"Good. I'll cut down and do it now." And, sliding from the table
whereon he had been seated swinging his legs, he reached down a jar of
tobacco from a shelf, and hastily cramming his pipe, started off. "What
shall I tell him, though?" he asked, suddenly stopping in the doorway.
"Won't do to pitch it too strong, eh?"
"N-no. Wait a bit," and then she concocted the message which we have
seen Claverton receive; and Payne being on his way to despatch it, she
turned away with a look of relief over the prospect of decreasing
responsibility.
Lilian, meanwhile, had become a mere shadow of her old self, and the one
spark of comfort left to her was that her persecutor had kept himself
out of her sight. For he had left the city, bound for the seat of war,
and, for reasons of his own, he had refrained from bidding farewell to
the Paynes in person, but had sent a note explaining that he was ordered
off at a minute's warning. He had got a command at last, he said; only
some levies, at present, but still that was something to go on with, and
he must leave for the front immediately. Which missive was read by its
recipients with feelings of decided relief.
The fact was, the gallant Truscott began to suspect that it might be
advisable for him to take himself out of the way for a time, and he had
no desire to meet his rival in person. Let the two settle it as best
they might, was his cynical reflection; settle it they must, and to his,
Truscott's, satisfaction--on that point he felt perfectly safe. He had
played a bold game and had won, and, now that he had won, it would never
do to spoil it by any chance blundering. So with a few lines of renewed
warning, merciless, pithy, and to the point, posted to Lilian--the wily
scoundrel departed for the seat of war, and unless a well-aimed bullet
should pierce the black, scheming heart, and of that there was but small
chance, there would be no more happiness for her on earth. There were
times when she would almost make up her mind to throw off the hateful
thrall, to defy him to do his worst, whatever that worst might be; but
then would rise up the frightful facts, as he had laid them before her
in all their nakedness, and she would fall asleep, only to be haunted by
a series of terrible dreams; visions of a crowded court hushened to a
deathly silence in expectation of the dread sentence; of a small group
in a grim gaol-yard, in the chill morning--one face among them lit up
with fiendish exaltation--a noose, a gallows, and a black, hideous beam.
"My love--my sweet lost love!" she would moan, waking from one of these
frightful fantasies in a flood of streaming tears. "Was it for this you
were restored to me again? Ah, why did we ever meet?" And the black,
silent hours melted away into dawn, but brought with them no comfort.
More than once had her affectionate hostess tried to get at the secret
of her grief--but Lilian was firm. Meanwhile, the Paynes began to grow
seriously alarmed. A very little more of this, and the results would be
disastrous. Nothing had been heard of the telegram, and they became
more and more anxious every day.
"Miss Strange, do let's go for a walk when I come back; it'll be such a
lovely evening." The speaker was Rose Payne, who was hurriedly
gathering up her books, and cramming them into a bag, preparatory to
starting for afternoon school.
"So we will, dear. Only you must come back in good time."
"Won't I?" gleefully cried the little girl, flinging her arms round
Lilian's neck. She was rapturously fond of her former preceptress, all
the more so, perhaps, now that she was subjected to the sterner
discipline of school; and a long, quiet evening walk with Lilian, all to
herself, was a treat indeed. "Won't I just come straight back! It'll
be nice and cool then, and we can go ever so far over the hill, above
Fern Kloof. So long, till four."
"Good-bye, Rosie dear," replied Lilian, kissing the child
affectionately, and, with a sigh, watching her bound light-heartedly
away. Then she turned from the doorway, and, with a drooping gesture of
abandonment, threw herself into a low chair. The Paynes were out
somewhere, and, as on that former afternoon, she had the house entirely
to herself. The soft air came in through the open windows, warm but not
oppressive, from the tree-fringed shade. A great striped butterfly
floated in, and, scarcely aware of its mistake, fluttered around a large
vase of flowers upon the table. And still she sat, heedless of
everything, with her hands pressed to her face, thinking, thinking--ever
thinking.
"Only four days ago," she said to herself, "four short days--and now!
Ah, God, it is too cruel!" and the tears welled forth and slowly began
to force their way through the closed fingers.
The hum of the voices of a couple of passers-by sound drowsily upon the
calm; then, the ring of hoofs coming up the street at a rapid canter.
It stops, as if some one had reined in before the door--but she heeds it
not. Some one dismounting at the next house, she thinks. Then a quick,
firm tread in the passage, and a man is standing inside the room. With
a low, startled cry, Lilian looks up and falls back in her chair in a
deathly faint. It is Claverton.
In a moment he is beside her, and has her in his arms. "Oh, Lilian, my
darling! What _is_ this? They did right to send for me--Good God,
Lilian! Why, what have you been doing with yourself to get like this?"
he adds, in a tone of undisguised alarm, startled by her white and
dejected looks.
