"But when will the Baas be back, _Klein Missis_? Whenever will the Baas
be back?"
"Oh, how I wish I knew, Old Sanna," answered Lalante with a sad smile.
Her smile had been growing rather sad of late, since week had been
following upon week, and still bringing no word from the absent one.
Could it mean that he was on his way back? She dared not hope so.
"And these Zulu _menschen, Klein Missis_--are they more _schelm_ than
our Kafirs here? No but, that could never be. There's Sixpence, he who
_slaag-ed_ the sheep. The Baas ought to have had him flogged or taken
to the _tronk_, yet he does neither, but lets him go as if nothing had
happened _Oh goieje_!"
"And Sixpence has been a very good boy ever since, Old Sanna."
The old woman grunted, then went on:
"That was the last day you were here, Miss Lalante; with the _Baas_ I
mean."
The sadness of the smile deepened, and the wide eyes gazing forth over
the panorama of rolling plain and distant rock as seen from the stoep at
Seven Kloofs, grew misty. Did she not remember that day, the last
perfect one before the final rupture! Now Seven Kloofs was the property
of her father, his only bad bargain, as we have said elsewhere. He had
wanted to turn off old Sanna, if only that she formed a link between
Lalante and the former owner, whose memory he by no means wished kept
green; but Lalante had pleaded so hard against this that he had given
way, and the old woman remained on in charge of the unoccupied house.
Hither Lalante would sometimes ride over, even as to-day, to dwell, in
imagination, among the past again. Now she turned from the stoep and
entered the living room. The same, and yet not. Bare walls and floor,
and yet how replete with memories. Here was where the dear old untidy
table--with its litter heap shoved as much off one end as possible--had
stood--there the low chair in _his_ favourite corner--even the mark on
the wall, where her portrait had hung, showed plain. All so familiar in
the memories it brought that it almost seemed as though his tall figure
should suddenly darken the doorway, or that some inexplicable replica of
his presence should enter the room. Oh if she could but obtain some
news, read but one line that his hand had traced!
It is a truism to insist on the associations which this or that
particular spot, sometime occupied in common with a presence--gone, it
may be, for ever--calls back to the mind, because even the most
unimaginative must, in their heart of hearts, own to a consciousness of
having at sometime in their lives gone through this feeling. Lalante of
course, was not unimaginative, and the associations which every stick
and stone of the place conjured up were overwhelming in their sense of
utter desolation. It seemed that every word that had passed between
them sounded again in her ears, this jest here and on such an occasion,
that light banter or grave discussion there, each and all at such a time
and on such a spot. Within doors, outside on the stoep, or in the open
veldt it was all the same, that awful, intense craving for the presence
which was no longer there.
The patter of running feet and the light laughter of child voices--then
her two small brothers came round from the back of the house.
"Time to go back Lala, hey? Oh!"
There was that in their sister's look which turned both of them suddenly
grave. A small hand--hot and of course not over clean--stole into each
of Lalante's, and two untidy heads nestled against her, one on each
side. These two had long since gained an inkling of the real state of
affairs. Now they meant to be consolatory, but of course didn't know
what to say, so they said nothing.
"You darlings, yes it is," she answered. "Go and tell Sixpence to bring
round the horses."
The former unreliable herd had been given the post of general out-door
caretaker of the place--owing again to Lalante's pleading. Now he
appeared, leading the three horses, a grin of cordiality making a white
stripe across his broad face. He, again launched forth into inquiry as
to when the _Baas_ would return.
"_Ou_! but he hoped it would be soon," he went on, when he got his
answer. "That was a _Baas_ to serve, none like him in the land. He was
great, he was a chief indeed. He was his--Sixpence's--father, and his
heart was sore until his father's presence was over him once more."
Lalante smiled, still sadly as she gave the Kafir the length of tobacco
which she had brought over for him. Even this raw savage had an
affection for the absent one, who had forgiven him what time he had
incurred the most severe penalties.
During the homeward ride she was still rather silent. The two small
boys, Charlie and Frank, dropped behind and kept up their own chatter,
but even it was rather subdued, rather laboured. The sun flamed down in
all the glory of the cloudless afternoon. Two little steinbok rushed,
startled, from the roadside, and scampering a couple of score yards
halted to gaze at them curiously. It brought back just such another
incident when he had been with her, and jumping off, had turned over one
of them with a neat rifle shot. The shrill grating cackle of a troop of
wild guinea-fowl rose from a clump of prickly pear down towards the
river, and, shading her eyes, she could see the long lines of dust
rising against the sun as the wary birds ran. Here too, he had bagged
quite a goodly number while she waited for him, and under exactly the
same circumstances. Every sight and sound of the sunlit veldt, recalled
him with a vividness more than ordinary to-day, which is dealing in
superlatives. Yet--why?
There was the spot on which they had made their last farewell on that
memorable evening. Lalante had passed over it several times since, but
now, to-day, such an overpowering feeling came upon her, as nearly
impelled her there and then to dismount and kiss the very dust his feet
had pressed. Yet--why?
"Man--Frank," exclaimed Charlie, as they were descending the last slope
opposite the homestead. "There's somebody with father. Wonder who it
is."
Lalante started, and strained her eyes. The distance was over great for
identification purposes, but whoever it was she was pretty sure who it
wasn't.
"Why it's Mr Warren," went on the first speaker. "_Ja_--but I'm glad.
He's no end of a jolly chap."
