"SUMMER HAS STOPPED."
"No, it's of no use, old fellow. But look as much as you like, that's
everybody's privilege. Deuced pretty girl, isn't she?"
"Well, yes, now you mention it--that is, I think so."
"Now I mention it! That's good. Of course it was all piety, pure and
simple, that trundled such a hardened reprobate as your redoubtable self
into church on Sunday evening; an institution you, I make bold to say,
have not patronised since the days of your downy youth. And, of course,
it was by the merest accident that you happened to find a seat not far
from the beautiful Miss Strange within that same tabernacle.
Furthermore, it is purely accidental that she should be on one side of
the street this morning, and you staring at her from the other. No, old
boy. In the words of the poet, it won't wash," ironically concludes the
first speaker.
A crowd has assembled in High Street to-day to witness the passage
through Grahamstown of a body of men _en route_ for the seat of war,
and, for the time being, those who can do so, leave their shop, or
store, or office, to come and look at this fresh batch of defenders, and
give them a good, hearty cheer as they file away up the King
Williamstown road. Those who have time and inclination to do so, make
their way along the said road to the point where the band, which,
discoursing inspiriting music, precedes the intending warriors, will cut
adrift from them, and where some of the honest townsmen will, in the
fulness of their hearts, air their rhetoric in speeches of an
encouraging order as they weep over their martial brethren. And among
those assembled at this point, to witness the ceremonial, is Payne and
his household, and merged in the crowd about thirty yards away stand our
two speakers.
"Bosh, Chadwick," answers the butt of the good-humoured raillery.
"Can't a fellow look at a girl without your trying to evolve a `case'?"
The other laughs light-heartedly. He is a young fellow of
five-and-twenty--slight, fair, and of middle height. His companion is
ten years older, and exactly his opposite in personal appearance.
"A fellow can do anything he likes in that line--at least, a fellow like
yourself can," he replies. "But in this instance I fancy not. She's
booked, my good friend--booked as deep as the Dead Sea--and you haven't
a chance. You're a day late for the fair."
The elder man frowns slightly, which to conceal he half turns away.
"Who's the fortunate individual?" he asks, carelessly, with a sneer.
"A man named Claverton. He's away at the front now, and the fair Lilian
is looking forward to the time when he shall come back `crowned with
Triumph's flushing honours.' I deeply sympathise; but, barring the
friendly thrust of an assegai, or the good offices of a peripatetic
pot-leg discharged from the blunderbuss of the noble savage, you haven't
a chance. Not even then, for, from all accounts, I don't think she'd
let go the shadow of the departed Claverton in favour of the substance
of even such a fascinating dog as Ralph Truscott. It is with grief that
I say so."
"It is with grief that I find myself constrained to listen to your
maundering bosh. Now shut up for a moment, Chadwick, because I can't
talk amid the infernal din of this tin-kettle band."
Shrill shrieks of laughter, much chatter, and some vituperation, drown
their voices as the ragged portion of the crowd--slatternly Hottentot
women and impish dust-coloured brats--fall back precipitately before the
advancing _cortege_. Big drum puffs up the hill letting off a worthy
sense of the importance of the event in well-timed whacks lustily laid
on; and red in the face, hot and breathless, and with loving thoughts of
that cool brandy and soda awaiting their return at the "Masonic Hotel"
bar, the gallant musicians do their utmost to render with effect the
cheery quick-step march destined to invigorate the pilgrimage of their
brethren, going--as one of the orators subsequently puts it--to defend
"their 'arths, 'omes, and haltars." Then a halt is called, and, after
some speech-making, the guard of honour--formed by a detachment of
volunteer infantry--lining the road, presents arms, as the band strikes
up the National Anthem, and the cavalcade of tough-looking, sunburnt
men, two hundred and sixty strong, rifle on hip, and mounted on wiry,
serviceable nags, files past, two deep, between the open ranks, and
everybody feels exuberantly patriotic, and hoorays, and waves hats and
handkerchiefs accordingly.
"Good compact lot of men, that," is Payne's verdict, as he watches the
retreating burghers somewhat wistfully, for he is tired of hanging about
the town, as he calls it, and would fain go to the front, only just at
present he cannot. His wife detects the wistful expression, and rejoins
mischievously:
"Yes. If anything, a trifle smarter than your old corps, George."
"Not a bit of it," says Payne, stoutly. "But--I forgot--you never saw
it. They were all away, and in the field, before I got back from
looking after you womenfolk. As it was, you did me out of half the
fun."
"Of course. Look, Lilian. There's such a handsome man over there, who
has done nothing but stare at you. He almost seems as if he knew you."