But no reply can she make. Fairly taken by storm, she is clinging
tightly to him, her face buried in his breast. Only a convulsive sob
shakes her frame from head to foot.
"What have you been doing with yourself, child?" he continues,
vehemently. "Why, you are as white and pale as the mere ghost of your
former self. Lilian!" but still she cannot answer. "Lilian; look at
me, I say. I have ridden straight here, day and night as hard as I
could ride, to come to you and never to leave you again."
He paused; but the expected words of joy and of love came not. Suddenly
she drew herself away from him, and the look on her face was as the look
of death. Already she had failed to keep her side of the compact--that
compact written in tears, and sealed with the throes of a breaking
heart--and she had doomed him. No, but she would not.
"Arthur, you must leave me. Now, at once, before it is too late," she
exclaimed, in a quick, alarmed tone.
"Lilian. Are you mad?"
Not a shade of anger or reproach is there in his voice. Amazement and
indulgent tenderness alone are to be traced.
And she? Frantic with apprehension, she knew not what to say. To warn
him of danger would be but to drive him right into its jaws. What
should she do? Ah! That was it. The old promise.
"Lilian, what has come between us, now? Only tell me, darling, and it
will all be cleared away."
It was terrible. Her brain reeled as, with wild, dilated eyes, she
stood gazing at him. His presence was so unexpected--it had burst upon
her like a thunderbolt. He had, as he said, travelled night and day to
reach her side--and now she must bid him leave her for ever though it
broke her heart, as it certainly would. They two must never look upon
each other again in life. Then her brain grew cold and steady. She
must not flinch, she must save him from this ruthless enemy at all and
whatever cost to herself. To herself! Ah, but--and to him? The answer
to this question flashed across her determination--the consciousness of
how valueless would be the life she was about to save. Yet--O God! the
recollection of those terrible, menacing words! She sank her head into
her clasped hands and shuddered. Again, so softly, so tenderly, he
repeated his question:
"Lilian; what has come between us? Tell me, darling!"
She threw back her head with a quick movement, as if quivering beneath
the torture.
"My former promise, Arthur. You remember," and averting her face, again
she shuddered from head to foot. "He is not--dead--as I thought."
"And then--?"
"I cannot break it. I thought him dead--but now--I cannot break it.
God help me!--help us both!"
A devil took possession of Claverton's heart, and the fixed, vengeful
look in his face was awful to behold as he murmured to himself: "God
help _him_. If he is not dead he soon will be--or I." Then aloud:
"Lilian, you vowed once that nothing ever should part us. You remember,
darling."
The voice was even more gentle than before. Had it been otherwise she
could almost better have borne it--and yet not. A fraction of a second
and she had yielded, had thrown herself into his arms; but again the
savage threats of Truscott and the diabolical malice of his tones and
looks rose up before her, and she felt strong again. In a paroxysm of
that love, which was at once her strength and her weakness, she cried:
"I cannot--I cannot, Arthur. I am too weak, and that you must see. I
cannot break that promise. You must go--go and curse my name and
memory--if it be worth cursing, to the end of your days. And I--O God!
let me die!"
The forced, unnatural hardness which she had thrown into her voice,
struck upon his ear, filling him with amazement and dismay. It was all
like a bad dream. He could hardly realise that she was actually trying
to cast him off. From any other living soul guilty of such vacillating
treachery, he would have turned away in scarcely surprised scorn. To
this woman, rather than speak one word of anger, reproach, or blame--and
what is harder--rather than think it, he would have died a thousand
deaths. How he loved her! Her very weakness was sacred to him. It was
thrown upon his tenderness, now; it was for him to handle it tenderly,
not to crush it--and her. And a curious thrill of ghastly comfort shot
through him in the thought that even at this fearful moment, when his
heart was sick with bitter despair, he was really proving the strength
of his love by something more than words. Three times now had she
repulsed him, each under circumstances more cruel than the previous
one--but the loyal love of the man never flinched--never swerved by a
single hair's breadth. And he must be very gentle and indulgent with
her now.
"Lilian, my sweet, you hardly know what you are saying," he answered,
imprinting a shower of passionate kisses on the trembling, ashy lips.
"I'm not going to take what you tell me, in earnest at all."
"Spare me--spare me," she moaned, shuddering in his embrace. "I meant
it--all, and--"
"Hi--Halloa! Here's some fellow's horse got into the garden!" cried a
man's voice outside. "Yek--yek! Hi! Jafta. Turn the infernal brute
out. He's broken down the fence in two places--confound it--which means
a claim for five pounds from old Cooke next door. Out, you brute!" and
a sound was heard of a stone, launched by an incensed hand, striking
violently against the paling, while the offending quadruped, tearing his
way through and carrying with him two yards of fence, bolted off,
snorting and kicking, down the road.
"What'll the owner do, George?" said another voice approaching the front
door. "Goodness knows where that horse'll bolt to, now."
