"WHAT HAS THE WORLD BEEN SINCE?--THEE ALONE!"
One of the most blissful delusions, and unaccountable withal, under
which a man desperately in love invariably labours, is the profound
unconsciousness of his state wherewith he credits those among whom he
lives and moves. What renders the delusion all the more inexplicable is
the certainty that its victim himself in his unsmitten days must have
frequently spotted more than one of his friends labouring under the
ravages of the intoxicating malady, or at any rate his feminine kinsfolk
and acquaintance were not slow to make the discovery for him. Yet when
his own turn comes he may, with absolute certainty, be counted upon to
imagine that his own incoherencies of speech and action, in short, all
the symptoms of acute delirium entirely escape the multifold optics of
the Argus feminine; and that his Beeret remains all his own, so
effectually has he guarded it. Which thing, by the way, no _man_ ever
succeeded in accomplishing yet.
Lilian was singing; a sweet pathetic ballad, rendered with infinite
feeling. The song ended; a final chord or two; and the singer threw it
aside and turned away from the piano.
"Thanks, Lilian. Why, my child, you sing like an angel," said her
hostess, moved almost to tears by the full, rich voice which, keeping
well within its compass, fills the room just so much as it will bear and
no more, while every word is as distinctly enunciated as though the
singer were reciting it. Even Mr Brathwaite had forgotten to fall into
his post-coenal doze, and sat upright in his arm-chair, wide awake and
listening.
The three above mentioned are alone in the room this evening--yet stay--
there enters a fourth. He had been standing quietly in the doorway
during the song, and refrained from entering, for fear of disturbing the
singer. He had been obliged to go out after supper to give some orders
to Xuvani about the morrow, and returning, was surprised and entranced
by the sound of Lilian's voice in song. So he stood in the doorway,
drinking in every note.
"Why, you vowed you never sang," he exclaimed, reproachfully, advancing
to the piano. "And then you wait until a fellow is out of the way, and
this is the result."
She turned to him with the most bewitching of smiles. "Well, I don't,"
she replied, in a deprecatory tone. "At least, I haven't for a long,
long time, and now I'm only trying over something I picked up the other
day. Just by ourselves, you know."
"Having carefully waited till I was out of the room."
"Perhaps I was just a little bit shy, from being so long out of
practice," answered she, with a glance that would have melted a stone.
But her auditor, though stony enough in all other respects, was wax in
her hands, and her glance thrilled through him like an electric shock.
She had penetrated the one weak joint in his armour most thoroughly.
Did she know it?
"Shyness, like all other weaknesses, should be conquered," he rejoined.
"The best way of conquering it in this instance is to sing that over
again. Just by ourselves, you know."
"But Mrs Brathwaite won't thank me. She must have had enough of it,"
objected Lilian, with a laugh.
"Enough of it!" exclaimed the old lady. "My dear child, I would have
asked you myself but I didn't quite like to. Now do. Arthur hasn't
heard the first part."
Thus adjured, she gave way; but this time the shyness to which she had
pleaded guilty, made itself manifest by an occasional slight tremor in
the sweet, clear voice. Which, however, rendered the pathetic ballad
all the more entrancing to her new auditor.
There was silence for a minute when she had ended Claverton broke it.
"That's the loveliest thing I ever heard."
"What! Did you never hear it before?"
"Never. But I don't care how soon I hear it again."
"Now we must have something cheerful," said Lilian.
"But it will counteract the other."
She laughed.
"Just what it should do. What, Mr Claverton? _You_ get the dismals
over a song? Won't do at all." And without giving him time to reply,
she rattled off a lively little ditty, doing full justice to the spirit
and archness of the composition.
Ethel and Laura were away, spending two or three days with the Naylors,
and to-night Hicks had taken himself there, too; thus these two and the
old people had the house to themselves. To one of the quartett that
afternoon was to be marked with the traditional white stone. A
deliciously long walk with Lilian, unhindered and unrestrained by the
presence of any third person. She had talked freely about the old home,
and her eyes had brightened, and her cheeks had glowed with the
loveliest flush, while on that most congenial of topics. Yet a thorn
beneath every rose. Never could she revert to the favourite subject
without that indefinable moment of restraint coming in. Again this
afternoon it had gone home to her companion, strengthening the resolve
which he had already formed.
The door stood open. Attracted by the beauty of the night, Lilian went
out on the verandah.
"Better have a shawl, my child; you'll catch cold," said Mrs
Brathwaite.
"A shawl!" she echoed. "Dear Mrs Brathwaite, I should be roasted.
It's as warm almost as at midday."
