George Payne and his newly-found friend--a veritable friend in need upon
this occasion even as on a former one--kept on their way, winding along
the picturesque heights overlooking the Kei, and exchanging many a
reminiscence of their past acquaintance.
"To think of your turning up like this," said the former. "Why, I
thought you were still away up in the interior and never meant to come
near these parts again."
"Well, I don't know. Fact is, after a few years of wandering, one has
pretty well done this not too interesting continent, at least the
southern part of it; and now I'm thinking of going somewhere else."
"And you've come straight down country, now?"
"Yes; ridden all the way. It would be inconvenient in some ways were it
not that one is indifferent to the exigencies of civilisation after such
a spell of savagery as I've been having. One can't carry much baggage,
for instance."
"Is that all you've got?" said Payne, glancing at the valise strapped
across the other's saddle.
"Yes; I had the rest sent to Komgha. It's a good way from your place,
but we might pick it up if it was wanted."
"Better leave it there at present."
"Why?"
"Well, it's an even chance that we may all have to trek into laager
there or somewhere, any day; and it's safe there, at any rate."
"Are things as fishy as that?"
"They are," replied Payne. "A lot of the Dutchmen down towards the
coast are already in laager; but they're a white-livered lot, when all's
said and done, so that doesn't mean much. Still, from one or two things
I heard to-day, I should say that we shall have some tall rifle practice
before long. I'm no alarmist; on the contrary, I've more than once been
advised to send the wife and kids away to the town, but I don't think
there's any occasion for that just yet."
"No, perhaps not. And it's as well to keep straight as long as you can.
Directly one begins to trek, another does--then another--and soon
there's a regular panic."
"Rather. Now there was a scare on in the year of the big flood, and a
lot of fellows round here began laagering, and one heard such a lot of
war shop talked, that one almost wished there was some reason for it.
Well, I remained through it all. I had only just come up here then, and
didn't see the fun of leaving my place to run to wrack and ruin just as
I had got it a little square and shipshape, so I stuck to it, and other
fellows did the same; and we had the laugh of those who ran away in a
funk."
"That was a bad scare, though."
"It was," said Payne. "The niggers were quite as cheeky then as they
are now, and you've just had a specimen of what that is. By the way,
don't mention that little scrimmage to the wife; she's very susceptible
to scare, as it is, and once she heard of that, life would be a burden
to her whenever I was away from home. Lately, she's done nothing but
predict that I should come to grief."
"All right. I'll keep dark."
"Here we are at last," said Payne, as they entered a narrow gorge
between two high hills, and emerging upon a sort of basin-like hollow,
beheld a substantial-looking farmhouse. In front, a sweep of smooth
sward sloping down to the dam, in whose still surface a cluster of
willows lay mirrored, as they drooped their boughs to the water's edge;
around this a few strips of enclosed and cultivated land, and a
fruit-garden bordered by high quince hedges. On either side of the
hollow, just far enough apart for the place not to be "shut in," rose
green lofty heights, with here and there a clump of dark bush in their
rifts and chasms; and two little streams of clear water met in the
valley and dashed along past the homestead, sparkling as they joined
their forces in a leaping, rushing rivulet--an invaluable boon in that
land of drought. But it was not until one reached the house, which was
situated on a slight eminence in the hollow, that the full charm of the
situation became appreciable. Then, standing on the _stoep_, which ran
round two sides of the building, on the one hand the Kei hills bounded
the limit of vision; while on the other, focussed, as through a glass,
between the double range of green heights narrowing as they stretched
further and further away, a panorama of rolling bush country, with here
and there a purple ridge rising in the sunny air, found its limit on the
distant horizon. The house itself was a good specimen of the
old-fashioned frontier abode, with its thatched roof and canvas
ceilings. It had been added to by the present owner, and was fairly
roomy and comfortable. A passage intersected it, on either side of
which, a door opened into a sitting-room and dining-room respectively,
while another door from the latter communicated with the continuation of
the _stoep_, which ran round that side of the building. Such was
Payne's home--Fountain's Gap--so called from the two streams which met
and flowed through the beautiful hollow, at either end of which one
looked out upon the country beyond as through a gap.
"So this is your crib," remarked our new acquaintance, glancing
critically around, as if to take in all the capabilities of the
situation. "It strikes me as an uncommonly good one. Why, that stream
alone ought to be a fortune to you."
