Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Fifteen.The Midnight Foe.“Why, it’s Renshaw!” cried Mrs Selwood, who, hearing the sound of hoofs mingling with the barking of the dogs, had come to the door. “We didn’t expect you till to-morrow. Well, you’re just in time. A few minutes more and we should all have gone to bed. Call Windvogel to take your horse, and come in.”“I’ll let him run; he’s about done up,” he answered, removing saddle, bridle, and headstall, and turning the animal adrift.“Has your business fallen through?” she asked, as he followed her into the passage and closed the door.“It has had to stand over. Come in here, Hilda”—leading the way into an empty room. “I have something to tell you. No—never mind the light. The fewer lights shown the better.”Then in as few words as possible he told her of the danger which hovered over them.Hilda Selwood came of a good old colonial stock, and was not lacking in nerve. Still she would not have been a woman had she realised the frightful peril which threatened herself and her children without a shudder.“We must do what we can, Renshaw,” she said. “Perhaps they will not attack us.”“‘Perhaps’ is a sorry word to start campaigning upon. What we’ve got to do is to ensure them as warm a reception as possible if they do. My opinion is that they will, if only that they seem to have been watching the road. I believe they have ascertained by some means or other that Chris is away. What people have you on the place just now?”“Very few. There’s Windvogel and old Jacob and Gomfana. That’s all.”“Windvogel I don’t trust. Shouldn’t wonder, indeed, if the yellow scoundrel was in league with them. Old Jacob has more than one foot in the grave—he’s no good. But Gomfana, though he couldn’t hit a haystack with a gun, might make useful play with a chopper if it came to close quarters. And now, look here,” he went on, after a moment’s hesitation; “the situation may be desperate. These seven cut-throats are fighting with a noose round their necks. Every one of their lives is forfeited, and they are all well armed. Now, is there no suggestion you can make towards strengthening the garrison?”“Why, of course. Marian and I both know how to shoot. That makes three of us. And then we are under cover.”“Well spoken. But I can improve on that idea—if you can bring yourself to agree. Little chaps as they are, Fred and Basil are better shots than either of you, and game to the core.”Hilda Selwood gave a gasp. Her two little ones! Why, they were mere babies but yesterday! And now she was to be called upon to sacrifice them—to expose them to the peril of a desperate conflict which would fully tax the courage of grown men.“I’d rather not, if it could possibly be avoided,” she said, at last.“Very well. But I’m much mistaken if the young scamps won’t take the matter into their own hands directly they hear a shot fired. Now, how many guns have we? There’s mine—two of Chris’s—that makes six barrels; the boys’ muzzle-loaders, ten barrels. Then Chris has a five-shooter—”“He took that with him.”“Did he? Well, I have a six. Altogether we shan’t do badly. And now you had better break the news to Marian and Miss Avory, while I slip down to the hut to rout out Gomfana. And lose no time barricading the windows. Mattresses are the thing for that—almost bullet-proof.”Arming himself with a gun and revolver, Renshaw slipped out quietly, and made his way to the huts. Gomfana, like most natives, slept heavily, and took a deal of waking; and by the time the situation was brought home to his obtuse brain some minutes had been lost. He was a sturdy youngster of about twenty—a “raw” Kafir—that is to say, one who had never been out of his native kraal, and was stupid and ignorant of European ways. But at the prospect of a fight he grinned and brightened up.Just as they regained the house a glow suffused the sky against the mountain-top, and a few minutes later a broad half-moon was sailing high in the heavens. Renshaw hailed its appearance with unbounded satisfaction.The two girls had already lit their candles for bed when Mrs Selwood brought the unwelcome news, judiciously omitting the ghastly tragedy, which could only horrify without encouraging the hearers. Their method of receiving it was as divergent as their characters. Marian, though she slightly changed colour, remained perfectly cool and collected. Violet, on the other hand, turned white as a sheet, and fairly shook with terror. It was all they could do to keep her from going into wild hysterics.“This sort of thing won’t do at all, Miss Avory,” said Renshaw, entering at that moment; his sable recruit hanging back in the doorway. “Why, all you’ve got to do is to lie down and go to sleep in perfect safety. If we exchange a shot or two that’s all it will amount to. Come, now, I should have thought you would have enjoyed the excitement of a real adventure.”Violet tried to smile, but it was the mere ghost of a smile. She still shivered and shook. And Renshaw himself seemed changed. None of the diffident lover about him now. He seemed in his element at the prospect of peril. In the midst of her fears Violet remembered Marian’s eulogies on his coolness and resource in an emergency. The recollection quieted her, and she looked upon him with unbounded respect. Then she noted Marian’s calm and resolute demeanour, and even fancied that the look of the latter was expressive of something like contempt—wherein she was mistaken, but the idea acted as a tonic to brace her nerves.Having seen to the firearms and ammunition, and cautioned the women to remain where they were and allow no more light to be seen than they could help, Renshaw went the round of the house. Effie and the two little ones were sleeping soundly, so also were the two boys. Opening the door, he looked cautiously out. All was still.He had decided that the four corner rooms should be the points of defence, and the windows accordingly were not barricaded. The others were rendered secure by fixing against each a couple of mattresses. Then he went back to the ladies.The house was now all in darkness, but the moonlight streaming in above the protecting mattresses gave sufficient light for all purposes.“Now, good people,” he said cheerily, “you may all go to bed. I’ll call you when I want you. I’m going to watch at one corner, and Gomfana will take the other. There’ll be no catching us napping. Besides, the dogs will raise the most awful shillaloo if any one heaves in sight.”Shakedowns had been improvised on the floor with rugs and pillows. In great measure reassured by Marian’s unconcern, Violet consented to lie down. Mrs Selwood betook herself to her children’s room.The moon mounted higher and higher to the zenith, flooding the land with an eerie and chastened half-light. The monotonous chirrup of the tree-frog, the shrill baying of a pair of hunting jackals, the occasional cry of a nightbird mournfully echoing from the mountain side, floated to the watcher’s ear. Unremitting in his vigilance, Renshaw moved silently from room to room, his unerring eye scanning the ground at every point, and keeping his sable lieutenant up to the mark, lest that worthy should be tempted to doze. But Gomfana, who was armed with an axe and some assegais taken from a wall trophy, was rather thirsting for the encounter than otherwise.Some hundred and fifty yards from the main dwelling was a large outhouse block, comprising stables, waggon shed, shearing house, etc. On this point Renshaw’s attention was mainly concentrated. He felt sure that the miscreants would take advantage of the shadow of this building to creep up as near as they could. Another point that needed watching was the thick quince hedge which skirted the garden, and which now afforded a shade congenial to the assailants’ movements.Nothing is more trying to the nerves than a lonely nocturnal vigil. Most men, brave enough in actual danger, would have felt the “creepy” effect of those silent hours as they strained their eyes upon the surrounding veldt, now construing a shadow into an enemy—now hearing a whisper of voices, the tread of a stealthy footstep—in the varying and spectral sounds of the night. But Renshaw’s solitary and wandering life had inured him to these things. His chief considerations now were, firstly lest the drowsy feeling, which he was doing his utmost to combat, should tend to dim his vigilance; secondly, the stilling of his cravings for just one carefully guarded pipe.Suddenly the faintest possible creak of a footfall on the floor behind him. He turned like lightning.“It’s only me,” whispered a soft voice. And a tall figure approached in the gloom.“Marian! Why are you not lying down with the rest?”“They’re all asleep now, even Violet, Look, I’ve brought you some sandwiches. You hardly ate anything when you came in. You set to work upon them at once, and I’ll mount sentry while you are having supper.”“How good of you!” he said, taking the plate from her, and also the glass of brandy-and-water which she had mixed for him, “Why, what have you there? A shooting iron?”“Of course. You don’t suppose I was going to leave my gun behind when we are in a state of siege, do you?”She carried a double-barrelled breech-loader—rifle and shot cartridge—and there was a warrior flash in her eyes visible in the moonlight, which told that she meant to use it, too, if occasion required.“It is very lonely for you, watching all by yourself,” she continued. “I thought I would come and keep you company.”“So like you again. But look here, Marian dear. You must not be exposed to danger. Single-handed I can make such an example of theschepselsthat they’ll probably turn and run. Still, they might let fly a shot or two. You will go back to the others if I ask you—will you not?”Her heart thrilled tumultuously within her. In the darkness she need be at no pains to conceal the tell-tale expression of her face. Ah, but—his tones, though affectionate, were merely brotherly. That might be, but still, whatever peril he might undergo, it should be her privilege to share it—her sweet privilege—and she would share it.“No; I will not,” she answered decisively. “I can be as cool as any one living, man or woman. Feel my hand; there is not a tremble in it.” And her fingers closed round his in a firm, steady clasp, in which there was nothing nervous, nothing spasmodic.“I believe you can,” he answered, “but I was thinking of your safety.”“Mysafety!” she interrupted. Then in a different tone, “How do you suppose they’ll come, Renshaw? Walk openly to the house or try to creep up in the shadow?”“The last. You see they showed their hand by tackling me upon the road. Yet they may think I’ve turned in and bothered no more about it. Hallo!”“What is it?”“I could have sworn I heard something. I’ve got long ears—like a donkey, you will say.”Both listened intently, the woman with less eagerness, less anxiety, than the man. There was a kind of exaltation about Marian to-night. Her nerves were as firm as those of her male companion himself; and the certainty of a bloody conflict was to her, in her then frame of mind, a mere matter of detail.“Ah! I thought I was right,” he went on, as a premonitory “woof” from one of the dogs lying around the house was followed by a general uprising and clamour on the part of the whole lot. Then, baying savagely, they started off in fall charge in the direction of the dark line of shade thrown by the willows fringing the dam, and on the opposite side to that watched by Renshaw and his companion.“Marian, just go to the other side and look if you can see anything. You won’t, I know, but still there’s no harm in making sure.”She obeyed. From that side of the house nothing was visible except a long stretch of sickly moonlight and the line of trees. But the dogs had disappeared within the shade of the latter and were raising a clamour that was truly infernal. They seemed to be holding something or somebody in check. Then she returned to her former post.“There’s nothing there,” she said, “at present. Ah!”Three shadowy figures were flitting round the angle of the outhouse block above mentioned. They gained the shade thrown by the front of it—crouched and waited.“Here they are,” whispered Renshaw, under his breath. “I was up to that dodge. One fellow was told off to draw off the dogs, while these jokers sneaked up in the opposite direction. Look—here come the rest.”Two more figures followed the first—then another. All were now crouching in the shadow of the outhouses. Still the yelling clamour of the dogs sounded distant on the other side, kept up with unabated fury.