"Blazes, I hope--and his owner after him," replied Payne, surveying
resentfully the receding form of the trespasser. "Why the deuce can't
fellows tie their horses up when they leave 'em in the streets? O
Lord!"
This last ejaculation was caused by the sight of Claverton, who had come
quickly to the door to meet them and to give Lilian time to recover
herself, and at whom the speaker stood staring open-mouthed and somewhat
dismayed.
"Was that _your_ horse, old chap?" he asked, dubiously, shaking hands
with the new arrival and experiencing a sensation of huge relief because
of his presence.
"It was; but it may be the possession of some one else by now. Bother
the horse, though. I say, Payne, I want to talk to you."
"One minute, old chap. Here, Jafta--Jafta," he called out to his boy.
"Go and catch that horse again. Look sharp--run like the devil. If you
bring him back within a quarter of an hour I'll give you a shilling."
Away went Jafta, and Payne, glad of the momentary delay, returned to
Claverton sorely perplexed. He had sent for him, indeed, but didn't
know what the deuce to say to him now that he had come. It was more
within a woman's province, he thought; and there and then his spouse
came to the rescue, taking the affair into her own hands.
"Come inside, Mr Claverton," she said. "I'm so glad you're here." And
then, when they were alone, she told him everything that had happened,
from the day they had first seen Truscott until the moment of their
going out that afternoon just before his arrival.
He listened quietly. A deadly resolve was shaping itself within his
heart.
"What sort of a man is this Truscott--I mean what sort of a looking
man?" he asked.
She described him, and the listener immediately recognised the portrait.
The whole scheme was clear to him now. There was no question of money
at the bottom of this man's hostility towards him. Either the mulatto
was lying when he had told him this, or, more probably, the other had
given such a reason in order to conceal the real one. No. It was to
rob him of Lilian that his would-be assassin was plotting. He was wise,
indeed, to hire the bravo's steel in the shape of Sharkey--for he might
have been sure that only death would part him from Lilian. Ralph
Truscott, look to yourself now. It is no woman, weak in the very
helplessness of her love, with whom you have to deal this time. You
have, indeed, cause to meditate.
"He's gone to the front, has he?" continued Claverton. "Whereabouts?
Do you know?"
Annie Payne looked at him with a troubled air. She knew well her
interlocutor's determination and daring, and she saw breakers ahead.
"But it will be all right now that you are back again," she ventured.
She greatly feared otherwise; still, one must hope for the best.
The dark look deepened over his features. He hardly seemed to hear her,
but stood gazing through the open window.
"I must go," he exclaimed, suddenly. "Where is Lilian?" and with three
strides he gained the other room. It was empty. "Ah, better so,
perhaps," he muttered to himself. "Mrs Payne, tell her, with my love,
that a very few days will see me back here again, and everything will
come right then. Now I must not lose another moment. Good-bye, for a
few days."
"What are you going to do?" was the reply, spoken in a tone of alarm.
"Wait. Don't be in such a hurry. You can't rush off at once. You must
off-saddle if only for an hour. Anyhow, wait until George comes back.
Ah, there he is."
For at that moment George appeared, leading the runaway by the bridle.
The joint exertions of himself and his stable-boy had availed to catch
the trespasser just in time to prevent his doing further damage.
Claverton was firm in his refusal. He had his own reasons for wishing
to leave that house. Not even the smallest risk would he run of being
tempted to forego the purpose he had in hand, for a single instant.
"Here's your critter, old chap," cried Payne, panting from the effects
of his ran. "Je--rusalem! What a chevvy we had after the beggar--Eh?
What? Going away! Not to be thought of."
"But I am!" replied the other in a tone of settled resolve, as he
prepared to fling the bridle over the animal's neck. "Shall be back
again in four or five days. Hold on. Just walk a little way down the
street with me."
They walked on. Payne's brow growing more and more serious as he
listened. He had a great regard for this man, who had stepped in to his
rescue twice at a very critical moment.
"My dear Claverton, be careful what you are about," he said, gravely.
"It's a devilish awkward business, and at any other time than during the
war it would be impossible."
"Oh, I've served my apprenticeship in a good school for caution, never
fear. But, you'll see me again in a few days or--you'll never see me at
all."
Payne made no reply. Suddenly he looked up at a house they were
passing. It was a small house standing back from the street.
"By the way. We were awfully sorry to hear about that poor fellow
Armitage," he said. "His wife is staying there."
"Staying there? In that house? Why, I thought she was in `King.'"
"No. She came down here about a week ago--she only heard about the poor
fellow the day before yesterday."
"Is she very much cut up?"
"Dreadfully, I'm told. She is staying with another friend of yours--
Mrs Hicks."
