Chapter Two.

Chapter Two.Wild Honey—Part II.The three sat round the fire awhile, unspeaking, each busy with their own thoughts. Whatever were Roper’s his face grew more sullen every moment, and the glances he cast in the direction of the new-comer were full of malignance. He looked menacingly too at Vivienne, who had suddenly taken on such a feminine appearance that he was amazed he could have been deceived so long. Her intense pallor and the dilation of her eyes through fear or excitement until they looked like great sombre pools of fire may have had something to do with the phenomena, but there she was, spite of the travesty of masculine attire, glowing like some beautiful night-blooming magnolia. And she said nothing; just sat very still behind the packing-case, watching the two men.As for the stranger, he had taken up an easy position on one of the boxes which were always lying about the camp, and with his rifle beside him, leaning forward elbows on knees, began to fill his pipe. No hospitality of any kind was offered him. Just as he was about to light up, he gave a half glance in the direction of the girl, and for a moment she was afraid he was going to ask for her permission to smoke, but it must have been fancy on her part for he lit without speaking.“I hope your waggons are not far off,” said Roper suddenly. “For I’ve no idea of turning mine into a sort of refuge for lost dogs.” His tone was extremely offensive. The other man looked at him steadily for a long moment, then said with a gentleness almost deadly:“I don’t see any dogs about here—except one.” It is true that Roper’s pointer was asleep under the waggon not far off, but the stranger did not happen to be looking that way. Roper was at liberty to like the inference or lump it, whichever he pleased. Perhaps the cheerful flicker on the bright barrels of the stranger’s .303 helped his decision not to lump it, for his tone was less aggressive when he spoke again.“What I mean is, I’ve had enough of picking up and feeding and lodging people who choose to get lost on the veld. I’m full up with it. I didn’t lay in provisions against such accidents.”“Oh!” said the stranger, still gently. “Have you had many of the kind?”“Yes; one too many,” was the retort.Vivienne thought this the time and place to make a statement. “I am the unfortunate accident,” she said in a low voice. “I was lost on the veld some three weeks or more ago, and this man Roper found me, and has been supplying me ever since with food and a waggon tent to sleep in. He seems to resent having to do it so much, however—in spite of my assurance that he will be well paid—that I should be only too glad to leave this camp if I could.”This was tantamount to an appeal and she anticipated and hoped that the stranger would immediately offer her the refuge of his camp. To her mortification, he merely looked reflective.“I see,” he said; then casually to Roper: “Well, you needn’t worry about me. I shall not encroach upon your provisions.”“Very glad to hear it,” commented Roper, brusquely. “As for you, young fellah,” he turned his dark glance on Vivienne, “I don’t see what you’ve got to complain of. You have always had civil treatment from me and the best of whatever was going. Fine gratitude to turn on me now!”The girl was silent for a moment, nonplussed by the stranger’s indifference, and the thought that perhaps after all his presence there was only an accident, that he did not mean to help her, and would go off to-morrow without a word, leaving her once more in the power of Roper! She determined that at any rate he should not be in any doubt as to her position.“I’m not complaining without cause,” she said, looking at Roper scornfully; “you have repeatedly spoken most insultingly about being obliged to give me hospitality, and to-night your manner was so offensive that I was very glad to see this gentleman come into camp.”“Ach! you’re a fool to get scared at my jokes. I’ve even forgotten what it was we were talking about. Whatever it was, I should have thought a big strapping fellow like you could have taken his own part.”He laughed blusteringly, and she realised that he did not suspect the other man knew of her identity, and that he meant to keep up the fiction she herself had begun. Doubtless, he, too, expected the stranger to be gone with the dawn before he could make any further discoveries!It seemed at any rate that there was nothing further to be done for the moment, or until she could be sure of the man whose name she did not even know, or whether he knew hers! After all, had he recognised her? Had she been mistaken in the meaning of that swift look given her when their eyes first met, that seemed to say: “All’s well! I am your friend!”Surely he must remember her! Yet what had she done to be remembered by? Nothing. She had held herself aloof in disdainful pride from him as from all the others. She knew now that she had always felt an interest in this silent light-eyed man, who never seemed to look at anything but the horizon, and had felt more instinctively akin to him than the others. Still, she had never given any outward sign that he was not, as Laurence Hope has it, “less than the dust beneath her chariot wheels,” and had treated him to the same civil disdain with which she froze the other passengers. Oh! would he remember it against her now?—if he remembered her at all!Her eyes searched his face almost pleadingly; but it told nothing. He had crossed his legs easily, and with one hand nursing his elbow, the other holding his pipe, sat smoking in impenetrable reflection.Well! it was something to have him here. His very presence gave her a feeling of protection. One of theumfansmade a diversion by rising like a somnambulist from his dreams to throw a great heap of fuel on the fire. Mechanically, he performed his task, then, without looking to east or west, rolled himself to sleep again.“You keep up your fires all night—here?” remarked the stranger.“I always keep them up—it gives those brutes something to do,” was Roper’s surly response. “And why not, about here?”“Oh, it’s a good general plan. But there isn’t any particular need round here. No lions. A stray hyena or two is the worst you’ll strike.”“You seem to know all about it,” sneered Roper, his straggly moustache lifted to one side in the usual unlovely manner.“I ought to. I helped to make that road.” The stranger slightly indicated the wide and dusty main track fifty yards off. Roper gaped a moment or two.“Ah! a blessed pioneer!” he said at last, but there was no benediction in his tone. “And a mighty rotten road it is,” he was presently inspired to remark.“Yes,” said the stranger placidly, “roads are like dogs—and some men—they soon go to pot if they are not kept in order.”Roper digested this as best he might, but the process did not appear to agree with him.“No one seems to realise that it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning,” he suddenly snarled. “Get off to bed, youngster.” He added to the stranger: “If you’re going to make tracks for your waggons at dawn, I should advise you to get some sleep too.”“Thanks, I’m not sleepy—but I’ll turn in when you do.”“Well, I’m going now. The youngster has the tent. I roll up under the waggon.”“I’ll roll up beside you,” announced the stranger pleasantly. “But I hope you don’t snore, for I am a light sleeper, and wake at the slightest sound.” He happened to be looking steadily into the eyes of Vivienne as he said this.“The blazes you do!” burst out Roper violently, as though this were the last straw. “Well, I don’t care a hang whether you sleep or not.”“Thanks,” answered the other imperturbably. Vivienne spent a wakeful night. As a matter of fact, snoring was not an accomplishment of Roper’s, so she was unable to gather from the silence that reigned under the waggon whether either or neither of the men slept. She lay straining her ears for what seemed ages, but the only break in the silence was the sound of theumfanat his mechanical duty of replenishing the fire, until, in the dark hour just before dawn, she was aroused from an uneasy doze by a faint movement at the opening of the tent. She lay dead still, and for one moment her heart seemed to miss a beat. In the darkness she could see nothing by which to judge whether the person near were friend or foe, but suddenly her heart beat again, for a faint fragrance of Navy Cut tobacco had come stealing into the tent, and she knew that fragrance well. She had sat next to it for many days in a coach. Very different that to the rank odour of Roper’s Boertabak.Then, silently and swiftly, a small heavy object, cold and polished to the touch slid in beside her. Her hand slipped round it, and another hand closed for an instant on hers, then withdrew. No word was spoken.As soon as it was light enough, she examined her new possession, though her fingers had long since informed her of its character. A beautiful Colt’s, loaded in all its five chambers. A tiny leaf of paper tucked into the barrel bore a few scribbled words:“Use this if necessary. Don’t worry about consequences. I’ll look after those, Kerry.”Part of the “y” of “Kerry” had been left behind in the note book from which the leaf was torn.“Well! our friend the gallant pioneer has gone, hey?”It was the first time Roper had ever come near the waggon tent while she was in it, and the coincidence was not lost upon Vivienne. He sat on the brake now, face level with the mattress, and looked in with a triumphant leer on his degenerate face. But his news was no news to her. She had climbed down softly as soon as it was light, according to her usual custom, and made for herself the discovery that the stranger was gone. It was no more than she expected. The gift of the revolver had meant nothing if it had not meant that he would not be there to use it himself in case of need. The knowledge that it reposed under the pillow close to her hand was of great service to her nerves at the present moment, enabling her to answer Roper with an air of nonchalance that surprised him.“I daresay he will soon catch us up again.”“Oh,doyou? And what makes you daresay that, hey?”She moved her shoulders in a slight disdainful movement, to express that he and his question bored her intolerably, but for all her assumed carelessness she was on the alert. It was as much for her own reassurance as for his annoyance that she remarked:“His waggons can’t be far off, or he wouldn’t have reached us on foot last night.”“Ah!” Roper sat gazing at her, his moustache lifted sideways, the shadow of a sneering smile under his half-closed lids. It was patent to her that he was meditating something malignant, though what it was she could not at present fathom. No word did he speak on the subject of their last night’s interrupted conversation: but his glance, travelling over her in slow gloating detail, was eloquent of much that his tongue left unsaid; and though her eyes met his with scornful contempt, she could feel the colour mounting in her cheeks and passing over her face from chin to hair in a hot wave. And the sight was not lost on Roper. Laughing in his throat in a way that chilled her blood, he jumped from the brake and walked away.Immediately afterwards, he let loose a storm of abuse upon theumfans, who began to scuttle round the camp like frightened squirrels. It was unusual for him to be stirring in the camp at such an early hour, and this was their time to be cutting their own little capers while they collected fuel and stowed it on the other waggon for the night fires. Roper now diverted them from this to the task of clearing up camp. Then Vivienne heard him get down the ox-whip from the side of the waggon and begin to swirl the lash round and round in the air. A moment later the revolver-like crack of the huge whip went ringing and echoing across the veld and she understood. It was the sign for the return of the oxen! He meant to begin the afternoontrekabout five hours earlier than usual!Thus, when the stranger, secure in the knowledge that all transport riders give their oxen from ten to twelve hours for rest and grazing, caught up to the present outspan, it would be to find Roper gone with a five hours’ start. And once let anyone get five hours’ start of you on the veld it will take stiff running to catch up. A man with oxen in less robust condition than Roper’s might never catch up! This was the situation Vivienne had to face, and, thanks to the Colt, she was able to face it without panic. But her heart was somewhere in the vicinity of her boots as she watched the weary oxen come trampling back from their short respite. Seeming to know that they had been robbed of their legitimate rest, they kicked and butted each other, ran round the waggons, and gave as much trouble as they could. Many a bad and bitter word went to their yoking, but at last they were under weigh, raising clouds of dust as they took the road.It was soon clear that Roper did not mean to let things go at the usual easy pace. He kept the lash over his beasts, running beside them like a man possessed, cracking and swirling the long whip thong in the air, letting out astonishing cries, and long streams of words which though incomprehensible to the uninitiated ear left, by the violent sound of them, no doubt as to their character, every injunction ending in a ferocious command to “Yak!”The oxen at an incredible pace shuffled and clappered along, the waggon spite of its heavy load bounding and swaying at their heels. Sometimes Roper, a menacing figure covered with dust, appeared round the end of the waggon and dropped back a few paces on the road, thereby enabling himself to see well into the tent where Vivienne sat guarding her shaking soul behind a calm and unapprehensive manner. Nearly always he would laugh—a laugh that made the girl grip the revolver under the pillow. A moment later she would hear his voice adjuring the oxen with a savage “Yak!”It must have been about four o’clock in the afternoon when she found herself suddenly face to face with him in the opening of the tent. With such unexpected agility had he sprung upon the brake that for the moment she was taken unawares, and might easily have been out-generalled, but for his cocksureness that he was master of the situation. He stood there smiling his slow evil smile—giving her time to shift farther into the tent and lay her hand on the stock of the revolver. “What do you want?” she demanded evenly. He assumed an air of hurt surprise. “I suppose I can have a ride in my own waggon if I want to?”“Not here,” she said in a firm voice. “You must go and ride where you have always ridden. This tent has been given over to me and I mean to keep possession of it.”“Oh, you wouldn’t be so unkind,” he said with a slimy smile, and made to mount his knee on the mattress and clamber in, but found himself nose to nose with the shining steel barrel.“If you stir a hand, I fire.” Her voice was absolutely steady. “Get down!”His utterly dumbfoundered look and the alacrity with which he loosened his hold on the side of the tent and dropped from the brake was funny. But his face was not funny. Something in it made Vivienne shiver. His mouth under the tilted moustache worked as if it tasted poison, and his eyes were bad to see. Down in the road he looked upwards once more to where Vivienne sat, the weapon lowered, but still in sight.“So that’s it?” he muttered. “He left you his revolver, did he?”It was plain, of course, that she could have come by it in no other way. He walked behind awhile blinking and swallowing the dust, considering perhaps the problem of how much she had told the other man. Then silently in his veld-schoened feet he passed to the side of the waggon, and for the time being she saw him no more.Nor even heard him. The tent on a buck-waggon is so placed that when the latter is loaded there is no way of entering or seeing from the tent except from the brake end. The whole of the back opening was blocked with heavy packing-cases that could not have been budged except by the efforts of several men. Vivienne congratulated herself on that for it made for safety. But it also kept her in ignorance of what was going forward in the front part of the waggon, or even at the sides. All she could do through that long bright hot afternoon was to sit like Sister Anne in her tower watching the road down which help might come.When she observed that the waggon was no longer on the road, she was instantly on the alert for the meaning of the new move. It was too early to outspan, and if Roper did so he must know that he could easily be caught up, for they had not been travelling more than three hours! But they did not stop. They went crashing on over shrub and bush, lurching against ant-hills, being torn at by the branches of trees.At last, the terrified girl realised what was happening. Roper was leaving the road and all danger of interference from those who might be travelling on it, and making for the wild bush!What should she do? Jump down and run? He might, expecting that, be lurking beside the waggon, and spring upon her while her hands in descending were yet engaged in holding the quickly moving waggon. There was a subtle cunning about the fellow that terrified her. Better stay in the tent where at least she had her face to the foe, and her back guarded by packing-cases. Besides, to where could she run? Back to the bush, to be lost once more, perhaps for ever this time? No, better stay and fight it out; die fighting, if necessary. That was what the man had given the gun for. And he meant to come back. She felt sure of that. She trusted him. But would he come in time?On and on went the waggon, lurching and swaying over the rough ground. Once a dead branch ripped open the roof of the tent and a long slit of blue sky showed through. Another time a back wheel sank deep into a hole, and the whole waggon tipped over to such an angle that Vivienne found herself standing on the canvas ribs of the tent with her back keeping up the mattress and bedding. It took much hooting and hauling, two boys working with a crowbar, and Roper lashing, and howling terrible imprecations at the oxen before they pulled out and went lumbering on. The sun began to sink, and the skies to turn blood red with the trees inked against them. The approaching night looked menacing and full of danger. The girl crouched in the tent holding fast to the revolver.“Oh, this Africa! What terrible things she has done to me, and is doing! What terrible things has she still in her hand? ‘Out of Africa always something new,’ indeed! Pliny knew something when he wrote that! Oh, man Kerry, do not fail me! Come soon!”She kept saying that last sentence over and over again, like a prayer. Sometimes it seemed to her the only prayer she knew. The night fell abruptly, as pitch-black as if some monstrous bat had spread its wings and blotted out the light. There was no moon, and storm clouds had defaced the stars. Since first she came to the veld, Vivienne had never seen a night so black, so filled with brooding abysmal loneliness.At last, the waggon stopped. Yokes began to clatter and fall, and the tired beasts lowed moodily as they moved away. The flicker of a swiftly lighted fire sprang up, casting knife-like shafts of light through the heavy darkness, and the weary, nerve-wrung girl in the tent, tense as an overstrung violin, braced herself for she knew not what fresh ordeal of terror might be awaiting her in this silent lonely spot. She was well aware that it was of no use relying on any help from the cowed native boys. There was nothing to hope from anyone, or anything, but her own courage and the revolver. She had a sudden, swift vision of the light-eyed man who had left it with her, and a little involuntary cry burst from her heart at the thought of him.“Oh, Kerry!—come!”She would never have known that she had cried the words aloud but for the immediate answer that came in a casual, confident voice she seemed to have known all her life.