...AND THE ODD TRICK.
John Ames stared at this communication till his eyes were dizzy, and a
wild rush of joy surged through his being. Its genuineness he could not
doubt. The bank paper, the bank seal--even the signature of the letter
he knew by name. Now he was no longer a penniless nobody, but the
possessor of what was really a small fortune. Why, indeed, should any
false pride stand in the way of his acceptance of it? People received
bequests, even from unknown testators--received them thankfully; why
should not he? The testator was living, yet practically dead to his
kind. Again, there was a sort of appeal in the very wording of this
strange communication. Why should he wreck his life's happiness upon
any rock of false pride? He could now press his suit upon, at any rate,
independent terms.
Then, to dash his exultation, in came that ugly thought again. Could it
really be that that odious woman was deputed by Nidia? Horrible! What
was this sudden access to competence in such a case? "A brilliant
future mapped out for her." Even now, under his changed fortunes, such
was not within his reach to offer her. John Ames was a proud man and a
sensitive one. Could it be that his ideal had stopped down from her
pedestal? Then, by a comic twist of thought, came back that
conversation down by the blue sea at Camp's Bay. This pedestal to let!
Yes, it was comical.
But again, by another twist of thought, came back that day in all its
idyllic aspects; in all the golden glow of love and faith, and vague,
indefinable hope. Came back also that parting in the solitudes of a
grim wilderness, that pressure of the hands, that last long look into
the eyes. Surely there was truth; there, far from artificial
restraints, was the soul laid bare. John Ames became sane again.
Yet it was in no great exaltation of mind that he wended his way, a
couple of days later, to the dwelling occupied by Mrs Bateman. He had
declared he would enter it no more, but now, under the circumstances, he
would do so once. He would be firm and decided, too, in the attainment
of his object, and that was to see Nidia alone. He would take no
denial.
This time, however, he was spared the necessity of further conflict.
Nidia was there to welcome him, and she was alone. She looked at him
searchingly, and her eyes were grave.
"What is the matter?" she said. "You are looking careworn and anxious.
Why?"
"Am I? Oh, it's nothing. Some active service will soon send that
away."
"Active service?"
"Yes. I'm going to volunteer."
"Haven't you had enough of that yet?"
"I haven't had any. My active service up till now has been strictly
confined to running away, and uncommonly `active' service it has been,
let me assure you."
"Running away?" she repeated. "Yes; it is the sort of running away that
one has a particular admiration for. Running away on foot, for
instance, with about a thousand savages a hundred yards behind, so that
a wounded comrade may ride away on one's horse."
He flushed. That wretched Shackleton had been firing off that stale
yarn here too. Of course, it would look as though he himself had
inspired it.
"Don't look annoyed," said Nidia, softly; "because I haven't half done.
`Running away,' too, in order to take care of a certain helpless
fugitive belonging to the helpless sex, who would otherwise certainly
have been murdered, or certainly have come to some miserable end a dozen
times over, is another kind of flight which appeals."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake leave that part of it! It was no thanks to me
and my blundering asinine stupidity that you came in safe at all."
"No. But, you see, I happen to hold a different opinion. And now,
John, I have a little sore grievance against you, and I want to work it
off. We don't see much of you now. Why not?"
"Well, `_we_' don't want to. Do you happen to know that only a couple
of days ago I was requested not to come here any more?"
"Do I happen to know? Why, of course I don't. This is the first I've
heard of it," answered Nidia, speaking quickly and with some
indignation. "I did not even know you had been here a couple of days
ago. I only know how I have missed you since."
"It is hardly fair, though, to give that as a reason. There may be
others. One is, perhaps, that I thought you might have too much of a
not very good thing; that you might have had enough of me during all the
time we were together, and change is congenial sometimes. Again,
perhaps, it is that I have not been feeling particularly cheerful of
late, and feared to inflict it upon you."
Nidia's face, which at first had taken on a hurt look, now grew very
soft.
"What have you been troubled about? Can you not tell me? _Me_,
remember?"
The very tone was a caress. But somehow it recalled the abominable hint
thrown out by Mrs Bateman that very morning--the imputation that had
stung and insulted him to the very core of his finest feelings--and the
recollection hardened him.
"Whatever I have been troubled about will trouble me as long as life
itself," he answered, looking her in the eyes full and straight. "But I
did not come here to whine to you, trouble or not. I came to say
good-bye."
"Good-bye?"
"Yes. I have volunteered for active service, and am under orders to be
in readiness to take the field at a moment's notice."
"Then you may consider those orders cancelled. You are under orders to
remain where you are until further notice."
