"I hear you've gone and done the trick," he said. "Congratulations and all the usual stuff."
"Thanks," answered Caterham without any wild enthusiasm. "Come over and have a meal some time."
"I'd like to," said Somerset. "Must leave your wife time to get settled in first."
"I wouldn't wait so long as that," was Caterham's somewhat cryptic reply. "Come next Friday."
And at that it was left. Caterham got into his car, leaving Somerset wondering.
Far be it from me (continued Sinclair after a pause) to deliver a homily on matrimony. But when considering a ceremony which, even under the most favourable conditions, so frequently goes wrong, there ought to be a law insisting on certain rudimentary precautions being taken before two people tie themselves up for good. Apparently the Caterham affair had been fixed up about a year previously, when he had been back to England for a few months settling some business matters. And it had been an affair of love at first sight, which, I am told, frequently proves a winner and as frequently does not. This came into the latter category.
Given, more favourable circumstances all might have been well. But South Africa is a hard country and a ruthless mistress, and from the very start Ruth Caterham hated it. The loneliness ate into her soul; those long, scorching hours, when her husband was out and she had nobody to talk to except the Kaffir boys, got on her nerves.
Naturally, that was not apparent to Jack Somerset the first time he went there. All he saw was a singularly lovely girl, trying, with pathetic eagerness, to fit into surroundings which were completely strange, to her. It wasn't her fault; it wasn't Caterham's. But if only one of the rudimentary precautions to which I've alluded had been taken, if only she had come and stayed with some married woman out there before taking the final step, it might all have been avoided. At any rate, she would have had a chance of discovering what life on a lonely farm was like, and whether she could stand it or not.
There was another factor in the situation, too—even more important than that. If a woman is really in love with a man she will put up with almost anything for his sake. And she will act so well that he will never realise that she is putting up. Ruth was not in love with her husband; she never had been. But as other people had done before, she had mistaken a somewhat hectic flirtation in the middle of a London season for the genuine article. And so the menage started in conditions about as unfavourable as could well be devised.
(Once again Sinclair paused and stared over the water, twinkling with the reflection of a thousand lights.)
I hold no brief for Jack Somerset (he went on thoughtfully), but he did try to fight against it. When he realised how things were with him, and that he loved Ruth Caterham as he had never believed it possible to love a woman, he kept away from their farm. It took him weeks before he did realise it—weeks during which he had been there frequently, weeks during which he had seen things getting more and more strained between Ruth and her husband. The farm was not going well, which made Caterham increasingly irritable, and increasingly inclined to take those two or three extra drinks that constituted his poison. In fact, it was obvious that something had to break somewhere.
As so often happens, the break came unexpectedly, and over a trifle. The three of them were sitting on the stoep after dinner, and Caterham made some remark about the boy's foul cooking. And that night Ruth had cooked the dinner herself. Admittedly it was a bad gaffe, on his part, but a laugh and a jest would have turned the whole thing off. Instead of which he said: "I didn't notice any difference." And that was the remark of a cad as well as a fool.
Then it started. She burst out crying, and between her tears said things she didn't really mean. He sneered back. And the third member of the party, feeling acutely uncomfortable, got up to leave. But the Fates wouldn't allow even that; the stage was set, the puppets had to perform.
"Don't go, for God's sake!" said Caterham, in a rasping voice. "You stop here and comfort her. I'm sick to death of it."
And he disappeared into the darkness.
"I say, dear," stammered Somerset, and then found he was staring into her eyes, with both her hands in his. And gradually her sobs ceased, and she stared back at him. Outside, the tree beetles kept up their endless chorus; inside, on that dimlit veranda, two of the marionettes danced to the pulling of the strings.
He didn't kiss her; he didn't touch her—save to hold her hands more tightly. And after a while he got up and moved away.
"Are you quite sure?" he said slowly.
"Quite," she answered.
"We must be, you know; we must be." He repeated it over and over again. "Quite, quite sure. I will go away, dear, so that we'll be certain. And then..."
"Yes, Jack." she whispered. "And then...?"
"I'll come back, and we'll tell him. Stick it till then, my darling."
He was away two months, leaving his farm in the charge of an assistant. As a matter of fact, he didn't mind very much about the farm. He was going to sell it, in any event. Things were occurring at home which made it necessary for him to go back to England in the near future. And not the least important of those things was that he had quite unexpectedly come into enough money to render him independent of work for the rest of his life.
At the end of the two months he went back. He knew—so far as a man may know; a glance at her face told him that she knew too. And so, for the first time, he took her in his arms and kissed her on the lips. Then they sat down to wait for Caterham.
"He'll take it hard, Jack," she said. "Not because he loves me— he doesn't. But his pride will be hurt. He loathes thinking someone else has beaten him."
He nodded. "I know, dear. I spotted that once before at a guest night in Pretoria."
"And he's jealous of you."
He looked at her quickly. "Of me? Why should he be?"
"I'm afraid I may have given things away that night. One can't help it—when one is very happy."
There was the short interlude, somewhat natural after such a remark, and then she grew serious again. "What are you going to say to him, Jack?"
The man gave a short laugh. "Tell him the truth, darling. That we love one another and that, therefore, things cannot continue as they are."
"Indeed? How vastly interesting!" They swung round; Caterham was standing behind them on the stoep. He was in soft slippers, so that they had not heard him approach, and a drink was in his hand. And, in spite of the sneering remark, there was a puzzled look on his face as if he could not believe his ears. "Might I trouble you to repeat that remark?" he continued.
"Certainly," said Somerset quietly. "I suppose I should say I'm sorry about it, Caterham, but Ruth and I are in love with one another."
The puzzled look had gone; a very different one had taken its place. And without a word he flung the contents of his glass in Somerset's face.
"You swine!" he said thickly.
Somerset kept his temper. "Can we discuss this matter without that sort of melodrama?" he remarked. "I realise it must be an infernal shock to you, but the thing has got to be faced. And since we aren't children, we might as well face it in a reasonable manner."
Caterham's answer was a whistling upper-cut that caught Somerset on the point of the jaw and knocked him down. Which brought the situation back to Nature. Lawyers, and prying chambermaids, and divorce courts may fill the bill in England, but when men are living in the crude places of the world they settle their differences crudely. And so, as the sun began to dip towards the horizon, those two men fought with the savage fighting that knows no Queensberry rules. And the woman watched, as woman has done through the ages.
I suppose that if this were a story intended for the Sunday afternoon consumption of the young, the outraged husband should have triumphed over the dissolute scoundrel who was trying to wreck his home. I fear I cannot oblige. Somerset beat him fairly and squarely, though the victor's face wasn't a pretty