“All serene—don’t worry.”Something loomed large and white below the brake, but the voice seemed to be on a level with her, and almost she fancied she could catch the gleam of his eyes in the enveloping darkness. She was too shaken with joy and relief to make any response, neither was there time, for Roper raging and profane arrived upon the scene.“What the—? Who the—” came his infuriated voice.“I’ve had a hard time catching you up,” drawled the stranger. “Why, my good fellow, what kind of transport rider are you? You’ve lost the road! I wonder what Deary and Co. would say if they knew their goods were being battered and bundled all over the veld like this, miles off the track?”The rage of the baffled Roper came down like a river in flood, a foul torrent of abuse in Dutch and Kaffir mingled with English. Fortunately, most of it was incomprehensible to Vivienne, but she was able to gather that the man on the horse, Deary and Co., the goods, and the veld, were all being consigneden blocto a place whose exact geographical position has never yet been officially defined.The fire now burning brightly revealed the new-comer seated idly on a large white tailless horse, which in outline somewhat resembled a grey hound and whose lean sides were closely pitted with tiny blue spots as though it had at some past time suffered from smallpox. The rider in his shirt sleeves looked cool and careless as always, but the hair lying dank upon his forehead and the soapy foam upon his horse’s flank told a tale which whoever ran might read. He now, with the subsidence of Roper’s eloquence, contributed his favourite remark to the occasion.“That’sall right.”“What the Billy-cock-hat,” (or words to that effect) “do you want, hey?” demanded Roper.“Just company. The pleasant time I spent with you last night gave me a taste for more. Then too I was sure you’d be glad of my assistance in finding your way back to the road to-morrow, without being obliged to lose several days in doubling on your tracks. Deary and Co. are particular friends of mine, and I know they’ll be grateful for anything I can do in the way of speeding up their goods.”Some part of this information, or the nonchalance with which it was delivered gave Roper pause, and made him swallow any further observations he might have felt inclined to offer. He turned away muttering in savage tones something about his boys having “left the road” while he slept. The lie was an obvious one, but the stranger doubtless had his own reason for accepting it blandly and without comment. He now dismounted, unsaddled and knee-haltered his horse, and turned it to graze. Without taking further notice of Roper or anyone else, he proceeded to gather fuel from the neighbouring bush, and in a short time had a great fire of his own leaping in the gloom. He had built it some twenty yards or more from the waggons, but exactly facing Vivienne’s watch tower, and by its rays she could see him foraging in his saddle-bags and preparing a meal. He made no attempt to communicate with her or amalgamate in any way with Roper’s camp. She wondered a little at this, but had already learned to rely upon the certainty of his knowing what he was about, and having a good reason for his every action. Since the moment she heard the unexpected sound of his voice, a feeling of peace and security had invaded her. Her strung nerves were at rest, and menace had gone from the night with the knowledge that this man was of those who took the fate of others in his hands and that hers was for the moment in his keeping.A drowsy weariness had followed upon the strain of the afternoon, and her inclination was to sleep, but the sight of her knight-errant taking his supper in a very natural and everyday manner made her wonder whether she ought not to do the same, not only for the sake of keeping up appearances, but to preserve her health in case of emergencies. So when anumfancame as usual to tell her that the dinner was ready, she descended from the waggon, and strolling over to the packing-case took her place as though nothing in the world had happened.But sitting opposite a face which wore baffled rage and spite printed on every line of it was not a pleasant experience, and she was glad to look past it sometimes to a figure lying full length, smoking peacefully by a fire. The man Kerry never once glanced their way, but Vivienne was curiously aware of his being on the alert for every sound and movement in the camp. She knew very well that he could hear her say to Roper that it would be a pleasant act of courtesy to send over a cup of coffee to the stranger who evidently had no kettle in which to make any, and Roper’s surly response to the suggestion.“Look here! Do you take me for a damn-fool Samaritan?”“No, indeed!” she retorted dryly. “But I thought that even you might be inclined to perform an act of common decency.”“Well, you thought wrong. I told you before that my waggon wasn’t a hotel for lost, stolen, or strays, didn’t I?”Her only answer was to emphatically refuse the cup of coffee proffered her by anumfan. The rest of the meal was accomplished in silence.Back in her tent once more, she composed herself for the night, revolver to hand, her face towards her friend. He had made another collection of fuel, and evidently meant to keep a big fire going all night. Something in the quiet way he had settled himself, half seated against his saddle, told her that he meant to keep watch.Also, he had produced a book, and was leaning forward in the firelight ruffling its pages, and softly whistling to himself. A wave of pleasure tingled through the girl as she recognised the air for one she had known and loved all her life; that exquisite setting by Mendelssohn and Lizst to Heine’s poemOn Wings of Song. She was strangely thrilled to hear its dear familiar cadence in this wild spot. Like the twinkle of home-lights seen suddenly from afar by a lost wayfarer, it gladdened and put fresh courage into her heart. How strange it seemed that this shirt-sleeved man who seemed part and parcel of primitive Africa, whom she had looked upon as a sort of Boer, should know anything so exquisitely civilised as the “Auf Flügeln des Gesanges!” She lay listening dreamily, her mind putting Heine’s words to the frail haunting air.On wings of song, Belov’d One,Away I’ll waft thee, to whereI know in the plains of the GangesA secret nook most fair.There sleeps a rich blossoming garden,Calm in the still moonlight:The lotus flowers are awaitingTheir dearest Sister to-night.The violets laugh as they prattle,And gaze on the stars in their spheres;Odorous legends the roses breatheLow in each other’s ears.There bound, and stand shyly listening,The gentle timid gazelles;Afar, from the sacred river,The waves’ deep murmur swells.There under the palms reclining,We’ll drink by the sacred streamOf love and rest in full measure,And blissful dreams will we dream.On Wings of Sleepit should have been called, she thought, for the whole thing was a dream that could only come in sleep. It occurred to her at last that the man Kerry thought so too, and meant his persistent though soft whistling as a hint to her to sleep while he kept watch. It seemed indeed the best thing she could do, so that later when he was tired out she in turn could keep guard. Already Roper had got down his blankets, and she knew by the lowered tones of theumfansthat he had retired under the waggon.Wearied out by the various emotions of the day, it did not take her long to fall asleep, but several times during the night she awoke, prompted by a restless fear which even through her dreams vaguely disturbed her. But always there was calm in the camp, and always the man Kerry sat intent on his little book. The storm clouds had gone by, and the sky, shroudy and mysterious as the blue veil of an Eastern woman, was hung with jewels that shed a misty luminance over the immense and silent land.When she finally threw off sleep in the small hours before dawn it was to find Kerry still lying there on his elbow placidly smoking. His book was still in his hand, but he appeared to be reading the fire rather than it. Vivienne wondered how she could let him know that she was awake and able to take up the vigil, but with theWings of Songstill haunting her memory she did not wonder long. Very softly she began to whistle the air. He stirred, and glanced towards the tent. She whistled delicately on, and saw a slow smile flicker for a moment across his impassive face. Then he closed his book and lowered his head to the saddle. He understood. She stopped whistling. He slept, and she vigilled until the stars turned white and the hand of Dawn pushed them back from sight, and in their place scattered red and golden roses across the skies.Full morning brought new factors into the game. Two sinewy Bechuana boys came light-foot up the trail of broken trees and crushed ant-hills made by Roper’s waggons, and approaching Kerry set down the heavy packages from their heads and gravely saluted him. Anindabaensued, accompanied by an arm-wave or two at the track by which they had come, some soft clicking remarks, and a few low sighs. Kerry, his pipe in his teeth, listened reflectively, and at the end of the recital gave a brief order to each. One went away to the horse, the other proceeded to make a cooking fire and unpack one of the loads which obviously contained provisions.Vivienne, who had been for a little morning walk, and now sat on a rock some distance away, saw Roper, much intrigued, watching the proceedings from under his waggon. When he could no longer contain his curiosity he slouched over to Kerry.“What’s all this? Whose boys are these?”“Mine. Any objection to them?”“Well!—What the Halifax?—How do you travel then? Where is your waggon?”“I can’t remember ever having mentioned a waggon,” was the imperturbable answer.That was the secret of it all then! He had no waggon. Only a horse and two native carriers. Vivienne to whom the whole conversation came clear on the morning air witnessed also Roper’s stupified amazement.“So you’re just hanging on to me?” he snarled at last.“I like pleasant company.”“To Jerusalem with you—well,Idon’t!”“It’s a free country.” Kerry’s manner was unfailingly suave, but at this juncture he arose from the mound on which he was seated and made it clear that as far as he was concerned the conversation was closed. There was nothing left for Roper but to return to his own business of making things as unpleasant as possible for everyone in his camp. All through that torrid day he prowled and swore around his waggons, furiously tinkering and greasing and patching up the injuries they had sustained during the forcedtrek, giving his boys no rest from labour and abuse. But never once did he come near Vivienne, nor throw her a glance. She sat in her tent most of the day, mending a hole in the knee of her knickerbockers or staring at the sunlit land about her.Thus it was from day to day. The two partiestrekkedand outspanned together as though they were one, yet after the first day never a word passed between them. Kerry made no attempt to communicate with Vivienne. Roper never spoke to Kerry. Vivienne passed her days unmolested by Roper.The objectionable feature of the affair was Roper’s offensive habit of airing in a loud voice at the night outspan his opinion of “loafers” and “hangers-on”—men who “followed like jackals the waggon of another man, having none of their own.” Kerry might have been a stock or a stone for all the sign he gave of hearing any of these things. But Vivienne’s cheek burned for him, and at times she felt a curious impatience that one who had taken upon himself the chivalrous affair of guarding her should be able to put up with such insults. She could not help thinking that since he was there for her protection a simple way out of an odious situation would be for him to say: “Look here; come over to my camp, and I’ll take care of you, and let this fellow go to the deuce. Certainly you will have to rough it with me, but you have to rough it in any case with this lout.” She would have gone like a bird from a cage. In fact, she could not understand how any chivalrous man could fail to see that it was the only dignified thing to do, especially when Roper began presently to be ironical to her on the subject of her condescension in staying in his camp. One evening he remarked to her rudely: “I wonder you don’t go and take up your quarters with your pal the Pioneer, instead of housing in my tent.”She was furious that the Pioneer, smoking not twenty yards off, took no more notice than if he were deaf or a fish. It seemed to her that patience might go a little too far, and a chill disdain began to take root in her soul.And then one day she realised that it was rather a good thing after all that he had not invited her to leave Roper’s waggon to join his own unsheltered caravan. That was the day on which the heavy lowering heat broke at last in a storm such as she had never known in her life. When trees and iron rocks leaped in flame and fell under splitting flashes of lightning, thunder seemed to explode upwards from the bowels of the earth to meet an answering detonation in the heavens, and rain came down like grey straight rods of steel, battering the road into a liquid, quivering mass of mud.At the first warning peal, Roper had drawn his waggons to a standstill, covered everything with great bucksails and retired under the shelter of one, while the boys took shelter under the other. Peering from ant-eaten holes in her bucksail, Vivienne could just distinguish through the heavy curtain of rain her rear-guard escort—the white horse with drooping head and drapery of mackintosh, and a tall figure sheltering to leewards of it. The carriers with the instinctive art of natives had found some cranny of shelter somewhere, but Kerry and his horse got the full brunt of the storm.In less than an hour, it was all over. A turquoise sky burned overhead, vivid orange sunshine drew clouds of incense from tree and earth and rock. The quivering mud of the roadway was the only unsightly evidence of what had passed—that and the drenched forms of a man and beast whom Roper mocked obliquely by calling up to Vivienne:“Nice weather for jackals, hey? I’ve just been waiting for this! We’ll have it every day now the wet season has set in.”The girl’s heart sank. But it was to sink lower yet in the days that followed when Roper’s words came true and the storm faithfully repeated itself. She began to wonder then whether she had not misjudged the Pioneer, and to realise that possibly his knowledge of the country and the climate had something to do with the regulation of his temper to Roper’s sneers. It was clear at any rate that if she had left the waggon and sought refuge with him she, too, would have had to weather the blinding storms that came and went every day regularly as clockwork, always leaving the country fresh and fragrant as a rose. Except for the roads! The going grew heavier daily and in that at least triumph was not all on Roper’s side, for while he was obliged to keep to the morass-like track or risk capsize, Kerry’s horse could pick its way delicately between rocks and ant-holes at the roadside. After the first day or two of wet weather the native bearers disappeared, and Kerry’s horse bore the weight of an extra bundle.It was a despairing experience to watch man and horse half-drown every day, then dry in clouds of steam under the brilliant sunshine that followed, and Vivienne sickened of it. She knew, too, that however strong the man, such an experience could not go on indefinitely without affecting his health, and she trembled for the day when he would perhaps fall ill of fever or pneumonia. Fortunately that day never dawned. One morning just as the sun was bursting forth after a terrible downpour, and the bucksails were being removed from the waggons, the blare of a coach horn came sailing through the air and a sound of mules’ hoofs flapping in the mud. Vivienne almost jumped out of her skin with joy at the sight of a mail-coach, empty of everything but the driver and a mass of mail-bags.Within twenty minutes, she was stowed inside the cart tent, the white horse was switched on behind, and the drawn-up coach waited only on the convenience of Kerry who before he could take his place in the cart wished to change his soaking clothes for some he had dried overnight. The bush being his only retiring-room he prepared to take his bundle thither, but first he stepped over and addressed a curt remark to Roper scowling beside his waggon.“Come along with me!”“Come with you? I’ll see you up a gum tree first.”“Very well. You can take what’s coming to you here instead if you prefer it.”“What do you mean?” Roper’s face was belligerent but he began to back. The other’s eyes, suddenly grown very steel-coloured, had taken a kind of measuring glance into them.“Just this, that you don’t surely suppose you’re going to be let off for your infernal cheek of the past ten days?—and all the annoyance you have caused this gentleman here?” (He slightly indicated Vivienne.)“Gentleman!” sniggered Roper, but got no further, for his mouth was stopped in a very rude and unkind manner. Vivienne’s heart gave a leap at the sound of the blow. Never before had she seen a man thrashed, nor any kind of brute violence used by one man to another. A month or two back, the very idea of such a thing would have made her sick, probably have caused her to faint. It is certain that she would, out of very hatred of violence, have sided with the aggressed, whatever his crime, against the aggressor. It showed how Africa had steeled her nerves and readjusted her sense of values that she could sit through the scientific and very thorough punching to which the transport driver was treated, without turning a hair.Afterwards, Roper’s boys, with a jubilation of manner never before observed in them, removed their master to the shade of his waggon and administered whiskey, while the man Kerry went away to wash his hands and make a quick change. The post-cart driver, a swarthy half-Dutch colonial, who talked the most extraordinary language Vivienne had ever heard, beguiled the tedium of waiting with anecdotes of Roper’s past.“Maar! it waslekkerto see datslegte skepselget it good and red!Ach! sis ja, he’s de worst stinkhond on dis road. I knowed him welldaar bij de Kaap. Ja wat! he done ten years mealie-meal pap on de Cape Town breakwater already for I.D.B., and another five years in de Bloemfonteintronkfor half murdering anarme kindof a Hottentot girl. He hit her on de head with aklip, wat! Allemagtie! sis, yes, he’s avaabond. I seen him do some dirty jobs between here and Mafeking.Verneukingde Kaffirs and hammering his boys forniks nie. Ek seh ver jou, dere isn’t nothing what datverdomde bliksemwouldn’t do!”Vivienne could well believe it. Such of the narrative as was comprehensible to her made her more deeply realise what her danger had been and how much she owed to the protection of Kerry. Her heart glowed with a warmth and gratitude she had never expected to feel again for anyone as she saw him returning, fresh from his dip and change, nonchalant as ever.“Oh, how good you’ve been to me! What should I have done if you had not come!” she cried, and put out her hands to his in a gesture as charming as it was spontaneous.“That’s all right,” he said easily. But impassivity went out of his face and darkness came into his eyes for a moment as he touched her hands. Then they sat side by side behind the driver while the mules spattered onwards through the mud. She recounted to him all she could remember of her adventure from the time she knew herself lost until Roper’s appearance roused her from the mental lethargy into which panic and privation had plunged her. But of the ten days’ gap in between she could tell him no more than if she had returned from the dead.“Only it seems like a miracle that you should have come upon the scene just when you did!”“It was lucky I left the coach at Palapye,” he said reflectively. But he did not mention why he had done so. “When I got back some days later, there was no way of proceeding except by taking a horse and a couple of bearers.”“Did you hear then that I was lost?”