Chapter XIV: Part 14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What! Do you mean to say you've been wandering about up the country ever since?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Two more troops of Police ordered over the Kei."

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

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

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

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

"Ah, we're getting the news by degrees," exclaimed his wife. "What else did you hear?"

"That a policeman rode in from the Transkei this morning."

"What news did he bring?"

"I don't know."

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

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

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

"When I'm big," remarked Harry Payne, aged seven, "I'll have a gun and shoot a great _schelm_ Kafir."

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

"No he won't," persisted the embryo warrior. "I'll shoot him."

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

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

"That's what I said."

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

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

"I assure you I have none," he began.

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

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

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

"What was it about?" asked Lilian.

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

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

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

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

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

"How long have you known the Paynes?"

"Nearly three years. Just before Mrs Brathwaite's death."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER FOUR.

"SO THE FACE BEFORE HER LIVED, DARK-SPLENDID..."

And what of her to whom this long, weary period had been so many years and so many months of terrible self-reproach? To her, though Time had brought no solace, it had brought a certain amount of resignation; and she had been able to school herself to face the future as best she might. Then suddenly, without so much as a moment's warning, this man whom she had mourned as dead, whom she had wept and prayed for, night and morning, as one whom she would never again behold here on earth, stood before her. She had looked up, expecting to see a stranger--and there _he_ stood! No wonder the blood forsook her ashy face and her heart stood still.

And now, in the dark, silent hours, she can scarcely realise it. It must be a dream--such a one as she had many and many a time awakened from to find her pillow wet with tears. Would she now awaken to find herself once more the dupe of one of those cruel hallucinations? No, this was real, she told herself; and looking back upon that meeting, awful in its suddenness, she wondered how she had so preserved her calmness. And he--he had shrunk from her--stopped short as soon as he recognised her. No wonder. She had sent him away with bitter words, with hard, cruel words, as a last recollection. How could he tell the agonies of remorse, of repentance, of vain, passionate yearning, which her life had since undergone? Time had gone by--perhaps he had eradicated from his heart the image of her who had made a plaything of it, as it must seem to him; perhaps some other image had taken its place. Better she could have continued to mourn him as dead than that. She forgot, in her anguish, how he had been wandering ever since they two parted--wandering afar in the wild interior, among its wilder inhabitants, alone with his own thoughts and her memory. She forgot all this as, the night through, she lay and tortured herself with these and kindred reflections.

And even if things were not so, and he had come back as he went, was there not the same barrier between them? Now that she was face to face with it once more, could she be false to her word any more now than then? Did not the old obstacle once more arise? No, it did not. From that fatal promise she had been absolved since then, absolved by the inexorable hand of Death--not always a merciless enemy--and at this moment she was free, absolutely free. But what availed her freedom now? Years ago it would have meant everything--life, love, and happiness-- but now--

One by one the stars paled overhead, a faint glow suffused the eastern sky, and, with a chill tremor, the dawn swept clearer and clearer over the sleeping earth. Very soothing to Lilian's tired brow was the fresh, cool air as she leaned out of the window, restless and fevered, after a sleepless night. For a few moments thus she stood, watching the shadows lightening upon the hills around, then, dressing hurriedly, she descended, intending to enjoy the early freshness before any one should be astir.

Noiselessly unlocking the front door, she passed out; and never had the pure morning air seemed more grateful or invigorating. She walked to the gate at the end of the _stoep_ and turned the key--tried to turn it, rather, for it was firm. Then she tried again with all the strength of her two hands; but no; the wretched instrument moved not a hair's breadth, and she stood contemplating a deep-blue imprint on her own delicate palm--the sole result of her attempt.

"Allow me," said a voice, and immediately the recalcitrant key yielded, with a creak and a snap, to the vigorous turn of a strong hand. "There," said the new arrival, swinging open the gate. "Are you taking an early stroll?"

Upon what a startled ear had that voice fallen! Her first impulse was to disclaim all intention of early exercise, and to go back indoors; but she answered in the affirmative.

"I wonder if my company would bore you greatly?" went on Claverton. "Singularly enough, I turned out early with the same intent, and Fate seems to have thrown us together."

Did he say this with a meaning? she wondered. Fate had indeed thrown them together.

