Surely we have stood upon this spot before.
But the drooping boughs of the old pear-tree afford no shade now to
those two persons seated on the rustic bench beneath--being leafless.
For it is mid-winter; yet the sky is a glory of unclouded blue above the
rolling landscape and dark forests, and the white and dazzling shroud
upon the distant mountains.
Not only have we stood upon this spot before; but we have stood here--
though unseen--in company with these two identical persons. One of them
now wears one arm in a sling, and looks like a man lately recovered from
a desperate illness. We will draw near--still unseen--and hear what
they are talking about.
"Now, Arthur, I declare I saw you shiver," exclaimed a bright, playful
voice, which sounded very like that of Lilian Strange. "That won't do,
sir--Didn't the doctor say you were to take enormous care of yourself
for a long time to come--the English of which is that I am to do it for
you--and I'm going to begin by buttoning up your overcoat, for it's
anything but warm to-day, although the sun is so bright. That's done,"
continued she, with a joyous laugh. "Now for the letters."
"Bother the letters. They can slide."
"Can they? Business can slide, eh? And I'm sure one of them looked
like a regular `dun,' or a lawyer's letter at least, in its big, blue
envelope. That won't do, my dear. You've got a termagant to deal with,
I can tell you. Besides, when all's said and done, sir, they're _my_
letters, so out with them."
She dived her hand into the pocket of his overcoat, and produced two
missives. The post had just arrived as they were starting for their
stroll; but Lilian, reluctant to let in thoughts of the outside world
upon this their first visit to all the dear old places, had deferred
investigating the contents.
"Yours, are they?" said Claverton, when he had recovered from the shout
of laughter which her idea of a "termagant" had evoked. "Let me set you
right on that head. They're mine, now, at all events. What's yours is
mine--what's mine's my own. Eh?"
"But, look--they're addressed to me. Look! `Miss Strange,' `Miss
Lilian Strange,'" cried she, triumphantly, with her bright, witching
laugh. "What do you say to that?"
"That young party has ceased to exist, I tell you; so, in the logical
sequence of events, we ought to return those to the Dead Letter Office.
What do you say to that, Mrs Arthur Claverton?"
"This is from that dear Annie Payne," she went on, not heeding him, as
she extracted a closely-written and crossed sheet from its cover.
"Wants a microscope to read. We haven't got one here--_ergo_, it can
stand over," he rejoined. "Why, Lilian; what on earth's the matter?"
For she had opened the blue envelope last of all, and her face wore a
very curious expression indeed, as she mastered its contents--a little
surprise and a great deal of amusement. It was a lawyer's letter, even
as she had conjectured, and it informed her, in dry, concise
phraseology, that she was entitled to the sum of nine thousand pounds
under the will of her distant cousin, "my late esteemed client, Mr
Herbert Spalding," which bequest reverted to her, being forfeited by the
present legatee, Mr Arthur Claverton, that gentleman having failed to
observe the conditions under which he enjoyed the legacy, etcetera,
etcetera. The writer begged to know her wishes in respect of this
bequest, and remained her obedient servant, Robert Smythe.
Blank astonishment was the only feeling Claverton was sensible of as he
sat staring at the bit of paper which she had put into his hand. He had
written to the lawyer on the day of his marriage, as a matter of course,
renouncing all further claim to the bequest, and sending in all the
necessary papers; as nearly three years were wanting to the time when it
should be his irrevocably; and had expected to hear nothing more about
the matter, beyond a brief acknowledgment. It was a nuisance, of
course, being docked of about half his means, but he had quite enough
left to go on with; and weighed in the balance of recent events this one
was a mere trifle. And, now, the legacy had simply reverted to his
wife. But how the deuce had it come about--that was the question?
"Good God!" was all he could ejaculate.
"Don't be profane, sir," retorted Lilian, with such a merry peal of
laughter. "Why don't you congratulate me on my good fortune?"
"Eh--what? Hang it, this beats me. I don't understand it at all!"
"Don't you? Well, then, poor Herbert Spalding was my cousin--a very
distant one--and I hardly knew much about him. He was very pleasant and
kind, though, the little I did see of him at Dynevard Chase; but at the
last he seems to have had the bad taste to prefer you to me. Undue
influence, sir, undue influence--isn't that what the lawyers call it?"
concluded she, in a playfully reproachful tone.
