When Lilian saw Payne return to the house alone, unaccompanied by her
lover, it seemed that her cup of bitterness was full to the brim.
He had taken her at her word, then, even as she had besought him to do,
and had left her, wearied of her weakness and vacillation; had left her
in bitter anger that she should have made a plaything of his love,
taking it up and casting it from her again as the humour seized her.
Yes; it must be so, she told herself; and yet, if he only knew! But he
never would know. Her martyrdom was complete. Not even would she have
the consolation of knowing that if they parted in sorrow, at any rate
they parted in love, as was the case that former time. No; this time
anger and contempt for a weak creature who did not know her own mind
would soon take the place of his former love--and then? Ah, what did it
matter? She had sacrificed herself, and the sacrifice was complete;
what mattered a mere triviality of detail? He was gone, and she would
see his face no more, and she--she had saved him and ought to be only
too glad that the opportunity of doing so had been allowed her--at
least, so she told herself.
So she told herself, but ah! she could not feel glad. Her plan had
succeeded, as she had been hoping, yet not daring to pray, that it
would; but now that it had, she discovered that side by side with her
heroic resolution had lurked a subtle hope that even yet she might look
upon him again. That hope was now fulfilled, and lo! all was darker
than it had been hitherto--so dark that it could never be light again.
Could it not? Even then, breaking in upon the outer gloom of her
terrible despair, came her lover's last message--"_A very few days will
see me back here again. Everything will come right then_"--bringing a
gleam of hope to her crushed heart. He would come back--at any rate he
would come back--and then, those confident words: "_Everything will come
right then_." For the first time a strong doubt came over her as to the
truth of Truscott's allegations. It might be that he was lying,
according to his wont--lying in order to gain some private end, to
revenge himself upon her--for she now no longer believed that he really
loved her. Yet he had spoken so confidently, with such an exhaustive
reliance in his facts. Still there might be some mystery about it,
which her lover was able to solve. Ah! why had she not asked him when
he was here just now? Why had she not begged him to clear up this
horrid doubt; to tell her openly about his past life? She had been
unnerved: had lost her head for the time being. Still it is probable
that she would have asked him, but for the inopportune return of the
Paynes. Well, it was too late now; she must wait patiently for his
return, and then--if only the opportunity was allowed her--a lifetime of
tenderness and devotion could hardly atone for this dreadful doubt.
"Why, Lilian," exclaimed her hostess, affectionately, "you are looking
quite your old self again. Cheer up, darling. All will come right, I'm
sure of that; and so are you, I can see it in your eyes."
And, indeed, the revulsion of hope, setting in upon that black tide of
despair, had brought a glow into Lilian's cheek and a light into her
eyes such as had not been seen there for many a day. Yet it would not
do to be too elated yet.
"God grant it may," she replied, with an attempt at a smile, and there
was a good deal of hugging and kissing between the two women, and a few
tears; and then Lilian went down to delight Rose's heart by telling her
she would go for a walk with her, after all; that part of the
afternoon's programme having fallen through in subservience to the more
important events which had supervened, to the little girl's intense
disappointment.
And the walk did her good. Everything would come right, she kept
telling herself, and, as they strolled homeward when the afterglow in
the west was purpling into twilight gloom and the peaks of the
Winterberg range stood out--cold, distant, and steely--Lilian's heart
was full of a prayerful hope that their future might, after all, be
bright and cloudless as yon clear sky, when doubts and torturing fears
had all been swept away; and though her little companion found her
somewhat grave and disinclined to talk, yet the calm, sweet light of
returning peace in her eyes, which the child stole many a wondering look
at, more than made up for her silence.
If the Paynes were somewhat apprehensive as to the future--or rather as
to the events of the next few days--they kept it to themselves, and that
evening was quite a cheerful one. Hope had taken root and thriven in
Lilian's heart, and, as she kept on repeating to herself her lover's
message, she seemed to hear the confident ring of his own words:
"_Everything will come right then_," and wae comforted; at least,
comparatively so. But whatever happened she would ask him to tell her
all his past life, and somehow she did not look forward to the
revelation with dread.