Lilian is gazing after the retreating troop. It is little more than a
fortnight since she bade farewell to her lover in the grey dawn, and now
she is thinking that in three or four days that body of mounted men will
be his camp-fellows; for the forces in the field have been concentrated
for a combined movement. She has heard from him more than once--long,
cheerful, tender letters, written during hours snatched from his
hard-earned sleep, and despatched as opportunity served--rough scrawls,
indeed, as was inevitable from the lack of appliances, and even of a
knowledge of what time there would be to finish in--but to her so
precious. And to-day, as she stands here gazing up the road, with a
soft love-light in her eyes reflecting the burden of her own reverie, it
is no wonder that the beautiful figure in the cool summer dress, with
the dark, straight, patrician features, attracts many a look of
admiration from several in the crowd. She starts, and softly twirling
the handle of the open sunshade resting upon her shoulder--a pretty
trick of hers when absent-minded--follows the direction of Annie Payne's
gaze. And a sudden flush suffuses her cheek, and fades, leaving it
deathly white. Her glance is riveted to the spot, and it seems as if
she must fall to the ground beneath the suddenness of the shock, for she
gazes upon a face which she had never expected to look upon again in
life. No, it could not be. He was dead, she had heard it for certain.
It could not be. It must be a likeness--a marvellously startling one--
but still a likeness. But on this point she is prevented from
reassuring herself, for the owner of the face has turned, and is walking
away through the crowd.
"Hallo!" says Payne, and it seems as if he was talking inside her brain.
"There's Truscott."
"Who?" inquires his wife.
"Truscott. A man I met in the town yesterday. He was asking a lot
about the war. Says he wants to raise a corps or something. That's
him--that tall fellow walking away."
His wife manifests no further interest in the stranger, but with ready
tact begins to talk about other things. Poor Lilian's agitation has not
escaped the kind-hearted little woman, who would rather die than do
anything to increase it, as they return home. And Lilian, if she had a
doubt before, Payne's words have mercilessly dispelled it; and now she
understands the foreboding of evil which came over her at the sight of
the spy following them at King Williamstown for an unerring instinct
leads her to connect that incident with the one of to-day. Her heart
seems made of lead within her, and daring the walk home she hardly
speaks, and even then at random. Even good-natured Payne notices it,
but puts it down to the remembrances called forth by the sight of a
number of men going to the war; but the remembrances called forth are,
in fact, of a very different nature. They go back to a time when she
was light-hearted and happy, and without a care or anxiety in the world;
then to a time of love and trust succeeded by blank, bitter
disappointment; to a hard, uphill struggle for daily bread, alone,
uncheered and unaided. Still her memory carries heron, over afresh
start in a sunny new world, free, indeed, all but for one shackle which
the captive herself had riveted. Then a period of brief, contraband
happiness, and long years of a kind of living death; the fetter falls
off and she is free, and then the cup of life is full--full to
overflowing. These are some of the memories which the sight of that
face in the crowd calls forth. Yet, why should she dread? What can
harm her, secure as they are in each other's love--a love which has been
tried, as by fire, and has come out brighter and more beautiful from the
flame? Yet an unaccountable foreboding is upon her--a dread, chill
presentiment of evil to come.
The day is overwhelmingly hot, and Payne playfully chides her for
running the risk of sunstroke by standing all the morning on that dusty
road, in which event he would, by the first law of nature, be compelled
to spend the rest of his days speeding about the habitable and
uninhabitable globe, with Claverton six hours behind him, fiercely on
his trail with pistols and coffee. It is not fair of her to risk the
life of a respectable father of a family, he says, even if she is tired
of her own. As it is she is let down easy with a headache, whereat no
one can wonder.
Poor Lilian smiles, rather faintly. Yes, she has a bit of a headache,
she says; nothing much, she will go and lie down for a little while.
Once in her room, however, she does not lie down, but sits and thinks.
Then she opens a writing-case and begins a long letter to her lover.
She does not know when it may reach him, perhaps not for more than a
week, the movements of the Colonial Forces are so uncertain; but still
the very fact of writing it is a source of comfort to her just now. She
will tell him all about her foolish fears and forebodings, and as she
does so it almost seems as if the calm, tender presence on which she has
learnt to lean is at her side now, and for two hours she writes on,
feeling comforted and happy. She lays aside her pen at last, thinks
awhile, and then begins to read over the letter. She will not send it;
on second thoughts--no; she will not worry him with mere foolish and
superstitious fancies such as these--why should she? Has he not enough
to think about up there, without having his mind troubled by such
chimeras, perhaps just at the time when it should be most undisturbed to
attend to the more serious game of war? As it is, she looks back to the
way in which she yielded to her imaginary fears before, and will not
trouble him with them now, when perhaps his life is in hourly danger.
So with a sigh, she tears up and burns the letter which has taken her
hours to write. Still, the composition of it has done her good, and her
spirits have in great measure returned as she goes downstairs. The
house seems deserted, so quiet is it. Payne is lying fast asleep in a
hammock which he has slang in the little garden at the back, and his
wife is either in the same blissful state of oblivion, or has gone out;
the children are at school, and, meanwhile, quiet reigns. Lilian
reaches the passage just as a man stands in the front doorway, holding
the knocker in his hand as if about to knock, and, seeing her, refrains,
and advances into the hall. She stops short, seeming rooted to the
ground. For the man to whom she made that fatal promise which has
blighted some of the best years of her life, is standing before her.