“Yes,” he said briefly. “The Government had people out searching for you, but you must have travelled at a great rate. I expect you’ll want to wire to let people know you are all right as soon as we get near a telegraph office?”“I suppose so,” she said slowly. “Unless it would be possible to just arrive and say nothing as to where I have been, and about that awful time with Roper. I should like that above all.” She looked at him appealingly and then at her grimy clothes. “It would be terrible to run the gauntlet like this!”“We must think up something,” he said.“It is only a matter of clothes to arrive in,” she said presently. “I expect I shall find my baggage all safely there.”“Of course. Well, the best plan will be for me to drop you at Fisher’s half-way house, a day’s drive from Buluwayo. I’ll proceed by coach and send you back whatever you need, and some kind of conveyance to come on by. The woman at Fisher’s is a quiet, half-dazed Dutch creature who won’t talk if she sees you enter a young man and go forth a young woman.”She coloured slightly, conscious suddenly of her grimy knickerbockers and rush hat. Then their eyes met and they both fell into a rush of laughter that broke the last strand of stiffness between them and turned them into girl and boy in a world empty of old griefs and pains and full of sunlight.They discussed without constraint what she needed in the way of clothes, and how to outwit the curiosity of Rhodesia as to her adventure. She told him about her work, and something of her reason why she could not afford to have the truth known. And if his eyes expressed humorous wonder that she should so much mind what the world thought when she was clear of fault, his enthusiasm in plotting ways and means for keeping her doings dark was no less than her own.“You must just turn up casually at a hotel one day in your cart, and say you’ve been all right—that you certainly got lost, but found good friends and have been seeing the country and getting ‘copy’ ever since. Chesterfield says: ‘Never lie, but don’t tell everything.’ Let them think what they like. They can’t prove anything. Roper knows that if he speaks I’ll break him to pieces. As for this driver Koos, I can easily square him. He’s an old crony of mine.”The sun pressed down on them hard all day, but there were fresh hills on the horizon, and a gold and emerald scape. The crystal air was vibrant with the odours of rolling leagues of vivid flowers growing close to Earth’s hot brown body. Wild bees hovered over the brilliant cactus blooms and strange-coloured brittle cups of the sugar-bush, then rose, honey-laden, and softlyburr-redtheir way home.At broad noon, they outspanned by a mule stable on the banks of the Lundi, and made a fire for which Vivienne helped collect sticks. Koos filled the kettle at the river, and Kerry went off on the trail of a little bird that was hopping from tree to tree with an insistent note. It was a honey-bird and its message was clear when Kerry came back carrying two large honey-combs dripping with that golden wine of the veld brewed by the little dark wild bees.Vivienne thought she had never in her life tasted anything so delicious. Koos was still at the river. She and Kerry sat on two stones, close to each other, and munched the dripping combs, looking at the great fantastic land about them and sometimes into each other’s eyes. She did not know that her youthful beauty had burst through grime and sunburn like a flower from its sheath. He did not know that distance was gone from his eyes again and that they burned dark in his tanned face. But both were aware of the enfolding wings of some great unknown force.Who drinks Nile water must return to Egypt. Who wearsveld-schoenswill return to the veld; who tastes of Africa’s perfumed honey can never again content him with the honey of pallid Europe. Vivienne could not know that by her act she was being initiated into the fellowship of that great band whose hearts will never more be free from the thrilling exquisite pain of Africa’s claw. She only knew that some strange taste of strange life went from the honey into her very being and that she had never lived before as she lived in that moment. Life had been waiting for her behind a veil, and now she drew nearer the veil and from behind it came the perfume of stephanotis and cactus bloom and wild honey, the murmuring of rivers, the music of trees. Africa was wild honey, and wild honey was Africa. It had got into her blood. Gone to her brain. Oh, the sweetness of it! The flame of skies and flowers! Time and space here for dreams! Here the rats and mice of life—malice, intrigue, slander, all the gibbering gnawing things that can make life hell—were absent. Here one pressed one’s lips to life and felt the thrill of the kiss swinging up and down every vein in one’s body.Suddenly she gave a cry. A bee’s sting had embedded itself in the sensitive flesh of her lower lip, and an exquisite needle-like pain brought tears to her eyes. He saw at once what had happened and sprang up.“I’ll get it out. Hold still a minute.”Touching her face with strong fingers grown extraordinarily delicate, he pinched the lip until he was able to extract the tiny dark sting. She closed her eyes and a tear slipping down her cheek wetted his fingers.Then he kissed her with the honey and salt wet on her lips, as one might kiss a little crying child. And almost as simply and naturally she kissed him back. When she realised what she had done, her heart seemed to become hollow in the sunlight for one moment, then full, brimming over with some strange wine. She wanted to be furious with him, but looking at his eyes no words would come to her lips. They stood there staring at each other like people in a dream. The sight of Koos coming back recalled her to herself, the spell under which she had been, broke. Frigid conventional words came to her lips, of the kind she might have spoken in a London drawing-room.“You forget yourself! ... How dared you!”His clear tanned face assumed a deep flush and he turned away abruptly. If she expected an apology she was disappointed. No other word was spoken between them, and when they mounted the coach it was by the driver’s side he sat, leaving the whole of the back seat to her.She found in this something to be thankful for, though her soul resented it. Slowly, with the gold of afternoon and red lights of evening, her anger faded away, but the enchantment of Africa faded too, and she felt cold, cold to the bone.At the next stopping-place, a young Dutchman was waiting for the coach, and went on with them the following morning. He turned out to be a sprightly fellow from the Eastern Province, anxious to air his views on the subject of Cape politics and ostrich farming. Vivienne earned a reputation for unsociability by retiring under the shadow of a large felt hat she had obtained at the hotel store. But Kerry, who to make way for the stranger had been obliged to return to the back seat, covered her strange manner and appearance by sitting forward and entering into long arguments. Sometimes both men would lapse into the Boertaal, and for frequent spells not a word they said was intelligible to the girl. At such times, Kerry seemed more than a stranger to her. She burned to remember what had passed between them, and shrank away as far as possible into her corner. He appeared to notice nothing. His own manner became curiously heavy, dull as the day went on; a day of torrid heat, air full of thunder and thick with dust. Everyone fell into silence at last, and no sound but the driver’s bitter curses and the flack of his whip broke the brooding weariness.In the late afternoon, a mule fell dead-lame, delaying arrival at Fisher’s until past midnight. As she limped from the coach sick with fatigue, Vivienne caught a glimpse by lantern-light of Kerry’s face. It was strangely distorted, with eyes bright and bloodshot. The sight of it revolted her, even as his voice speaking the coarse gutteraltaalhad done. But she was too tired to care about anything. Her whole mind had concentrated itself on the thought of bed, and a longing to extend her weary bones in sleep. So that when on thestoep, as they waited to be led to their huts, Kerry came near her muttering something indistinguishable, she turned away from him dully, with eyes and ears only for the woman who was to show the way.It was not until late the next morning that her mind cleared enough to think. Then her first wonder was why she had not been called to rejoin the coach. After lying still a long time, she remembered the plan that she was to be left at this place, and made haste to dress to find out whether the coach had gone without her. Before her clothes were on, a knock came at the door, and she opened it a crack to the stupid, sad-looking woman of the night before. The following dialogue ensued:“If you want korfie and grub I’ll bring it to you. The bigbaassaid you was to have what you wanted.”“Have they gone?”“Ya. The coach went at six. The bigbaassaid you was too sick to go and must rest in bed till he sends for you.”“Very well; bring me something to eat, please.” She got back into bed, and little of her face was showing when the woman returned with food, set it down dully, and departed.Time and space in which to think, lying there behind the bolted door, battered mud walls about her, bulging thatch overhead full of fat black spiders that sat immovable as Fate in their lairs. And her thoughts were of the long, long kind, though there was little of youth in them. She was so silent that the flies pretended to believe her dead and descended upon her in black battalions. The struggle to keep them off made the whole business just a little more sordid, and roused in her a kind of sullen fury against Africa and all that in it was.“I must get out of it,” she muttered to herself. “It is driving me mad. I must have been mad to let that man kiss me—a common oaf who talks Dutch in that horrible throaty way—a sort of Boer—how dared he!”She tried to remember his face as it had revolted her the night before, suffused with blood and swollen, but she could only remember the keen, quiet eyes full of light and distance, and how they had darkened when he looked at her, and how they had measured up Roper, and how her heart had leaped in her breast at the sound of the first blow.“I am mad,” she reiterated wearily, and covered her eyes. “This miserable country has driven me mad!”At sundown the next day, the woman brought a parcel and the news that a cart had come and would be ready to start again at dawn. The parcel contained a man’s mackintosh, a dark blue coat and skirt of simple not to say skimpy design, a white blouse, and sailor hat. She shook out the Philistine garments carefully as if she thought a scorpion—or a note—might be hidden among them. But no sign of either.“Tant mieux!” she said at last, and discarded the rush hat and tattered shirt almost violently as if with them she hoped to throw off the last trace of her veld madness.Wrapped in the mackintosh she slipped out to the waiting cart in the dimness of the dawn, and started on the last lap of the journey that was originally to have taken her ten days, but had already extended to six weeks! Only when the lights of Buluwayo gleamed before her at last could she really believe the end had come.Within a week, civilisation had its grip on her once more, and she was her cynical self with the nut of bitter dust back in her breast.The opening up of the country had brought a fashionable English crowd to Buluwayo, among them many people that she knew and had special feuds with. One of the latter was Lady Angela Vinning, a woman with a good figure, beautiful, pleading green eyes, and thumbs down on every other woman except those who for the moment happened to fit into her schemes. She and Vivienne were staying at the same hotel, and exchanged polite greetings and glances of disdain every morning. Vivienne despised her for what she was: false, unscrupulous, and mean-souled. She detested Vivienne for being fifteen years younger than herself, and that is the most poignant of all the feminine hatreds.Other grounds for general detestation by her own sex soon made patent to Vivienne were: (1) that Wolfe Montague, the richest man in South Africa, took no pains to hide the fact that his main business in Buluwayo was to be perpetually at her heels; (2) that having been romantically lost on the veld and found again no one quite knew how, she was the most-talked-of person in the country; and (3) that she had turned up looking perfectly radiant, and been seen of none until after regaining possession of her extremelychicclothes. Tales with a tang to them were soon flying round Buluwayo. Vivienne assumed her mask and with a calm mien went about her business of “writing up” the country. But behind the mask and the mien she was raging. It was London and the torment of the last few years over again, only at closer quarters, for here she must share the same hotel with her enemies, run into them daily, and smile and exchange sweet words with them.“If I could only wipe my boots on them all instead!” she thought savagely, and at such moments almost decided to marry Montague, whose flame grew more and more ardent with the days. But always a shadow slipped between her and her decision—a shadow with grey eyes! Where had those eyes disappeared to? She never saw them, and no one mentioned the name Kerry. The thing puzzled her, yet she was grimly glad. Of what use getting that strange torment of honey and perfume and wild places into her veins again, when she cared only for the call of civilisation, longed only for power and the weapons of wealth with which to smite these little-minded women who thought themselves so clever and fine? She would never be happy until she had power to make others suffer as she had been made to suffer. What had such an ambition to do with the honeyed madness she had known on the banks of the Lundi? Nothing.One day, writing by the open window of her bedroom, she heard two men talking in the hotel verandah. One was a solicitor whom she had met, called Cornwall, and a remark of his riveted her attention.“Brain and Hunt are after it. They’ll give five hundred, but de Windt doesn’t seem inclined to sell, though he needs money to get up North.”“I’ll go a hundred better,” said the other man firmly. “It’s a good farm and I’d like it myself. Try him with that.”“Right. I’ll try him.”Vivienne sat transfixed. The whole story rushed back to her mind and with it the remembrance of her plan to outdo the rogues by buying the farm herself. She had scorned the idea then, and despised herself for harbouring it, but in her present frame of mind it stood up salient and welcome as an old friend. Swiftly she found herself once more considering the question of where to raise the money.She heard the other man bid Cornwall good-bye with a last injunction to see de Windt at once and make the offer, and a moment or two later she sauntered into the verandah and spoke to the solicitor.“I heard that man’s offer for de Windt’s farm, and I want to tell you I’d like to buy it myself. I’ll give 800 pounds.”Cornwall stared at her, smiling.“You bitten with the land mania too, Miss Carlton?”“Yes.”“There’s plenty of it about,” he remarked tentatively. “And de Windt’s not particularly keen on selling.”“It must behisfarm or none,” she said firmly. “I have a particular fancy for the place.”“Oh, well! I’ll see what I can do for you. It’s a good offer, more than the farm is worth, I think. De Windt’s lying ill at present with a bad go of malaria. But I’ll put the matter to him and let you know the result.”“Thank you.”She went inside again, and sat on her bed pretending to wonder where the money was to come from. In reality she knew perfectly well, and she didn’t care. She was in the dirty business now, up to her eyebrows, for loss or gain. If she gained she would give back Montague his 800 pounds and a wave of the hand. If she lost she must marry him and forever hide the fact that he had been no more than a cat’s-paw and apis aller.“He is too good for me anyway,” she reflected. “Any man is too good for me. I’ve become a scoundrel and an adventuress. Three months of South Africa have done wonders for me! And I don’t care—I don’t care!”She bathed her hot face but could not take the burn from it. It was still brightly flushed, making her look very young and lovely, when she stood before Montague and proffered her abrupt request.“Will you lend me a thousand pounds for three months?”Reflection had shown her that she might have to bid higher, or that even if she got it for 800 pounds she would need a margin sum with which to prosecute the search for gold. Further, if she could borrow the money for three months, she might be able to sell and refund to him.“Of course,” said Montague promptly, and could not keep elation out of his eyes. He looked like a large fair bull, was very red and very good-natured, but a hard man at a bargain.“And will you do something for me?” he asked smiling.“I cannot attach any conditions,” she said quickly. “Mine is entirely a business proposition.”“And mine is, as far at least as I am concerned, pure pleasure. It is only to ask you to wear this little jewel for me.” He held out a small morocco leather case, but she did not put out a hand to receive it. He sighed.“Say then to wear it for three months. If when we clear up this terribly serious business proposition you wish to return it to me with the thousand, so be it. If you consent to keep it, I can only say—you will make me the happiest man in the world.”Mechanically her hand received the small case, and for a moment his hand closed on hers, and carried it to his lips. She grew a little pale.“I cannot promise anything,” she stammered, drawing her hand away.“I do not ask you to... yet,” was his answer, but the ring remained with her, and she knew it was part of the bargain. When she opened the case she was furious with herself, for it was a ring that could not escape note—a great single stone, amber coloured, set in a band of violet enamel.They were all dining at Government House that night, and she wore it, striving to hide its brilliance amongst a number of other stones, but it glared out yellow and baleful as a tiger’s eye. Lady Angela was the first to spot it.“What a glorious stone! I do so love a yellow diamond. Is it out of the famous Montague mine, or a mere de Beer’s? Journalism must pay, dear Viwie!”She gave a little silvery laugh that rippled up Vivienne’s spine like an asp, and left a poisoned wound.Neither did a conversation carried on at her right in full hearing act as an antidote. A Judge of the High Court was telling his dinner neighbour what a charming fellow de Windt was, and how they would all miss him when he pulled out for the North.“The country can’t afford to lose men like that! But they are real lovers of the wild and won’t stay when we begin to get too civilised.”“Yet de Windt himself is one of the most civilised fellows I’ve ever met,” said the Administrator. “When all Colonials are like him, Africa will begin to move.”“A Colonial?Pas possible!” cried a woman.“It is possible though. He was born out here and spite of Harrow and Oxford and a place at the Bar, Africa has him in her maw for good.”“The dear fellow would have been here to-night, if he had not been so ill,” said the hostess. And the wretched Vivienne was thankful she had been spared that ordeal at least. But she held fast to her plan. What matter whether de Windt were a splendid fellow or not? Since he loved the wild, all the better for him—he wouldn’t miss his gold mine! She felt herself growing harder and harder every moment.“Millionaires must be made of tough stuff,” she thought sardonically. “Fine fellows! I expect I shall begin to look like one soon. Eyes like flint with pouches under them, and a tiger trap for a mouth!Zut, alors!”Thanks to Lady Angela the news was all over Buluwayo the next day that she was wearing Montague’s ring. Even the fact that Cornwall came bearing propitious tidings did little to quench Vivienne’s rage.“It’s all right,” he said. “De Windt will take your offer. The other people are keen as mustard and want to go higher, but he says he wouldn’t sell to them at any price.”