Chapter XXI
The train rocked wearily onward through the fast-gathering darkness. The purple moorland and rocky gorges of the Great Karoo were gone, and in their place there were great rolling plains of yellow grass, swelling hill and misty blue mountain. Onward it crawled, through lines of ruined blockhouses and crumbling earthworks, relics of bygone strife, now increasing its pace, till the groan and rattle of cars swelled to a roar, now slowing down to a crawl as it clanked cautiously over a girder-bridge spanned river, or pulled up with a jerk at some lonely veldt siding.
It was a very caterpillar of a train, express though it claimed to be, and crowded with humanity, black and white, bound for garish, golden Johannesburg. Nevertheless, packed as were its other dusty compartments, there was one in which a man sat solitary, his peace undisturbed by friendly chat and the rustle of turning pages. True, more than once passengers had entered it, sat there for a while—some even venturing on conversation with its inmate—but all, after a time had left, preferring heat and lack of elbow-room elsewhere to space and the company of one not only unsociable but “strange, most strange.”
For many hours now Hector Graeme had been left alone, if alone he were; for if that were so why did he talk, not as one who speaks to himself, but to someone with him, someone whose voice he could hear, though all other ears were deaf to it? And this indeed was the case, for a strange thing had come to pass, and that other voice, heard for so many years, yet hitherto impersonal, had since the morning undergone a startling change, and was now become that of Stara, lying dead some thirty miles away.
Quite suddenly, too, recognition had come to him, almost simultaneously with the receipt of the wire telling him of her death. Since then they had spoken together without ceasing, and, tedious though the long journey might be to others, to him there had been no tedium, but a wild, mad happiness and gratitude.
Dead; yes, she was dead, but only her body; for her spirit lived on, and from now would be with him always, watching over him, guiding him on his path, as in the dreams he had dreamed. Never would he be in doubt again, never at a loss as he had been sometimes before; for death had rent the obstructing veil of flesh, and the soul at last was free to come to him where and whensoever he should call.
How simple henceforth it would all be. He had only to ask and be told, for he had already proved that, by much questioning on points to which he knew the answer, and could have shouted with delight at the accuracy with which those questions were solved. Only on one point was she dumb, of her death she refused to speak, and, press as he might, no voice came back in reply.
Still, he would soon know, very soon now, and together they would stand looking down on the husk her spirit had left, and he would tell her; for she would understand, as living she never would have understood, how he had wearied of that husk and longed for the flesh-obscured soul.
He stretched his cramped limbs, and, rising, went over to the window and looked out. The train was slackening speed.
“Are we here, Stara?” he asked, and back flashed the answer, “Yes.”
“Duikerpoort! Duikerpoort!” a voice was heard calling in the darkness, and obeying the summons the train stopped for a moment, and then, creaking and groaning, moved slowly forward once more.
The lighted cars glided by till all had passed; red and green tail-lights grew smaller and then vanished; the roar died to a murmur and was stilled. A drowsy porter passed, his lantern swinging as he went, and then he too was gone, and Hector Graeme stood alone, with the wide-eyed planets above him and the silent immensity of the African veldt around.
No one to meet him, thank God; he would have his walk alone. Ten mile trudge though it was, it did not matter; he was fresh and strong as never before, and Stara was there to keep him company.
“Come, Stara,” he called, and at her response he started on his way, swiftly striding along the track, deep in sand though it was.
Mile after mile he covered, insensible to fatigue or hunger, though he had fasted since the night before; for he, like dead Stara, was nearly all spirit now, and for a time unconscious of fleshly claims. At last, far away, a speck of light shone through the black, and the man laughed happily, his outstretched hand guiding his silent companion’s gaze to it.
“Home, Stara, at last,” he cried, “the home where your body is lying. Tell me where, in what room?” She answered: “My old room, dear; you know it; hasten.” Together they ran on, and did not stop till they stood before a farm-house, now as still and silent as one of its inmates.
“Stara, keep with me; follow me close,” and Hector’s fist crashed against the door, a muttered exclamation from within coming in answer. A flicker of light appeared, the sound of footsteps was heard, and then the door opened. Richard Selbourne stood before them, his eyes searching the darkness without.
“Who are you,” he said, “and what do you want at this hour? This is no time——”
“It’s we, Dick, Stara and I.”
Richard fell back, with terror at his heart; then came recognition, and with it a hatred that banished fear.
“You,” he said, “you?”
“We, Dick, Stara and I. We’ve run all the way here. Oh, don’t stand staring there, but let us in,” and Hector pressed forward.
“Damn you! Never!” began Richard, but Hector was past, easily thrusting the other, a man with twice his strength, aside, and was standing in the hall, his hand on the staircase rails.
“Take me to her,” he said, “or I’ll go alone.”
Richard stared at him for a moment, measuring Hector’s strength with his. “A weak creature,” he thought; “he took me unawares just now; that was all. I could kill him easily enough, and, God knows, I’ve prayed for the chance; but yet, now that it’s come, I can’t—not with her lying dead above.
“Follow me,” he said, and led the way to a small room, called by courtesy a study, but used by its master indiscriminately for the keeping of guns, fishing-tackle, and seeds.
“Untidy as ever, Dick, I see. Look, Stara, the same old mess.”
Selbourne wheeled round, his grey eyes searching the other’s face.
