At the end of the prescribed time Frank Wenlock was marched before the
Commandant. His demeanour was very different now to what it had been
upon the last occasion. All the swagger and aggressiveness had
disappeared. His manner was quiet without subserviency.
Schoeman read him a long lecture upon his former shameful conduct and
the magnanimity of the burghers of the Republics. Did he wish to
apologise for his behaviour and the insulting references he had made to
the President?
"Certainly, Mynheer Commandant," replied Frank. "I'm a rough and ready
harum-scarum sort of a chap, and I must have said some rather beastly
things about people you all think a lot of. Well, I am sorry."
"That is good," said Schoeman. "Mynheer De la Rey has been pleading for
you, and some others who have known you at home. Their esteemed words,
and remembering that you are little more than a foolish boy, and the
only son of your widowed mother, have decided us to spare the life which
you had forfeited. But there are two courses, one of which we must
exact from you--to be sent to Bloemfontein as an ordinary prisoner of
war, or to pledge yourself not to serve against the Republics or those
in arms on their behalf. In which case you may go free. Which do you
choose?"
Frank's face clouded a moment, wherein is a paradox. A moment ago he
was expecting immediate death--now he was disappointed because denied
the opportunity of meeting it every day or so.
"Choose your freedom, man," said Stephanus kindly. "Remember you have a
mother to take care of."
"Very well. I will give you the pledge, Mynheer Commandant," Frank
answered. "But of course you will not have Colvin shot?"
"Under the circumstances, no," was the cold reply.
"Hooroosh! You are gentlemen, you are, all of you!" cried Frank, his
exuberance getting the better of him. "Wait till we meet in Schalkburg
again. We'll drink old Pritchett's bar dry. But, now for Colvin."
The latter had not moved from the spot on which he had stood to meet his
death, and Aletta had not moved from him. She still held the revolver
in her right hand, keeping jealous watch on the possibility of a
suspicious move towards them. But for the moment the attention of
everybody was riveted in the other direction. Not until her father
approached her alone did she begin to feel reassured.
"Aletta, my child, you may put away that plaything," called out
Stephanus. "Colvin is safe now. I have Schoeman's word for that.
Besides, I am able to ensure his safety myself."
"Aletta has saved me, Stephanus," answered Colvin as they exchanged a
great handgrip. "Look at this child of yours. But for her you would
have been here just ten minutes too late. They had actually levelled
the rifles when Aletta deliberately shielded me with herself. It just
turned on the merest hairsbreadth of a pressure on the trigger. Look at
her, Stephanus, and you will be looking on the bravest, sweetest, truest
woman that ever brightened God's world, and be as proud, to your dying
day, that she is your own daughter as I am that she is to be my wife."
"Er--I say, Colvin, old chap--how are you? I don't want to intrude--
only just to wring your flipper." And Frank Wenlock, looking from one
to the other, edged in, and performed that somewhat syllogistically
described feat with a will. "It wasn't my fault, Miss De la Rey," he
exclaimed. "I hadn't the ghost of an idea they'd dream of meaning to
shoot him till I heard it--well, by accident. When he got me safe off
the premises yonder, he swore again and again that he wasn't running the
slightest risk himself--that he stood too much in with them--and so on.
Otherwise I wouldn't have budged. I have my faults, but I wouldn't have
allowed another fellow to get shot instead of me, and that's why I came
back now."
"Look here, Frank," said Colvin, "would you mind explaining precisely
what on earth you are talking about?"
"Oh, come, that's rather too good. Ain't I talking about the night
before last, when I was going to be shot in a few hours, and you came in
and turned me loose. Eh?"
"Then you are talking of what never took place. As sure as I stand
here, the last time I saw you was when you were playing the fool there
in front of Schoeman and the rest, simply committing suicide like the
consummate ass you were, and always have been. As for turning you
loose, I couldn't have done so even if I'd wanted to. Old Schoeman took
jolly good care of that by putting me under arrest myself."
Frank stared, whistled, then shook his head.
"All I can say is then, that if it wasn't you, it was your bally ghost.
That's all," he said.
"Well, you'd better not talk about it any more, Frank," said Stephanus.
"Don't you see, man? It's a thing to forget now."
"Oh--um--ah--of course, I see," assented Frank readily.
"That may be, Stephanus," said Colvin, "but I have assured the whole of
this crowd upon my honour that I had no more to do with Frank's escape
than the man in the moon. And no more I had."
"No--no--of course not, old chap," cheerfully rejoined Frank, who didn't
believe a word of the other's denial. "Well, after all, what's the odds
now? All's well that ends well."