"For Heaven's sake don't joke about it, Lilian," he interrupted, in a
pained voice. "For it amounts to this, that I have simply been robbing
you all these years--robbing you--you, whom I would have given the last
drop of my heart's blood to shield from a single want. All this time,
while you have been fighting a hard battle alone and unaided, I have
been literally robbing you of your own. Good Heavens! the very idea is
enough to make a fellow cut his throat."
"You were not robbing me of anything of the sort. Don't be absurd, you
dear old goose! But, darling, you don't know how pleased I am that you
should take this from me now, even though it is like giving you back
what belongs to you," she added, lovingly.
"But, upon my soul, I don't understand it yet," he repeated, amazedly.
"Who on earth was that old parson who came badgering me one morning? I
thought _he_ was the next in reversion."
"`That old parson,' as you so disrespectfully term my dear old uncle,
George Wainwright, went to you on _my_ behalf, Arthur," she answered,
with a smile. "I tried to prevent him, but he would go. He failed, for
you stuck to it like a leech," she concluded, with a merry laugh.
"Heavens! Of course I thought he was speaking for himself. He never
mentioned you."
"Didn't he? That's so like Uncle George! And when I asked him who you
were, he had forgotten your name. Said it was Clinton, or something
like that."
"But, Lilian, is this the first you've heard of the rights of the
affair? Didn't you ever suspect anything?"
A soft smile stole over her face. "I did once," she replied, "long
ago--here. Something Mrs Brathwaite was telling us about you gave me a
sort of an inkling."
"Oh, but this is simply dreadful! How could I have any idea how things
stood? I never saw the will, and never heard the name of the next in
reversion. `A distant relative' was all that old Smythe said. But I'll
write to the parson, Mr--what's his name?--Wainwright, and get him to
tell you all that passed between us. I'll--"
"I'm afraid not. Poor Uncle George died four years ago," she answered.
"But, darling, don't take things to heart like this. I only see it in
an amusing light. Isn't it a queer chapter of coincidences?"
"Good God!"
"Don't be profane," she repeated. "And if you don't want to make me
quite unhappy, you will think no more of this odd little coincidence,
Arthur dearest. I declare I mean it. And then, isn't it best, after
all? Why, nothing now can rid me of the knowledge that it was entirely
for myself, and myself alone, just as I stood, that you threw away that
dear, foolish heart of yours." And she gave him such a look of
tenderness, and love, and trust, that he caught her to him with all the
passionate love of the old yearning, hopeless days.
"My Lilian, nothing can rid _me_ of the knowledge that I have robbed you
all this time; and how am I to pass it off so lightly?" he whispered, in
a broken voice. "My darling, you see it was impossible that I could
have known--do you not?"
"Why, of course. How should you have? But isn't it the most amusing of
coincidences! Come now, you are to own that it is. We women are
supposed to be deficient in a sense of humour; but, I declare, in this
instance I am proving the rule by making an exception to it, while you
are not keeping up the credit of your lordly sex. Do you hear that,
sir?" she went on, in a tone of soft banter that was very bewitching.
Her great happiness had completely changed Lilian. The longing sadness
in the sweet, lustrous eyes had given way to a calm peace that was
infinitely beautiful, and a sunny, gladsome smile had taken the place of
that former tinge of melancholy which had always been upon her, even at
the brightest of times. No cloud was in her sky now. The lurid curtain
of war had lifted, and though still upon the horizon, daily receded--
rolling back farther and farther. The Past might be put away, as the
golden Future disclosed in bright, fair vista.
Yes. The war was at an end, now--or nearly so--for the wretched
insurgents, broken-spirited, half-starving, and thoroughly sick of
fighting, were flocking in daily to surrender themselves at the
different frontier posts. The gaols were crowded with red-blanketed,
forlorn-looking beings, squatting about in sullen apathy, their chief
speculation--next to the interest of their daily rations--being whether
_Ihuvumente_ [the Government] would be very hard on them, when they
should be placed in the dock in batches, at the approaching special
Circuit, and called upon to answer to the charge of having "wrongfully,
unlawfully, and maliciously taken up arms and waged war against our
Sovereign Lady, the Queen, etcetera, etcetera," of which exalted
personage most of them had but a very hazy idea. The insurgent leaders
had either been captured or slain, and in the latter category was the
fate of Sandili, the Great Chief of the house of Gaika, who was shot by
a party of Fingoes during his flight; and when his body was found some
days afterwards in the Perie Forest, behold, it was partially eaten by
wild animals. So the fate which his captive had predicted, when
condemned to the torture and to death, to the old chief, was fulfilled
to the very letter. His two sons, Gonya and Matanzima, together with
Gungubele, Umfanta, Tini Macomo, and other rebel leaders, were also in
gaol, awaiting their trial for high treason [Note 1], and altogether the
war had come to about as ignominious an end as was possible.