“Why, it’s Renshaw!” cried Mrs Selwood, who, hearing the sound of hoofs mingling with the barking of the dogs, had come to the door. “We didn’t expect you till to-morrow. Well, you’re just in time. A few minutes more and we should all have gone to bed. Call Windvogel to take your horse, and come in.”

“I’ll let him run; he’s about done up,” he answered, removing saddle, bridle, and headstall, and turning the animal adrift.

“Has your business fallen through?” she asked, as he followed her into the passage and closed the door.

“It has had to stand over. Come in here, Hilda”—leading the way into an empty room. “I have something to tell you. No—never mind the light. The fewer lights shown the better.”

Then in as few words as possible he told her of the danger which hovered over them.

Hilda Selwood came of a good old colonial stock, and was not lacking in nerve. Still she would not have been a woman had she realised the frightful peril which threatened herself and her children without a shudder.

“We must do what we can, Renshaw,” she said. “Perhaps they will not attack us.”

“‘Perhaps’ is a sorry word to start campaigning upon. What we’ve got to do is to ensure them as warm a reception as possible if they do. My opinion is that they will, if only that they seem to have been watching the road. I believe they have ascertained by some means or other that Chris is away. What people have you on the place just now?”

“Very few. There’s Windvogel and old Jacob and Gomfana. That’s all.”

“Windvogel I don’t trust. Shouldn’t wonder, indeed, if the yellow scoundrel was in league with them. Old Jacob has more than one foot in the grave—he’s no good. But Gomfana, though he couldn’t hit a haystack with a gun, might make useful play with a chopper if it came to close quarters. And now, look here,” he went on, after a moment’s hesitation; “the situation may be desperate. These seven cut-throats are fighting with a noose round their necks. Every one of their lives is forfeited, and they are all well armed. Now, is there no suggestion you can make towards strengthening the garrison?”

“Why, of course. Marian and I both know how to shoot. That makes three of us. And then we are under cover.”

“Well spoken. But I can improve on that idea—if you can bring yourself to agree. Little chaps as they are, Fred and Basil are better shots than either of you, and game to the core.”

Hilda Selwood gave a gasp. Her two little ones! Why, they were mere babies but yesterday! And now she was to be called upon to sacrifice them—to expose them to the peril of a desperate conflict which would fully tax the courage of grown men.

“I’d rather not, if it could possibly be avoided,” she said, at last.

“Very well. But I’m much mistaken if the young scamps won’t take the matter into their own hands directly they hear a shot fired. Now, how many guns have we? There’s mine—two of Chris’s—that makes six barrels; the boys’ muzzle-loaders, ten barrels. Then Chris has a five-shooter—”

“He took that with him.”

“Did he? Well, I have a six. Altogether we shan’t do badly. And now you had better break the news to Marian and Miss Avory, while I slip down to the hut to rout out Gomfana. And lose no time barricading the windows. Mattresses are the thing for that—almost bullet-proof.”

Arming himself with a gun and revolver, Renshaw slipped out quietly, and made his way to the huts. Gomfana, like most natives, slept heavily, and took a deal of waking; and by the time the situation was brought home to his obtuse brain some minutes had been lost. He was a sturdy youngster of about twenty—a “raw” Kafir—that is to say, one who had never been out of his native kraal, and was stupid and ignorant of European ways. But at the prospect of a fight he grinned and brightened up.

Just as they regained the house a glow suffused the sky against the mountain-top, and a few minutes later a broad half-moon was sailing high in the heavens. Renshaw hailed its appearance with unbounded satisfaction.

The two girls had already lit their candles for bed when Mrs Selwood brought the unwelcome news, judiciously omitting the ghastly tragedy, which could only horrify without encouraging the hearers. Their method of receiving it was as divergent as their characters. Marian, though she slightly changed colour, remained perfectly cool and collected. Violet, on the other hand, turned white as a sheet, and fairly shook with terror. It was all they could do to keep her from going into wild hysterics.

“This sort of thing won’t do at all, Miss Avory,” said Renshaw, entering at that moment; his sable recruit hanging back in the doorway. “Why, all you’ve got to do is to lie down and go to sleep in perfect safety. If we exchange a shot or two that’s all it will amount to. Come, now, I should have thought you would have enjoyed the excitement of a real adventure.”

Violet tried to smile, but it was the mere ghost of a smile. She still shivered and shook. And Renshaw himself seemed changed. None of the diffident lover about him now. He seemed in his element at the prospect of peril. In the midst of her fears Violet remembered Marian’s eulogies on his coolness and resource in an emergency. The recollection quieted her, and she looked upon him with unbounded respect. Then she noted Marian’s calm and resolute demeanour, and even fancied that the look of the latter was expressive of something like contempt—wherein she was mistaken, but the idea acted as a tonic to brace her nerves.

Having seen to the firearms and ammunition, and cautioned the women to remain where they were and allow no more light to be seen than they could help, Renshaw went the round of the house. Effie and the two little ones were sleeping soundly, so also were the two boys. Opening the door, he looked cautiously out. All was still.

He had decided that the four corner rooms should be the points of defence, and the windows accordingly were not barricaded. The others were rendered secure by fixing against each a couple of mattresses. Then he went back to the ladies.

The house was now all in darkness, but the moonlight streaming in above the protecting mattresses gave sufficient light for all purposes.

“Now, good people,” he said cheerily, “you may all go to bed. I’ll call you when I want you. I’m going to watch at one corner, and Gomfana will take the other. There’ll be no catching us napping. Besides, the dogs will raise the most awful shillaloo if any one heaves in sight.”