"It would be very ungrateful of me to refuse it," she answered, with a smile, "when you have just overcome such an obstacle in the way of my going out at all."

They walked along in silence for a few moments, side by side--those two, who had been so long parted.

"Do you find this place as pretty as Seringa Vale?" he asked.

The question somewhat took her aback. Why did he wish to recur to the past? "No; I have never seen anything like that," answered she. "Still this is very beautiful in its way. Mr Payne thinks it the most perfect spot on earth."

"And--are you happy here, Lilian?"

"Yes; I have no right to be otherwise. In fact, I consider myself very fortunate."

"Oh."

They had reached the little wooden bridge whence he had first caught the notes of the old, familiar ballad the evening before. Crossing it, they turned down a path between two high pomegranate hedges. Beyond was a garden--cool, leafy, and inviting--where birds twittered and chirped in the morning air. A gleam beyond the Kei hills betokened the advent of the sun.

"It's marvellously warm for daybreak at this time of year," began Claverton after a pause. "I hope it doesn't mean a storm in the afternoon, because that isn't exactly an auspicious opening to a journey."

"A journey!" echoed Lilian, blank dismay in her face and in her tone. "_You_ are not going away--to-day?" And moved by an uncontrollable impulse she looked at him, and in that look was a world of entreaty, of despair, and of love; such a look as would be with him to his dying day.

"And is it not better so?" he said, gently. "Believe me, I did not come here to make it uncomfortable for you--darling." Then, seeing the imploring look deepen in the white face, he went on in a strangely altered tone: "What? It cannot be! Oh, Lilian--tell me--am I to--?"

"Stay." The word was spoken in a low, thrilling voice. "Stay! unless you want to break my heart. It is only what I should deserve," and a great sob convulsed the beautiful frame, which was instantly locked fast in Claverton's embrace; and heart beat against heart as he covered the shrinking face and the soft hair which lay against his shoulder with wild, delirious kisses.

Then the great, golden chariot of day mounted majestically above the eastern hills, and flamed from the azure vault, darting a bright beam upon those two happy ones as if in benediction, and flooding the valley with light and gladness; and the bleat and low of the flocks and herds sounded from the fold, and the voices of humankind echoed cheerily through the morning air--and the day was begun. And in that quiet garden the birds fluttered and piped, bees droned in the sunlight as they winged their way in search of the luscious store, and now and then the leaves would tremble in a faint breeze. Birds, insects, whispering trees, all seemed but to echo one voice, one glad, joyous refrain--"We will never part again, love, never, never."

Lilian was the first to break the silence.

"Oh, Arthur, is this, too, a dream?" she murmured. "Shall I wake up in a moment and find you vanished, as I have so often done?"

"Have you, sweetest?" he replied in a tone of reverent tenderness, as if he could not speak too softly, or too gently, to her. "It is reality now--if ever anything was--sweet reality;" and at the picture which her words opened up before his mind he clasped her again to his heart as though he could never let her go.

"Let me have a look at you, darling," she said, suddenly raising her head with a bright, lovely blush, and gazing into the firm, serious face bent over hers. "You have become so brown, and you are looking ever so much older, and--"

"And am quite a battered and hardened campaigner."

"And are looking ever so much better--ever so much better than you used to. There, you don't deserve that for interrupting me," she added, with one of her most bewitching smiles.

"Let's sit down here," he suggested, as, with his arm still round her, he drew her towards a rustic seat which might be twin brother to the one under the pear-tree where that dread parting had taken place those years ago. "Now tell me all about yourself--about everything."