"Why, Lilian," he exclaims, taking the hand which she mechanically holds
out. "You look as if you hardly knew me."
"Do I? This is--rather sudden, you know. But, come in. I'll tell Mrs
Payne you're here."
"By no means," says Truscott, quickly, placing himself between her and
the door--they are in the drawing-room by now. "This is the most
fortunate thing in the world. Couldn't have been better if we had
arranged it so. You don't suppose I want a third party present the very
first moment we are together again after all this time."
This bracketing of them jars horribly on Lilian's ear; but she only
answers, somewhat irrelevantly:
"I thought you knew the Paynes. You do; don't you?"
"Confound the Paynes. Here have I been searching the world for you
these years and found you at last, and--hang it all, Lilian, you don't
seem in the least glad to see me."
In fact, she is not. And the statement as to the comprehensiveness of
his search she does not altogether believe. She cannot forget that when
she was thrown upon the world, destitute almost, and alone, at a time
when she most needed help, encouragement, protection, this man had held
himself aloof from her, and now, when after years of desolation of
spirit and of a struggle almost beyond her strength, the battle is won,
and she has found happiness and rest and peace, he jauntily tells her
that she doesn't seem in the least glad to see him. Her heart hardens
towards him; but she checks the impulse which arises to tell him in
words of withering scorn that she is not. Yet she does not contradict
him, for she remembers vividly with what relief she heard that news, and
how thankfully she had accepted the restfulness it brought her--a
restfulness undisturbed until that morning.
"H'm, well, you don't seem very glad. And yet I've come a good way to
find you, and had a narrow shave of my life, too--as narrow a shave as a
man could well have and escape."
"Yes? How was that?" she asks, hardly able to restrain her eagerness.
He sees it and is gratified. The old interest is waking, he thinks;
Lilian was always tender-hearted to a fault.
"Why, out in California. Fact is, I was awfully down on my luck and
went wandering. Well, I got into one of these street rows and was hit--
hit badly. For thirteen weeks I was lying in a hospital, the most awful
lazar-house you could imagine, and at the end I crawled out more dead
than alive. The best of the joke is that my affectionate relatives
thought I was dead, and advertised me accordingly."
Lilian makes no answer. It was this advertisement that, seen haphazard
two years ago, had emancipated her from her fatal bond.
"But didn't you hear of all this?" he asks.
"You know I have been out of the world for more than four years. When
did it happen?"
"Only a year ago," is his reply. And then she knows that he is lying to
her--endeavouring to play upon her sympathies--for she has the number of
the newspaper containing the advertisement safely locked up in an inner
drawer of her writing-table, and its date is rather more than two years
previous. "Those fools Grantham, the lawyers, could tell me nothing
about you, though I pestered them with inquiries, till at last I began
to suspect they were telling lies just for practice, to keep their hands
in. But at last I've found you?" And there is a ring of real warmth,
to Lilian's ear, in his voice, which fills her with dismay. Can it be
that he has not heard of her position now, that he comes upon her
suddenly like this and takes possession of her in his tone, so to say?
At all risks she must tell him.
Just then a cheery voice is heard in the passage, humming an old
colonial song, and Payne walks into the room. He stops short on seeing
the visitor, snatching his pipe from his mouth with one hand, while with
the other he welcomes the unexpected guest.
"How d'you do?" says Truscott, in his silkiest manner. "I was hoping to
have found Mrs Payne at home this afternoon. Meanwhile, I have been
fortunate enough to renew a very old acquaintance with Miss Strange
here."
"So?" replies Payne, looking from one to the other. "Well, I'm glad
you've found your way up. I saw you this morning, at a distance, when
we were seeing those men off to the front. Good all-round lot, weren't
they?"
"Yes, yes; a very fair lot indeed. I suppose there's a tidy number of
men in the field by now?"
"Too many. If it depended on mere numbers, the war would be finished
to-morrow; but it's the management--we always break down in that. If we
were allowed to go ahead in our own way, we should do the thing
properly; but there's such a tremendous lot of red-tape and
despatch-writing that the forces are kept doing nothing for weeks,
eating their heads off in camp. By the way, have you heard anything
more about your application?"
"No, nothing. I suppose I shall in a day or two."
They talked about the war for a little longer, and criticised the
Government, the tactics, and the Commandant-General, and all connected
with the campaign, and then Truscott got up to leave. He was sorry, he
said, but he could not wait; perhaps another day he would be more
fortunate. And so, with a cordial hand-shake from his host, on whom he
had made a golden impression, he took himself off.
"I like that fellow!" said Payne, returning to the room. "No nonsense
about him."