"Yes; it's a good all-round place," assented Payne, perceptibly
gratified. "You see, I've got a good deal of land under cultivation
here round the dam. I'm going to break up any amount more, and go in
strong for agriculture, as soon as this confounded scare, or war,
whichever it's to be (and I don't care which), is over. It's of no use
making a lot of improvements, only to be ravaged by these black devils--
is it?"
"Not in the least."
They were now skirting the stream, which here flowed past the dam,
communicating with it by a runnel cut with spades.
"Let's dismount here," said Payne, "unless you're tired, and would
rather go in. You're not? Well then, look. Here's where I was
thinking I might run up a mill one of these days; with this water power
one might do anything. Higher up it's even better. Wait, we'll get rid
of our horses and stroll along a bit," and a stentorian call brought a
young Kafir running down from the out-buildings, as also three or four
rough, fierce-looking dogs in open-mouthed clamour. The latter were
soon pacified, and leaped around their master in boisterous glee,
wagging their tails and whining joyously as he patted them, or bestowed
a playful punch upon some shaggy hide, while a precautionary sniff
having satisfied them as to the stranger's respectability, they
forthwith took him into their confidence in a less mirthful and more
dignified manner.
"Here, Booi," went on Payne. "Take the horses up to the stable, and
off-saddle them. Is the missis in?"
"Don't know, Baas," answered the Kafir, grinning.
"Don't you? When did one of you fellows ever know anything? Now hook
it," and as the boy led away their steeds, the two strolled on, Payne
pointing out the capabilities of his water advantages, and enlarging on
his schemes of improvement; for this farm of his was his hobby, and in
his heart of hearts he hoped some day to make it a model in the way of
progress, as showing what might be done even there by a fellow with a
little "go" in him.
They crossed the stream by a plank bridge, and now stood looking down
it, scarcely, a hundred yards from the house, Payne still expatiating.
"Yes, with a place like this," he said, "one ought to be able to do
anything. It's splendid pasturage, well situated, any amount of water,
in fact, everything. And now comes this confounded war to upset the
whole coach--Hullo!"
The exclamation is one of surprise and alarm as he turns round. His
companion is standing rigid and motionless. Every particle of blood has
fled from his face, leaving the sun-browned cheeks sallow and livid.
His eyes are fixed and dilated, and one hand nervously grips the rail of
the bridge against which he is leaning.
"Man alive--what's up?" cried Payne, anxiously. "You look as if you had
seen a ghost."
"Nothing--nothing at all," replied the other, with a faint smile. "I'm
all right again now; don't make a fuss, it's nothing. I think it's a
remnant of that infernal up-country fever which I can't thoroughly shake
off. It left me as weak as a rat, and even yet I feel the effects now
and then, as you see," and again he made a ghastly attempt at a laugh.
"By Jove!" cried Payne, in alarm. "Did you get hit in that shindy just
now?"
"No; don't be afraid--I'm all right. It was only a slight seizure," and
his hand, as he removed it from the rail, still trembled a little, but
the colour returned to his cheek.
What should have so violently moved this man, who looked as if nothing
could disturb his placid equanimity for an instant? It could not be
that he was in a weak state of health or of nerve, for had he not just
engaged, single-handed, in an encounter with three daring ruffians, and
come off victorious? And his weather-tanned features betokened health
and strength as clearly as if he had not known a day's illness for
years. The heat was not overpowering; he had not been riding fast, or
in any way exerting himself, nor was he subject to attacks of faintness.
No, there was nothing. Unless it was that through the quiet air of
that sunlit valley came the sound of a woman's voice--a rich, full,
sweet voice, distant but clear--singing a pathetic ballad.
"Are you sure?" went on Payne, looking at him concernedly. "Well, let's
go up to the house and have some brandy and water, you'll want it, after
that, and the sooner the better."
"Payne," said the other, with a sort of sternness, laying his hand on
his arm. "I don't want anything just now. If you make a fraction of
fuss about me or my idiotic attack, I'll ascend that horse of mine and
say good-bye this very evening."
"Eccentric as ever!" replied Payne, with a laugh. "My dear fellow, you
shall do nothing of the sort, and I'll promise not to bother you in any
way. Come along, let's go in."
They walked towards the house, and as they approached it the song ended.
