Maritzburg again. Gerard, strolling through the busy streets, keenly
enjoying the bustle and stir of civilised life after his wild
experiences in savage lands, now no longer to him a sealed book, can
hardly realise that it is the same place, that he is the same being.
Could it be through those very streets that he hurried so eagerly in
search of what might bring him a bare subsistence; returned so
despondently from each successive failure? Now he felt himself the
equal in experience and resource of pretty nearly every man he met. He
felt his feet, so to say, and felt them firmly. He felt now that
wherever he was put down he could make his way.
"A little civilisation doesn't come amiss after the long spell of
trekking we've had, eh, Ridgeley?" said John Dawes, as they sat smoking
their pipes beneath the verandah of the Imperial Hotel towards the close
of a hot day. "But the contrast of it! I suppose, now, you can hardly
bring yourself to believe that old Ingonyama, Vunawayo, and the rest of
'em weren't just so many chaps in a dream?"
"A dream!" echoed Gerard, vacantly. "Oh--ah! Yes, of course."
John Dawes's humour being of the "dry" order, he did not laugh outright.
His young friend _was_ in a dream; and of its nature he was not
ignorant, for Gerard had given him just such vacant answers since a wire
had been handed in some two hours ago, announcing that Mr Kingsland and
his daughter would take up their quarters in the Imperial Hotel during
their two or three days' sojourn in the capital, and would, in fact,
arrive that evening.
"Remember what I said, just before we made acquaintance with the
Igazipuza," went on Dawes, "that you'd have some rare yarns to spin to
old Kingsland? Why, those will be skim milk to all that's happened
since."
"Rather!" assented Gerard, still vacantly, all his attention being
directed towards obtaining as good a view of the gate as was possible
through the sunflowers. And the other, seeing he was in no mood for
conversation, forebore to tax the attention aforesaid.
On the arrival of our two friends in Maritzburg, they had been met by
John Dawes's brother William, his joint partner in that and all
undertakings, who had taken the waggons and cattle--except such of the
latter as had been there and then sold by public auction--away to his
farm, leaving John to enjoy a spell of city life. But before he left,
the two brothers had put their heads together and decided to allow
Gerard a third of the profits of the expedition by way of his share.
The generosity of this arrangement, far in excess of that which had been
agreed upon, touched Gerard not a little.
"Shut up, man alive," had cut in William Dawes, with a good-natured slap
on the shoulder, as Gerard blurted out his thanks. "I've heard enough
about you from Jack here to know you've jolly well earned whatever share
we can give you. So you and he had better have a little fun after your
trip, and when you've had enough of the city come over and give us a
look up. There are a few bucks and partridges left on the place still."
So William Dawes had departed to his farm, and Gerard had fallen upon
his feet at last; which satisfactory position, what with the comfortable
sum this arrangement would give him, coupled with the invaluable
experience he had gained, it would be a strange thing if he did not
manage to keep.
Just as the first gong was sounding for dinner, a light American
"spider" drew up at the gate, and from it there descended two persons.
"By your leave, my good fellow. Would, you mind letting me pass?" said
Mr Kingsland, rather testily, as struggling with a large and weighty
Gladstone bag he found his ingress barred by some one who showed not the
smallest disposition to stand aside.
"Don't you know me, Mr Kingsland?"
"Know you? Eh--what! 'Pon my life I don't," answered the other,
staring inquiringly at the bronzed, bearded young fellow before him.
Then, as in a flash, "Why, it's Ridgeley--young Ridgeley--of course!
But who'd have known you! How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?"
And the cheery old settler, dropping the weighty Gladstone, wrung his
young friend's hand in a manner that left no sort of doubt as to the
genuine pleasure wherewith he regarded the meeting.
"Why, what a man you've grown!" he went on, looking Gerard up and down
with an approval that made the latter feel and look extremely foolish.
"May!" he called out. "Where are you, May? Here's young Ridgeley, come
back looking twice the chap he was when he went, as I always said he
would."
As the girl came forward with extended hand, and a look of unaffected
pleasure in her eyes, Gerard was not quite sure whether he was standing
on his head or on his heels. He thought he had never seen a sweeter,
lovelier vision in his life. And, indeed, from an impartial standpoint,
and outside the enthusiasm of our young friend, May Kingsland certainly
was a very sweet and winsome girl, and one calculated, as she stood
there in all the brightness of her fresh young beauty, to damage a far
less susceptible heart than that which she had so easily taken captive.
