Volume Two—Chapter One.

Volume Two—Chapter One.“Is it Peace or War? Better War.”George Payne rode slowly away from the village of Komgha.The air was warm and balmy, for the time of the southern winter was past, and on this September day not even the lightest of feathery clouds flecked the sky above the sunny plains of British Kaffraria. Now and again on the brow of one of the rolling eminences, which, smooth grassy, and round, alternated with mimosa-dotted vales, the rider might feel a puff of fresh air from the bine Indian Ocean thirty miles away, and which he was leaving further and further behind him with every tread of his steed. On his left front rose the round tops of the Kabousie hills, while beyond them a ridge of wooded heights slept in the golden haze of the early afternoon.But he had little thought to spare for beauties of scenery, had this man, as he mechanically urged on his steed—a compact, well-stepping roadster—now at a long easy canter, now subsiding into a fast walk; for all his reflections were at that moment concentrated on the leading question of the day, a question which for weeks past had been in the mind of every dweller on that restless line of frontier, a question which to them was fraught with weighty apprehension—Peace or War?And this topic, which was in everybody’s month, had it any foundation to rest upon, or was it merely a recurrence of one of those periodical scares which, with more or less reason, had of late years seriously disturbed the border districts? Ministers and legislators might, from their places in the Assembly, deny all grounds for it; merchants and snug citizens of the western capital might deride it; the pseudo-philanthropic party, likewise at safe distance, might decry it as a libel upon and a plot against the native population, to despoil them of their lands, and what not. Yet Cape Town was many hundred miles from the unprotected border, and it is so very easy at a safe distance to ridicule the apprehensions of those to whom the fulfilment of their fears would mean ruin and death. For ignore it as some would, the fact remained that a cloud, at first no bigger than a man’s hand, but already of sufficiently alarming proportions, was gathering beyond the Kei, to roll on and on till it should overwhelm all within reach—unless stopped in time, that is. And such check the country’s rulers apparently deemed it their special mission not to facilitate.This, then, was the topic whereon George Payne’s thoughts were fixed as he rode over those grassy Kaffrarian plains in the direction of his home; and some additional rumours which he had heard that morning, had gone far towards seriously disquieting him.He was a broad-shouldered, strongly-built man, about five feet ten in his shoes, though a slight stoop made him look shorter. He had a quiet, sensible face, and was sparing and deliberate of speech; this on first acquaintance might lead one to pronounce him “slow,” were it not for an occasional satiric burst, accompanied by a twinkle in the keen grey eyes, which alone would suffice to show that he was very far from being a fool. And, though quiet and reserved on first acquaintance, he had a sunny geniality of manner which was very taking—in fact, was as good-natured a fellow as ever lived. He was thirty-six years of age, and of colonial birth; and though he had made a couple of visits to the mother country he seldom spoke of it. When he did, his audience, who had settled in its own mind that he had never been out of the colony, would be mightily taken aback by his shrewd insight into men and things.Around lay the broad, rolling country; here and there in the distance might be seen the white walls of a homestead or two, glistening in the sun; or a clump of Kafir huts, smoky, squalid-looking, and tumble-down, lay about, whence a tribe of yelling mongrels rushed clamouring down to the path to mouth at the equestrian and snap at his horse’s heels, while their owners stood, with kerries grasped in their dark, sinewy hands, scowling at the passer-by, and making no attempt to call off their detestable property. But the horseman cared little or nothing for this. If the four-footed pests came too near, he slashed them unmercifully with his long raw-hide whip, sending them howling back to their savage masters. At length he drew rein before a thatched, white-washed dwelling, a typical specimen of the rougher class of frontier farmhouse. A man came out—a tall man, clad in a grey flannel shirt and corduroy trousers; a slouch hat was stuck on one side of his head, a mighty red heard descended over his chest, and in his mouth was a short wooden pipe.“Well, Marshall,” cried Payne, dismounting. “How’s the world been using you of late?”“So so,” replied the other, shaking hands. “Where are you from?”“Komgha.”“Any news?”“N-no. Nothing but ‘gas,’ in fact. One gets so sick of all the yarns that have been flying about that really one doesn’t know what to believe. I’ve got into the way of believing nothing.”“Ah. Well, now, I think there’s something in them. And I’ll tell you what it is, Payne. If I were a married man like you I’d send my family away to King (King Williamstown. The chief town of British Kaffraria, commonly thus abbreviated) or somewhere, for depend upon it we shall have hot work here before long. They’re not safe out there at your place, I tell you.”Payne laughed lightly. “Why, Marshall,” he said, “if you’re not becoming as great an old scare-monger as the rest! Oh, by the way, there was some news. It’s said that the new Governor’s coming up to the frontier.”“Worse and worse—if it’s true. He wouldn’t be coming if there wasn’t good cause for it, I can tell you. What sort of a feller is he?”“First-rate, from all accounts.”“H’m. Did you hear anything else?”“Two troops of police been ordered across the Kei.”“Fat lot of good they’ll do,” growled Marshall. “A lot o’ greenhorns. Why, some of them can’t stick on their horses, and hardly know the butt from the muzzle of their carbines. The police are not what they used to be, since they’ve taken to getting out these raw chaps from England. Time was when the force was made up of good colonial men, who could ride and shoot, and follow spoor as easily as a waggon-road, and now—pooh!” And the speaker knocked the ashes out of his pipe with a contemptuous jerk.“That’s all very well,” said Payne. “They may not be good for much at spoor, and there are a few greenhorns among them, as you say. But there are some fine fellows, too—fellows with any amount of fight in them—and, after all, that’s what we want now. You’ll see, they’ll do good service yet, if they get a fair chance.”The other shook his head. “Dunno. But—have a drop of grog?”“No, thanks; I must be moving on.”“Won’t you, really? Do.”“No, thanks. But I say, Marshall, when are you coming over our way? We haven’t seen you for about ten years. Come on Sunday.”The other filled and lighted his pipe. “Well, the fact is, I’ve had a lot to do of late,” he replied at length, between sundry vigorous puffs. “And then, you see, I’m a rough sort of feller and haven’t got any company manners, and now you’ve got company. Perhaps, after all, I’m best here.”“You surly old humbug,” said Payne, with a laugh, “I never heard such bosh. You come up on Sunday at latest, or we shall quarrel. Call yourself a neighbour, indeed! Now you’ll come, won’t you?”“I’ll try.”“All right, that’s settled. Ta-ta;” and mounting his horse Payne rode off.Gradually the long smooth slopes became steeper, falling off into abrupt ravines, affording a glimpse of the Great Kei, which glided along, far down between its lofty banks—now winding round a smooth-headed knoll, now straightening as it washed the base of some huge wall of rock—a distant musical murmur being upborne upon the still air as it rushed over a stony shallow. From the far plains beyond, many a blue column of smoke rose into the sunshine, where dotted about lay the clustering kraals of the savage Gcalekas, whose hordes, even then, were gathering for the long-expected and somewhat dreaded inroad upon the peace of the colony. A bird sang in the thick thorn-protected brake adjoining the path, a white vulture or two soared lazily from one of the huge krantzes overhanging the river, insects hummed in the sunlight, and it seemed as if nothing but the savagery of man could avail to break the peaceful calm of that glorious scene, amid which Payne pursued his way wrapped in uneasy thought; for in spite of his sceptical tone when talking to Marshall he felt by no means the assurance that he would have had that worthy believe.His horse suddenly pricked up its ears as the sound of deep voices immediately in front became audible, and in a moment three tall, savage-looking Kafirs, their athletic bodies smeared from head to foot with red ochre, advanced down the path at a run, swinging their kerries.Now the said path was, just there, only wide enough for a single horseman, being shut in on either side by high thorn-bushes, and Payne naturally expected the pedestrians to make way for him. They, however, had no such intention, and his steed began to show signs of terror at the sudden appearance of the brawny, ochre-smeared barbarians, with their gleaming necklaces of jackal’s teeth rattling as they advanced.“Out of the way, you vagabonds,” shouted Payne, angrily. “Out of the road; d’you hear?” and he raised his whip menacingly.“Aow! Out of the way yourself,umlüngu!” (white man) insolently replied the foremost Kafir in his great deep tones, at the same time seizing the bridle and trying to jerk the horse’s head round. “We won’t get out of the way for you.”Payne’s whip descended, the lash curling with an angry “swish” round the naked body of the speaker.“Take that, you hound!” he cried. “And now let go.” And he clubbed his whip to strike with the heavy loaded end.“Haoo-ow! Hah!” roared the savage, dropping the bridle and stepping back a pace or two, while the lurid lightnings of wild-beast wrath shot from his eyes. Then he sprang at Payne like a tiger-cat, aiming a sledge-hammer blow at him with his heavy stick.Fortunately for Payne he managed to throw up his arm in time to save his head, or he would have fallen to the ground, brained by the terrific force of the blow. Fortunately, too, for him, his adversaries carried no assegais, or he would there and then have been stabbed through and through and his body flung over the adjacent cliff into the Kei, for he need expect no mercy from such foes. The land was almost in a state of war, and brutal outrages of this kind were only too terribly common. He made a furious blow at his opponent with the butt of his whip, but ineffectively, for at the moment of striking he felt himself seized by a powerful hand and dragged from his horse, which backed into the bushes terrified and snorting. Then nearly stunned by the fall he lay upon the ground, and the sky and earth and foliage all went round in one giddy, sickening whirl, and still he could see the gigantic figure of the savage, who, with glaring eyes and white gleaming teeth, was advancing upon him with kerrie upraised to strike, and he lay there, powerless even to avoid the blow. In a second it would fall, when—woof! something descended through the air, a large dark object darted between him and the sky, and his enemy fell heavily to the earth. He heard the clash of kerries in strike and parry, a fierce imprecation, and the ring of a pistol-shot; then he knew no more till he awoke to consciousness with some one bending over him and fanning his brow.“Don’t move,” said the stranger. “Take it easy a little longer, and then you’ll feel better.”Payne looked wonderingly at the dark sun-browned face bent over him, with the calm, resolute, blue-grey eyes and clear-cut features, and it seemed to him that he had seen the owner of it before.“Oh, I feel all right now,” he said, raising himself upon one elbow and then sitting up. “A little muddled, you know, that’s all.”“I venture to say that our friend here, feels ‘a little muddled,’” remarked the other, pushing with his foot the form of a prostrate Kafir.Payne stood up, rather giddily, and recognised his assailant in the inert, motionless mass.“I say, though, but the brute isn’t dead?” he said, with just a tinge of concern, bending over the fallen savage.“He isn’t dead. A stirrup-iron properly handled is a grand weapon; but Kafir skulls are notoriously thick. The chances are a hundred to one, though, that yours would have been split at this moment, had that individual carried out his amiable little programme just then.”“Of course—I was forgetting. You saved my life. Why, what an ungracious dog you must think me!”“And I could have dropped the other two so nicely in their tracks,” continued the stranger, as if he had not heard Payne’s remark. “They both came at me with their kerries; but directly they saw this,”—producing a revolver—“off they went. I wanted to fell another chap, so I didn’t trot out the barker at first, till they began to think they had it all their own way, and pressed me so hard that I was obliged to. Lord, how they streaked it off!”“But you did let drive, didn’t you? At least, I thought I heard a shot.”“Yes, I did. Couldn’t resist the temptation; but just at the moment it flashed across me how infernally near civilisation we were, and it’s a ticklish moment just now. The authorities would think nothing of running us in and making scapegoats of us, swearing we had brought on the war, you know, or something of that sort. So I just blazed over the fellow’s head, to give him a bit of a scare, otherwise I could have dropped the pair of them—oh, so sweetly! But how did it all happen?”Payne told him.“H’m,” said the other, reflectively. “We could run this fellow over to the gaol if that would be any satisfaction to you, and if you cared to go through the bother. But then, unfortunately, you struck the first blow, as you couldn’t have helped doing—and the result would have been the same in any case—and the chances are some pettifogging attorney, or meddling missionary, would take up the scoundrel’s case and turn the tables on you. So that’s out of the question.”“Shall we bring him to?” asked Payne.“A few slashes of your whip would do it if you’re anxious on his account; if not, let him lie.”“Poor devil, he seems to be in bad order,” said Payne, inspecting his late foe, who lay with the crown of his head cut and bleeding, exactly as he had fallen beneath the blow of the stirrup-iron, and breathing heavily. “I’ll take his kerries as a trophy, anyhow.” Moved by a sudden impulse, he glanced narrowly at the stranger, a man of apparently about his own age, or not far from it; and it still seemed to him that the dark, handsome face, and determined eyes, no less than the rather mournful ring in the quiet voice, were familiar to him.“Well, then, we’ll be moving,” continued Payne. “My place isn’t far from here, and of course you are going with me. Don’t say no, for I insist upon it.”There came an amused gleam into the other’s eyes, and he stroked his long, brown moustache once or twice to conceal a smile. “There’s no need to insist,” he said, “because it so happens that that was my original intention. The first thing I meant to ask you, when you came round, was the way to George Payne’s; but it would be rather superfluous to ask it of George Payne himself, wouldn’t it?”“What! Why, good heavens! Who the deuce are you? We’ve met before somewhere, I’ll swear!” said Payne, looking at him in a puzzled manner.The other broke into one of his long, quiet laughs, as if hugely enjoying the situation, as he steadily returned the puzzled, inquiring gaze. “Don’t you remember that refreshing row close to De Klerk—that time you were coming from the gold fields? Hang it, it wasn’t much more than two years ago!” Payne burst forth into a mighty expletive—a thing he very rarely did. “My dear fellow, this is a piece of luck! And I never recognised you! But you were bearded like the pard then, you know; and, another thing—my head must have been spinning round, for I felt an awful whack. Of course. So it is! Why, I ought to have recognised you by the neat-handed way in which you dropped that nigger, if by nothing else! That’s the second time you saved my hide,” and he seized the hand extended to him, in a mighty grip.“Well, these niggers were tougher customers than those four swaggering Dutchmen, when all’s said and done. I haven’t been in a good honest row for a long while. It does one good.”Mounting their horses they moved off, taking a farewell glance at the place where the fallen savage still lay at full length, though he began to show signs of returning consciousness. And the still sunshine glowed in all its former calmness, as though no fierce and deadly struggle had just occurred to mar its peace.

George Payne rode slowly away from the village of Komgha.

