Wild, Wild Heart/Chapter 12

One morning early in March, when Ann and Mrs. Hill were busy in the showroom, a man entered. Ann, leaving the customer to whom she had been speaking, advanced towards him, and found herself face to face with Gerald Waring.

“I got back last night,” he said, moderating his voice, so that no one else but Ann could hear him, “and I want to see you! We can’t talk here—come out to morning tea with me.”

Ann glanced at Mrs. Hill, and the girl who was trying on hats at the other end of the room.

“You can leave some one in charge,” went on Waring. “I’ll go on to the Imperial and engage a table on the balcony. Come straight upstairs through the lounge. Say in a quarter of an hour’s time.”

“Our talk must be ‘without prejudice,’ as the lawyers say,” said Ann.

“You’ve had some experience of the law lately, I hear.”

Ann flushed, but she met his eyes quite bravely.

“Yes,” she answered. “Did you know about it before . . . before you left Australia?”

He shook his head.

“I heard it last night in the club. Probably an in​correct rumor. It’s important for me to know the truth,”

“I want to know it, too,” answered Ann. “Will you be truthful with me?”

“As far as . . . as I can be,” he returned. “One can’t always divulge all one knows.”

“No,” said Ann soberly. She hesitated for a moment, and then made up her mind. “Go now, and I’ll join you in about ten minutes,” she said.

He left the shop, and she turned again to the customer, who was still undecided as to which of two hats she should buy. The girl tried them both on again. Ann thought the less expensive one the more becoming, and said so. The buyer looked relieved.

“I didn’t want to give quite so much,” she said.

“The cheaper hat suits you best,” said Ann, “and is really just as smart.”

The purchase was completed, the girl made her way out, and Ann was free. Within ten minutes she was walking down the main street towards the Imperial. Summer had not yet merged into autumn, and it was very hot. At the end of the street, across the Puawa bridge one saw the shoulder of the big hill tawny and sun-dried against the blue sky. Men in their shirt-sleeves drove motor-lorries through the town; women in light-colored frocks were stepping out of their cars in front of the shops; some Maoris sat on the edge of the pavement eating crayfish; and there were groups of men—some in riding clothes with dogs beside them—talking together outside the tobacconists, the bars, and in front of banks. A good deal of the business of Wairiri—the buying and selling of stock or produce, engaging shepherds or drovers—was conducted in this way, in the street.

​Ann was glad that on her way she did not meet any one she knew. She wanted to learn news of Vera from Waring, but she had no desire to become the subject of further gossip. While it was harmless enough in general to have a cup of tea in the morning with a man friend—every one in Wairiri had this “morning tea” either at home or somewhere in town—she knew that in her case such a proceeding might be misconstrued. The balcony at the Imperial was a favorite rendezvous, but fortunately it was now well after eleven, and most of the tea-drinkers would have departed by this time.

In point of fact, besides Waring’s, only two of the tables were occupied when Ann arrived, and there was no one on the balcony whom she recognized. And no one paid any attention to her as she crossed over, and sat down opposite to Waring.

He ordered the tea, talked of his journey up from Hawkeston by car, the weather, and small local gossip, until the waiter had departed.

“Now what’s all this cock-and-bull story about you and Dick Holmes?” he asked.

“Perhaps you know as much as I do,” she answered.

“How should I know?”

“Didn’t you meet Mrs. Holmes in Sydney?”

“Yes, I ran across her one day in Pitt Street.”

“Is she still there? In Sydney, I mean.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Haven’t you heard from her?”

He looked at her for a moment sharply.

“Why should I hear?” he asked.

“You were . . . were great friends, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid I don’t bother much about ​writing to any one. I didn’t stay more than a week in Sydney. It was too hot. I went on to Melbourne, found that hotter, and so crossed to Tasmania. I’ve been there nearly all the time.”

“Where’s Mrs. Holmes now?”

“My good child, how should I know? I presume she’s still in Sydney, as she doesn’t seem to have come back to New Zealand.”

Ann was silent. She couldn’t go on questioning him like this unless she wished him to realize that she knew his secret. She could only fill in the blanks as best she might. When Vera followed him to Sydney, had he gone off leaving no address? That would be a perfectly simple method of procedure—rather cruel perhaps; but Ann believed that before his departure from Tirau he had made it plain to Vera that things were at an end between them. If Vera wouldn’t accept this ultimatum from him—if she had persisted in her resolve to see him again—hadn’t she brought this upon her own head? And yet in her heart Ann was conscious of pity for the forsaken woman. How terrible to be driven to pursue a man in this fashion—to lose all pride, all self-respect. And was this divorce action her last desperate effort to regain her lover? Was she mad enough to believe that a man who had tired would come back to her and marry her? But then it was more than likely that Vera would not allow herself to believe that his love had grown cold. In all probability Waring had used the argument that it was for her sake he was giving her up. That they mustn’t run the risk of detection. A woman in love was fool enough to believe anything! But Ann couldn’t help ranging herself on the forsaken woman’s side against the faithless lover. Not that she held any ​brief for Vera—far from it! But while Waring’s conduct in the whole affair seemed to Ann much the more despicable, yet it was Vera who would inevitably suffer the consequences. Waring merely ended an intrigue which had lost interest for him, and escaped unhurt.

“Well, are you going to tell me what’s at the bottom of this ridiculous rumor?”

“It is more than a rumor. It’s a fact. Mrs. Holmes is bringing an action for divorce against her husband, and is using my . . . my name in the case.”

“Vera must be mad.”

“You don’t believe she’s justified?”

“My good girl, I’m not altogether a fool. Holmes isn’t that sort of man, and he loves his wife. And I’ve enough judgment of character to know that you’ve got—what shall I say?—moral principles.”

“Much better women than I am have . . . have not always acted as they should———”

He shook his head.

“Not in that sort of fashion. You’re too honest, and you’d never behave . . . shabbily.”

Ann’s eyes were on her plate, where her fingers crumbled her cake to pieces.

“You credit me with too much virtue,” she said at last with some difficulty. “I’m as liable to yield to . . . to temptation as any other woman.”

“No, pardon me. You’re as liable as any other woman—perhaps a bit more liable than most—to feel the strength of temptation. But you’re not weak. And you’re not likely to do anything that you’d look upon as underhand or mean.”

She did not answer, and he went on:

“There’s one way to put an end to all this talk—​marry me. Vera couldn’t go on with the case after that. There wouldn’t be the least likelihood of her getting a decree if she did. She’d only succeed in making a fool of herself, and losing every friend she’s got.”

And with Waring married the whole object of the diverce would vanish. Ann saw that clearly. However jealous and revengeful Vera might feel, she would recognize the fact that she could gain nothing but social ostracism from bringing the case. As the wife of one of the wealthiest sheep-farmers in the district, Ann’s position would be very different to that of a friendless, unknown girl.

“I feel more than a little . . . grateful to you for that,” said Ann. “It makes me like you better than I’ve ever done before. But I’m sorry—I can’t marry you.”

“I’m utterly—unattractive to you then?”

“No you’re not. Oh, it’s terribly difficult to explain. I can’t help being attracted to you—in a way. And yet I know that marriage should mean more than that. There should be some deeper sympathy and affection. I haven’t got that for you. Please don’t let us discuss it.”

“Very well, we won’t talk about it any more for the present. Have another cup of tea? Do you mind if I smoke?”

She was glad that he could resume a lighter tone, and after a moment, when he began to chaff her about her business, Ann felt herself on safer ground.

“They’ve asked me to play in the Wairiri polo team at the tournament in Hawkeston at the end of next week,” said Waring later.

“Are you going to?”

​“I think so. By the way, you remember young Marsh at Tirau, don’t you?”

“Yes,” answered Ann.

“He’s in the team.”

“Is he? I thought he was droving or something now.”

Her voice was quite level and unconcerned. She had heard nothing of Rodney for the past few weeks—had put him out of her thoughts as much as possible. But the sudden longing to speak of him, to learn something concerning him, was at this moment overwhelming in its intensity.

“He’s apparently been doing extraordinarily well in stock dealing. But I don’t fancy he’ll keep his money long. He’s gambling pretty heavily———”

“Oh!—losing?”

“Not so far. He’s had phenomenal luck, so they say—takes tremendous chances, and invariably wins. He’s getting quite a reputation as a plunger.”

“I suppose a gambler nearly always loses in the end.”

“That reckless type does. The luck can’t hold for ever.”

The conversation with reference to Rodney Marsh seemed likely to come to an end. Ann wondered desperately how she could contrive to continue it without making her interest in the young man’s doings too apparent.

“I remember on my first night at Tirau, you prophesied that the Wairiri girls would be tumbling over one another to dance with him at the polo ball.”

Waring laughed.

“So they would have been, if he’d come with us. ​He’ll probably have a still bigger success in Hawkeston. He’s quite a man of means now.”

“Really!” said Ann, making a gallant effort to answer his smile. She had learned quite enough—too much. She wouldn’t talk of Rodney any more.

She made up her mind to say “good-by” to Waring on the balcony. She wouldn’t let him escort her back to the shop, and she would not promise to meet him again.

“You don’t get rid of me quite so easily, you know,” Waring warned her. “There’s no law to prevent my recommending my lady friends to buy their hats at your emporium, and coming in to advise them as to their selection, when I happen to be in Wairiri.”

“Of course there isn’t,” she answered. “The more the merrier. I always welcome business.”

“Are you really making a good thing out of it?”

“I should think so. I’ll be one of the leading trades-women of the town before I’ve finished.”

“You’ll be married long before that happens.”

Ann shook her head.

“No,” she answered soberly, “there’s no likelihood of that.”

“I can tell you the name of the man you are going to marry,” said Waring coolly.

But she refused to be led into any further discussion on the matter. She rose, and saying good-by, she thanked him for the tea, and left him.

Waring stayed for one night in Wairiri, before going through to Hawkeston for the polo tournament, at the end of the following week. He called to see Ann ​in the afternoon, and tried to persuade her to dine with him. But Ann was obdurate in her refusal to meet him anywhere outside the precincts of her own establishment. And then, fearing that he might call on her after her shop was closed, she invited Mrs. Hill to accompany her to the cinema in the evening.

Being over a hundred miles from one of the mainline railway junctions, Wairiri seldom had a chance of seeing the dramatic and musical comedy companies which visited the larger centers of the Dominion, after touring in Australia. It was difficult for any theatrical organization to transport scenery and company so far, entirely by motor-lorries and cars. Consequently a visit to the “pictures” was the sole nightly entertainment of the little town; and there were two rival firms exhibiting films.

Ann decided this evening to book seats at the less fashionable of the two cinemas. It wasn’t very likely that Waring would visit either of the theaters; he’d be much more likely to be playing bridge or poker at the club. But in case he did call at the shop and find her out, there was a chance that he would stroll along to the Coliseum, where so many residents of Wairiri spent their evenings. Consequently Ann avoided the Coliseum, and went to the Regent instead.

Here they were featuring “Snowy” Baker in an outdoor film. Ann found his feats of horsemanship quite thrilling, and she was glad she had chosen this particular theatre. She had no desire to see one of the usual, lurid Hollywood dramas of crime and passion. Here was something real—a man who rode with pluck and daring. And Ann still cherished an ardent desire to become an accomplished horsewoman. She had no ​chance at present of indulging in any sort of out-door amusement beyond an occasional dip in the surf from the town bathing-sheds. But later perhaps! And of course as her thoughts strayed in this fashion back to her first riding lesson, the vision of Rodney Marsh walking at Nigger’s shoulder was a clear, little sun-bright picture in her mind.

Mrs. Hill’s husband stood in the vestibule, waiting to escort his wife home, at the close of the performance. They would see Ann safely to her door on their way. But as he joined them Ann suddenly looked up to discover Rodney Marsh’s eyes upon her. He also, it seemed, had been amongst the audience. A movement of the crowd brought them nearer to one another, and a little apart from the Hills.

“Good evening,” said Ann. “I suppose you’re going on to Hawkeston tomorrow?”

Her voice showed no trace of anything save a natural friendliness.

“Yes,” he answered; and then after a moment went on in a lower tone: “Are you with a party?”

“I brought Mrs. Hill. She and her husband are standing over there. They’re waiting to see me home.”

“Let them go on. I’m walking your way.”

“Very well.”

Ann’s voice was still perfectly natural, but she knew that her heart was beating faster. She told herself she was a fool to assent to this arrangement. What good could come of any renewed intimacy with Rodney Marsh? And yet the temptation to be with him—to talk to him again—if only for a few minutes, was too great to be resisted.

She signaled to the Hills.

“A friend is seeing me home. Don’t wait.”

​“You’re sure you’re all right?” said loyal and anxious Mrs. Hill.

“Quite. Good night.”

The Hills went off, and Ann moved beside Rodney out on to the crowded pavement. They walked in silence until they were clear of the stream of pedestrians.

“I was rather surprised to see you at the pictures,” said Ann, at last, making a small attempt at conversation.

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t quite imagine you as a film fan.”

“I’m not. I went tonight to see Snowy Baker. He’s a fine rider, and the horse he rode was bred in New Zealand. He took it over to California from Australia.”

“Really.”

The conversation languished. Then all at once Ann halted.

“This isn’t my way home,” she said.

“Never mind. It’s quite early.”

“It’s certainly a lovely night for a walk,” agreed Ann, weakly. “I’m always glad to get out in the fresh air alter being cooped up in my shop all day.”

“How are you doing?”

“Splendidly. Making money hand over fist.”

“I’ve been lucky too.”

Suddenly Ann laughed.

“We’re both rather good at bragging, aren’t we?”

Her laugh relieved the tension between them, and they began to talk more easily.

“You must be doing well,” she chaffed him, “if you can afford an expensive game like polo.”

​“There isn’t much expense connected with it here. I bought one of my best ponies out of the Pound for six shillings, and the other two haven’t cost me much more than a fiver apiece.”

“I wish I could buy a pony for six shillings. But what about all your expenses in Hawkestone?”

“They won’t amount to much. The Hawkeston team are putting us up. We’re to be billeted at their homes.”

“Shall you like that?”

“I’d rather stay at an hotel, but the polo ground is in the country. It would mean a lot of motoring. And I’ve met most of the team. They’re real good chaps.”

Her first embarrassment had vanished. Now, she told herself, that it was a perfectly natural proceeding to go for a walk with an old acquaintance on such a glorious night. They had turned to the left along the road leading to the beach. The bright, full moon shone down from a clear sky on the small, white-painted bridge across the creek, and turned the stream to silver. Beyond the rolling sandhills they could see the gleam of the bay and hear the roar of the breakers. The road was quite deserted, for they had left the town behind them.

“How did you know I was playing in the polo team?”

“I saw your name in the paper. But I knew before that. Mr. Waring told me.”

“You’ve been seeing him, have you?”

“Yes. I had morning tea with him when he got back from Australia.”

“He’s in town tonight. Have you met him?”

“For a few minutes this afternoon. He called at my shop.”

​“What did he do that for?”

“He was kind enough to ask me to dinner. I didn’t want to go.”

“Is he in love with you, too?”

“I don’t know what right you have to ask me such stupid, personal questions.”

“Can’t you answer them?”

“Certainly if I choose to,” she replied, with a little flare of spirit.

“And you don’t choose?”

“No.”

“That’s all right. You’ve answered the question.”

She stopped.

“Rodney, I’ll go home if you can’t behave decently to me.”

He was silent for a moment.

“I’ll do my best,” he said at last, rather grudgingly. “You can’t expect me to have such beautiful manners as Waring.”

“Why can’t I?”

“I never went to an expensive school.”

“Consideration for the feelings of other people hasn’t anything to do with expensive schools.”

