John A. Joyce - "Shakspere, Personal Recollections"

Benjamin Disraeli - "Ixion In Heaven"

Thomas Hill Green - "An Estimate of the Value and Influence of Works of Fiction in Modern Times"

H. Rider Haggard - "Fair Margaret"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Great Amulet

M >> Maud Diver >> The Great Amulet




Having set glasses and spirit-decanter within reach of their two
chairs, he came over to Lenox, and set both hands on his shoulders.

"My dear fellow, it's no use shirking facts," he said straightly.
"You're only flesh and blood; and the strain of all this is just
knocking you to pieces again. No reflection on your wife. You know
what I mean?"

"Yes. I know very well what you mean." Lenox spoke with repressed
bitterness. "I once heard hell defined as disqualification in the face
of opportunity."

Desmond turned back to the table, and helped himself to a fresh cigar.
"Are you so dead certain about the disqualification?" he asked without
looking up: and he heard Lenox grind his teeth.

"Oh Lord, man, if you're going on that tack, I'm off."

"Indeed you're not. There's a deal more to be said. As far as I
understand matters, I imagine that your wife's coming here makes a
decided difference in regard to--ultimate possibilities?"

"Yes; that's just it. She has cut away the ground from under my feet
on all sides." He was thinking of his promise that afternoon, and his
voice lost its schooled hardness. "She's set on going through with
things, at any price. But then . . she doesn't realise . . ."

"Believe me, it wouldn't make the smallest difference if she did.
Women are made that way, to our eternal good fortune. Their capacity
for loving us in spite of what we are is a thing to go down on one's
knees for. You'll appreciate it, one of these days, if you haven't
done so already."

"Appreciate it? Great Scott, Desmond, haven't I ten times more cause
to do so than _you_ can ever have had? But that doesn't wipe out facts
or principles."

He left the hearth-rug, and paced the room in restless agitation.
Desmond sat down, lit his cigar, and waited. His own suggestion could
best be made if Lenox could be induced to unburden himself a little
first. Presently he sat on the edge of the writing-table, well out of
range of the lamp; stretched out his long legs, and folded his arms.

"By rights, I suppose I ought to have let her go back to Dalhousie at
once. She suggested it herself. But it seemed too brutal; and I
wasn't up to the wrench of letting her go just then. Besides, there
was your wife's illness. It would have been out of the question. And
now I'm in a bigger hole than before. We are living at cross purposes.
She sees I'm holding back; and she's puzzled, and unhappy. But how the
deuce is a man to tell her plainly that by an act of pure pluck and
devotion, at the wrong moment, she has practically pushed me deeper
into the pit than I've been yet? In fact, I'm beginning to be afraid
that . . . the damage may be permanent."

Desmond stifled an exclamation of dismay.

"I wonder if you could bring yourself to tell me exactly what you mean
by that?" he said quietly. "Perhaps I have no business to ask; but
unless one goes to the root of a thing it's useless to talk of it at
all."

"I know that. If I hadn't meant to tell you, I shouldn't be in here
now. The fact is . . it's gone a good bit beyond tobacco this last
fortnight." He hesitated; but Desmond made no sign. "Did you never
miss that bottle of chlorodyne you brought me the day I was bowled
over?"

This time Desmond started.

"Good heavens, yes! I had to get a fresh one . . for Honor. But it
never occurred to me . . ."

"It wouldn't. You're not the sort. I emptied it, though, in no time.
But it's poor stuff. It didn't half work. Then, one night--I was mad
with pain, and want of sleep--I got hold of the raw drug, in
pellets--from the bazaar." He shivered at the recollection: "I tell
you, Desmond, it's appalling to feel the foundations of things giving
way. But I've taken it ever since, . . pain or no.--_Now_ do you doubt
the disqualification I spoke of? Personally I don't feel fit to touch
her hand."

The bitterness of conviction in his tone made Desmond lean forward to
get a better sight of him.

"Lenox, old man," he said, almost tenderly, "such exaggerated notions
are all a part of your unsettled nerves.--Smash up your devil's box of
pills; or . . hand it over to me . . if you will . . . ?"

Lenox hesitated; but his face gave no sign of the short sharp struggle
within. "You shall have the thing, if you wish it," he said at length.
"It gives me no pleasure to make a beast of myself. But that doesn't
touch the heart of the difficulty. So long as she's here, I haven't a
chance. If I give up the stuff, I shall go to pieces with headache and
insomnia. That's flat."