The air was warm and balmy, for the time of the southern winter was past, and on this September day not even the lightest of feathery clouds flecked the sky above the sunny plains of British Kaffraria. Now and again on the brow of one of the rolling eminences, which, smooth grassy, and round, alternated with mimosa-dotted vales, the rider might feel a puff of fresh air from the bine Indian Ocean thirty miles away, and which he was leaving further and further behind him with every tread of his steed. On his left front rose the round tops of the Kabousie hills, while beyond them a ridge of wooded heights slept in the golden haze of the early afternoon.

But he had little thought to spare for beauties of scenery, had this man, as he mechanically urged on his steed—a compact, well-stepping roadster—now at a long easy canter, now subsiding into a fast walk; for all his reflections were at that moment concentrated on the leading question of the day, a question which for weeks past had been in the mind of every dweller on that restless line of frontier, a question which to them was fraught with weighty apprehension—Peace or War?

And this topic, which was in everybody’s month, had it any foundation to rest upon, or was it merely a recurrence of one of those periodical scares which, with more or less reason, had of late years seriously disturbed the border districts? Ministers and legislators might, from their places in the Assembly, deny all grounds for it; merchants and snug citizens of the western capital might deride it; the pseudo-philanthropic party, likewise at safe distance, might decry it as a libel upon and a plot against the native population, to despoil them of their lands, and what not. Yet Cape Town was many hundred miles from the unprotected border, and it is so very easy at a safe distance to ridicule the apprehensions of those to whom the fulfilment of their fears would mean ruin and death. For ignore it as some would, the fact remained that a cloud, at first no bigger than a man’s hand, but already of sufficiently alarming proportions, was gathering beyond the Kei, to roll on and on till it should overwhelm all within reach—unless stopped in time, that is. And such check the country’s rulers apparently deemed it their special mission not to facilitate.

This, then, was the topic whereon George Payne’s thoughts were fixed as he rode over those grassy Kaffrarian plains in the direction of his home; and some additional rumours which he had heard that morning, had gone far towards seriously disquieting him.

He was a broad-shouldered, strongly-built man, about five feet ten in his shoes, though a slight stoop made him look shorter. He had a quiet, sensible face, and was sparing and deliberate of speech; this on first acquaintance might lead one to pronounce him “slow,” were it not for an occasional satiric burst, accompanied by a twinkle in the keen grey eyes, which alone would suffice to show that he was very far from being a fool. And, though quiet and reserved on first acquaintance, he had a sunny geniality of manner which was very taking—in fact, was as good-natured a fellow as ever lived. He was thirty-six years of age, and of colonial birth; and though he had made a couple of visits to the mother country he seldom spoke of it. When he did, his audience, who had settled in its own mind that he had never been out of the colony, would be mightily taken aback by his shrewd insight into men and things.

Around lay the broad, rolling country; here and there in the distance might be seen the white walls of a homestead or two, glistening in the sun; or a clump of Kafir huts, smoky, squalid-looking, and tumble-down, lay about, whence a tribe of yelling mongrels rushed clamouring down to the path to mouth at the equestrian and snap at his horse’s heels, while their owners stood, with kerries grasped in their dark, sinewy hands, scowling at the passer-by, and making no attempt to call off their detestable property. But the horseman cared little or nothing for this. If the four-footed pests came too near, he slashed them unmercifully with his long raw-hide whip, sending them howling back to their savage masters. At length he drew rein before a thatched, white-washed dwelling, a typical specimen of the rougher class of frontier farmhouse. A man came out—a tall man, clad in a grey flannel shirt and corduroy trousers; a slouch hat was stuck on one side of his head, a mighty red heard descended over his chest, and in his mouth was a short wooden pipe.

“Well, Marshall,” cried Payne, dismounting. “How’s the world been using you of late?”

“So so,” replied the other, shaking hands. “Where are you from?”

“Komgha.”

“Any news?”

“N-no. Nothing but ‘gas,’ in fact. One gets so sick of all the yarns that have been flying about that really one doesn’t know what to believe. I’ve got into the way of believing nothing.”

“Ah. Well, now, I think there’s something in them. And I’ll tell you what it is, Payne. If I were a married man like you I’d send my family away to King (King Williamstown. The chief town of British Kaffraria, commonly thus abbreviated) or somewhere, for depend upon it we shall have hot work here before long. They’re not safe out there at your place, I tell you.”

Payne laughed lightly. “Why, Marshall,” he said, “if you’re not becoming as great an old scare-monger as the rest! Oh, by the way, there was some news. It’s said that the new Governor’s coming up to the frontier.”

“Worse and worse—if it’s true. He wouldn’t be coming if there wasn’t good cause for it, I can tell you. What sort of a feller is he?”

“First-rate, from all accounts.”

“H’m. Did you hear anything else?”

“Two troops of police been ordered across the Kei.”

“Fat lot of good they’ll do,” growled Marshall. “A lot o’ greenhorns. Why, some of them can’t stick on their horses, and hardly know the butt from the muzzle of their carbines. The police are not what they used to be, since they’ve taken to getting out these raw chaps from England. Time was when the force was made up of good colonial men, who could ride and shoot, and follow spoor as easily as a waggon-road, and now—pooh!” And the speaker knocked the ashes out of his pipe with a contemptuous jerk.

“That’s all very well,” said Payne. “They may not be good for much at spoor, and there are a few greenhorns among them, as you say. But there are some fine fellows, too—fellows with any amount of fight in them—and, after all, that’s what we want now. You’ll see, they’ll do good service yet, if they get a fair chance.”

The other shook his head. “Dunno. But—have a drop of grog?”

“No, thanks; I must be moving on.”

“Won’t you, really? Do.”

“No, thanks. But I say, Marshall, when are you coming over our way? We haven’t seen you for about ten years. Come on Sunday.”

The other filled and lighted his pipe. “Well, the fact is, I’ve had a lot to do of late,” he replied at length, between sundry vigorous puffs. “And then, you see, I’m a rough sort of feller and haven’t got any company manners, and now you’ve got company. Perhaps, after all, I’m best here.”

“You surly old humbug,” said Payne, with a laugh, “I never heard such bosh. You come up on Sunday at latest, or we shall quarrel. Call yourself a neighbour, indeed! Now you’ll come, won’t you?”

“I’ll try.”

“All right, that’s settled. Ta-ta;” and mounting his horse Payne rode off.

Gradually the long smooth slopes became steeper, falling off into abrupt ravines, affording a glimpse of the Great Kei, which glided along, far down between its lofty banks—now winding round a smooth-headed knoll, now straightening as it washed the base of some huge wall of rock—a distant musical murmur being upborne upon the still air as it rushed over a stony shallow. From the far plains beyond, many a blue column of smoke rose into the sunshine, where dotted about lay the clustering kraals of the savage Gcalekas, whose hordes, even then, were gathering for the long-expected and somewhat dreaded inroad upon the peace of the colony. A bird sang in the thick thorn-protected brake adjoining the path, a white vulture or two soared lazily from one of the huge krantzes overhanging the river, insects hummed in the sunlight, and it seemed as if nothing but the savagery of man could avail to break the peaceful calm of that glorious scene, amid which Payne pursued his way wrapped in uneasy thought; for in spite of his sceptical tone when talking to Marshall he felt by no means the assurance that he would have had that worthy believe.

His horse suddenly pricked up its ears as the sound of deep voices immediately in front became audible, and in a moment three tall, savage-looking Kafirs, their athletic bodies smeared from head to foot with red ochre, advanced down the path at a run, swinging their kerries.

Now the said path was, just there, only wide enough for a single horseman, being shut in on either side by high thorn-bushes, and Payne naturally expected the pedestrians to make way for him. They, however, had no such intention, and his steed began to show signs of terror at the sudden appearance of the brawny, ochre-smeared barbarians, with their gleaming necklaces of jackal’s teeth rattling as they advanced.

“Out of the way, you vagabonds,” shouted Payne, angrily. “Out of the road; d’you hear?” and he raised his whip menacingly.

“Aow! Out of the way yourself,umlüngu!” (white man) insolently replied the foremost Kafir in his great deep tones, at the same time seizing the bridle and trying to jerk the horse’s head round. “We won’t get out of the way for you.”

Payne’s whip descended, the lash curling with an angry “swish” round the naked body of the speaker.

“Take that, you hound!” he cried. “And now let go.” And he clubbed his whip to strike with the heavy loaded end.

“Haoo-ow! Hah!” roared the savage, dropping the bridle and stepping back a pace or two, while the lurid lightnings of wild-beast wrath shot from his eyes. Then he sprang at Payne like a tiger-cat, aiming a sledge-hammer blow at him with his heavy stick.

Fortunately for Payne he managed to throw up his arm in time to save his head, or he would have fallen to the ground, brained by the terrific force of the blow. Fortunately, too, for him, his adversaries carried no assegais, or he would there and then have been stabbed through and through and his body flung over the adjacent cliff into the Kei, for he need expect no mercy from such foes. The land was almost in a state of war, and brutal outrages of this kind were only too terribly common. He made a furious blow at his opponent with the butt of his whip, but ineffectively, for at the moment of striking he felt himself seized by a powerful hand and dragged from his horse, which backed into the bushes terrified and snorting. Then nearly stunned by the fall he lay upon the ground, and the sky and earth and foliage all went round in one giddy, sickening whirl, and still he could see the gigantic figure of the savage, who, with glaring eyes and white gleaming teeth, was advancing upon him with kerrie upraised to strike, and he lay there, powerless even to avoid the blow. In a second it would fall, when—woof! something descended through the air, a large dark object darted between him and the sky, and his enemy fell heavily to the earth. He heard the clash of kerries in strike and parry, a fierce imprecation, and the ring of a pistol-shot; then he knew no more till he awoke to consciousness with some one bending over him and fanning his brow.

“Don’t move,” said the stranger. “Take it easy a little longer, and then you’ll feel better.”

Payne looked wonderingly at the dark sun-browned face bent over him, with the calm, resolute, blue-grey eyes and clear-cut features, and it seemed to him that he had seen the owner of it before.

“Oh, I feel all right now,” he said, raising himself upon one elbow and then sitting up. “A little muddled, you know, that’s all.”

“I venture to say that our friend here, feels ‘a little muddled,’” remarked the other, pushing with his foot the form of a prostrate Kafir.

Payne stood up, rather giddily, and recognised his assailant in the inert, motionless mass.

“I say, though, but the brute isn’t dead?” he said, with just a tinge of concern, bending over the fallen savage.

“He isn’t dead. A stirrup-iron properly handled is a grand weapon; but Kafir skulls are notoriously thick. The chances are a hundred to one, though, that yours would have been split at this moment, had that individual carried out his amiable little programme just then.”

“Of course—I was forgetting. You saved my life. Why, what an ungracious dog you must think me!”

“And I could have dropped the other two so nicely in their tracks,” continued the stranger, as if he had not heard Payne’s remark. “They both came at me with their kerries; but directly they saw this,”—producing a revolver—“off they went. I wanted to fell another chap, so I didn’t trot out the barker at first, till they began to think they had it all their own way, and pressed me so hard that I was obliged to. Lord, how they streaked it off!”

“But you did let drive, didn’t you? At least, I thought I heard a shot.”

“Yes, I did. Couldn’t resist the temptation; but just at the moment it flashed across me how infernally near civilisation we were, and it’s a ticklish moment just now. The authorities would think nothing of running us in and making scapegoats of us, swearing we had brought on the war, you know, or something of that sort. So I just blazed over the fellow’s head, to give him a bit of a scare, otherwise I could have dropped the pair of them—oh, so sweetly! But how did it all happen?”

Payne told him.

“H’m,” said the other, reflectively. “We could run this fellow over to the gaol if that would be any satisfaction to you, and if you cared to go through the bother. But then, unfortunately, you struck the first blow, as you couldn’t have helped doing—and the result would have been the same in any case—and the chances are some pettifogging attorney, or meddling missionary, would take up the scoundrel’s case and turn the tables on you. So that’s out of the question.”

“Shall we bring him to?” asked Payne.

“A few slashes of your whip would do it if you’re anxious on his account; if not, let him lie.”

“Poor devil, he seems to be in bad order,” said Payne, inspecting his late foe, who lay with the crown of his head cut and bleeding, exactly as he had fallen beneath the blow of the stirrup-iron, and breathing heavily. “I’ll take his kerries as a trophy, anyhow.” Moved by a sudden impulse, he glanced narrowly at the stranger, a man of apparently about his own age, or not far from it; and it still seemed to him that the dark, handsome face, and determined eyes, no less than the rather mournful ring in the quiet voice, were familiar to him.

“Well, then, we’ll be moving,” continued Payne. “My place isn’t far from here, and of course you are going with me. Don’t say no, for I insist upon it.”

There came an amused gleam into the other’s eyes, and he stroked his long, brown moustache once or twice to conceal a smile. “There’s no need to insist,” he said, “because it so happens that that was my original intention. The first thing I meant to ask you, when you came round, was the way to George Payne’s; but it would be rather superfluous to ask it of George Payne himself, wouldn’t it?”

“What! Why, good heavens! Who the deuce are you? We’ve met before somewhere, I’ll swear!” said Payne, looking at him in a puzzled manner.

The other broke into one of his long, quiet laughs, as if hugely enjoying the situation, as he steadily returned the puzzled, inquiring gaze. “Don’t you remember that refreshing row close to De Klerk—that time you were coming from the gold fields? Hang it, it wasn’t much more than two years ago!” Payne burst forth into a mighty expletive—a thing he very rarely did. “My dear fellow, this is a piece of luck! And I never recognised you! But you were bearded like the pard then, you know; and, another thing—my head must have been spinning round, for I felt an awful whack. Of course. So it is! Why, I ought to have recognised you by the neat-handed way in which you dropped that nigger, if by nothing else! That’s the second time you saved my hide,” and he seized the hand extended to him, in a mighty grip.

“Well, these niggers were tougher customers than those four swaggering Dutchmen, when all’s said and done. I haven’t been in a good honest row for a long while. It does one good.”

Mounting their horses they moved off, taking a farewell glance at the place where the fallen savage still lay at full length, though he began to show signs of returning consciousness. And the still sunshine glowed in all its former calmness, as though no fierce and deadly struggle had just occurred to mar its peace.

