Rosa Mundi by Ethel May Dell (e books free to read .TXT) 📖

had been so resolutely forcing into the back of her mind--came crowding back upon her with a vividness and persistence that were wholly beyond her control.
What was she going to do, she wondered? What could she do with this awful, this unspeakable doubt pressing ever upon her? It might all be a mistake, a hideous mistake on Beelzebub's part. She had no great faith in his intelligence. It might be that by some evil chance his muddled brain had registered the name of Bowker Creek in connection with the fight which she did not for a moment doubt had at some time taken place. Beelzebub was never reliable in the matter of details, and he had not been able to answer her question regarding the place.
Over and over again she tried to convince herself that her fear was groundless, and over and over again the words came back to her, refusing to be forgotten or ignored--"the white man from Bowker Creek." Who was this white man whom Mercer had fought, this man who had tried to shoot him? She shuddered whenever she pictured the conflict. She was horribly afraid.
Yet she played her part unfalteringly, and Mercer never suspected the seething anguish of suspense and uncertainty that underlay her steadfast composure. He thought her quieter than usual, deemed her shy; and he treated her in consequence with a tenderness of which she had not believed him capable--a tenderness that wrung her heart.
She was thankful when the morning came, and he left her, for the strain was almost more than she could endure.
But in the interval of solitude that ensued she began to build up her strength anew. Alone with her doubts, she faced the fact that she would probably never know the truth. She could not rely upon Beelzebub for accuracy, and she could not refer to her husband. The only course open to her was to bury the evil thing as deeply as might be, to turn her face resolutely away from it, to forget--oh, Heaven, if she could but forget!
All through that day Beelzebub slept, curled up in the straw. She visited him several times, but he needed nothing. Nature had provided her own medicine for his tortured body. In the evening a man came with a note from Curtis. The case was undoubtedly one of smallpox, he wrote, and he did not think his patient would recover. There was a good deal of panic at Wallarroo, and he had removed the man to a cattle-shed at some distance from the township where they were isolated. There were one or two things he needed which he desired Mercer to send on the following day to a place he described, whence he himself would fetch them.
"Beelzebub can go," said Mercer.
"If he is well enough!" said Sybil.
He frowned.
"You don't seem to realize what these niggers are made of. Of course, he will be well enough."
She said no more, for she saw that the topic was unwelcome; but she determined to make a stand on Beelzebub's behalf the next day, unless his condition were very materially improved.