Had that man been afflicted with heart disease he would assuredly have
dropped down dead on the threshold, for a mist was before his eyes and
his heart was beating as if it would burst.
"This way," said Payne, ushering his guest into the empty sitting-room.
"I'll tell the wife you're here," and, closing the door, he left him
alone.
Alone? Payne, while he stood holding the door open, could not see the
piano at the far end of the room, and now as he closed it, the graceful
figure of a lady, who had apparently been occupied in looking through a
pile of music in the corner, rose to greet the new arrival. His back
was to the light as she first saw him.
"Have you ridden far to-day?" she began, in a pleasant conversational
voice. Then with a faint, gasping cry as if she had been stabbed, she
reeled back and leaned against the piano, her face ashy white, and
trembling in every limb.
"Arthur!"
"Lilian!"
He made three steps towards her, and stopped short. No, he dared not
even touch her. She belonged to another, now. She was the wife of his
host and friend, the man whose life he had just saved. Why had _he_, of
all others, been sent there only just in time to rescue that life, and
then have been brought on to this house to witness what the saving of
that life involved? What power of evil had sent him to this fiery
torment--this pang which was worse than hell--as he stood there looking
upon the woman who possessed the love of his whole nature, and whose
pure-souled, beautiful face had ever been before his mental gaze, night
and day, during three years and a half of lonely wanderings? What had
he done to deserve this torture? Like a lightning flash these
reflections pierced through his brain as he stood gazing, with a
terrible agonised stare, upon the delicate beauty of face and form which
had taken all the sunshine and gladness out of his existence, and now
stood before him owned by another, and that other the man whose life he
had just saved.
Something in his look froze her where she stood. Was she thinking much
the same as himself? With hands clasped tightly before her, and eyes
fixed upon his with a despairing fear, she whispered hoarsely:
"I thought I should never see you again. I thought--Oh, God--I
thought--that you were--dead!"
The last ray of the sinking son shot from over the western hills,
entering the window and flooding with a golden and then a ruddy halo the
pale, anguish-stricken face and the wealth of dusky hair. And there
they stood, those two who had been parted three long weary years and
twice that number of months. There they stood--suddenly thrown
together, as it were, by the hand of Fate--facing each other, yet
speechless. Three years and a half of parting, and now to meet again--
thus.
"I knew it must be you," he said at length, slowly. "When I heard those
words I knew they could be sung by no one else--like that."
For it was the same ballad which she had sung on that night at Seringa
Vale, when he was betrayed into the first avowal of his love, nearly
four years ago; and the first words which had thrilled upon his ear now,
as he recovered from his sudden attack of faintness, was the conclusion
of the sad and mournful refrain.
And then this man, whose death she had mourned long and in secret,
suddenly stood before her.
When last we saw Claverton lying fever-racked in the Matabili hut, he
was certainly as near to death's door as ever man was without actually
passing that grim portal; and when the uncivilised bystanders, with
bated breath, whispered their verdict, it was only the one which would
have been returned by any onlooker. Falling back, he had lain to all
appearance dead; but that very swoon had been the means of saving his
life, at least, such was the unhesitating opinion of one or two to whom
he afterwards told the circumstances, though of course not what had
caused the swoon, and who, from their training and practice, were
qualified to judge. His life must have been saved by a miracle, said
they. What that miracle was he did not feel called upon to tell them.
The sight--sudden and vivid in its distinctness--of a face the dying man
had longed, with a terrible hopeless longing, to see; death had no
terrors for him, his whole soul was concentrated on this one agonising
desire, and it had been fulfilled. The sight of that loved face,
momentary as it was, had calmed him into a peaceful, death-like sleep,
and the crisis was past. Had it been that in some mysterious manner,
triumphing over nature, spirit had gone to meet spirit on that dark
winter night? Who can tell? The end effected would have sufficed to
justify such a departure from the law of nature, for it is certain that
the apparition, whether due to the imagination of a fever-distorted
brain, or to whatever cause, was the saving of Claverton's life.
Then, almost too soon after his recovery, he had wandered on. He had
come through the Transvaal, and past the gold fields of the great Dutch
Republic, and now he pushed on beyond the haunts of man striving after
gain, farther and farther into the interior, where the gnu and quagga
roamed the vast plains in countless herds; where the giraffe browsed in
the green mimosa dales, and the elephant and rhinoceros crushed through
the tangled jungle--at night terrific with the resounding roar of the
forest king. On--ever on--alone, save for three or four native
followers to look after his waggon and aid in the chase.