Volume Two—Chapter Two.Ralph Truscott’s Quest.On the same day that these events are occurring on the far Kaffrarian border, two men are seated together in a dingy office just out of Chancery Lane. One is a solicitor, evidently the presiding genius of the place—a man with a high, bald forehead, iron-grey hair, and a keen, intellectual face; the other is a tall, dark, military-looking man, faultlessly attired, who sits impatiently tapping his boots with his cane while he listens to the lawyer in a half-incredulous and wholly discontented frame of mind, which betrays itself only too plainly in his eyes. A striking-looking man, in age about five-and-thirty; but there is an unmistakable air of dissipation, not to say excess, about the lines of the handsome face—the air of one who had lived too hard and too fast, and would be prematurely old. And a superciliousness about the mouth which the short black moustache did not conceal, and a cold, unscrupulous look in the eyes, would effectually prevent the face from ever being a pleasing one.Ralph Truscott, late Captain in Her Majesty’s —th Foot, was a firm believer in the adage, “All’s fair in love and war”—in the former half of it literally, as more than one rather shady episode in his gallant career might serve to show, were it known, which it was not, even within his intimate circle; in the latter half as representing the multifold ’cute devices whereby he had staved off and otherwise evaded the just or unjust demands of a swarm of importunate creditors, Jew and Gentile. In a word, the man was a born spendthrift; and having run through one large fortune, and a second smaller one, in an incredibly short space of time, found himself compelled to sell, and had been living upon his wits and high play ever since. Not that he had degenerated into a mere card-room sharper—far from it—but he was noted as a man with an extraordinary run of luck; and though some held significantly aloof from him in connection with the card-table or the billiard-room, yet, on the whole, he had not lost caste. Of course it had occurred to him that he might retrieve his fallen fortunes by picking up an heiress. It ought not to be difficult, for he was just the sort of individual who, gifted with a striking exterior and unlimited assurance, might carry things pretty much as he pleased among the society women of his—or of any—set. But this course was open to two objections. One lay in his own inner consciousness, which made him fully aware that in three years, at the outside, he would inevitably have run through the lady’s fortune, in which case he would find himself again destitute, and saddled with a wife to boot; the other, in the fact that though heiresses themselves might be soft of heart and compliant of head, their parents or guardians were not. Indeed, some of these, in the obduracy of their stony hearts, had been known to veto the transaction forthwith; while others, after a few private inquiries into the circumstances and antecedents of this enterprising individual, had briefly refused to entertain any of his proposals, and had carried off their charges out of harm’s way. So, Captain Ralph, repeatedly thwarted in his schemes of advancement, was compelled perforce to abandon them. He consoled himself, however, with the thought that after all it was better to be a free man, even if living was somewhat precarious, and gave up laying siege to the fair sex, with an eye to the main chance. But meanwhile his liabilities decreased not, and at the time the reader has the honour of making his acquaintance, he was, to use his own expression, “at his last kick” for want of the needful.Such was the man who now sat in the inner office of Messrs Grantham and Grantham, solicitors, in close confabulation with the senior partner.“Then you can give me no more positive information?” he was saying.“I’m sorry to say we can’t,” replied the lawyer. “The young lady left England more than four years ago—went to the Cape, I believe, as governess or companion, or something or other in that line. Since then we have heard nothing of her.”“Do you think she is out there still?”“My dear sir, it is impossible for us to say. I repeat that it was more than four years ago, and that we have not heard one word of her since.”“Well, I am surprised that you, of all people, should be so blankly ignorant of her whereabouts, considering that it might be necessary to communi—” He checked himself hurriedly, seeing that he had let out too much. “I mean—that her friends might be making inquiries after her.”The faintest possible smile lurked round the corners of the lawyer’s mouth. He fancied that the other had let down his guard in that incautious speech into which vexation had betrayed him. And it was even so.“You are very interested in this lady’s whereabouts,” he said.“Naturally. We are relations—distant relations, that is.”“Indeed! How, may I ask?”“Well, you know—hang it all, I’m a deuced bad hand at pedigrees and all that sort of thing, but we are, in a way, cousins, on the mother’s side,” replied Truscott, testily, in a sort of tone which resented the doubt thrown upon his statement by the other’s inquisitiveness.“I see,” said the lawyer, balancing a paper-cutter upon his forefinger. But though his features preserved their polite imperturbability, the fact was, he did not believe one word of this statement. “Let me see, though,” he went on, musingly; “I know who might be able to give you some information.”“Who?” asked Truscott, eagerly looking up.“Miss Dynevard, of Dynevard Chase. She, you are aware, is Miss Strange’s stepsister.”The other’s countenance fell. He was more disappointed than he cared to say. Eveline Dynevard was the last person he could communicate with on the subject.“Er—yes; of course,” he said, hurriedly. “I had forgotten. I will write to Miss Dynevard.”“Can I make the inquiry for you?” asked the lawyer, politely.“No—no, thanks. I needn’t trouble you further. Much obliged; good morning,” and taking up his hat Truscott made his way out into the street.The lawyer went to the window and watched him turn the dingy corner. “John,” he said to his brother and junior partner, who at that moment entered. “You saw that chap who just went out from here. He’s got an inkling of the contents of old Dynevard’s will. I read him like a book as he sat there, clumsily trying to fish out the whereabouts of Miss Strange.”“H’m! Has he?” grunted John Grantham, who was the greatest possible contrast to his more astute brother, in that he was short, red-faced, and irritable. “He didn’t succeed, I hope?”“No. I couldn’t have told him if I had wanted to, for the simple reason that I don’t know. But he says he’s her cousin.”“Hanky-panky,” replied the other, with a contemptuous snort. “I don’t believe a word of it. It’s easy to see what he’s after. And it would be a bad day for Lilian Strange, or indeed for any other pretty girl, when that rascal got making up to her. I know Master Ralph Truscott and his goings on, a good deal better than he thinks.”“Well, it’s my opinion that the young lady’s married long ago. An attractive girl like that is sure to be able to pick and choose in a country where gentlewomen are scarce, I should imagine.”“Bless my soul—yes,” assented the other, changing his coat, and brushing his hat, preparatory to a start for home. “And the sooner friend Truscott goes to the devil, the better for society at large; he’s going there as fast as he can, as it is.”Meanwhile, the subject of this charitable remark was seated in a hansom with his face turned westward.“That damned lawyer was lying,” he mused, “lying all the time. I could see it in his face, and it’s those chaps’ trade to lie. He could have told me if he had chosen. Never mind, I’ll be even with him yet. I’ll go to the Cape; by Jove, I will, and at once; the sooner the better, and this place is getting too hot for me just now. A few months of travel and sport, and it’ll cool down again, and then, if I find the fair Lilian—Find her? I must find her, and I will.” Then a suggestion, which Mr Grantham had thrown out, crossed his mind, and he turned hot and cold over the idea.“I think it not improbable that we might have to seek for her under another name,” the lawyer had said. “Miss Strange, you are aware, was a young lady of considerable attractions. She may have married.”“No, she will not,” repeated Truscott to himself, “I know her better than that. Unless—I don’t know. Time works queer changes. What a fool I was ever to let her out of my sight! And yet how could I tell that she would ever be worth keeping in it? It was the merest fluke that took me to Doctors’ Commons this morning, and a still greater one that moved me to look at old Dynevard’s will. I’ll go out and look for her, the game’s worth the candle, and, by George, if I win—and why shouldn’t I? She will almost throw herself into my arms, if only as a contrast to the Kafirs and Boers she is living amongst. Then I’ll turn over a new leaf. I could with Lilian, almost, I think. I never saw any woman to come up to her, unless it was—well, never mind. Yes, my luck is on the turn. Nearly six years ago, though. I wonder what she’s like now.”He chuckled gleefully to himself as he leaned back in the cab and lighted a cigar. Then a thought struck him, and opening the trap in the roof he shouted a direction to the driver. The man turned his horse’s head and in a moment was speeding away Citywards. Somehow, the reader has already seen the dusty office-door before which Truscott leaped out of his cab, as also the sharp boy who opened it.“Is your master in?”The boy nodded and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Quickly mounting the stairs Truscott found himself in the same dingy apartment wherein Claverton had sat, several years previously.“Hullo, where’s Morkum?” he asked, disappointedly.“He is out for de day, sair,” replied the occupant of the room, a hook-nosed son of Benjamin, rising from the table at which he was seated, and washing his hands with invisible soap, a process they greatly needed with the material article. “Can I not do anydings for you?”“Yes, you can, Schultz,” said the other, in a conciliatory tone. “The fact is, I want to renew.”The Jew looked keenly at him, and his little eyes twinkled maliciously.“I can’t do it, sair. De monish, you see, must be paid. It is over-due—over-due.”“What’s the amount now?”“Fifteen hundred and twenty-fife—six,” answered Schultz, having duly consulted a ponderous tome bound in leather.“The devil! Now look here, Schultz. We’ll renew, say for three months, and you shall let me have the odd five hundred on your own terms.”“No, sair. Mishter Morkum he said he cood not renew. I was haf de monish or—” and the speaker shrugged his shoulders in a way that was highly suggestive.“But don’t you see, Schultz, I must renew, at any rate,” said the other, angrily. “Don’t be a damned fool now. I’m on a good thing, I tell you, and you shall be paid in full in a few months’ time. Don’t you see?”But the Israelite apparently did not see. He was as obdurate towards this Gentile, as the Egyptian Gentile had erewhile been towards his own ancestors. He only shrugged his shoulders and repeated: “Mishter Morkum, he say I was haf de monish. Fifteen hundred and twenty-fife—six.”Then Truscott saw that it was useless, and, unfortunately for him, his temper got the better of him. He raved, and swore, and shook his fist under the other’s nose, threatening him with swift and sudden annihilation, and abusing him and his partner in a torrent of the coarsest invective he could lay tongue to. But of his violence the little Jew was not one whit afraid, for his hand was in his coat-pocket and his fingers were grasping the butt of a revolver. His wicked little eyes sparkled like those of a rhinoceros, and the short grey bristles stood up upon his upper lip, as he turned upon Truscott in wrath.“Hein! Vat do you shay? You shall not bully me, I can tell you dat much. You call yourself a shentelman, inteed? Yesh, you shall repent of this, ven you are in shail, dat’s vere you shall be. If you come a step nearer, I shall shoot you,” he went on, producing his weapon, for Truscott in another minute would have seized him by the throat and dashed him to the floor. But a bullet-wound would in no wise facilitate the success of his enterprise, if the result were no worse, and this he had the sense to see in a glimmering of reason which flashed in upon his rage. So he stopped, and, shaking his fist at the Jew, rushed from the room with a final curse—the parting epithet and scornful laugh flung after him by that worthy in no wise tending to allay his ire.“Say, sonny,” remarked the cabman to the smart boy at the door. “The Kernel’s dustin’ your guv’nor’s jacket, ain’t he?” For the row going on upstairs was in a measure audible in the street.“Reckon he’ll be the fust what’s done it—and the last,” replied the imp, pulling a handful of nuts from his breeches-pocket, and proceeding to crack them. Then Truscott emerged, and, flinging himself into the cab, started off westward.“What a fool I was to get in a rage with the brute!” he thought, bitterly. “An utter fool! Now I’ve about done for myself, unless I can get away at once. I’m starting on a fool’s errand, though. Six years—or even five; it’s a long time. She may laugh in my face even if I find her; and then again—Hang it! I’ll just have another look at the will to make sure. No; it’s right enough, though. Still, I’m starting off on a regular fool’s errand. I’ve a good mind to give it up—a devilish good mind. But nothing venture, nothing win.”The last ray of the sickly September sunlight was slanting garishly over the dust and whirl and roar of the great city, as he alighted at the steps of his club. Yes, a change would do him good, he thought, looking around; and when he came back, why, then—Somehow he felt certain of winning the game which he had set himself to play, and was quite elate. But the only thorn in his side—and a very sharp one it was—lay in the haunting fear lest the Jew should have him arrested before he could get away. And he could not get away for nearly a week. He would go down in the morning and see Morkum himself, and make it all right with that dirty little Schultz. Morkum was a reasonable fellow, and would be sure to renew, if not to accommodate him further, once an inkling of the case was laid before him; and as for Schultz, why, a bottle of champagne and a slap on the back would salve his wounded feelings.With this comforting resolve, Truscott dined sumptuously, and, in high good-humour, started off to a friendly rubber, at which he reckoned to make some nice little pickings. It was a fine evening—he would walk; so, lighting a cigar, he stepped out briskly, humming a popular tune, and thinking over his prospects if this move succeeded.Before he had gone far, some one accosted him.“Beg pardon, Capting. Sorry to trouble a gentleman—”“What the devil do you want?” cried Truscott, angrily, an uncomfortable idea taking hold of him.“I must arrest you, Capting, at the soot of Silas B. Morkum and Co,” replied the other, touching him on the shoulder. “Very sorry, sir, extremely sorry; but dooty is dooty—ain’t that right, Tom?”“Tom,” a thin, quiet-looking individual, who might be anything, from a Russian spy to a Methodist class leader, nodded, and replied:“That’s so, Bill.”“But look here,” cried Truscott, “I’m going down to see Morkum the first thing in the morning. Can’t we make some arrangement for to-night? The fact is, I’ve got an important engagement now.”The sheriff’s officer smiled pityingly.“Extremely sorry, Capting, but the thing can’t be done. We’ll jest go quietly to my little crib now, and in the morning you can send and let your friends know. Here’s the writ; better look at it for yourself, Capting, and see that all’s fair, square, and above-board. Fifteen hundred and twenty-five—six. Cab, Tom.”“Damn the writ!” cried Truscott, savagely.And then, as they entered the rickety, jolting vehicle, he relapsed into silence. Fifteen hundred and twenty-five pounds! It might be fifteen million for all the chance there was of his being able to pay a third of it; for even he had at last come to the end of his tether. And no one would be likely to help him either; and this scheme, upon which he had been building such hopes, must fall through, for every day was of importance now. And all its glowing chances looked fairer than ever now that he was compelled to abandon it; and his bright castles in the air seemed crumbling away in the very dust. So, with rage and despair in his heart, Ralph Truscott alighted at the door of the low sponging-house—his prison; whither he was consigned at the suit of Silas B. Morkum and Co, and whence he should not depart until he had satisfied the debt to the very last farthing; a requirement which at present he saw remarkably small prospect of fulfilling.