"There's some mystery behind all this," said Colvin in a low tone to
himself. But Aletta heard it. And then her own doubts came back to
her. What if they had all been mistaken? There was evidently someone
about who bore an extraordinary likeness to Colvin. Her own eyes had
deceived her once. Yes, it was extraordinary.
"_Mijn Baas! Mijn lieve Baas_!"
Just outside the group stood Gert Bondelzwart. He had watched his
opportunity to sidle up, for in a Boer laager native servants were not
wont to move about with the same free and independent swagger as, say,
in the suburbs of Cape Town. Colvin turned:
"Hullo, Gert, how did you get here?"
"Ah!" cried Stephanus, "you have to thank this rascal that I am here at
all, Colvin. He it was who brought Aletta's note telling me of the fix
you were in, and killed one of my best horses in doing so, but that's
nothing. The wonder to me is he got through at all."
"_Ja_, _Baas_. It was a wonder," put in the Griqua. "Twice I had a
volley fired at me, but I knew what delay would mean, so I wouldn't
stop. Ah, well, we came in time--we came in time. And the _klein
missis_ told me it didn't matter if I killed the horse if only we did
that."
"Gert, you are a fine fellow, and I won't forget in a hurry," said
Colvin, turning a very kindly glance upon his faithful servitor. "Why,
what is all this about?"
For a new diversion had occurred. Was there to be no end to the events
of that day? A party of burghers were riding up, but--Great Heaven!
what was this? What did it mean? Who was that in their midst? Colvin
Kershaw? Yet, there stood Colvin Kershaw. But--here he was too! Not a
face in that crowd but was agape with wild amaze. What on earth did it
mean? Was this man the devil in disguise, they asked, that he could be
present in two bodies at the same time? Even the stolid philosophical
Dutch nature was stirred to the core, as in breathless excitement the
burghers awaited the explanation of the new arrivals with this exact
replica of Colvin Kershaw in their midst.
The latter had dismounted with the rest, and, pulling out his pipe,
began to fill it. Those looking on could not fail to note that in
manner, in every movement, the resemblance between the two men was
faultless. He, for his part, not yet having descried his duplicate, was
lazily wondering what the deuce all these Dutchmen were looking so
scared about.
Aletta, from where she stood, could see the stranger, and a perfect maze
of bewilderment flitted across her countenance as she gazed at him.
Then a sudden light leaped into her eyes.
"Colvin," she murmured. "Is that your twin brother?"
"N-no. I have a half-brother somewhere in the world, last heard of in
Vancouver. I haven't seen him for years, but he wasn't like me then.
But brother or not, Aletta, I have an idea we have run my `double' to
earth at last."
"I think so too--darling," she whispered.
The stranger's glance had now swept round to where they stood. He gave
a start and a whistle of surprise; then approached them.
"I believe I must have struck the real Colvin at last," he began,
without ceremony. Here, again, standing together as they were, the
height, the features, even the voices of the two men, were inimitably
alike. Yet Aletta, with the eyes of love, and hearing sharpened by its
spell, could detect a difference. Nobody else could, however.
"Yes, that is my name," replied Colvin. "But--you are not Kenneth,
surely?"
"I am, though. Look here," fishing out two or three directed envelopes.
"But--I'm rather glad to run into you at last. People are always
hailing me as `Colvin,' and abusing me for not wanting to know them
again--you know--when I tell them I'm somebody else. It's becoming a
bore."
"Well, Kenneth. I'm glad to see you, too, after all these years. You
shall tell me about yourself by-and-by. But, first of all, would you
mind telling me one thing. Have you been staying in Johannesburg some
little while of late?"
"Rather--only just left it. Why? Oh, I suppose people have been
mistaking me for you, is that it? Has its awkward sides sometimes,
hasn't it?"
"It easily may have," replied Colvin, with a meaning in his tone, which
one, at any rate, standing beside him thoroughly grasped.
"The Commandant wants you. Come!"
Kenneth Kershaw turned leisurely. Two armed burghers stood waiting.
"Oh, all right, I was forgetting. So-long, Colvin. We'll have a great
pow-pow by-and-by."
They watched his retreating form.
"I think the mystery is for ever clear now, sweetheart," said Colvin.
But Aletta could not speak. She could only press his arm in silence.
All the agony she had suffered came back to her, as in a wave.
"I know what you are thinking, my darling one," he went on softly. "But
I don't wonder you were taken in by the likeness. It is quite the most
remarkable thing I ever saw."
"Yet, I doubted you. _You_!"
