Time went by, and weeks slipped into months. Amid congenial
surroundings and magnificent air, Renshaw had completely shaken off all
lingering remnants of his fever attack. He began to think seriously of
starting in quest of "The Valley of the Eye."
Sellon, too, had begun to wax impatient, though with any less tempting
object in view he would have been loth to exchange this delightfully
easygoing life for a toilsome and nebulous quest, involving possible
risks and certain hardship and privations. Moreover, a still lingering
misgiving that the other might cry off the bargain acted like a spur.
"It's all very well for you, Fanning," he said one day, "but, for my
part, I don't much care about wearing out my welcome. Here I've been a
couple of months, if not more, and I shouldn't wonder if Selwood was
beginning to think I intended quartering myself on him for life. I know
what you're going to say. Whenever I mention leaving, he won't hear of
it. Still, there's a limit to everything."
"Well, I don't mind making a start, say, next week," Renshaw had
answered. "I've got to go over to Fort Lamport on Saturday. If it'll
suit you, we'll leave here about the middle of the week. We shall have
roughish times before us once we get across the river, mind."
"Right you are, and hurrah for the diamonds!" was the other's hearty
response; and then he turned away to seek a favourable opportunity of
breaking the news to Violet.
If Renshaw had succeeded in shaking off the effects of his fever attack,
no such complete success had attended his efforts with regard to that
other attack. There was not much healing for his wounds in the sight of
the more than ordinarily good understanding existing between Violet and
Sellon, and being, in common with the remainder of the household,
ignorant of their former acquaintanceship, the thought that he himself
had been instrumental in bringing them together, was indeed a bitter
pill. And then his disciplined nature would seek for an antidote and
find it--find it in the promise Violet had extracted from him to
befriend her to the utmost of his power. Well, he was going to do this.
He was going to be the means of enriching the man who had, though not
unfairly, yet no less certainly, supplanted him. His sacrifice on her
account would be complete. Through his instrumentality the pair would
obtain the means of happiness. And in this reflection his mind found a
degree of consolation.
"Cold consolation this--very much the reverse of consolation!" cries the
ordinary mind. Yes, but Renshaw Fanning's was not an ordinary mind.
Christmas had come and gone--bringing with it much festivity--the visits
of friends and relatives, till the house was crammed to the extent of
holding no more by any means short of "shaking down" the excess members
in the verandah, even as many were already "shaken down" on the floors
of the bedrooms. There had been dances and riding parties, and a
buck-hunt or two, though the time of year was unfavourable to venatorial
pursuits--the sweltering midsummer heat being ill-conducive to scent in
the matter of rousing the quarry, though very much conducive to the
same, after the slaying of the said quarry, which indeed would hardly
keep two hours. There had been much fun and flirtation among the
younger section and much jollity among all. Jovial Chris Selwood was
never so much in his element as with a crowd of friends about him, and
the more the merrier, he would say.
Then as the corner of the year turned, the party had broken up and gone
its respective ways--one to his farm, another to his merchandise--the
bulk of it, however, literally to the former. And Renshaw began to
think a great deal about "The Valley of the Eye."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"So your faith in this Sindbad valley is as strong as ever, is it,
Renshaw?" said Selwood, in comment on a remark of the other's as they
were returning homeward together after a day of riding around the veldt,
looking after the flocks and their keepers, and giving an eye to things
in general.
"Well, yes, it is. I'm as convinced the place exists as I am that I
exist myself. But it's weariful work, hunting a will-o'-the-wisp."
"Rather. Throw it up, old man. Now, why on earth don't you make up
your mind to come and settle near us? There are good enough farms
around here to be had."
"For those who have the means," supplied the other, gaily. "And I'm not
one of them. That last drought `busted' me--lock, stock, and barrel.
All the greater necessity to find the `Eye.'"
Selwood made no immediate reply. He flicked the heads of the grasses
with his whip as he rode, in a meditative and embarrassed manner wholly
foreign to his genial open nature.
"See here, Renshaw," he burst forth at last; "we were boys together, and
ought to know each other pretty well by this time. Now, I think you're
a touchy fellow on some subjects--but, hang it all, what I want to say
is this--you've been cursed by ill-luck of late; why not try fresh
ground? Now, if a thousand pounds would--er--pull your train back on to
the rails again, why, there it is, and you've only got to say so. Eh?
What? Obligation, did you say?"--the other having said nothing at all.
"That be hanged! The boot's all on the other foot!"
Renshaw was a sensitive man and a proud one, and Selwood knew it--hence
the latter's embarrassment.
"Chris, you are indeed a friend!" he answered. "I don't know what to
say--"
"Say? Say? Say--`Done with you,' and consider the matter settled,"
fumed Selwood, cutting him short.
"I can't say that, Chris. Just think what a run of ill-luck I have had.
It would be robbing you to borrow on absolutely no security--"
"Ill-luck! Of course you have. So would any fellow who tried to farm
Angoras in Great Bushman-land; and I was nearly saying--he'd deserve
it," cried Selwood, testily. "It would be different down here, with
decent land and decent seasons. And there isn't a better farmer in this
colony than yourself!"
"Don't think me ungracious," said Renshaw, deprecatorily. "As you were
saying, Chris, we have known each other all our lives, and ought to be
able to speak out to each other. What I was going to say is this: Your
offer is that of a true and generous friend; but were I to accept it, I
should be robbing you, for I can't give you a hundred pounds' worth of
security."
"But I do think you ungracious," fumed the other. "Robbing me!
Security! Tut-tut-tut! Why, old fellow, you needn't be so punctilious.
Remember, you would probably have effected the sale of your place to
that speculator chap in Fort Lamport the other day, but for starting off
home on the spur of the moment, to protect Hilda and the rest of them
against those cut-throats. And one doesn't like to think what might
have happened to them but for you," he added, very gravely.
Now, this was a most unfortunate allusion, for, needless to say wholly
unwittingly, Selwood had thereby imported a "compensation" element into
his generous offer--at least, so it seemed to the other's sensitive
pride. And while acquitting his friend entirely of any such idea,
Renshaw's mind was there and then made up that by no possibility, under
the circumstances, could he entertain it, and he said as much.
Selwood was deeply disappointed.
A silence fell between the two men.
"By Jove!" said Christopher, suddenly, as they came in sight of the
homestead, "your chum there is making the most of his last day."
Two figures came in sight, strolling by the dam in the sunset glow--
Violet Avory and Sellon. Renshaw, recognising them, made no reply. But
the dagger within his heart gave one more turn.
"I suppose they'll make a match of it directly," went on Selwood. "It
won't be the first that's been made up at old Sunningdale by any means--
ha! ha!"
It was the last day at Sunningdale. Early on the morrow Renshaw and
Sellon would start upon their expedition. And what strange, wild
experiences would be theirs before they should again rejoin this
pleasant home circle. Would they return, rewarded with success, or only
to bear record of another failure? Or would they, perchance, not return
at all?
This was the reflection that would recur with more or less haunting
reiteration to every member of the household that evening. There were
serious and saddened faces in that circle; eyes, too, that would turn
away to conceal a sudden brimming that it was not wholly possible to
suppress.
For what if, perchance, they should never return at all?