She did so. She told him of her life since they parted, and previous to their first meeting; told him the story of that promise which had entailed such misery upon both of them. It was the old story--a former suitor--and the promise had been most solemnly given beside her mother's deathbed. The man was worthless to the core, selfish, dissipated, and unprincipled, but he was fascinating both in manner and appearance; and Lilian, at any rate, fancied him genuine. Over her mother he had cast the spell of an extraordinary infatuation, and Mrs Dynevard had not a little to do with the bringing about of her daughter's engagement. Certain it was that nothing else prevented that daughter from breaking it, for when--her stepfather dying shortly afterwards--Lilian could no longer make her home at Dynevard Chase, this fair-weather suitor kept aloof. He was obliged to leave England, he explained, in order to better his fortunes, which were in a very bad way. By this time, however, Lilian had gained some insight into his real character, and then the weight of that rash promise began to make itself felt. Once she appealed to him to release her from it, but met with a decided refusal, and, as though to rivet the bond still tighter, the man reminded her that her promise was not only given to him but also to her dead mother. So poor Lilian clung fast to her only hope, which was that he might not think it worth his while to claim its fulfilment. Meanwhile she sacrificed herself to sentiment--as men and women have so sacrificed themselves at the faggot pile, or helpless and defenceless before ravening beasts in the arena. Then, like a lightning flash, had come the consciousness of real love, but still she immolated herself to the sacredness of a rash promise.

Let us leave them there, those two, in the sunny garden, amid the unclouded glory of the new-born day. Their cup is full--full and brimming with such happiness as this world rarely affords. Let them revel in it while they may, for a dark cloud is rolling up, gathering as it rolls--a cloud whose edges are red with blood, and whose gruesome shadow is fraught with desolation, with ruin, and with Death.

"Payne," quietly remarked Claverton, two hours later, as he and his host were standing at the gate of one of the sheep-kraals, the latter counting: "I wonder if I shall succeed in astonishing you directly--by what I'm going to tell you."

"Twenty-three--five--seven--thirty-two--six," counted Payne. "Don't speak to a man on his stroke--or count. Nine--forty-one--forty-four-- seven hundred and forty-four. Right, Booi. Now, off you go, and keep away from old Smith's boundary. He's a cantankerous beggar, and I don't want to have a tiff with him. What were you saying, Claverton?" he continued, making a playful cut at a native urchin with his whip, which the boy dodged, and gambolled away swinging his sheepskin kaross and grinning from ear to ear.

"I was saying--would it surprise you greatly to learn that I am about to perpetrate matrimony?"

Payne whistled. "N-no--I don't know--most fellows fall victims sooner or later. And after all the knocking about you've had it'll do you good to settle down for a bit. By the way--if it's not an impertinent question--who's the lady?"

"Lilian Strange."

"Eh?"

"Lilian Strange."

"The devil!"

"No--nothing of the kind. That's deuced uncomplimentary of you when I tell you a piece of news before I've imparted it to any one else. In fact, I call it downright shabby," replied Claverton in a tone of mock remonstrance, while his eyes sparkled with suppressed merriment. For Payne was staring blankly at him as if he distrusted his sense of hearing.

"But--but--Hang it all, how do you know she'll have you? Why, you never set eyes on her till yesterday."

Claverton laughed. "I know it because I have it from the very best authority--her own lips. And I knew her--well, long before I had the advantage of first beholding the light of your supremely honest and genial old countenance," he said, quietly. "Come, don't stare at a fellow as if you thought him a candidate for a glass-case, but say something decent. Make us a speech, you know."

"Why, of course, I congratulate you, old chap, and all that sort of thing; but you've taken one a little aback. Hang it, it's as good as a play. Aha! that's what we get up so dismally early for, hey?"

And, indeed, honest Payne was so taken aback by the announcement that he walked beside the other speechless, with his hands in his pockets, and whistling.

Never before had the duties of the schoolroom seemed so irksome to Lilian as this morning. The warm, sunny air streamed in at the open windows, and just audible was the hum of male voices in conversation, and her heart thrilled as every now and then her ear caught a low, gleeful laugh, which she had learned to know so well. Once, indeed, she went to the window, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the talkers, or rather of one of them; but the result was lamentable, for she found herself dogmatically asserting to her pupils that Pekin, not Paris, was the capital of France--they staring the while as if they did not quite know what to make of her.

"Miss Strange," exclaimed the eldest girl, "do let's have the map of this country instead. France and Germany, and all those, are so stupid. We can see where all the Kafirs live, who are coming to fight us."

"They're not going to fight us," struck in Harry, somewhat indignantly. "Pa says they're not. They're funky."

Lilian smiled at this retort, and nipped in the bud an argument, which promised to wax warm, by producing a large map of the Eastern Province.

"Now look here, Harry," she said; "here's the River Kei, and here are we. Here are all the Kafirs and--"

"But where's Fountain's Gap?" inquired Rose, aged nine.