On the same day that these events are occurring on the far Kaffrarian border, two men are seated together in a dingy office just out of Chancery Lane. One is a solicitor, evidently the presiding genius of the place—a man with a high, bald forehead, iron-grey hair, and a keen, intellectual face; the other is a tall, dark, military-looking man, faultlessly attired, who sits impatiently tapping his boots with his cane while he listens to the lawyer in a half-incredulous and wholly discontented frame of mind, which betrays itself only too plainly in his eyes. A striking-looking man, in age about five-and-thirty; but there is an unmistakable air of dissipation, not to say excess, about the lines of the handsome face—the air of one who had lived too hard and too fast, and would be prematurely old. And a superciliousness about the mouth which the short black moustache did not conceal, and a cold, unscrupulous look in the eyes, would effectually prevent the face from ever being a pleasing one.

Ralph Truscott, late Captain in Her Majesty’s —th Foot, was a firm believer in the adage, “All’s fair in love and war”—in the former half of it literally, as more than one rather shady episode in his gallant career might serve to show, were it known, which it was not, even within his intimate circle; in the latter half as representing the multifold ’cute devices whereby he had staved off and otherwise evaded the just or unjust demands of a swarm of importunate creditors, Jew and Gentile. In a word, the man was a born spendthrift; and having run through one large fortune, and a second smaller one, in an incredibly short space of time, found himself compelled to sell, and had been living upon his wits and high play ever since. Not that he had degenerated into a mere card-room sharper—far from it—but he was noted as a man with an extraordinary run of luck; and though some held significantly aloof from him in connection with the card-table or the billiard-room, yet, on the whole, he had not lost caste. Of course it had occurred to him that he might retrieve his fallen fortunes by picking up an heiress. It ought not to be difficult, for he was just the sort of individual who, gifted with a striking exterior and unlimited assurance, might carry things pretty much as he pleased among the society women of his—or of any—set. But this course was open to two objections. One lay in his own inner consciousness, which made him fully aware that in three years, at the outside, he would inevitably have run through the lady’s fortune, in which case he would find himself again destitute, and saddled with a wife to boot; the other, in the fact that though heiresses themselves might be soft of heart and compliant of head, their parents or guardians were not. Indeed, some of these, in the obduracy of their stony hearts, had been known to veto the transaction forthwith; while others, after a few private inquiries into the circumstances and antecedents of this enterprising individual, had briefly refused to entertain any of his proposals, and had carried off their charges out of harm’s way. So, Captain Ralph, repeatedly thwarted in his schemes of advancement, was compelled perforce to abandon them. He consoled himself, however, with the thought that after all it was better to be a free man, even if living was somewhat precarious, and gave up laying siege to the fair sex, with an eye to the main chance. But meanwhile his liabilities decreased not, and at the time the reader has the honour of making his acquaintance, he was, to use his own expression, “at his last kick” for want of the needful.

Such was the man who now sat in the inner office of Messrs Grantham and Grantham, solicitors, in close confabulation with the senior partner.

“Then you can give me no more positive information?” he was saying.

“I’m sorry to say we can’t,” replied the lawyer. “The young lady left England more than four years ago—went to the Cape, I believe, as governess or companion, or something or other in that line. Since then we have heard nothing of her.”

“Do you think she is out there still?”

“My dear sir, it is impossible for us to say. I repeat that it was more than four years ago, and that we have not heard one word of her since.”

“Well, I am surprised that you, of all people, should be so blankly ignorant of her whereabouts, considering that it might be necessary to communi—” He checked himself hurriedly, seeing that he had let out too much. “I mean—that her friends might be making inquiries after her.”

The faintest possible smile lurked round the corners of the lawyer’s mouth. He fancied that the other had let down his guard in that incautious speech into which vexation had betrayed him. And it was even so.

“You are very interested in this lady’s whereabouts,” he said.

“Naturally. We are relations—distant relations, that is.”

“Indeed! How, may I ask?”

“Well, you know—hang it all, I’m a deuced bad hand at pedigrees and all that sort of thing, but we are, in a way, cousins, on the mother’s side,” replied Truscott, testily, in a sort of tone which resented the doubt thrown upon his statement by the other’s inquisitiveness.

“I see,” said the lawyer, balancing a paper-cutter upon his forefinger. But though his features preserved their polite imperturbability, the fact was, he did not believe one word of this statement. “Let me see, though,” he went on, musingly; “I know who might be able to give you some information.”

“Who?” asked Truscott, eagerly looking up.

“Miss Dynevard, of Dynevard Chase. She, you are aware, is Miss Strange’s stepsister.”

The other’s countenance fell. He was more disappointed than he cared to say. Eveline Dynevard was the last person he could communicate with on the subject.

“Er—yes; of course,” he said, hurriedly. “I had forgotten. I will write to Miss Dynevard.”

“Can I make the inquiry for you?” asked the lawyer, politely.

“No—no, thanks. I needn’t trouble you further. Much obliged; good morning,” and taking up his hat Truscott made his way out into the street.

The lawyer went to the window and watched him turn the dingy corner. “John,” he said to his brother and junior partner, who at that moment entered. “You saw that chap who just went out from here. He’s got an inkling of the contents of old Dynevard’s will. I read him like a book as he sat there, clumsily trying to fish out the whereabouts of Miss Strange.”

“H’m! Has he?” grunted John Grantham, who was the greatest possible contrast to his more astute brother, in that he was short, red-faced, and irritable. “He didn’t succeed, I hope?”

“No. I couldn’t have told him if I had wanted to, for the simple reason that I don’t know. But he says he’s her cousin.”

“Hanky-panky,” replied the other, with a contemptuous snort. “I don’t believe a word of it. It’s easy to see what he’s after. And it would be a bad day for Lilian Strange, or indeed for any other pretty girl, when that rascal got making up to her. I know Master Ralph Truscott and his goings on, a good deal better than he thinks.”

“Well, it’s my opinion that the young lady’s married long ago. An attractive girl like that is sure to be able to pick and choose in a country where gentlewomen are scarce, I should imagine.”

“Bless my soul—yes,” assented the other, changing his coat, and brushing his hat, preparatory to a start for home. “And the sooner friend Truscott goes to the devil, the better for society at large; he’s going there as fast as he can, as it is.”

Meanwhile, the subject of this charitable remark was seated in a hansom with his face turned westward.

“That damned lawyer was lying,” he mused, “lying all the time. I could see it in his face, and it’s those chaps’ trade to lie. He could have told me if he had chosen. Never mind, I’ll be even with him yet. I’ll go to the Cape; by Jove, I will, and at once; the sooner the better, and this place is getting too hot for me just now. A few months of travel and sport, and it’ll cool down again, and then, if I find the fair Lilian—Find her? I must find her, and I will.” Then a suggestion, which Mr Grantham had thrown out, crossed his mind, and he turned hot and cold over the idea.

“I think it not improbable that we might have to seek for her under another name,” the lawyer had said. “Miss Strange, you are aware, was a young lady of considerable attractions. She may have married.”

“No, she will not,” repeated Truscott to himself, “I know her better than that. Unless—I don’t know. Time works queer changes. What a fool I was ever to let her out of my sight! And yet how could I tell that she would ever be worth keeping in it? It was the merest fluke that took me to Doctors’ Commons this morning, and a still greater one that moved me to look at old Dynevard’s will. I’ll go out and look for her, the game’s worth the candle, and, by George, if I win—and why shouldn’t I? She will almost throw herself into my arms, if only as a contrast to the Kafirs and Boers she is living amongst. Then I’ll turn over a new leaf. I could with Lilian, almost, I think. I never saw any woman to come up to her, unless it was—well, never mind. Yes, my luck is on the turn. Nearly six years ago, though. I wonder what she’s like now.”

He chuckled gleefully to himself as he leaned back in the cab and lighted a cigar. Then a thought struck him, and opening the trap in the roof he shouted a direction to the driver. The man turned his horse’s head and in a moment was speeding away Citywards. Somehow, the reader has already seen the dusty office-door before which Truscott leaped out of his cab, as also the sharp boy who opened it.

“Is your master in?”

The boy nodded and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Quickly mounting the stairs Truscott found himself in the same dingy apartment wherein Claverton had sat, several years previously.

“Hullo, where’s Morkum?” he asked, disappointedly.

“He is out for de day, sair,” replied the occupant of the room, a hook-nosed son of Benjamin, rising from the table at which he was seated, and washing his hands with invisible soap, a process they greatly needed with the material article. “Can I not do anydings for you?”

“Yes, you can, Schultz,” said the other, in a conciliatory tone. “The fact is, I want to renew.”

The Jew looked keenly at him, and his little eyes twinkled maliciously.

“I can’t do it, sair. De monish, you see, must be paid. It is over-due—over-due.”

“What’s the amount now?”

“Fifteen hundred and twenty-fife—six,” answered Schultz, having duly consulted a ponderous tome bound in leather.

“The devil! Now look here, Schultz. We’ll renew, say for three months, and you shall let me have the odd five hundred on your own terms.”

“No, sair. Mishter Morkum he said he cood not renew. I was haf de monish or—” and the speaker shrugged his shoulders in a way that was highly suggestive.

“But don’t you see, Schultz, I must renew, at any rate,” said the other, angrily. “Don’t be a damned fool now. I’m on a good thing, I tell you, and you shall be paid in full in a few months’ time. Don’t you see?”

But the Israelite apparently did not see. He was as obdurate towards this Gentile, as the Egyptian Gentile had erewhile been towards his own ancestors. He only shrugged his shoulders and repeated: “Mishter Morkum, he say I was haf de monish. Fifteen hundred and twenty-fife—six.”

Then Truscott saw that it was useless, and, unfortunately for him, his temper got the better of him. He raved, and swore, and shook his fist under the other’s nose, threatening him with swift and sudden annihilation, and abusing him and his partner in a torrent of the coarsest invective he could lay tongue to. But of his violence the little Jew was not one whit afraid, for his hand was in his coat-pocket and his fingers were grasping the butt of a revolver. His wicked little eyes sparkled like those of a rhinoceros, and the short grey bristles stood up upon his upper lip, as he turned upon Truscott in wrath.

“Hein! Vat do you shay? You shall not bully me, I can tell you dat much. You call yourself a shentelman, inteed? Yesh, you shall repent of this, ven you are in shail, dat’s vere you shall be. If you come a step nearer, I shall shoot you,” he went on, producing his weapon, for Truscott in another minute would have seized him by the throat and dashed him to the floor. But a bullet-wound would in no wise facilitate the success of his enterprise, if the result were no worse, and this he had the sense to see in a glimmering of reason which flashed in upon his rage. So he stopped, and, shaking his fist at the Jew, rushed from the room with a final curse—the parting epithet and scornful laugh flung after him by that worthy in no wise tending to allay his ire.

“Say, sonny,” remarked the cabman to the smart boy at the door. “The Kernel’s dustin’ your guv’nor’s jacket, ain’t he?” For the row going on upstairs was in a measure audible in the street.

“Reckon he’ll be the fust what’s done it—and the last,” replied the imp, pulling a handful of nuts from his breeches-pocket, and proceeding to crack them. Then Truscott emerged, and, flinging himself into the cab, started off westward.

“What a fool I was to get in a rage with the brute!” he thought, bitterly. “An utter fool! Now I’ve about done for myself, unless I can get away at once. I’m starting on a fool’s errand, though. Six years—or even five; it’s a long time. She may laugh in my face even if I find her; and then again—Hang it! I’ll just have another look at the will to make sure. No; it’s right enough, though. Still, I’m starting off on a regular fool’s errand. I’ve a good mind to give it up—a devilish good mind. But nothing venture, nothing win.”

The last ray of the sickly September sunlight was slanting garishly over the dust and whirl and roar of the great city, as he alighted at the steps of his club. Yes, a change would do him good, he thought, looking around; and when he came back, why, then—Somehow he felt certain of winning the game which he had set himself to play, and was quite elate. But the only thorn in his side—and a very sharp one it was—lay in the haunting fear lest the Jew should have him arrested before he could get away. And he could not get away for nearly a week. He would go down in the morning and see Morkum himself, and make it all right with that dirty little Schultz. Morkum was a reasonable fellow, and would be sure to renew, if not to accommodate him further, once an inkling of the case was laid before him; and as for Schultz, why, a bottle of champagne and a slap on the back would salve his wounded feelings.

With this comforting resolve, Truscott dined sumptuously, and, in high good-humour, started off to a friendly rubber, at which he reckoned to make some nice little pickings. It was a fine evening—he would walk; so, lighting a cigar, he stepped out briskly, humming a popular tune, and thinking over his prospects if this move succeeded.

Before he had gone far, some one accosted him.

“Beg pardon, Capting. Sorry to trouble a gentleman—”

“What the devil do you want?” cried Truscott, angrily, an uncomfortable idea taking hold of him.

“I must arrest you, Capting, at the soot of Silas B. Morkum and Co,” replied the other, touching him on the shoulder. “Very sorry, sir, extremely sorry; but dooty is dooty—ain’t that right, Tom?”

“Tom,” a thin, quiet-looking individual, who might be anything, from a Russian spy to a Methodist class leader, nodded, and replied:

“That’s so, Bill.”

“But look here,” cried Truscott, “I’m going down to see Morkum the first thing in the morning. Can’t we make some arrangement for to-night? The fact is, I’ve got an important engagement now.”

The sheriff’s officer smiled pityingly.

“Extremely sorry, Capting, but the thing can’t be done. We’ll jest go quietly to my little crib now, and in the morning you can send and let your friends know. Here’s the writ; better look at it for yourself, Capting, and see that all’s fair, square, and above-board. Fifteen hundred and twenty-five—six. Cab, Tom.”

“Damn the writ!” cried Truscott, savagely.

And then, as they entered the rickety, jolting vehicle, he relapsed into silence. Fifteen hundred and twenty-five pounds! It might be fifteen million for all the chance there was of his being able to pay a third of it; for even he had at last come to the end of his tether. And no one would be likely to help him either; and this scheme, upon which he had been building such hopes, must fall through, for every day was of importance now. And all its glowing chances looked fairer than ever now that he was compelled to abandon it; and his bright castles in the air seemed crumbling away in the very dust. So, with rage and despair in his heart, Ralph Truscott alighted at the door of the low sponging-house—his prison; whither he was consigned at the suit of Silas B. Morkum and Co, and whence he should not depart until he had satisfied the debt to the very last farthing; a requirement which at present he saw remarkably small prospect of fulfilling.

