Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Thirty.“In the Morning.”Probably there is no greater fallacy than that youth is quick to cast off impressions; otherwise Lalanté 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 Lalanté 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 Lalanté 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?“Lalanté, 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.Hewill 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 Lalanté, 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 Lalanté 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. Lalanté 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 Lalanté; 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!”“Lalanté, 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 ourindaba. 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 Lalanté?”“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 Lalanté 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’sthat?”“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 Lalanté 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.

Probably there is no greater fallacy than that youth is quick to cast off impressions; otherwise Lalanté 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 Lalanté 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 Lalanté 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?

“Lalanté, 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.Hewill 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 Lalanté, 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 Lalanté 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. Lalanté 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 Lalanté; 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!”

“Lalanté, 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 ourindaba. 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 Lalanté?”

“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 Lalanté 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’sthat?”

“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 Lalanté 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.

Chapter Thirty One.Envoi.A tiny sea-side village, red roofs and grey church tower nestling between the slope of great hills clothed with velvety green woods, and the uplands beyond brilliant with yellow gorse and crimson heather. And the triangle of sunlit sea just glimpsed, is blue as the sky above.Up the single street two persons are walking, and the summer loveliness of the fair English scene is something of a contrast to the vaster, but not less beautiful, landscape in which we last saw these two framed; for we have seen them before.Now they gain the modest, but clean and comfortable farm-house lodgings overlooking the village and the sea, and which is nearly the only accommodation so out-of-the-way a place can offer.“Post in,” says Lalanté, womanlike eagerly making for several letters spread out upon the table. “Why here’s one from father, forwarded on. Oh I am glad. He hasn’t written for quite a long time.”“Getting homesick, child?”“Darling, you know I’m not. Still I shan’t be sorry to be duly installed at dear old Seven Kloofs.”“But there are no shops.”“Don’t tease. Oh, but—” and her eyes grew soft—“if you only knew how he appreciated what you did, I mean that offer you made him. He says it was the saving of him.”“In the words I used to him on a somewhat similar occasion—‘shut up’,” rejoins Wyvern, stopping her mouth with a kiss. “Here’s a yarn from Fleetwood! Now we’ll each see what each says.”“Joe’s news is good,” he goes on, glancing down the sheet. “He’s working the oracle fine about the plunder, but he says that nearly six months of England, and that mostly London, is about enough for any self-respecting up-country man, and wants to go back again when we do.”“Why of course,” absently and not immediately. Then with a start. “How dreadful! Oh how dreadful!”“What is?”“Mr Warren’s dead!”“No! Poor chap. What did he die of?”“He committed suicide. Look. You read it out. I can’t,” and Lalanté looked very pale and distressed as she handed over her father’s letter.“You’ll probably have seen about poor Warren’s death in the English papers—” it went on—“but in case you haven’t, he was found in his sitting room, shot through the heart three weeks ago. All the evidence went to show that it was a case of suicide, even if he hadn’t left a letter to say so. But it gave no reason, and at the adjourned enquiry—held the day before yesterday—nothing could be discovered to throw any light on the matter. All his affairs were in perfect order, in fact he turns out to be a great deal better off than was supposed, and that means a good deal. And the medical evidence proved him to be absolutely strong and healthy. So the thing remains and will remain a complete mystery. Poor chap! One would have thought him the last man in the world to have done such a thing. I send you a cutting with a report of the adjourned enquiry.”“Your father’s about right, dear,” said Wyvern handing back the letter. “Warren is absolutely the last man I should have suspected of suicidal tendency. Why he had everything under the sun to make life attractive. And yet—I don’t know. Life is such a deuced rum thing, and every donkey knows where his own saddle galls him. Poor Warren may have had something upon his mind.”Did some shadow of a suspicion cross that of Lalanté as to the real state of the case? If so it was not a thing that she cared to put into words. But she was very shocked at Warren’s sad end. She tried to forget the instinct which had led to her cold suspicions of him of late, and remembered his intrepid courage in rescuing her small brother from the raging waters of the flooded Kunaga.“Let’s see what the newspaper says about it. It’s theGydisdorp Herald!” went on Wyvern running his eye down the cutting. “It’s all pretty much the same as what your father says—By Jove! here’s something though. Listen to this:—“It will be remembered that one of the last services our lamented fellow-townsman was able to render to society at large, is that he was instrumental in procuring the arrest and conviction of that atrocious scoundrel Jonathan Baldock, who was hanged at Beaufort West, only a week before Mr Warren’s sad end. This Baldock or Bexley, or Rawson—he had several aliases—it will be remembered, was convicted of the murder of a Dutch farmer and his wife under circumstances of great barbarity, and for some years had managed to escape detection. But if the feet of Justice are sometimes slow they are nearly always sure. His whereabouts became known to Mr Warren by the merest accident, and that model citizen caused him to be lured from the wild border of Northern Zululand—where his business, we may be sure was of no lawful nature—and his arrest and conviction promptly followed, once he set foot within the confines of British civilisation.”“Well, Lalanté, that is a startler,” said Wyvern, when he had concluded. “Why this is no other than that unmitigated ruffian who gave us such a lot of trouble up there. When we saw no more of him after finding the stuff, Joe and I of course took for granted the Usutus had managed to get hold of him again. Well I thoroughly agree with the Gydisdorp rag—if ever a scoundrel richly deserved hanging it was our old acquaintance Bully Rawson.”“I should think so from what you’ve told me of him alone,” assented Lalanté. “But it is very sad about poor Mr Warren. Come dear, let’s get through the letters and go out again. The evening is going to be perfectly divine.”There is an element of self about most phases of happiness, and notably about that called Love. They wandered forth, these two, and in the joys and glories of the radiant evening, outer misfortune soon became dimmed in the all absorbing happiness of being together again and together for all time. But they had gone through much.The End.