"Yes, it's a regulation summer evening," said Claverton, following her
on to the _stoep_. "And a light one, too, considering that there's no
moon."
"I do think you get such glorious starlight here," continued Lilian.
"An English starlight night is the feeblest of misty twinkles, in
comparison. What's that?" as a luminous spark floated by. "A firefly?"
"Yes. There are lots of them about. Look! there's another."
"What do they look like, close? Couldn't we catch one?"
"Oh, yes; nothing easier. I'll get Hicks' butterfly net, it's only in
the passage. Now then," he went on, returning with the implement,
"which shall it be? There's a bright one. We'll go for him." So
saying he made a dexterous cast, ensnaring the shining insect. Their
quest had led them some twenty yards from the house.
"They are not so brilliant as I thought," remarked Lilian, as they
inspected the captive. "It's rather an insignificant-looking thing,"
she continued, allowing the insect to crawl over her delicate palm.
"Let's take it to the light."
This didn't suit Claverton's purpose at all. "It won't shine there," he
said, "and you'll be disenchanted with it, and--Ah! It's gone." For
the creature, evidently thinking it had instructed them enough in a new
branch of entomology, suddenly opened its wings and soared off among the
orange trees.
"It's a perfect shame to go indoors on such a night as this," murmured
Lilian, half to herself.
"No earthly reason exists why we should," replied her companion. "At
least not just yet. Let's stroll round the garden."
"Shall we? But what will Mrs Brathwaite say?" added Lilian, dubiously.
"Say? Oh, nothing. The dear old couple generally drop off in their
arm-chairs of an evening, when Ethel isn't here to make a racket; but
to-night you have charmed them back from the land of Nod with those
delicious songs. Come along."
She yielded, and they wandered down the garden path in the starlight.
But Claverton was out of his reckoning, for once. The "dear old couple"
in this instance happened to be wide awake, and were discussing him in a
manner that was very much to the point.
"Walter," began Mrs Brathwaite, when the voices outside were out of
earshot, "I'm greatly afraid Arthur has lost his heart in that quarter."
"Bah!" replied her husband, with a good-natured laugh; "not he.
Arthur's made of tougher stuff than that. And," he added, "you women
think of nothing but match-making."
"But I tell you he has," persisted she, ignoring the latter insinuation.
"Now look here. For the last fortnight he has been a changed man. I
can see it, if you can't. Why, he hardly speaks to any one else when
Lilian is there. Every moment that he is not at work he is in the
house, or in the garden, or wherever she is. For some days he has been
looking pale and worn, and no wonder, for he doesn't eat enough to
support life in a child of three years old. And he has become, for him,
quite captious and irritable. Now," she concluded, triumphantly, "do
you mean to tell me all this is only my imagination?"
"Well, perhaps you are right," answered the old settler, reflectively.
"But somehow I've almost thought, of late, he was rather fond of Ethel."
"That's because you're not a woman," rejoined his wife. "Now I never
thought so. And I've noticed what I've been telling you ever since the
night of the dance, that is, ever since the day after Lilian's arrival.
You'll see I'm right."
"Not sure I don't hope you are. It would be a good thing for both of
them. She's one of the sweetest girls I ever saw, as well as the
prettiest. And to be thrown upon the world like that, gaining her
livelihood by hammering a lot of dirty, uproarious brats into shape--
it's abominable; and if it is as you say I heartily congratulate
Arthur."
Mrs Brathwaite laughed rather dubiously. "Not so fast," she said, "I'm
by no means sure that Arthur will find it all plain sailing. Mark my
words, that girl has a history, and she isn't to be won by any chance
comer. Ah, well; we shall see."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile the objects of their discussion are wandering on beneath the
orange trees, even as they had done barely a fortnight ago for the first
time.
"You are highly entertaining, I must say," remarked Lilian, amusedly,
when they had strolled some hundred yards further in absolute silence.
"I suppose I ought to offer you the regulation penny."
"You must make a much higher bid, then. I was thinking of what you have
just been singing."
"Really now? I should never have thought you were so easily impressed."
"I don't know. There is a world of pathos in that composition. Those
few lines contain the story of two people who might have been happy.
Why weren't they? Because it pleased a beneficent Providence--
beneficent, mark you--to decree otherwise, and so Death put in his oar.
Now if all hadn't been going well with them, it isn't likely that
Providence would have been so accommodating."
There is a brusque harshness in his tones which causes his listener to
glance up at him in surprise and dismay, and she can see that his
features are haggard. She is even alarmed, for she remembers hearing
vaguely that her companion's life had been a stirring and chequered one.