Volume Two—Chapter Three.The Friend in Need.George Payne and his newly-found friend—a veritable friend in need upon this occasion even as on a former one—kept on their way, winding along the picturesque heights overlooking the Kei, and exchanging many a reminiscence of their past acquaintance.“To think of your turning up like this,” said the former. “Why, I thought you were still away up in the interior and never meant to come near these parts again.”“Well, I don’t know. Fact is, after a few years of wandering, one has pretty well done this not too interesting continent, at least the southern part of it; and now I’m thinking of going somewhere else.”“And you’ve come straight down country, now?”“Yes; ridden all the way. It would be inconvenient in some ways were it not that one is indifferent to the exigencies of civilisation after such a spell of savagery as I’ve been having. One can’t carry much baggage, for instance.”“Is that all you’ve got?” said Payne, glancing at the valise strapped across the other’s saddle.“Yes; I had the rest sent to Komgha. It’s a good way from your place, but we might pick it up if it was wanted.”“Better leave it there at present.”“Why?”“Well, it’s an even chance that we may all have to trek into laager there or somewhere, any day; and it’s safe there, at any rate.”“Are things as fishy as that?”“They are,” replied Payne. “A lot of the Dutchmen down towards the coast are already in laager; but they’re a white-livered lot, when all’s said and done, so that doesn’t mean much. Still, from one or two things I heard to-day, I should say that we shall have some tall rifle practice before long. I’m no alarmist; on the contrary, I’ve more than once been advised to send the wife and kids away to the town, but I don’t think there’s any occasion for that just yet.”“No, perhaps not. And it’s as well to keep straight as long as you can. Directly one begins to trek, another does—then another—and soon there’s a regular panic.”“Rather. Now there was a scare on in the year of the big flood, and a lot of fellows round here began laagering, and one heard such a lot of war shop talked, that one almost wished there was some reason for it. Well, I remained through it all. I had only just come up here then, and didn’t see the fun of leaving my place to run to wrack and ruin just as I had got it a little square and shipshape, so I stuck to it, and other fellows did the same; and we had the laugh of those who ran away in a funk.”“That was a bad scare, though.”“It was,” said Payne. “The niggers were quite as cheeky then as they are now, and you’ve just had a specimen of what that is. By the way, don’t mention that little scrimmage to the wife; she’s very susceptible to scare, as it is, and once she heard of that, life would be a burden to her whenever I was away from home. Lately, she’s done nothing but predict that I should come to grief.”“All right. I’ll keep dark.”“Here we are at last,” said Payne, as they entered a narrow gorge between two high hills, and emerging upon a sort of basin-like hollow, beheld a substantial-looking farmhouse. In front, a sweep of smooth sward sloping down to the dam, in whose still surface a cluster of willows lay mirrored, as they drooped their boughs to the water’s edge; around this a few strips of enclosed and cultivated land, and a fruit-garden bordered by high quince hedges. On either side of the hollow, just far enough apart for the place not to be “shut in,” rose green lofty heights, with here and there a clump of dark bush in their rifts and chasms; and two little streams of clear water met in the valley and dashed along past the homestead, sparkling as they joined their forces in a leaping, rushing rivulet—an invaluable boon in that land of drought. But it was not until one reached the house, which was situated on a slight eminence in the hollow, that the full charm of the situation became appreciable. Then, standing on thestoep, which ran round two sides of the building, on the one hand the Kei hills bounded the limit of vision; while on the other, focussed, as through a glass, between the double range of green heights narrowing as they stretched further and further away, a panorama of rolling bush country, with here and there a purple ridge rising in the sunny air, found its limit on the distant horizon. The house itself was a good specimen of the old-fashioned frontier abode, with its thatched roof and canvas ceilings. It had been added to by the present owner, and was fairly roomy and comfortable. A passage intersected it, on either side of which, a door opened into a sitting-room and dining-room respectively, while another door from the latter communicated with the continuation of thestoep, which ran round that side of the building. Such was Payne’s home—Fountain’s Gap—so called from the two streams which met and flowed through the beautiful hollow, at either end of which one looked out upon the country beyond as through a gap.“So this is your crib,” remarked our new acquaintance, glancing critically around, as if to take in all the capabilities of the situation. “It strikes me as an uncommonly good one. Why, that stream alone ought to be a fortune to you.”“Yes; it’s a good all-round place,” assented Payne, perceptibly gratified. “You see, I’ve got a good deal of land under cultivation here round the dam. I’m going to break up any amount more, and go in strong for agriculture, as soon as this confounded scare, or war, whichever it’s to be (and I don’t care which), is over. It’s of no use making a lot of improvements, only to be ravaged by these black devils—is it?”“Not in the least.”They were now skirting the stream, which here flowed past the dam, communicating with it by a runnel cut with spades.“Let’s dismount here,” said Payne, “unless you’re tired, and would rather go in. You’re not? Well then, look. Here’s where I was thinking I might run up a mill one of these days; with this water power one might do anything. Higher up it’s even better. Wait, we’ll get rid of our horses and stroll along a bit,” and a stentorian call brought a young Kafir running down from the out-buildings, as also three or four rough, fierce-looking dogs in open-mouthed clamour. The latter were soon pacified, and leaped around their master in boisterous glee, wagging their tails and whining joyously as he patted them, or bestowed a playful punch upon some shaggy hide, while a precautionary sniff having satisfied them as to the stranger’s respectability, they forthwith took him into their confidence in a less mirthful and more dignified manner.“Here, Booi,” went on Payne. “Take the horses up to the stable, and off-saddle them. Is the missis in?”“Don’t know, Baas,” answered the Kafir, grinning.“Don’t you? When did one of you fellows ever know anything? Now hook it,” and as the boy led away their steeds, the two strolled on, Payne pointing out the capabilities of his water advantages, and enlarging on his schemes of improvement; for this farm of his was his hobby, and in his heart of hearts he hoped some day to make it a model in the way of progress, as showing what might be done even there by a fellow with a little “go” in him.They crossed the stream by a plank bridge, and now stood looking down it, scarcely, a hundred yards from the house, Payne still expatiating.“Yes, with a place like this,” he said, “one ought to be able to do anything. It’s splendid pasturage, well situated, any amount of water, in fact, everything. And now comes this confounded war to upset the whole coach—Hullo!”The exclamation is one of surprise and alarm as he turns round. His companion is standing rigid and motionless. Every particle of blood has fled from his face, leaving the sun-browned cheeks sallow and livid. His eyes are fixed and dilated, and one hand nervously grips the rail of the bridge against which he is leaning.“Man alive—what’s up?” cried Payne, anxiously. “You look as if you had seen a ghost.”“Nothing—nothing at all,” replied the other, with a faint smile. “I’m all right again now; don’t make a fuss, it’s nothing. I think it’s a remnant of that infernal up-country fever which I can’t thoroughly shake off. It left me as weak as a rat, and even yet I feel the effects now and then, as you see,” and again he made a ghastly attempt at a laugh.“By Jove!” cried Payne, in alarm. “Did you get hit in that shindy just now?”“No; don’t be afraid—I’m all right. It was only a slight seizure,” and his hand, as he removed it from the rail, still trembled a little, but the colour returned to his cheek.What should have so violently moved this man, who looked as if nothing could disturb his placid equanimity for an instant? It could not be that he was in a weak state of health or of nerve, for had he not just engaged, single-handed, in an encounter with three daring ruffians, and come off victorious? And his weather-tanned features betokened health and strength as clearly as if he had not known a day’s illness for years. The heat was not overpowering; he had not been riding fast, or in any way exerting himself, nor was he subject to attacks of faintness. No, there was nothing. Unless it was that through the quiet air of that sunlit valley came the sound of a woman’s voice—a rich, full, sweet voice, distant but clear—singing a pathetic ballad.“Are you sure?” went on Payne, looking at him concernedly. “Well, let’s go up to the house and have some brandy and water, you’ll want it, after that, and the sooner the better.”“Payne,” said the other, with a sort of sternness, laying his hand on his arm. “I don’t want anything just now. If you make a fraction of fuss about me or my idiotic attack, I’ll ascend that horse of mine and say good-bye this very evening.”“Eccentric as ever!” replied Payne, with a laugh. “My dear fellow, you shall do nothing of the sort, and I’ll promise not to bother you in any way. Come along, let’s go in.”They walked towards the house, and as they approached it the song ended. Had that man been afflicted with heart disease he would assuredly have dropped down dead on the threshold, for a mist was before his eyes and his heart was beating as if it would burst.“This way,” said Payne, ushering his guest into the empty sitting-room. “I’ll tell the wife you’re here,” and, closing the door, he left him alone.Alone? Payne, while he stood holding the door open, could not see the piano at the far end of the room, and now as he closed it, the graceful figure of a lady, who had apparently been occupied in looking through a pile of music in the corner, rose to greet the new arrival. His back was to the light as she first saw him.“Have you ridden far to-day?” she began, in a pleasant conversational voice. Then with a faint, gasping cry as if she had been stabbed, she reeled back and leaned against the piano, her face ashy white, and trembling in every limb.“Arthur!”“Lilian!”He made three steps towards her, and stopped short. No, he dared not even touch her. She belonged to another, now. She was the wife of his host and friend, the man whose life he had just saved. Why hadhe, of all others, been sent there only just in time to rescue that life, and then have been brought on to this house to witness what the saving of that life involved? What power of evil had sent him to this fiery torment—this pang which was worse than hell—as he stood there looking upon the woman who possessed the love of his whole nature, and whose pure-souled, beautiful face had ever been before his mental gaze, night and day, during three years and a half of lonely wanderings? What had he done to deserve this torture? Like a lightning flash these reflections pierced through his brain as he stood gazing, with a terrible agonised stare, upon the delicate beauty of face and form which had taken all the sunshine and gladness out of his existence, and now stood before him owned by another, and that other the man whose life he had just saved.Something in his look froze her where she stood. Was she thinking much the same as himself? With hands clasped tightly before her, and eyes fixed upon his with a despairing fear, she whispered hoarsely:“I thought I should never see you again. I thought—Oh, God—I thought—that you were—dead!”The last ray of the sinking son shot from over the western hills, entering the window and flooding with a golden and then a ruddy halo the pale, anguish-stricken face and the wealth of dusky hair. And there they stood, those two who had been parted three long weary years and twice that number of months. There they stood—suddenly thrown together, as it were, by the hand of Fate—facing each other, yet speechless. Three years and a half of parting, and now to meet again—thus.“I knew it must be you,” he said at length, slowly. “When I heard those words I knew they could be sung by no one else—like that.”For it was the same ballad which she had sung on that night at Seringa Vale, when he was betrayed into the first avowal of his love, nearly four years ago; and the first words which had thrilled upon his ear now, as he recovered from his sudden attack of faintness, was the conclusion of the sad and mournful refrain.And then this man, whose death she had mourned long and in secret, suddenly stood before her.When last we saw Claverton lying fever-racked in the Matabili hut, he was certainly as near to death’s door as ever man was without actually passing that grim portal; and when the uncivilised bystanders, with bated breath, whispered their verdict, it was only the one which would have been returned by any onlooker. Falling back, he had lain to all appearance dead; but that very swoon had been the means of saving his life, at least, such was the unhesitating opinion of one or two to whom he afterwards told the circumstances, though of course not what had caused the swoon, and who, from their training and practice, were qualified to judge. His life must have been saved by a miracle, said they. What that miracle was he did not feel called upon to tell them. The sight—sudden and vivid in its distinctness—of a face the dying man had longed, with a terrible hopeless longing, to see; death had no terrors for him, his whole soul was concentrated on this one agonising desire, and it had been fulfilled. The sight of that loved face, momentary as it was, had calmed him into a peaceful, death-like sleep, and the crisis was past. Had it been that in some mysterious manner, triumphing over nature, spirit had gone to meet spirit on that dark winter night? Who can tell? The end effected would have sufficed to justify such a departure from the law of nature, for it is certain that the apparition, whether due to the imagination of a fever-distorted brain, or to whatever cause, was the saving of Claverton’s life.Then, almost too soon after his recovery, he had wandered on. He had come through the Transvaal, and past the gold fields of the great Dutch Republic, and now he pushed on beyond the haunts of man striving after gain, farther and farther into the interior, where the gnu and quagga roamed the vast plains in countless herds; where the giraffe browsed in the green mimosa dales, and the elephant and rhinoceros crushed through the tangled jungle—at night terrific with the resounding roar of the forest king. On—ever on—alone, save for three or four native followers to look after his waggon and aid in the chase.And he had borne a charmed life. He it was who had shot the huge lion in mid-air as it leaped right over him to seize one of the oxen tied fast for the night in the strong brushwood enclosure, the mighty frame falling nearly upon him as it bit and ramped in the agonies of death. He it was who had confronted the hostile Matabili chief and his six hundred men, when that truculent potentate had demanded the person of one of his followers in satisfaction for some trifling larceny committed by the hapless lad upon their mealie gardens, and dared the barbarian and his armed warriors so much as to lay a finger upon him or his; and the fierce savage, in admiring awe of his sublime indifference to death or danger, had suddenly become his fast friend, though a moment before, the chances were a hundred to one against his leaving the spot alive. He it was who had swum out into the river swarming with crocodiles, and rescued this very follower, none other than the same, the Natal boy, Sam—who had watched him through his illness at the Matabili kraal—who, carried off his feet by the force of the current, was being borne away down the river, and the other natives had given him up as lost. And many and many a hair-breadth escape had he, by field and flood, until the natives began to look upon him as a sort of god, and his own body servants felt safer in his service from danger or sickness than they would have done surrounded by British regiments in the former contingency, or protected by all the “charms” of their most renownedizanusi(wizards) in the latter. For he was absolutely indifferent to death, and consequently death was indifferent to him.And ever before him, whether amid all the rapturous excitement of the chase, in the glowing noonday, or in the awesome solitude of the midnight camp far in the heart of the wilderness, hundreds of miles from the nearest haunt of civilised man, with the roar of the lion and the howl of the hyaena echoing along the reedy bank of some turbid lagoon; while he watched the scintillating eyes of savage beasts glowing like live coals out of the surrounding gloom as they prowled around his encampment, haply waiting for the sinking watch-fire to fade altogether—amid all this, and ever before him, there was one beautiful face present to his mind’s eye, as he had seen it, looking smilingly at him in the soft moonlight, or set and despairing as he had last gazed upon it that day in the golden noontide, beneath the old pear-tree. And as years went on they brought with them no solace, and now he had returned to civilisation, intending shortly to leave for ever the land which had made only to mar the successes of his life.He had changed slightly—and changed for the better—for his years of wandering in the wilderness. He was in splendid condition, broader of chest and firmer-looking, though not one whit less active than in the old days; but the impatient, restless expression had departed from his eyes, leaving one of settled calm, the imperturbability of a man who feels that he has lived his life, and that his past is a far-away state—a vista, fair and lovely, perhaps, to look back upon, as the traveller looks back in memory upon some beautiful tract he has left behind—but still another and a different state of being. Such was Arthur Claverton, as brought there by a marvellous freak of the hand of Fate, he stood once more face to face with his first and only love.Suddenly the voice of his host on thestoeprecalled him to himself; recalled both of them, and, with a sigh, Lilian turned round as if to resume what she had been doing, in reality to collect herself, and Payne entered.