"IN THE MORNING."
Probably there is no greater fallacy than that youth is quick to cast
off impressions; otherwise Lalante with youth in her favour, should,
after the first few days from the shock which had smitten her down, have
begun to rally, and to realise that there was something left in life
after all. But she did not.
The light of life had gone out. Her very youth was against her. She
was just at an age when her whole-souled love for this one who had been
taken from her, reached a stage of passionate adoration that was all
absorbing, entrancing her whole being. She lived in it. And now she
would see him no more--would see him never again on earth. And yet--all
her every day surroundings--every sight, every sound, every locality--
were wrapped up in memories of him. From such there was no escape, nor
did she desire that there should be.
Days grew into weeks, but brought no change, no solace, no relief. She
strove to throw off at any rate the outward gloom if only for the sake
of her two small brothers, but the attempt was little short of a ghastly
failure. At this point she became aware of a marked change in her
father. He seemed to be failing in health. He had lost the old
elasticity, the old alertness, the old keenness in business matters. It
could not be that remorse on the subject of Wyvern was behind it. "You
sent him to his death," she had said, in the first agony of her
desolation. No, she could not think that compunction on that head would
weigh very deep with him. Rather would he regard it as matter for
congratulation.
To Warren she had taken an unaccountable dislike, consistent with that
first instinct of distrust which had come upon her at the time of the
dread revelation. His visits had become rather frequent, but as most of
their time was spent closeted alone with her father she supposed that
their purport was business, and business only. But now she was only
coldly civil to him, no longer cordial. The gloom of her horizon was
black all round, without sign of a break. Her days could be got through
somehow in the ordinary way, but--oh, the agony of her nights, of her
awakening from dreams of the blissful past to the cold dead reality of
the present and future!
She had not seen Warren's precious accomplice, to hear the news from his
own mouth. Warren had never intended she should, and made excuse to the
effect that Bully Rawson had been obliged to go up-country again.
She was seated alone one day on the stoep when the bi-weekly post-bag
was brought. Listlessly she got the key, and opened it. There might be
news of his end--further detail; but even from that she shrank. She
opened the bag, and turned out all the correspondence. Most of it was
for her father, and obviously of a business nature; there were two or
three local papers and--
And then Lalante began to sway unsteadily, and, for all her splendid
strength, to feel as if she must sink to the floor. For, at the bottom
of the leather bag, lay one more letter, and it was to herself, directed
in Wyvern's hand.
With trembling fingers she tore it open. Why--what was this? It was
headed "Pietermaritzburg, Natal," and bore a date just seven days old.
What did it mean? What could it mean? It was weeks since Warren had
brought her the news of his sad and violent death, and yet here were
lines penned by his own hand but seven days ago. Had anybody been
playing some cruel practical joke upon her? No. Surely nobody living
would be capable of such barbarity; and then, here was his own
handwriting--clear, strong, unmistakable--looking her in the face.
With a mist before her eyes Lalante managed to decipher its purport,
which was briefly this. The writer had returned from his undertaking,
and had returned successful--successful beyond his wildest hopes--this
was emphasised--and would follow on upon the letter at the very earliest
opportunity, not more than a couple of days later at the outside, he
hoped. And then, there were lines and lines of sweet love-words,
sweeter perhaps, certainly sweeter to her after weeks of supposed
bereavement than any he had ever before penned.
Again and again she read through the missive, examined the postmarks--
everything. No, there was no deception here--and in a couple of days he
would be with her once more. She must be patient, but--ah! how could
she be? It was as though that one had risen from the dead.
She sank into a low chair, a smile of ineffable happiness irradiating
her face. All the past was merely a dream, a nightmare--but--was she
not only dreaming now?
"Lalante, child, what's the matter?"
It was her father's voice--strained, tremulous. Seeing her like this
but one conclusion forced itself upon him--that her mind had given way
at last.
"The matter is that the news we heard wasn't true. _He_ will be here in
a couple of days," showing the letter.
"Oh, thank God for that," said Le Sage fervently--and he was anything
but what is called a pious man.
"What if he is coming back as he went, father?" said Lalante, who could
not forbear a spice of retaliatory mischief in her hour of restored
happiness.
"Oh, I don't care--so he comes back; no I don't--not a damn. I can't
see my little girl looking as the has looked all this infernal time.
And yet--" He broke off suddenly.
"Well he isn't. He says he's been successful beyond his wildest hopes."
