Not until Colvin had gone did Aletta actually realise all that that
parting meant.
Why had she let him go? she asked herself, a score of times a day. She
could have restrained him had she put forth all her influence. Why were
men so restless? Why could not this one have sat still and made the
most of the happiness that was his--that was theirs? Ah, and now those
happy times--and they had been happy times--were in the past. Never to
come again, perhaps--her heart added with a sinking chill.
If the English would but make peace; and then she remembered, with sad
amusement, her patriotic enthusiasms in the old days at Ratels Hoek, and
how condescendingly she had been willing that her countrymen should
allow a few English to remain, during her discussions with Adrian--yes,
and even with Colvin himself. What now was the patriotic cause to her?
She was only conscious of an empty, aching, and utterly desolate heart.
"Aletta is fretting, Piet," said the latter's consort one day--the
subject of the remark not being present. "She is fretting terribly. I
can see it, although she is very brave, and tries not to show it. I did
not think she had it in her to allow herself to be so entirely wrapped
up in one man, and that an Englishman. What can we do to cheer her up?"
"Get the `one man' back, I suppose," rejoined the practical official.
"_Maagtig_, Anna--if ever any man had reason to sit still and be
thankful, that man was Colvin. But, no. Off he must go, not because
he's wanted for fighting purposes, but just to see the fun--as he calls
it. Well, he'll see a great deal that he won't find fun at all. But
these English are all alike, fussy, restless--must have a finger in
everything that goes on--in a fight most of all."
Yes, Aletta was fretting, if a pale and careworn look upon her face was
any index to the mind within. Now, with a rush, all came back--all that
this man was to her. She recalled the hours they had spent together--
every tone and every look--all that he had ever said, and how time had
fled like a streak of sunbeam when she was in his presence--how, too,
her first thought on awaking to another day, again and again, had been
one of half-incredulous, blissful gratitude that in this way she was to
go through life. And now he was gone, and at any moment, for all she
knew, he might be lying dead and still for ever upon the veldt. Oh, it
would not bear thinking on! She had not known what love was before, she
told herself. She knew now, and when he returned to her he should know
too. This separation had taught her. Surely, too, it had taught him.
Among those who frequently visited at Piet Plessis' to try to cheer her
up was, somewhat to her surprise, her cousin Adrian; remembering how
badly he had taken her refusal in the first instance, and the dire
threats he had used towards whosoever should usurp what he chose to
imagine was his place. Then she reflected that, after all, he had
justified the good opinion she had always held of him, in that he had
accepted the inevitable in a sensible and manly way. True, once or
twice it occurred to her uneasily that he might be taking the
opportunity of ingratiating himself once more in view of possible
accidents; but she put the thought from her Another source of surprise
was the way in which she found herself talking to Adrian about the
absent one. At first she had shrunk from so doing, deeming the topic an
unpalatable one to him. But he had not seemed to regard it as such, and
she soon lost her constraint on that head. Then Adrian's visits became
of daily occurrence, and Piet and his wife, seeing they seemed to
brighten Aletta up, encouraged them.
One day she asked him how it was he still remained in Pretoria. Now
that the war was an accomplished fact, his place, she should have
thought, would be at the front. News kept coming in--together with more
prisoners--news of brilliant engagements, and successful stands made
against the foes of the Republic--yet Adrian, who had always been so
energetic in his advocacy of an appeal to arms, dallied here, instead of
marching with those who were fighting for the patriot cause. To this he
had replied that there was time enough before him. The struggle was
young yet; long before it reached its culminating point, he would be in
the midst of it--yes, and would have made his mark too. Thus he told
her.
The while, however, he was playing his own game, and that necessitated
more than one trip over to Johannesburg, more than one conference with
that other Kershaw. The plot concocted by these worthies was nearly
mature.
The time had now come for playing a new card. When Aletta waxed
eloquent over her absent lover, Adrian, hitherto kindly and
considerately responsive, now preserved silence; indeed he lapsed into
silence with just sufficient markedness as to move her to notice it.
This he did some few times, until one day she asked him the reason,
point-blank.
"Oh, it's nothing, Aletta," he answered. And then he abruptly took his
leave.
But at the very next of his visits she returned to the subject, as he
knew she would, and intended she should.
Why had he become so markedly constrained? she asked, a sudden deadly
fear blanching her face. Had he heard anything--any bad news?
"From the front, you mean? No, no; nothing of that sort," quailing
involuntarily before the set, stony look of anguish, and half wavering
in his plan. Then, recovering himself, "Well then, Aletta, it's of no
use keeping it to oneself any longer; besides, you ought to know. Are
you sure there is anyone at the front in whom you have any interest at
all?"
"Why, of course! Why, what do you mean, Adrian? Is not Colvin at the
front?" she said, bringing out her words with a kind of gasp.
"At the front? Well, I don't think he is, considering I saw him only
this morning at Johannesburg."
"Oh, then, he is on his way back," cried Aletta, her face lighting up
with such a radiancy of joy as confirmed the other more than ever in his
purpose.
"I think not," he said; "for to-day is not the only time I have seen him
there. I saw him the day before yesterday, and one day last week."
"Adrian, think what you are saying. It is impossible." But as she
stood looking him in the face as though her gaze would pierce and lay
bare every secret of his brain, a cold and terrible misgiving smote her.
She remembered the positive assertion made by Adrian before on this
head, and in Colvin's own presence. Dr Da Costa's remark, too, she
remembered; likewise her own misgiving, which act of distrust she had
since lamented to herself with bitter and remorseful tears. What if
this thing should be too true?