Shakedowns had been improvised on the floor with rugs and pillows. In great measure reassured by Marian’s unconcern, Violet consented to lie down. Mrs Selwood betook herself to her children’s room.

The moon mounted higher and higher to the zenith, flooding the land with an eerie and chastened half-light. The monotonous chirrup of the tree-frog, the shrill baying of a pair of hunting jackals, the occasional cry of a nightbird mournfully echoing from the mountain side, floated to the watcher’s ear. Unremitting in his vigilance, Renshaw moved silently from room to room, his unerring eye scanning the ground at every point, and keeping his sable lieutenant up to the mark, lest that worthy should be tempted to doze. But Gomfana, who was armed with an axe and some assegais taken from a wall trophy, was rather thirsting for the encounter than otherwise.

Some hundred and fifty yards from the main dwelling was a large outhouse block, comprising stables, waggon shed, shearing house, etc. On this point Renshaw’s attention was mainly concentrated. He felt sure that the miscreants would take advantage of the shadow of this building to creep up as near as they could. Another point that needed watching was the thick quince hedge which skirted the garden, and which now afforded a shade congenial to the assailants’ movements.

Nothing is more trying to the nerves than a lonely nocturnal vigil. Most men, brave enough in actual danger, would have felt the “creepy” effect of those silent hours as they strained their eyes upon the surrounding veldt, now construing a shadow into an enemy—now hearing a whisper of voices, the tread of a stealthy footstep—in the varying and spectral sounds of the night. But Renshaw’s solitary and wandering life had inured him to these things. His chief considerations now were, firstly lest the drowsy feeling, which he was doing his utmost to combat, should tend to dim his vigilance; secondly, the stilling of his cravings for just one carefully guarded pipe.

Suddenly the faintest possible creak of a footfall on the floor behind him. He turned like lightning.

“It’s only me,” whispered a soft voice. And a tall figure approached in the gloom.

“Marian! Why are you not lying down with the rest?”

“They’re all asleep now, even Violet, Look, I’ve brought you some sandwiches. You hardly ate anything when you came in. You set to work upon them at once, and I’ll mount sentry while you are having supper.”

“How good of you!” he said, taking the plate from her, and also the glass of brandy-and-water which she had mixed for him, “Why, what have you there? A shooting iron?”

“Of course. You don’t suppose I was going to leave my gun behind when we are in a state of siege, do you?”

She carried a double-barrelled breech-loader—rifle and shot cartridge—and there was a warrior flash in her eyes visible in the moonlight, which told that she meant to use it, too, if occasion required.

“It is very lonely for you, watching all by yourself,” she continued. “I thought I would come and keep you company.”

“So like you again. But look here, Marian dear. You must not be exposed to danger. Single-handed I can make such an example of theschepselsthat they’ll probably turn and run. Still, they might let fly a shot or two. You will go back to the others if I ask you—will you not?”

Her heart thrilled tumultuously within her. In the darkness she need be at no pains to conceal the tell-tale expression of her face. Ah, but—his tones, though affectionate, were merely brotherly. That might be, but still, whatever peril he might undergo, it should be her privilege to share it—her sweet privilege—and she would share it.

“No; I will not,” she answered decisively. “I can be as cool as any one living, man or woman. Feel my hand; there is not a tremble in it.” And her fingers closed round his in a firm, steady clasp, in which there was nothing nervous, nothing spasmodic.

“I believe you can,” he answered, “but I was thinking of your safety.”

“Mysafety!” she interrupted. Then in a different tone, “How do you suppose they’ll come, Renshaw? Walk openly to the house or try to creep up in the shadow?”

“The last. You see they showed their hand by tackling me upon the road. Yet they may think I’ve turned in and bothered no more about it. Hallo!”

“What is it?”

“I could have sworn I heard something. I’ve got long ears—like a donkey, you will say.”

Both listened intently, the woman with less eagerness, less anxiety, than the man. There was a kind of exaltation about Marian to-night. Her nerves were as firm as those of her male companion himself; and the certainty of a bloody conflict was to her, in her then frame of mind, a mere matter of detail.

“Ah! I thought I was right,” he went on, as a premonitory “woof” from one of the dogs lying around the house was followed by a general uprising and clamour on the part of the whole lot. Then, baying savagely, they started off in fall charge in the direction of the dark line of shade thrown by the willows fringing the dam, and on the opposite side to that watched by Renshaw and his companion.

“Marian, just go to the other side and look if you can see anything. You won’t, I know, but still there’s no harm in making sure.”

She obeyed. From that side of the house nothing was visible except a long stretch of sickly moonlight and the line of trees. But the dogs had disappeared within the shade of the latter and were raising a clamour that was truly infernal. They seemed to be holding something or somebody in check. Then she returned to her former post.

“There’s nothing there,” she said, “at present. Ah!”

Three shadowy figures were flitting round the angle of the outhouse block above mentioned. They gained the shade thrown by the front of it—crouched and waited.

“Here they are,” whispered Renshaw, under his breath. “I was up to that dodge. One fellow was told off to draw off the dogs, while these jokers sneaked up in the opposite direction. Look—here come the rest.”

Two more figures followed the first—then another. All were now crouching in the shadow of the outhouses. Still the yelling clamour of the dogs sounded distant on the other side, kept up with unabated fury.