“I want it fixed up at once,” she said feverishly.“As soon as you like. He asked me to hustle it along too, in case you changed your mind. The poor fellow has had a bad go of fever, but the news quite cheered him up, and he’ll be about in a day or two. He seems greatly pleased at your wanting the place.”Vivienne was assailed by a choking sensation, and a bitter flavour came into her mouth, but she knew that as a prospective millionaire she must get accustomed to such discomforts. They were part of the training. As also was the skilful fencing she began to practise on the unsuspecting Montague. Certainly it was a case of Greek meeting Greek, but sometimes it seemed to her more like a duel between a sucking dove and a serpent. And she was not the dove. A London journalist had once said to her that he believed all women were natural-born crooks, and now she began to believe it.“The black drop was in me all the time,” she thought bitterly. “But it has taken Africa to bring it out!”Although the negotiations for the sale went forward apace, they were not pushed on fast enough to please her, and she almost worried Cornwall out of his wits in her determination to have the thing signed and sealed before de Windt was well enough to get about. She did not yet feel quite hardened enough in the ways of millionaires to be able to face over a deed of sale the man whose gold she was stealing.Another miserable part of the transaction was the receiving of Wolfe Montague’s cheque. That was a bad moment. The paper burnt her hand like flame. But she examined it carefully, and pulled Montague up sharply when she found that it was drawn on a local Bank.“That would never do,” she said firmly. “I cannot have my affairs all over Buluwayo.”“I thought you wanted it for immediate use,” he replied suavely, “and Banks don’t talk.”“I wouldn’t trust them,” she averred; “I give my confidence to few.” But she smiled her confidence in him at least with such lovely eyes that he went away with content in his heart to arrange the matter on such lines as only millionaires can command. Forty-eight hours later the money was to hand by cabled draft from London on the Standard Bank, Buluwayo.The same morning Vivienne went for the first time to look at the farm. Montague’s carriage was at her disposal as usual, and by the aid of a small local map she was able to direct the groom. They calculated that the distance there and back could be easily covered in a couple of hours, and that she could get back in plenty of time to prepare for a ball which the magistrate was giving that night in the Court House.The farm lay out towards the Matopos, along a dusty, sun-baked road, but Vivienne, well shaded in the luxuriously cushioned body of the carriage noticed neither dust nor heat. The excitement of the gamble for money was in her veins, and she was telling herself how good a substitute it made for happiness. The flickering glance of envious hatred Lady Angela had shot at her from under a white umbrella on the sidewalk was part of the game that she was in now, up to her nostrils—the game which, though the weapons were sheathed in silk and the blows prepared behind honeyed smiles, was just the same old sweet game, governed by the same old sweet law, that was in the beginning and shall be in the end—the law of Club and Fang!“What is the use of pretending I am too good for it, and was made for better things?” she meditated, and her smile took the little bitter twist that was now becoming habitual. With it still on her lips, she looked over the side of the carriage into a pair of grey eyes full of veld light and far places. A dog-cart containing two men had passed and gone, but not too soon for her to recognise Kerry and see an answering flash of recognition in his eyes.Gone too her satisfaction, such as it was, in the gamble and the game. Fever died out of her veins and her heart lay cold as a stone. She looked not a girl, but a pale tired woman of thirty when she stepped out of the carriage and climbed over the little sloping kopjes that gave a view of the six thousand acres that would some day be a famous gold mine. Silent, lovely acres they were, full of colour and peace. Low-spreading trees standing alone, scattered purple rocks on which lay patches of rust red as blood, a carpet of wild grasses and little star-shaped veld flowers. Here and there great boulders were pitched together with enough earth to harbour a spiking tree and trailing creepers. Some lines of red gum had been planted and in their shadow stood a little thatched hut, before whose door, its slender branches tapping the thatch, grew a little tree of the laburnum class, laden with clustering golden bloom that gave a lovely scent.A sudden poignant regret, stronger than herself, rushed through her, that the peace of these brooding acres of loneliness should be destroyed by what lay hidden under them. In imagination, she saw the dirt and débris of a new gold diggings, the purple rocks shattered by dynamite, trees and flowers torn out and lying dead, the little perky sand-blooms trodden down. All for gold to poison the hearts of men and buy the souls of women as hers had been poisoned, bought!Was it too late now to repent, and instead of digging out the gold keep the land as it was, silent and peaceful? Go and live in that little thatched hut with the tree by the door? She dreamed with the thought a moment then turned bitterly away. The land was not even hers unless she could pay for it with the gold that came out of it! It was Montague’s asshewas Montague’s until she repaid the thousand pounds. She must go back to the scheme of avarice and duplicity she had entered into with eyes open and heart greedy for power and revenge. Her path was clear before her. It had nothing to do with peace and beauty and nothing in it that was noble, but it was her path. As she got back into the carriage and drove away, she knew that the memory of that place would haunt her all her days.“Another restless ghost to walk the weary corridors of memory!” she said to herself.Cornwall banished it for a while with the business of signing the transfer deed, but at the dance given by the magistrate that night it returned. A pair of eyes looking at her across space and gems and jewels, as once she had seen them stare across the veld, brought back the ghost and made it seem a very alive thing. She had never seen Kerry in the evening dress of convention before, and tried to feel astonished that he should resemble a distinguished man of the world rather than a sort of Boer. Inexplicably, as she stared, she forgot everything except to notice how worn and ill he looked. Over the shoulder of her partner, she met his clear gaze, and it became curiously and inextricably mixed in her memory with the lovely peace of the land she had visited that day. It was hot for dancing, and most people were beginning to meander out of doors and stay there.“I want to introduce to you a great pal of mine—Kerry de Windt,” said her partner, Marshall Brunton, who was also her host the magistrate. “May I?”“Kerry de Windt?” she answered slowly.“A splendid chap. He’s here to-night, after a bad go of fever and pneumonia he got somehow on his way up-country.”“On his way up-country?” she repeated mechanically.“It appears that he was coming up by coach but left it at Palapye to go off on a hunt for a little child that was lost from some waggons. Everyone had given up the search, but he found the child away in a wild krantz, starving, with an old mad Bechuana boy.”“Was it’s mother alive?” Vivienne had a sickening vision of that poor mother sitting, hat in hand, outside her hut.“He got back just in time to save her reason. Queer fellow! We’d never have known anything about it fromhim, of course. The story came up by wire from Palapye.”“Is that he talking to Lady Angela Vinning?”“Yes. Shall we go over?”“No. Take me out into the air please,” she faltered. Her face was white as death. Soheit was whom she had robbed! Kerry de Windt! The man who had not only saved the child’s life, but herself, from God knew what worse horrors than death!It was out in one of the verandahs, dimly lit by Japanese lanterns, that he was brought and introduced to her.“You two should find plenty to talk about, as you both know all about being lost on the veld,” said the host gaily, and hurried away to other duties.They stood looking at each other. She wanted to cry out something, but she did not know what it was. His face was very haggard with an irony she had never known about his mouth. In the end, all her stiff lips found to say was:“I am glad you are better of your illness.”“Thank you. I have something on which to congratulate you also, it seems.” The flavour of irony was on his tongue as well as on his lips.“I did not know it was your land,” she stammered, and he stared a moment.“Oh,that,” he said carelessly. “You’re welcome. It’s not the loss of that I mind.”There was a silence. They had sat down in a dim corner. At last her voice came faintly.“What then have you lost?” She hid her hand on which shone the yellow diamond.“Something I shall get along very well without in future, I dare say—faith in women.”She couldn’t bear the bitterness of his tone and words. They hurt more than if he had taken a knife to her. Yet a miserable pride and wrath made her pursue the subject to the last fence.“You speak as though it is some fault other than your own?”“Youknow whose fault it is—whose hands have robbed me,” he said fiercely; “whose lips have given to another what once they gave to me.”“Never, never!” The words broke involuntarily from her lips, though what it was she denied so furiously was not quite clear at first.“You will not deny that for a few moments at least, I had a right to believe that you gave them to me? You kissed me back that morning.”She said no word at that, only put up her hand to her eyes for a moment as though to shut out something. The gesture brought into sight the yellow diamond, and with a finger he scornfully indicated it.“Is not that a symbol of what I have lost—and another gained?”Even as he spoke the large shadow bore down on them of Montague come to expostulate concerning a sit-out dance that was booked to him. Vivienne’s voice, low, but very clear and cold, cut short his plainings.“This ring is merely the symbol of a business arrangement between myself and Mr Montague. He very kindly lent me a sum of money with which to make a good speculation. I went to him in preference to applying to a money-lender, and in honour of my confidence in him he asked me to wear this charming stone. When I return the money in three months’ time or less, I also return the ring. Is not that exactly how the matter stands, Mr Montague?”“I believe it is,” responded Montague with exceeding dryness, and looking anything but amiable. The unexpectedness of the attack took the wind out of his sails. He would have had more pleasure in bomb-shelling de Windt than making any statement of the kind.“That is all then, thank you,” said Vivienne calmly. “I shall have finished my talk with Mr de Windt in about five minutes’ time.”Millionaires in South Africa are not accustomed to such treatment, and if Montague had been followed he might have been heard to mutter in his wrath that she could finish her conversation with de Windt in Hades if she liked. The principal fact, as far as Vivienne was concerned, was that he departed. De Windt too had risen, his haggard face grown very dark.“Evidently there is nothing further for me to do but apologise, and get out. Your highly interesting conversation with Montague has made that clear, at least.”“Do you mean to be insolent?” she asked slowly.“I hope not,” he said with steady scorn; “only to reassure myself that your arrangements and speculations never have been and never can be any concern of mine.”“That is not quite correct. The speculation referred to had to do directly with you. The money I borrowed was to buy your farm.”“Indeed! Well, in that matter at least I have reason to congratulate you. It is going to turn out a good spec.”“Ah! and how is that?” she peered at him curiously.“The land has a rich gold reef running through it. You will in all probability be able to re-sell for several hundred thousand pounds.”“And when did you know this wonderful thing?” she asked in a strange voice.“After I’d sent word to you by Cornwall that I’d sell. Brain, the first bidder, came and confessed that he and his partner knew about the gold and had meant to ‘do’ me. His idea, of course, was that I should pay him for the information by going shares and not letting you have the land.”Vivienne’s heart stood very still.“By the way, I was driving back from his place when I met you this morning. We’d been inspecting the specimens his partner had prospected. Cornwall has instructions to hand them over to you in the morning. They are unmistakable.”“And in spite of all this you still sold to me?”“My bond was given,” he said curtly.She had risen too, and they were facing each other—about them all the chirping night things—peace everywhere except in their hearts. Music came faintly stealing from the dancing-room.“So after all Africa has brought you luck,” he said.She trembled under the contempt his tone betrayed for that luck, but something in her that wished to live would not be daunted by his scorn. And that something spoke in spite of her, in a gentle, alluring voice.“Do you think it is such great luck? Can you from your heart wish me no better?”“The luck I would wish you entails advice you would never take.”“Try me,” her voice was very low and sweet, with a broken note in it. “Try me—Kerry.”He looked at her sombrely. His face seemed to have grown more haggard. At last he said: “If you lived in the wilds awhile, under happier circumstances than those you have come through, the real woman in you might have a chance to live... you would come to realise how rotten they are, all theseluckythings you set such store by.”“Perhaps I know that”; the strong unfaltering force still had hold of her and used her voice. “Perhaps it is the wilds I am hungering for—and the strange happiness of a morning on the banks of the Lundi—” Her voice was almost a whisper. He had to draw nearer to hear it, and stayed staring with a fierce moodiness into her eyes.“Do you mean?—Vivienne?”“I think you know what I mean.” She lifted her lips to him, to take or leave, and knew that if he left them they would go lonely all life long, which was no more than she deserved who had played fast and loose with love. But he did not leave them. Once more she tasted the strange fragrant flavour of wild honey, and knew at last that this fantastic land of strange flowers and heavy scents, of silence and song, cruelty and beauty, was for her, as he was for her. Africa was wild honey. The love of Kerry de Windt was wild honey, and she could never content herself with any other. It was good to be safe in her own place against his heart. Good to have about her the arms that would never let her go back to a world which ate her heart and made her perform acts that besmirched her soul. But there was still that to tell which might loosen his arms and send them empty away. She held them tight, tight about her while she told him the ugly story.For a moment there had sprung up in her an almost overwhelming temptation to hide the truth from him (he would never know unless she told him, how she had taken advantage of stolen information to plot against and rob him of his land and gold. No one even guessed the truth).But the next moment she had torn out that temptation, and thrust it away, ashamed.“How base I must be if even love cannot purify me!” she cried. “But it shall—ithas. Listen Kerry.”In the end, he kissed the tears from her lips as once before he had kissed them. One more of the little crystal globes of illusion men have about the women they love went smash perhaps, but he hid the pieces from her bravely enough. Only, he held her a little closer, and there were no half measures about his conditions.“You’ve got to give it all up and come with me—away up North—anywhere I go—and not care where you’re going to—and never look back—nor care if you ever come back. Is that understood? We shall be poor—but by God! we’ll get something out of life that those who live in towns and cities can’t buy with all their gold.”“But your farm, Kerry?—the land that is rightly yours?”“We couldn’t touch it after all this buying and selling with borrowed money, Vivienne. Rightly or wrongly it is Montague’s if he wants it—and you bet he will want it—he must get it, together with the ring and that other two hundred pounds.”“I shall have robbed you then after all?” she said sadly.“No, only paid for our happiness. Everything has to be paid for, dear. We are lucky if we can pay with anything so cheap as money! Do you care?”“No, no, if you do not. I care for nothing except to be sure that I can repay you for all I—”He kissed away the rest with kisses that were as fierce and tender and cruel as Africa herself. “Oh! yes, you can repay me, be very sure of that. But it must be now.Now! You must come with me this very night.”“To-night?” she faltered, trembling a little.“Yes, to-night. I’m never going to let you go again. Brunton has the power to marry us, and I know he will do it after these people are all gone, if I put the case to him. My waggons are lying all ready a few miles from here. They’ve been ready for days, waiting for me to be well enough to start. Will you come?”She thought for an instant of what the world would say, the big world across the sea, and this little portion of it in Buluwayo; the mocking smiles and innuendoes of the women, the men’s amazement—but only for an instant, then found herself smiling; that side of life was finished with now, a higher, fuller life waiting for her.“Yes, Kerry,” she said simply, “I will follow you to the end of the world and the end of life.”De Windt was no man of half actions. Within half an hour, Brunton had been beguiled into consent and Mrs Brunton let into the secret. A long residence had bestowed upon the latter a taste for romance and a heart prepared for anything in the shape of adventure that came along. She threw herself rapturously into the preparations for an after-midnight marriage, and sent her own maid for enough things from Vivienne’s hotel to make up a hasty travelling trousseau; the remaining luggage was to be sent for the next day. One or two very favoured guests being intimate friends of de Windt’s were let into the secret and allowed to stay, the rest went home all unsuspecting and never knew the news until next morning.The amazing thing was that Montague was one of those who stayed. Vivienne had accomplished a short interview with him, and returned him those things which were his with a briefrésuméof the situation. To do him justice, he took it like a man, as well he might, when he was like to come out of the affair richer by several hundreds of thousands. For de Windt would accept no other solution of the money tangle than that Montague take possession of the farm and all its treasures. In return, he accepted the loan of Montague’s carriage in which to carry Vivienne away to her new life.In one of the small, sweet, exquisitely fresh hours before dawn they were set down and left alone on the wide and empty veld. The dusty road along which they had come was beautified by wraith-like rays from a passing moon. Purple rocks had put on a silvery sheen. The white radiant stars burned like jewels in the blue veil of heaven. Far hills and shadowy trees rose silent and salient against the sky. The spot where the waggons lay outspanned was close to de Windt’s old farm, in the same area of brooding peace Vivienne had visited the day before—but with how different a mood! Then, Life had tasted bitterer between her lips than the aloes of Death. Now, her heart was clean of guile as a white rose, and she was a red and glowing rose whose fragrance intoxicated them both with the divine madness of love. Old Africa took them to her breast and they became part of her.

