated and tearless, did not seek his; he pressed one long, warm, pa.s.sionate kiss upon her pallid lips, such as he might have done if he had been looking upon her for the last time ere the lid of her coffin was shut down, but she made no response. Then he released her.
”There. No other woman's lips shall meet mine, after this, till the grave closes over me--Lilian--my darling love--Heaven send you all happiness--Good-bye!”
Still she did not look up. She could not, she dared not. There was a rustle as the surrounding branches were parted, a sound as of retreating footsteps, and he was gone. Then, as the last of his footsteps died away, Lilian fell p.r.o.ne to the ground, and, with her face buried in her hands, sobbed as if her heart was reft in twain. She had driven him away--driven him from her with scornful words and with a lie--he, whose love was to her as something more than life. Now she had kept her promise. She had been true to that sacred bond, but at what a cost!
She had torn out her own heart, and her act of self-immolation was complete. Never again in life would she see him whom she had now sent from her. Ah G.o.d! it was terrible.
So she lay with her face to the earth, watering it with her tears. Yet the sun continued to s.h.i.+ne above; the sky was all cloudless in its azure glory; bright b.u.t.terflies glanced from leaf to leaf; birds piped blithely and called to each other; all nature rejoiced in the golden forenoon; and there, prostrate on the gra.s.s, lay the beautiful form of that stricken woman pouring out her very heart in tears. For the light of her life had gone out, and her own was the hand that had quenched it.
VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
FORTH--A WANDERER.
After that last heart-breaking farewell, Claverton tried to walk quickly away, but in vain. Several times he paused to listen. Once he turned and retraced his steps a few yards, feeling sure he had heard his name called. But no. It was only the rustle of the leaves as a bird fluttered among them, or the murmur of a tiny whirlwind which now and again whisked round a few leaves and bits of stick in the stillness of the summer morning. On, on he strode, whither he knew not nor cared, his lips drawn tight over his set teeth, a tumult of desperate thoughts raging wildly in his breast, a glare almost of mania in his eyes, dragging his steps heavily as one who staggered beneath a load. This dream which he had been cheris.h.i.+ng, this sweet hope which had made a new man of him, was dashed from his grasp, and so cruelly, so mercilessly.
Ah, good G.o.d! how he had loved her--how he did love her! He had never loved any living thing before, and now the long-pent-up torrent had burst its barrier and overwhelmed him; and he tried to look into the black, bitter future till his brain reeled and all was confusion again-- wild, surging, chaotic thoughts--as he strode on through the shadeless glare of the burning _veldt_. Shade or bud, what was it to him? But human endurance has its limits. Even his iron frame, weakened by the mental strain, began to fail after hours of tramping beneath that fierce sun, and he sank to the ground nearly exhausted at the foot of a small mimosa-tree. He was desperately hard hit, if ever man was.
”Why, Arthur! What on earth brings you here? I thought you were away at Driscoll's!” said a voice behind him.
In his preoccupation he had not heard the tramp of a horse's hoofs.
Turning quickly, he saw Mr Brathwaite.
”Oh, I didn't go there after all--and I've been taking a little stroll,”
he answered, with a ghastly attempt at a laugh, and in a voice so harsh and strange that the old man, looking at him, began to think he had had a sunstroke, and was a little off his head.
”Anything the matter?” he asked, kindly. ”You don't look at all the thing. Have you heard any bad news?”
Ah, that was a good idea! Claverton remembered that the post had come in that morning, bringing him two or three letters, which he had thrust unopened into his pocket. This would cover his retreat. He would be able to leave without any awkward explanations--called away suddenly.
They would think he had heard of the death of some relative; and grimly he thought to himself how the death of a hecatomb of relatives would be mere gossip compared with the ”news” he really had heard.
”Yes,” he replied, ”that's what it is; and I am afraid I must leave here as soon as possible.”
”H'm! But where's your horse?”
”My horse? Oh, I walked.”
”H'm,” said the old man again. ”Now look here, Arthur, my boy, I've got through a pretty long spell of life, during which I've learnt the art of putting two and two together. Whatever you may have heard to upset you, didn't come through the post. Now I don't want to pry into your affairs, but I can see tolerably well now how things have gone. Is it so bad as you think?”
There was a world of delicate, kindly-hearted sympathy in the other's voice, and Claverton felt as if it did him good. Grasping the hand extended to him, he replied:
”It is. I will not try to convince you that you have got upon the wrong tack, even if it would not be useless to do so. I must go from here; you will understand, you will appreciate my reasons, and know why this place, which has been a dear home to me, the only real home I have ever known, has become unendurable now, at any rate for a time.”
His voice failed him, and he broke down. Recovering himself with an effort, he went on: