Wild, Wild Heart/Chapter 15

Ann did not sleep very well that night, and she was already dressed when her telephone bell rang at about seven o’clock next morning. Again it was:

“Holmes speaking.”

“Yes,” said Ann.

“Just rang up to let you know that Vera and I are making an early start for Tirau.”

Ann’s heart seemed to leap up into her throat. In the intensity of her relief she could scarcely speak.

“I wonder if you’d tell Ford I’ve written to him? Go round and see him this moming if you’ve got time, will you?”

Ann knew what this meant. Ford would tell her what she was to do.

“Of course I will. How’s Mrs. Holmes?”

“She’s had a pretty rough spin I should say—she still looks very ill—but we’ll be able to look after her when we get her back to Tirau. I gave her your message.”

“What did she say?’

“She asked me to thank you, and to tell you she’d decided that she’d like the hat. Don’t quite know what she meant, but she seemed to think you’d understand.”

​Yes—Ann understood. With a little warm glow at her heart she realized that this was Vera’s gesture of reconciliation.

“I’ll post it up to her today.”

“Thanks very much. I say—some day soon you’ll have to come up and spend a week or two at Tirau with us.”

“Yes, I’d love to—later. Hope you’ll have a good trip up.”

“I’m sure we shall. It’s a wonderful day. Good-by—and good luck.”

A “wonderful day”! No other phrase so adequately expressed Ann’s feelings at the moment. The shadow was gone! She felt like a prisoner suddenly released. She was free again. Free from suspense, and that haunting worry of the future. She could take her place again amongst her fellow-citizens without the consciousness of furtive glances, and unpleasant whispers. Oh, joy, just to be alive today! Even the sorrow of disappointed love seemed to lose its sting in this overwhelming relief of mind. And not only was it for her own sake that she rejoiced. She knew that an immense burden of anxiety had been lifted from Dick Holmes’s shoulders, and that Vera too was setting her face in the only direction in which she could find any chance of ultimate happiness.

As soon as Mrs. Hill and Ruth arrived, Ann left them in possession, and made her way along to Ford’s office. He had already received the letter from Holmes.

“So the whole matter’s going to be dropped,” he said. “I felt sure from the first that it would be. A fit of pique on Mrs. Holmes’s part in the beginning, I imagine. She was probably jealous of her husband’s ​friendship for a young and pretty girl like you. I’m inclined to sympathize a little with her. You’re far too good-looking and attractive to be a governess in a country house, you know.”

Ann looked a little hurt.

“Oh, I’m not saying you gave her any cause for jealousy,” went on Ford, “but it’s hard for a woman to be continually reminded of her lost youth, and Vera Holmes is a bit passé herself.”

“Oh, no!” said Ann indignantly. “She’s wonderfully handsome.”

“Handsome is as handsome does, and she hasn’t ‘done’ very handsomely.”

“We’re going to forget about that now,” answered Ann.

“Yes—and we’ve got to see that every one else forgets it too. As a matter of fact, now that Dick and his wife are together again at Tirau there won’t be many people who will believe that divorce was ever even contemplated. As far as I can make out the gossip was started by young Marshall—Philip Marshall—in Miller’s office; and as Marshall has the reputation of a—well—an embroiderer—the majority of those who heard the story will decide that it was merely another of Marshall’s sensational yarns. I’ll have a talk to Miller myself. He’ll settle Marshall. Now don’t you worry any more about it. How’s business?”

“Booming.”

“That’s good. You’re off to the steeplechase meeting today I suppose?”

“No . . . I don’t think so.”

“Why not? Your shop isn’t open, is it?”

“No, but . . . well you see, Mrs. Ford did ask me to ​go. She very kindly said she had a spare ticket, and a vacant seat in the car, but I said I’d rather not———”

“Because of this gossip? My dear, put all that nonsense out of your pretty, sensible little head once and for all.” He rose, and patted her kindly on the shoulder. “I’ll ring up Mary this minute, and tell her you’re going.”

“But . . .”

“Wouldn’t you like to go? It’s a glorious day. The outing will do you good.”

“Mrs. Ford may have given away the ticket.”

“I can soon get another if she has.”

He moved back to the telephone on his table, and after getting the number said:

“That you, Mary? Miss Merrill is going with you after all . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . You’ll call for her at eleven-thirty? Right. Here—I say, Mary. Vera Holmes arrived back in Wairiri last night. She and Dick left for Tirau early this morning. She’s been very ill in Sydney. Pity people haven’t anything better to do than putting ridiculous rumors afloat, isn’t it?” Evidently something was said at the other end, for he laughed. “No, that’d be making too much importance of it. Good-by.”

He turned to Ann as he put down the receiver.

“Mary says she’s now got to do her best to see that you aren’t lionized. Run straight away back to your rooms and put on your best bib and tucker. Off you go!”

Ann tried to thank him for his kindness, but he would not listen to her.

“Stuff and nonsense—I’ve one no more for you than I’d do for any young woman in Wairiri.”

That was true. Ann knew that he was as large-​hearted as he was large-minded, but it did not diminish her gratitude. She said “good-by” to him, and hurried home to dress.

The band was playing on the lawn in front of the grand stand when Rhoda parked the Buick under the yellowing willows of the members’ enclosure. Many other cars were already there, and more arriving. Friends were exchanging greetings, the women eyeing one another’s frocks—talking over the chances of various horses for the different events—making up totalisator tickets.

Ann’s heart felt like a bird singing in her breast. She had not realized how deeply she had dreaded the threatened ignominy of the case until all danger of it had passed. She was not consciously thinking of Rodney; and yet she knew that he would be here today, and for the time being pushed out of her mind all memory of any emotional scenes between them, and told herself that she was now content to meet him merely as a valued friend, and only wished to rejoice with him in his good fortune when Nigger won the steeplechase.

Absurd to have felt that sting of jealousy with regard to Stephanie! What did it matter to her whom Rodney married? She would be glad to know that he was happy! She would never learn to be utterly indifferent to him; but surely this feeling of affectionate regard—this desire for his success and happiness—wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, even if it were felt for another woman’s husband? Ann told herself that all was well now—she had schooled her​self to look at the whole affair in a sensible, friendly fashion!

Very few of the “coast” families had come down for the autumn meeting, but Nell Brunton was staying in town, and Harry Kent—the young man who had devoted himself to Ann at the Omoana races—was also on the course. As soon as he caught sight of Ann he moved across to speak to her, and remained im attendance for the greater part of the day. Robin Ashby, whom Ann had met at the Ford’s house, was also among the race-goers. He, too, was friendly and attentive. Ann had no desire to flirt with either of them, but it was not unpleasant to be admired and popular, and she liked them both. She liked, too, the girls and the young married women who received her in such a kindly fashion, and made her feel at home amongst them all.

The scene was much the same as it had been at the summer mecting. The sun shone as brightly, though not so warmly; the women’s dresses were as attractive, though not so gay and light in texture; the flower beds at the foot of the stand were as full of blooms, though now dahlias and chrysanthemums replaced the roses and tali blue delphiniums; the horses in the saddling paddock were as sleek and shining, and the colors of the jockey’s caps and jackets as vivid and brilliant as before. Little was changed. Yet there was one difference of which Ann was acutely aware. Rodney Marsh seemed to have taken his place quite naturally amongst those whom he had once described as “a different crowd.” He was accepted as one of them now. He had met various Wairiri residents at the Hawkeston polo tournament—others in the hunting field. Apparently most of the girls knew him. Ann ​heard at least three of them ask him to join the big luncheon picnic at the cars. But he had promised to lunch with his trainer and “some other chaps” in the public dining-room, he told them. Ann was glad that he did not seem unduly elated by this sudden rise to social eminence. He was not dropping his own old friends for the sake of new ones. But it was very evident that his attractive personality, and his uncommon good looks, had won him an unsought popularity. He was an “owner” too. Nigger was believed to have a very good chance for the steeplechase.

Though Ann had stood near to Rodney in the crowd in front of the stand more than once, she had never actually caught his eye. She could not be sure that he had even seen her. And so, as the day wore on, although she was enjoying herself, her spirits flagged a little. Marsh had spent some of his time with Stephanie and her friends. He had even taken them down to the saddling paddock to see Nigger in his loose-box. Surely he might have invited her—to whom he had first confided the secret of Nigger’s future career as a “chaser”—to join the party? But he didn’t. He seemed utterly unaware of her presence on the course.

Ann told herself that the day was not quite so enjoyable to her as the former race meetings had been, because she wasn’t backing winners. She had not succeeded in collecting one winning ticket from the totalisator. But the few pounds she was losing she would retrieve on the steeplechase at three o’clock. She had no doubt at all in her mind as to the result of the race. Rodney had said Nigger would win, and she still had implicit faith in his judgment in such matters. She remembered that hot summer afternoon ​when she had sat at his bedside in the little front room of the cottage at Tirau. Again she heard herself saying, “I shall put ten pounds on him.” They had been talking of the Grand National then. No matter! She would back him for the same sum today!

But as her thoughts traveled back to that bygone moment, her heart knew a pang of anguish! She could see again the handsome head on the pillows, the vista of sunshine lying on the neglected garden outside the open window—the wide, sun-dried paddocks stretching out beyond. Oh, happy days! And they were gone! The half-glimpsed dream, and glamour of first love was never to be realized! Fool! to allow herself this backward sentimental glance. It had all meant less than nothing. But she did not mention to any one the amount she intended to invest on Marsh’s horse; and she would not allow any one else to put the money on for her. She took her place in the queue waiting at the narrow entrance to the booking office of the totalisator, and secured her tickets. Then she rejoined Kent and Nell Brunton, and made her way back to the stand to watch the race.

“Marsh stands to win or lose a good deal over this event,” said Kent, as they walked across the lawn. “He’s not only backing his horse on the machine, but with the bookies as well.”

“I thought bookmakers weren’t allowed in New Zealand,” said Ann.

Kent laughed.

“They’re as illegal as whisky dealers in U.S.A. during Prohibition but they’re just as numerous, and do just as big a business.”

“Funny to find Rodney Marsh going to people’s ​houses in Wairiri, isn’t it?” said Nell to Ann, “You remember him at Tirau, don’t your? He never went anywhere then.”

“Does he go out much here?” asked Ann, casually.

Nell Brunton laughed.

“I think he dodges as many invitations as he can, but the Garland girls are crazy about him. Still, I don’t fancy he wastes much time on any one, except Stephanie Hemingway. I wonder if Mrs. Ford likes it—that friendship.”

“He’s a good chap,” said Kent.

“Yes, but he isn’t quite———"

“Quite what?” asked Kent, looking down at Nell with a smile.

“Well—educated, or———”

“Just as well educated as the rest of us.”

“His father was a plowman.”

“One or two of our Prime Ministers haven’t been any better born.”

“He isn’t a Prime Minister.”

“He may be some day. How do you know?”

They continued to argue quite amiably, but Ann took no part in the discussion. What did it matter to her what his father had been, or what he himself might eventually become? It was more Stephanie Hemingway’s business apparently than hers.

The horses were cantering down to the starting-post. Kent lent Ann his glasses to pick them out. Green jacket and orange cap—those were the colors of Nigger’s jockey—easy to distinguish in the distance. Against the horse’s shining black coat they suddenly reminded her of the coloring of her own bright show-room. She wondered if Marsh had chosen them for ​that reason, Absurd! Yet it was a queer coincidence. A lucky omen.

At the post Nigger gave no trouble. He got away cleanly and well as the barrier went up. Ann knew a thrill of pride in the gallant old horse. He was so steady and unperturbed—so ready to respond to any call made upon him. He was galloping strongly, and jumping in good style as they passed the judges’ box for the first time. Three horses were ahead of him, but Ann felt no anxiety as to his ultimate chance of victory. He was so sure and safe—he gave one the impression of having full confidence in his own power to win. He was gradually overhauling the three in front of him as the horses passed away behind a belt of trees, further from the stand. Again they came in sight, and Nigger had gained to second place.

A horse coming through from the ruck behind, had begun to challenge his position. But Nigger still held it, though the distance between himself and the leader had lengthened. As the race progressed, no further change was apparent, and when they were swinging round for the last two fences before entering the straight, and the run for home, Ann began to fear that Nigger could never make up the leeway between himself and the first horse before they passed the judges’ box. The rest of the field were beaten—the race lay between the first three horses, and now Opou in the lead seemed a certain winner. The crowd in the stand were already beginning to shout: “Opou! Opou wins!” But at the last fence but one, Opou blundered, and came down. He and his jockey were up in a moment, but the race was over for them. It had resolved itself now into a struggle between Nigger and the third horse, Acepot. They jumped the ​last fence almost together, and neck and neck came thundering down the straight. The whips were out on both horses. Ann’s heart was beating wildly. Could Nigger win? The crowd were alternately roaring “Nigger wins!”—“Acepot”—“Nigger,” as they raced on.

But suddenly with a chill pang of apprehension Ann was aware that Nigger’s effort was unavailing. He had a great heart—he’d never say die—he’d battle on gamely to the end—answer gallantly to any call made upon him, but . . . he was rolling in his stride—his speed was checked! He stumbled on, then staggered, and then fell. The jockey was thrown clear—a length ahead; Acepot passed the judges’ box alone, and the rest of the field came after. But Nigger lay as he had fallen—quite still.

The jockey was back, standing over him—the crowd surged out over the green turf of the course. The police were trying to keep them back. Rodney Marsh was there—some of the racing officials—and then in the little ring the police had cleared, Ann saw the body of the old black horse dragged out beyond the rails, to the spot where so short a time before he’d cleared the sod wall and the water jump with such a gallant stride.

Ann couldn’t look amy more. Her eyes were blurred. She knew before she heard the murmurs round about her that Nigger had run his last race—that he was dead. Oh, poor, poor, Rodney! His best friend—that’s what he’d called Nigger. And to lose him like this—to know that the horse had struggled up to the end to do all that was required of him. He had been set too great a task, but he’d done his best—​all he could—and he’d given up his life in the attempt.

Ann wanted to go home, and yet more than anything else she wanted to see Rodney. She knew what he was suffering, and she seemed to be aware of all the remorse and unavailing regret that now he would carry in his heart. It wasn’t regret for the money lost. He’d killed his best friend—that’s what Rodney would feel—instinctively she knew it.

But though it was pronounced “horrid” or “rather pathetic,” the death of a steeplechaser was not a very great tragedy to the rest of the race-goers; and Ann did not let any of her friends suspect how greatly it had affected her. She was thankful that some one had covered the body of the dead horse with a tarpaulin. To watch the two last races with Nigger’s shining body stiff and still beyond the railings would have been more than she could bear. And though she was less inclined to smile, for the rest of the afternoon she talked quite cheerfully and “made up” tickets with Rhoda and Nell Brunton, or Mrs. Ford, and did not endeavor to find Rodney. She did not even see him, and it was only when going home in the car that she had any news of him.

“Wasn’t it hard luck for Rodney Marsh?” said Stephanie. “They say he’s lost an awful lot of money as well as his horse. The Garlands wanted him to come with us all to the Cabaret tonight, but he wouldn’t. I wish he’d promised to come. It would have cheered him up.”

“Was he . . . very upset?” asked Ann.

“Oh, no, not exactly upset; he was laughing over his bad luck with Robin and me, but all the same I expect he feels it.”

​Ann said nothing. She thought she knew how much the “laughing over his bad luck” meant. Rodney wasn’t likely to wear his heart on his sleeve.

She refused Mrs. Ford’s invitation to dine with them.

“Thank you so much, but there are business letters I must write for the English mail,” she said. “And I’m up to my eyes in accounts too. It was awfully good of you to take me out today. I enjoyed it tremendously.” That was true of the first part of the day, at any rate.

In her own room she made herself a cup of tea, but she couldn’t eat. The thought of Rodney, and the grief which she knew he was enduring, possessed her mind to the exclusion of every other thought. She tried to write her letters, but she could not concentrate upon them. She must see Rodney! She must! She wanted to tell him that she suffered with him in his sorrow—wanted to bring him what little comfort she could.

It was eight o’clock when she went to the telephone, and rang up the Imperial. No, Mr. Marsh was not staying at the hotel. No, they couldn’t say where she would be likely to find him.

She tried one or two other places without success.

At each failure she grew more and more desperate. The desire to get into touch with Rodney grew stronger and more imsistent. Now the importance of finding him, of speaking to him alone, became an overwhelming obsession.

At last she gained news of him. At the Puawa Hotel they told her that he had been in earlier. They didn’t know if he were still on the premises. They would go and see. While she waited, Ann knew that ​she was shaking from head to foot, and when at last Rodney’s voice came to her over the telephone, she stammered so much that at first he could not understand what she said.

“I want to see you. Will you come round?”

“To your rooms?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause—Ann knew a sudden anguish. Would he make an excuse? Plead some engagement?

“All right. I’ll come along now,” he said at last.

Ten minutes later she heard his knock, and went to open the door.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, come in for a little while.”

He followed her into the lighted showroom, and they stood there facing one another.

Ah! Would she have been deceived as Stephanie had been by his laughter? Deep in his eyes she saw the pain.

“Rodney . . . my dear—I’m so sorry.”

He turned away with a little bitter gesture.

“I loved that horse.”

“I know you did. . . . Oh, poor Rodney!”

“And I killed him. The vet says he strained his heart. He was too old. And he was so game—he wouldn’t give in—oh, God!”

He suddenly sank down on the cushioned lounge, and buried his face in his hands. Ann came and sat beside him.

“Don’t grieve so much, Rodney,” she said gently. “It’s got to come to all of us—death. And he died well—gallantly—poor old Nigger.”

“Yes, but I’d looked after him when I first got him ​—he was such a poor sick brute then—and I swore he’d never be treated cruelly again. And now I’ve been more cruel than any one—forcing the game old chap to attempt something he couldn’t do. He tried his best—he wouldn’t give in”—he stopped, and then went on—“I stayed behind, and we buried him—just there where he was. I couldn’t bear throwing the earth over him. It . . . it hurt me.”

Suddenly Ann leaned forward and put her arm round him.

“I wish I could help you,” she said.

“You have helped me,” he muttered huskily. “Just to speak about it has been a comfort. I couldn’t have talked about him to any one but you. You’re . . . kind. And you liked the old horse too . . .”

For a few moments both were still, and then he put aside her hands.

“I oughtn’t to have come here tonight.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know . . . I . . .” He hesitated, and then he said: “Why are you so good to me?”

“I love you,” she answered simply.

He gathered her into his arms, and held her close—his head on her breast.

“Heaven . . . to be here . . . at last,” his voice was just a whisper.

“Why have you left me . . . so long?”

“Oh! I’ve been muddled—wrong-headed. I didn’t want to marry. And now—I can’t.”

He released her, and sat back.

“Why not? Is it because of the case?”

“Oh, damn the case! That makes no difference—it never has—except that I’ve been jealous.”

“You hadn’t any cause. And now that shadow’s ​gone. Mrs. Holmes is back at Tirau. Did you know?”

He shook his head.

“No, but I’m glad, for your sake.”

“Do you love me, Rodney?”

“You know it.”

“How should I know it when you’ve treated me as you have?”

“I’ve been a fool. First I thought I couldn’t give up my freedom. And then, when I knew you meant everything to me, I told myself it wouldn’t work—our marriage. You’re too good for me. I’ve always known that in my heart, though I wouldn’t admit it. I fought against it. I’m just a rough sort of chap, and I’ve never been very steady. And I thought Holmes wanted you———”

“He’d never have wanted me.”

“Wouldn’t he? I think he would. And Waring, didn’t he ask you too? Well, what sort of a match would I have been compared to them? You said yourself———”

“Ah! Don’t bring that up against me—all that I’ve said,” she answered swiftly. “You wounded my pride when you told me that you didn’t want to marry me—and I said things that perhaps I didn’t altogether mean—things to hurt you.”

“It was true what you said about the difference between us. Your friends weren’t mine. But I made up my mind that I could know the same sort of people you know.”

“Oh, it’s so small, all that!”

“I know it is. And it was small of me wanting to show you.”

“Well, you’ve done it—isn’t that enough?”

​“It’s not enough to make a certainty of any marriage between us being a success. There are plenty of differences between us still.”

“Couldn’t we bridge those differences? Make allowances for one another?”

“I don’t know whether we could or not.” He rose. “Anyhow, what’s the use of discussing it? We aren’t going to get married.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because there can’t be any question of it any more.”

“Why? A sudden fear shook her. “Have you—bound yourself to some one else? Stephanie Hemingway?”

“A child! Why should I want her? She’s been friendly—a good little pal, that’s all.”

“That other woman—at Omoana?”

“There is no other woman—now. Oh, I remember telling you there were plenty of women in the world. There aren’t—for me. There never have been since that day—only you———”

“And yet you won’t marry me?”

“I can't,” he repeated stubbornly.

“You still won’t sacrifice your freedom?”

“Oh, to hell with my freedom!” he returned fiercely. “I’m not free any longer. You’ve bound me fast enough. It isn’t that.”

“What is it, then?”

“I’ve nothing to offer you—no home to give you. You told me once I’d gamble my money away. I’ve done it. I thought today I’d make my fortune—come to you with enough to buy a place in the country. I’ve lost everything.”

​She crossed to him, and put her hands on his breast.

“Money—is that all? What does it matter?”

“We must have bread to eat. Do you think I’d ask you to live in a drover's hut?”

“I’d be happy there with you.”

He made a movement as though to take her in his arms again, and then drew back.

“I wish that—was true.”

“It is true.”

He shook his head.

“For the minute, perhaps, you think it is. You’ve said yourself that marriage between us two wouldn’t be a simple job. Do you think poverty would make it easier?”

“There needn’t be poverty. Listen, Rodney—I have my business here. I’m making money—every week I’m doing better. I’ve got to take a little house somewhere in town. You’ve been offered this job of stock-buying—or even as a drover you’ve got to live somewhere.”

“Do you mean that I’m to live on your money?” he demanded.

“We’d live together on our own money.”

“No.”

She put her arms round him.

“Rodney, Rodney,” she said a little wildly, “are you going to let your foolish stubborn pride come between us a second time? Oh, my dear, I know that marriage will be difficult for us—there are plenty of rocks ahead—but, darling, isn’t it better to be together on the ship, taking our chance of danger—sharing it—than drifting all alone?”

He tried to put her arms aside.

​“Let me go.”

“Where?”

“Oh, to get drunk. I don’t care! That’s what I meant to do when you rang up.”

“Listen. It hurts your pride to be dependent on a woman—even one you love. You won’t be dependent. You’ll have your own work. You’ll do well—I know you will. And later we’ll buy a place somewhere and be together again in the country. Oh, how I’d love that—you and I, Rodney, in our own little homestead. And you’d teach me how to be a sheep-farmer, though I’m such a duffer at all those things you know about. Oh, my dear, you do need me! I can help you, I know I can. You said tonight I’d comforted you a little about poor old Nigger. I loved him too. He was so brave and honest—and so are you. And if you leave me now I can’t bear it. I can’t go through it again. I’ve been so lonely—so wretched—wanting you . . . always wanting you. Rodney———”

Suddenly she burst into tears.

In a second his arms had closed round her. He was holding her close—close, his lips on hers.

He was a lost man.