"He can be very pleasant," assented Lilian, ambiguously.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Doubtless the reader is wondering how Truscott got out of durance vile,
whither he had just been consigned when last we saw him. The method of
his liberation is immaterial to this narrative; suffice it that he did
get out--obviously, since here he is, at large in Grahamstown. And now,
as he walks away from Payne's door, he is turning over in his mind the
results of the speculation. So far, he is bound to admit, they are not
promising. His influence with Lilian is evidently dead, and to revive
it, he feels, will be no easy task; but that everything depends upon his
ability to revive it he is only too fully aware. Moreover, there is an
additional incentive to success which hitherto he had left entirely out
of his calculations. He was prepared to find Lilian "gone off" in
appearance; a number of years like that--how many he did not care to
reckon--are apt to tell. But the hand of Time, so far from buffeting,
had been laid caressingly on the soft but stately beauty, which had
grown graver, indeed, but far more sweet and attractive than in the
earlier days of girlhood; and when he met her eyes that morning in the
crowd a thrill shot through him as he thought how luck might throw into
his hands, at one _coup_, such loveliness combined with such a
reversion. Might? It should! And now, as he walked down the street,
he revolved and elaborated his plans. He had never seen this lover of
hers, who, he more than feared, would be no ordinary rival; but then the
fact of his absence was an immense advantage. He might be killed in
action, as the light-hearted Chadwick had airily remarked; and there's
many a true word spoken in jest, as we all know. But putting aside this
contingency into the category of exceptional luck, he--Truscott--had
other cards to play, and that warily, for he would not endanger success
by any rash move. If the worst came to the worst, he could always use
the double-edged weapon which chance had thrown into his hand in the
shape of his scoundrelly friend, Sharkey; but win he must. Meanwhile,
he would begin by sedulously ignoring Lilian's engagement. He would
show her the most marked attentions--in fact, compromise her--till at
length this absent lover of hers should hear of it, and hear of it, too,
in such a way that a split would be inevitable. Not that he intended to
do this all at once--oh, no. He would take time, and the while his
rival might be removed to a better sphere by accident or--well, things
could not always be helped.
So he lost no time in calling again at the Paynes'; and having, with the
attractive manner that he could so well assume, won the heart of that
honest frontiersman, set himself to lay siege to that of his hostess,
and succeeded. Not altogether, for Annie Payne was a shrewd little
woman, and though she found this new acquaintance pleasant and amusing,
watched him narrowly. She remembered the look which had passed between
him and Lilian, and held her true opinion of him in reserve. Meanwhile,
she waited and watched.
In his intercourse with Lilian, too, he was all that was kind and
thoughtful--scarcely ever referring to the past, and only then with a
half regretful, half aggrieved air that was the perfection of acting.
But somehow or other he was seldom away from her. If she went out, she
was sure to meet Truscott; if she stayed at home, he was sure to call;
or Payne would pick him up in the street--of course, by chance--and
bring him home to lunch; and though she avoided him as much as she
possibly could, without being rude, yet somehow it seemed to her that
she was never seen in public without this man at her side, till at last
the gossips used to say to each other, with a wink and a smile, that "it
was a very convenient arrangement to have a lover away at the front, my
dear, whose place could be so well supplied; and that really Miss
Strange, for all her demureness, was no better than the rest," and so
on. Which tattle, however, fortunately or unfortunately, never reached
Lilian's ears; and the intimacy between Truscott and the house of Payne
grew apace. Not that this state of things had come about all at once--
Truscott was far too cautious for that; on the contrary, it had been one
of the most gradual growth--so gradual, indeed, that the plotter had
been inclined to blame himself for dilatoriness; but it was a fault in
the right direction. So he bided his time, and was rewarded. Things
were progressing as smoothly as he could wish.
To Lilian herself, his attentions are a terrible source of annoyance,
and at times she feels as if the toils were closing in about her. She
has never mentioned this new trouble in her letters to Claverton,
thinking--and rightly--that it would bring him to her side at once; and
she does not wish that, for his sake, if it can be avoided; but for her
own, oh, how she longs for it! Why should this man, whom she had
thought never to see again, return to persecute her? Had he not
escaped--by a hair's breadth merely--blighting her whole life, after
embittering some of the best years of it? She feels that she is
beginning to hate him; and it is while in this vein that she goes down
to the drawing-room one afternoon to fetch a book, for she has taken to
remaining in her room when the Paynes are out, as they are now. To her
intense mortification, Truscott is there.
"Ah! At last!" is his greeting, in a tone which to her ear is provoking
in its cool assurance. "I knew I should find you here, Lilian mine.
The rest of the world has gone picnicking, hasn't it?"
She had intended to make some excuse, and to leave him at once; but that
possessive alters her plan. Now, once and for all, he must be made to
understand her position, and that this tacitly assertive air of
ownership which he has chosen to set up over her must cease.
"I don't know why you should _know_ anything of the sort," she replies,
very coldly.