Chapter Sixteen.Catching a Tartar.“Now, Marian,” whispered Renshaw. “This is going to be a life-and-death business, remember. It’s them or ourselves. You are sure you have no womanish qualms in favour of ‘giving them a chance,’ or any madness of that kind?”“You will see!” was the curt reply, and the tone was sufficient.“All right. When I say ‘Now,’ you must let into the fellow I’ll point out to you. Use your shot-barrel, remember. I’m going to let them get quite close, and we’ll give them a heavy charge of loepers apiece. Then if we get a show we’ll follow it up with rifle practice.”She whispered assent, and for some moments they strained their eyes upon the shade of the outbuildings. Suddenly one dark figure flitted noiselessly out, followed by another and another, till the whole gang were full in sight, advancing in a diagonal line.“Keep cool, Marian, keep cool,” warned Renshaw. “Wait for the word. They are not nearly close enough yet.”On came the six cut-throats. Two black men led—then a bestial-looking, undersized Bushman Hottentot; his hideous yellow face, repulsive in the moonlight, cruel, ape-like; his eyes rolling in eager, ferocious expectation of the sanguinary orgy which awaited. The other three were half-bloods. Five of them carried guns, the sixth a pistol. Again Renshaw had done the very best thing he could, in shaping the plan we have heard him lay down.On they came. Once the leader raised his hand, and all stopped, listening intently. The wild clamour of the dogs still arose in the distance. Reassured, the scoundrels advanced, swiftly, noiselessly. Seventy—sixty—fifty—forty yards.“Ready, Marian! Take the third fellow. Now!”Crash! Crash!The double report bellowed forth into the midnight stillness. Mingling with it came a horrid scream. Marian’s aim had been true and deadly. The leader of the gang, a stalwart Kafir—had made one leap into the air and had fallen forward on his face. He lay motionless. Again Renshaw drew trigger, bringing a third man to the grass, his knee-bone shattered.Then the unexpected took place. Instead of seeking safety in headlong flight, as the defenders had reckoned, the surviving three rushed madly round to the other side of the house, a bullet from Renshaw’s six-shooter failing to stop them.“Stay here, Marian,” whispered the latter hurriedly. “Draw on the first fellow who shows himself.” And in a trice he was round to meet the new attack.What was this? No sign of the enemy. Had they fled?Suddenly a crash of glass—a scuffle and a torrent of Dutch curses. Quickly the position stood revealed.There stood Gomfana, holding on to a human figure which was half in and half out of the window—head and shoulders through the shattered sash. He had got the fellow firmly by the neck with one hand, while with the other he was striving all he knew to drag him in by his clothing. But the villain—a stalwart half-breed—was almost too much for the sturdy young Kafir. The latter would have assegaied him in a moment had he owned three hands. Having but two, however, and these two being required to hold on to his enemy, it was out of the question—but hold on he did.“Stop struggling or I’ll shoot you dead!” said Renshaw, in Dutch, placing the muzzle of his pistol against the man’s body. The fellow, thoroughly cowed, obeyed, and Gomfana, with a final effort, hauled him bodily into the room amid a terrific shatter of falling glass.“What on earth’s the row, Uncle Renshaw?” said a boy’s voice.“Fred, cut away and find areim” Rope is little used in South Africa, its place being supplied by raw hide-thongs termed as above. “Sharp’s the word—mind.”In a twinkling the youngster was back with the required article, and almost as quickly Renshaw’s ready hand had strapped up the midnight robber so that the latter could not move a limb. Now, all this had happened in far less time than it has taken to narrate.But there were still two of the scoundrels unaccounted for. That they had not fled Renshaw was certain. And now the dogs, hearing the firing and shouting, and judging the bulk of the fun lay in that direction, abandoned their mysterious quarry and came tearing up open-mouthed. Then the secret stood explained. The remaining two were crouching beneath some rockwork at one corner of the verandah, presumably following the tactics of the large veldt-spider who when suddenly surprised is apt to run straight in upon the intruder, judging, rightly in the main, that in this position the latter will not be able to crush him.“Throw down your arms or you are dead men!” cried Renshaw, covering the pair with his barrels.The fellows, who had just emptied their guns—with small effect, however—among the snarling, leaping, savage pack which had at once assailed them, did not hesitate a moment. They were the least desperate of the gang, and the fearful execution done among their comrades had struck wholesome terror into themselves. Begging piteously for mercy, they shambled forth and submitted to being duly secured.No sooner was this effected than a sharp report rang out in the room where Marian had been posted. Promptly gaining the spot, Renshaw found that the shot had not been fired by her, but by small Basil Selwood.“Why, what are you blazing at, Basil? Those chaps are safely winged, if they’re not dead.”“Are they? That black chap was trying to cut away on two hands and a leg,” answered the youngster. “I thought I’d stop that. But I didn’t hit him,” he added candidly.“I must go and see to them. You and Fred must mount guard over the prisoners, and send Gomfana to me.”Accompanied by the young Kafir, Renshaw sallied forth. The dogs had already pounced upon the wounded Bushman, and in another minute would have worried him to death. Game to the last, however, the ferocious ruffian had fired among them, killing one, and but for the fact that his gun was empty would have fired upon his human rescuers. Investigation showed that he was badly wounded in both legs, notwithstanding which, well knowing the desperate hardihood of the race, Renshaw deemed it necessary to bind his hands. The other wounded man, a Kafir, had also a broken leg. He, however, realising how thoroughly the odds were against him, submitted sullenly to the inevitable. The sixth and last, he who had led the gang, was stone dead, shot through the heart. Renshaw turned the body over. The empty eye-socket and the brutal pock-marked features seemed distorted in a fiend-like leer beneath the moonlight. Renshaw had no difficulty in recognising the description of the Kafir, Muntiwa.Meanwhile, how had the non-combatants been faring? Mrs Selwood, having armed herself with a double gun, had retired to her children’s room, resolved that her post was there. She had taken Violet with her, and the latter had fallen into a fit of terror that was simply uncontrollable. The crash of the firearms, the dread lull intervening, the subdued anxious voices of the defenders, the terrible suspense, had all been too much for her; nor could the reassurances of her hostess, or even the example of pluck shown by the child Effie, avail to allay her fears. Finally, she went off into a dead swoon.As for the two youngsters, Fred and Basil, the prevailing idea in their minds was one of unqualified disgust at not having been allowed to take part in the fight from the very beginning.“Why didn’t you call us, Uncle Renshaw?” was their continual cry. “We’d have knocked fits out of thoseschelms. Wouldn’t we just!”“You bloodthirsty young ruffians! You have plenty of time before you for that sort of thing, and you’ll have plenty of opportunities for getting and giving hard knocks by the time you get to my age,” he would reply good-humouredly. But the youngsters only shook their heads with expressions of the most intense disappointment and disgust.Not much sleep for the household during the remainder of that night. Renshaw found his time and his vigilance fully occupied in attending to the security of his prisoners, and doing what he could for the wounded. The fellows, for their part, were disposed to accept the inevitable, and make the best of the situation. They were bound to be hanged anyhow, though in his secret heart each man hoped that his life might be spared. Meanwhile, it was better to enjoy good rations than bad ones, and to that end it was as well to conciliate theBaas; and Renshaw had no difficulty, accordingly, in getting at the story of the attack.Of course, each swore he was not the instigator; of course, each laid the blame on the dead man, Muntiwa. He was the prime mover in the enterprise. He had a grudge against theBaaswho lived there, and as they all stood and fell together they had been obliged to help him in his scheme of plunder. Of course, too, each and all were ready to swear that plunder was their only object. They would not have harmed anybody, not they; no, not for all the world. Thus the three half-breeds. But Booi, the Kafir, volunteered no statement whatever, and Klaas Baartman, the Bushman Hottentot, savagely declared that he had intended to cut the throat of every woman and child on the place. The seventh of the gang, who was still at large, having no firearm, had been posted under the willows to draw off the dogs—even as Renshaw had conjectured.Asked whether they knew theBaasof the place was absent, they replied that one of them had been watching and had seen unmistakable signs that this was the case. The rest of the gang had watched the main road, and when Renshaw had passed they had intended to let him go by unmolested, so as to render more complete their projected surprise, and would have, but for the indiscretion of one of their number—of course the man who had not been captured.In the morning, opportunely enough, a posse of Mounted Police arrived—a sergeant and three troopers. They had been patrolling the mountains on the lookout for this very gang, and had fallen in with some natives who declared they had heard distant firing in the direction of Sunningdale. Thither therefore they had ridden with all possible speed.“Well, Mr Fanning—I wish I had had your luck—that’s all,” said the sergeant—while doing soldier’s justice to the succulent breakfast set before them. “You’ve captured the whole gang, single-handed, all but one, that is, and we are sure to have him soon.”“I wish you had, sergeant, if it would hurry on your sub-inspectorship,” said Renshaw, heartily—“But I must take exception to your word ‘single-handed,’ I don’t know what I should have done without Miss Selwood.”Whereat the sergeant, who, like many another man serving in the Mounted Police in those days, was a gentleman by birth, and who moreover had been casting many an admiring glance at Marian, turned to the latter with the most gracefully worded compliment he could muster. But, Marian herself was somewhat unresponsive. She could shoot people, if put to it, but her preferences were all the other way. As it was she was heartily thankful she had not killed the man, and that his wounds were not mortal.“I’m afraid he’ll only recover for Jack Ketch, then, Miss Selwood,” rejoined the sergeant. “They’re all booked for the ‘drop,’ to a dead certainty, for that other affair. What? Hadn’t you heard of it?”And then came out the story of the wholesale butchery in which these miscreants had been concerned. There was no difficulty whatever as to providing their identity. The Government rifles, stolen from the convict guards when these were overpowered, spoke for themselves. And with the horror of the recital vanished the reactionary glow of pity which had begun to agitate the feminine breast on behalf of the prisoners. Hanging was too good for such a set of fiends.Breakfast over, the police troopers set out with their prisoners, handcuffed, and extra well secured with reims; for the bush bordering the road was thick, as we have seen, and the men in desperate case. The two wounded ruffians were left behind until such time as they should be in a condition to travel—to recover, as the police sergeant had truly put it, for Jack Ketch; and the dead body of Muntiwa was taken to a distance, and built up in a kind of impromptu morgue of stones to protect it against wild animals and carrion birds. For the district surgeon would have to make a post-mortem, and a report, as by law required; a duty which that functionary might, or might not, hurry himself to fulfil.We may as well anticipate a few months, and finally dismiss the surviving scoundrels from our narrative. The wounded ones being sufficiently convalescent, the whole lot—for the man who escaped at Sunningdale was eventually taken—were put upon their trial for the murder of the Hottentot family. Two were accepted as Queen’s evidence, and their testimony, as confirmed by the murdered man’s dying deposition, established that Muntiwa and Klaas Baartman, the Bushman Hottentot, were the principal actors in the diabolical business—though there was not much difference in degree between the guilt of any of them, except that Booi, the other Kafir, had endeavoured strenuously to dissuade his fellow-scoundrels from the murder of the woman and children. Accordingly, the two men who had saved their lives by turning Queen’s evidence, were put back to take their trial for escaping from durance, and further acts of robbery committed or attempted, including their attack upon Sunningdale; while the remaining four were sentenced to death. Which sentence was carried out in the town of the district wherein the murder had taken place, and the cutthroats were duly hanged—all except the Kafir, Booi, that is, who being recommended to mercy on the consideration above given, his capital sentence was commuted to one of hard labour for life.