"It isn't marked. Look. We'll put a pencil spot for it. Here's King Williamstown."

"What, all that way off?" said Harry.

"Yes. It is a long way off."

"But we should have to run there if the Kafirs came," protested that doughty youth.

"Aha! Who's funky now? Who wants to run away now--eh?" jeered his sister.

"Hush!" said Lilian, in that sweet, soothing way of hers, that stood her in far better stead than any amount of sternness. "You mustn't quarrel now, you know." Suddenly the urchin fixed his gaze upon her, and, with mischief gleaming from his blue eyes, exclaimed:

"I saw you this morning--you and that man."

Lilian felt herself flushing all over. She tried to direct his attention to the lesson, but the imp, with that mixture of mulishness and malice which seems the invariable attribute of the infant prodigy oft-times petted, continued:

"I did. I saw you ki--"

"Harry!" cried Rose, making as if she would rush upon the delinquent. "I'll go and tell mamma about you, at once. Send him out of the room, Miss Strange--do!"

Poor Lilian! Her delicate, sensitive nature was indeed undergoing acute laceration at the tongue of this urchin, on whom she had lavished nothing but tenderness and care. Whether from perversity, or with a savage enjoyment of the pain he was inflicting, the cub went on:

"I don't care, Rose! I did see them. They were--"

What they were or were not doing remained unsolved, for the door opened, and Mrs Payne entered.

"I want you to give them a holiday to-day, Lilian," she said. "Now then, children, run away out into the garden. You can put your books away after. Out you go--quick."

They obeyed with double alacrity. For their mother, in spite of her warm-heartedness, had a very decided will of her own at times. And Rose, taking into consideration all the circumstances, deemed it advisable to say nothing about Master Harry's ill-conditionedness.

"Lilian, dear!" exclaimed the good-hearted little woman, as soon as the children had gone out, "I'm so glad about this. Directly I heard of it I came straight here. I couldn't let you remain drudging in here another moment, to-day. You must go out, and at once, or a certain person will be getting so impatient that he'll be wanting to quarrel with George, which would be a pity, as they have always been such good friends."

And then Lilian, somewhat unnerved by the recent juvenile disclosure, cried a little, and there was a good deal of kissing.

"By the way," exclaimed Mrs Payne, ruefully, "of course, I shall lose you very soon, now; and I don't know how I shall get on without you at all, dear."

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER FIVE.

SANDILI.

Never was war or outbreak more entirely without reason or provocation than the Kafir rising of 1877-8.

It is a well-known rule that savage races go under before the encroachments of white civilisation. The case of the native tribes in Southern Africa is a notable exception. Far from diminishing, every year sees their population actually increased. And the reason need not be sought for long. It lies in the security to life and property afforded these people by British rule, the quelling of intertribal wars, the breaking of the power of the chiefs, the abolition of sanguinary laws relating to witchcraft, the opening up of a vast field for native labour, and the resources of civilisation brought more and more within the reach of the tribes, who, for their part, are not slow to avail themselves of the same. True that, as well as ploughs, and waggons, and smithies, and schools, British rule has also conferred upon them grog. That would have come anyhow; but even as things are, in this respect the natives are no worse than our own countrymen.

This outbreak was devoid of a shadow of excuse. The different locations occupied by these tribes were fair and fertile tracts of country. They had no encroachments to complain of on the part of the colonists, for their territory was jealously secured to them--good pasturage, fertile lands, and well watered withal. For their surplus population there wae abundance of work to be obtained in the colony, and whatever property they might accumulate it was beyond the power of any hostile tribe or tyrannical potentate to wrest from them. Yet they were not content. And the reason thereof does not require much seeking.

They were thorough savages. They had great martial traditions. For more than twenty years their warrior energies had found no outlet. Such a state of things could not be suffered to continue.

Not all, however, were of this mind. Broadly speaking, public opinion was divided into two factors. The first consisted of old and elderly men, who owned property and had something to lose, and, moreover, having actually fought, knew that war was not all beer and skittles. The second consisted of young men, who, owning nothing, had the same to lose; who had only _heard_ of fighting, and consequently imagined that war _was_ all beer and skittles. And the voice of the latter faction carried the day.