The three sat round the fire awhile, unspeaking, each busy with their own thoughts. Whatever were Roper’s his face grew more sullen every moment, and the glances he cast in the direction of the new-comer were full of malignance. He looked menacingly too at Vivienne, who had suddenly taken on such a feminine appearance that he was amazed he could have been deceived so long. Her intense pallor and the dilation of her eyes through fear or excitement until they looked like great sombre pools of fire may have had something to do with the phenomena, but there she was, spite of the travesty of masculine attire, glowing like some beautiful night-blooming magnolia. And she said nothing; just sat very still behind the packing-case, watching the two men.

As for the stranger, he had taken up an easy position on one of the boxes which were always lying about the camp, and with his rifle beside him, leaning forward elbows on knees, began to fill his pipe. No hospitality of any kind was offered him. Just as he was about to light up, he gave a half glance in the direction of the girl, and for a moment she was afraid he was going to ask for her permission to smoke, but it must have been fancy on her part for he lit without speaking.

“I hope your waggons are not far off,” said Roper suddenly. “For I’ve no idea of turning mine into a sort of refuge for lost dogs.” His tone was extremely offensive. The other man looked at him steadily for a long moment, then said with a gentleness almost deadly:

“I don’t see any dogs about here—except one.” It is true that Roper’s pointer was asleep under the waggon not far off, but the stranger did not happen to be looking that way. Roper was at liberty to like the inference or lump it, whichever he pleased. Perhaps the cheerful flicker on the bright barrels of the stranger’s .303 helped his decision not to lump it, for his tone was less aggressive when he spoke again.

“What I mean is, I’ve had enough of picking up and feeding and lodging people who choose to get lost on the veld. I’m full up with it. I didn’t lay in provisions against such accidents.”

“Oh!” said the stranger, still gently. “Have you had many of the kind?”

“Yes; one too many,” was the retort.

Vivienne thought this the time and place to make a statement. “I am the unfortunate accident,” she said in a low voice. “I was lost on the veld some three weeks or more ago, and this man Roper found me, and has been supplying me ever since with food and a waggon tent to sleep in. He seems to resent having to do it so much, however—in spite of my assurance that he will be well paid—that I should be only too glad to leave this camp if I could.”

This was tantamount to an appeal and she anticipated and hoped that the stranger would immediately offer her the refuge of his camp. To her mortification, he merely looked reflective.

“I see,” he said; then casually to Roper: “Well, you needn’t worry about me. I shall not encroach upon your provisions.”

“Very glad to hear it,” commented Roper, brusquely. “As for you, young fellah,” he turned his dark glance on Vivienne, “I don’t see what you’ve got to complain of. You have always had civil treatment from me and the best of whatever was going. Fine gratitude to turn on me now!”

The girl was silent for a moment, nonplussed by the stranger’s indifference, and the thought that perhaps after all his presence there was only an accident, that he did not mean to help her, and would go off to-morrow without a word, leaving her once more in the power of Roper! She determined that at any rate he should not be in any doubt as to her position.

“I’m not complaining without cause,” she said, looking at Roper scornfully; “you have repeatedly spoken most insultingly about being obliged to give me hospitality, and to-night your manner was so offensive that I was very glad to see this gentleman come into camp.”

“Ach! you’re a fool to get scared at my jokes. I’ve even forgotten what it was we were talking about. Whatever it was, I should have thought a big strapping fellow like you could have taken his own part.”

He laughed blusteringly, and she realised that he did not suspect the other man knew of her identity, and that he meant to keep up the fiction she herself had begun. Doubtless, he, too, expected the stranger to be gone with the dawn before he could make any further discoveries!

It seemed at any rate that there was nothing further to be done for the moment, or until she could be sure of the man whose name she did not even know, or whether he knew hers! After all, had he recognised her? Had she been mistaken in the meaning of that swift look given her when their eyes first met, that seemed to say: “All’s well! I am your friend!”

Surely he must remember her! Yet what had she done to be remembered by? Nothing. She had held herself aloof in disdainful pride from him as from all the others. She knew now that she had always felt an interest in this silent light-eyed man, who never seemed to look at anything but the horizon, and had felt more instinctively akin to him than the others. Still, she had never given any outward sign that he was not, as Laurence Hope has it, “less than the dust beneath her chariot wheels,” and had treated him to the same civil disdain with which she froze the other passengers. Oh! would he remember it against her now?—if he remembered her at all!

Her eyes searched his face almost pleadingly; but it told nothing. He had crossed his legs easily, and with one hand nursing his elbow, the other holding his pipe, sat smoking in impenetrable reflection.

Well! it was something to have him here. His very presence gave her a feeling of protection. One of theumfansmade a diversion by rising like a somnambulist from his dreams to throw a great heap of fuel on the fire. Mechanically, he performed his task, then, without looking to east or west, rolled himself to sleep again.

“You keep up your fires all night—here?” remarked the stranger.

“I always keep them up—it gives those brutes something to do,” was Roper’s surly response. “And why not, about here?”

“Oh, it’s a good general plan. But there isn’t any particular need round here. No lions. A stray hyena or two is the worst you’ll strike.”

“You seem to know all about it,” sneered Roper, his straggly moustache lifted to one side in the usual unlovely manner.

“I ought to. I helped to make that road.” The stranger slightly indicated the wide and dusty main track fifty yards off. Roper gaped a moment or two.

“Ah! a blessed pioneer!” he said at last, but there was no benediction in his tone. “And a mighty rotten road it is,” he was presently inspired to remark.

“Yes,” said the stranger placidly, “roads are like dogs—and some men—they soon go to pot if they are not kept in order.”

Roper digested this as best he might, but the process did not appear to agree with him.

“No one seems to realise that it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning,” he suddenly snarled. “Get off to bed, youngster.” He added to the stranger: “If you’re going to make tracks for your waggons at dawn, I should advise you to get some sleep too.”

“Thanks, I’m not sleepy—but I’ll turn in when you do.”

“Well, I’m going now. The youngster has the tent. I roll up under the waggon.”

“I’ll roll up beside you,” announced the stranger pleasantly. “But I hope you don’t snore, for I am a light sleeper, and wake at the slightest sound.” He happened to be looking steadily into the eyes of Vivienne as he said this.

“The blazes you do!” burst out Roper violently, as though this were the last straw. “Well, I don’t care a hang whether you sleep or not.”

“Thanks,” answered the other imperturbably. Vivienne spent a wakeful night. As a matter of fact, snoring was not an accomplishment of Roper’s, so she was unable to gather from the silence that reigned under the waggon whether either or neither of the men slept. She lay straining her ears for what seemed ages, but the only break in the silence was the sound of theumfanat his mechanical duty of replenishing the fire, until, in the dark hour just before dawn, she was aroused from an uneasy doze by a faint movement at the opening of the tent. She lay dead still, and for one moment her heart seemed to miss a beat. In the darkness she could see nothing by which to judge whether the person near were friend or foe, but suddenly her heart beat again, for a faint fragrance of Navy Cut tobacco had come stealing into the tent, and she knew that fragrance well. She had sat next to it for many days in a coach. Very different that to the rank odour of Roper’s Boertabak.

Then, silently and swiftly, a small heavy object, cold and polished to the touch slid in beside her. Her hand slipped round it, and another hand closed for an instant on hers, then withdrew. No word was spoken.

As soon as it was light enough, she examined her new possession, though her fingers had long since informed her of its character. A beautiful Colt’s, loaded in all its five chambers. A tiny leaf of paper tucked into the barrel bore a few scribbled words:

“Use this if necessary. Don’t worry about consequences. I’ll look after those, Kerry.”

Part of the “y” of “Kerry” had been left behind in the note book from which the leaf was torn.

“Well! our friend the gallant pioneer has gone, hey?”

It was the first time Roper had ever come near the waggon tent while she was in it, and the coincidence was not lost upon Vivienne. He sat on the brake now, face level with the mattress, and looked in with a triumphant leer on his degenerate face. But his news was no news to her. She had climbed down softly as soon as it was light, according to her usual custom, and made for herself the discovery that the stranger was gone. It was no more than she expected. The gift of the revolver had meant nothing if it had not meant that he would not be there to use it himself in case of need. The knowledge that it reposed under the pillow close to her hand was of great service to her nerves at the present moment, enabling her to answer Roper with an air of nonchalance that surprised him.

“I daresay he will soon catch us up again.”

“Oh,doyou? And what makes you daresay that, hey?”

She moved her shoulders in a slight disdainful movement, to express that he and his question bored her intolerably, but for all her assumed carelessness she was on the alert. It was as much for her own reassurance as for his annoyance that she remarked:

“His waggons can’t be far off, or he wouldn’t have reached us on foot last night.”

“Ah!” Roper sat gazing at her, his moustache lifted sideways, the shadow of a sneering smile under his half-closed lids. It was patent to her that he was meditating something malignant, though what it was she could not at present fathom. No word did he speak on the subject of their last night’s interrupted conversation: but his glance, travelling over her in slow gloating detail, was eloquent of much that his tongue left unsaid; and though her eyes met his with scornful contempt, she could feel the colour mounting in her cheeks and passing over her face from chin to hair in a hot wave. And the sight was not lost on Roper. Laughing in his throat in a way that chilled her blood, he jumped from the brake and walked away.

Immediately afterwards, he let loose a storm of abuse upon theumfans, who began to scuttle round the camp like frightened squirrels. It was unusual for him to be stirring in the camp at such an early hour, and this was their time to be cutting their own little capers while they collected fuel and stowed it on the other waggon for the night fires. Roper now diverted them from this to the task of clearing up camp. Then Vivienne heard him get down the ox-whip from the side of the waggon and begin to swirl the lash round and round in the air. A moment later the revolver-like crack of the huge whip went ringing and echoing across the veld and she understood. It was the sign for the return of the oxen! He meant to begin the afternoontrekabout five hours earlier than usual!

Thus, when the stranger, secure in the knowledge that all transport riders give their oxen from ten to twelve hours for rest and grazing, caught up to the present outspan, it would be to find Roper gone with a five hours’ start. And once let anyone get five hours’ start of you on the veld it will take stiff running to catch up. A man with oxen in less robust condition than Roper’s might never catch up! This was the situation Vivienne had to face, and, thanks to the Colt, she was able to face it without panic. But her heart was somewhere in the vicinity of her boots as she watched the weary oxen come trampling back from their short respite. Seeming to know that they had been robbed of their legitimate rest, they kicked and butted each other, ran round the waggons, and gave as much trouble as they could. Many a bad and bitter word went to their yoking, but at last they were under weigh, raising clouds of dust as they took the road.

It was soon clear that Roper did not mean to let things go at the usual easy pace. He kept the lash over his beasts, running beside them like a man possessed, cracking and swirling the long whip thong in the air, letting out astonishing cries, and long streams of words which though incomprehensible to the uninitiated ear left, by the violent sound of them, no doubt as to their character, every injunction ending in a ferocious command to “Yak!”

The oxen at an incredible pace shuffled and clappered along, the waggon spite of its heavy load bounding and swaying at their heels. Sometimes Roper, a menacing figure covered with dust, appeared round the end of the waggon and dropped back a few paces on the road, thereby enabling himself to see well into the tent where Vivienne sat guarding her shaking soul behind a calm and unapprehensive manner. Nearly always he would laugh—a laugh that made the girl grip the revolver under the pillow. A moment later she would hear his voice adjuring the oxen with a savage “Yak!”

It must have been about four o’clock in the afternoon when she found herself suddenly face to face with him in the opening of the tent. With such unexpected agility had he sprung upon the brake that for the moment she was taken unawares, and might easily have been out-generalled, but for his cocksureness that he was master of the situation. He stood there smiling his slow evil smile—giving her time to shift farther into the tent and lay her hand on the stock of the revolver. “What do you want?” she demanded evenly. He assumed an air of hurt surprise. “I suppose I can have a ride in my own waggon if I want to?”

“Not here,” she said in a firm voice. “You must go and ride where you have always ridden. This tent has been given over to me and I mean to keep possession of it.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be so unkind,” he said with a slimy smile, and made to mount his knee on the mattress and clamber in, but found himself nose to nose with the shining steel barrel.

“If you stir a hand, I fire.” Her voice was absolutely steady. “Get down!”

His utterly dumbfoundered look and the alacrity with which he loosened his hold on the side of the tent and dropped from the brake was funny. But his face was not funny. Something in it made Vivienne shiver. His mouth under the tilted moustache worked as if it tasted poison, and his eyes were bad to see. Down in the road he looked upwards once more to where Vivienne sat, the weapon lowered, but still in sight.

“So that’s it?” he muttered. “He left you his revolver, did he?”

It was plain, of course, that she could have come by it in no other way. He walked behind awhile blinking and swallowing the dust, considering perhaps the problem of how much she had told the other man. Then silently in his veld-schoened feet he passed to the side of the waggon, and for the time being she saw him no more.

Nor even heard him. The tent on a buck-waggon is so placed that when the latter is loaded there is no way of entering or seeing from the tent except from the brake end. The whole of the back opening was blocked with heavy packing-cases that could not have been budged except by the efforts of several men. Vivienne congratulated herself on that for it made for safety. But it also kept her in ignorance of what was going forward in the front part of the waggon, or even at the sides. All she could do through that long bright hot afternoon was to sit like Sister Anne in her tower watching the road down which help might come.

When she observed that the waggon was no longer on the road, she was instantly on the alert for the meaning of the new move. It was too early to outspan, and if Roper did so he must know that he could easily be caught up, for they had not been travelling more than three hours! But they did not stop. They went crashing on over shrub and bush, lurching against ant-hills, being torn at by the branches of trees.

At last, the terrified girl realised what was happening. Roper was leaving the road and all danger of interference from those who might be travelling on it, and making for the wild bush!

What should she do? Jump down and run? He might, expecting that, be lurking beside the waggon, and spring upon her while her hands in descending were yet engaged in holding the quickly moving waggon. There was a subtle cunning about the fellow that terrified her. Better stay in the tent where at least she had her face to the foe, and her back guarded by packing-cases. Besides, to where could she run? Back to the bush, to be lost once more, perhaps for ever this time? No, better stay and fight it out; die fighting, if necessary. That was what the man had given the gun for. And he meant to come back. She felt sure of that. She trusted him. But would he come in time?

On and on went the waggon, lurching and swaying over the rough ground. Once a dead branch ripped open the roof of the tent and a long slit of blue sky showed through. Another time a back wheel sank deep into a hole, and the whole waggon tipped over to such an angle that Vivienne found herself standing on the canvas ribs of the tent with her back keeping up the mattress and bedding. It took much hooting and hauling, two boys working with a crowbar, and Roper lashing, and howling terrible imprecations at the oxen before they pulled out and went lumbering on. The sun began to sink, and the skies to turn blood red with the trees inked against them. The approaching night looked menacing and full of danger. The girl crouched in the tent holding fast to the revolver.

“Oh, this Africa! What terrible things she has done to me, and is doing! What terrible things has she still in her hand? ‘Out of Africa always something new,’ indeed! Pliny knew something when he wrote that! Oh, man Kerry, do not fail me! Come soon!”

She kept saying that last sentence over and over again, like a prayer. Sometimes it seemed to her the only prayer she knew. The night fell abruptly, as pitch-black as if some monstrous bat had spread its wings and blotted out the light. There was no moon, and storm clouds had defaced the stars. Since first she came to the veld, Vivienne had never seen a night so black, so filled with brooding abysmal loneliness.

At last, the waggon stopped. Yokes began to clatter and fall, and the tired beasts lowed moodily as they moved away. The flicker of a swiftly lighted fire sprang up, casting knife-like shafts of light through the heavy darkness, and the weary, nerve-wrung girl in the tent, tense as an overstrung violin, braced herself for she knew not what fresh ordeal of terror might be awaiting her in this silent lonely spot. She was well aware that it was of no use relying on any help from the cowed native boys. There was nothing to hope from anyone, or anything, but her own courage and the revolver. She had a sudden, swift vision of the light-eyed man who had left it with her, and a little involuntary cry burst from her heart at the thought of him.

“Oh, Kerry!—come!”

She would never have known that she had cried the words aloud but for the immediate answer that came in a casual, confident voice she seemed to have known all her life.

“All serene—don’t worry.”

Something loomed large and white below the brake, but the voice seemed to be on a level with her, and almost she fancied she could catch the gleam of his eyes in the enveloping darkness. She was too shaken with joy and relief to make any response, neither was there time, for Roper raging and profane arrived upon the scene.

“What the—? Who the—” came his infuriated voice.

“I’ve had a hard time catching you up,” drawled the stranger. “Why, my good fellow, what kind of transport rider are you? You’ve lost the road! I wonder what Deary and Co. would say if they knew their goods were being battered and bundled all over the veld like this, miles off the track?”

The rage of the baffled Roper came down like a river in flood, a foul torrent of abuse in Dutch and Kaffir mingled with English. Fortunately, most of it was incomprehensible to Vivienne, but she was able to gather that the man on the horse, Deary and Co., the goods, and the veld, were all being consigneden blocto a place whose exact geographical position has never yet been officially defined.

