“Quite so,” said John. “I renounce
them all.”
“We renounce them all,” she corrected,
and gave a solemn little nod of her head and sighed,
and thus they ratified that audacious compact of oblivion.
But it was a lie, and they both knew that it was a
lie. If love had existed before, was there anything
in his helplessness and her long and tender care to
make it less? Alas! no; rather was their companionship
the more perfect and their sympathy the more complete.
“Propinquity, sir, propinquity,” as the
wise man said;—we all know the evils of
it.
It was a lie, and a very common and everyday sort
of lie. Who, being behind the scenes, has not
laughed in his sleeve to see it acted?—Who
has not admired and wondered at the cold and formal
bow and shake of the hand, the tender inquiries after
the health of the maiden aunt and the baby, the carelessly
expressed wish that we may meet somewhere—all
so palpably overdone? That the heroine of the
impassioned scene at which we had unfortunately to
assist an hour ago! Where are the tears, the
convulsive sobs, the heartbroken grief? And that
the young gentleman who saw nothing for it but flight
or a pistol bullet! There, all the world’s
a stage, and fortunately most of us can act at a pinch.
Yes, we can act; we can paint the face and powder
the hair, and summon up the set smile and the regulation
joke and make pretense that things are as things were,
when they are as different as the North Pole from
the Torrid Zone. But unfortunately, or fortunately—I
do not know which—we cannot bedeck our
inner selves and make them mime as the occasion pleases,
and sing the old song when their lips are set to a
strange new chant. Of a surety there is within
us a spark of the Eternal Truth, for in our own hearts
we cannot lie. And so it was with these two.
From that day forward they forgot that scene in the
sitting-room of “The Palatial,” when Jess
put out her strength and John bent and broke before
it like a reed before the wind. Surely it was
a part of the delirium! They forgot that now,
alas! they loved each other with a love which did
but gather force from its despair. They talked
of Bessie, and of John’s marriage, and discussed
Jess’s plans to go to Europe, just as though
these were not matters of spiritual life and death
to each of them. In short, however for one brief
moment they might have gone astray, now, to their
honour be it said, they followed the path of duty
with unflinching feet, nor did they complain when the
stones cut them.
But it was a living lie, and they knew it. For
behind them stood the irrevocable Past, who for good
or evil had bound them together in his unchanging
bonds, and with cords that never can be broken.
HANS COETZEE COMES TO PRETORIA
Once he had turned the corner, John’s recovery
was rapid. Naturally of a vigorous constitution,
when the artery had reunited, he soon made up for
the great loss of blood which he had undergone, and
in a little more than a month from the date of his
wound physically, was almost as good a man as ever.