“Hallo,” he said. “You here, Miss Strange? Let me introduce my friend; or have you already been making acquaintance?”Claverton started as if he had been shot, and the room seemed to go round with him. “Miss Strange!” She was not this man’s wife, then, or anybody’s. He hardly heard what was said after that; though outwardly cool and collected. Then the revulsion of feeling was succeeded by a relapse almost as overwhelming as the first. For was it likely, he argued, that she would listen to him now, any more than that morning three years and a half ago—when for the second time she refused his love? And his reason answered, No. Still it was a weight lifted, the discovery that she was not married to his host, as he had at first thought. He had never seen Payne’s wife, nor had that genial-hearted soul ever touched upon the subject of his spouse in such way as to enable him to form any idea of her personal appearance. Nor had Payne mentioned the fact of there being a guest in his house. And then Lilian’s own words—“Ithought that I should never see you again—I thought that you were dead,” spoken as if in explanation of her own circumstances. No wonder he had jumped to that conclusion. Well, it did not matter either way, he told himself. He would importune her no more—he could follow the only course open to him—he would go. She might tolerate his presence just this one evening, and on the morrow he could depart before any of the household were astir, even as he had done once before.It may be wondered what Payne had been about all this time, after unconsciously leaving these two together. On going to the back of the house, the first sight that met his gaze was a troop of young cattle plunging over a fence and careering madly about one of his cultivated strips destined to become a model kitchen garden. To dash off then and there, and eject the intruders before damage, widespread and sore, was done, became at once the object of his life, and forgetting for the moment the very existence of his guest—or, indeed, of anybody—away he started; but the work of reparation was also one of time, and not until all possibility of a recurrence of the damage had been practically guarded against, did he so much as begin to think of returning to the house.Fortunately the darkness of the room, as the shades of evening deepened, kept Payne from noticing Lilian’s deathly paleness, and he chatted on in high good-humour, till the sound of voices and laughter in the passage proclaimed the advent of his wife and olive-branches—the latter, Lilian’s charges; for she was still plying that delightfully remunerative and much appreciated craft—teaching the young idea.“Well, Lilian,” cried Mrs Payne, a bright, cheery little woman of about her own age, or perhaps a year or two older. “You’d much better have come out with me instead of moping indoors, on this lovely afternoon, over that wretched music. Why, who’s this?” Then a due introduction having been effected, she shook hands cordially with the new arrival. “Ah, Mr Claverton, I’m so glad to see you. I’m always at that dear, stupid old George for not bringing you here, after saving his life that time; but I’m so glad you’ve found us out at last.”“That dear, stupid old George,” the while, was winking at Claverton over his spouse’s shoulder, his satirical nature hugely tickled by the flutter which the news of the other’s opportune aid a second time rendered would cast her into. He would tell her some day, but not just yet.Claverton laughed. “Well, you see, Mrs Payne, he could hardly have done that, because I was bound in the opposite direction, but I’ve taken advantage of my opportunity as soon as I fell in with it, and here I am.”“What! Do you mean to say you’ve been wandering about up the country ever since?”“Of course he has,” struck in Payne. “But hadn’t we better get all snug for the evening? It’s about feeding-time! Here, Claverton, come this way, I dare say you’ll like to put your head into cold water. And, Annie, just tell those kids to shut up that infernal clatter,” he added, as the uproar of juvenile romping, mingled with many a shrill laugh, came rather too distinctly from an inner room.And how comes it that Lilian Strange, whom we last saw at Seringa Vale, should be quietly installed in this Kaffrarian border dwelling? It will be necessary to glance back.Not long after we saw her, hopeless and heartbroken, more than three years back, an event happened which caused her to forget for a time her own grief in the sore affliction of others, of her dearest and truest friends. One day Mr Brathwaite started for his accustomed ride round the farm, but the afternoon slipped by and then evening came, and he did not return. His horse, however, did; for just as Mrs Brathwaite, in anxiety and alarm, was about to send forth in search of him, that quadruped put in an appearance, with the rein still on its neck, and limping up to the stable-door as if it had been injured. Then they started in search, leaving Mrs Brathwaite a prey to the most terrible forebodings, which were realised only too soon. The old settler was found lying in theveldt, unable to move. His horse, he said, had put its foot in a hole, stumbled and rolled over with him, falling upon him; no bones were broken, but he feared he had received some internal injury as he could not move without great pain. Carefully they carried him home, and he was put to bed. Tenderly did his wife and Lilian watch beside him the night through, while Hicks was riding at a hand-gallop to fetch a doctor from the district town. An errand, alas, which was only too futile; for as the clear dawn quivered glowing and chill over the homestead at Seringa Vale the sufferer’s spirit passed slowly away, and the beams of the rising sun, darting in at the window, lighted upon the face of a corpse and two watchers weeping by a bedside.Thus died Walter Brathwaite—the staunch, persevering settler, the pioneer of industry and advancement in a new and far-away land, and, above all, the genial, noble-hearted gentleman. One who had never turned his back on friend or foe, a man who had never been guilty of a mean action or reaped advantage from the misfortune of his fellows; open of hand, kindly of heart and firm of head, he died as he had lived, regretted, loved, and respected by all who knew him. And that country is fortunate which can show many of his like.And in the dark and rayless days that followed, it was Lilian’s task to whisper words of consolation and hope to the sorrowing widow, crushed to the very earth in her sudden and comfortless grief; and in no better hands could it have devolved. But within the year Mrs Brathwaite had followed her husband, and Lilian, who, up to then, had tended her with more than all the loving care of a daughter, watched over her to the last.“God bless you, dearie,” had been the dying woman’s parting words to her. “You have given yourself up to the comfort and happiness of others; some day it will return to you a hundredfold. Only be patient.”They buried her beside her husband; and in one disastrous day, sad indeed had been the change wrought in that peaceful, happy home. And then Lilian, craving for work and diversion, had gone back to her old line of life, which, involving a constant tax on her energies, would afford her both the one and the other. So here she was, after a lapse of years, installed at Fountain’s Gap, ostensibly as the preceptress of Mrs Payne’s children, in reality as companion to that good-hearted little woman herself, who had taken an immense fancy to her, and, moreover, hated being left alone, as must, otherwise, inevitably be frequently the case from the very nature of her husband’s pursuits.“Did you hear anything fresh in Komgha to-day, George?” asked his wife, when they were seated at the table. The curtains were drawn and the room looked snug and homelike.“Two more troops of Police ordered over the Kei.”“Oh, dear. That looks bad. We are in a dreadful state of scare now, Mr Claverton,” she explained. “I can hardly sleep at night for thinking of it—and right in the middle of those wretches, too.”“Weare!” rejoined Payne, good-humouredly. “Say, rather, you are. The fact is, Claverton, my wife thinks of nothing but fire and sword, morning, noon, and night, till she’s worked herself up to such a pitch that every time a drunken nigger howls in theveldtshe vows they are raising the war-cry.”“Well, but you know there is reason for it,” retorted she. “And if it gets any worse, Lilian and I will go away with the children to Grahamstown or somewhere. I really am frightened.”“That’s a long way,” said Payne, banteringly. “I also heard that the new Governor was coming up to the frontier.”“Ah, we’re getting the news by degrees,” exclaimed his wife. “What else did you hear?”“That a policeman rode in from the Transkei this morning.”“What news did he bring?”“I don’t know.”“There now. You never find out anything. Some day we shall all be taken by surprise and murdered in our beds.”“Ha, ha, ha?” laughed Payne. “Well, at any rate, you’re no worse than the people at Komgha. If an express rides in, they jump to the conclusion that Kreli is marching on their precious town at the head of twenty thousand men. For my part I don’t believe there’ll be a shindy at all. It’s only another case of scare.”But he did believe it, only he thought a pious fraud justifiable to reassure the womenkind.“When I’m big,” remarked Harry Payne, aged seven, “I’ll have a gun and shoot a greatschelmKafir.”“But, Harry, he may shoot you first,” said Lilian, during the laugh that followed upon this interruption.“No he won’t,” persisted the embryo warrior. “I’ll shoot him.”It was the first time Lilian had spoken, and Claverton, who was sitting opposite her and almost as silent, heard with a thrill that low, sweet voice which had haunted his dreams and his waking thoughts during the long years of solitude. He had been furtively watching her, noting every turn of the beautifully poised head, striving to catch a glance from the sweet, serious eyes, which somehow were never suffered to meet his. And he likewise noted that Lilian Strange at twenty-seven was, if possible, even more lovely and winning to behold than on that day just four years ago, when he had first gazed upon the vision which had completely altered the course of his life. Not even the most spiteful of critics could say of her that she had “gone off.” A trifle graver perhaps, but it was a gravity that suited well her soft, dark beauty; and the smile, when it did come, lit up the serene, exquisite face as the ripple of a sunbeam on a sleeping pool. And it was just such a smile as this which caused a tug of pain at Claverton’s heart, when the urchin uttered his bellicose aspiration.“By the time you’re big enough for that, sonny, there may be occasion for it, not before,” said Payne, as he wheeled back his chair. “Come and have a smoke on thestoep, Claverton. What! Did you say, ‘No’?”“That’s what I said.”“Well! Here’s a transformation! Why, you haven’t given up the only sociable habit—Ah, I see. Ladies, you may score a triumph; you have tamed this savage. He is going to give up the soothing weed in favour of your more soothing society. But I am not, therefore for the present—so long,” and with a laugh the light-hearted fellow went out, cramming his pipe as he went.“Now, Mr Claverton, we shall expect you to tell us some most thrilling adventures,” said his hostess. “You must have a great stock of them.”“I assure you I have none,” he began.“Oh, that won’t do. But tell me the ins and outs of that affair when you first met George.”Claverton started. His wits were, in popular phraseology, wool-gathering; and at first he thought of to-day’s row. Then he remembered.“That affair at De Klerk? It wasn’t much of a thing. Payne was holding his own gallantly against four big Dutchmen, and I came up in time to turn the scale. You said something about his life just now, but his life wasn’t in danger; the most they’d have done would have been to have given him rather a mauling.”“What was it about?” asked Lilian.“The right of outspan, usual bone of contention in Dutch neighbourhoods. And just then the Boers were rather sore about the Gold Fields, and made themselves very nasty to any one coming from or going to that sham El Dorado.”“Sham! Yes, it is a sham; George did no good by going,” said Mrs Payne, rising. “Now, children, bed-time,” and with the reluctant juveniles she left the room; and again those two were alone together.Claverton, who had hoped for such a moment, now that it had come, felt utterly tongue-tied. He felt that he had no right to rake up the past. She herself had buried it, and now that they were unexpectedly thrown together again, he felt that it would be unfair to her, not to say obtrusive, to revert to the forbidden subject. And yet what was he to say to her? Every topic they had in common was inextricably interwoven with that terribly painful past, which was as fresh and unhealed in his heart as on the morning when she had bidden him leave her.“Do you know, I had not the remotest idea I should find you here to-day?” he began, rather lamely.“Hadn’t you? I suppose not,” she answered, speaking quickly, and her fingers busy at some needlework, trembled ever so slightly.“How long have you known the Paynes?”“Nearly three years. Just before Mrs Brathwaite’s death.”“What! Is Mrs Brathwaite dead?” he asked, in astonishment.“Didn’t you know?” she replied. And then she gave him the history of the sad events which had followed so soon upon his leaving Seringa Vale, and he listened in amazement, for he had only just returned straight from the interior, and thus, as it were, into the world again.“I am very grieved to hear this,” he said, when she had finished. “They were the truest, kindest friends that ever man had. I little thought I should never see them again. And I suppose Jim reigns in the old place, now?”“Yes,” she answered sadly, and then there was silence for a few moments. The conversation was taking a decidedly dangerous turn, and Lilian began to feel embarrassed. Perhaps it was as well that Mrs Payne returned, having disposed of her offspring in their various couches, and almost immediately her lord entered from thestoep, bringing in a whiff of fresh night air not guiltless of tobacco smoke.“Grand night!” he exclaimed, flinging down his hat in high good-humour. “We’ll have a ride over the place to-morrow, eh, Claverton?”Claverton assented mechanically, thinking the while how he might be far enough away by that time. Then a little more conversation, and a move was made to retire. How narrowly he scanned Lilian’s face, while he held her fingers in ever so lingering a clasp as he bade her good-night! He could read nothing there. And then, mechanically again, he followed his host to the room prepared for him, and once more he was alone.Then what a rush of recollections swept over his mind, as he sat at the open window looking out upon the still night! All the years of wandering, of peril, and of hardship, were bridged over as by a single night, and once more it seemed as if he had just heard his doom only a few hours since, in the garden at Seringa Vale. And now Fate had thrown him beneath the same roof with this woman, whom he had never expected nor dared hope to see again. He had once more looked into her eyes, and drank in the sound of her voice—once more had held her hand in his, and now the old wound, never even so much as cicatrised over, was lacerated afresh, and gaped open and bleeding. Could he have been brought here for the mere sport of circumstances, or was it with a purpose—a deeper import? And with the superstition in small things which often, and in spite of himself, clings to a man who has travelled much and in solitude, he grasped the idea. Yet he dared not hope. Hope and he had parted company long since, he told himself. But he made up his mind that, at any rate, he would not leave his friend’s hospitable roof the next day; and having arrived at that conclusion he fell asleep, and slept soundly.