And he had borne a charmed life. He it was who had shot the huge lion
in mid-air as it leaped right over him to seize one of the oxen tied
fast for the night in the strong brushwood enclosure, the mighty frame
falling nearly upon him as it bit and ramped in the agonies of death.
He it was who had confronted the hostile Matabili chief and his six
hundred men, when that truculent potentate had demanded the person of
one of his followers in satisfaction for some trifling larceny committed
by the hapless lad upon their mealie gardens, and dared the barbarian
and his armed warriors so much as to lay a finger upon him or his; and
the fierce savage, in admiring awe of his sublime indifference to death
or danger, had suddenly become his fast friend, though a moment before,
the chances were a hundred to one against his leaving the spot alive.
He it was who had swum out into the river swarming with crocodiles, and
rescued this very follower, none other than the same, the Natal boy,
Sam--who had watched him through his illness at the Matabili kraal--who,
carried off his feet by the force of the current, was being borne away
down the river, and the other natives had given him up as lost. And
many and many a hair-breadth escape had he, by field and flood, until
the natives began to look upon him as a sort of god, and his own body
servants felt safer in his service from danger or sickness than they
would have done surrounded by British regiments in the former
contingency, or protected by all the "charms" of their most renowned
_izanusi_ [wizards] in the latter. For he was absolutely indifferent to
death, and consequently death was indifferent to him.
And ever before him, whether amid all the rapturous excitement of the
chase, in the glowing noonday, or in the awesome solitude of the
midnight camp far in the heart of the wilderness, hundreds of miles from
the nearest haunt of civilised man, with the roar of the lion and the
howl of the hyaena echoing along the reedy bank of some turbid lagoon;
while he watched the scintillating eyes of savage beasts glowing like
live coals out of the surrounding gloom as they prowled around his
encampment, haply waiting for the sinking watch-fire to fade
altogether--amid all this, and ever before him, there was one beautiful
face present to his mind's eye, as he had seen it, looking smilingly at
him in the soft moonlight, or set and despairing as he had last gazed
upon it that day in the golden noontide, beneath the old pear-tree. And
as years went on they brought with them no solace, and now he had
returned to civilisation, intending shortly to leave for ever the land
which had made only to mar the successes of his life.
He had changed slightly--and changed for the better--for his years of
wandering in the wilderness. He was in splendid condition, broader of
chest and firmer-looking, though not one whit less active than in the
old days; but the impatient, restless expression had departed from his
eyes, leaving one of settled calm, the imperturbability of a man who
feels that he has lived his life, and that his past is a far-away
state--a vista, fair and lovely, perhaps, to look back upon, as the
traveller looks back in memory upon some beautiful tract he has left
behind--but still another and a different state of being. Such was
Arthur Claverton, as brought there by a marvellous freak of the hand of
Fate, he stood once more face to face with his first and only love.
Suddenly the voice of his host on the _stoep_ recalled him to himself;
recalled both of them, and, with a sigh, Lilian turned round as if to
resume what she had been doing, in reality to collect herself, and Payne
entered.
"Hallo," he said. "You here, Miss Strange? Let me introduce my friend;
or have you already been making acquaintance?"
Claverton started as if he had been shot, and the room seemed to go
round with him. "Miss Strange!" She was not this man's wife, then, or
anybody's. He hardly heard what was said after that; though outwardly
cool and collected. Then the revulsion of feeling was succeeded by a
relapse almost as overwhelming as the first. For was it likely, he
argued, that she would listen to him now, any more than that morning
three years and a half ago--when for the second time she refused his
love? And his reason answered, No. Still it was a weight lifted, the
discovery that she was not married to his host, as he had at first
thought. He had never seen Payne's wife, nor had that genial-hearted
soul ever touched upon the subject of his spouse in such way as to
enable him to form any idea of her personal appearance. Nor had Payne
mentioned the fact of there being a guest in his house. And then
Lilian's own words--"_I_ thought that I should never see you again--I
thought that you were dead," spoken as if in explanation of her own
circumstances. No wonder he had jumped to that conclusion. Well, it
did not matter either way, he told himself. He would importune her no
more--he could follow the only course open to him--he would go. She
might tolerate his presence just this one evening, and on the morrow he
could depart before any of the household were astir, even as he had done
once before.