"What?" he said, looking down at her where she stood, for he had risen
preparatory to taking his leave. "To remain where I am? What do you
mean, Nidia?"
"I mean that you can't go, and I don't intend that you shall. Heavens,
what do you want to go getting yourself killed for? Wasn't it bad
enough when you nearly did--when I--when we--all thought you were? You
have got to stay here and take care of me."
What was this? Nidia's self-possession breaking down so signally? Were
his eyes and ears utterly deceiving him? There was what sounded
suspiciously like the catch of a sob in her voice, and in her eyes that
same look of appeal, of wistfulness, he had seen there when they bade
each other that last farewell in the wilds of the Matopos. His face
flushed beneath its bronze, then went white; but his voice was firm as
ever as he imprisoned her with his arms.
"To take care of you? Then I must do so for life, Nidia."
"Yes; I think you had better, as you know how to do it so well," she
replied, raising her lips.
It was their first kiss; but it was even as the welding of two souls.
It was their first kiss, but for a very brief space the only one. With
no further necessity for self-containment, John Ames seemed to pour
forth his whole soul, his whole nature, in adoration of this girl, the
first sight of whom had turned the whole current of his thoughts and
inner life. All of this Nidia learned, and was infinitely, radiantly
happy.
"Shall I tell you something--darling?" she said. "Strange as it may
sound, I have never loved anybody before--have never felt the slightest
inclination to. But when I saw you, I knew the possibility was there.
You were--are--so different to everybody else. I missed you so
frightfully when you left to come up here. There, I never told you that
before. And all the time we were out together in the mountains I loved
being with you--felt so safe with you, somehow, and--Oh!"
The last ejaculation was evoked by the appearance of a third party on
the scene. In the doorway stood Mrs Bateman, speechless, her
high-featured countenance livid with amazement, rage, and baffled spite.
"Come here, Susie, and say, `Bless you, my children,'" called out Nidia,
a lovely blush coming over her face, as she realised the very near
propinquity in which she stood to the other occupant of the room, who,
for his part, said nothing.
But there came no answer. The other turned and walked away in silence.
She had thrown her king and her ace, but the odd trick remained, and
this John Ames held.
Shiminya, the sorcerer, was seated in his _muti_ kraal on the Umgwane
river, but he was not alone. With him sat Nanzicele, ex-sergeant of the
native police.
From the tone of their voices they seemed not on very good terms. Not
to put too fine a point upon it, they were quarrelling.
Now, the cause of the difference lay in the fact that Nanzicele aspired
to join the ranks of the Abantwana 'Mlimo. Shiminya, on the other hand,
was resolved that the hierarchy of the Great Abstraction would be better
without him, and was breaking this resolve as gently as might be.
But Nanzicele had been drinking. He had obtained some gin among certain
overlooked loot of a sacked store, and Nanzicele, foiled in his objects,
and half drunk, was a very unpleasant customer indeed, not to say a
sufficiently formidable one.
Now he was raising his voice threateningly, jeering Shiminya, and more
than hinting that he was a rank impostor--he and all his cloth. The
seer's snake-like eyes sparkled with vindictive hate, for he was no more
fond of being reviled and insulted than other and commoner mortals.
Another consideration actuating this precious pair was that each was in
a position to give the other away. Both knew that the result of the
rising was but a question of time, and each had an idea that he might
purchase safety at the expense of the other.
A large bowl of _tywala_ was on the ground between them. Suddenly, as
Shiminya stooped to raise this, his confederate whirled up his stick,
intending to bring it down upon the sorcerer's head in such wise that
the Umlimo would be without one of his most valuable myrmidons. But the
move was not quick enough. The blow, instead of shattering skull, came
down on shoulder, with numbing, crushing effect. Lithe as an eel,
Shiminya twisted, and sprang to his feet. At him sprang Nanzicele. The
sorcerer had no weapon to hand. The big Matabele, pressing him hard
against the thorn fence, had him at his mercy.
Not quite. As the second blow descended, something entered Nanzicele's
side, sharp, fiery, scathing. Then Shiminya fell, his limbs squirming
in spasmodic quiver, and from his relaxed grasp there fell a small
knife. This Nanzicele pushed aside with his foot, uttering a
contemptuous grunt.
"_Au_! That does not kill," he growled, surveying his ribs, whence the
blood flowed freely, but from a mere flesh-wound. Then shifting his
knobstick into his left hand, the vengeful savage seized a broad-bladed
assegai, and plunged it into the vitals of his prostrate confederate.