“Now, Marian,” whispered Renshaw. “This is going to be a life-and-death business, remember. It’s them or ourselves. You are sure you have no womanish qualms in favour of ‘giving them a chance,’ or any madness of that kind?”

“You will see!” was the curt reply, and the tone was sufficient.

“All right. When I say ‘Now,’ you must let into the fellow I’ll point out to you. Use your shot-barrel, remember. I’m going to let them get quite close, and we’ll give them a heavy charge of loepers apiece. Then if we get a show we’ll follow it up with rifle practice.”

She whispered assent, and for some moments they strained their eyes upon the shade of the outbuildings. Suddenly one dark figure flitted noiselessly out, followed by another and another, till the whole gang were full in sight, advancing in a diagonal line.

“Keep cool, Marian, keep cool,” warned Renshaw. “Wait for the word. They are not nearly close enough yet.”

On came the six cut-throats. Two black men led—then a bestial-looking, undersized Bushman Hottentot; his hideous yellow face, repulsive in the moonlight, cruel, ape-like; his eyes rolling in eager, ferocious expectation of the sanguinary orgy which awaited. The other three were half-bloods. Five of them carried guns, the sixth a pistol. Again Renshaw had done the very best thing he could, in shaping the plan we have heard him lay down.

On they came. Once the leader raised his hand, and all stopped, listening intently. The wild clamour of the dogs still arose in the distance. Reassured, the scoundrels advanced, swiftly, noiselessly. Seventy—sixty—fifty—forty yards.

“Ready, Marian! Take the third fellow. Now!”

Crash! Crash!

The double report bellowed forth into the midnight stillness. Mingling with it came a horrid scream. Marian’s aim had been true and deadly. The leader of the gang, a stalwart Kafir—had made one leap into the air and had fallen forward on his face. He lay motionless. Again Renshaw drew trigger, bringing a third man to the grass, his knee-bone shattered.

Then the unexpected took place. Instead of seeking safety in headlong flight, as the defenders had reckoned, the surviving three rushed madly round to the other side of the house, a bullet from Renshaw’s six-shooter failing to stop them.

“Stay here, Marian,” whispered the latter hurriedly. “Draw on the first fellow who shows himself.” And in a trice he was round to meet the new attack.

What was this? No sign of the enemy. Had they fled?

Suddenly a crash of glass—a scuffle and a torrent of Dutch curses. Quickly the position stood revealed.

There stood Gomfana, holding on to a human figure which was half in and half out of the window—head and shoulders through the shattered sash. He had got the fellow firmly by the neck with one hand, while with the other he was striving all he knew to drag him in by his clothing. But the villain—a stalwart half-breed—was almost too much for the sturdy young Kafir. The latter would have assegaied him in a moment had he owned three hands. Having but two, however, and these two being required to hold on to his enemy, it was out of the question—but hold on he did.

“Stop struggling or I’ll shoot you dead!” said Renshaw, in Dutch, placing the muzzle of his pistol against the man’s body. The fellow, thoroughly cowed, obeyed, and Gomfana, with a final effort, hauled him bodily into the room amid a terrific shatter of falling glass.

“What on earth’s the row, Uncle Renshaw?” said a boy’s voice.

“Fred, cut away and find areim” Rope is little used in South Africa, its place being supplied by raw hide-thongs termed as above. “Sharp’s the word—mind.”

In a twinkling the youngster was back with the required article, and almost as quickly Renshaw’s ready hand had strapped up the midnight robber so that the latter could not move a limb. Now, all this had happened in far less time than it has taken to narrate.

But there were still two of the scoundrels unaccounted for. That they had not fled Renshaw was certain. And now the dogs, hearing the firing and shouting, and judging the bulk of the fun lay in that direction, abandoned their mysterious quarry and came tearing up open-mouthed. Then the secret stood explained. The remaining two were crouching beneath some rockwork at one corner of the verandah, presumably following the tactics of the large veldt-spider who when suddenly surprised is apt to run straight in upon the intruder, judging, rightly in the main, that in this position the latter will not be able to crush him.

“Throw down your arms or you are dead men!” cried Renshaw, covering the pair with his barrels.

The fellows, who had just emptied their guns—with small effect, however—among the snarling, leaping, savage pack which had at once assailed them, did not hesitate a moment. They were the least desperate of the gang, and the fearful execution done among their comrades had struck wholesome terror into themselves. Begging piteously for mercy, they shambled forth and submitted to being duly secured.

No sooner was this effected than a sharp report rang out in the room where Marian had been posted. Promptly gaining the spot, Renshaw found that the shot had not been fired by her, but by small Basil Selwood.

“Why, what are you blazing at, Basil? Those chaps are safely winged, if they’re not dead.”

“Are they? That black chap was trying to cut away on two hands and a leg,” answered the youngster. “I thought I’d stop that. But I didn’t hit him,” he added candidly.

“I must go and see to them. You and Fred must mount guard over the prisoners, and send Gomfana to me.”

Accompanied by the young Kafir, Renshaw sallied forth. The dogs had already pounced upon the wounded Bushman, and in another minute would have worried him to death. Game to the last, however, the ferocious ruffian had fired among them, killing one, and but for the fact that his gun was empty would have fired upon his human rescuers. Investigation showed that he was badly wounded in both legs, notwithstanding which, well knowing the desperate hardihood of the race, Renshaw deemed it necessary to bind his hands. The other wounded man, a Kafir, had also a broken leg. He, however, realising how thoroughly the odds were against him, submitted sullenly to the inevitable. The sixth and last, he who had led the gang, was stone dead, shot through the heart. Renshaw turned the body over. The empty eye-socket and the brutal pock-marked features seemed distorted in a fiend-like leer beneath the moonlight. Renshaw had no difficulty in recognising the description of the Kafir, Muntiwa.

Meanwhile, how had the non-combatants been faring? Mrs Selwood, having armed herself with a double gun, had retired to her children’s room, resolved that her post was there. She had taken Violet with her, and the latter had fallen into a fit of terror that was simply uncontrollable. The crash of the firearms, the dread lull intervening, the subdued anxious voices of the defenders, the terrible suspense, had all been too much for her; nor could the reassurances of her hostess, or even the example of pluck shown by the child Effie, avail to allay her fears. Finally, she went off into a dead swoon.

As for the two youngsters, Fred and Basil, the prevailing idea in their minds was one of unqualified disgust at not having been allowed to take part in the fight from the very beginning.

“Why didn’t you call us, Uncle Renshaw?” was their continual cry. “We’d have knocked fits out of thoseschelms. Wouldn’t we just!”

“You bloodthirsty young ruffians! You have plenty of time before you for that sort of thing, and you’ll have plenty of opportunities for getting and giving hard knocks by the time you get to my age,” he would reply good-humouredly. But the youngsters only shook their heads with expressions of the most intense disappointment and disgust.

Not much sleep for the household during the remainder of that night. Renshaw found his time and his vigilance fully occupied in attending to the security of his prisoners, and doing what he could for the wounded. The fellows, for their part, were disposed to accept the inevitable, and make the best of the situation. They were bound to be hanged anyhow, though in his secret heart each man hoped that his life might be spared. Meanwhile, it was better to enjoy good rations than bad ones, and to that end it was as well to conciliate theBaas; and Renshaw had no difficulty, accordingly, in getting at the story of the attack.