“And has Waring shown much consideration for the feelings of others? For the boss, for instance?”

What did he mean by that, she wondered? How much did he know?

“I didn’t go out with Mr. Waring, and I’m here now with you,” she said, “so I don’t think we need discuss him any more. Tell me about yourself. How’s Nigger? Is he in training?”

“Yes. I saw him today. He’s entered for the autumn steeplechase here, and then I’m taking him to Christchurch.”

​“I won quite a big sum at the last races, thanks to you. They say you made a lot of money, too.”

“What else do they say?”

“That you could do very well as a stock-buyer if you wanted to, but that you’re reckless and you’re gambling too much.”

“That’s my own business, isn’t it?”

“Of course. You asked me what people were saying, and I told you.”

They had reached the last ridge of the sandhills, and below them lay the wide sweep of the bay. The white breakers tossing in the moonlight stretched in a ten-mile curve to the hazy line of the ranges away to the right. One could see the glow of a bush-fire burning in one of the far distant gullies. Nearer at hand, on the left, the silent mass of the Puawa Hill showed clearly against the stars. A few yellow spots of light at its base revealed little dwellings on the beach. Out in the roadstead the hull of a solitary ocean tramp was visible.

“Sit down—the sand’s quite dry and warm,” said Marsh abruptly.

Ann hesitated.

“Only for a few minutes then. I must go home.”

“You seem to be a bit more careful of your reputation with me than you were with Holmes.”

“I’ve told you he was terribly unhappy—I wanted to help him.”

“Do you think I’m happy?”

She had seated herself beside him, her hands clasped round her knees.

“Your unhappiness is probably of your own making. His was quite undeserved.”

He was silent for a moment and then he said:

​“What’s happened about . . . the case?”

“Nothing. No one has heard anything further from Mrs. Holmes. I suppose it will come on later.”

“You take it very calmly.”

“I dread it terribly, but I try not to think about it. I’m working hard, and I know that here in Wairiri there are a few people at least who are prepared to believe the best of me.”

“If they saw you here—now—with me, they mightn’t be so sure.”

“No . . . They mightn’t.”

“Why did you come?”

She was letting the dry sand run through her fingers, and she did not answer at once.

“Because I’m weak, I suppose,” she said at last. “I’m rather lonely, and I wanted to see you, and talk to you.”

He caught her hand and held it. Then he laid his face down against it, as he had done that day when he said he loved her.

“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you to do that. You’ve made it clear that marriage isn’t possible for us, and I’ve come to see that you are right. But we can still be friends, Rodney, as long as we don’t mix up friendship with . . . with anything else.”

He released her hand, and sat up. She hesitated for a moment, and then she said:

“Can’t you tell me why you’re unhappy?”

“I don’t know. Nothing seems worth while. I gamble—but I don’t care whether I win or lose.”

“I wish you’d promise to live more...more steadily.”

“Why? What does it signify? I’m not responsible to any one for the way I live.”

​“I don’t think that any of us are quite free agents. We owe something to the community and to ourselves.”

“Well, it doesn’t make two-pennyworth of difference to you, anyhow.”

“Yes, it does,” she answered stoutly. “As long as you’re my friend, I want to be proud of your success in life.”

“Better not think of me one way or the other. If I’m going to the devil, as you seem to imagine, it’s my own affair entirely.” He got up. "It’s time we were getting back.”

“Yes,” said Ann cheerfully. “Perhaps it is.”

If he had hurt her by his abrupt termination of their talk together, she would not let him see it. She had bared her heart sufficiently to him. She would hide it in future. So, as they walked back side by side, she chatted quite naturally about her business, Nigger’s chances for the Autumn Meeting, and the polo tournament in Hawkeston. Then, at her door, she wished him good night, in a friendly matter-of-fact tone, and told him she had enjoyed the walk very much.

But she stuffed a large pocket handkerchief under her pillow, and it was rather crushed and damp before she finally fell asleep. For she knew she had reached the last chapter of her own foolish romance, and that there could be no “happy ending.”