Several days went by before things at Sunningdale settled down into
their normal calm. The excitement of the night attack had left its mark
upon all concerned; moreover, the presence of the two prisoners was
productive of an uneasy feeling among the weaker members of the
household, for apart from it being a continual reminder of a scene they
would fain forget, there was always a haunting fear lest the desperate
scoundrels might once more effect their escape. To Violet especially
did this apply, and she would wake in the night screaming wildly, and
declaring she could see the savage faces of the prisoners glaring in at
the window. In fact, for some days she lay in a complete state of
nervous prostration.
A policeman had been sent out from Fort Lamport at Renshaw's request, to
take charge of the two convicts. Their wounds had been attended to by
the district surgeon. Those received by the Bushman were of a shocking
nature, and would probably have proved fatal to a white man, while it
was found necessary to amputate the Kafir's leg. The rope, however, was
not to be cheated of its prey, as we have already shown.
Now Sunningdale, though a charming spot, was a decidedly out-of-the-way
one, notwithstanding which, however, as soon as the news of the conflict
got wind, it was beset with visitors from far and near, all eager to
hear the story at first hand; all fired with curiosity to see two such
desperate and now notorious villains as Klaas Baartman and his
confederate. We fear the latter emotion was productive of transient
advantage to the two scoundrels, in the shape of chunks of tobacco, for
apart from an involuntary feeling of compunction for a human creature,
however hardened a criminal, whose days are as surely numbered as those
of a sheep in a slaughterhouse pen, there was the idea that these two
wretches being on show, it was only fair that they should derive some
small benefit therefrom. Hence the chunks of tobacco.
There was one to whom this sudden influx of visitors was distasteful in
the highest degree. That one was Marian Selwood. To find herself
exalted by them into a heroine, to be repeatedly congratulated on her
splendid nerve, and complimented on her wonderful pluck and so forth,
was absolutely sickening to her. As she remarked bitterly to Renshaw,
"What was there to brag about, in that she, securely concealed--lurking
ambushed, in fact--did shoot down a wretched man advancing in the open?
It was a repulsive necessity, but not a thing to be proud of, and for
her part the sooner she could forget it the better."
To which he had replied that, while agreeing with her on the main
principle, the way in which to look at the matter was this. She had
been called upon unexpectedly to fill a critical position, one demanding
both courage and judgment--and inasmuch as she had displayed both those
qualities, and had shown herself abundantly equal to the situation, she
had every reason to feel satisfied with herself. Which judicious
reassurance, coming from the quarter it did, tended not a little to
soothe poor Marian's troubled mind.
For a strange depression had come upon her since the occurrence--a
strange reaction in no wise due to the lurid incidents of the tragedy
itself. The very firmness and resolution she had displayed were as gall
and wormwood to her recollections. What a figure she must have cut! A
mere fighting Amazon, a masculine virago, endowed with a modicum of
brute courage and healthy nerves! Was it her fault? Thus would she
lash her mind into an agony, what time people were showering
congratulations and compliments upon her.
Ah, but then the exquisite sweetness of that lonely midnight vigil--
alone with him, in momentary expectation of impending peril, their
faculties of vision strained to the uttermost--gazing forth into the
sickly moonlight watching for the coming of the murderous foe. A
reminiscence which would haunt most women for the rest of their lives,
causing them to start appalled from their dreams. Not so this one.
That weird midnight hour, the hush of expectancy, their common peril,
her fears on his account; ah, that was something to look back upon,
something that should make her heart thrill--but not with terror--for
many and many a day.
Yet the iron was in her soul. Nothing could blot out the repellent
mental photograph she had taken of herself. It might fade in time, but
could never be effaced. Why had she not screamed and fainted like
Violet Avory? That, at any rate, was "womanly", she supposed. And what
was more repellent than the opposite quality in one of her own sex?