Of course, each swore he was not the instigator; of course, each laid the blame on the dead man, Muntiwa. He was the prime mover in the enterprise. He had a grudge against theBaaswho lived there, and as they all stood and fell together they had been obliged to help him in his scheme of plunder. Of course, too, each and all were ready to swear that plunder was their only object. They would not have harmed anybody, not they; no, not for all the world. Thus the three half-breeds. But Booi, the Kafir, volunteered no statement whatever, and Klaas Baartman, the Bushman Hottentot, savagely declared that he had intended to cut the throat of every woman and child on the place. The seventh of the gang, who was still at large, having no firearm, had been posted under the willows to draw off the dogs—even as Renshaw had conjectured.

Asked whether they knew theBaasof the place was absent, they replied that one of them had been watching and had seen unmistakable signs that this was the case. The rest of the gang had watched the main road, and when Renshaw had passed they had intended to let him go by unmolested, so as to render more complete their projected surprise, and would have, but for the indiscretion of one of their number—of course the man who had not been captured.

In the morning, opportunely enough, a posse of Mounted Police arrived—a sergeant and three troopers. They had been patrolling the mountains on the lookout for this very gang, and had fallen in with some natives who declared they had heard distant firing in the direction of Sunningdale. Thither therefore they had ridden with all possible speed.

“Well, Mr Fanning—I wish I had had your luck—that’s all,” said the sergeant—while doing soldier’s justice to the succulent breakfast set before them. “You’ve captured the whole gang, single-handed, all but one, that is, and we are sure to have him soon.”

“I wish you had, sergeant, if it would hurry on your sub-inspectorship,” said Renshaw, heartily—“But I must take exception to your word ‘single-handed,’ I don’t know what I should have done without Miss Selwood.”

Whereat the sergeant, who, like many another man serving in the Mounted Police in those days, was a gentleman by birth, and who moreover had been casting many an admiring glance at Marian, turned to the latter with the most gracefully worded compliment he could muster. But, Marian herself was somewhat unresponsive. She could shoot people, if put to it, but her preferences were all the other way. As it was she was heartily thankful she had not killed the man, and that his wounds were not mortal.

“I’m afraid he’ll only recover for Jack Ketch, then, Miss Selwood,” rejoined the sergeant. “They’re all booked for the ‘drop,’ to a dead certainty, for that other affair. What? Hadn’t you heard of it?”

And then came out the story of the wholesale butchery in which these miscreants had been concerned. There was no difficulty whatever as to providing their identity. The Government rifles, stolen from the convict guards when these were overpowered, spoke for themselves. And with the horror of the recital vanished the reactionary glow of pity which had begun to agitate the feminine breast on behalf of the prisoners. Hanging was too good for such a set of fiends.

Breakfast over, the police troopers set out with their prisoners, handcuffed, and extra well secured with reims; for the bush bordering the road was thick, as we have seen, and the men in desperate case. The two wounded ruffians were left behind until such time as they should be in a condition to travel—to recover, as the police sergeant had truly put it, for Jack Ketch; and the dead body of Muntiwa was taken to a distance, and built up in a kind of impromptu morgue of stones to protect it against wild animals and carrion birds. For the district surgeon would have to make a post-mortem, and a report, as by law required; a duty which that functionary might, or might not, hurry himself to fulfil.

We may as well anticipate a few months, and finally dismiss the surviving scoundrels from our narrative. The wounded ones being sufficiently convalescent, the whole lot—for the man who escaped at Sunningdale was eventually taken—were put upon their trial for the murder of the Hottentot family. Two were accepted as Queen’s evidence, and their testimony, as confirmed by the murdered man’s dying deposition, established that Muntiwa and Klaas Baartman, the Bushman Hottentot, were the principal actors in the diabolical business—though there was not much difference in degree between the guilt of any of them, except that Booi, the other Kafir, had endeavoured strenuously to dissuade his fellow-scoundrels from the murder of the woman and children. Accordingly, the two men who had saved their lives by turning Queen’s evidence, were put back to take their trial for escaping from durance, and further acts of robbery committed or attempted, including their attack upon Sunningdale; while the remaining four were sentenced to death. Which sentence was carried out in the town of the district wherein the murder had taken place, and the cutthroats were duly hanged—all except the Kafir, Booi, that is, who being recommended to mercy on the consideration above given, his capital sentence was commuted to one of hard labour for life.

Chapter Seventeen.After the Storm.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 consummatesavoir 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?

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 consummatesavoir 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?