Has she now unwittingly rasped some hidden but unforgotten chord? It
must be so, and she feels sorely troubled.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
They are standing on the brink of the little rock-bound pool where they
lingered and talked on the night of the dance. Almost mechanically they
have struck out the same path and wandered down it, but this time no
deadly foe dogs their footsteps. They are alone; alone in the dim hush
of the African night. Overhead the dark vault is bespangled with its
myriads of golden eyes, which are reflected in the still waters of the
pool, and the Southern Cross flames from a starry zone. Now and then a
large insect of the locust species sends forth a weird, twanging note
from far down the kloof, but no sign of life is there among the
_spekboem_ sprays, which sleep around them as still as if cut out of
steel.
He picks up a pebble and jerks it into the pool. It strikes the surface
with a dull splashless thud, and sinks. A night-jar darts from beneath
one of the fern-fringed rocks and skims across the water, uttering a
whirring note of alarm.
"Hadn't we better be going back?" hazards Lilian, at last. Anxious to
withdraw from the dangerous topic, she takes refuge in a commonplace.
"It was rather late when we came out."
Claverton is standing half turned away from her--his face working
curiously as he looks down into the water. For a minute he makes no
answer; then he faces round upon her, and his voice, hoarse and thick,
can scarcely make its way through his labouring throat.
"Lilian, Lilian--my darling--my sweet--my own sweetest love. For God's
sake tell me what I would die at this moment to know?"
He has taken both her hands in his and is gazing hungrily down into the
lovely eyes. She gives a slight start of unfeigned surprise, and he can
see the sweet face pale in the starlight. Trying to speak firm she
gently repeats her former question: "Hadn't we better be going back?"
Can he read his fate in her eyes? Do those gentle tones echo his
sentence? It seems so.
"No," he replies, with all the vehemence of a foregone cause--the
passion of shattered hope. "No--not until you have heard everything."
His arms are around her now, and she cannot stir from the spot if she
would, but she does not try. "Listen," he goes on, speaking in a low,
quick, eager voice. "Since the very first day I saw you I have loved
you as no woman was ever yet loved. From the first minute, from the
first glance I caught of you that day you flashed upon me like an angel
of light. Stop. It is true, so help me God, every word of it,"--for
she started as if in surprise. "From the very first moment. Couldn't
you see it? Couldn't you even see it that first day?"
"No--I could not," is her earnest answer. "I vow to you I could not. I
had no idea of--of anything of the kind. I would have gone away from
here at once--anywhere--sooner than have wrecked your peace! And now
this is what I have done. Heaven knows I never intended it!"
The sweet eyes are brimming with tears as she stands with bent head
before him, and Claverton is convulsed with a wild, helpless yearning.
The first thought is to comfort her.
"Don't I know that? Heavens! The intention is a mere superfluity. One
has only to see you to love you. Can the sun help shining?"
She looks up at him. "Then you believe me? It would be dreadful to
me--the thought that you could imagine I had trifled with you."
"I could not think so. It would be an impossibility," replies he. For
the moment he almost forgets the death blow which she has dealt to his
own hopes, in his great eagerness to set her at ease with herself, to
reassure her. Forgets? No. Rather he rises above himself.
"Listen, darling. Every day since you came here I have only seemed to
live when with you. I have never been a fraction of a moment away from
you if I could possibly have been near you. Night after night through I
have lain awake, restlessly longing for morning that I might look upon
you again, and then when I have left you to go about the day's work, how
I have treasured up the last glance of those dear eyes, the last ring of
that sweet voice, till the very air seemed all sunshine and music.
Lilian, darling, I never can live again without you, and--by God, I
never will."
He pauses; his voice failing him. The expression of his face as he
hangs upon her reply is terrible to behold. It might be compared to
that worn by a convicted murderer when the return of the jury to give
their verdict is announced. And this is the man who, at a comparatively
early age, has looked upon many a harrowing scene of human suffering
unmoved, who has thoroughly steeled himself against all the tenderer
feelings of nature, ever presenting a cold philosophical front to the
fortunes, good or ill, of himself or of his neighbours. Who would know
him standing there, ghastly white, the whole of his being shaken to the
very core? Yet but a few days have wrought this change.
She makes no answer at first, for she is silently weeping. Then with an
effort she looks at him, and her face wears an expression of unutterable
sadness.
"Hush! You don't know what you are saying. You must never talk to me
like this again. Try and forget that you have done so. Remember what a
short time you have known me. How can you know anything of me in a
fortnight?"
His answer is a harsh, jarring laugh. "Forget what I have been saying?
Only a fortnight? Is everything to be subject to the unalterable rule
of thumb? Only a fortnight! My love--my life; do you remember the
first time we were here together? I could have told you even then, what
I am telling you now. Do you remember telling me about yourself; how
you were all alone in the world--you? Only say the word and your life
shall be without a care--all brightness and sunshine, and such love.