A tiny sea-side village, red roofs and grey church tower nestling between the slope of great hills clothed with velvety green woods, and the uplands beyond brilliant with yellow gorse and crimson heather. And the triangle of sunlit sea just glimpsed, is blue as the sky above.

Up the single street two persons are walking, and the summer loveliness of the fair English scene is something of a contrast to the vaster, but not less beautiful, landscape in which we last saw these two framed; for we have seen them before.

Now they gain the modest, but clean and comfortable farm-house lodgings overlooking the village and the sea, and which is nearly the only accommodation so out-of-the-way a place can offer.

“Post in,” says Lalanté, womanlike eagerly making for several letters spread out upon the table. “Why here’s one from father, forwarded on. Oh I am glad. He hasn’t written for quite a long time.”

“Getting homesick, child?”

“Darling, you know I’m not. Still I shan’t be sorry to be duly installed at dear old Seven Kloofs.”

“But there are no shops.”

“Don’t tease. Oh, but—” and her eyes grew soft—“if you only knew how he appreciated what you did, I mean that offer you made him. He says it was the saving of him.”

“In the words I used to him on a somewhat similar occasion—‘shut up’,” rejoins Wyvern, stopping her mouth with a kiss. “Here’s a yarn from Fleetwood! Now we’ll each see what each says.”

“Joe’s news is good,” he goes on, glancing down the sheet. “He’s working the oracle fine about the plunder, but he says that nearly six months of England, and that mostly London, is about enough for any self-respecting up-country man, and wants to go back again when we do.”

“Why of course,” absently and not immediately. Then with a start. “How dreadful! Oh how dreadful!”

“What is?”

“Mr Warren’s dead!”

“No! Poor chap. What did he die of?”

“He committed suicide. Look. You read it out. I can’t,” and Lalanté looked very pale and distressed as she handed over her father’s letter.

“You’ll probably have seen about poor Warren’s death in the English papers—” it went on—“but in case you haven’t, he was found in his sitting room, shot through the heart three weeks ago. All the evidence went to show that it was a case of suicide, even if he hadn’t left a letter to say so. But it gave no reason, and at the adjourned enquiry—held the day before yesterday—nothing could be discovered to throw any light on the matter. All his affairs were in perfect order, in fact he turns out to be a great deal better off than was supposed, and that means a good deal. And the medical evidence proved him to be absolutely strong and healthy. So the thing remains and will remain a complete mystery. Poor chap! One would have thought him the last man in the world to have done such a thing. I send you a cutting with a report of the adjourned enquiry.”

“Your father’s about right, dear,” said Wyvern handing back the letter. “Warren is absolutely the last man I should have suspected of suicidal tendency. Why he had everything under the sun to make life attractive. And yet—I don’t know. Life is such a deuced rum thing, and every donkey knows where his own saddle galls him. Poor Warren may have had something upon his mind.”

Did some shadow of a suspicion cross that of Lalanté as to the real state of the case? If so it was not a thing that she cared to put into words. But she was very shocked at Warren’s sad end. She tried to forget the instinct which had led to her cold suspicions of him of late, and remembered his intrepid courage in rescuing her small brother from the raging waters of the flooded Kunaga.

“Let’s see what the newspaper says about it. It’s theGydisdorp Herald!” went on Wyvern running his eye down the cutting. “It’s all pretty much the same as what your father says—By Jove! here’s something though. Listen to this:—

“It will be remembered that one of the last services our lamented fellow-townsman was able to render to society at large, is that he was instrumental in procuring the arrest and conviction of that atrocious scoundrel Jonathan Baldock, who was hanged at Beaufort West, only a week before Mr Warren’s sad end. This Baldock or Bexley, or Rawson—he had several aliases—it will be remembered, was convicted of the murder of a Dutch farmer and his wife under circumstances of great barbarity, and for some years had managed to escape detection. But if the feet of Justice are sometimes slow they are nearly always sure. His whereabouts became known to Mr Warren by the merest accident, and that model citizen caused him to be lured from the wild border of Northern Zululand—where his business, we may be sure was of no lawful nature—and his arrest and conviction promptly followed, once he set foot within the confines of British civilisation.”

“Well, Lalanté, that is a startler,” said Wyvern, when he had concluded. “Why this is no other than that unmitigated ruffian who gave us such a lot of trouble up there. When we saw no more of him after finding the stuff, Joe and I of course took for granted the Usutus had managed to get hold of him again. Well I thoroughly agree with the Gydisdorp rag—if ever a scoundrel richly deserved hanging it was our old acquaintance Bully Rawson.”

“I should think so from what you’ve told me of him alone,” assented Lalanté. “But it is very sad about poor Mr Warren. Come dear, let’s get through the letters and go out again. The evening is going to be perfectly divine.”

There is an element of self about most phases of happiness, and notably about that called Love. They wandered forth, these two, and in the joys and glories of the radiant evening, outer misfortune soon became dimmed in the all absorbing happiness of being together again and together for all time. But they had gone through much.

The End.

Back to Index Next