Payne, however, was by no means easy in his mind about the somewhat
desperate plan which his friend had unfolded to him. To honest George's
straightforward reasoning it thoroughly recommended itself. The best
way to settle an affair of this kind was by a downright
"rough-and-tumble," as he put it, but then there was the law, an
uncommonly ticklish customer to deal with, once it took it into its head
to vindicate its outraged dignity. As regarded that, however, the
business might be managed away on the quiet somewhere, at the seat of
hostilities, where law was very much in abeyance just then; though at
any other time, as he had told his friend, it would be impossible. But
for all that, he heartily wished him safe through the business.
Claverton was a splendid pistol-shot, of that he had, on more than one
occasion, had ocular evidence, and if he winged his man, or even killed
him, it was all in the fortune of war; for Payne had seen rough times
himself at the Gold Fields and even on the Kaffrarian border, and did
not hold human life as so momentous a thing as did, for instance, the
clergyman of the parish wherein he at present resided. To the wife of
his bosom, however, he did not impart any of these reflections; on the
contrary, he made rather light of the affair.
"A row?" he said, in answer to her misgivings. "Oh, yes, there's sure
to be a row--the very devil of a row, in fact; but then Claverton's
thoroughly well able to take care of himself."
"But they will be shooting each other," she said, with a troubled shake
of the head.
He turned quickly. "Eh? What? Not they! They'll only get to punching
each other's heads--that's all, take my word for it." And honest George
laughed light-heartedly at his wife's fears, though he knew that there
was ample justification for them.
The following day brought even further comfort to poor Lilian, for
towards evening Sam arrived. With a start and a flush she saw the
native rein up at the gate, and then she grew deathly pale. He was
riding his master's horse; she recognised the animal at a glance. Oh,
what had happened? But then she noticed that Sam looked in no wise
perturbed, as would have been the case were he the bearer of ill
tidings. She noticed, further, that he was carefully extracting
something from his pocket as he came up the garden path--something done
up in paper. She flew to the door with a bright flush upon the sweet,
sad face.
"Good evenin', Missie Lilian. Master said I was give you dis,"
exclaimed Sam, placing the note in her hand. It was a hastily-pencilled
scrap--only a few words, but words expressing such a wealth of undying
love, ever and in spite of anything which had occurred or which might
occur, that she retired into the room, and, sinking into a chair,
pressed the bit of crumpled paper to her lips, and her tears fell like
rain upon it.
"Oh, Arthur, my own darling love! you do not think the worse of me! Ah,
I can bear anything now?" she murmured.
Could she? Nevertheless, it was well that the merciful veil of distance
was drawn between her eyes and the tragedy which at that very moment was
being enacted on the brow of a certain cliff, that calm, fair, cloudless
evening.
Meanwhile, Sam was busy putting up the horse. It had not needed the
haggard features and harsh, strained tones to bring home to his quick
perception the certainty that something had gone decidedly wrong with
his beloved master, hence the more than ordinary display of loyalty he
had exhibited when they parted; and now, with the ready tact of his
race, he turned away directly he had delivered the note to Lilian,
awaiting her own time to call him and question him about its writer.
So, with his jacket off, and armed with a curry-comb and brush, Sam was
making great play upon the matted and soiled coat of the tired horse
when a sweet voice from the back-door called his name.
"Coming, Missie Lilian--coming," cried the faithful fellow, as he flung
down his stable implements and hurried across the intervening bit of
garden, shuffling on his jacket as he went.
"Sam, you must be very hot and tired after your journey. Drink this,
and then I want to talk to you."
"This" being a large tumbler of cool, sparkling lemonade, which she held
in her hand. Sam took it with a grateful, pleasing ejaculation of
thanks. A dusky savage, born in a remote kraal beneath the towering
cones of the Kwahlamba range, he appreciated her thoughtful kindness far
more than many a white "Christian" would have done--the action more than
the result.
"Dat good," he said, after a long pull at the refreshing liquid, "but
not so good as see Missie Lilian again."
She smiled at the genuine though inaccurately-worded compliment, and
began questioning him, a little shyly at first, but soon so fast that
she found herself asking the same questions over again, and hardly
giving time for answers. Sam, who, like all natives, dearly loved to
hear himself talk, once on the congenial topic of his master and the
war, lectured away _ad libitum_.