"Indeed I think you're mistaken," Desmond spoke with deliberate
lightness. "At all events, I have a suggestion to make that may help
you . . for the moment. I have quite decided that Honor must leave
this, directly she is strong enough to stand the short journey to Sheik
Budeen; probably in three or four days; and after a week or two there,
she must go on to Dalhousie till September. Can you see a chink of
daylight now?"

"Why, naturally. You want Quita to go up with her? A capital notion!"

His eagerness was an unconscious revelation of all that he had endured.

"Yes. I want you to tell her, from me, that she would be doing us both
a very real kindness. Honor would break her poor heart alone at Sheik
Budeen; and if you put it to Quita that way, I don't think she will
take your suggestion amiss."

"I'm positive she won't. I'll speak to her to-morrow."

He got up; squared his shoulders, with a great sigh of relief; helped
himself to whisky-and-soda; and emptied half the tumbler at a draught.

"By Jove, Desmond, you've put fresh spirit into me. This will give me
a chance to fight the thing squarely; and I hope to God I may
succeed,--even yet."

"Of course you'll succeed. We may take that for granted," Desmond
answered, smiling. "You've won the great talisman that puts failure
out of the question. As soon as we are officially through with the
cholera, you should take sick leave, and go off into the hills. You'll
not fight to any purpose, till you're in sound health again."

"How about Dick, though? It's his turn for leave."

"He'll survive missing it. He's in splendid condition; and this is a
life-and-death matter for you. Besides, Courtenay will never let you
start duty till you've been away. 'Dick' can take fifteen days when
you get back."

"Poor chap! But I'm afraid that's the only programme possible."

He sat down at last; and for a time they smoked contentedly; then Lenox
drew a letter from his breast-pocket.

"From Sir Henry Forsyth at Simla," he explained, "about my chances up
Gilgit way. If we decide on re-establishing the Agency there, he
evidently counts on sending me up again, with young Travers as my
Assistant. He and I have done some decent work together in that part
of the world. Nothing I should like better, of course. But . . in the
face of recent developments, I swear I don't know how to answer him."

He handed the letter to Desmond, who read it and looked thoughtful

"If you get this chance, I think you must take it," he said. "With
your special knowledge, you'd be the right man in the right place, up
there: and apart from your own ambition, you owe something to India,
after what you've done already."

Lenox sighed.

"I owe something to my wife also. You'd be the last to deny
that.--Jove, it's amazing what a fine crop of complications will grow
out of one false step. A little want of frankness on her part; a
little over-hastiness on mine; . . and see where we've travelled in
consequence. All my work in the past five years has been tending
towards something of this kind. But it would never do . . for Quita.
Think what a life for a woman, even if one could hope to have her there
in time. Shut up in the heart of the hills, with half a dozen
Englishmen, and a husband who might end in going to the devil. Not
another woman nearer than Srinagar; and communication with India cut
off for six months in the year. No. One would never get permission.
It would simply wrench us apart again.--There seems to be a Fate
against this marriage of mine every way. My fault, no doubt. Perhaps
as a soldier with a taste for exploration, I was a fool to go in for it
at all."

Desmond leaned forward, and flicked the ash from his cigar.

"Nonsense, man," he said emphatically. "You're talking heresy and
schism! Soldier or no soldier, I believe in marriage. Always have
done. With all its difficulties, it's an incomparable bond; as you'll
find out, once you two are on the right footing. But you're hardly fit
enough yet to see things in their true perspective. All this Gilgit
business is still a good way ahead; and I can only say that if it does
come to spending a good part of your service up in the wilds, you could
not have chosen a woman more fitted for it than Quita. The better one
knows her, the more one admires her . ."

The other's face softened.

"She's as straight and as plucky as a man," he said simply. "And
whenever comes of it, I'm a lucky devil to be her husband.--Think I'll
turn in now, and try for a little sleep. I never meant to inflict my
affairs on you like this. But you bring it on yourself, Desmond, by
being so confoundedly sympathetic!"

Before the two men parted, the box of opium pills had changed hands:
and Lenox, by way of trying for a little sleep, lit a fresh cigar,--he
was beginning to tolerate them now,--and went out into the garden.

Its open spaces were saturated with moonlight; while trees and bushes,
solitary or huddled together, stood in black pools of shadow, and
fragments of curded cloud trailed across the sky. Absorbed in thought,
Lenox crossed a stretch of lawn set with rose-beds; and turning at the
far end strolled back towards the house, that loomed, an unwieldy mass
of shadow, against the palpitating radiance beyond.