At the thought of Violet she was conscious of a bitter pang. What was
the talisman by which the latter was empowered to win all hearts--and
then to trample them underfoot in pretty scorn? Well, Violet had every
advantage. Her bright, piquant beauty and fascinating manner, her
consummate _savoir vivre_, her abundant and perfect taste, her knowledge
of society, of England and the Continent--all these things counted, she
supposed. Violet was born and bred in England, and had had the
advantages of society and travel; whereas she, Marian, had never been
outside the Colony, and had spent most of her life on a frontier farm.
Be it remembered, nevertheless, that she who thus secretly ruminated, to
her own disparagement, was no mere shy, awkward, diffident school-girl,
but a peculiarly winsome, refined, and gracious-mannered woman. And
then she would awake to a consciousness that the very fact of indulging
in such comparisons between herself and Violet was not a little
contemptible. For the broad, reflective mind of Marian Selwood, though
possessing its proper share of pride, held no corner wherein might lurk
the meaner vice of envy. Whereby she stood confessed an anomaly among
her sex.
When Sellon and his host returned from their temporary absence, the
former displayed more feeling at the thought of the horrible peril
incurred by Violet than those among whom his lines were at present cast
would have given him credit for, and in pursuance of this vein he could
not sufficiently extol the promptness of resource and cool bravery
displayed by Renshaw. And again and again he found himself wondering at
the extraordinary coincidence involved in his being brought to this
place by Fanning of all men in the world. It was pretty rough on poor
Fanning that he should be the means of cutting his own throat. But he
had certainly behaved splendidly since, thought Maurice. He had
evidently recognised, and that unmistakably, who had the prior claim,
and the perfect good taste with which he had withdrawn was worthy of all
praise. And in a fit of generous self-complacency the holder of the
winning cards felt inclined to blame Violet for having given any
encouragement to his now discomfited rival.
What, however, did not occur to him was to blame himself. Maurice
Sellon was not built that way. His memory went back to the time of
their first meeting--a clear case of love at first sight--to many a
tryst since, stolen, and therefore doubly sweet; their awakening to the
hopelessness of it all; then their mutual compact to part, to hold no
sort of communication by word or pen for six months--which arrangement,
though heroic, had broken down ignominiously, as we have seen. He was a
great mixture, this unprincipled man of the world. But, with all his
faults, his heart was a very soft one, and around it Violet Avory had
entwined herself with a firmness, an inextricability, which she could
hardly have compassed with a man of stronger mind and clearer head.
It did not occur to him to blame himself. He held her heart, but
dog-in-the-manger like. They could never be anything closer to each
other; but, dog-in-the-manger like, he had no idea of surrendering her
to one who might freely occupy a closer place. Conscience suggested
that had he himself not turned up Renshaw Fanning's suit might in time
have prospered. Well, what was that to him? He would give up Violet to
no man living; and he felt sore and angry at the bare suggestion
sometimes aroused by mind and conscience that she could at any time
bring herself or be brought to give him up.
Then his thoughts took a turn; went back to Fanning and his tormenting
secret. He remembered the banter that had passed between them, when
projecting their treasure-seeking expedition. "Perhaps after all our
object is the same," he had said. "Perhaps it is," had been the
off-hand reply. And it was with a vengeance. He had not intended to be
so literal in making the remark! yet he had been startlingly so, though
unconsciously. And this suggested another misgiving. What if Fanning
should now refuse to share the secret with him--make some excuse--invent
some pretext for "climbing down"? He knew that he himself would be more
than tempted so to act were the positions reversed. In fact, it was of
no use disguising from himself that he would so act. But Fanning was a
good fellow--a thoroughly conscientious fellow. He would never go back
on his word--would never play him, Maurice, such a shady trick.
Wherein is one of those paradoxes in human nature which will now and
again crop up--for no matter to how great an extent hard experience may
teach us to put no trust in our fellow-men, do we not every now and
again catch ourselves expecting somebody else to act far better under
given circumstances than we should ourselves?