Jim Brathwaite was at home again; his corps, which had done such good
service, having been disbanded. Indeed, nothing remained to be done. A
few forlorn bands of insurgents were still under arms; but these clung
so pertinaciously to the wildest and most inaccessible tracts of
country--a region of holes, and caves, and dense tangled bush--that the
work of hunting them out was left to the Police and native levies, aided
by that powerful ally, starvation. So troop after troop of burghers and
volunteers left the field, and soon there were signs of re-occupying the
long-deserted farms in Kaffraria and upon the immediate line of
hostilities; for the savage enemy had lain down his arms, and the
prospect was that of a speedy return to the ways of peace.
Jim Brathwaite is at home again, and there is quite a gathering of our
old friends at Seringa Vale on this first occasion of their meeting
together since the war. And how they fight their battles all over
again, for, needless to say, the conversation turns wholly upon the
doings of the colonial forces in general, and upon the exploits of that
doughty corps, Brathwaite's Horse, in particular. Some growling, too,
is heard. Time has to be made up for. Things have gone more or less to
the deuce during the period our friends have all been away at the front,
which period, with the exception of a brief interval, covers the best
part of a year. In fact, campaigning has been an undertaking of neither
pleasure nor profit. Stay--as to the pleasure. The jolly, sunburnt
visage of our friend Hicks, yonder, has lost none of its brimming
contentment. Indeed, its owner has been heard to say, that he, for one,
would be quite ready for another bout of Kafir-shooting as soon as
convenient--a remark which obtains for him an angry scowl from his
right-hand neighbour, Thorman, who growls resentfully that "the sooner
fellows shut up talking that sort of damned bosh, the sooner the country
will settle down to its legitimate business again." A sentiment which,
though ungraciously expressed, contains a strong element of truth; for,
undoubtedly, the irregular, happy-go-lucky, jolly good fellowship of
camp-life, and the glorious uncertainty of war, is not without a
somewhat demoralising influence on the energies of the colonial youth in
the more prosaic run of workaday life--to which it must now return. But
Hicks is young yet, and brimful of animal spirits. His losses during
the outbreak have been but slight; and now he is back among his old
friends, after having seen some real good service. And opposite him
sits his wife--quiet, gentle-looking as ever--for whom he has abated not
one jot of his old adoration; for Laura, in spite of her reserve and
apparent self-obliteration, has a shrewd, sensible little head of her
own, and manages her lord completely, he being just the fellow who
requires management--and Hicks is as happy as a king. So, with a laugh,
he tells Thorman to shut up, for a jolly old growler, as he is, "and
always was, by Jove!" and to let a fellow have his say now that they are
all festive together again, and to knock up a sort of grin himself, for
once in his life, if he can.
Naylor, too, is there, quieter and staider, but full of dry "chaff,"
which he every now and then turns on one or other of the party. His
hair and large beard are beginning to show streaks of grey; but, then,
as he says, a fellow ceases to be a chicken at some time in his life,
and he, for instance, is growing a fine crop of "prime whites." Which
ostrich-feather witticism so tickles his son and heir, Tom--a
well-grown, sturdy boy of fifteen--that he bursts into a fit of
immoderate mirth, necessitating his sudden retreat from the room.
As for Allen, he has not changed in any single particular, but, having
shown that there was good stuff in him, underlying his external
eccentricity, he has gone up several pegs in the estimation of his
friends; and now that poor Jack Armitage is no longer at his side, he
enjoys a kind of immunity from chaff, for even Naylor leaves him in
peace, failing the more merciless wag to arouse the spirit of emulation,
and to keep the ball rolling.
There sits Will Jeffreys, not much more happy-looking than of yore. He
is doing by no means badly in the world, for he has five waggons on the
road--transport-riding is paying well just now--and owns two flourishing
and well-stocked farms left him by his father, who has gone the way of
all flesh. But his saturnine temperament remains pretty much as it was,
and Claverton has a bet on, of considerable magnitude, with Mrs Jim
Brathwaite that, in a year hence, Jeffreys will have attained greater
proficiency in the art of scowling than even Thorman.