As was right and proper the first to take the initiative were the Gcalekas in the Transkei, the tribe ruled by Kreli, Chief Paramount of all the Amaxosa divisions. These proceeded to organise a series of raids against the Fingoes, whose emancipation from serfdom to themselves had long been a sore point. Matters became serious. The Fingoes were British subjects and must be protected accordingly.

The High Commissioner, then newly appointed, proceeded to the border. Settlers' meetings were held to discuss the important matter of defence, and deputations waited upon the Governor to a considerable extent. His Excellency was hopeful and reassuring in his replies, and, winning golden opinions by his courtesy and decisiveness, he passed on into the Transkei with the object of conferring with the Paramount Chief in person. That astute savage, however, plumed himself on being too old a bird to be caught upon so obviously limed a twig. While at large, he was safe. At large, therefore, he would remain. So he returned all manner of evasive replies, even the timeworn native excuse of illness. It became a case of Mohammed and the mountain, with the difference that in this case, whereas Kreli would not go to the High Commissioner, it was morally impossible that His Excellency should go to Kreli. He accordingly returned to the colony, and preparations were at once made for the inevitable campaign.

Even then it was hoped that hostilities would be confined to the Transkei--hoped, but not believed. The Gcalekas were a warlike tribe, who could put many thousands of fighting men into the field. It would be a troublesome matter to subdue them, for they had long been prepared, and were well supplied with food. But if the tribes within the colonial border--the Gaikas, Hlambis, Emigrant Tembus, but especially the first named--should join them, then the war would become a formidable affair, and, in all probability, a matter of years. Whether this state of things came about or not will appear in the course of this narrative, which it closely concerns.

To-day, however, all seems peaceful enough as the sun beats down upon the rolling plains and silent kloofs of British Kaffraria, with unwonted force for a spring day. His rays also fall upon two equestrians, who are leisurely traversing the mimosa-dotted dales, as led by the capricious windings of a somewhat tortuous track. Two equestrians, who are riding very close beside each other, and whose attention seems somewhat unequally divided between the surrounding scenery and each other's eyes, to the advantage of which mattereth not. Indeed, so engrossed are they in each other's conversation, that the tread of hoofs behind entirely escapes them; but an expression comes over their faces, of anger on one, and of--well--not best pleased on the other; and they look over their shoulder as a rough voice exclaims: "Ahem!--er--how d'ye do?" The last time we saw those two persons, they were together in a garden, some time about the hour of sunrise; and they were absurdly happy. They look equally happy now, as side by side they ride leisurely along, this grand afternoon. To them, at this moment, all the surroundings are as the sights and sounds of Paradise; for they are together and alone. More than a week has passed since the sun rose upon that knitting together of two severed hearts, that transformation of two sorrowing lives into, as it were, one of joy; more than a week of long, happy days, so perfect in their unbroken, blissful peace, that to the wanderer it seemed as if he had "cast" his old self and taken a fresh personality--that the old loveless existence and restless longing for excitement could never have belonged to him at all, but to some other being, so all-satisfying was this new atmosphere of peace. And on Lilian the outward change wrought was marvellous. As by magic the sad expression had given place to one of sunny contentment, and there was a sweet, tender curve in her lips, and the colour of perfect health returned to her cheek, as no longer grave she moved about the house and garden, trilling out little snatches of song, with a soft love-light in her eyes which rendered her more irresistibly charming than ever she had been in the old time. And now the two were returning from one of those long rides which they had been in the habit of taking together during those halcyon days of love deferred but now requited to the full, when that horribly grating voice burst upon them:

"Ahem! Er--how d'ye do?" And red-bearded Joe Marshall, overtaking them, doffed his slouch hat to Lilian, and shook hands with her escort, as he reined in his raw-boned nag by the side of the latter.

"Hallo, Marshall! Where have you dropped from?"

"Oh, I've just been making a round. I'm going home now. Won't you come round by my place, and rest a bit? 'Tisn't far. No? Ah, well, it's hardly worth your while, perhaps, so near home." For honest Joe could see pretty plainly that the two would prefer his room to his company, though they had conscientiously, at least, suffered no indication of such preference to escape them. "How are the Paynes?"

"Flourishing. Any news?"