"Missie Lilian--master he say, I stop here till he come back. I do
everyting you tell me. If you want tell master anyting, you send Sam,
straight--so!" and, extending his arm, he cracked his fingers in the
direction of Kafirland with an expressive gesture. "Sam he go in no
time. Dat what Inkos say."
"And, Sam--didn't your master tell you how long he would be away?"
"No, Missie Lilian--yes, he did. He say, be away not long--come back
very soon--in few days. Yes, he come back in very few days--dat what
Inkos say, de last ting."
"A very few days!" Just what he had told Mrs Payne. Things looked
promising.
"Was he looking--looking well, Sam? He has to travel alone, too," she
added, half to herself.
"No, Missie Lilian, he not ride 'lone. One Dutchman going back to
laager. Inkos and dat Dutchman ride together. Inkos he buy horse from
dat Dutchman--big young horse--'cos Fleck go lame. Dey see Amaxosa
nigger, dey shoot--shoot. Amaxosa not hurt. Inkos--Amaxosa nigga no
good. Ha?"
"Why, Sam; you don't mean they met any Kafirs?" exclaimed Lilian in
alarm.
"No. Dey not see any nigga, Missie Lilian. Sam mean _if_ dey see
Amaxosa dey shoot--shoot 'em dead. Bang!"
He did not tell her of the warning as to the dangers of the road, which
the two troopers had given his master the last thing before he started.
It would only make her uneasy, and, besides, Sam had the most rooted
faith in his chief's invulnerability.
Then Sam, being once under weigh, launched out into much reminiscence,
all tending towards one point, the glorification of his master and his
master's exploits; for which his said master would have been sorely
tempted to kick him, could he have overheard; but which, to his present
listener, was of all topics the most welcome.
"Hallo, Sam, you rascal! Where have you dropped from?"
"Evenin', Baas Payne!" said Sam, jumping to his feet, for he had been
squatting, tailor-fashion, while Lilian had been talking to him. "Sam,
he come from Inkos. Inkos he say, Sam stay here till he come. Sam do
all he told. Dat what Inkos say."
"You've got fat, Sam, since we saw you last. Campaigning seems to agree
with you," said Payne.
The boy grinned, and, seeing that they had done with him, he returned to
his work.
"I rather think I shall go to the front for a spell myself when
Claverton comes back," remarked Payne, as they went in.
"Oh, do you?" put in his wife, of whose presence he was unaware. "And
since when have you come to that conclusion, Mr George?"
He started. "Hallo! I didn't know you there. But, seriously, it
wouldn't do a fellow any harm. Needn't stay away long, you know. Shoot
a few niggers and come back again."
"Yes, pa," cried Harry, delightedly. "Do go and shoot the Kafirs, and
you'll be able to tell us such lots of stunning stories."
"Oh, ah! Anything else in a small way, Master Harry?" said his father,
ironically.
The urchin laughed.
"I want an assegai," he replied. "A real Kafir assegai; like the one
Johnny Timms has got. It's a beauty. He throws it at the fowls in the
garden."
"And you want to do likewise, eh? Only as there are no fowls to
practise at here, you'd be hurling it at old Cooke's next door. No,
sonny; little boys mustn't play with edged tools, as the copy-books
say."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is the third day after Claverton's departure--a bright, beautiful
morning, with the already tangible promise of great heat. Slowly Lilian
strolls along the street, hardly heeding the throng of busy life on all
sides; the rolling waggons, with their long, jaded spans, moving to the
crack of the driver's whip, accompanied by a shrill, harsh yell; the
sun-tanned horsemen ambling about; or the three or four pedestrians,
who, booted and spurred, are striding among the crowd in all the glory
of their spiked helmets, where an open-air sale is taking place,
flattering themselves they present an intensely martial aspect, and
putting on "side" accordingly. Here and there a storekeeper stands
before his shop-door exchanging gossip with the passers-by; and black
fellows of every nationality, clothed in ragged trousers and greasy
shirts, with, it may be, a battered hat stuck on top of their dusty
wool, stand in knots chattering in their deep bass, or trundle great
packages in and out of the stores. All this Lilian hardly sees as she
strolls along, a world of tender thought in the sweet eyes; and the
beautiful figure in the cool summer dress forms a very bright and
pleasing contrast in that busy workaday throng.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
She has been to the library and changed her books, has done one or two
little commissions, and now it is getting very hot, as she pauses for a
moment to rest and look in at a shop-window. Three days have gone,
three days out of the time she has to wait. Ah! how she longs for that
time to come to an end! And the hum of traffic increases in the busy
street, and from the cathedral spire the hour of ten chimes out.