"Then she's in good hands. Look here, Payne. I'll go in for a moment
and ask after her--poor little thing. And if I'm not out in five
minutes, just take my horse round to Wood's and make them off-saddle him
and give him a feed. It's all on my way and it'll save time. I'll join
you there, if you don't mind waiting."
Quickly walking up the little gravel path bordered with orange-trees,
and shaded with trellised vines, Claverton knocked gently at the door.
A subdued footstep in the silent passage, and it was opened--by Laura.
She stared at him in amazement.
"Why, when did you come? I thought you were away at the front. Do come
in." A superfluous request, seeing that she had already shut the door
behind him. "Poor Gertie will like to see you."
"How does she bear it?"
"She is dreadfully down-hearted. At first I was quite alarmed for her,
but I think the worst is over now. She was very fond of poor Jack."
"So were we all. Even such a leather-hearted curmudgeon as your humble
servant."
"It is no fault of yours that the poor fellow is not alive at this
moment," rejoined Laura, with warmth. "We heard all about it." All
this time she had been furtively watching him, and noting, with some
astonishment, his listless and dejected air. It was owing to no regret
for his deceased comrade, she was certain of that. What could be going
wrong with him?
"My dear Laura, I give you my word for it there was nothing to hear," he
replied; and seeing that the subject was distasteful to him, she left
him, to go and prepare poor Gertie for his visit.
Claverton wished he could have forgotten his own trouble as he stood in
the presence of the young widow--this mere girl--sorrowing for the loss
of him with whom she had begun to tread life's path. Very happy and
bright had that path been to her--to them both--during those short two
years. Very happy and peaceful would it have continued to be; but now
he was gone--snatched away from her suddenly by the merciless bullet of
the savage foe--shot down in the dark forest. He lay, cold in his
grave, far away in the wilds of Kafirland; and his gleeful laugh, and
sunny glance, would gladden her heart and her eyes no more. No wonder a
rush of tears came to her eyes, as she remembered under what
circumstances she had last seen her visitor. And now she was desolate
and alone.
Claverton held her hand in his strong, friendly grasp, and, when the
first paroxysm of her reopened grief was spent, gently he narrated the
circumstances of poor Armitage's last moments; how his last thoughts and
care had been for her; how her name had been almost the last words upon
his lips. Then he dwelt upon the dead man's popularity, and the blank
his loss would leave in the ranks of his comrades, not one of whom but
would have risked life to save him had they known before it was too
late. And there was that in the gentle, sympathetic voice, which
soothed and comforted the girl-widow, sorrowing there as one who had no
hope.
"My bright-hearted Jack! I shall never see you again. Would that I had
been more loving to you while you were here," she murmured, and, bowing
her head into her hands, again she wept.
"That I am sure you could not have been," answered Claverton, gently,
placing his hand upon her shoulder, and looking down on her with
infinite pity. "Child, believe me, there are losses more bitter even
than those inflicted upon as by death. Now, I must go. Good-bye--I am
returning to camp now; but I shall come and see you again soon, and you
must try and keep up your spirits."
She seized his hand. "You risked your life to save his. No--it's of no
use denying it--you did. God bless you for it, and those who were with
you. Tell them from me, when you go back, that I thank them. Good-bye.
God bless you--and Lilian."
This was too much. The chord of his own grief thus suddenly touched,
vibrated loudly. With a silent pressure of the hand, he left her.
"Any message for Hicks?" he asked, as Laura met him in the passage.
"What! Why, you are never going back to the front already?" answered
she, gazing at him in astonishment.
"I am--straight. In an hour's time I shall be at least eight or nine
miles on the road."
She saw that he meant it, and her woman's wit saw at once that something
was wrong.
"I am very sorry," she said. "Do wait ten minutes while I write a line
to Alfred. He will like to get it direct, and the post is such a
chance."
A superstitious foreboding took hold of Claverton's mind as he watched
her bending over her writing-case at the other side of the room. This
miserable war had made one widow immediately within their own circle,
Heaven grant that it might not make two. It seemed that nothing but
ill-luck had befallen that once happy circle since he had joined it--as
if his presence had something baleful about it, and was destined to work
harm to all with whom he came in contact. Ah, well, he had one more
mission to fulfil, and then what became of him did not much matter. So
Laura having finished her letter he bade her farewell, promising to
deliver it as soon as he reached the camp.
"I tell you what it is, Claverton. You'll have to ride that animal
rather carefully, or he'll never carry you all the way," remarked Payne,
eyeing the horse critically as his rider, having hastily buckled the
last strap, swung himself into the saddle.
"No, I've ridden his tail nearly off as it is. But I shall meet Sam on
the road, and shall change. Good-bye, or rather, so long. You'll see
me again in about a week--barring accidents."
Payne's heart sank within him. There wae a reckless, determined ring in
the other's tone that meant volumes; and he shook his head sadly as he
watched him ride away down the street. Then he walked slowly home, lost
in thought.