But serious thoughts will intrude upon the mirth and great cordiality
present in the gathering. The hand of Death has been laid upon the
familiar circle since last we saw it here assembled, and well-loved
faces have dropped out of it, never to be beheld again on earth. Jim
Brathwaite--jovial, light-hearted, and popular in the best sense of the
word--reigns at Seringa Vale now; but in two hearts especially to-day
lingers a very warm and loving remembrance of the dear old couple whose
kindly, genial presence ere while made sunshine in that room.
And the grisly war-god, too, had exacted his tribute even from that
small circle, and poor Jack Armitage, that best of good comrades, would
no more enliven them with his quizzical countenance and reckless, boyish
love of fun. Even Allen sadly missed his erewhile tormentor, and
thought his immunity from chaff and practical jokes dearly purchased.
But the dead man lies in his lonely grave away in savage Kafirland, and
his young widow weeps for him, and his old comrades think of him with an
affectionate, but shadowed regret. Poor Jack!
When the good fellowship and general cordiality is at its height, Hicks
is suddenly inspired with an idea that some speech-making would very
appropriately mark the occasion, which idea he communicates to Jim; but
he is overruled, on the ground that "the women would be safe to turn on
the hose" if anything of that kind were started, which would inevitably
put a damper on the prevailing good spirits; while Thorman, who has
overheard him on the other side, remarks, with a contemptuous growl,
"that Hicks, of all people, on his legs, speechifying, would remind him
of nothing so much as a damned bear jumping up at an apple tied to a
string, because he'd be trying to catch at something that wouldn't
come--he would, by so and so, and so and so." A statement, however,
which in no wise disturbed the exuberant good-humour of the subject
thereof.
Meanwhile, behind the cattle-kraal are seated, in close confab, two
other personages who have played no unimportant part in this history.
These are Sam and Xuvani. And how comes the latter here?
After he had so deftly turned the tables on the Cuban mulatto, Xuvani
retraced his steps in the direction of Sandili's kraal, keeping the
while a careful lookout for Tambusa, whom he expected to join him. But,
after a while, his nephew not appearing, the old man began to suspect
that something had gone wrong. He redoubled his caution, but the lone,
silent bush betrayed nothing of the tragedy of blood just enacted in its
cruel depths. He was perplexed. If the plot had been discovered, and
the lad was captured before he could make good his escape, he would be
dead by this, and it was clearly useless for himself to rush on to the
very points of his countrymen's avenging assegais. While pondering over
his plan of action a shadow passed between him and the sun. He looked
up. It was a vulture; and another and another swept between the
tree-tops and the blue sky. The mystery was explained now. A few steps
more and the old man knelt beside the stiffening corpse, not long cold,
of the luckless Tambusa. The murderers had gone down to him to ensure
that he was dead, and had left him there in the rocky glen just where he
had fallen, and the traces and footmarks supplied all the missing links
in the bloody tale to the eye of the shrewd savage. Hastily piling a
heap of stones on the dead body of his nephew, Xuvani left the spot,
decided as to his future course of action. To return to Sandili would
be to commit suicide. He regretted poor Tambusa's fate, but accepted
the event with true native philosophy--it was done, and it couldn't be
helped now. They had both been guilty of an act of treason towards
their countrymen, albeit of one of chivalrous gratitude towards the
white man; and the lad had fallen a victim. It was unfortunate, but
could not be helped. So, acting upon Claverton's advice, Xuvani then
and there made his way quietly into the colony, where he engaged himself
as a labourer on some railway works in the Western Province, and where a
powerful, able-bodied, well-conducted Kafir like himself was too good a
workman for any questions to be asked. There he remained some months,
till at length, the war over, and as soon as he could safely do so, he
returned to the frontier, and obtained employment under Jim Brathwaite,
in his former capacity.
So here he is at Seringa Vale again, looking a trifle chapfallen,
perhaps, but on the whole, deeming himself marvellously lucky, when he
thinks of the frightful grief to which have come so many of his old
companions in arms. And he is, moreover, enjoying substantial advantage
by reason of having saved Claverton's life; for he already owns more
good cattle than ever he pictured to himself in his dreams, and will own
even more when things are settled, and he knows where to bestow his
possessions. And he professes great veneration for Lilian, and is
enormously proud of a large, handsome and curiously-wrought armlet which
she has given him, and, although to expect him to declare that he
prefers this to the more material benefits would be to demand an effort
of gallantry too great for Kafir human nature, yet there is no doubt
that he looks upon the ornament as a very great distinction indeed, with
which nothing would induce him to part.