Chapter Eighteen.In the Long Kloof.“How am I this morning? Oh yes, it’s all very well. But you don’t care a straw how I am, or what becomes of me—now!”Thus Violet Avory, in the softest, most plaintive tone, at the same time lifting her eyelashes in just one quick, reproachful glance. The shaft was effective. It brought down the bird at once. Renshaw stopped.“I don’t think it’s quite kind of you to say that, Miss Avory,” he answered, a trifle nettled, for all that killing glance; for all that beseeching, cooing tone. “You know you do not believe what you are saying.”She had been leaning over the gate which led out of the flower garden in front of the house. He was passing out to set off on his numerous self-imposed duties, having for their object the keeping everything straight during his friend’s absence. The morning was young still—not quite ten o’clock. He was hurrying by with a pleasant inquiry as to her well-being, when arrested by her speech as above.“Thank you,” she answered, “I do happen to believe it, though. You never come near me now—in fact, you avoid me like the plague. We have not had one talk together since you came back. However, you don’t care—now, as I said before.”To an unprejudiced hearer conversant with the state of affairs, this was pretty thick. For by that time it was manifest to all that the only person who had any chance of a “talk together” with the speaker—as she euphemistically put it—was Sellon; and long before it was to all thus manifest the fact was painfully evident to Renshaw Fanning.“If it is as you say, I don’t think you can blame me,” he answered. “I thought my leaving you alone was exactly what you would wish. And that idea you yourself seemed to bear out both by word and act.”“Do you think I have so many—friends, that I can bear to part with one, Renshaw?”Her tone was soft, pleading—suggestive of a tinge of despair. The velvety eyes seemed on the point of brimming, as her glance reproachfully met his, and a delicate flush came into her cheeks. She was standing beneath a cactus, whose great prismatic blossoms in the background hung like a shower of crimson stars, one of them just touching her dark hair. To the unprejudiced witness again, conversant with the facts, Violet Avory, standing there amid the sensuous falling of gorgeous blossoms, would have recalled some graceful, purring, treacherous feline, beautiful in its satin-skinned curves, yet withal none the less deadly of intent towards the foolish creatures who should constitute its prey. In this man, however, in spite of the sharp awakening which the last couple of weeks had brought with them, her arts begat no repulsion. There was no breaking away from the old spell so easily. A mist floated before his eyes, and the old tremble came into his voice, as he replied—“Friends! I should have thought you had plenty. For instance—”“For instance what?”“Well, I was going to say, look how anxious we have all been to see you become your old self again; but it struck me that after what you begun by saying I had better not.”“Will you do something if I ask you?” she said suddenly.“Certainly, if it is anything within my power.”“I want you to take me for a ride—now, this morning. Will you?”“With pleasure,” he answered, brightening up—all prudent resolves scattered to the winds.“I think it will do me good. Besides—I want to talk to you. Now, I’ll go and get ready. But mind—don’t let’s have any of the others, or it will be no use. Make some excuse about there being no horses or something.”And she started off indoors, while he went round to see about getting the horses up from the large paddock, wherein a certain supply of the noble animal was always kept for home use.Violet was not much of a rider; in fact, she was rather timid in the saddle. But she had a good seat for all show purposes, and being one of those girls who do everything gracefully, she looked as well on horseback as anywhere else.In the eyes of her present escort, this lovely sunshiny morning, she looked more than bewitching; which being so, it is not surprising that all his strongly formed and salutary resolutions should rapidly ooze out at his finger-ends. For he had half-unconsciously formed many resolutions, not the least of which was that he would think no more of Violet Avory—at any rate, except as a friend.Though his strong, self-contained nature had rendered him an easy prey to her wiles—easier because so thorough, once he had succumbed—yet it supplied a wholesome counterbalance. Which counterbalance lay in an unswerving sense of self-respect.Try as she would, Violet had not been able to conceal altogether her partiality for Sellon. All her sage precepts to the latter notwithstanding, she had more than once allowed her prudence to lull. The sharp precocity of the children had discovered their secret in no time, and, disliking her as they did, they had, we may be sure, been at no pains to hold their prying, chattering little tongues. Then the whole thing had become common property to all around.That she should prefer Sellon seemed to Renshaw quite a natural thing. In his single-heartedness, his utter freedom from egotism, he was sublimely unconscious of any advantages which he himself might possess over the other. She had rejected him unequivocally, for he had once put his fate to the test. She was therefore perfectly free to show preference for whosoever she pleased. The one consideration which caused him to feel sore at times—and he would not have been human had it been otherwise—was the consciousness that he himself was the agency through which the two had been thrown together. Many a man would have reflected rather bitterly on the strange freak of fortune which had once appointed him the preserver of his successful rival’s life. But Renshaw Fanning’s nature was too noble to entertain any such reflection. If it occurred to him, he would cast forth the idea in horror, as something beyond all words contemptible.This being so, he had made up his mind to accept the inevitable, and had succeeded so well—outwardly, at least—as to give his tormentor some colour for the opening words of our present chapter. But he little knew Violet Avory. That insatiable little heart-breaker fully believed in eating her cakeandhaving it, too. She was not going to let it be said that any man had given her up, least of all this one. The giving up must come from her own side.“How glum you are, Renshaw,” she began, at last. “You have said nothing but ‘yes’ or ‘no’ ever since we left the house. And that was at least half an hour ago.”He started guiltily. The use of his Christian name was an artfully directed red-hot shot from her battery. In public it was always “Mr Fanning.” And they had not met otherwise than in public since his return.“Am I?” he echoed. “I really beg your pardon, but I am afraid I must be.”“First of all, where are you going to take me?”“We had better ride up to the head of the Long Kloof. It is only a gradual ascent, and an easier ride for you.”This was agreed to, and presently they were winding between the forest-clad spurs of the hills; on, leisurely, at a foot’s-pace; the great rolling seas of verdure, spangled with many a fantastic-hued blossom, sweeping down to the path itself; the wild black-mouthed gorges echoing the piping call of birds in the brake, and the sullen deep-throated bark of the sentinel baboon, squatted high overhead.But the ride, so far from doing her good, seemed, judging from results, to be exercising a still further damping effect upon Violet’s spirits. It had become her turn now to answer in monosyllables, as her companion tried to interest her in the scenery and surroundings. All of a sudden she wildly burst into tears.Down went Renshaw’s wise resolutions, the result of a painful and severe course of self-striving, like a house of cards. The sight of her grief seemed more than he could bear.“Good heavens! Violet—darling—what is it? Why are you unhappy?”The tone was enough. The old tremor of passion struggling to repress itself. Had she forged this weapon deliberately, Violet must have rejoiced over its success. But this time the outburst was genuine.“Oh, I sometimes wish I could die!” she answered, as soon as she could control her voice. “Then there would be a peaceful ending to it all, at any rate.”“Ending to what? You have been very much shaken, dear—since that unfortunate skirmish the other night. But you must try and forget that and become your own bright self again. It cannot be that you have any real trouble on your mind?”“Oh, Renshaw—you have been so hard to me of late—so cold and silent, as if you didn’t care so much as to speak to me—and I have felt it so—so much. Ah, but you don’t believe me.”The man’s face grew white. What did this mean? Had he been deceiving himself all this time? While he had thought she was trying once more to whistle him back to her lure, to amuse herself with him and his most sacred feelings as a mere pastime during the other’s absence—could it be after all that she had merely been playing off the other against him—piqued at the outward cooling of his attentions? A tumultuous rush of feeling went through his heart and brain. But like a douche of cold water upon the fainting patient came her next words, bringing him to with a kind of mental gasp.“You have felt it so much?” he echoed, quickly.“Yes. I could not bear the thought of losing such a staunch, true-hearted friend as you would be—as you are. You don’t know how I value the idea of your sympathy.”Crash went the newly born resuscitation of his hopes—scattered to fragments—shivered into empty nothingness by just one word. “Friend!” Hateful word in such conjunction! His voice seemed numbed and strained as he rejoined—“I am sorry you should think of regarding me as anything less than a friend—and you must know that you could never lack my sympathy. Then there is something troubling you?”“Now you are angry with me. Oh, Renshaw—and I am so miserable. You speak in such a cold, severe tone. And I thought you would have been so different.”“God forgive me if I should have seemed to be angry with you,” he replied. “But—how can I help you? You have not told me what your trouble is.”“Renshaw, I believe you can be as secret as the grave. It concerns myself—and another. But nothing that you can do can remove it. Nothing but misery can come of it, if I do not die myself, that is.”“One word, Violet. You are sure nothing I can do will help you? I do not wish to force your confidence, remember.”“Nothing,” was the despairing answer. “Only this, Renshaw. Promise that you will stand my friend—Heaven knows I may need it and do need it—whatever others may say or do. Promise that if ever you can help me you will.”Their eyes met—then their hands.“I promise both things,” he answered gravely.But, as they turned their horses’ heads to ride homewards, there was a heavy heart within Renshaw Fanning’s breast; a heart full of sad and heavy despair. His love for this girl was no mere fleeting passion, but the terribly earnest and concentrated abandonment of a man of mature years and strong feelings. Now there was an end of everything. He had as good as heard from her own lips that her affections were bound up with another, and who that other was his perceptions left him no room for doubt. But why, then, should all the misery ensue at which she had hinted? Could it be that her preference was but inadequately returned? Or was there some obstacle in the way—lack of means, opposition of parents, or similar difficulties, which are apt to seem to those most closely concerned so insurmountable under the circumstances? In his own mind, he had no doubt but that things would all come right sooner or later, and said as much.But then, you see, they were at cross purposes, as people who deal in veiled hints and half-confidences well-nigh invariably are.And the promise thus deliberately uttered during that sunny morning’s ride in the Long Kloof, will he ever be called upon to take it up?We shall see.

“How am I this morning? Oh yes, it’s all very well. But you don’t care a straw how I am, or what becomes of me—now!”

Thus Violet Avory, in the softest, most plaintive tone, at the same time lifting her eyelashes in just one quick, reproachful glance. The shaft was effective. It brought down the bird at once. Renshaw stopped.

“I don’t think it’s quite kind of you to say that, Miss Avory,” he answered, a trifle nettled, for all that killing glance; for all that beseeching, cooing tone. “You know you do not believe what you are saying.”

She had been leaning over the gate which led out of the flower garden in front of the house. He was passing out to set off on his numerous self-imposed duties, having for their object the keeping everything straight during his friend’s absence. The morning was young still—not quite ten o’clock. He was hurrying by with a pleasant inquiry as to her well-being, when arrested by her speech as above.

“Thank you,” she answered, “I do happen to believe it, though. You never come near me now—in fact, you avoid me like the plague. We have not had one talk together since you came back. However, you don’t care—now, as I said before.”

To an unprejudiced hearer conversant with the state of affairs, this was pretty thick. For by that time it was manifest to all that the only person who had any chance of a “talk together” with the speaker—as she euphemistically put it—was Sellon; and long before it was to all thus manifest the fact was painfully evident to Renshaw Fanning.

“If it is as you say, I don’t think you can blame me,” he answered. “I thought my leaving you alone was exactly what you would wish. And that idea you yourself seemed to bear out both by word and act.”

“Do you think I have so many—friends, that I can bear to part with one, Renshaw?”