The fire now burning brightly revealed the new-comer seated idly on a large white tailless horse, which in outline somewhat resembled a grey hound and whose lean sides were closely pitted with tiny blue spots as though it had at some past time suffered from smallpox. The rider in his shirt sleeves looked cool and careless as always, but the hair lying dank upon his forehead and the soapy foam upon his horse’s flank told a tale which whoever ran might read. He now, with the subsidence of Roper’s eloquence, contributed his favourite remark to the occasion.

“That’sall right.”

“What the Billy-cock-hat,” (or words to that effect) “do you want, hey?” demanded Roper.

“Just company. The pleasant time I spent with you last night gave me a taste for more. Then too I was sure you’d be glad of my assistance in finding your way back to the road to-morrow, without being obliged to lose several days in doubling on your tracks. Deary and Co. are particular friends of mine, and I know they’ll be grateful for anything I can do in the way of speeding up their goods.”

Some part of this information, or the nonchalance with which it was delivered gave Roper pause, and made him swallow any further observations he might have felt inclined to offer. He turned away muttering in savage tones something about his boys having “left the road” while he slept. The lie was an obvious one, but the stranger doubtless had his own reason for accepting it blandly and without comment. He now dismounted, unsaddled and knee-haltered his horse, and turned it to graze. Without taking further notice of Roper or anyone else, he proceeded to gather fuel from the neighbouring bush, and in a short time had a great fire of his own leaping in the gloom. He had built it some twenty yards or more from the waggons, but exactly facing Vivienne’s watch tower, and by its rays she could see him foraging in his saddle-bags and preparing a meal. He made no attempt to communicate with her or amalgamate in any way with Roper’s camp. She wondered a little at this, but had already learned to rely upon the certainty of his knowing what he was about, and having a good reason for his every action. Since the moment she heard the unexpected sound of his voice, a feeling of peace and security had invaded her. Her strung nerves were at rest, and menace had gone from the night with the knowledge that this man was of those who took the fate of others in his hands and that hers was for the moment in his keeping.

A drowsy weariness had followed upon the strain of the afternoon, and her inclination was to sleep, but the sight of her knight-errant taking his supper in a very natural and everyday manner made her wonder whether she ought not to do the same, not only for the sake of keeping up appearances, but to preserve her health in case of emergencies. So when anumfancame as usual to tell her that the dinner was ready, she descended from the waggon, and strolling over to the packing-case took her place as though nothing in the world had happened.

But sitting opposite a face which wore baffled rage and spite printed on every line of it was not a pleasant experience, and she was glad to look past it sometimes to a figure lying full length, smoking peacefully by a fire. The man Kerry never once glanced their way, but Vivienne was curiously aware of his being on the alert for every sound and movement in the camp. She knew very well that he could hear her say to Roper that it would be a pleasant act of courtesy to send over a cup of coffee to the stranger who evidently had no kettle in which to make any, and Roper’s surly response to the suggestion.

“Look here! Do you take me for a damn-fool Samaritan?”

“No, indeed!” she retorted dryly. “But I thought that even you might be inclined to perform an act of common decency.”

“Well, you thought wrong. I told you before that my waggon wasn’t a hotel for lost, stolen, or strays, didn’t I?”

Her only answer was to emphatically refuse the cup of coffee proffered her by anumfan. The rest of the meal was accomplished in silence.

Back in her tent once more, she composed herself for the night, revolver to hand, her face towards her friend. He had made another collection of fuel, and evidently meant to keep a big fire going all night. Something in the quiet way he had settled himself, half seated against his saddle, told her that he meant to keep watch.

Also, he had produced a book, and was leaning forward in the firelight ruffling its pages, and softly whistling to himself. A wave of pleasure tingled through the girl as she recognised the air for one she had known and loved all her life; that exquisite setting by Mendelssohn and Lizst to Heine’s poemOn Wings of Song. She was strangely thrilled to hear its dear familiar cadence in this wild spot. Like the twinkle of home-lights seen suddenly from afar by a lost wayfarer, it gladdened and put fresh courage into her heart. How strange it seemed that this shirt-sleeved man who seemed part and parcel of primitive Africa, whom she had looked upon as a sort of Boer, should know anything so exquisitely civilised as the “Auf Flügeln des Gesanges!” She lay listening dreamily, her mind putting Heine’s words to the frail haunting air.

On wings of song, Belov’d One,Away I’ll waft thee, to whereI know in the plains of the GangesA secret nook most fair.There sleeps a rich blossoming garden,Calm in the still moonlight:The lotus flowers are awaitingTheir dearest Sister to-night.The violets laugh as they prattle,And gaze on the stars in their spheres;Odorous legends the roses breatheLow in each other’s ears.There bound, and stand shyly listening,The gentle timid gazelles;Afar, from the sacred river,The waves’ deep murmur swells.There under the palms reclining,We’ll drink by the sacred streamOf love and rest in full measure,And blissful dreams will we dream.

On wings of song, Belov’d One,Away I’ll waft thee, to whereI know in the plains of the GangesA secret nook most fair.There sleeps a rich blossoming garden,Calm in the still moonlight:The lotus flowers are awaitingTheir dearest Sister to-night.The violets laugh as they prattle,And gaze on the stars in their spheres;Odorous legends the roses breatheLow in each other’s ears.There bound, and stand shyly listening,The gentle timid gazelles;Afar, from the sacred river,The waves’ deep murmur swells.There under the palms reclining,We’ll drink by the sacred streamOf love and rest in full measure,And blissful dreams will we dream.

On Wings of Sleepit should have been called, she thought, for the whole thing was a dream that could only come in sleep. It occurred to her at last that the man Kerry thought so too, and meant his persistent though soft whistling as a hint to her to sleep while he kept watch. It seemed indeed the best thing she could do, so that later when he was tired out she in turn could keep guard. Already Roper had got down his blankets, and she knew by the lowered tones of theumfansthat he had retired under the waggon.

Wearied out by the various emotions of the day, it did not take her long to fall asleep, but several times during the night she awoke, prompted by a restless fear which even through her dreams vaguely disturbed her. But always there was calm in the camp, and always the man Kerry sat intent on his little book. The storm clouds had gone by, and the sky, shroudy and mysterious as the blue veil of an Eastern woman, was hung with jewels that shed a misty luminance over the immense and silent land.

When she finally threw off sleep in the small hours before dawn it was to find Kerry still lying there on his elbow placidly smoking. His book was still in his hand, but he appeared to be reading the fire rather than it. Vivienne wondered how she could let him know that she was awake and able to take up the vigil, but with theWings of Songstill haunting her memory she did not wonder long. Very softly she began to whistle the air. He stirred, and glanced towards the tent. She whistled delicately on, and saw a slow smile flicker for a moment across his impassive face. Then he closed his book and lowered his head to the saddle. He understood. She stopped whistling. He slept, and she vigilled until the stars turned white and the hand of Dawn pushed them back from sight, and in their place scattered red and golden roses across the skies.

Full morning brought new factors into the game. Two sinewy Bechuana boys came light-foot up the trail of broken trees and crushed ant-hills made by Roper’s waggons, and approaching Kerry set down the heavy packages from their heads and gravely saluted him. Anindabaensued, accompanied by an arm-wave or two at the track by which they had come, some soft clicking remarks, and a few low sighs. Kerry, his pipe in his teeth, listened reflectively, and at the end of the recital gave a brief order to each. One went away to the horse, the other proceeded to make a cooking fire and unpack one of the loads which obviously contained provisions.

Vivienne, who had been for a little morning walk, and now sat on a rock some distance away, saw Roper, much intrigued, watching the proceedings from under his waggon. When he could no longer contain his curiosity he slouched over to Kerry.

“What’s all this? Whose boys are these?”

“Mine. Any objection to them?”

“Well!—What the Halifax?—How do you travel then? Where is your waggon?”

“I can’t remember ever having mentioned a waggon,” was the imperturbable answer.

That was the secret of it all then! He had no waggon. Only a horse and two native carriers. Vivienne to whom the whole conversation came clear on the morning air witnessed also Roper’s stupified amazement.

“So you’re just hanging on to me?” he snarled at last.

“I like pleasant company.”

“To Jerusalem with you—well,Idon’t!”

“It’s a free country.” Kerry’s manner was unfailingly suave, but at this juncture he arose from the mound on which he was seated and made it clear that as far as he was concerned the conversation was closed. There was nothing left for Roper but to return to his own business of making things as unpleasant as possible for everyone in his camp. All through that torrid day he prowled and swore around his waggons, furiously tinkering and greasing and patching up the injuries they had sustained during the forcedtrek, giving his boys no rest from labour and abuse. But never once did he come near Vivienne, nor throw her a glance. She sat in her tent most of the day, mending a hole in the knee of her knickerbockers or staring at the sunlit land about her.

Thus it was from day to day. The two partiestrekkedand outspanned together as though they were one, yet after the first day never a word passed between them. Kerry made no attempt to communicate with Vivienne. Roper never spoke to Kerry. Vivienne passed her days unmolested by Roper.

The objectionable feature of the affair was Roper’s offensive habit of airing in a loud voice at the night outspan his opinion of “loafers” and “hangers-on”—men who “followed like jackals the waggon of another man, having none of their own.” Kerry might have been a stock or a stone for all the sign he gave of hearing any of these things. But Vivienne’s cheek burned for him, and at times she felt a curious impatience that one who had taken upon himself the chivalrous affair of guarding her should be able to put up with such insults. She could not help thinking that since he was there for her protection a simple way out of an odious situation would be for him to say: “Look here; come over to my camp, and I’ll take care of you, and let this fellow go to the deuce. Certainly you will have to rough it with me, but you have to rough it in any case with this lout.” She would have gone like a bird from a cage. In fact, she could not understand how any chivalrous man could fail to see that it was the only dignified thing to do, especially when Roper began presently to be ironical to her on the subject of her condescension in staying in his camp. One evening he remarked to her rudely: “I wonder you don’t go and take up your quarters with your pal the Pioneer, instead of housing in my tent.”

She was furious that the Pioneer, smoking not twenty yards off, took no more notice than if he were deaf or a fish. It seemed to her that patience might go a little too far, and a chill disdain began to take root in her soul.

And then one day she realised that it was rather a good thing after all that he had not invited her to leave Roper’s waggon to join his own unsheltered caravan. That was the day on which the heavy lowering heat broke at last in a storm such as she had never known in her life. When trees and iron rocks leaped in flame and fell under splitting flashes of lightning, thunder seemed to explode upwards from the bowels of the earth to meet an answering detonation in the heavens, and rain came down like grey straight rods of steel, battering the road into a liquid, quivering mass of mud.

At the first warning peal, Roper had drawn his waggons to a standstill, covered everything with great bucksails and retired under the shelter of one, while the boys took shelter under the other. Peering from ant-eaten holes in her bucksail, Vivienne could just distinguish through the heavy curtain of rain her rear-guard escort—the white horse with drooping head and drapery of mackintosh, and a tall figure sheltering to leewards of it. The carriers with the instinctive art of natives had found some cranny of shelter somewhere, but Kerry and his horse got the full brunt of the storm.

In less than an hour, it was all over. A turquoise sky burned overhead, vivid orange sunshine drew clouds of incense from tree and earth and rock. The quivering mud of the roadway was the only unsightly evidence of what had passed—that and the drenched forms of a man and beast whom Roper mocked obliquely by calling up to Vivienne:

“Nice weather for jackals, hey? I’ve just been waiting for this! We’ll have it every day now the wet season has set in.”

The girl’s heart sank. But it was to sink lower yet in the days that followed when Roper’s words came true and the storm faithfully repeated itself. She began to wonder then whether she had not misjudged the Pioneer, and to realise that possibly his knowledge of the country and the climate had something to do with the regulation of his temper to Roper’s sneers. It was clear at any rate that if she had left the waggon and sought refuge with him she, too, would have had to weather the blinding storms that came and went every day regularly as clockwork, always leaving the country fresh and fragrant as a rose. Except for the roads! The going grew heavier daily and in that at least triumph was not all on Roper’s side, for while he was obliged to keep to the morass-like track or risk capsize, Kerry’s horse could pick its way delicately between rocks and ant-holes at the roadside. After the first day or two of wet weather the native bearers disappeared, and Kerry’s horse bore the weight of an extra bundle.

It was a despairing experience to watch man and horse half-drown every day, then dry in clouds of steam under the brilliant sunshine that followed, and Vivienne sickened of it. She knew, too, that however strong the man, such an experience could not go on indefinitely without affecting his health, and she trembled for the day when he would perhaps fall ill of fever or pneumonia. Fortunately that day never dawned. One morning just as the sun was bursting forth after a terrible downpour, and the bucksails were being removed from the waggons, the blare of a coach horn came sailing through the air and a sound of mules’ hoofs flapping in the mud. Vivienne almost jumped out of her skin with joy at the sight of a mail-coach, empty of everything but the driver and a mass of mail-bags.

Within twenty minutes, she was stowed inside the cart tent, the white horse was switched on behind, and the drawn-up coach waited only on the convenience of Kerry who before he could take his place in the cart wished to change his soaking clothes for some he had dried overnight. The bush being his only retiring-room he prepared to take his bundle thither, but first he stepped over and addressed a curt remark to Roper scowling beside his waggon.

“Come along with me!”

“Come with you? I’ll see you up a gum tree first.”

“Very well. You can take what’s coming to you here instead if you prefer it.”

“What do you mean?” Roper’s face was belligerent but he began to back. The other’s eyes, suddenly grown very steel-coloured, had taken a kind of measuring glance into them.

“Just this, that you don’t surely suppose you’re going to be let off for your infernal cheek of the past ten days?—and all the annoyance you have caused this gentleman here?” (He slightly indicated Vivienne.)

“Gentleman!” sniggered Roper, but got no further, for his mouth was stopped in a very rude and unkind manner. Vivienne’s heart gave a leap at the sound of the blow. Never before had she seen a man thrashed, nor any kind of brute violence used by one man to another. A month or two back, the very idea of such a thing would have made her sick, probably have caused her to faint. It is certain that she would, out of very hatred of violence, have sided with the aggressed, whatever his crime, against the aggressor. It showed how Africa had steeled her nerves and readjusted her sense of values that she could sit through the scientific and very thorough punching to which the transport driver was treated, without turning a hair.

Afterwards, Roper’s boys, with a jubilation of manner never before observed in them, removed their master to the shade of his waggon and administered whiskey, while the man Kerry went away to wash his hands and make a quick change. The post-cart driver, a swarthy half-Dutch colonial, who talked the most extraordinary language Vivienne had ever heard, beguiled the tedium of waiting with anecdotes of Roper’s past.

“Maar! it waslekkerto see datslegte skepselget it good and red!Ach! sis ja, he’s de worst stinkhond on dis road. I knowed him welldaar bij de Kaap. Ja wat! he done ten years mealie-meal pap on de Cape Town breakwater already for I.D.B., and another five years in de Bloemfonteintronkfor half murdering anarme kindof a Hottentot girl. He hit her on de head with aklip, wat! Allemagtie! sis, yes, he’s avaabond. I seen him do some dirty jobs between here and Mafeking.Verneukingde Kaffirs and hammering his boys forniks nie. Ek seh ver jou, dere isn’t nothing what datverdomde bliksemwouldn’t do!”

Vivienne could well believe it. Such of the narrative as was comprehensible to her made her more deeply realise what her danger had been and how much she owed to the protection of Kerry. Her heart glowed with a warmth and gratitude she had never expected to feel again for anyone as she saw him returning, fresh from his dip and change, nonchalant as ever.

“Oh, how good you’ve been to me! What should I have done if you had not come!” she cried, and put out her hands to his in a gesture as charming as it was spontaneous.

“That’s all right,” he said easily. But impassivity went out of his face and darkness came into his eyes for a moment as he touched her hands. Then they sat side by side behind the driver while the mules spattered onwards through the mud. She recounted to him all she could remember of her adventure from the time she knew herself lost until Roper’s appearance roused her from the mental lethargy into which panic and privation had plunged her. But of the ten days’ gap in between she could tell him no more than if she had returned from the dead.

“Only it seems like a miracle that you should have come upon the scene just when you did!”

“It was lucky I left the coach at Palapye,” he said reflectively. But he did not mention why he had done so. “When I got back some days later, there was no way of proceeding except by taking a horse and a couple of bearers.”

“Did you hear then that I was lost?”