The light in his own room showed through the split bamboo of the
'chick' in hair-line streaks of brightness; but from the door next his
own it issued in a wide stream that lost itself in the moon-splashed
verandah. Quita had rolled up her 'chick,' and stood leaning against
the doorpost in an attitude that suggested weariness, or despondency,
or both; the tall slender form of her thrown into strong relief by the
light within. He knew that she must have seen him; and his hope was
that she would come out and say good-night to him. Since he must
speak, it would be a relief to speak at once, and get it over. It
might even be possible to sleep, if matters could be definitely settled
between them without further discord; otherwise, bereft of the opium,
his chances were small indeed.

But though he drew steadily nearer, she remained motionless; to all
appearance unaware of his presence. But the mere craving to touch her,
to hear her voice, grew stronger every minute; and he was not to be
thwarted thus. At the verandah's edge he paused.

"Quita," he said, scarcely above his breath.

"Yes."

"Have you forgiven me?"

"No. Not quite."

"But I want you."

"Come to me, then." A slight movement suggested a defiant tilt of her
chin.

The verandah itself stood more than two feet above the ground; but
instead of going round by the steps, he sprang up on it, flung away his
cigar, and stood before her with proffered hands.

She surrendered her own.

"Now?" he asked, smiling.

"No, no."

He stooped and kissed her hair.

"Now, perhaps?"

"Yes, . . almost. Though I'm not sure that you deserve it."

"I don't," he answered humbly, taking the wind out of her sails.

Then objects in the room behind her caught his attention:--her
dressing-table, with its silver-backed brushes and hand-glass, its
dainty feminine litter; her blue dressing-gown flung over a chair; and,
tucked away in a corner, her small comfortless bed.

"Come out into the garden, away from all this," he said hurriedly,
almost angrily. "Why on earth did you drag me up here?"

"Because it's the man's place to come to the woman," she answered, with
a demure dignity more provocative than tenderness. "It has been too
much the other way round between us lately. As one has to suffer from
the drawbacks of being a woman, one may as well enjoy the advantages
also."

"And having enjoyed them, will you graciously condescend to come out
there with me?"

"But yes; of course I will."

He turned on his heel; and they went out together. In the strong
Indian moonlight her soft blue dinner-dress, sweeping the grass behind
her, was blanched to a silvery pallor; her bare neck and arms gleamed
like marble touched into life; and unconsciously she swayed a little
towards him as she walked, like a tall flower in a breeze. The radiant
mystery of earth and sky, the scarcely less radiant mystery of
womanhood beside him, conspired with her veiled mood of gentle
aloofness to strike his defences from him. But he kept his hands in
his pockets by way of safeguard; and because he had small skill in
broaching a difficult subject, he held his tongue.

Half-way across the lawn, she came deliberately closer.

"You know, you hurt me cruelly this afternoon, Eldred."

"Did I, lass? That was abominable of me. But you must make
allowances, even if you don't understand. I'm a man, and you're a
woman. That seems to be the root of the difficulty. And now I'm half
afraid I may hurt you again."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a clumsy brute; and I do it without meaning to. But I
suppose it's plain to you that we can't go on much longer as we are
doing now?"

"Of course we can't." She let out a breath of relief. "I've been
wondering when you were going to see that."

"I have seen it all along. Only, for the life of me, I didn't know how
to make the next move. But I have just had a talk with Desmond, . .
about his wife. He wants to send her to Sheik Budeen, the minute she's
fit to spend a night in a doolie."

"Where . . and what . . is Sheik Budeen?"

The perceptible change in her tone disconcerted him. But the thing had
to be got through; and he went ahead without swerving.

"It is an apology for a Hill Station, about fifty miles north of this.
Just a handful of bungalows, on an ugly desolate rock, rising straight
out of the plain. No trees; no water, except what they collect in a
tank for use. But being nearly four thousand feet up, it's a few
degrees cooler than this: and probably after a week or two there Mrs
Desmond would be fit to stand the journey to Dalhousie."

It was characteristic of him that he made no attempt to soften facts:
and Quita, edging a little away from him, lifted her head.

"Is it settled when one is to start for this inviting spot?" she asked,
critically examining a distant star.

"In a few days, if Mackay agrees. Poor Desmond, he hates letting his
wife go. But for her sake he wants to get her away from here as soon
as possible."