“Do you wish me to believe you mad,” he said curtly, “is that your coward’s refuge?”
Hector stared vacantly. “Mad, mad!” he repeated, “you may be, I’m not. Mad, what do you mean?” a look of anger appearing in his eyes.
“You must be to come here, I should think. Why have you done it?”
“You always were a dense fool, Dick. What do you think I’ve come for? To see the body, of course.”
“To see the woman you murdered, you mean.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t? Then I’ll tell you. My sister died last night by her own hand, why, you know, I only guess; but this I do know, that her death lies at your door. Of your villainy in making love to her when you had a wife at home I won’t speak. She knew it, it seems, and I’m not going to blame the dead. But of the other, of the cowardly abandonment to her fate of a woman you professed to love, of that I will, Colonel Graeme.”
“Say what you like, if it pleases you, Dick. I shan’t defend myself.”
“I intend to. It seems—I got that much out of my wife—Stara wrote you a letter five days ago, and that letter asked for a wire in answer. Even the most callous, I should have thought, would have sent something, but you did not. With that letter in your pocket, probably unread, you spent those five days loafing about barracks, too damned lazy even to walk to the telegraph-office and send the answer which would have saved a life.”
“Right as usual, Dick; go on.”
“For three days I had boys waiting at the Duikerpoort office, and last night she went there herself, and stayed till the place was shut. Then she came back and an hour afterwards was found on the veldt—dead.”
“That was fine of you, Stara.” The words were only breathed, but Richard heard them, heard too the unmistakable ring of gladness in Hector’s voice. At the sound, decency and respect for the dead above him vanished, and in their place the primitive overmastering desire to kill prevailed. He stretched out his hand to a drawer, clutched something, and in one more second Graeme would have been lying dead, his spirit free to wander by Stara’s side, but in that second a woman stood between them, and her eyes, dulled with tears, were lifted reproachfully to her husband’s face.
“Dick,” she said, “is this a time for quarrelling? Think, Dick.”
“Let me go, Mary, such as he are better dead. My God! if you’d only heard.”
“I did... and... he isn’t worth it, Dick.” She turned and faced Graeme, who was standing with a rapt look on his face, apparently unconscious of their presence.
“What do you want?” she said with level voice and eyes hard as flint.
Hector’s wandering wits came back; for a moment he stood regarding her, and then, recognition dawning, held out his hand. Mary drew back, sweeping her skirts behind her.
Hector laughed, faintly amused. “So you’re against me too, are you? You’re as dense as Dick. Well, well, the battle’s begun already, you and I, Stara, against the world.”
“I repeat, what do you want?”
“To see her.”
“He shall not, I say. Mary, if you’ve any respect for Stara’s memory, you’ll not sanction this outrage. Think what this man’s done, think what Stara used to be and is now.”
“Hush, Dick.” Mary’s eyes were fixed on Graeme’s face and, more observant than her husband, she saw something there that made her hesitate; for the moment the hatred in her heart was lessened.
“If... if I let you see her.”
“Alone?”
“Mary!”
“Dick, I beg of you dear, to leave this to me. Alone, if you wish it, Colonel Graeme, for five minutes only.”
“Half an hour.”
There was a pause, while Mary’s eyes rested unwaveringly on Graeme’s face.
“Very well, half an hour. Will you promise me to go then?”
“Yes.”
“Come then,” and Mary passed out, leading the way upstairs to a closed door, where she stopped. “In there,” she said. “I trust you,” and left him.
“Stara! we’re here, your spirit and I come to say good-bye to the body they’re burying to-morrow. It’s only for a few minutes; I mustn’t stay. They won’t let me, Stara, for they say I killed you. But I know better than that, for your spirit has told me the truth, and I honour you for it and adore you, Stara. Wiser than all, you knew that love for a body must die, but love for the spirit lives for ever. I wanted your soul, and you, knowing it, have given.”
He paused, crept closer, and stood looking down.
“You beautiful thing,” he whispered, “yet, beautiful as you are, I shall be glad when you’re hidden away out of sight in the ground for then I shall see the soul whose voice only I now can hear. When will that be, my Star, when will that soul be revealed? To-morrow, yes, to-morrow it shall be, over your grave, when the sun is dead too, and all are gone. Promise me it now, dear, let those dead lips speak for the last time.”
“Speak!” He stood towering above her, command in the eyes fixed on the rigid mouth. A gust of wind blew, the lamp flickered, and over the still face a shadow hovered and was gone.
Then through the silent house a mad cry went ringing; the two waiting below started apart, with terror in their eyes; and above a man was on his knees beside the bed, with a dead woman held to his heart, and the scent of crushed lilies rising to his brain.
The minutes passed, and still he knelt there, holding her, and then, slowly raising his head, gazed into the stiffly-smiling face.
“Good-bye, body beloved,” he said. “Good-bye, earthly love, and welcome now the spiritual.” He rose from his knees, and stood erect, one hand laid on the cold breast, the other raised aloft to heaven.
“Unseen soul of Stara,” he breathed, “hear me now. May God’s curse strike me, may my limbs rot and wither on my body, may the devil burn and tear me in the Hereafter, if but for a moment my love shall stray from you!”
He stopped, his eyes alight with ecstasy, then, bending down, kissed the dead lips once, and went swiftly out into the star-gemmed night.