“Yes,” he said briefly. “The Government had people out searching for you, but you must have travelled at a great rate. I expect you’ll want to wire to let people know you are all right as soon as we get near a telegraph office?”

“I suppose so,” she said slowly. “Unless it would be possible to just arrive and say nothing as to where I have been, and about that awful time with Roper. I should like that above all.” She looked at him appealingly and then at her grimy clothes. “It would be terrible to run the gauntlet like this!”

“We must think up something,” he said.

“It is only a matter of clothes to arrive in,” she said presently. “I expect I shall find my baggage all safely there.”

“Of course. Well, the best plan will be for me to drop you at Fisher’s half-way house, a day’s drive from Buluwayo. I’ll proceed by coach and send you back whatever you need, and some kind of conveyance to come on by. The woman at Fisher’s is a quiet, half-dazed Dutch creature who won’t talk if she sees you enter a young man and go forth a young woman.”

She coloured slightly, conscious suddenly of her grimy knickerbockers and rush hat. Then their eyes met and they both fell into a rush of laughter that broke the last strand of stiffness between them and turned them into girl and boy in a world empty of old griefs and pains and full of sunlight.

They discussed without constraint what she needed in the way of clothes, and how to outwit the curiosity of Rhodesia as to her adventure. She told him about her work, and something of her reason why she could not afford to have the truth known. And if his eyes expressed humorous wonder that she should so much mind what the world thought when she was clear of fault, his enthusiasm in plotting ways and means for keeping her doings dark was no less than her own.

“You must just turn up casually at a hotel one day in your cart, and say you’ve been all right—that you certainly got lost, but found good friends and have been seeing the country and getting ‘copy’ ever since. Chesterfield says: ‘Never lie, but don’t tell everything.’ Let them think what they like. They can’t prove anything. Roper knows that if he speaks I’ll break him to pieces. As for this driver Koos, I can easily square him. He’s an old crony of mine.”

The sun pressed down on them hard all day, but there were fresh hills on the horizon, and a gold and emerald scape. The crystal air was vibrant with the odours of rolling leagues of vivid flowers growing close to Earth’s hot brown body. Wild bees hovered over the brilliant cactus blooms and strange-coloured brittle cups of the sugar-bush, then rose, honey-laden, and softlyburr-redtheir way home.

At broad noon, they outspanned by a mule stable on the banks of the Lundi, and made a fire for which Vivienne helped collect sticks. Koos filled the kettle at the river, and Kerry went off on the trail of a little bird that was hopping from tree to tree with an insistent note. It was a honey-bird and its message was clear when Kerry came back carrying two large honey-combs dripping with that golden wine of the veld brewed by the little dark wild bees.

Vivienne thought she had never in her life tasted anything so delicious. Koos was still at the river. She and Kerry sat on two stones, close to each other, and munched the dripping combs, looking at the great fantastic land about them and sometimes into each other’s eyes. She did not know that her youthful beauty had burst through grime and sunburn like a flower from its sheath. He did not know that distance was gone from his eyes again and that they burned dark in his tanned face. But both were aware of the enfolding wings of some great unknown force.

Who drinks Nile water must return to Egypt. Who wearsveld-schoenswill return to the veld; who tastes of Africa’s perfumed honey can never again content him with the honey of pallid Europe. Vivienne could not know that by her act she was being initiated into the fellowship of that great band whose hearts will never more be free from the thrilling exquisite pain of Africa’s claw. She only knew that some strange taste of strange life went from the honey into her very being and that she had never lived before as she lived in that moment. Life had been waiting for her behind a veil, and now she drew nearer the veil and from behind it came the perfume of stephanotis and cactus bloom and wild honey, the murmuring of rivers, the music of trees. Africa was wild honey, and wild honey was Africa. It had got into her blood. Gone to her brain. Oh, the sweetness of it! The flame of skies and flowers! Time and space here for dreams! Here the rats and mice of life—malice, intrigue, slander, all the gibbering gnawing things that can make life hell—were absent. Here one pressed one’s lips to life and felt the thrill of the kiss swinging up and down every vein in one’s body.

Suddenly she gave a cry. A bee’s sting had embedded itself in the sensitive flesh of her lower lip, and an exquisite needle-like pain brought tears to her eyes. He saw at once what had happened and sprang up.

“I’ll get it out. Hold still a minute.”

Touching her face with strong fingers grown extraordinarily delicate, he pinched the lip until he was able to extract the tiny dark sting. She closed her eyes and a tear slipping down her cheek wetted his fingers.

Then he kissed her with the honey and salt wet on her lips, as one might kiss a little crying child. And almost as simply and naturally she kissed him back. When she realised what she had done, her heart seemed to become hollow in the sunlight for one moment, then full, brimming over with some strange wine. She wanted to be furious with him, but looking at his eyes no words would come to her lips. They stood there staring at each other like people in a dream. The sight of Koos coming back recalled her to herself, the spell under which she had been, broke. Frigid conventional words came to her lips, of the kind she might have spoken in a London drawing-room.

“You forget yourself! ... How dared you!”

His clear tanned face assumed a deep flush and he turned away abruptly. If she expected an apology she was disappointed. No other word was spoken between them, and when they mounted the coach it was by the driver’s side he sat, leaving the whole of the back seat to her.

She found in this something to be thankful for, though her soul resented it. Slowly, with the gold of afternoon and red lights of evening, her anger faded away, but the enchantment of Africa faded too, and she felt cold, cold to the bone.

At the next stopping-place, a young Dutchman was waiting for the coach, and went on with them the following morning. He turned out to be a sprightly fellow from the Eastern Province, anxious to air his views on the subject of Cape politics and ostrich farming. Vivienne earned a reputation for unsociability by retiring under the shadow of a large felt hat she had obtained at the hotel store. But Kerry, who to make way for the stranger had been obliged to return to the back seat, covered her strange manner and appearance by sitting forward and entering into long arguments. Sometimes both men would lapse into the Boertaal, and for frequent spells not a word they said was intelligible to the girl. At such times, Kerry seemed more than a stranger to her. She burned to remember what had passed between them, and shrank away as far as possible into her corner. He appeared to notice nothing. His own manner became curiously heavy, dull as the day went on; a day of torrid heat, air full of thunder and thick with dust. Everyone fell into silence at last, and no sound but the driver’s bitter curses and the flack of his whip broke the brooding weariness.

In the late afternoon, a mule fell dead-lame, delaying arrival at Fisher’s until past midnight. As she limped from the coach sick with fatigue, Vivienne caught a glimpse by lantern-light of Kerry’s face. It was strangely distorted, with eyes bright and bloodshot. The sight of it revolted her, even as his voice speaking the coarse gutteraltaalhad done. But she was too tired to care about anything. Her whole mind had concentrated itself on the thought of bed, and a longing to extend her weary bones in sleep. So that when on thestoep, as they waited to be led to their huts, Kerry came near her muttering something indistinguishable, she turned away from him dully, with eyes and ears only for the woman who was to show the way.

It was not until late the next morning that her mind cleared enough to think. Then her first wonder was why she had not been called to rejoin the coach. After lying still a long time, she remembered the plan that she was to be left at this place, and made haste to dress to find out whether the coach had gone without her. Before her clothes were on, a knock came at the door, and she opened it a crack to the stupid, sad-looking woman of the night before. The following dialogue ensued:

“If you want korfie and grub I’ll bring it to you. The bigbaassaid you was to have what you wanted.”

“Have they gone?”

“Ya. The coach went at six. The bigbaassaid you was too sick to go and must rest in bed till he sends for you.”

“Very well; bring me something to eat, please.” She got back into bed, and little of her face was showing when the woman returned with food, set it down dully, and departed.

Time and space in which to think, lying there behind the bolted door, battered mud walls about her, bulging thatch overhead full of fat black spiders that sat immovable as Fate in their lairs. And her thoughts were of the long, long kind, though there was little of youth in them. She was so silent that the flies pretended to believe her dead and descended upon her in black battalions. The struggle to keep them off made the whole business just a little more sordid, and roused in her a kind of sullen fury against Africa and all that in it was.

“I must get out of it,” she muttered to herself. “It is driving me mad. I must have been mad to let that man kiss me—a common oaf who talks Dutch in that horrible throaty way—a sort of Boer—how dared he!”

She tried to remember his face as it had revolted her the night before, suffused with blood and swollen, but she could only remember the keen, quiet eyes full of light and distance, and how they had darkened when he looked at her, and how they had measured up Roper, and how her heart had leaped in her breast at the sound of the first blow.

“I am mad,” she reiterated wearily, and covered her eyes. “This miserable country has driven me mad!”

At sundown the next day, the woman brought a parcel and the news that a cart had come and would be ready to start again at dawn. The parcel contained a man’s mackintosh, a dark blue coat and skirt of simple not to say skimpy design, a white blouse, and sailor hat. She shook out the Philistine garments carefully as if she thought a scorpion—or a note—might be hidden among them. But no sign of either.

“Tant mieux!” she said at last, and discarded the rush hat and tattered shirt almost violently as if with them she hoped to throw off the last trace of her veld madness.

Wrapped in the mackintosh she slipped out to the waiting cart in the dimness of the dawn, and started on the last lap of the journey that was originally to have taken her ten days, but had already extended to six weeks! Only when the lights of Buluwayo gleamed before her at last could she really believe the end had come.

Within a week, civilisation had its grip on her once more, and she was her cynical self with the nut of bitter dust back in her breast.

The opening up of the country had brought a fashionable English crowd to Buluwayo, among them many people that she knew and had special feuds with. One of the latter was Lady Angela Vinning, a woman with a good figure, beautiful, pleading green eyes, and thumbs down on every other woman except those who for the moment happened to fit into her schemes. She and Vivienne were staying at the same hotel, and exchanged polite greetings and glances of disdain every morning. Vivienne despised her for what she was: false, unscrupulous, and mean-souled. She detested Vivienne for being fifteen years younger than herself, and that is the most poignant of all the feminine hatreds.

Other grounds for general detestation by her own sex soon made patent to Vivienne were: (1) that Wolfe Montague, the richest man in South Africa, took no pains to hide the fact that his main business in Buluwayo was to be perpetually at her heels; (2) that having been romantically lost on the veld and found again no one quite knew how, she was the most-talked-of person in the country; and (3) that she had turned up looking perfectly radiant, and been seen of none until after regaining possession of her extremelychicclothes. Tales with a tang to them were soon flying round Buluwayo. Vivienne assumed her mask and with a calm mien went about her business of “writing up” the country. But behind the mask and the mien she was raging. It was London and the torment of the last few years over again, only at closer quarters, for here she must share the same hotel with her enemies, run into them daily, and smile and exchange sweet words with them.

“If I could only wipe my boots on them all instead!” she thought savagely, and at such moments almost decided to marry Montague, whose flame grew more and more ardent with the days. But always a shadow slipped between her and her decision—a shadow with grey eyes! Where had those eyes disappeared to? She never saw them, and no one mentioned the name Kerry. The thing puzzled her, yet she was grimly glad. Of what use getting that strange torment of honey and perfume and wild places into her veins again, when she cared only for the call of civilisation, longed only for power and the weapons of wealth with which to smite these little-minded women who thought themselves so clever and fine? She would never be happy until she had power to make others suffer as she had been made to suffer. What had such an ambition to do with the honeyed madness she had known on the banks of the Lundi? Nothing.

One day, writing by the open window of her bedroom, she heard two men talking in the hotel verandah. One was a solicitor whom she had met, called Cornwall, and a remark of his riveted her attention.

“Brain and Hunt are after it. They’ll give five hundred, but de Windt doesn’t seem inclined to sell, though he needs money to get up North.”

“I’ll go a hundred better,” said the other man firmly. “It’s a good farm and I’d like it myself. Try him with that.”

“Right. I’ll try him.”

Vivienne sat transfixed. The whole story rushed back to her mind and with it the remembrance of her plan to outdo the rogues by buying the farm herself. She had scorned the idea then, and despised herself for harbouring it, but in her present frame of mind it stood up salient and welcome as an old friend. Swiftly she found herself once more considering the question of where to raise the money.

She heard the other man bid Cornwall good-bye with a last injunction to see de Windt at once and make the offer, and a moment or two later she sauntered into the verandah and spoke to the solicitor.

“I heard that man’s offer for de Windt’s farm, and I want to tell you I’d like to buy it myself. I’ll give 800 pounds.”

Cornwall stared at her, smiling.

“You bitten with the land mania too, Miss Carlton?”

“Yes.”

“There’s plenty of it about,” he remarked tentatively. “And de Windt’s not particularly keen on selling.”

“It must behisfarm or none,” she said firmly. “I have a particular fancy for the place.”

“Oh, well! I’ll see what I can do for you. It’s a good offer, more than the farm is worth, I think. De Windt’s lying ill at present with a bad go of malaria. But I’ll put the matter to him and let you know the result.”

“Thank you.”

She went inside again, and sat on her bed pretending to wonder where the money was to come from. In reality she knew perfectly well, and she didn’t care. She was in the dirty business now, up to her eyebrows, for loss or gain. If she gained she would give back Montague his 800 pounds and a wave of the hand. If she lost she must marry him and forever hide the fact that he had been no more than a cat’s-paw and apis aller.

“He is too good for me anyway,” she reflected. “Any man is too good for me. I’ve become a scoundrel and an adventuress. Three months of South Africa have done wonders for me! And I don’t care—I don’t care!”

She bathed her hot face but could not take the burn from it. It was still brightly flushed, making her look very young and lovely, when she stood before Montague and proffered her abrupt request.

“Will you lend me a thousand pounds for three months?”

Reflection had shown her that she might have to bid higher, or that even if she got it for 800 pounds she would need a margin sum with which to prosecute the search for gold. Further, if she could borrow the money for three months, she might be able to sell and refund to him.

“Of course,” said Montague promptly, and could not keep elation out of his eyes. He looked like a large fair bull, was very red and very good-natured, but a hard man at a bargain.

“And will you do something for me?” he asked smiling.

“I cannot attach any conditions,” she said quickly. “Mine is entirely a business proposition.”

“And mine is, as far at least as I am concerned, pure pleasure. It is only to ask you to wear this little jewel for me.” He held out a small morocco leather case, but she did not put out a hand to receive it. He sighed.

“Say then to wear it for three months. If when we clear up this terribly serious business proposition you wish to return it to me with the thousand, so be it. If you consent to keep it, I can only say—you will make me the happiest man in the world.”

Mechanically her hand received the small case, and for a moment his hand closed on hers, and carried it to his lips. She grew a little pale.

“I cannot promise anything,” she stammered, drawing her hand away.

“I do not ask you to... yet,” was his answer, but the ring remained with her, and she knew it was part of the bargain. When she opened the case she was furious with herself, for it was a ring that could not escape note—a great single stone, amber coloured, set in a band of violet enamel.

They were all dining at Government House that night, and she wore it, striving to hide its brilliance amongst a number of other stones, but it glared out yellow and baleful as a tiger’s eye. Lady Angela was the first to spot it.

“What a glorious stone! I do so love a yellow diamond. Is it out of the famous Montague mine, or a mere de Beer’s? Journalism must pay, dear Viwie!”

She gave a little silvery laugh that rippled up Vivienne’s spine like an asp, and left a poisoned wound.

Neither did a conversation carried on at her right in full hearing act as an antidote. A Judge of the High Court was telling his dinner neighbour what a charming fellow de Windt was, and how they would all miss him when he pulled out for the North.

“The country can’t afford to lose men like that! But they are real lovers of the wild and won’t stay when we begin to get too civilised.”

“Yet de Windt himself is one of the most civilised fellows I’ve ever met,” said the Administrator. “When all Colonials are like him, Africa will begin to move.”

“A Colonial?Pas possible!” cried a woman.

“It is possible though. He was born out here and spite of Harrow and Oxford and a place at the Bar, Africa has him in her maw for good.”

“The dear fellow would have been here to-night, if he had not been so ill,” said the hostess. And the wretched Vivienne was thankful she had been spared that ordeal at least. But she held fast to her plan. What matter whether de Windt were a splendid fellow or not? Since he loved the wild, all the better for him—he wouldn’t miss his gold mine! She felt herself growing harder and harder every moment.

“Millionaires must be made of tough stuff,” she thought sardonically. “Fine fellows! I expect I shall begin to look like one soon. Eyes like flint with pouches under them, and a tiger trap for a mouth!Zut, alors!”

Thanks to Lady Angela the news was all over Buluwayo the next day that she was wearing Montague’s ring. Even the fact that Cornwall came bearing propitious tidings did little to quench Vivienne’s rage.