George Payne and his newly-found friend—a veritable friend in need upon this occasion even as on a former one—kept on their way, winding along the picturesque heights overlooking the Kei, and exchanging many a reminiscence of their past acquaintance.

“To think of your turning up like this,” said the former. “Why, I thought you were still away up in the interior and never meant to come near these parts again.”

“Well, I don’t know. Fact is, after a few years of wandering, one has pretty well done this not too interesting continent, at least the southern part of it; and now I’m thinking of going somewhere else.”

“And you’ve come straight down country, now?”

“Yes; ridden all the way. It would be inconvenient in some ways were it not that one is indifferent to the exigencies of civilisation after such a spell of savagery as I’ve been having. One can’t carry much baggage, for instance.”

“Is that all you’ve got?” said Payne, glancing at the valise strapped across the other’s saddle.

“Yes; I had the rest sent to Komgha. It’s a good way from your place, but we might pick it up if it was wanted.”

“Better leave it there at present.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s an even chance that we may all have to trek into laager there or somewhere, any day; and it’s safe there, at any rate.”

“Are things as fishy as that?”

“They are,” replied Payne. “A lot of the Dutchmen down towards the coast are already in laager; but they’re a white-livered lot, when all’s said and done, so that doesn’t mean much. Still, from one or two things I heard to-day, I should say that we shall have some tall rifle practice before long. I’m no alarmist; on the contrary, I’ve more than once been advised to send the wife and kids away to the town, but I don’t think there’s any occasion for that just yet.”

“No, perhaps not. And it’s as well to keep straight as long as you can. Directly one begins to trek, another does—then another—and soon there’s a regular panic.”

“Rather. Now there was a scare on in the year of the big flood, and a lot of fellows round here began laagering, and one heard such a lot of war shop talked, that one almost wished there was some reason for it. Well, I remained through it all. I had only just come up here then, and didn’t see the fun of leaving my place to run to wrack and ruin just as I had got it a little square and shipshape, so I stuck to it, and other fellows did the same; and we had the laugh of those who ran away in a funk.”

“That was a bad scare, though.”

“It was,” said Payne. “The niggers were quite as cheeky then as they are now, and you’ve just had a specimen of what that is. By the way, don’t mention that little scrimmage to the wife; she’s very susceptible to scare, as it is, and once she heard of that, life would be a burden to her whenever I was away from home. Lately, she’s done nothing but predict that I should come to grief.”

“All right. I’ll keep dark.”

“Here we are at last,” said Payne, as they entered a narrow gorge between two high hills, and emerging upon a sort of basin-like hollow, beheld a substantial-looking farmhouse. In front, a sweep of smooth sward sloping down to the dam, in whose still surface a cluster of willows lay mirrored, as they drooped their boughs to the water’s edge; around this a few strips of enclosed and cultivated land, and a fruit-garden bordered by high quince hedges. On either side of the hollow, just far enough apart for the place not to be “shut in,” rose green lofty heights, with here and there a clump of dark bush in their rifts and chasms; and two little streams of clear water met in the valley and dashed along past the homestead, sparkling as they joined their forces in a leaping, rushing rivulet—an invaluable boon in that land of drought. But it was not until one reached the house, which was situated on a slight eminence in the hollow, that the full charm of the situation became appreciable. Then, standing on thestoep, which ran round two sides of the building, on the one hand the Kei hills bounded the limit of vision; while on the other, focussed, as through a glass, between the double range of green heights narrowing as they stretched further and further away, a panorama of rolling bush country, with here and there a purple ridge rising in the sunny air, found its limit on the distant horizon. The house itself was a good specimen of the old-fashioned frontier abode, with its thatched roof and canvas ceilings. It had been added to by the present owner, and was fairly roomy and comfortable. A passage intersected it, on either side of which, a door opened into a sitting-room and dining-room respectively, while another door from the latter communicated with the continuation of thestoep, which ran round that side of the building. Such was Payne’s home—Fountain’s Gap—so called from the two streams which met and flowed through the beautiful hollow, at either end of which one looked out upon the country beyond as through a gap.

“So this is your crib,” remarked our new acquaintance, glancing critically around, as if to take in all the capabilities of the situation. “It strikes me as an uncommonly good one. Why, that stream alone ought to be a fortune to you.”

“Yes; it’s a good all-round place,” assented Payne, perceptibly gratified. “You see, I’ve got a good deal of land under cultivation here round the dam. I’m going to break up any amount more, and go in strong for agriculture, as soon as this confounded scare, or war, whichever it’s to be (and I don’t care which), is over. It’s of no use making a lot of improvements, only to be ravaged by these black devils—is it?”

“Not in the least.”

They were now skirting the stream, which here flowed past the dam, communicating with it by a runnel cut with spades.

“Let’s dismount here,” said Payne, “unless you’re tired, and would rather go in. You’re not? Well then, look. Here’s where I was thinking I might run up a mill one of these days; with this water power one might do anything. Higher up it’s even better. Wait, we’ll get rid of our horses and stroll along a bit,” and a stentorian call brought a young Kafir running down from the out-buildings, as also three or four rough, fierce-looking dogs in open-mouthed clamour. The latter were soon pacified, and leaped around their master in boisterous glee, wagging their tails and whining joyously as he patted them, or bestowed a playful punch upon some shaggy hide, while a precautionary sniff having satisfied them as to the stranger’s respectability, they forthwith took him into their confidence in a less mirthful and more dignified manner.

“Here, Booi,” went on Payne. “Take the horses up to the stable, and off-saddle them. Is the missis in?”

“Don’t know, Baas,” answered the Kafir, grinning.

“Don’t you? When did one of you fellows ever know anything? Now hook it,” and as the boy led away their steeds, the two strolled on, Payne pointing out the capabilities of his water advantages, and enlarging on his schemes of improvement; for this farm of his was his hobby, and in his heart of hearts he hoped some day to make it a model in the way of progress, as showing what might be done even there by a fellow with a little “go” in him.

They crossed the stream by a plank bridge, and now stood looking down it, scarcely, a hundred yards from the house, Payne still expatiating.

“Yes, with a place like this,” he said, “one ought to be able to do anything. It’s splendid pasturage, well situated, any amount of water, in fact, everything. And now comes this confounded war to upset the whole coach—Hullo!”

The exclamation is one of surprise and alarm as he turns round. His companion is standing rigid and motionless. Every particle of blood has fled from his face, leaving the sun-browned cheeks sallow and livid. His eyes are fixed and dilated, and one hand nervously grips the rail of the bridge against which he is leaning.

“Man alive—what’s up?” cried Payne, anxiously. “You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“Nothing—nothing at all,” replied the other, with a faint smile. “I’m all right again now; don’t make a fuss, it’s nothing. I think it’s a remnant of that infernal up-country fever which I can’t thoroughly shake off. It left me as weak as a rat, and even yet I feel the effects now and then, as you see,” and again he made a ghastly attempt at a laugh.

“By Jove!” cried Payne, in alarm. “Did you get hit in that shindy just now?”

“No; don’t be afraid—I’m all right. It was only a slight seizure,” and his hand, as he removed it from the rail, still trembled a little, but the colour returned to his cheek.

What should have so violently moved this man, who looked as if nothing could disturb his placid equanimity for an instant? It could not be that he was in a weak state of health or of nerve, for had he not just engaged, single-handed, in an encounter with three daring ruffians, and come off victorious? And his weather-tanned features betokened health and strength as clearly as if he had not known a day’s illness for years. The heat was not overpowering; he had not been riding fast, or in any way exerting himself, nor was he subject to attacks of faintness. No, there was nothing. Unless it was that through the quiet air of that sunlit valley came the sound of a woman’s voice—a rich, full, sweet voice, distant but clear—singing a pathetic ballad.

“Are you sure?” went on Payne, looking at him concernedly. “Well, let’s go up to the house and have some brandy and water, you’ll want it, after that, and the sooner the better.”

“Payne,” said the other, with a sort of sternness, laying his hand on his arm. “I don’t want anything just now. If you make a fraction of fuss about me or my idiotic attack, I’ll ascend that horse of mine and say good-bye this very evening.”

“Eccentric as ever!” replied Payne, with a laugh. “My dear fellow, you shall do nothing of the sort, and I’ll promise not to bother you in any way. Come along, let’s go in.”

They walked towards the house, and as they approached it the song ended. Had that man been afflicted with heart disease he would assuredly have dropped down dead on the threshold, for a mist was before his eyes and his heart was beating as if it would burst.

“This way,” said Payne, ushering his guest into the empty sitting-room. “I’ll tell the wife you’re here,” and, closing the door, he left him alone.

Alone? Payne, while he stood holding the door open, could not see the piano at the far end of the room, and now as he closed it, the graceful figure of a lady, who had apparently been occupied in looking through a pile of music in the corner, rose to greet the new arrival. His back was to the light as she first saw him.

“Have you ridden far to-day?” she began, in a pleasant conversational voice. Then with a faint, gasping cry as if she had been stabbed, she reeled back and leaned against the piano, her face ashy white, and trembling in every limb.

“Arthur!”

“Lilian!”

He made three steps towards her, and stopped short. No, he dared not even touch her. She belonged to another, now. She was the wife of his host and friend, the man whose life he had just saved. Why hadhe, of all others, been sent there only just in time to rescue that life, and then have been brought on to this house to witness what the saving of that life involved? What power of evil had sent him to this fiery torment—this pang which was worse than hell—as he stood there looking upon the woman who possessed the love of his whole nature, and whose pure-souled, beautiful face had ever been before his mental gaze, night and day, during three years and a half of lonely wanderings? What had he done to deserve this torture? Like a lightning flash these reflections pierced through his brain as he stood gazing, with a terrible agonised stare, upon the delicate beauty of face and form which had taken all the sunshine and gladness out of his existence, and now stood before him owned by another, and that other the man whose life he had just saved.

Something in his look froze her where she stood. Was she thinking much the same as himself? With hands clasped tightly before her, and eyes fixed upon his with a despairing fear, she whispered hoarsely:

“I thought I should never see you again. I thought—Oh, God—I thought—that you were—dead!”

The last ray of the sinking son shot from over the western hills, entering the window and flooding with a golden and then a ruddy halo the pale, anguish-stricken face and the wealth of dusky hair. And there they stood, those two who had been parted three long weary years and twice that number of months. There they stood—suddenly thrown together, as it were, by the hand of Fate—facing each other, yet speechless. Three years and a half of parting, and now to meet again—thus.

“I knew it must be you,” he said at length, slowly. “When I heard those words I knew they could be sung by no one else—like that.”

For it was the same ballad which she had sung on that night at Seringa Vale, when he was betrayed into the first avowal of his love, nearly four years ago; and the first words which had thrilled upon his ear now, as he recovered from his sudden attack of faintness, was the conclusion of the sad and mournful refrain.

And then this man, whose death she had mourned long and in secret, suddenly stood before her.

When last we saw Claverton lying fever-racked in the Matabili hut, he was certainly as near to death’s door as ever man was without actually passing that grim portal; and when the uncivilised bystanders, with bated breath, whispered their verdict, it was only the one which would have been returned by any onlooker. Falling back, he had lain to all appearance dead; but that very swoon had been the means of saving his life, at least, such was the unhesitating opinion of one or two to whom he afterwards told the circumstances, though of course not what had caused the swoon, and who, from their training and practice, were qualified to judge. His life must have been saved by a miracle, said they. What that miracle was he did not feel called upon to tell them. The sight—sudden and vivid in its distinctness—of a face the dying man had longed, with a terrible hopeless longing, to see; death had no terrors for him, his whole soul was concentrated on this one agonising desire, and it had been fulfilled. The sight of that loved face, momentary as it was, had calmed him into a peaceful, death-like sleep, and the crisis was past. Had it been that in some mysterious manner, triumphing over nature, spirit had gone to meet spirit on that dark winter night? Who can tell? The end effected would have sufficed to justify such a departure from the law of nature, for it is certain that the apparition, whether due to the imagination of a fever-distorted brain, or to whatever cause, was the saving of Claverton’s life.

Then, almost too soon after his recovery, he had wandered on. He had come through the Transvaal, and past the gold fields of the great Dutch Republic, and now he pushed on beyond the haunts of man striving after gain, farther and farther into the interior, where the gnu and quagga roamed the vast plains in countless herds; where the giraffe browsed in the green mimosa dales, and the elephant and rhinoceros crushed through the tangled jungle—at night terrific with the resounding roar of the forest king. On—ever on—alone, save for three or four native followers to look after his waggon and aid in the chase.

And he had borne a charmed life. He it was who had shot the huge lion in mid-air as it leaped right over him to seize one of the oxen tied fast for the night in the strong brushwood enclosure, the mighty frame falling nearly upon him as it bit and ramped in the agonies of death. He it was who had confronted the hostile Matabili chief and his six hundred men, when that truculent potentate had demanded the person of one of his followers in satisfaction for some trifling larceny committed by the hapless lad upon their mealie gardens, and dared the barbarian and his armed warriors so much as to lay a finger upon him or his; and the fierce savage, in admiring awe of his sublime indifference to death or danger, had suddenly become his fast friend, though a moment before, the chances were a hundred to one against his leaving the spot alive. He it was who had swum out into the river swarming with crocodiles, and rescued this very follower, none other than the same, the Natal boy, Sam—who had watched him through his illness at the Matabili kraal—who, carried off his feet by the force of the current, was being borne away down the river, and the other natives had given him up as lost. And many and many a hair-breadth escape had he, by field and flood, until the natives began to look upon him as a sort of god, and his own body servants felt safer in his service from danger or sickness than they would have done surrounded by British regiments in the former contingency, or protected by all the “charms” of their most renownedizanusi(wizards) in the latter. For he was absolutely indifferent to death, and consequently death was indifferent to him.

And ever before him, whether amid all the rapturous excitement of the chase, in the glowing noonday, or in the awesome solitude of the midnight camp far in the heart of the wilderness, hundreds of miles from the nearest haunt of civilised man, with the roar of the lion and the howl of the hyaena echoing along the reedy bank of some turbid lagoon; while he watched the scintillating eyes of savage beasts glowing like live coals out of the surrounding gloom as they prowled around his encampment, haply waiting for the sinking watch-fire to fade altogether—amid all this, and ever before him, there was one beautiful face present to his mind’s eye, as he had seen it, looking smilingly at him in the soft moonlight, or set and despairing as he had last gazed upon it that day in the golden noontide, beneath the old pear-tree. And as years went on they brought with them no solace, and now he had returned to civilisation, intending shortly to leave for ever the land which had made only to mar the successes of his life.