"I see. And you want to get me away from here as soon as possible.
It's a very convenient arrangement for you both."

Her implication stabbed him. He stood still, and faced her; his eyes
full of pain. But he made no attempt to touch her: which was a mistake.

She stood still also,--head uplifted, hands clasped behind
her,--without discontinuing her scrutiny of the heavens.

"By the Lord, you are hitting back harder than I deserve," he
reproached her desperately. "At least you might believe of me all that
I said of Desmond, . . that it is for your sake, and that I shall hate
letting you go. The suggestion was entirely his own. He asked me to
tell you, from him, that you would be doing them both a very real
kindness by going with Mrs Desmond; and I thought . . you would be glad
of a chance to help either of them; especially since you must know,
after all I said at Kajiar, that it is impossible . . yet for us to
start fair and square."

It was a long speech for Eldred, and it brought her down from the stars.

"Naturally I am delighted to do anything on earth for the Desmonds,"
she said sweetly, ignoring his final remark. "You speak as if I might
refuse to go. But I haven't fallen quite so low as that."

"Quita, have you _no_ mercy on a man?" he flashed out between anger and
pain. "There has never been any question of 'falling' on your side,
and you know it. But surely you understand that, in spite of all that
has happened between, what I dared not to do a month ago, I dare not do
now."

"Do you mean . . is . . the trouble not any less?"

"No."

"But I thought you were going . . to fight it?"

"So I am; so I shall, till I break it, or it breaks me. But look back
over the past few weeks, and ask yourself if I have had much of a
chance so far."

She unclasped her hands and looked up at him, speech hovering in her
eyes. But she dropped them again, and stood so, with bowed head,
shifting her rings nervously up and down her slim third finger.

"Dear lass, what's troubling you?" he asked. "We've got to understand
one another to-night; so don't be afraid to speak out. Better make a
clean wound and have done with it, than think hard things of me that
may be unjust. Tell me the thought I saw in your eyes."

"I was thinking of something Michael said." She spoke in an even voice
without looking up.

"Michael? Well . . what was it?" Anxiety sharpened his tone.

"He said that if . . if you really . . wanted me back again, your
conscientious scruples would be swept away like straws before a flood.
I wouldn't believe him then. But now . . I'm afraid it's true."

"Confound the man! What does he know about my scruples?" Lenox broke
out with irrepressible vehemence; and she looked up quickly.

"Please don't be violent, Eldred. You told me to speak out. Besides,
Michael is my brother."

"I'm sorry. But if he were ten times your brother, I'd say the same.
He had no business to try and set you against me like that." He caught
her unresisting hands now, and held them fast.

"You take Michael's word against mine . . is that so?" he asked, a dull
flush rising in his face; and he tried to look into her eyes. But she
would not have it.

"Oh, my dear, can't you see it's not," she said, so low that he
scarcely heard her. "It's . . your own actions, contradicting your own
words, that make me feel he must be right."

Lenox stood aghast at this new and unanswerable aspect of the case; at
the knowledge that, in respect of practical proof to the contrary, his
hands were tied.

"Good God! what can a man do to convince you?" he demanded on a note of
smothered passion. "Quita . . my very wife, look me in the eyes, and
answer me straight. Do you honestly believe that I have been insulting
you with mere lip-service all this while?"

He stood before her in mingled dignity and humility, trying to master
himself, to find some admissible outlet for the tumult of feeling that
was undermining the foundations of his will. But she did not answer at
once; nor did she look up.

"Think how I welcomed you a week ago," he urged.

"I do think of it. But . . since then . . ." She hesitated; and a
slow wave of colour crimsoned her neck and face, even to her forehead.
"I . . I don't know what to believe," she added very low.

The words struck away his last defences, and he caught her in his arms;
straining her to him, and kissing her almost roughly on lips and eyes
and throat. She submitted at first, in sheer amazement and
half-frightened joy at having roused him thus. Then she tried to free
herself; but he held her close, and hard.

"Do you believe now," he asked, his lips at her ear, "that I want
you . . that I love you . . with every part of me, heart, and mind, and
body?"

For all answer she leaned her head against him with a broken sob.

"Oh, Eldred," she rebuked him through her tears. "I never knew you
could behave . . like that!"

"No more did I," he answered bluntly. "Forgive me, darling, if you
can. I was a brute to lose control of myself. But you pushed me too
far. There are things no man of human passions can put up with; and if
you are going to begin by doubting my sincerity, all hope of real union
between us is at an end."