"Love, think no more of that. Have you not really and truly drawn me
out of the very jaws of death this morning? Ah! but our sky is indeed
clear--dazzlingly clear now."
"Tell me about this half-brother of yours, Colvin," said Aletta
presently. "Had you no idea he was in this country?"
"None whatever. For years we had lost sight of each other. The fact
is, Aletta, I may as well tell you--though I wouldn't anybody else--but
the chap was rather a bad bargain--on two occasions, indeed, only
escaped by the skin of his teeth from coming to mortal grief. I would
even bet something he'll come down on me to help him now, and if it'll
do him any good I will. But he may have improved by now. Some of us do
with time, you know."
It turned out even as Colvin had said. When Kenneth rejoined him for a
little talk apart--after his interview with the Commandant--he spoke of
his own affairs. He had been very much of a rolling stone, he
explained, and now he wanted to settle down. He was going to turn over
a new leaf entirely. Would Colvin help him a little?
The latter laughed drily.
"Whom are you going to settle down _with_, Kenneth?" he asked.
"The sweetest, prettiest, dearest little girl in the world." ("That of
course," murmured the listener). "You know her, Colvin. It was thanks
to my likeness to you that I did."
"Name?"
"May Wenlock."
"So? Do you know, Kenneth, this infernal likeness has put me to very
serious inconvenience, and came within an ace of costing me my life? I
suppose it was you who let out Frank Wenlock."
"Of course it was. But don't give it away."
"No--no. But how did you manage to get here at all to do it without
being spotted?"
"Oh, Adrian De la Rey fixed up all that. Of course I had no notion you
were anywhere around."
"I see," said Colvin, on whom the whole ingenuity of the plot now
flashed. All these witnesses against him were not perjured, then. They
had been genuinely deceived. The other, watching him, had no intention
of giving away his own share, direct or indirect, in the transaction, or
his partnership with Adrian in that other matter. In the course of his
somewhat eventful and very wandering life Kenneth Kershaw had never
found overmuch scruple a paying commodity.
"Well, Kenneth, I'll do what I can for you," went on Colvin, "but I'm
afraid it won't be much. And the feet is I'm just taking on an
`unlimited liability' myself."
"Yes, so I concluded just now, from appearances. Well, Colvin, I
congratulate you heartily."
They talked a little about money matters, and then Kenneth broke out:
"Hang it, Colvin; you are a good chap after all. I had always somehow
figured you as a priggish and cautious and miserly sort, which was the
secret of your luck; but I don't believe there's a man jack on earth who
would have been as splendid and as generous under the circumstances."
Colvin's face softened. "Oh, it's all right, old man. Don't get making
a speech," he said. "I wish I could do more, but, as you see, I can't."
"See! Rather. And now, look here. I believe I am the bearer of some
pretty good news. I didn't tell you at first, because I wanted to see
what sort of chap you were. Not, mind you," he added, somewhat
vehemently, "that I have any interested motive now, not a bit of it.
Well--read that--and that."
Fumbling in his pocket-book, he got out some slips of paper. They were
press cuttings from English newspapers, and bore dates of about six
weeks previously:
"By the death of Sir Charles Kershaw, Bart, of Slatterton Regis,
Dorset, and Terracombe, Devon, which took place suddenly the day
before yesterday, the title and both properties, together with
considerable sums in personalty, devolve upon his next-of-kin, Mr
Colvin Kershaw, at present believed to be in the Transvaal."
In substance the notices were alike, albeit somewhat different in
wording. Colvin reflected for a moment. Then he said:
"I suppose there's no mistake. It's rather sooner than I expected,
Kenneth, but of course I did expect it sooner or later. I am glad
enough for its emoluments, but personally I don't care about the title.
I fancy I shall grow awfully sick of hearing every cad call me by my
Christian name. I say, though, Kenneth, we shall be able now to make a
bigger thing of that scheme of ours, eh?"
"By Jove, you are a good chap, Colvin," burst forth the other,
understanding his meaning. But he did not let candour carry him far
enough to own to the daring scheme he had formed for personating Colvin
in the event of the fortune of war going against the latter, as it had
so nearly and fatally done. Like scruple, candour was not always a
paying commodity.
Colvin, for his part, was thinking with heartfelt gratitude and love,
what a bright future he had to lay before Aletta. Kenneth, for his, was
thinking, with a glow of satisfaction, that he was going to be very
happy with May Wenlock, under vastly improved circumstances, and that
such a state of things was, after all, much more satisfactory than life
on a far larger scale, but hampered with the recollection of a great
deed of villainy, and the daily chances of detection as a fraud and
impostor liable to the tender mercies of the criminal law.