Suddenly the hand which has been gently twirling the sunshade on her
shoulder, closes in rigid grasp round the knob; and lo! the beautiful,
pensive face is white and bloodless--pale as the snowy ostrich feather
adorning her hat--a peerless "prime white," which her lover had
ransacked the country to procure in order to devote it to its present
purpose. For as she stands there Lilian catches that lover's name, and,
before she has overheard many words of the conversation of a knot of men
chattering behind her, she feels as if she must fall to the ground.
"How do they know he's killed?" one of them was saying, evidently in
response to a preceding query. "They know it as well as they can know
it short of finding the body, and the niggers don't leave much of that--
butchering brutes. But, look here. If Claverton started on the line of
country Jos Sanders said he did, and didn't turn up at the main camp
yesterday by twelve o'clock at latest, he's a dead man. The whole of
those locations that side o' the mountains have risen, and a flea
couldn't have got through without their spottin' him."
"He may have gone round t'other way, though."
"Not likely. Jos said he was in a mighty cast-iron hurry, and laughed
in his face when he just cautioned him to look out. There was a
Dutchman with him, too."
"In a hurry? Claverton in a hurry? That'd be a sight worth seeing,"
struck in another. "Why, if all the niggers in Kafirland were on his
spoor, he'd stop to fill his pipe before he'd move."
"Ah, he's a mighty cool hand," rejoined the first speaker, admiringly.
"We want a few more like him. You should jes' have seen him that time
when we were out under old Hughes. There was only eighteen of us all
told, and the niggers were on us by hundreds. If it hadn't been for
Brathwaite's fellers we should all have been cut up. We fought the
whole afternoon; and Claverton, he seemed to care no more about the
niggers than if there hadn't been one of 'em there."
"Yes, and the way he brought out poor Jack Armitage that time! It was a
doosid plucky thing."
"I say, what's this about Claverton being killed?" exclaimed another
voice, whose owner had evidently just joined the group. "I see the
telegram says he may have been taken prisoner."
The first speaker shook his head ominously.
"Kafirs don't take prisoners," he said. "If they do, so much the worse
for the prisoners. No, sir. Claverton would fight like the devil, but
he'd never let those brutes take him alive, you may safely bet your
bottom dollar on that. Poor chap! Hot, isn't it? Let's go and
liquor."
They moved off, and Lilian stood there feeling as if the whole world had
suddenly given way beneath her feet. Then she remembered that the
newspaper office was but a few yards off. With swaying and uneven steps
she made her way there. A boy was standing at the counter, rapidly
folding copy after copy of the morning's edition.
"I want a paper, please. One with the very latest telegrams."
Lilian was surprised at her own calmness; but her ashy face and
quivering lips might have told their own tale.
"Yes, mum," said the boy, handing her one of those lying on the counter,
and with it a small, printed slip. "Latest from the front--an officer
killed."
The words beat like a sledge-hammer in her brain, but she managed to
stagger out of the shop. The whole street--vehicles, passengers, trees,
everything--seemed to go round before her as she strained her eyes upon
the printed words of that fatal slip.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
An Officer Missing.
"Field-Captain Claverton, of Brathwaite's Horse, left Breakfast Vley two
days ago for the main camp, and has not since been heard of. He was
accompanied by a Dutchman named Oppermann. There is every reason to
fear that they have been out off and killed, as the bushy defiles
through which lay their road, are swarming with rebel Gaikas."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later.