Listen, my own! I, too, am alone in the world. I have never found any
one to love--it has all been treasured up--kept for you. Now, take it.
Lilian, Lilian, it cannot be that--you--will not?"
His voice sinks to a fierce, passionate whisper, and he holds her to him
as if he would never let her go. Above, in the sky, a lustrous meteor
gleams--and then fades. A flight of plover, rising from the ground,
circles in the gloom, with soft and ghostly whistle, and all is still,
save for the beating of two hearts. Around float the fragrant breaths
of the rich, balmy night.
"I can give you--no--comfort," she replies, dropping out her words as if
with an effort. "Oh, why did you ever tell me this? Do you think it is
nothing to me to see you made wretched for my sake? I tell you it is
heart-breaking--utterly heart-breaking. Yet it cannot be. You must
never, never talk to me like that again. And you have given me all the
best of yourself," she exclaims, the very depth of sadness in her tone,
"and I--can give you--nothing!"
"Nothing?" he echoes, mechanically, looking down into the white, sad
face, out of which every trace of its usual calm serenity has
disappeared, leaving a weary, hopeless expression that is infinitely
touching. "Ah, I can see that your life has not been without its sore
troubles. It is not for me to pry into them."
"I can give you this amount of comfort, if it be any comfort," she says,
throwing back her head with a quick movement and fixing her eyes on his.
"I look back upon the hours which I have spent in your society as an
unmixed pleasure, and I look forward to many more, selfish as I am in
doing so. I formed my opinion of you the very first few moments we were
together--and our first meeting was a queer one, was it not?" with a sad
little smile at the recollection. "That opinion is unchanged, except,
perhaps, for the better. I cannot bring myself to forego your society,
though it is only fair to warn you that I can give you no hope; and you
must never ask me to. Are the conditions too hard?"
"No, they are not."
Her words had a soothing effect upon her listener, and he began to see a
gleam of light. He was not indifferent to her as it was, and, given the
opportunity, he would make himself absolutely indispensable. Moreover,
it was just possible that he had been premature in his declaration.
Yes, more time and opportunity; that was what he wanted--and he would
succeed. Determination, which had never yet failed him, should effect
that--determination, combined with patience. He would not even ask her
her reasons for refusing him now. No; he would trust her absolutely and
wholly, and take not only her but her cares, whatever they might be.
And at the prospect of a contest, a strife with circumstances, though
the odds were dead against him, his spirits revived.
"Promise me one thing," he said. "You will not avoid me in any way?"
She hesitated.
"No, not in any way," she repeated at last.
"And all shall be as it has been?"
"Yes." Then after a pause: "We must really go in."
He released her, and they moved away, but her steps were unsteady. The
strain had told upon her, and she felt weak and faint. Quickly he
passed his arm round her. "No, not that," she said, gently, but firmly.
"I will take your arm, if I may." And in silence they retraced the
bush path and entered the little gate, then through the orange garden
over the runnel of water where they had stood that night when
accidentally watched by Ethel. A light was burning in the room as they
entered, and in an arm-chair eat Mrs Brathwaite, fast asleep, her lord
having retired half an hour ago.
"Why, Lilian!" she exclaimed, starting up. "You have been out a long
time! I hope you haven't caught cold, child!"
"Oh, no; it's such a warm night. We have been astronomising," replied
she, with an attempt at a laugh which fell mournfully flat; but the old
lady was too sleepy to detect its hollowness.
"Well, better get to bed. I suppose you'll do the same, Arthur, now you
haven't got any one to sit up and smoke all night with." For Hicks was
away, as afore stated.
"No, I don't feel restful. Good-night. Would that to-morrow were here
now!" he added, in a low, tender voice as he held Lilian's hand in a
lingering clasp. A responsive pressure, and she was gone.
He withdrew to his quarters--to bed, but not to sleep--and hour followed
hour as he lay with his gaze fixed upon the square patch of golden stars
bounded by the framework of his open window. Well, the die had been
thrown at last. He knew where he was now, at any rate. But it was too
soon to despair, for had he not close upon two months wherein to make
the most of his opportunities? Determination should win, as it always
had in his case. Ah, but this was outside all previous experience.
Well, they had still nearly two months together. Then he began to
wonder whether he was actually undergoing this feeling, or if it were
not a dream from which he would presently awaken.
He started up from a fitful and disturbed doze before dawn, and resolved
to go for a ride. He would go down to the vij-kraal and count out
Umgiswe's flock.