"But I have letters from him," she went on. "I have heard from him
twice--from Bloemfontein before he joined Commandant Botma. You must
have seen that extraordinary `double' of his, Adrian."
But Adrian was armed at this point too.
"See you now, Aletta?" he said. "It is very easy to get anything posted
in Bloemfontein. Plenty of people travel down there from Johannesburg.
As for that `double' idea, I thought at the time that the story was too
weak altogether. But now, I ask, does his `double' also know Miss
Wenlock? Anyhow, she seemed to be bidding him a very lingering farewell
on the _stoep_ of a house."
This seemed improbable. Still, grasping at the chance, Aletta flatly
refused to believe the statement. And then she rounded upon her cousin,
and for a space that estimable youth had a very bad time indeed. He had
invented this scandalous falsehood, she declared, had invented it out of
malice. She remembered his threats that day at Ratels Hoek; but such,
at any rate, had pointed to a more manly course than this traducing of
the absent. No, she did not and would not believe one word of the
story. Adrian could get away out of her sight and never look upon her
face again.
But she did believe it partly, and Adrian knew she did. He felt quite
secure now.
"Very well, Aletta," he answered, with a quiet dignity, "I will do as
you wish, and you need not be troubled with me any more. That is the
treatment I might have expected for opening your eyes to the--well,
trick that has been played upon you. Yet I don't see why you should
think me a liar; so it is only fair to give me the chance of proving my
words."
"But how are you going to prove them?" she asked, speaking quickly.
"In the best possible way. Will the evidence of your own eyes satisfy
you, Aletta?"
"I cannot refuse to believe my own eyes," she answered slowly. "That
is, in broad daylight," she added.
"Yes, of course. If you will go over to Johannesburg with me to-morrow
you shall be amply convinced. Will you come?"
"Yes. And mind this, Adrian. If you fail to prove this lie--I mean
this charge of yours--by the evidence of my own eyes, you shall never
receive a word from me again--from any of us, indeed. Never."
"Oh, I am not uneasy about that. And now I must go. So long.
To-morrow, mind."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The road in which stood Jim Dixon's abode was well-nigh as deserted at
midday as in the dusk of the evening when Adrian had first come into
contact with Kenneth Kershaw. Now as he walked slowly along, with
Aletta beside him, he could hardly answer her save at random. What if
the plan failed? A miscalculation of time on the part of one or both
confederates and such might easily be the case. His first idea, which
indeed would have been a safer one, was to take up a position in, or
concealed by, one of the deserted houses opposite, of which there was a
whole row, and watch; but even if he could have got Aletta to consent to
this plan, one very important move in the game--the most checkmating
move of all, as we shall see--must of necessity be omitted.
The girl was looking pale and worn, for she had had but little sleep.
Her determination and spirit, the very vitality of the matter at stake,
had kept her up. There were times, too, when she said to herself that
this thing could not be, that she was about to discover what a mistake
Adrian had made; and in the gladness of the thought she was going to be
forgiving to Adrian in that event, not, however, until she had most
severely lectured him.
He for his part had affected a demeanour that was gravely compassionate.
If he seemed now and then ill at ease, why that struck Aletta as
natural--having regard to the delicate nature of the errand on which
they were bound. And he had some reason for his uneasiness, for they
would soon be right opposite Dixon's house, and he did not desire to be
seen by, at any rate, one of its inmates. What was that cursed fool
about, he said to himself, not to show? It was past the time, and they
could not patrol up and down for ever.
"Look now, Aletta!" he said, suddenly. "Look! Was I mistaken?"
The front door of a house about a hundred yards further down on the
other side of the road had opened, and two figures came out on to the
_stoep_. Aletta recognised them instantly. One was that of May
Wenlock, but the other--
No. There was no mistaking it. There he stood, and he was looking down
into May's eyes as he talked to her, was holding her hand in his for a
considerably longer time than was necessary for the purpose of bidding
farewell. There he stood, her perfidious lover--he who had left her
with such words of sworn affection upon his lips, that would be with her
until her dying day--he, the thought of whom, hourly, momentarily, it
might be in peril of death on the battle field, had filled her mind
waking and sleeping--while all the while here he was in quiet safety,
carrying on his intrigue with this girl. There he stood; there could
not be two Colvin Kershaws in the world, that ingenious story of the
"double" notwithstanding. This was the "double" then? Yet it was
wearing exactly the same clothes, exactly the same hat, even, as when
taking that last farewell of herself--that farewell whose memory had
thrilled her heart ever since.
"Courage, Aletta! Courage!" she heard Adrian say, but his voice sounded
as from another world. "Keep up a little longer. Now we will make
certain. Look!"
The man had parted from his companion now, and as he came down to the
front gate, his head was half turned, as with a last loving look towards
May, who was still on the _stoep_. Then he came out into the road, and
the door of the house closed.
He walked slowly along at first, not looking up. Then suddenly he did
look up, and caught the eyes of the two on the opposite side. The
effect was magical. With a bewildered start he half stopped as though
irresolute, then, averting his eyes, he trebled his pace and walked
rapidly away. But during that swift second his glance had met that of
Aletta straight and full; and if ever a human countenance showed dismay,
consternation, guilt, utter confusion, assuredly all these emotions were
stamped upon this man's countenance in that brief moment.
"Well now, was I mistaken?" said Adrian again, his voice sounding even
farther away this time. "Can you believe your own eyes now, Aletta?
You have seen?"
"Oh yes," she gasped. "I must believe my own eyes. Yes--yes, I have
seen."
The girl's face was colourless, her lips livid and shaking. Her steps
even seemed unsteady. Adrian feared that she would faint. But she did
not.