"Very kind of him. I don't suppose they're worth the trouble. If
there's anything of importance in them it's sure to be bad news or
worse. Well, let's have them, Beryl."
There were three, somewhat old as to date. Two were of no importance;
but the third! As I glanced dizzily through it, my head swam and the
blood rushed to my face, for I was still weak. I dropped back on the
pillows.
"Read it, Beryl," I gasped. "Read it for me--for I can't see. Read
every word, date and all."
She glanced at me anxiously. Then, rightly judging that it would be
better to comply than keep me in a state of agonising suspense, she read
it.
Then I, drinking in every word, was hardly able to believe my ears, for
the letter was from my agents and expressive of great regret for any
inconvenience and anxiety to which their former communication might have
put me. They could not conceive how such a mistake could have occurred,
but the fact was the funds by some error had not been paid in to the
defaulting firm, though only just in time had this course been avoided.
Consequently they themselves now held the sum in question awaiting my
disposal, and begged to remain, etc., etc.
My little all was saved!
"Read it again, Beryl. Read it again. And be particular as to dates."
She obeyed, and even while she did so her hand dropped upon mine as it
lay on the counterpane.
"Oh, Kenrick, I am so glad. I can't tell you how glad I am. Only,
remember, my instinct was a true one. Did I not tell you how everything
would come right?"
"Yes. But it hasn't. I mean not for me."
"How? Instead of being ruined, as you thought, you are just where you
were before. Isn't that coming right?"
"No. I want a great deal more than that. I want--you."
I was looking her straight in the face. A flush came into it, and there
was the sweetest, tenderest glow in her eyes. It seemed that the hand
which rested in mine returned the pressure.
"Beryl--darling--my love for you has been steadily growing since we
first became inmates of the same house. I was on the point of telling
you so when that idiot Trask came clattering in upon us that day we were
riding back from Stacey's. Then, afterwards, as you know, there were
other things that made the time not an opportune one; and the day before
you returned home I got the news that made me think I was a beggar."
"Yes. And you took to behaving very strangely towards me then, as I
think I told you."
"Shall I tell you something, dearest? I was beastly jealous of
Pentridge."
"Were you? Well, you needn't be ever again. Shall I tell _you_
something, dearest--only as a secret? He asked me to marry him."
"The day he left?"
She nodded.
"I thought he would," I said. "And--why didn't you?"
"Because I greatly preferred some one else."
"Who is the `some one else'?"
"If you will promise not to talk any more--you have already talked a
great deal too much--I'll tell you. You will? Well, then--" and the
look upon her face was to my eyes simply heavenly, as she bent down her
sweet lips to my ear, touched it with them, and whispered just one word:
"You."
I hardly know what the next few moments contained, except that it was
far too radiantly blissful to put into mere words. Then looking down
upon me, her cool hand lovingly moving over my forehead and temples, she
said--
"Now you will be quick and get well--for my sake, won't you, Kenrick
dear?"
"Rather! Pentridge may consider the cure complete. My mind is clear
now, at any rate." And then I stopped, feeling rather ashamed of my
exhilaration and happiness, considering how recent was the blow which
had fallen, and said so. But she reassured me.
"It is just as the dear old dad would have wished," she said. "He had
such an opinion of you, Kenrick. Now--where is your promise? You were
not to talk any more, do you remember?"
"But I have hardly said anything yet. And--I want to."
"Haven't you? You have been delirious, remember, dearest, and when
people are delirious they say a great deal." And with a glad,
mischievous laugh, again she bent down her lips to mine.
I gained strength daily now, almost hourly. But Pentridge wondered not
at the sudden change when he learned how it had been brought about. He
congratulated us in a cordial, manly way, poor chap. Yes, he was a fine
fellow, was Pentridge.
We had a sad and painful time of it, Beryl and I, at the trial of the
three murderers, for we had to give evidence, and that meant a
re-opening of the old wounds. But Sibuko and Maqala and the other Kafir
were sentenced to be hanged; and hanged they were, in the gaol at Fort
Lamport, a couple of weeks or so afterwards. With their richly-deserved
fate the vendetta which culminated in this last tragedy was closed; for
Kuliso, strange to say, conceived such a vast admiration and respect for
Beryl's magnificent intrepidity on that fatal night, that he made it
known among his tribesmen that all further acts of hostility or
molestation towards us, of any kind, were to cease; and as he still
emphatically disclaimed any knowledge of or complicity in the sad
tragedy, we gave him the benefit of the doubt, and dwelt side by side,
at any rate on neighbourly terms.
For after Beryl and I were married--quietly, by reason of what had gone
before--as Brian showed not the smallest intention of following our
example, we continued to make our home at Gonya's Kloof, and our
partnership in farming concerns prospered exceedingly, and in our home
circle we were as happy as the still lingering shadow of bereavement
would allow us to be. And it was a shadow. Poor little George! We
missed his merry impudence a good many times a day, and as for the wise,
kind father and friend--why, for long the recollection of him was blank
indeed; and long it was before Time even began to heal the wound which
that recollection had left.
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Well, that is my story. I don't know that it is much of a story, but
it's a true one, and that I, Kenrick Holt, should ever have been brought
to write a story at all seems passing strange, most of all to myself;
indeed, I never should have, had it not been for a friend of mine who
used to come and stay at our place, and shoot. He was always keen on
reminiscences--if local and tragic all the better--and my own romance
appealed to him to such an extent that he was continually urging me to
turn it into a book; which was sporting of him, for he was very much in
the book-writing line himself--especially with reference to my now
adopted country--and might easily have used it himself, turning it to
account on behalf of his own pocket. However, he was too much of a
sportsman for that, so--here it is.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Finis.