Her tone was soft, pleading—suggestive of a tinge of despair. The velvety eyes seemed on the point of brimming, as her glance reproachfully met his, and a delicate flush came into her cheeks. She was standing beneath a cactus, whose great prismatic blossoms in the background hung like a shower of crimson stars, one of them just touching her dark hair. To the unprejudiced witness again, conversant with the facts, Violet Avory, standing there amid the sensuous falling of gorgeous blossoms, would have recalled some graceful, purring, treacherous feline, beautiful in its satin-skinned curves, yet withal none the less deadly of intent towards the foolish creatures who should constitute its prey. In this man, however, in spite of the sharp awakening which the last couple of weeks had brought with them, her arts begat no repulsion. There was no breaking away from the old spell so easily. A mist floated before his eyes, and the old tremble came into his voice, as he replied—

“Friends! I should have thought you had plenty. For instance—”

“For instance what?”

“Well, I was going to say, look how anxious we have all been to see you become your old self again; but it struck me that after what you begun by saying I had better not.”

“Will you do something if I ask you?” she said suddenly.

“Certainly, if it is anything within my power.”

“I want you to take me for a ride—now, this morning. Will you?”

“With pleasure,” he answered, brightening up—all prudent resolves scattered to the winds.

“I think it will do me good. Besides—I want to talk to you. Now, I’ll go and get ready. But mind—don’t let’s have any of the others, or it will be no use. Make some excuse about there being no horses or something.”

And she started off indoors, while he went round to see about getting the horses up from the large paddock, wherein a certain supply of the noble animal was always kept for home use.

Violet was not much of a rider; in fact, she was rather timid in the saddle. But she had a good seat for all show purposes, and being one of those girls who do everything gracefully, she looked as well on horseback as anywhere else.

In the eyes of her present escort, this lovely sunshiny morning, she looked more than bewitching; which being so, it is not surprising that all his strongly formed and salutary resolutions should rapidly ooze out at his finger-ends. For he had half-unconsciously formed many resolutions, not the least of which was that he would think no more of Violet Avory—at any rate, except as a friend.

Though his strong, self-contained nature had rendered him an easy prey to her wiles—easier because so thorough, once he had succumbed—yet it supplied a wholesome counterbalance. Which counterbalance lay in an unswerving sense of self-respect.

Try as she would, Violet had not been able to conceal altogether her partiality for Sellon. All her sage precepts to the latter notwithstanding, she had more than once allowed her prudence to lull. The sharp precocity of the children had discovered their secret in no time, and, disliking her as they did, they had, we may be sure, been at no pains to hold their prying, chattering little tongues. Then the whole thing had become common property to all around.

That she should prefer Sellon seemed to Renshaw quite a natural thing. In his single-heartedness, his utter freedom from egotism, he was sublimely unconscious of any advantages which he himself might possess over the other. She had rejected him unequivocally, for he had once put his fate to the test. She was therefore perfectly free to show preference for whosoever she pleased. The one consideration which caused him to feel sore at times—and he would not have been human had it been otherwise—was the consciousness that he himself was the agency through which the two had been thrown together. Many a man would have reflected rather bitterly on the strange freak of fortune which had once appointed him the preserver of his successful rival’s life. But Renshaw Fanning’s nature was too noble to entertain any such reflection. If it occurred to him, he would cast forth the idea in horror, as something beyond all words contemptible.

This being so, he had made up his mind to accept the inevitable, and had succeeded so well—outwardly, at least—as to give his tormentor some colour for the opening words of our present chapter. But he little knew Violet Avory. That insatiable little heart-breaker fully believed in eating her cakeandhaving it, too. She was not going to let it be said that any man had given her up, least of all this one. The giving up must come from her own side.

“How glum you are, Renshaw,” she began, at last. “You have said nothing but ‘yes’ or ‘no’ ever since we left the house. And that was at least half an hour ago.”

He started guiltily. The use of his Christian name was an artfully directed red-hot shot from her battery. In public it was always “Mr Fanning.” And they had not met otherwise than in public since his return.

“Am I?” he echoed. “I really beg your pardon, but I am afraid I must be.”

“First of all, where are you going to take me?”

“We had better ride up to the head of the Long Kloof. It is only a gradual ascent, and an easier ride for you.”

This was agreed to, and presently they were winding between the forest-clad spurs of the hills; on, leisurely, at a foot’s-pace; the great rolling seas of verdure, spangled with many a fantastic-hued blossom, sweeping down to the path itself; the wild black-mouthed gorges echoing the piping call of birds in the brake, and the sullen deep-throated bark of the sentinel baboon, squatted high overhead.

But the ride, so far from doing her good, seemed, judging from results, to be exercising a still further damping effect upon Violet’s spirits. It had become her turn now to answer in monosyllables, as her companion tried to interest her in the scenery and surroundings. All of a sudden she wildly burst into tears.

Down went Renshaw’s wise resolutions, the result of a painful and severe course of self-striving, like a house of cards. The sight of her grief seemed more than he could bear.

“Good heavens! Violet—darling—what is it? Why are you unhappy?”

The tone was enough. The old tremor of passion struggling to repress itself. Had she forged this weapon deliberately, Violet must have rejoiced over its success. But this time the outburst was genuine.

“Oh, I sometimes wish I could die!” she answered, as soon as she could control her voice. “Then there would be a peaceful ending to it all, at any rate.”

“Ending to what? You have been very much shaken, dear—since that unfortunate skirmish the other night. But you must try and forget that and become your own bright self again. It cannot be that you have any real trouble on your mind?”

“Oh, Renshaw—you have been so hard to me of late—so cold and silent, as if you didn’t care so much as to speak to me—and I have felt it so—so much. Ah, but you don’t believe me.”

The man’s face grew white. What did this mean? Had he been deceiving himself all this time? While he had thought she was trying once more to whistle him back to her lure, to amuse herself with him and his most sacred feelings as a mere pastime during the other’s absence—could it be after all that she had merely been playing off the other against him—piqued at the outward cooling of his attentions? A tumultuous rush of feeling went through his heart and brain. But like a douche of cold water upon the fainting patient came her next words, bringing him to with a kind of mental gasp.

“You have felt it so much?” he echoed, quickly.

“Yes. I could not bear the thought of losing such a staunch, true-hearted friend as you would be—as you are. You don’t know how I value the idea of your sympathy.”

Crash went the newly born resuscitation of his hopes—scattered to fragments—shivered into empty nothingness by just one word. “Friend!” Hateful word in such conjunction! His voice seemed numbed and strained as he rejoined—

“I am sorry you should think of regarding me as anything less than a friend—and you must know that you could never lack my sympathy. Then there is something troubling you?”

“Now you are angry with me. Oh, Renshaw—and I am so miserable. You speak in such a cold, severe tone. And I thought you would have been so different.”

“God forgive me if I should have seemed to be angry with you,” he replied. “But—how can I help you? You have not told me what your trouble is.”

“Renshaw, I believe you can be as secret as the grave. It concerns myself—and another. But nothing that you can do can remove it. Nothing but misery can come of it, if I do not die myself, that is.”

“One word, Violet. You are sure nothing I can do will help you? I do not wish to force your confidence, remember.”

“Nothing,” was the despairing answer. “Only this, Renshaw. Promise that you will stand my friend—Heaven knows I may need it and do need it—whatever others may say or do. Promise that if ever you can help me you will.”

Their eyes met—then their hands.

“I promise both things,” he answered gravely.

But, as they turned their horses’ heads to ride homewards, there was a heavy heart within Renshaw Fanning’s breast; a heart full of sad and heavy despair. His love for this girl was no mere fleeting passion, but the terribly earnest and concentrated abandonment of a man of mature years and strong feelings. Now there was an end of everything. He had as good as heard from her own lips that her affections were bound up with another, and who that other was his perceptions left him no room for doubt. But why, then, should all the misery ensue at which she had hinted? Could it be that her preference was but inadequately returned? Or was there some obstacle in the way—lack of means, opposition of parents, or similar difficulties, which are apt to seem to those most closely concerned so insurmountable under the circumstances? In his own mind, he had no doubt but that things would all come right sooner or later, and said as much.

But then, you see, they were at cross purposes, as people who deal in veiled hints and half-confidences well-nigh invariably are.

And the promise thus deliberately uttered during that sunny morning’s ride in the Long Kloof, will he ever be called upon to take it up?

We shall see.

Chapter Nineteen.A Good Offer.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?

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?

Back to IndexNext