"A rumour is afloat in camp that the missing officer is alive, but a
prisoner; and that a missionary, supposed to be Rev Swaysland, of
Mount Ararat Station, is also in the hands of the rebels. This seems
probable, as the body of the Dutchman has been found, headless and
terribly mutilated, near the brow of a high krantz; but there was no
sign of the others. The rumour originated with a native, who has since
disappeared. He says that the missing men will be taken to Sandili."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hardly had Lilian left the shop when a young man, with a pen stuck
behind his ear, emerged from an inner office. With three strides he
gained the front door, and stood staring after her for a moment down the
street. Then he turned back.
"Jones, what did that lady want?" he asked, in a tone of concern.
"S'mornin's paper, and latest telegram," replied the boy, laconically,
and somewhat defiantly, as he went on folding his papers.
"And you gave it her?"
"Yes," still more defiantly. "She asked for it."
"You egregious jackass?"
"What for?" said the boy, indignantly. "If a party asks for the paper,
ain't I to sell it?" He evidently thought his superior was drunk.
"Look at that, Jones," said the latter, tapping the telegraphic slip
impressively with his pen. "What's that about--eh?"
"I see it. It's about an officer killed at the front. Why, that's just
the very thing the lady wanted to see," replied the boy, brightening up.
"Yes. Quite so, you infernal young fool. She's his sweetheart."
"O Lord!" And the boy, dropping the paper he was folding, stood gazing
at his superior the very picture of open-mouthed horror.
"Yes, it is `Lord,'" said the latter, with a gloomy shake of the head.
"Well, the mischief's done now, anyway;" and he retired into his den
with a feeling of intense and real pity for the beautiful, sad-looking
girl who had so often called at the office for telegrams from the seat
of war. The boy was a new hand, and had not known who she was.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
How Lilian got home was a mystery. She just remembered staggering in at
the doorway, and then nothing more until she awoke to find herself upon
her bed with Annie Payne bathing her forehead. No need had there been
to ask what the matter was--the printed slip which she held clutched in
her hand spoke for itself.
A shudder of returning consciousness, an inquiring look around, and then
the dread remembrance burst upon her.
"Oh, Arthur!" she wailed forth, in a despairing, bitter moan, "you are
dead, love, and I--why do I still live?" and the tears rushed forth as
her frame shook beneath its weight of sobbing woe.
"Hush, dear!" whispered Annie. "It does not say that, you know; it says
he is a prisoner, and he may have escaped by now, or been rescued.
While there is life there is hope."
Something in the idea seemed suddenly to strike her. Starting up, she
pressed her hand against her brows.
"So there is! Hope, hope! He is not dead. We must rescue him;" and
with a new-born determination, Lilian rose and walked towards the door.
Her hostess stared at her with a vague misgiving. Had this shock turned
her brain?
"Mr Payne," said Lilian, quite calmly, as she entered the sitting-room,
"what can we do?"
Payne, who was busy buckling on a pair of stout riding gaiters, looked
up, no less astonished than his wife had been. A cartridge-belt, well
stocked, lay on a chair, and just then Sam entered with a gun which he
had been wiping out.
"Do? Well, I'm going to start off at once for Brathwaite's camp and see
what can be done. But cheer up, Miss Lilian. We may bring our friend
out of his troubles all right enough. While there's life there's hope,
you know."
Just what his wife had said, and the twofold reiteration struck Lilian
vaguely as a good omen.
"Mr Payne," she said, suddenly, "I want to go with you."
Payne stared, as well he might. "Go with me? Where? To Brathwaite's
camp?"
"No; as far as the front. After that to the chief, Sandili."
If she had said "To his Satanic majesty," Payne could not have been more
thunderstruck. He began to think, as his wife had thought, that the
shock had turned her brain.
"To the chief, Sandili!" he echoed. "Why, you would never get there;
and if you did, what on earth would be the use of it?"
"I want to beg him to spare Arthur's life. I have heard that these
Kafirs respect women, even in time of war, and the chief might listen to
me. I am not afraid of him. He was very friendly, and spoke quite
kindly to us that day we saw him up in Kaffraria, and he will remember
me. And I might succeed where nothing or nobody else would--if it is
not too late," she concluded, choking down a rising sob. She must keep
firm now, and crush all mere womanly weakness, for she would need all
her strength.