Sam and the old Gaika have struck up a great alliance, and the only
subject on which they fall out is that of the respective prowess of the
Kafirs and the colonists in the field--for the war is an inexhaustible
topic between them--on which occasion Sam would inevitably be tempted to
fire off the Kafir equivalent of his pet ejaculation, "Amaxosa nigga no
good," were it not that such a course would either draw down upon him
the old man's anger, or contempt for him as a "boy," and the sly dog has
a reason for standing well within the other's good books just now.
And this is the reason. It happens that Xuvani owns a couple of
nieces--half-sisters of poor Tambusa--whom he has brought to keep house
for him, their father having been slain in the war. Both are fine,
well-made, bright-eyed wenches, with a merry laugh and a wealth of
cheerful spirits, and Master Sam has developed very decided intentions
in that direction. Even now, as he sits there, he is warily trying to
ascertain the smallest number of cattle old Xuvani is likely to accept
for one of them, and turning over in his mind whether his savings will
be sufficient to enable him to lay in the stock needed for the requisite
_lobola_ [the price in cattle paid to the father or lawful guardian, for
a wife], and if not, whether his master will help him. And yet another
difficulty besets Sam's path. He cannot quite make up his mind which of
the brown Venuses he shall propose for. Mnavnma is decidedly the
best-looking, and he has a sneaking partiality for her; but, then, she
is flighty, whereas Ngcesile is a good worker, steadier and rather
better-tempered. So poor Sam is in a cleft stick.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the afternoon of the day which witnesses this gathering of so many of
our old friends at Seringa Vale, a girl is sitting at the window of a
pretty house in one of the leafy suburbs of Cape Town. A beautiful girl
of four-and-twenty, with exquisitely-chiselled features, and a great
mass of golden hair in a shining halo above her face; but there is a
hard look in the deep blue eyes, and the full, laughing lips are set and
grave as she sits absently gazing out upon the broad surface of the bay,
upon whose waters, curled into ripples by the afternoon breeze, the
white sails of a few sailing-boats are skimming to and fro. She rouses
herself from her reverie, and her glance falls upon something she holds
in her hand. It is a newspaper, two months old; and it needs not the
pencil mark against one of the notices in the marriage column to attract
her eye, for she has gazed upon it many times already. Then she rises,
and unlocking a desk takes out something. Only a few faded blossoms,
originally distributed over half-a-dozen rank and sorry-looking stalks,
but long since fallen off. Yet how tenderly, almost reverently, she
handles them! There is something else--a sketch in a few bold pencil
strokes, roughly executed on the inside of an envelope. It represents a
large full-grown ostrich standing in menacing contemplation of the
draughtsman, who, sitting under a bush, has included himself in the
sketch as a foreground. Beyond the truculent biped, are the indistinct
faces of several persons looking over a wall, and underneath the whole
is pencilled the legend: "Cornered--or Brute Force _versus_ Intellect."
For a few moments the girl stands gazing upon these relics, and the hard
look in her eyes gives place to a softened and wistful expression that
is unutterably sad as she murmurs something to herself, and a tear falls
upon the faded and withered blossoms; then, as with an effort, she walks
to the fireplace, and, crumpling up the newspaper, places the flowers
and the pencil drawing upon it, strikes a match, and watches the whole
consume to ashes. That done, she returns to the window and gazes out
for a few minutes upon the blue bay and the distant mountains.
Footsteps on the gravel beneath, and a ring at the front door, recall
her to herself with a start. She tarns from the window, looks in the
glass for a moment, and then Ethel Brathwaite goes downstairs to say the
word which shall render Gerald Hanbury, Major in H.M.'s 999th Foot,
quartered at Blazerabad, India--but now on leave at the Cape--the
"happiest dog on earth"--as he thinks.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. These and other chiefs of the insurgent Gaikas and Tembus, were
subsequently sentenced, some to death, others to long terms of penal
servitude. The capital sentences, however, were commuted, and it should
be mentioned that the Governor was largely memorialised in favour of
this merciful course, by the very colonists whom these men had so
wantonly and unprovokedly attacked.