"Dear love, I promise I'll never doubt it again," she whispered
fervently. "I'll go away, and stay away . . without any fuss, if only
I can see things straight and clear; if only you won't quite shut me
out from the best part of yourself."

"I've no notion of shutting you out from any part of myself, you
precious woman. But the habit of half a lifetime is not easy to break
through; and I suppose that when two people marry they have to learn
one another bit by bit, like a new language; except in such a rare case
as the Desmonds, where love and understanding are not two things, but
one, like the man and woman themselves. There . . did you ever guess I
had thought all that about marriage!"

She laughed contentedly.

"No. How could I? And it's your thoughts I want, Eldred;--the hidden
you, that belongs to no one but me."

"Do you, though? It sounds rather wholesale! But I'll do my best."

"Come over and sit on the steps; and I'll try to tell you just how
matters stand, and how I feel about it all."

He led her back to the verandah, and establishing her on the topmost
step, seated himself lower down, one arm passed behind her, his left
hand covering hers that lay folded in her lap. Quita, looking down
upon it in a flutter of happiness, noted and approved it as an epitome
of the man; large, without clumsiness, nervous and full of character.

Then he told her, simply and straightly, a part of what he had told
Desmond; and more, that was for herself alone. Through all he said,
and left unsaid, Quita felt the force of his ascetic personality, of a
strong man, stern with himself and his own passion; and, womanlike,
thrilled at thought of her dominion over him; her power to set him
vibrating by a word, a look, a touch. Yet she listened without
movement or interruption; for the which he blessed her in his heart.

"I suppose there are numbers of men who would take . . what I refuse
without a twinge of conscience," he said finally. "But the fact that I
should be acting dead against the right, as I see it, would make
capitulation wrong for me, . . if not for them. Besides, one dare not
trifle with an inherited evil. One's only chance lies in taking strong
measures on the spot. You understand?"

"Yes, I understand . . now; though I didn't at first. And I wouldn't
have you different by one hair's-breadth, though your strength and
single-mindedness does make things harder for both of us."

He pressed her hands.

"It's worth all I've been through, and more, to hear you say that.
Only remember, lass, it's not simply a question of principles that may
seem to you high-flown, but of bedrock facts. I don't want to enlarge
on the ugly or painful side of a very ugly subject; but I do want you
to understand that not only my career, but our whole future happiness
depends upon my crushing out this habit before it degenerates to a
craving; before my conscience gets blunted, my will-power undermined.
Opium is worse than drink in both respects: and if things ever reached
such a pass--which God forbid--it would mean losing my commission; just
going under, like dozens of ill-fated chaps, and sinking in the scale:
or at best scraping along in the army by means of constant subterfuges,
at the hourly risk of discovery and disgrace. A nice sort of life for
you, my proud little woman. And for----" he broke off short.

She tried to speak, but tears were clutching at her throat; and after a
moment's pause, he went on: "There is a great black something deep down
in me, Quita, that rises up now and then, like a spiritual fog, and
blots all the light and colour out of life. This, and the dread of
those hideous possibilities I spoke of, made me feel, a month ago, as
if it might be better for you to be left in comparative freedom, than
chained to a man with a devil inside him. But your coming down here
has put all that out of the question."

"Thank God I came, then."

"Yes. Thank God you came," he echoed fervently. "Though I was afraid
you didn't quite realise . . ."

"Dear, I did. More than you imagine. But I wanted . . to help you in
spite of yourself; and I hoped we could fight it out together."

He shook his head.

"Don't think me brutal, Quita, but a man's got to fight out this sort
of thing alone with his own soul . . and God. You can only help just
by . . loving me, and believing that I shall pull through. Dear old
Desmond has done about as much for me as one human being seems
permitted to do for another in big contingencies; and, by the way, he
said rather a charming thing to-night."

"He has a gift for that. What was it?"

"He said I won the great talisman that put failure out the question."

She laughed again, softly.

"Oh, how I love that man, and his incurable idealism!"

"You do? You lawless young woman! How many more?"

"Only one more . . I think!"

And freeing her left hand she slipped it round his head, that was on a
level with her shoulder, drew it close against her, and ran her fingers
lightly through his thick hair.

"I'm going to weave a magic over your head to make you sleep, and
reward you for giving up the opium, you poor, poor darling."

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