During the night the sky had become overcast, and now, as he rode along
in the grey dawn, dark clouds were lowering to the very earth, and the
mist swept in powdery flakes through the sprays of the bush. It was a
thoroughly depressing morning, and the horseman's reflections were
coloured thereby. And through the chill drizzle seemed to echo the
far-off tones of a sweet, low voice: "I can give you no comfort. You
have given me the best of yourself, and I can give you--nothing."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
We allow that to sheep from disappointed love is something of a
transition. Nevertheless, the incident which occurred at the shepherd's
kraal that morning must be narrated, because it is not without its
bearing on the future events of our story.
"Now, Umgiswe, turn out, and let's count," said Claverton, making a
slash with his whip at a couple of lean, ill-looking curs, which sneaked
sniffing round his horse's heels. "Eh--what's that you've got there?"
as the Kafir, having saluted him, began fumbling about with something on
the kraal fence.
"Two dead sheep," answered the old fellow, producing a couple of skins,
with the air of a man who has triumphantly vindicated his character
against all aspersions.
Claverton examined the skins narrowly. Having satisfied himself that
their sometime wearers had died of disease, and had not been slain to
appease the insatiable appetites of Umgiswe and a few boon companions,
he proceeded to count out the flock. The score was correct.
"All right, Umgiswe; here's some smoke for you," he said, throwing the
old herd a bit of tobacco. "But I say, though--whose dogs are those?"
The Kafir glanced uneasily at the curs aforesaid.
"A man who slept here last night left them. They are sure to go after
him. He has not been long gone."
"No," replied Claverton, carelessly, "he has not been long gone, or
rather _they_ have not been long gone, for they are still here. Turn
them out, Umgiswe." For his ear had detected the sound of several male
voices in the hut as he passed its door.
"Whouw!" exclaimed the old man, turning half aside to conceal an
embarrassed smile. "They are my brothers, _'Nkos_. They just came to
visit me."
"Of course they are. If the half of Kafirland were to turn up here they
would all be your brothers, just come to visit you. It won't do. So
turn them out, you old shuffler, and let's have a look at them."
Then the intruders, to the number of three, who had been attentive
listeners to the above confabulation, turned out and saluted Claverton.
All three were finely-made fellows, but the elder was a man of almost
herculean build. His powerful frame, which was scantily clad, was
smeared from head to foot with red ochre; above his left elbow he wore
an armlet of solid ivory, and from his appearance he was evidently a man
of rank. In his hand he held a couple of kerries made of heavy
iron-wood; one of his companions was similarly armed, while the third
carried a bundle of assegais.
Claverton looked them up and down, noting every detail in their persons
and weapons. "Loafers all three, and up to no good," was his mental
estimation of them, "but devilish awkward customers to tackle. Never
mind. Off they must go--quietly or the reverse--but go they must."
Then he asked them the usual questions--where they came from, where they
were going, and so on--they being ready with an answer of which he knew
exactly how much to believe.
"Came only last night, did you? That is strange, because the evening
before and all day yesterday there were three Kafirs here, and one of
them was a tall man with an armlet on, and _they_ had a couple of yellow
dogs with them. How queer that exactly the same thing, should happen
two days in succession!" he said in a quiet, bantering tone. In point
of fact he was drawing a bow at a venture, but could see by the shifty
eyes of the man to whom he was speaking that the shaft had gone home.
This fellow grinned and shook his head with an exclamation of intense
amusement.
"_Inkos_ must be _Umtagati_," [one who has dealings with magic or
witchcraft] he said, "to see all that went on when he was not here."
"_Umtagati_? Well, perhaps," was the easy reply. Then, fixing his eyes
on those of the tall chief, who had been regarding him with a haughty
and indifferent stare, Claverton went on in the same easy tone. "What
do _you_ think, Nxabahlana?" He addressed, started perceptibly. How
did the white man know his name? "What do _you_ think of _Umtagati_?
But listen. No one has any right loafing here without permission from
the _Baas_ up yonder. So now, off you go, all three--now and at once,
or you'll assuredly come to grief. And, be careful, for remember: _The
black goat dies and the white goat lives_."
"Whouw!" cried all four, unable to conceal their amazement. Then,
without another word, one of the fellows diving into the hut, returned
with the light impedimenta belonging to the three, and with their curs
at their heels, the Kafirs strode off. Just before they entered the
bush the chief turned and gazed fixedly at Claverton for a minute. Then
they disappeared.
"All right, my friend. I shall know you again when next we meet." Then
to the old herd, who stood holding his stirrup: "Those men must not come
back, Umgiswe. And I tell you what, if you go harbouring any more
conspiring loafers you'll get into trouble." And he rode away.