Flower o' the Peach

The sky was full of stars, white and soft and misty, like tearful eyes, and the Southern Cross, in which he had never been able to detect anything like a cross, rode high. He could not hold his thoughts from wandering to it and the absurdity of calling a mere blotch like that a cross. Heaps of other stars that did make crosses – neat and obvious ones. The sky was full of crosses, for that matter. Astronomers were asses, all of them. But the point was, Margaret might die.

"That you, Ford?"

Mr. Samson was coming up the steps and with him were Christian du Preez and his wife.

"These good people are anxious to help," explained Mr. Samson. "Very good of 'em – what? And young Paul 's gone off on a little stallion to send Dr. Van Coller. Turned out at the word like a fire engine and was off like winkin'. Never saw anything smarter. If the doctor 's half as smart he 'll be here in four hours."

"That's good," said Ford.

"And Mrs. du Preez 'll stay with Miss Harding an' do what she can," said Mr. Samson.

"I 'll do any blessed thing," declared Mrs. du Preez with energy.

Mr. Samson stood aside to let his companions enter the house before him. He whispered with buoyant force to Ford.

"A chaperon to the rescue," he said. "We 've got a chaperon, and the rest follows. You see if it don't."

There was a brief interview between Mrs. du Preez and the Kafir under the eyes of the tall Boer. Mr. Samson had already informed them of the situation in the study, and they were not taken by surprise, and the Kafir fell in adroitly with the tone they took. Ford thought that Mrs. du Preez displayed a curious timidity before the negro, a conspicuous improvement on her usual perky cocksureness.

"Just let me know if there is any change," Kamis said to her. "That is all. If she recovers consciousness, for instance, come to me at once."

"I will," answered Mrs. du Preez, with subdued fervor.

There seemed nothing left for Ford to do. Mrs. du Preez departed to her watch, and it was at least satisfactory to know that Fat Mary would now have to deal with one who would beat her on the first occasion without compunction. Mr. Samson and the Boer departed to the drawing-room in search of a breathable air, and after an awkward while Ford followed them thither.

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Samson, as he appeared. "Here you are. You 'd better try and snooze, Ford. Been up all night, haven't you?"

"Pretty nearly," admitted Ford. "I couldn't sleep, though."

"You try," recommended Mr. Samson urgently. "Lie down on the couch and have a shot. You 're done up; you 're not yourself. What d' you think, Du Preez? He was nearly takin' that nigger up to Miss Harding's room. What d' you think of that, eh?"

He was sitting on the music stool, an urbane and adequate presence.

The Boer shook his head. "That would be bad," he said seriously. "He is a good nigger —ya! But better she should die."

Ford laughed wearily as he sat down. "That was his idea," he said.

He leaned back to listen to their talk. Sleep, he felt, was far from him. Margaret might die – that had to be kept in mind. He heard them discuss the Kafir stupidly, ridiculously. It was pothouse talk, the chatter of companionable fools, frothing round and round their topic. Their minds were rigid like a pair of stiffened corpses set facing one another; they never reached an imaginative hand towards the wonder and pity of the matter. And Margaret – the beautiful name that it was – Margaret might die.

Half an hour later, Mr. Samson slewed his monocle towards him.

"Sleepin' after all," he remarked. "Poor devil – no vitality. Not like you an' me, Du Preez – what?"

Ford knew he had slept when the Boer woke him in the broad daylight.

"The doctor is here," said Christian. "He says it is all right. He says – she has been done right with. She will not die."

"Thank God," said Ford.

Mr. Samson was in the room. The daylight showed the incompleteness of his toilet; he was a mere imitation of his true self. His triumphant smile failed to redeem him. The bald truth was – he was not dressed.

"Everything 's as right as rain," he declared, wagging his tousled white head. "Sit where you are, my boy; there 's nothing for you to do. Dr. Van Coller had an infernal thing he calls a motor-bicycle, and it brought him the twenty-two miles in fifty minutes. Makes a noise like a traction engine and stinks like the dickens. Got an engine of sorts, you know, and goes like anything. But the point is, Miss Harding 's going on like a house on fire. Your nigger-man and you did just the right thing, it appears."

"Where is he?" asked Ford.

"The nigger-man?"

Mr. Samson and the Boer exchanged glances.

"Look here," said Mr. Samson; "Du Preez and I had an understanding about it, but don't let it go any further. You see, after all that has happened, we could n't let the chap go to gaol. No sense in that. So the bobby being as drunk as David's sow, I had a word with him. I told him I didn't retract anything, but we were all open to make mistakes, and – to cut it short – he 'd better get away while he had the chance."

"Yes," said Ford. "Did he?"

"He didn't want to at first," replied Mr. Samson. "His idea was that he had to clear himself of the charge on which he was arrested. Sedition, you know. All rot, of course, but that was his idea. So I promised to write to old Bill Winter – feller that owes me money – he 's governor of the Cape, or something, and put it to him straight."

"He will write to him and say it is lies," said the Boer. "He knows him."

"Know him," cried Mr. Samson. "Never paid me a bet he lost, confound him. Regular old welcher, Bill is. Van Coller chipped in too – treated him like an equal. And in the end he went. Van Coller says he 'd like to have had his medical education. I say, what 's that?"

A sudden noise had interrupted him, a sharp report from somewhere within the house. The Boer nodded slowly, and made for the door.

"That policeman has shot somebody," he said.

Dr. Jakes waked to the morning light with a taste in his mouth which was none the more agreeable for being familiar. He opened his hot eyes to the strange disarray of his study, the open door and the somnolent form of the policeman, and sat up with a jerk, almost sober. He stared around him uncomprehending. The lamp burned yet, and the room was stiflingly hot; the curtains had not been put back and the air was heavy and foul. He got shakily to his feet and went towards the hall. His wife, with coffee cups on a tray, was coming down the stairs. She saw him and put the tray down on the table against the wall and went to him.

"Well, Eustace?" she said tonelessly. "What is it now?"

He cleared his burning throat. "Who opened the door?" he asked hoarsely.

She shook her head. "I don't know," she answered. "It does n't matter – we 're ruined at last. It 's come, Eustace."

He made strange grimaces in an endeavor to clear his mind and grasp what she was saying. She watched him unmoved, and went on to tell him, in short bald sentences of the night's events.

"Dr. Van Coller will be down presently," she concluded. "He 'll want to see you, but you can lock your door if you like. He 's seen me already."

He had her meaning at last. He blinked at her owlishly, incapable of expressing the half-thoughts that dodged in his drugged brain.

"Poor old Hester," he said, at last, and turned heavily back to his study.

Mrs. Jakes smiled in pity and despair, and took up her tray again. She thought she knew better than he how poor she was.

He slammed the door behind him, but he did not trouble to lock it. Something he had seen when he opened his eyes stuck in his mind, and he went staggeringly round the untidy desk, with its bottles and papers, to where the policeman sprawled in a chair with his Punchinello chin on his breast. His loose hands retained yet the big revolver.

"He 'll come to it too," was Dr. Jakes' thought as he looked down on him. He drew the weapon with precaution from the man's hand.

He stood an instant in thought, looking at its neat complication of mechanism and then raised it slowly till the small round of the muzzle returned his look. His face clenched in desperate resolution. But he did not pull the trigger. At the critical moment, his eye caught the lamp, burning brazenly on the wall. He went over and turned it out.

"Now," he said, and raised the revolver again.

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.