“It’s all right,” he said. “De Windt will take your offer. The other people are keen as mustard and want to go higher, but he says he wouldn’t sell to them at any price.”

“I want it fixed up at once,” she said feverishly.

“As soon as you like. He asked me to hustle it along too, in case you changed your mind. The poor fellow has had a bad go of fever, but the news quite cheered him up, and he’ll be about in a day or two. He seems greatly pleased at your wanting the place.”

Vivienne was assailed by a choking sensation, and a bitter flavour came into her mouth, but she knew that as a prospective millionaire she must get accustomed to such discomforts. They were part of the training. As also was the skilful fencing she began to practise on the unsuspecting Montague. Certainly it was a case of Greek meeting Greek, but sometimes it seemed to her more like a duel between a sucking dove and a serpent. And she was not the dove. A London journalist had once said to her that he believed all women were natural-born crooks, and now she began to believe it.

“The black drop was in me all the time,” she thought bitterly. “But it has taken Africa to bring it out!”

Although the negotiations for the sale went forward apace, they were not pushed on fast enough to please her, and she almost worried Cornwall out of his wits in her determination to have the thing signed and sealed before de Windt was well enough to get about. She did not yet feel quite hardened enough in the ways of millionaires to be able to face over a deed of sale the man whose gold she was stealing.

Another miserable part of the transaction was the receiving of Wolfe Montague’s cheque. That was a bad moment. The paper burnt her hand like flame. But she examined it carefully, and pulled Montague up sharply when she found that it was drawn on a local Bank.

“That would never do,” she said firmly. “I cannot have my affairs all over Buluwayo.”

“I thought you wanted it for immediate use,” he replied suavely, “and Banks don’t talk.”

“I wouldn’t trust them,” she averred; “I give my confidence to few.” But she smiled her confidence in him at least with such lovely eyes that he went away with content in his heart to arrange the matter on such lines as only millionaires can command. Forty-eight hours later the money was to hand by cabled draft from London on the Standard Bank, Buluwayo.

The same morning Vivienne went for the first time to look at the farm. Montague’s carriage was at her disposal as usual, and by the aid of a small local map she was able to direct the groom. They calculated that the distance there and back could be easily covered in a couple of hours, and that she could get back in plenty of time to prepare for a ball which the magistrate was giving that night in the Court House.

The farm lay out towards the Matopos, along a dusty, sun-baked road, but Vivienne, well shaded in the luxuriously cushioned body of the carriage noticed neither dust nor heat. The excitement of the gamble for money was in her veins, and she was telling herself how good a substitute it made for happiness. The flickering glance of envious hatred Lady Angela had shot at her from under a white umbrella on the sidewalk was part of the game that she was in now, up to her nostrils—the game which, though the weapons were sheathed in silk and the blows prepared behind honeyed smiles, was just the same old sweet game, governed by the same old sweet law, that was in the beginning and shall be in the end—the law of Club and Fang!

“What is the use of pretending I am too good for it, and was made for better things?” she meditated, and her smile took the little bitter twist that was now becoming habitual. With it still on her lips, she looked over the side of the carriage into a pair of grey eyes full of veld light and far places. A dog-cart containing two men had passed and gone, but not too soon for her to recognise Kerry and see an answering flash of recognition in his eyes.

Gone too her satisfaction, such as it was, in the gamble and the game. Fever died out of her veins and her heart lay cold as a stone. She looked not a girl, but a pale tired woman of thirty when she stepped out of the carriage and climbed over the little sloping kopjes that gave a view of the six thousand acres that would some day be a famous gold mine. Silent, lovely acres they were, full of colour and peace. Low-spreading trees standing alone, scattered purple rocks on which lay patches of rust red as blood, a carpet of wild grasses and little star-shaped veld flowers. Here and there great boulders were pitched together with enough earth to harbour a spiking tree and trailing creepers. Some lines of red gum had been planted and in their shadow stood a little thatched hut, before whose door, its slender branches tapping the thatch, grew a little tree of the laburnum class, laden with clustering golden bloom that gave a lovely scent.

A sudden poignant regret, stronger than herself, rushed through her, that the peace of these brooding acres of loneliness should be destroyed by what lay hidden under them. In imagination, she saw the dirt and débris of a new gold diggings, the purple rocks shattered by dynamite, trees and flowers torn out and lying dead, the little perky sand-blooms trodden down. All for gold to poison the hearts of men and buy the souls of women as hers had been poisoned, bought!

Was it too late now to repent, and instead of digging out the gold keep the land as it was, silent and peaceful? Go and live in that little thatched hut with the tree by the door? She dreamed with the thought a moment then turned bitterly away. The land was not even hers unless she could pay for it with the gold that came out of it! It was Montague’s asshewas Montague’s until she repaid the thousand pounds. She must go back to the scheme of avarice and duplicity she had entered into with eyes open and heart greedy for power and revenge. Her path was clear before her. It had nothing to do with peace and beauty and nothing in it that was noble, but it was her path. As she got back into the carriage and drove away, she knew that the memory of that place would haunt her all her days.

“Another restless ghost to walk the weary corridors of memory!” she said to herself.

Cornwall banished it for a while with the business of signing the transfer deed, but at the dance given by the magistrate that night it returned. A pair of eyes looking at her across space and gems and jewels, as once she had seen them stare across the veld, brought back the ghost and made it seem a very alive thing. She had never seen Kerry in the evening dress of convention before, and tried to feel astonished that he should resemble a distinguished man of the world rather than a sort of Boer. Inexplicably, as she stared, she forgot everything except to notice how worn and ill he looked. Over the shoulder of her partner, she met his clear gaze, and it became curiously and inextricably mixed in her memory with the lovely peace of the land she had visited that day. It was hot for dancing, and most people were beginning to meander out of doors and stay there.

“I want to introduce to you a great pal of mine—Kerry de Windt,” said her partner, Marshall Brunton, who was also her host the magistrate. “May I?”

“Kerry de Windt?” she answered slowly.

“A splendid chap. He’s here to-night, after a bad go of fever and pneumonia he got somehow on his way up-country.”

“On his way up-country?” she repeated mechanically.

“It appears that he was coming up by coach but left it at Palapye to go off on a hunt for a little child that was lost from some waggons. Everyone had given up the search, but he found the child away in a wild krantz, starving, with an old mad Bechuana boy.”

“Was it’s mother alive?” Vivienne had a sickening vision of that poor mother sitting, hat in hand, outside her hut.

“He got back just in time to save her reason. Queer fellow! We’d never have known anything about it fromhim, of course. The story came up by wire from Palapye.”

“Is that he talking to Lady Angela Vinning?”

“Yes. Shall we go over?”

“No. Take me out into the air please,” she faltered. Her face was white as death. Soheit was whom she had robbed! Kerry de Windt! The man who had not only saved the child’s life, but herself, from God knew what worse horrors than death!

It was out in one of the verandahs, dimly lit by Japanese lanterns, that he was brought and introduced to her.

“You two should find plenty to talk about, as you both know all about being lost on the veld,” said the host gaily, and hurried away to other duties.

They stood looking at each other. She wanted to cry out something, but she did not know what it was. His face was very haggard with an irony she had never known about his mouth. In the end, all her stiff lips found to say was:

“I am glad you are better of your illness.”

“Thank you. I have something on which to congratulate you also, it seems.” The flavour of irony was on his tongue as well as on his lips.

“I did not know it was your land,” she stammered, and he stared a moment.

“Oh,that,” he said carelessly. “You’re welcome. It’s not the loss of that I mind.”

There was a silence. They had sat down in a dim corner. At last her voice came faintly.

“What then have you lost?” She hid her hand on which shone the yellow diamond.

“Something I shall get along very well without in future, I dare say—faith in women.”

She couldn’t bear the bitterness of his tone and words. They hurt more than if he had taken a knife to her. Yet a miserable pride and wrath made her pursue the subject to the last fence.

“You speak as though it is some fault other than your own?”

“Youknow whose fault it is—whose hands have robbed me,” he said fiercely; “whose lips have given to another what once they gave to me.”

“Never, never!” The words broke involuntarily from her lips, though what it was she denied so furiously was not quite clear at first.

“You will not deny that for a few moments at least, I had a right to believe that you gave them to me? You kissed me back that morning.”

She said no word at that, only put up her hand to her eyes for a moment as though to shut out something. The gesture brought into sight the yellow diamond, and with a finger he scornfully indicated it.

“Is not that a symbol of what I have lost—and another gained?”

Even as he spoke the large shadow bore down on them of Montague come to expostulate concerning a sit-out dance that was booked to him. Vivienne’s voice, low, but very clear and cold, cut short his plainings.

“This ring is merely the symbol of a business arrangement between myself and Mr Montague. He very kindly lent me a sum of money with which to make a good speculation. I went to him in preference to applying to a money-lender, and in honour of my confidence in him he asked me to wear this charming stone. When I return the money in three months’ time or less, I also return the ring. Is not that exactly how the matter stands, Mr Montague?”

“I believe it is,” responded Montague with exceeding dryness, and looking anything but amiable. The unexpectedness of the attack took the wind out of his sails. He would have had more pleasure in bomb-shelling de Windt than making any statement of the kind.

“That is all then, thank you,” said Vivienne calmly. “I shall have finished my talk with Mr de Windt in about five minutes’ time.”

Millionaires in South Africa are not accustomed to such treatment, and if Montague had been followed he might have been heard to mutter in his wrath that she could finish her conversation with de Windt in Hades if she liked. The principal fact, as far as Vivienne was concerned, was that he departed. De Windt too had risen, his haggard face grown very dark.

“Evidently there is nothing further for me to do but apologise, and get out. Your highly interesting conversation with Montague has made that clear, at least.”

“Do you mean to be insolent?” she asked slowly.

“I hope not,” he said with steady scorn; “only to reassure myself that your arrangements and speculations never have been and never can be any concern of mine.”

“That is not quite correct. The speculation referred to had to do directly with you. The money I borrowed was to buy your farm.”

“Indeed! Well, in that matter at least I have reason to congratulate you. It is going to turn out a good spec.”

“Ah! and how is that?” she peered at him curiously.

“The land has a rich gold reef running through it. You will in all probability be able to re-sell for several hundred thousand pounds.”

“And when did you know this wonderful thing?” she asked in a strange voice.

“After I’d sent word to you by Cornwall that I’d sell. Brain, the first bidder, came and confessed that he and his partner knew about the gold and had meant to ‘do’ me. His idea, of course, was that I should pay him for the information by going shares and not letting you have the land.”

Vivienne’s heart stood very still.

“By the way, I was driving back from his place when I met you this morning. We’d been inspecting the specimens his partner had prospected. Cornwall has instructions to hand them over to you in the morning. They are unmistakable.”

“And in spite of all this you still sold to me?”

“My bond was given,” he said curtly.

She had risen too, and they were facing each other—about them all the chirping night things—peace everywhere except in their hearts. Music came faintly stealing from the dancing-room.

“So after all Africa has brought you luck,” he said.

She trembled under the contempt his tone betrayed for that luck, but something in her that wished to live would not be daunted by his scorn. And that something spoke in spite of her, in a gentle, alluring voice.

“Do you think it is such great luck? Can you from your heart wish me no better?”

“The luck I would wish you entails advice you would never take.”

“Try me,” her voice was very low and sweet, with a broken note in it. “Try me—Kerry.”

He looked at her sombrely. His face seemed to have grown more haggard. At last he said: “If you lived in the wilds awhile, under happier circumstances than those you have come through, the real woman in you might have a chance to live... you would come to realise how rotten they are, all theseluckythings you set such store by.”

“Perhaps I know that”; the strong unfaltering force still had hold of her and used her voice. “Perhaps it is the wilds I am hungering for—and the strange happiness of a morning on the banks of the Lundi—” Her voice was almost a whisper. He had to draw nearer to hear it, and stayed staring with a fierce moodiness into her eyes.

“Do you mean?—Vivienne?”

“I think you know what I mean.” She lifted her lips to him, to take or leave, and knew that if he left them they would go lonely all life long, which was no more than she deserved who had played fast and loose with love. But he did not leave them. Once more she tasted the strange fragrant flavour of wild honey, and knew at last that this fantastic land of strange flowers and heavy scents, of silence and song, cruelty and beauty, was for her, as he was for her. Africa was wild honey. The love of Kerry de Windt was wild honey, and she could never content herself with any other. It was good to be safe in her own place against his heart. Good to have about her the arms that would never let her go back to a world which ate her heart and made her perform acts that besmirched her soul. But there was still that to tell which might loosen his arms and send them empty away. She held them tight, tight about her while she told him the ugly story.

For a moment there had sprung up in her an almost overwhelming temptation to hide the truth from him (he would never know unless she told him, how she had taken advantage of stolen information to plot against and rob him of his land and gold. No one even guessed the truth).

But the next moment she had torn out that temptation, and thrust it away, ashamed.

“How base I must be if even love cannot purify me!” she cried. “But it shall—ithas. Listen Kerry.”

In the end, he kissed the tears from her lips as once before he had kissed them. One more of the little crystal globes of illusion men have about the women they love went smash perhaps, but he hid the pieces from her bravely enough. Only, he held her a little closer, and there were no half measures about his conditions.

“You’ve got to give it all up and come with me—away up North—anywhere I go—and not care where you’re going to—and never look back—nor care if you ever come back. Is that understood? We shall be poor—but by God! we’ll get something out of life that those who live in towns and cities can’t buy with all their gold.”

“But your farm, Kerry?—the land that is rightly yours?”

“We couldn’t touch it after all this buying and selling with borrowed money, Vivienne. Rightly or wrongly it is Montague’s if he wants it—and you bet he will want it—he must get it, together with the ring and that other two hundred pounds.”

“I shall have robbed you then after all?” she said sadly.

“No, only paid for our happiness. Everything has to be paid for, dear. We are lucky if we can pay with anything so cheap as money! Do you care?”

“No, no, if you do not. I care for nothing except to be sure that I can repay you for all I—”

He kissed away the rest with kisses that were as fierce and tender and cruel as Africa herself. “Oh! yes, you can repay me, be very sure of that. But it must be now.Now! You must come with me this very night.”

“To-night?” she faltered, trembling a little.

“Yes, to-night. I’m never going to let you go again. Brunton has the power to marry us, and I know he will do it after these people are all gone, if I put the case to him. My waggons are lying all ready a few miles from here. They’ve been ready for days, waiting for me to be well enough to start. Will you come?”

She thought for an instant of what the world would say, the big world across the sea, and this little portion of it in Buluwayo; the mocking smiles and innuendoes of the women, the men’s amazement—but only for an instant, then found herself smiling; that side of life was finished with now, a higher, fuller life waiting for her.

“Yes, Kerry,” she said simply, “I will follow you to the end of the world and the end of life.”

De Windt was no man of half actions. Within half an hour, Brunton had been beguiled into consent and Mrs Brunton let into the secret. A long residence had bestowed upon the latter a taste for romance and a heart prepared for anything in the shape of adventure that came along. She threw herself rapturously into the preparations for an after-midnight marriage, and sent her own maid for enough things from Vivienne’s hotel to make up a hasty travelling trousseau; the remaining luggage was to be sent for the next day. One or two very favoured guests being intimate friends of de Windt’s were let into the secret and allowed to stay, the rest went home all unsuspecting and never knew the news until next morning.

The amazing thing was that Montague was one of those who stayed. Vivienne had accomplished a short interview with him, and returned him those things which were his with a briefrésuméof the situation. To do him justice, he took it like a man, as well he might, when he was like to come out of the affair richer by several hundreds of thousands. For de Windt would accept no other solution of the money tangle than that Montague take possession of the farm and all its treasures. In return, he accepted the loan of Montague’s carriage in which to carry Vivienne away to her new life.

In one of the small, sweet, exquisitely fresh hours before dawn they were set down and left alone on the wide and empty veld. The dusty road along which they had come was beautified by wraith-like rays from a passing moon. Purple rocks had put on a silvery sheen. The white radiant stars burned like jewels in the blue veil of heaven. Far hills and shadowy trees rose silent and salient against the sky. The spot where the waggons lay outspanned was close to de Windt’s old farm, in the same area of brooding peace Vivienne had visited the day before—but with how different a mood! Then, Life had tasted bitterer between her lips than the aloes of Death. Now, her heart was clean of guile as a white rose, and she was a red and glowing rose whose fragrance intoxicated them both with the divine madness of love. Old Africa took them to her breast and they became part of her.

Back to IndexNext