It may be wondered what Payne had been about all this time, after
unconsciously leaving these two together. On going to the back of the
house, the first sight that met his gaze was a troop of young cattle
plunging over a fence and careering madly about one of his cultivated
strips destined to become a model kitchen garden. To dash off then and
there, and eject the intruders before damage, widespread and sore, was
done, became at once the object of his life, and forgetting for the
moment the very existence of his guest--or, indeed, of anybody--away he
started; but the work of reparation was also one of time, and not until
all possibility of a recurrence of the damage had been practically
guarded against, did he so much as begin to think of returning to the
house.
Fortunately the darkness of the room, as the shades of evening deepened,
kept Payne from noticing Lilian's deathly paleness, and he chatted on in
high good-humour, till the sound of voices and laughter in the passage
proclaimed the advent of his wife and olive-branches--the latter,
Lilian's charges; for she was still plying that delightfully
remunerative and much appreciated craft--teaching the young idea.
"Well, Lilian," cried Mrs Payne, a bright, cheery little woman of about
her own age, or perhaps a year or two older. "You'd much better have
come out with me instead of moping indoors, on this lovely afternoon,
over that wretched music. Why, who's this?" Then a due introduction
having been effected, she shook hands cordially with the new arrival.
"Ah, Mr Claverton, I'm so glad to see you. I'm always at that dear,
stupid old George for not bringing you here, after saving his life that
time; but I'm so glad you've found us out at last."
"That dear, stupid old George," the while, was winking at Claverton over
his spouse's shoulder, his satirical nature hugely tickled by the
flutter which the news of the other's opportune aid a second time
rendered would cast her into. He would tell her some day, but not just
yet.
Claverton laughed. "Well, you see, Mrs Payne, he could hardly have
done that, because I was bound in the opposite direction, but I've taken
advantage of my opportunity as soon as I fell in with it, and here I
am."
"What! Do you mean to say you've been wandering about up the country
ever since?"
"Of course he has," struck in Payne. "But hadn't we better get all snug
for the evening? It's about feeding-time! Here, Claverton, come this
way, I dare say you'll like to put your head into cold water. And,
Annie, just tell those kids to shut up that infernal clatter," he added,
as the uproar of juvenile romping, mingled with many a shrill laugh,
came rather too distinctly from an inner room.
And how comes it that Lilian Strange, whom we last saw at Seringa Vale,
should be quietly installed in this Kaffrarian border dwelling? It will
be necessary to glance back.
Not long after we saw her, hopeless and heartbroken, more than three
years back, an event happened which caused her to forget for a time her
own grief in the sore affliction of others, of her dearest and truest
friends. One day Mr Brathwaite started for his accustomed ride round
the farm, but the afternoon slipped by and then evening came, and he did
not return. His horse, however, did; for just as Mrs Brathwaite, in
anxiety and alarm, was about to send forth in search of him, that
quadruped put in an appearance, with the rein still on its neck, and
limping up to the stable-door as if it had been injured. Then they
started in search, leaving Mrs Brathwaite a prey to the most terrible
forebodings, which were realised only too soon. The old settler was
found lying in the _veldt_, unable to move. His horse, he said, had put
its foot in a hole, stumbled and rolled over with him, falling upon him;
no bones were broken, but he feared he had received some internal injury
as he could not move without great pain. Carefully they carried him
home, and he was put to bed. Tenderly did his wife and Lilian watch
beside him the night through, while Hicks was riding at a hand-gallop to
fetch a doctor from the district town. An errand, alas, which was only
too futile; for as the clear dawn quivered glowing and chill over the
homestead at Seringa Vale the sufferer's spirit passed slowly away, and
the beams of the rising sun, darting in at the window, lighted upon the
face of a corpse and two watchers weeping by a bedside.
Thus died Walter Brathwaite--the staunch, persevering settler, the
pioneer of industry and advancement in a new and far-away land, and,
above all, the genial, noble-hearted gentleman. One who had never
turned his back on friend or foe, a man who had never been guilty of a
mean action or reaped advantage from the misfortune of his fellows; open
of hand, kindly of heart and firm of head, he died as he had lived,
regretted, loved, and respected by all who knew him. And that country
is fortunate which can show many of his like.