"Don't be angry, Lilian. You never used to fly out about trifles. What
I meant was, we've had so little opportunity for a quiet talk together
of late, that when I heard you had not gone with the others I thought it
would be a capital opportunity for one now."
It happened that that day a picnic in a small way had been organised;
but Lilian, somewhat to the Paynes' surprise, excused herself from
going. She felt she could not take part in anything approaching to a
festivity at such a time as this. It might be only a silly fad of hers,
she said, and no one need know of it; still, she would rather stay
quietly at home.
"But Lilian, child," objected Mrs Payne. "It'll do you a world of
good, and, after all, it's a very mild form of festivity--not like a
ball, you know. And I'm sure Arthur wouldn't wish you to mope yourself
to death just because he is away."
"It isn't because he's away, but because he's away _as_ he is," she
answered. "He may be risking his life every moment, while I am enjoying
myself as if no one I cared for in the world was in danger. Only think,
he might be lying shot down in the bush at the very moment we are all
laughing and joking," and her voice sank to an awed whisper. "No. I'd
rather stay at home quietly to-day." And the good-hearted little woman
had kissed her, and vowed she was perfectly right; and then they had
gone, and Lilian had her way and the house to herself, instead of
accompanying them to rove about the deep rocky recesses of Fern Kloof
and to eat a scrambling luncheon beneath its tangled shade, looking
down, as in a splendid panorama, on the sunlit plains of Lower Albany.
The consciousness of this, in conjunction with Truscott's remark, causes
her face to flush with something very like anger, and she answers,
icily:
"In other words, you thought I had remained at home to receive visitors
in Mrs Payne's absence. Thank you. I might have remembered--were it
not that our acquaintance was a matter of such a long time ago--that
that would be just the interpretation Ralph Truscott might be expected
to put upon my actions."
"Why will you always harp upon that string, Lilian? You know it wasn't
my fault. You would run away from every one and bury yourself in this
beastly country among Dutchmen, and niggers, and all that sort of thing,
where it has taken me years to find you; and now, when I have found you,
you turn the cold shoulder on me. But, perhaps, you don't believe that
I have done this?" he concludes, dashing his tone of sorrowful reproach
with a touch of irony.
"No. I do not."
She looks him straight in the face, and there is a shade of contempt in
the calm eyes. Why should the man tell her such a pitiful falsehood?
"Oh, you don't?" he says, staring at her from the arm-chair in which he
is lounging, fairly startled by her straightforwardness.
"No. But why talk about that?" she answers. Her hands nervously grasp
the back of a chair as she stands, speaking in a low, rapid voice. "It
is past, and there is an end of it. What I have to say to you now is of
the present, and it is best said frankly and without reserve. You have
come here and assumed a kind of possession over me, which I must ask you
to discontinue. Of course I have no actual right to request you to drop
your intimacy with the Paynes, but I have a moral right as a defenceless
woman appealing to a gentleman, and therefore presumably an honourable
man, to ask you to discontinue those very marked attentions by which you
have made me conspicuous of late. Whatever has been is past and done
with, nothing can alter that, and under the circumstances there can be
no question even of intimacy between us. I do not wish to say anything
unkind, but it would be better for us not to meet again, much better,
believe me."
All this time Truscott's countenance has been wearing an expression of
blank and well-feigned amazement.
"Better not to meet again? No question of intimacy between us? Good
Heavens! Why, Lilian, what _do_ you suppose I've come from one end of
the world to the other for, then?"
"I don't pretend to guess. But it must be even as I say, and I am sure
you will agree with me that it is best so."
"Indeed, I am sure I shall do nothing of the sort," he cries. "You are
only playing with me, Lilian, only doing this just to try me. You are;
say you are, my darling. It is not kind of you after I have come far to
find you."
For all reply she shakes her head, sadly but firmly, and Truscott can
see that every particle of faith she ever had in him is dead and buried.
"But your promise!" he cries. "I have your promise, at all events. You
cannot get out of that, nor do I intend to let you."
"My promise!" she answers, and there is a scornful curve in the
beautiful lips and a hard ring in the rich voice. "My promise! To a
man who woos in prosperity and deserts in adversity; who sees an
unprotected girl thrown upon the world, lonely and unfriended; and makes
no sign. Who, when she departs to live among strangers in a far-off
land, suffers her to go without so much as a word of farewell and
encouragement; and that, too, the girl whom in palmier days he professed
to love. No, Ralph Truscott, you have cancelled my promise by your own
act, and, even if no other bar existed its conditions should never be
yours."
Truscott's face is white with rage. He sees that his game is played
out--that there is not a chance. He was prepared for some reproaches;
in short, a good deal of unpleasantness, but not for such decision as
this. His whole being quivers beneath a sense of overwhelming defeat,
mortification, disappointment--nay, despair--and now, as he sees the
prize slipping from his grasp, he is not sure whether he hates or loves
her most.