He had changed slightly—and changed for the better—for his years of wandering in the wilderness. He was in splendid condition, broader of chest and firmer-looking, though not one whit less active than in the old days; but the impatient, restless expression had departed from his eyes, leaving one of settled calm, the imperturbability of a man who feels that he has lived his life, and that his past is a far-away state—a vista, fair and lovely, perhaps, to look back upon, as the traveller looks back in memory upon some beautiful tract he has left behind—but still another and a different state of being. Such was Arthur Claverton, as brought there by a marvellous freak of the hand of Fate, he stood once more face to face with his first and only love.

Suddenly the voice of his host on thestoeprecalled him to himself; recalled both of them, and, with a sigh, Lilian turned round as if to resume what she had been doing, in reality to collect herself, and Payne entered.

“Hallo,” he said. “You here, Miss Strange? Let me introduce my friend; or have you already been making acquaintance?”

Claverton started as if he had been shot, and the room seemed to go round with him. “Miss Strange!” She was not this man’s wife, then, or anybody’s. He hardly heard what was said after that; though outwardly cool and collected. Then the revulsion of feeling was succeeded by a relapse almost as overwhelming as the first. For was it likely, he argued, that she would listen to him now, any more than that morning three years and a half ago—when for the second time she refused his love? And his reason answered, No. Still it was a weight lifted, the discovery that she was not married to his host, as he had at first thought. He had never seen Payne’s wife, nor had that genial-hearted soul ever touched upon the subject of his spouse in such way as to enable him to form any idea of her personal appearance. Nor had Payne mentioned the fact of there being a guest in his house. And then Lilian’s own words—“Ithought that I should never see you again—I thought that you were dead,” spoken as if in explanation of her own circumstances. No wonder he had jumped to that conclusion. Well, it did not matter either way, he told himself. He would importune her no more—he could follow the only course open to him—he would go. She might tolerate his presence just this one evening, and on the morrow he could depart before any of the household were astir, even as he had done once before.

It may be wondered what Payne had been about all this time, after unconsciously leaving these two together. On going to the back of the house, the first sight that met his gaze was a troop of young cattle plunging over a fence and careering madly about one of his cultivated strips destined to become a model kitchen garden. To dash off then and there, and eject the intruders before damage, widespread and sore, was done, became at once the object of his life, and forgetting for the moment the very existence of his guest—or, indeed, of anybody—away he started; but the work of reparation was also one of time, and not until all possibility of a recurrence of the damage had been practically guarded against, did he so much as begin to think of returning to the house.

Fortunately the darkness of the room, as the shades of evening deepened, kept Payne from noticing Lilian’s deathly paleness, and he chatted on in high good-humour, till the sound of voices and laughter in the passage proclaimed the advent of his wife and olive-branches—the latter, Lilian’s charges; for she was still plying that delightfully remunerative and much appreciated craft—teaching the young idea.

“Well, Lilian,” cried Mrs Payne, a bright, cheery little woman of about her own age, or perhaps a year or two older. “You’d much better have come out with me instead of moping indoors, on this lovely afternoon, over that wretched music. Why, who’s this?” Then a due introduction having been effected, she shook hands cordially with the new arrival. “Ah, Mr Claverton, I’m so glad to see you. I’m always at that dear, stupid old George for not bringing you here, after saving his life that time; but I’m so glad you’ve found us out at last.”

“That dear, stupid old George,” the while, was winking at Claverton over his spouse’s shoulder, his satirical nature hugely tickled by the flutter which the news of the other’s opportune aid a second time rendered would cast her into. He would tell her some day, but not just yet.

Claverton laughed. “Well, you see, Mrs Payne, he could hardly have done that, because I was bound in the opposite direction, but I’ve taken advantage of my opportunity as soon as I fell in with it, and here I am.”

“What! Do you mean to say you’ve been wandering about up the country ever since?”

“Of course he has,” struck in Payne. “But hadn’t we better get all snug for the evening? It’s about feeding-time! Here, Claverton, come this way, I dare say you’ll like to put your head into cold water. And, Annie, just tell those kids to shut up that infernal clatter,” he added, as the uproar of juvenile romping, mingled with many a shrill laugh, came rather too distinctly from an inner room.

And how comes it that Lilian Strange, whom we last saw at Seringa Vale, should be quietly installed in this Kaffrarian border dwelling? It will be necessary to glance back.

Not long after we saw her, hopeless and heartbroken, more than three years back, an event happened which caused her to forget for a time her own grief in the sore affliction of others, of her dearest and truest friends. One day Mr Brathwaite started for his accustomed ride round the farm, but the afternoon slipped by and then evening came, and he did not return. His horse, however, did; for just as Mrs Brathwaite, in anxiety and alarm, was about to send forth in search of him, that quadruped put in an appearance, with the rein still on its neck, and limping up to the stable-door as if it had been injured. Then they started in search, leaving Mrs Brathwaite a prey to the most terrible forebodings, which were realised only too soon. The old settler was found lying in theveldt, unable to move. His horse, he said, had put its foot in a hole, stumbled and rolled over with him, falling upon him; no bones were broken, but he feared he had received some internal injury as he could not move without great pain. Carefully they carried him home, and he was put to bed. Tenderly did his wife and Lilian watch beside him the night through, while Hicks was riding at a hand-gallop to fetch a doctor from the district town. An errand, alas, which was only too futile; for as the clear dawn quivered glowing and chill over the homestead at Seringa Vale the sufferer’s spirit passed slowly away, and the beams of the rising sun, darting in at the window, lighted upon the face of a corpse and two watchers weeping by a bedside.

Thus died Walter Brathwaite—the staunch, persevering settler, the pioneer of industry and advancement in a new and far-away land, and, above all, the genial, noble-hearted gentleman. One who had never turned his back on friend or foe, a man who had never been guilty of a mean action or reaped advantage from the misfortune of his fellows; open of hand, kindly of heart and firm of head, he died as he had lived, regretted, loved, and respected by all who knew him. And that country is fortunate which can show many of his like.

And in the dark and rayless days that followed, it was Lilian’s task to whisper words of consolation and hope to the sorrowing widow, crushed to the very earth in her sudden and comfortless grief; and in no better hands could it have devolved. But within the year Mrs Brathwaite had followed her husband, and Lilian, who, up to then, had tended her with more than all the loving care of a daughter, watched over her to the last.

“God bless you, dearie,” had been the dying woman’s parting words to her. “You have given yourself up to the comfort and happiness of others; some day it will return to you a hundredfold. Only be patient.”

They buried her beside her husband; and in one disastrous day, sad indeed had been the change wrought in that peaceful, happy home. And then Lilian, craving for work and diversion, had gone back to her old line of life, which, involving a constant tax on her energies, would afford her both the one and the other. So here she was, after a lapse of years, installed at Fountain’s Gap, ostensibly as the preceptress of Mrs Payne’s children, in reality as companion to that good-hearted little woman herself, who had taken an immense fancy to her, and, moreover, hated being left alone, as must, otherwise, inevitably be frequently the case from the very nature of her husband’s pursuits.

“Did you hear anything fresh in Komgha to-day, George?” asked his wife, when they were seated at the table. The curtains were drawn and the room looked snug and homelike.

“Two more troops of Police ordered over the Kei.”

“Oh, dear. That looks bad. We are in a dreadful state of scare now, Mr Claverton,” she explained. “I can hardly sleep at night for thinking of it—and right in the middle of those wretches, too.”

“Weare!” rejoined Payne, good-humouredly. “Say, rather, you are. The fact is, Claverton, my wife thinks of nothing but fire and sword, morning, noon, and night, till she’s worked herself up to such a pitch that every time a drunken nigger howls in theveldtshe vows they are raising the war-cry.”

“Well, but you know there is reason for it,” retorted she. “And if it gets any worse, Lilian and I will go away with the children to Grahamstown or somewhere. I really am frightened.”

“That’s a long way,” said Payne, banteringly. “I also heard that the new Governor was coming up to the frontier.”

“Ah, we’re getting the news by degrees,” exclaimed his wife. “What else did you hear?”

“That a policeman rode in from the Transkei this morning.”

“What news did he bring?”

“I don’t know.”

“There now. You never find out anything. Some day we shall all be taken by surprise and murdered in our beds.”

“Ha, ha, ha?” laughed Payne. “Well, at any rate, you’re no worse than the people at Komgha. If an express rides in, they jump to the conclusion that Kreli is marching on their precious town at the head of twenty thousand men. For my part I don’t believe there’ll be a shindy at all. It’s only another case of scare.”

But he did believe it, only he thought a pious fraud justifiable to reassure the womenkind.

“When I’m big,” remarked Harry Payne, aged seven, “I’ll have a gun and shoot a greatschelmKafir.”

“But, Harry, he may shoot you first,” said Lilian, during the laugh that followed upon this interruption.

“No he won’t,” persisted the embryo warrior. “I’ll shoot him.”

It was the first time Lilian had spoken, and Claverton, who was sitting opposite her and almost as silent, heard with a thrill that low, sweet voice which had haunted his dreams and his waking thoughts during the long years of solitude. He had been furtively watching her, noting every turn of the beautifully poised head, striving to catch a glance from the sweet, serious eyes, which somehow were never suffered to meet his. And he likewise noted that Lilian Strange at twenty-seven was, if possible, even more lovely and winning to behold than on that day just four years ago, when he had first gazed upon the vision which had completely altered the course of his life. Not even the most spiteful of critics could say of her that she had “gone off.” A trifle graver perhaps, but it was a gravity that suited well her soft, dark beauty; and the smile, when it did come, lit up the serene, exquisite face as the ripple of a sunbeam on a sleeping pool. And it was just such a smile as this which caused a tug of pain at Claverton’s heart, when the urchin uttered his bellicose aspiration.

“By the time you’re big enough for that, sonny, there may be occasion for it, not before,” said Payne, as he wheeled back his chair. “Come and have a smoke on thestoep, Claverton. What! Did you say, ‘No’?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Well! Here’s a transformation! Why, you haven’t given up the only sociable habit—Ah, I see. Ladies, you may score a triumph; you have tamed this savage. He is going to give up the soothing weed in favour of your more soothing society. But I am not, therefore for the present—so long,” and with a laugh the light-hearted fellow went out, cramming his pipe as he went.

“Now, Mr Claverton, we shall expect you to tell us some most thrilling adventures,” said his hostess. “You must have a great stock of them.”

“I assure you I have none,” he began.

“Oh, that won’t do. But tell me the ins and outs of that affair when you first met George.”

Claverton started. His wits were, in popular phraseology, wool-gathering; and at first he thought of to-day’s row. Then he remembered.

“That affair at De Klerk? It wasn’t much of a thing. Payne was holding his own gallantly against four big Dutchmen, and I came up in time to turn the scale. You said something about his life just now, but his life wasn’t in danger; the most they’d have done would have been to have given him rather a mauling.”

“What was it about?” asked Lilian.

“The right of outspan, usual bone of contention in Dutch neighbourhoods. And just then the Boers were rather sore about the Gold Fields, and made themselves very nasty to any one coming from or going to that sham El Dorado.”

“Sham! Yes, it is a sham; George did no good by going,” said Mrs Payne, rising. “Now, children, bed-time,” and with the reluctant juveniles she left the room; and again those two were alone together.

Claverton, who had hoped for such a moment, now that it had come, felt utterly tongue-tied. He felt that he had no right to rake up the past. She herself had buried it, and now that they were unexpectedly thrown together again, he felt that it would be unfair to her, not to say obtrusive, to revert to the forbidden subject. And yet what was he to say to her? Every topic they had in common was inextricably interwoven with that terribly painful past, which was as fresh and unhealed in his heart as on the morning when she had bidden him leave her.

“Do you know, I had not the remotest idea I should find you here to-day?” he began, rather lamely.

“Hadn’t you? I suppose not,” she answered, speaking quickly, and her fingers busy at some needlework, trembled ever so slightly.

“How long have you known the Paynes?”

“Nearly three years. Just before Mrs Brathwaite’s death.”

“What! Is Mrs Brathwaite dead?” he asked, in astonishment.

“Didn’t you know?” she replied. And then she gave him the history of the sad events which had followed so soon upon his leaving Seringa Vale, and he listened in amazement, for he had only just returned straight from the interior, and thus, as it were, into the world again.

“I am very grieved to hear this,” he said, when she had finished. “They were the truest, kindest friends that ever man had. I little thought I should never see them again. And I suppose Jim reigns in the old place, now?”

“Yes,” she answered sadly, and then there was silence for a few moments. The conversation was taking a decidedly dangerous turn, and Lilian began to feel embarrassed. Perhaps it was as well that Mrs Payne returned, having disposed of her offspring in their various couches, and almost immediately her lord entered from thestoep, bringing in a whiff of fresh night air not guiltless of tobacco smoke.

“Grand night!” he exclaimed, flinging down his hat in high good-humour. “We’ll have a ride over the place to-morrow, eh, Claverton?”

Claverton assented mechanically, thinking the while how he might be far enough away by that time. Then a little more conversation, and a move was made to retire. How narrowly he scanned Lilian’s face, while he held her fingers in ever so lingering a clasp as he bade her good-night! He could read nothing there. And then, mechanically again, he followed his host to the room prepared for him, and once more he was alone.

Then what a rush of recollections swept over his mind, as he sat at the open window looking out upon the still night! All the years of wandering, of peril, and of hardship, were bridged over as by a single night, and once more it seemed as if he had just heard his doom only a few hours since, in the garden at Seringa Vale. And now Fate had thrown him beneath the same roof with this woman, whom he had never expected nor dared hope to see again. He had once more looked into her eyes, and drank in the sound of her voice—once more had held her hand in his, and now the old wound, never even so much as cicatrised over, was lacerated afresh, and gaped open and bleeding. Could he have been brought here for the mere sport of circumstances, or was it with a purpose—a deeper import? And with the superstition in small things which often, and in spite of himself, clings to a man who has travelled much and in solitude, he grasped the idea. Yet he dared not hope. Hope and he had parted company long since, he told himself. But he made up his mind that, at any rate, he would not leave his friend’s hospitable roof the next day; and having arrived at that conclusion he fell asleep, and slept soundly.

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