Again Lalante's heart tightened, as she remembered a similar eulogium,
more than once uttered, with regard to another. Otherwise, as to Warren
she was rather glad of his presence than not. He was good company and
would somehow draw her on to talk of Wyvern, whose praises he would
deftly sound; moreover he never lost a chance of trying to soften her
father's resentment against the absent one. Then, too, there was his
daring feat in the flooded Kunaga on that dreadful afternoon. But, for
any other consideration, if he had only known it, Warren was nowhere.
There was only one in the world for her; one who was totally unlike any
other she had ever seen or could form any possible idea of. Ah, if it
were only that one! Yet, on the whole, she was glad to see Warren. He
might even have brought her some news, he who seemed in touch with
everybody.
Le Sage and his guest were standing at the gate.
"Take round the horses, kiddies," said the former, shortly, as they
dismounted. "And--don't come back here until you're sent for. D'you
hear?"
The small boys obeyed without question. There was that in their
father's tone which precluded anything of the kind.
"What is it?" Lalante managed to get out, in a catching sort of gasp,
her great eyes fixed upon their faces, her own cold and white. The two
men looked at each other.
"Oh, you tell her, Le Sage, for God's sake," muttered Warren. "I
can't." And turning, he went indoors.
"What is it, father?" repeated the girl, the lividness of her face truly
awful as she pressed her hands convulsively on her heaving heart.
"Don't beat about the bush. Tell me."
"For Heaven's sake, child, keep up," he answered jerkily. "It's about
Wyvern. Disturbances in Zululand. He's--"
"Dead?"
Le Sage nodded. He could trust himself for no further words, in the
face of that fearful stony-eyed grief. Viewing this, at the moment he
would have given much to have seen Wyvern standing there alive and well.
He had obtained his bitter, oft repeated, but secret wish, and now he
would have given half he possessed had he not, as he read the effect of
the shock in Lalante's face.
"Keep up, child. For God's sake keep up. You'll get over it," he
jerked forth, as the tall, fine figure of the girl swayed for a moment,
then leaned against one of the gate posts for support. Was she going to
faint? No, she was made of stronger stuff.
"Get over it?" The words seemed almost demoniacal in their mockery.
"Get over it!" Why the world had come to an end for her from that
moment. "Get over it?" Something of a wan smile came to her lips, at
the bare irony suggested by the idea, as she stood, still grasping the
gate post as in an iron grip. The face was white as marble, and the
lips were set and blue. Only the great eyes moved, roaming listlessly
here and there, but resting on nobody.
"And you--sent--him--to--his--death."
Le Sage shivered beneath the words as beneath the cutting of a lash.
The one awful fear then in his mind was that Lalante might lose her
reason. In a rush of penitential tenderness, surprising in a man of his
hard and calculating nature, he poured forth a torrent of adjurations to
her to pull herself together, and muster up all her courage and listen
to what there was to tell; and at length he prevailed.
"Let me hear all," she said, in a dull voice, sitting back in a low cane
chair on the stoep, one in which _he_ had often sat. "No. I don't want
anything," as her father besought her to let him fetch something in the
shape of a restorative. "It's deeper than that. Only, my heart is
broken at this moment. Well, tell me everything."
Le Sage was gulping with his own voice--in fact, could not command it.
"Tell me. Tell me," she went on. "How much longer am I to wait?"
"It's this way, Miss Lalante," struck in Warren, who having pulled
himself together, now judged it high time to come to the rescue. "There
was a scrimmage up there between the King's party--the Usutus--those who
favour Cetywayo's restoration, you know--and the other faction--those
who don't. Somehow Wyvern and his friend--Fleetwood the other man's
name was--got between the two and were--killed. I have it from an
eye-witness, another up-country trader, who, however, managed to
escape."
"Who is he?"
"A man named Bexley--Jim Bexley. He's a rough customer but a reliable
one. I'm afraid, in this case, too reliable."
"And he saw it done?"
Warren nodded.
"Could I see him?"
"Certainly. But--had you better? It will take a few days to get hold
of him, but it shall be done if it would give you the smallest atom of
comfort, as indeed what should not?"
"Did he see them killed?"
Again Warren nodded.
"Then how did he escape himself?"
There was an uncomfortable directness about this cross-examination which
Warren didn't like and hadn't bargained for. He was a believer in
woman's instinct, and to that extent began to feel uneasy. What if
Rawson had been lying to him after all? But he answered:
"Just then the Usutus were attacked by the rival faction and in the
confusion Bexley escaped. You see, he is an experienced Zulu trader,
and knew a lot of them. Some of them would be sure to favour him. I
received the news much earlier, but in order not to prematurely alarm
you, I sent for the man himself so as to hear the story direct."
What was this? No word of thanks, of appreciation such as he had
expected, passed Lalante's lips. Her eyes were fixed on his with a
hard, unflinching and, as he thought, distrustful gaze. As a matter of
fact it was just that. A sudden instinct, an indefinable _flair_, had
inspired in her mind an element of suspicion. Even the cleverest of
actors may at times forget to keep up his part and this is precisely
what Warren had done. Some of the intense jubilation which rang in his
mind had overflowed into his tone, making his sympathy ring hollow, and
even false. There and then Lalante formed the conclusion that he was
not Wyvern's friend. But she said nothing. What did it matter? What
did the whole world matter now?
Over the dusking plains the red afterglow shed its changing rays of
beauty. There were the same familiar sights and sounds of the closing
day, and the voices of life. Together they two had listened to it, had
remarked on it often--the sweetness of the golden air, the rushing forth
of innumerable stars as the heavenly vault darkened. Side by side they
had watched it all, and now--side by side they would watch it no more.
Without a word she rose, and, passing to her room shut herself in, to
undergo the first night of agony alone. The first night! and, after
that the first awakening--in the morning!