"So the good, the pious, the saintly Lilian Strange can perjure herself
in a way the most unregenerate would shrink from," he sneers. "The
privilege of godliness, I suppose. Oh, so a `bar' does exist, does it?
You should have told me that before."
"It is impossible that you could not have known of it," she replies,
gently, but with quiet dignity. "That I am plighted--to another."
His answer is a harsh, jeering laugh.
"Oh, I have heard some nonsensical story of the kind, but I knew it
couldn't be true. I thought you were only amusing yourself, in fact,
knowing that anything serious was impossible, considering. So, of
course, I didn't believe it."
"What do you mean?" says Lilian, outwardly calm, but with indignation
and contempt in her voice, for there is something so maliciously
significant in his tone that she is disturbed in spite of herself.
"Don't deal in hints and innuendoes. Speak out--if you dare."
"If I dare? Well, then, I will speak out," answers Truscott, stung to
madness by her scornful look. He will bring her to her knees, he
thinks. "This is what I mean," dropping out his words deliberately. "I
knew it couldn't be true, because I knew it was impossible that Lilian
Strange could be engaged to an ex-pirate, a murderer, and what, in her
eyes, is probably much worse."
"Do you know of whom you are speaking?"
"Of the man who calls himself Arthur Claverton."
There is dead silence. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks loudly; the
crack of a waggon-whip in the High Street, and the harsh, long-drawn
shout of the driver, sound plainly though distant through the still
afternoon, and in the little garden the bees hum drowsily.
"You must be mad?"
Every vestige of colour has fled from Lilian's face, as she stands cold
and statuesque, looking down upon her lover's traducer. But she is
perfectly calm, for she does not believe one word of this, though the
bare suggestion has upset her. He shall speak more plainly, though.
"Of course you don't believe me," he says. "I wasn't fool enough to
expect you would--without proof. To begin, then. How much has this
Claverton told you of his antecedents?"
"As much as I wish to know. But this is not proof."
"Wait a bit. All in good time. He came to South Africa four years ago;
quite so. Now has he by chance ever told you where he spent the two
previous years--what he was doing?"
In spite of herself Lilian feels her heart sink somewhat. It happens
that concerning that very portion of his career her lover has been
conspicuously reticent. But she says carelessly:
"I dare say he has."
"Indeed! You surprise me. Then it will be no news to you to learn that
he was in Central Africa?"
"I believe he has been there. Go on."
For Truscott pauses. He is watching her narrowly--playing with her in
devilish malice. But he goes on in affected commiseration.
"Lilian, Lilian. I don't think I'll tell you any more. Forget what I
have said. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps my informants are mistaken as
to the man. Let it pass."
"No. You have made charges against one who is absent; you must not
leave this room until you have proved them. Otherwise the gallant
Captain Truscott will stand branded as a liar and a coward."
He stares at her in amazement, quite nonplussed. He never could have
given Lilian Strange credit for so much firmness, he thinks. Yet there
she stands over him, calm, even judicial, as she awaits his answer.
"You would not dare to say these things if he were here," she adds.
"If he is wise he will not give me the chance," is the prompt reply.
"To be brief, then, our friend, at that period of his history, in
company with seven other spirits more wicked than himself, let us say,
dealt in ebony. Slaves, you understand."
"Go on."
"He made a good thing of it, I'm told--a very good thing. But then,
unfortunately, by British law, and, indeed, by international law,
slavery is piracy; and piracy is--a hanging matter."
"I see," she answers in a dry, stony voice. "We have disposed of the
piracy, now let us get on to the murder; after that to the other thing."
Truscott's astonishment knows no bounds. "Upon my word, Lilian, you
have a judicial mind. Why, you ought to be a Q.C.," he says,
admiringly.
She smiles slightly--a hard, defiant smile.
"Well, then," he continues, "you recollect the affair with the _Sea
Foam_? In case you don't, I'll just go over the facts again. The _Sea
Foam_, then, was a gunboat stationed in Zanzibar waters, where there was
a good deal of dhow-running just at that time--in fact, several captures
were made. But it so happened that on one occasion four dhows got clean
off, beating back the boats' crews with a loss of three men killed and
several wounded. It was a secret expedition, betrayed to the captain of
the man-of-war by a spy, and, but for one man, the whole concern would
have been captured red-handed. That man was Arthur Lidwell--the
commander of the slavers--now known as Arthur Claverton. The
authorities, at that time, did not know who the leader was whose
coolness and daring caused their retreat, with loss; but they suspected
him to be a renegade European, and a price was set on his head; but,
with his usual luck, our friend escaped. Three men were killed, I say;
and recollect our friend is a good shot, and, moreover, not likely to
stand by with his hands in his pockets while fighting is going on,"
concludes Truscott, significantly.