"Oh thank the Lord again," said Le Sage, in a curiously constrained
voice. "Does he give particulars?"
"No. Bother particulars. The great thing is he's coming at all--isn't
it?"
"Oh of course. That's how women look at things. They don't know any
better--how should they!"
"Well why should they?" retorted Lalante with a happy laugh. "Now look
here, old man, you'll be civil to him won't you?"
"Oh yes, I'll be glad to see him. Will that do for you? Oh it's a
devilish queer world when all's said and done--a devilish queer world,"
and the speaker turned away abruptly to bury himself in his own den.
But the girl thought to detect a shade of relief in his tone, even in
his look--as though something had occurred to clear up the despondency
which, of late, had settled upon him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The morning rose bright and beautiful--the morning after the receipt of
the letter. Lalante was up while it was yet dark, and it may have been
twenty or it may have been thirty times an hour that her quick, eager
gaze was turned upon the point where the road came over the ridge. A
light mist which had gathered during the night cleared away early,
leaving a sparkle of myriad dew-drops upon every bush frond as the sun
rose higher in the blue and cloudless sky. But in the open the
cock-koorhaans were crowing and squawking tumultuously, and varying bird
voices piped or twittered in the cooler shade. It was a heavenly
morning, a morning for life and love.
"Two days at the outside," he had said. But what if at the inside it
should be one? That would mean to-day--thought Lalante; hence the eager
scanning of the furthest point of road. Suddenly she started.
Something was moving at that point, approaching, and her strong,
practised sight took not a moment to decide that it was a mounted
figure. Pressing a hand to her heart to curb its tumultuous beatings
she tore down the field-glasses from where they hung. One glance was
enough, and in a second she was hurrying down, by a shorter way, to
where the road dipped into the kloof prior to reascending. Meanwhile
the advancing horseman had disappeared amid the intervening bush.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Barring the road the girl was standing, her tall, beautiful figure
framed in the profusion of foliage, her face irradiated with the light
of love, her lips slightly parted into a most tender smile as she
waited. Such was the vision that burst upon Wyvern, as with a hurried
exclamation he flung himself from the saddle rather than dismounted. In
the long, close embrace that followed neither seemed able to find words.
"You knew you would find me here," said the girl at last. "But I--up
till yesterday I never thought to see you again on earth."
Wyvern started.
"Have I been so very remiss, then, sweetheart? I assure you that until
a week ago, I have had no opportunity whatever of communicating with
you, or any one else down here."
"It isn't that. They told me you had been killed."
"What? Who told you?"
Briefly she gave him an outline of Warren's narrative. He listened
intently.
"Well, it came within an ace of being true news," he said at last. "I
have a great deal to tell you, dearest, but at present we will only
think of ourselves. My luck has turned as you always predicted it
would. We need never be parted again."
"Life of mine, and until yesterday I thought we were for ever," she
exclaimed passionately. "Oh but no--it seems impossible. You--to whom
I have always looked up, as to something more than human--human yet
superhuman--whose every word even on the lightest matter, was higher
than a law--you, to be with me always guiding my life, making it every
moment too good to live! No, it can't be. Such happiness can never
fall to one poor mortal!"
"Lalante, child--hush--hush!" he said a little unsteadily, his clasp of
her tightening. "You must not start by making a god of me, or what will
happen when the disillusionment comes?"
"Disillusionment? Oh!"
"Yes. You may laugh now, but--never mind. Well then, what about
yourself? Who was it who threw away--what I see"--holding her from him,
to gaze at her with intense admiration and love--"upon a battered old
addlepate--"
"Battered old addlepate? That's good," she interrupted.
"Yes. A battered old addlepate--for if I've captured some luck at last
it is sheer luck--who seemed congenitally incapable of ever turning
anything to account and who was going from bad to worse as fast as any
such fool could! Who was it that lightened and cheered as dark a time
as could fall to the lot of most men, and, above all, clung to him when
all seemed hopeless; and who was prepared to sacrifice the best years of
her bright youth--Good God, I think it is I who have to say that such
happiness seems impossible."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Le Sage's welcome of Wyvern was quiet but cordial, while that accorded
him by the two youngsters was boisterous in its delight.
"Man--Mr Wyvern, but you'll have some stunning new yarns to tell us,"
said Charlie.
"A few, Charlie. And the rum part of it is they'll be true."
"I'd jolly well punch any fellow's head who said they weren't," rejoined
Frank. "That is, if I could," he added.