And in the dark and rayless days that followed, it was Lilian's task to
whisper words of consolation and hope to the sorrowing widow, crushed to
the very earth in her sudden and comfortless grief; and in no better
hands could it have devolved. But within the year Mrs Brathwaite had
followed her husband, and Lilian, who, up to then, had tended her with
more than all the loving care of a daughter, watched over her to the
last.
"God bless you, dearie," had been the dying woman's parting words to
her. "You have given yourself up to the comfort and happiness of
others; some day it will return to you a hundredfold. Only be patient."
They buried her beside her husband; and in one disastrous day, sad
indeed had been the change wrought in that peaceful, happy home. And
then Lilian, craving for work and diversion, had gone back to her old
line of life, which, involving a constant tax on her energies, would
afford her both the one and the other. So here she was, after a lapse
of years, installed at Fountain's Gap, ostensibly as the preceptress of
Mrs Payne's children, in reality as companion to that good-hearted
little woman herself, who had taken an immense fancy to her, and,
moreover, hated being left alone, as must, otherwise, inevitably be
frequently the case from the very nature of her husband's pursuits.
"Did you hear anything fresh in Komgha to-day, George?" asked his wife,
when they were seated at the table. The curtains were drawn and the
room looked snug and homelike.
"Two more troops of Police ordered over the Kei."
"Oh, dear. That looks bad. We are in a dreadful state of scare now,
Mr Claverton," she explained. "I can hardly sleep at night for
thinking of it--and right in the middle of those wretches, too."
"_We_ are!" rejoined Payne, good-humouredly. "Say, rather, you are.
The fact is, Claverton, my wife thinks of nothing but fire and sword,
morning, noon, and night, till she's worked herself up to such a pitch
that every time a drunken nigger howls in the _veldt_ she vows they are
raising the war-cry."
"Well, but you know there is reason for it," retorted she. "And if it
gets any worse, Lilian and I will go away with the children to
Grahamstown or somewhere. I really am frightened."
"That's a long way," said Payne, banteringly. "I also heard that the
new Governor was coming up to the frontier."
"Ah, we're getting the news by degrees," exclaimed his wife. "What else
did you hear?"
"That a policeman rode in from the Transkei this morning."
"What news did he bring?"
"I don't know."
"There now. You never find out anything. Some day we shall all be
taken by surprise and murdered in our beds."
"Ha, ha, ha?" laughed Payne. "Well, at any rate, you're no worse than
the people at Komgha. If an express rides in, they jump to the
conclusion that Kreli is marching on their precious town at the head of
twenty thousand men. For my part I don't believe there'll be a shindy
at all. It's only another case of scare."
But he did believe it, only he thought a pious fraud justifiable to
reassure the womenkind.
"When I'm big," remarked Harry Payne, aged seven, "I'll have a gun and
shoot a great _schelm_ Kafir."
"But, Harry, he may shoot you first," said Lilian, during the laugh that
followed upon this interruption.
"No he won't," persisted the embryo warrior. "I'll shoot him."
It was the first time Lilian had spoken, and Claverton, who was sitting
opposite her and almost as silent, heard with a thrill that low, sweet
voice which had haunted his dreams and his waking thoughts during the
long years of solitude. He had been furtively watching her, noting
every turn of the beautifully poised head, striving to catch a glance
from the sweet, serious eyes, which somehow were never suffered to meet
his. And he likewise noted that Lilian Strange at twenty-seven was, if
possible, even more lovely and winning to behold than on that day just
four years ago, when he had first gazed upon the vision which had
completely altered the course of his life. Not even the most spiteful
of critics could say of her that she had "gone off." A trifle graver
perhaps, but it was a gravity that suited well her soft, dark beauty;
and the smile, when it did come, lit up the serene, exquisite face as
the ripple of a sunbeam on a sleeping pool. And it was just such a
smile as this which caused a tug of pain at Claverton's heart, when the
urchin uttered his bellicose aspiration.
"By the time you're big enough for that, sonny, there may be occasion
for it, not before," said Payne, as he wheeled back his chair. "Come
and have a smoke on the _stoep_, Claverton. What! Did you say, `No'?"
"That's what I said."