XII

It was with surprise and relief that upon entering the kitchen on the following morning Sybil found Beelzebub back in his accustomed place. He greeted her with a wider grin than usual, which she took for an expression of gratitude. He seemed to have made a complete recovery, for which she was profoundly thankful.
She herself was feeling better that day. Her arm pained her less, and she no longer carried it in a sling. She had breakfasted in bed, Mercer himself waiting upon her.
She was amazed to hear him speak with kindness to Beelzebub, and even ask the boy if he thought he could manage the ride to Wallarroo. Beelzebub, abjectly eager to return to favour, professed himself ready to start at once. And so presently Sybil found herself alone.
The long day passed without event. The loneliness did not oppress her. She busied herself with preparing delicacies for the sick man, which Beelzebub could take on the following day. Beelzebub had had smallpox, and knew no fear.
He did not return from his errand till the afternoon was well advanced. She went to the door to hear his news, but he was in his least intelligent mood, and seemed able to tell her very little. By dint of close questioning she elicited that he had seen Curtis, who had told him that the man was worse. Beyond this, Beelzebub appeared to know nothing; and yet there was something about him that excited her attention. He seemed more than once to be upon the point of saying something, and to fail at the last moment, as though either his wits or his courage were unequal to the effort. She could not have said what conveyed this impression, but it was curiously strong. She tried hard to elicit further information, but Beelzebub only became more idiotic in response, and she was obliged to relinquish the attempt.
Mercer came in soon after, and she dismissed the matter from her mind. But a vivid dream recalled it. She started up in the night, agitated, incoherent, crying that someone wanted her, someone who could not wait, and she must go. She could not tell her husband what the dream had been and in the morning all memory of it had vanished. But it left a vague disquietude behind, a haunting anxiety that hung heavily upon her. She could not feel at peace.
Mercer left that morning. He had to go a considerable distance to an outlying farm. She saw him off from the gate, and then went back into the house, still with that inexplicable sense of oppression weighing her down.
She prepared the parcel that she purposed to send to Curtis, and went in search of Beelzebub. He was sweeping the kitchen.
"I shall want you to go to Wallarroo again to-day," she said. "You had better start soon, as I should like Mr. Curtis to get this in good time."
Beelzebub stopped sweeping, and cringed before her.
"Boss gone?" he questioned cautiously.
"Yes," she answered, wondering what was coming.
He drew a little nearer to her, still cringing.
"Missis," he whispered piercingly, "Beelzebub see the white man yesterday."
She stared at him.
"What white man, Beelzebub? What do you mean?"
"White man from Bowker Creek," said Beelzebub.
Her breathing stopped suddenly. She felt as if she had been stabbed. "Where!" she managed to gasp.
Beelzebub looked vacant. There was evidently something that she was expected to understand. She forced her startled brain into activity.
"Is he the man who is ill--the man Mr. Curtis is taking care of?"
Beelzebub looked intelligent again.
"White man very bad," he said.
"But--but--how was it you saw him? You were told to leave the parcel by the fence for Mr. Curtis to fetch."
Beelzebub exerted himself to explain.
"Mr. Curtis away, so Beelzebub creep up close and look in. But the white man see Beelzebub and curse; so Beelzebub go away again."
"And that is the man you thought Boss killed?" Sybil questioned, relief and fear strangely mingled within her.
Her brain was beginning to whirl, but with all her strength she controlled it. Now or never would she know the truth.
Beelzebub was scared by the question.
"Missis won't tell Boss?" he begged.
"No, no," she said impatiently. "When will you learn that I never repeat things? Now, Beelzebub, I want you to do something for me. Can you remember? You are to ask Mr. Curtis to tell you the white man's name. Say that Boss--do you understand?--say that Boss wants to know! And then come back as fast as you possibly can, before Boss gets home to-night, and tell me!"
She repeated these instructions many times over till it seemed impossible that he could make any mistake. And then she watched him go, and set herself with a heart like lead to face the interminable day.
She thought the hours would never pass, so restless was she, so continuous the torment of doubt that vexed her soul. There were times when she felt that if the thing she feared were true, it would kill her. If her husband--the man whom, in spite of almost every instinct, she had learnt to love--had deceived her, if he had played a double game to win her, if, in short, the man he had fought at Bowker Creek were Robin Wentworth, then she felt as if life for her were over. She might continue to exist, indeed, but the heart within her would be dead. There would be nothing left her but the grey ruins of that which had scarcely begun to be happiness.
She tried hard to compose herself, but all her strength could not still the wild fluttering of her nerves through the long-drawn-out suspense of that dreadful day. At every sound she hastened to the door to look for Beelzebub, long before he could possibly return. At the striking of every hour she strained her ears to listen.
But when at last she heard the hoof-beats that told of the negro's approach she felt that she could not go again; she lacked the physical strength to seek him and hear the truth.
For a time she sat quite still, gathering all her forces for the ordeal. Then at length she compelled herself, and rose.
Beelzebub was grooming his horse. He looked up at her approach and grinned.
"Well, Beelzebub," she said through her white lips, "have you seen Mr. Curtis?"
"Yes, missis." Beelzebub rolled his eyes intelligently. He seemed unaware of the tragedy in the English girl's drawn face.
"And the white man?" she said.
"Mr. Curtis think the white man die soon," said Beelzebub.
"Ah!" She pressed her hand tightly against her heart. She felt as if its throbbing would choke her. "And--his name?" she said.
Beelzebub paused and opened his eyes to their widest extent. He was making a supreme effort, and the result was monstrous. But Sybil did not quail; she scarcely saw him.
"His name?" she said; and again, raising her voice, "His name?"
The whole world seemed to rock while she waited, but she stood firm in the midst of chaos. Her whole soul was concentrated upon Beelzebub's reply.
It came at last with the effect of something uttered from an immense distance that was yet piercingly distinct.
"Went--" said Beelzebub, and paused; then, with renewed effort, "Wentworth."
And Sybil turned from him, shrinking as though something evil had touched her, and walked stiffly back into the house. She had known it all day long!


XIII

She never knew afterwards how long a time elapsed between the confirmation of her doubts and the sudden starting to life of a new resolution within her. It came upon her unexpectedly, striking through the numbness of her despair, nerving her to action--the memory of her dream and whence that dream had sprung. Robin Wentworth still lived. It might be he would know her. It might even be that he was wanting her. She would go to him.
It was the only thing left for her to do. Of the risk to herself she did not think, nor would it have deterred her had it presented itself to her mind. She felt as though he had called to her, and she had not answered.
To Beelzebub's abject entreaties she paid no heed. There were two fresh horses in the stable, and she ordered him to saddle them both. He did not dare to disobey her in the matter, but she knew that no power on earth would have induced him to remain alone at the farm till Mercer's coming.
She left no word to explain her absence. There seemed no time for any written message, nor was she in a state of mind to frame one. She was driven