"Yeh-bo!" he cried. "Fare thee well, Shiminya. The Umtwana 'Mlimo can
bleed as well as an ordinary man--can die! _Hlala-gahle Umtwana
'Mlimo_!"
The body of the sorcerer lay motionless. Gazing upon it for a moment,
Nanzicele turned away to the huts. There was plunder there, plenty of
it, and for some little while he turned his attention thitherward,
finding and appropriating to his own use a good many things of vast
value in his eyes, arms and ammunition, wearing apparel, tobacco, and
what not. But as he opened one of the huts there darted out against his
legs something grey and hairy and snarling, nearly upsetting him with
the shock and the scare. Before he had recovered from his startled
surprise the thing had vanished and now Nanzicele deemed it time to do
likewise.
The sun's rays grew longer and longer, throwing shadows over the
ill-omened abode of dark dealings, and the motionless body that lay
there. Then the body was motionless no longer. The limbs moved; next
the head was raised, but feebly. Shiminya sat up.
"Ah, ah! The Umtwana 'Mlimo is not so easy to kill, Nanzicele; and
thou--for this thou shalt die a thousand deaths," he murmured.
He reached over for the _tywala_ bowl, but it had been upset in the
scuffle and was empty. Parched with a feverish and burning thirst, the
sorcerer dragged himself on hands and knees to the hut wherein he knew
there was more of the liquor. He reached it at length, trailing broad
splashes of blood behind him. Creeping within, he found the great
calabash. It was empty. Nanzicele had drained it.
In a tremble of exhaustion Shiminya sank to the ground. The cold dews
of death were upon his face. The awful coldness throughout his frame,
the result of a prodigious loss of blood, became an agony. Air! A
great craving for air was upon him. His brain reeled, and his lungs
gasped. He felt as though he could no longer move.
Then the door was darkened, and something brushed in. With a superhuman
effort he collected his energies.
"Hamba, Lupiswana!" he gurgled. "Hamba-ke!"
But the brute took no notice of the voice before which it was wont to
cower and tremble. It crouched, snarling. Then it put its head down
and licked the blood-gouts which had fallen upon the ground from the
veins of its evil master.
The latter began to experience some of the agonies he had delighted to
witness in his victims. The savage beast had tasted blood--his blood.
And he himself was too weak to have resisted the onslaught of a rat.
Again he called, trying to infuse strength into his voice. But the
crafty beast knew his state exactly, it had learnt to gauge helplessness
in the case of too many other victims, perhaps. It only crawled a
little nearer, still growling.
For a while they lay thus, man and beast, mutually eyeing each other.
The eyes of the former were becoming glazed with the agony of utter
weakness but active apprehension. Those of the latter glared yellow and
baleful in the semi-gloom of the hut. It was a horrid sight.
"Hamba, Lupiswana!" repeated the sorcerer, instinctively groping for a
weapon. But with a shrill snarl the brute was at his throat, tearing
and worrying, and, although a small animal, so furious was its frenzy
over this new and copious feast of blood, that it shook the light form
of the wizard, almost as it would have done that of a newly dropped
fawn. And then in the semi-gloom was the horrible spectacle of a man
with his throat half torn out, feebly battling with the enraged furious
beast covered with blood and uttering its guttural snarls, as it tore
and clawed at his already lacerated vitals. But the struggle did not
last. The grim "familiar spirit" had triumphed over its evil master.
Shiminya the sorcerer lay dead in his _muti_ kraal, and the horrible
brute lay growling and snarling as it gorged itself to repletion upon
his mangled body.
And Nanzicele? Exultant, yet somewhat fearing, he decamped with his
booty; but he did not get far. A dizziness and griping pain was upon
him, and he sank down in the river-bed, by a water-hole. What was it?
His wound was slight. Ha! The knife! Yes. A greenish froth was on
the surface of his wound. The knife was poisoned.
His agonies now were hardly less than those of his slayer, and his
thirst became intense. Crawling to a water-hole, he staggered over it
to drink, then drew back appalled. He could not drink there, at any
rate. It was the very hole into which he had helped throw the
unfortunate girl Nompiza. Her decomposing lineaments seemed to glower
at him from the surface of the water as he bent over to drink. With a
raucous yell he flung himself back, and then, in a paroxysm of agonised
convulsions, the rebel and treacherous murderer yielded up the ghost.
He too, you see, had thought to hold the trump card over his
confederate, but it was the latter who held the odd trick. Yet better
for both, swifter and more merciful, would have been the noosed rope of
the white man's justice than the end which had overtaken them.