"Well! Here's a transformation! Why, you haven't given up the only
sociable habit--Ah, I see. Ladies, you may score a triumph; you have
tamed this savage. He is going to give up the soothing weed in favour
of your more soothing society. But I am not, therefore for the
present--so long," and with a laugh the light-hearted fellow went out,
cramming his pipe as he went.
"Now, Mr Claverton, we shall expect you to tell us some most thrilling
adventures," said his hostess. "You must have a great stock of them."
"I assure you I have none," he began.
"Oh, that won't do. But tell me the ins and outs of that affair when
you first met George."
Claverton started. His wits were, in popular phraseology,
wool-gathering; and at first he thought of to-day's row. Then he
remembered.
"That affair at De Klerk? It wasn't much of a thing. Payne was holding
his own gallantly against four big Dutchmen, and I came up in time to
turn the scale. You said something about his life just now, but his
life wasn't in danger; the most they'd have done would have been to have
given him rather a mauling."
"What was it about?" asked Lilian.
"The right of outspan, usual bone of contention in Dutch neighbourhoods.
And just then the Boers were rather sore about the Gold Fields, and
made themselves very nasty to any one coming from or going to that sham
El Dorado."
"Sham! Yes, it is a sham; George did no good by going," said Mrs
Payne, rising. "Now, children, bed-time," and with the reluctant
juveniles she left the room; and again those two were alone together.
Claverton, who had hoped for such a moment, now that it had come, felt
utterly tongue-tied. He felt that he had no right to rake up the past.
She herself had buried it, and now that they were unexpectedly thrown
together again, he felt that it would be unfair to her, not to say
obtrusive, to revert to the forbidden subject. And yet what was he to
say to her? Every topic they had in common was inextricably interwoven
with that terribly painful past, which was as fresh and unhealed in his
heart as on the morning when she had bidden him leave her.
"Do you know, I had not the remotest idea I should find you here
to-day?" he began, rather lamely.
"Hadn't you? I suppose not," she answered, speaking quickly, and her
fingers busy at some needlework, trembled ever so slightly.
"How long have you known the Paynes?"
"Nearly three years. Just before Mrs Brathwaite's death."
"What! Is Mrs Brathwaite dead?" he asked, in astonishment.
"Didn't you know?" she replied. And then she gave him the history of
the sad events which had followed so soon upon his leaving Seringa Vale,
and he listened in amazement, for he had only just returned straight
from the interior, and thus, as it were, into the world again.
"I am very grieved to hear this," he said, when she had finished. "They
were the truest, kindest friends that ever man had. I little thought I
should never see them again. And I suppose Jim reigns in the old place,
now?"
"Yes," she answered sadly, and then there was silence for a few moments.
The conversation was taking a decidedly dangerous turn, and Lilian
began to feel embarrassed. Perhaps it was as well that Mrs Payne
returned, having disposed of her offspring in their various couches, and
almost immediately her lord entered from the _stoep_, bringing in a
whiff of fresh night air not guiltless of tobacco smoke.
"Grand night!" he exclaimed, flinging down his hat in high good-humour.
"We'll have a ride over the place to-morrow, eh, Claverton?"
Claverton assented mechanically, thinking the while how he might be far
enough away by that time. Then a little more conversation, and a move
was made to retire. How narrowly he scanned Lilian's face, while he
held her fingers in ever so lingering a clasp as he bade her good-night!
He could read nothing there. And then, mechanically again, he followed
his host to the room prepared for him, and once more he was alone.
Then what a rush of recollections swept over his mind, as he sat at the
open window looking out upon the still night! All the years of
wandering, of peril, and of hardship, were bridged over as by a single
night, and once more it seemed as if he had just heard his doom only a
few hours since, in the garden at Seringa Vale. And now Fate had thrown
him beneath the same roof with this woman, whom he had never expected
nor dared hope to see again. He had once more looked into her eyes, and
drank in the sound of her voice--once more had held her hand in his, and
now the old wound, never even so much as cicatrised over, was lacerated
afresh, and gaped open and bleeding. Could he have been brought here
for the mere sport of circumstances, or was it with a purpose--a deeper
import? And with the superstition in small things which often, and in
spite of himself, clings to a man who has travelled much and in
solitude, he grasped the idea. Yet he dared not hope. Hope and he had
parted company long since, he told himself. But he made up his mind
that, at any rate, he would not leave his friend's hospitable roof the
next day; and having arrived at that conclusion he fell asleep, and
slept soundly.