"We are so glad to see you again, Mr Ridgeley," she said simply, though
this time there was ever so faint a tinge of constraint, which had
Gerard read and understood would have lifted him into the seventh heaven
of delight. "You will have such a lot of adventures to tell us
by-and-by. I am dying to hear if you ever met your friend the Zulu
again--you remember I predicted you would. But now the second gong is
about to strike, and I must run away and make myself presentable." And
with a bright little nod she left him.
"Hallo, John Dawes! You here, too?" sung out old Kingsland, as the
former strolled leisurely up. "Why, when did you fellows get back?"
"The other day. We looked in at your place on the way, but there was
nobody there. It was all shut up."
"Ah yes, of course. My boy Tom is going to leave me, going to get
married, and is looking out for a farm of his own. Dare say Arthur was
away helping him. May and I have been down at Durban the last three
weeks. Ah, thanks--but have we got time?" taking the tobacco-pouch
which Dawes tendered, and hurriedly cramming his pipe for a brief
before-dinner smoke.
We may be sure that a very cheery, happy group were those four persons,
as they sat out beneath the verandah that evening after dinner, and the
events of the trip were narrated and discussed. And one of them, at any
rate, was silently, radiantly, thankfully happy. One, did we say? Two,
perhaps--But there, softly! for are we not on the verge of betraying a
secret--or anyhow what is likely to be a secret of the future.
We may be sure, further, that as far as our young friend was concerned,
that blissful frame of mind extended over the next two days, for during
that period he contrived to be very much in May Kingsland's society,
whether walking about the town or seated under the cool shady verandah
of the hotel. To him, further, it was surprising how the time had
slipped away, and how much of her company he had had all to himself
during the process. Time, however, as we know, has a knack of taking to
itself wings under the circumstances, and so as this period drew to a
close Gerard's spirits began to sink with a rapid motion towards zero.
But there was a further surprise awaiting him. The evening before their
departure Mr Kingsland said--
"By the way, Ridgeley, you haven't asked after our former shipmate,
Maitland."
Gerard started guiltily. During those past two days it was little
enough he had given a thought to, outside one all-engrossing subject
which held possession of his mind.
"I'm afraid I did forget," he said. "But what has become of him, Mr
Kingsland? Have you seen anything of him lately?"
The old settler looked grave as he filled his pipe in silence.
"I'm sorry to say he came to no good," he said at length. "The fact is,
he came to something like utter grief. He wouldn't start doing
anything--got into a habit of loafing around bare--went the way of,
unfortunately, many another young fellow who comes out to the Colonies--
took to drink. Once he did that he was done for. Some of us did try to
get him into something and keep him straight, but it was no good. He
was off again and on the spree like a journeyman stonemason. Well, his
father, a parson of some sort, I believe, got angry when he heard how he
was going on, and cut off the supplies; and then Master Harry, after
getting into a serious scrape or two--in fact, I had to bail him out
once myself--goes and enlists in the Mounted Police. I myself should
have left him there to serve his time if I had been his people--it might
have done him good. But no; as soon as they heard of it they must move
Heaven and earth and the Government to get him out of it; and it wasn't
easily managed, I can tell you, only Master Harry proved such a shocking
bad hat that the police authorities were only too glad to get rid of
him. His father wrote to me about him, asking me to take his passage
and send him straight home again. And I did--shipped him on board--what
do you think!--our old hooker the _Amatikulu_; and as she's a direct
boat and touches nowhere on the way, he can't get ashore again."
"I'm sorry the chap should have turned out so badly," said Gerard, his
mind reverting to the almost direct cut Harry Maitland had given him on
the last occasion of their meeting, and when he himself was down on his
luck. "By the way, what has become of Anstey?"
"They sold him up just after you left. One of his creditors took out a
writ of imprisonment against him, but finding he'd got to pay so much a
day while Anstey was locked up, he soon got sick of throwing good money
after bad--and friend Anstey was turned loose again. He cleared out
soon after--nobody knows where."