Payne stared at her, speechless with astonishment and admiration. The
notion of this delicate, beautiful creature calmly stating her wish to
go alone into the midst of these merciless savages; to beard the Gaika
chief, at bay in his stronghold, far in the gloomy recesses of the
Amatola forest; reached a height of sublimity bordering closely upon the
ridiculous. But she wae thoroughly in earnest--he could see that--and
meant every word of it.
"Why, Lilian, it is not to be thought of," he replied, seriously; "the
thing is simply impossible to carry out, even if it were. Why, you
would never reach the chief, to begin with; you would--hang it all--you
would come to grief long before."
"Nothing is impossible. Are you going to sacrifice his life because you
will not use a means of saving it?" she asked.
"Now, do be reasonable," replied Payne. "Listen. We have a better plan
than that. Sam is going straight to the front; with a daub of red clay
and a blanket he will pass perfectly for a Gaika. He will find out
where Arthur is, and, depend upon it Sam will get him out if any one
can; and you may be perfectly sure that I shall leave no stone
unturned."
"Ah, yes. He will. That is a good idea."
"Yes," went on Payne, who, meanwhile, was busy getting his things
together. "And, another thing, Arthur understands the Kafirs thoroughly
and can talk to them fluently. He isn't the fellow to lose his head in
any kind of fix, and he may manage to talk them over, or bribe them to
let him go. So just keep your spirits up and don't begin thinking the
worst. Now, good-bye, we'll do the best we can. Good-bye, Annie!" and
with a grasp of the hand to Lilian, and a hurried embrace to his wife,
Payne mounted his horse, which was being held for him at the gate, and
rode off.
"Missie Lilian!" exclaimed Sam, "I go look for Inkos, now--straight--at
once. Amaxosa not hurt him; I find him and bring him back. If Inkos
alive, Sam bring him back or die by him. Dat what Sam do."
"Wait. You are not armed. Go, quick, and buy a revolver before you
start," and with trembling hands Lilian began searching hurriedly for
her purse.
"He won't be able to get it without a permit from the magistrate," said
Annie Payne, "and if he could, it would be of no use to him. No, leave
him alone for doing the best thing."
"I not want revolva, Missie Lilian, I not want anyting. Better jes as I
am. Now I go quick. I bring back Inkos, or never come back. I bring
him back, or I die by him," and, without another word, away started the
faithful fellow; and so serious did he consider the position that he
forgot his usual formula, "Amaxosa nigga no good."
Throughout that afternoon whatever hopes Lilian had allowed herself to
cherish sank slowly and by degrees till they had almost totally
disappeared. Suspense, terrible at any time, but doubly so during
forced inactivity, weighed down her soul till it seemed that it must
crush her to the very dust, and she could do nothing. Payne--even Sam--
had the satisfaction of joining in search of her missing lover, while
she, a weak, helpless woman, could only sit at home and wait, and weep,
and pray. Ah, why did she not insist upon her plan of going straight to
the Gaika chief to beg for her lover's life? What to her were the
terrors of so desperate an undertaking; the gloomy forest; the
loneliness; the crowd of grim barbarians, their weapons, it might be,
red with recently shed blood? And she was by nature timid, as we have
already seen; yet her great overwhelming love had made this frail,
delicate creature brave with a fearlessness taking no account of lesser
horrors, all of which were swallowed up in this one dread issue. But it
was too late now. Payne had gone, and the faithful native with him; and
the two women were left alone, to wait, and weep, and pray.
Then as the afternoon wore on, and the messenger whom Annie Payne had
stationed at the telegraph office to hasten up to them with every detail
of news that might arrive, returned with the intelligence that a great
storm was gathering in Kaffraria, and the electricity had interfered
with the working of the wires, Lilian could bear no more. AH the
direful stories which she had heard of the cruelties practised by the
savages towards their helpless prisoners crowded upon her mind. He--her
heart's love! He--a captive in their ruthless hands! And it was by
_her_ act that this had come about. _Her_ lips had doomed him. She had
sent him to his death.