"THERE WERE TWO LIVES."
"They are late--very late. They ought to be here by now," murmured
Beryl, more to herself than to me, as she came out on the stoep, where I
was seated alone, admiring the splendid moonlight; "they" being her
father and George, who had ridden over to Trask's early in the afternoon
about something, intending to be home by supper-time. Now it was nearly
bedtime, and still there was no sign of them.
"Oh, they'll turn up any minute now," I said. "It's not likely they'll
stay the night at Trask's, I suppose?"
"Not in the least likely. But--I wish they'd come."
Brian was away, Iris too; the latter staying with some people at Fort
Lamport--so that Beryl and I were alone together. But as she dropped
into one of the roomy cane chairs beside me, I could see that she had
hardly an ear for half my conversation, and her face, clearly visible in
the moonlight, wore a strangely anxious and troubled look. The
slightest sound would start her up, listening intently. I watched her
with amazement.
"Why, Beryl," I said. "What on earth is the reason of all this anxiety?
They--all of us--have been out as late as this before?"
"And I have never been as anxious as this before. Quite true. But, do
you believe in instincts, in presentiments, Kenrick?"
"Well, in a way perhaps. But--I hardly know. They are generally to be
traced to overwrought nerves, and that's a complaint I should have
thought would be the last for you to suffer from, Beryl."
"Yes, it seems strange. All the more reason why my instinct in this
case is a true one. I feel as if something terrible was about to
happen--was happening--and I--we--can do nothing--nothing. Oh, I can't
sit still."
She rose and paced the stoep up and down, then descended the steps and
stood looking out into the night. This sort of thing is catching. And
that Beryl, the courageous, the clear-headed, the strong-nerved, should
be thus thrown off her balance, was inexplicable, more than mysterious.
Something of a cold creep seemed to steal over my own nerves. The night
was strangely still; warm too for the time of year, by rights it ought
to have been sharp and frosty. Even the intermittent voices of
nocturnal bird or insect were hushed, but every now and then the silence
would be broken by the dismal moaning and stamping of a herd of cattle
gathered round the slaughter place behind the waggon shed. But these
impressions promptly gave way to the love which welled up within me a
hundredfold as I gazed into the sweet troubled eyes, for I had joined
her where she stood in front of the stoep.
"Dearest, don't give way to these imaginings," I urged. "They will grow
upon you till you make yourself quite ill. What can there be to fear?
Nothing."
Great heavens! my secret was out. What had I said? And--how would
Beryl take it?
The latter I was not destined to learn--at any rate not then. The dogs,
which had been lying behind the house, uttering an occasional sleepy
growl when the moaning, scuffling cattle became too noisy, now leaped up
and charged wildly forward, uttering such a clamour as to have been
heard for miles.
"Here they are, you see. I told you they'd be home directly," I said.
"And here they are."
But the intense relief which momentarily had lighted up Beryl's face
faded, giving way to a look of deepened anxiety and disappointment.
"It is not them at all," she murmured. "Listen!"
By the sound of their barking, the dogs must have gained the further
gate. The clamour had ceased--suddenly, mysteriously. Yet, listening
intently, we could detect no sound of voices nor yet of hoof strokes,
both of which would have been audible a mile or more away in the calm
stillness of the night. Yet, from an occasional "woof" or so, which
they could not restrain, we could hear that the dogs were returning.
But their tumult broke forth again, though partially and momentarily.
Someone was opening the inner gate.
An exclamation escaped Beryl, low, but intense. A dark figure came
towards us.
"Why, it is Dumela!" she gasped.
"_Inkosikazi_," began the old Kafir, whom we all thought considerably
more than a hundred miles away at that moment, if we had thought of him
at all, that is. "_Inkosikazi_. Where is your father? I would speak
with him, now at once."
"He is not here, Dumela. He will be, any moment, though."
"_Au_! I thought not. I thought not," was the muttered answer. "And
Jojo (George)?"
"He is with his father," said Beryl eagerly. "Why?"