Lilian remembers the circumstance perfectly. She had listened
shudderingly while her stepfather read out the details from the
newspaper, one evening years ago in the cosy, lighted drawing-room at
Dynevard Chase, expressing a hope, as became "a fine, old English
gentleman," that the scoundrels would all be caught and hanged, and
especially their rascally leader. And now this same leader--but it is
incredible--her brain is dazed. Her eyes are fixed on Truscott's face,
but she does not speak.
"For the other thing," he goes on, narrowly watching her, "the next time
you see Claverton ask him what became of Anita de Castro. Ask him, at
the same time, what made him suddenly give up so paying a thing as the
slave trade."
Lilian becomes a shade whiter, and Truscott, noting it, feels a fiendish
delight in having at length disturbed her equanimity.
"Who is Anita de Castro?" she asks, still in a firm voice.
"The daughter of the chief of the gang. Spanish or Portuguese; but,
they tell me, a lovely girl. Our friend Claverton, to do him justice,
is a man of taste, and, these Spaniards are terribly revengeful when you
take an undue advantage of them."
Lilian stands in the same attitude as before. Her fingers clutch more
nervously the back of the chair; but that is the only sign she shows of
having even heard. She would fain not believe this; but then, how
confidently this man speaks! He cannot have invented such a story, the
way in which he tells it is enough to show that. And, in spite of
herself, recollections crop up of more than one hint which Claverton has
let fall to the effect that there is a chapter in his life's history
which he would fain forget; mere nothings at the time, and which on one
or two occasions she even gently rallied him about, but now with what
fell significance do they stand out! She knows his bold and daring
disposition, his coolness and powers of administration or command; his
cynical vein, which might under adverse circumstances render him
unscrupulous and even cruel; and all this seems to lend likelihood to
the other's statements. But, ah! how she loves him! Even if every word
of what she has just heard is true, she feels that, in spite of it all,
she loves him if possible ten times more dearly than she did before.
She remembers his neglected and uncared-for childhood and youth which
might palliate, if not excuse, far worse crimes than these; and her
whole soul goes out in a pitying, tender yearning to make his life so
different, so happy with her love, and in time to lead him gradually and
gently to what she reckoned a more lasting source of joy. She hardly
sees Truscott; she is looking out through the open window beyond him
with a soft, pensive expression that is wondrously lovely, and he who
watches her gnaws his lip in fury, and the very fiend of mad burning
jealousy shakes his soul. This prize was within _his_ grasp once, but
he threw it away.
"Well?" he says, impatiently.
She brings down her eyes to his, calm and serene as before. "Quite a
romance. But, as yet, we are no farther than when we started. You have
given me no proof."
"Romance, eh? Well, like many romances, it may have a tragic ending. I
have two witnesses. You remember the man you saw following you in the
crowd at King Williamstown?"
Again Lilian grows ashy white. It was something more than instinct,
then. And, like a flash, she remembers the troubled look which had come
over her lover's face when they met the man on the road during their
ride, and how the two had been conversing under her window that last
Sunday morning. Doubtless the fellow had been trying to trade on his
knowledge. Merciful heavens! That ruffian--and Arthur in his power!
"Yes, I see you do. Now for the other. You don't suppose Anita de
Castro would spare him?"
Lilian gives an imperceptible shudder. "All this may, or may not be,"
she replies. "But in the former event, it all happened years ago, and
the bare word of these people would go for nothing here. The idea is
absurd."
"Ha, ha, ha! Really I shall have to retract what I said just now about
your having a judicial mind," sneers Truscott. "The bare word of these
people would go for just this much here. It would make out a strong
_prima facie_ case for the committal of this precious scoundrel--bail
refused, of course--pending the making of inquiries and the procuring of
more witnesses at Zanzibar, when he would be put upon his trial for
piracy--piracy in its worst phase, mind--and murder. What do you think
of that, Lilian Strange? In either case a conviction is certain, and in
either case with the same result--the rope. So that is the fate in
store for our gallows-bird before six months are over--a dance on
nothing--and I shall get a pass to go into the gaol-yard and witness the
fun."
He has risen and is standing before her, his features working with a
livid rage that is absolutely devilish. Suddenly the full, awful force
of the situation sweeps across Lilian's mind, and with a low cry, like
that of a stricken animal, and a shrinking motion, she drops her face
into her hands.
"Ah, good God! Spare him!" she moans. "Why will you harm him? _He_
never injured you!"
Heaven help her! She has let down her guard, and the enemy is prompt to
rush in over it. From that moment she is completely at his mercy.
"Never injured me? What is she dreaming of? Good heavens! hasn't he
robbed me of you--of you? Isn't that enough?" is the harsh, pitiless
reply. "Ha, ha! Six months about will do it. It'll be winter then--
June or July. The mornings are cold then. Perhaps, as a last kind act,
I'll give the poor wretch a `nip' out of my flask, before he's swung
off, just to keep his spirits up, you know."
"Demon," whispers Lilian, hoarsely, gazing at him in set, stony despair.