At the close of what was certainly the very happiest day in the lives of
at any rate two of that quintett, Le Sage said:
"Would you mind coming into my den, Wyvern? I want your advice on a
little matter of business. You're not in a hurry to turn in are you?
It may take some time."
Wyvern stared. For keen, hard-headed Le Sage to want his
advice--_his_--on a matter of business naturally struck him as quaint.
But he replied that of course nothing would give him greater pleasure.
"All right. Well take the grog in and smoke a final pipe or two over
our _indaba_. Come along."
He led the way round to the little room which he used as a private
office. It was entered from outside, and being detached from the house
was out of earshot of the other inmates.
"First of all," he began when they were seated, "I want to apologise for
what I said that day when--"
"Oh, shut up, Le Sage," interrupted Wyvern, bringing his hand hard down
into that of the other, and enclosing it in a firm grip. "I don't want
to hear another word about that, just as I've never given it another
thought--not a resentful one at any rate. I can quite see the matter
from your point of view--could at the time in fact. Now then, what's
this business matter you want to talk over? Is it about Lalante?"
"No. It's about myself."
Wyvern had already noticed an alteration in Le Sage's manner and also
appearance. The old touch of confident assertiveness seemed to have
gone, moreover he looked older and greyer. Now he seemed to look more
so still.
"About yourself?" repeated Wyvern, with visions of weak heart or latent
disease in the speaker, rising before him.
"Yes. Would it surprise you to hear that I'm practically a ruined man?"
"I should think it would. Good God, Le Sage, you can't really mean it!"
"I wish I didn't, but it's a fact. It's of no use bothering you with
details, Wyvern, for I've heard you say one couldn't shoot a man with a
worse head for business than yourself even if you fired a shot-gun up
and down the most crowded streets of London all day. Of course saying I
wanted your advice was only a blind," he added with a wan smile.
"But, briefly, how did it happen?"
"Rotten specs, and overdoing that. But the main thing is, Wyvern, and
it's due to you to explain--that in all probability Lalante will never
have a shilling--at least, not from me."
"I don't care if she hasn't half a farthing, as you know perfectly well,
Le Sage," was the decisive answer. "And now, look here. I haven't any
definite notion what that stuff I was telling you about this afternoon
will realise; but I'm pretty sure it'll be something very considerable
indeed for each of us. We shall have to go to work about it rather
cautiously though."
"Yes, you will. By Jove, Wyvern, I believe you are developing a
business instinct after all."
"Well what I was going to say is this. Hold on as well as you can until
it does realise, and then any capital you may require to set you on your
legs again, and clear off liabilities with, I shall take it as a favour
if you would let me advance. I am just as certain of getting it all
back again as if I stuck it into the Bank of England, and even if I
wasn't what the devil does it matter? We shall be near relations
directly."
The other was looking curiously at him.
"By the Lord, Wyvern, but you are a deuced good chap; in fact a very
exceptional one. If you only knew all, now! Why most men would have
gladly seen me to the devil under the circumstances."
"Most men must be very exceptional cads then," laughed Wyvern, tilting
back his chair, and lighting a pipe. "And as for knowing everything I
know all I want to know--no, by the bye--there's one thing I do want to
know. Who bought Seven Kloofs? I'm going to buy it back again."
"The deuce you are! Then let me frankly advise you not to. It's the
most rotten investment I ever made."
"Oh, so you took it on, then? Why you weren't keeping up your
reputation that shot, Le Sage."
"No. You shall know some more though, now. I bought it with the sole
object of getting you out of this part of the country. How's that?"
Wyvern threw back his head, and roared.
"How's that?" he said. "Why you bit off more than you could chew--
darned sight more, old chap. Still I'm going to have it back again, not
as a stock run but as a game preserve. I'm no good at farming I know,
but I'm fond of this part of the country and the climate. So we shall
squat down at Seven Kloofs--I think I shall take to writing books, or
some such foolishness--and all be as jolly together as it's possible to
be. How's _that_?"
"Oh, good enough," said the other in a relieved tone. "You won't take
the child right away from me then?"
"Rather not I must take her away for a short time though, Le Sage. I
must go to England almost directly with Fleetwood to see about realising
our plunder, and I can't leave Lalante behind. What do you say?"
There was only one thing to be said under the circumstances, and Le
Sage, being a sensible man, said it. Afterwards the two men sat talking
matters over till far into the night, even into the small hours.