"I am just what you and he have made me. It is your own doing. You
know I was never one of your godly lot. If a man does me an ill turn I
repay it with interest, that is, if I am in a position to do so, which,
in this case, fortunately I am. Five o'clock"--glancing at his
watch--"I shall just have time to beat up my informant and take him
round to the Public Offices before the magistrate goes away, or the
Clerk of the Peace will do as well; and by making his deposition this
evening we can get a warrant out and save the whole night by it. So you
will soon see our friend again, Lilian, sooner than you expected, eh?
Now good-bye for the present. I am sorry you have driven me to this,
but--" and he moves towards the door. Before he can reach it, she
throws herself in front of him. He cannot leave the room without actual
violence.
"Stop! Have you no mercy? No pity--for me--for me whom you once
professed to love?" and the clear accents of her voice are wrung with
despair--with a sense of her utter helplessness.
"None for _him_. None. Less than none. I _hate_ the man who has
robbed me of you. He shall die, and I will go and witness his last
struggles."
"No. Spare him, Ralph, spare him! In killing him you will be killing
me. Ah, God! Why was I ever sent into this world? I am the
destruction of all whom I would gladly die for!" and she presses her
hands tightly upon her temples, and a tremor of hopeless agony shakes
the tall, beautiful figure.
Even the heart of that fiend in human shape smites him as he witnesses
her awful grief, listens to her wild, despairing accents. But she is
playing into his hands now--perfectly. At one time he almost thought
the game a lost one, and was about to throw it up, when lo! one false
move, and it is entirely his own.
"All whom you would gladly die for," he repeats, echoing her words.
"Would you, then, die for this fellow?"
"God knows I would--a hundred times over," she wails.
"Well then, listen. I will not require you to do that. What I require
you to do is to live for him."
She looks up quickly--her face transformed in wonderment, which is on
the point of breaking out into joy. He is relenting.
"I mean, to live for him by living without him. That is the only way in
which you can save his life."
Her head droops again, and a shudder runs through her frame at this
alternative, and Truscott, watching her, gloats over her anguish,
remembering how she defied him at first.
"The conditions are not so hard as they might be," he continues. "I
only stipulate that you shall never see him again, never hold another
word of communication with him, either orally, on paper, or through a
third person, henceforth from this moment. On those conditions I spare
his life--otherwise--well, you know the alternative."
"May I not even write him one line of farewell?" she asks, with a look
in her dry, tearless eyes that would melt a stone. Her tormentor sees
it, and turns his glance away, fearing for his resolution. One word of
communication might undo the whole plot. At all costs he must separate
them now and for ever. So again he invokes the demon of jealousy to his
aid, and goads and lashes himself to his fiend-like work.
"No. I will spare his life, but nothing else. Those are my conditions.
Accept them or not. In three minutes it will be too late," and he
stands holding his watch in his hand.
Lilian is beside herself. An awful numbing sense of fatalism creeps
over her. Is it to be? Ah, well, she will give her life for his, for
this will kill her.
"Well? In another moment it may be too late."
"I give in," she says, in the same dreamy, hopeless tone.
"And you promise to hold no further communication whatever with Arthur
Claverton from this day forward?"
"I promise!"
The agony of that moment, as with her own lips she dooms herself and
him!
"If I were inclined to be hard, Lilian, I might remind you that you are
not wholly superior to the weakness of breaking your promises; but let
that pass. You will find my conditions are not so hard. I only ask
that one thing." By-and-by he intended to ask one other thing--and to
obtain it, too. For the present she had been tried as much as she was
capable of bearing. She would get used to the idea in time, and then,
with the same hold on her as he had now, he would snatch the prize for
which he had risked so much and plotted so wickedly.
"Now I must go. Don't look like that, Lilian," he says in a kinder
tone. "You have gained one great object at any rate, and in this world
we must be thankful for small mercies. So keep up your spirits."
She makes no answer to this, at best, cruel mockery. She is leaning
against the wall, with her hands still clasped over her face. Not a
tear falls, her grief is too great for that. He glances uneasily at her
again, for he is anxious to get away. He has already been here more
than two hours; and it would never do, under the circumstances, for him
to be here still when the Paynes return. Besides, she might faint, and
that would still further complicate the situation.
"Good-bye," he repeats. "Remember, now--everything depends on you."
And she is left alone.
How long she stands thus she cannot tell. At length the sound of
familiar voices, with many a happy laugh, approaching down the street,
warns her of the return of the party, and gaining her room with
staggering, uneven steps, she locks herself in, and, throwing herself on
the bed, yields herself unrestrained to her terrible, hopeless agony.
"Oh God!" she prays, "let me die! let me die!" And beneath, the house
is filled with merry voices, laughing and talking all at once; and there
in the golden eventide, while the soft flush gathers in its purpling
suffusion over the western mountains where fades the sun, the riven
heart quivers and throbs in its voiceless despair.