"N-no. Kreli won't meet the Governor. Says he's sick. But that's all an excuse, you know."

"Yes; we heard that. Anything fresh?"

"N-no," said Marshall again, with a dubious glance towards Lilian. "Nothing certain, at least. Some more fellows round me gone into laager, that's all."

"H'm. I'm inclined to think with Payne, that the scare's all bosh," said Claverton. "Look at the one four years ago. That all ended in smoke. Why shouldn't this?"

Lilian, too, remembered that time; nor was she ever likely to forget it. A soft light came into her eyes, and she wished mightily that Marshall was not with them.

"Well, I dunno," rejoined that worthy. "It may, and it mayn't. We shall see, and very soon. Why, who's this?"

They looked up. The track they had been following merged into a waggon-road, and about a hundred yards in front of them stood a low thatched building. It was a native trading-store. Not this, however, but the sight of a characteristic group, drew forth the remark. Seated on the ground, with his back against the wall, was a Kafir, an old man, with a full white beard, and a face which might have been at one time pleasing and intelligent. A blanket was thrown over his shoulders, and his lower limbs were encased in a pair of ancient trousers, from whose tattered extremities projected his bare, dusty feet, one of which was deformed. He was surrounded by a group of his compatriots; some in European attire, others in blankets only, and red with ochre; some sitting, some standing, some running in and out, but all jabbering.

"Why, I declare?" exclaimed Marshall, in surprise. "If it isn't Sandili! What on earth can the old blackguard be doing here?"

"Sandili?" cried Lilian. "The chief? Oh, do let's go and talk to him."

"We will," agreed Claverton. "Prepare for an interview with royalty."

The Kafirs stopped jabbering for a minute to stare in astonishment at the party as it rode into their midst, then went on harder than ever. It was as Marshall had said. This old savage, with nothing remarkable-looking about him, unless it were that his countenance wore an air of semi-drunken stupidity--for he had been imbibing freely, according to his wont--was none other than Sandili, the chief of the powerful and warlike Gaika tribe, who, of all the Amaxosa race, had, in former wars, ever been the most formidable of the colonists' foes.

"He says he's glad to see us," explained Claverton, as having conferred for a little with the old chief, he turned, in response to his companion's inquiring glance. "In a minute he'll be even more glad. Look," and he emptied half the contents of his tobacco-pouch into the chief's hands, who immediately instructed one of his followers to fill his pipe, and looked quite benevolently at the donor.

"Why, how delighted he is with it!" said Lilian, watching the interesting individual before her, with a curious glance.

"Yes, but unless I mistake, he'll want farther delighting directly," answered Claverton. "The principle of extending the proverbial inch to the ditto ell, is thoroughly well understood in Kafirland."

And sure enough the old fellow began making signs and pointing to his month, after a few words in his own language.

"What does he say?" asked Lilian.

"Just what I told you. He's thirsty, and wants sixpence to get a drink."

"Old blackguard," said Marshall. "He's got quite as much grog on board already as is good for him."

Lilian laughed. "Only think of a great chief like him, asking for sixpence like a crossing-sweeper," she said.

The Kafirs standing around had stopped their conversation, and were gazing admiringly at Lilian, with many a half-smothered exclamation of astonishment. They had seen many white women on the farms, and when they had visited King Williamstown; but never had they seen any more bewitchingly lovely than this one, who sat there looking down on their chief.

Claverton produced a sixpence and handed it to one of the attendants, who disappeared into the store, which was also a canteen, shortly returning with a measure of the ordinary bad brandy sold to the natives. This Sandili drained without a pause, and looked up again at the group, remarking that it was good.

"Oh, what can be the matter?" exclaimed Lilian, in a frightened tone, as a hubbub of angry voices arose within the store; and before she could receive an answer, a brawny red Kafir suddenly shot out of the door, reeling forward with a quick yet uneven gait suggestive of artificial propulsion, and half-a-dozen others, with excited "whouws!" also emerged and stood around the door, as if expecting something.

They had not long to expect, for the evicted savage, having staggered a dozen yards, polled himself together and stood shaking his kerries at some one inside, as with flashing eyes he hurled a torrent of abuse at the unseen antagonist. But a bottle, which came whizzing through the open door, hit him on the shoulder, cutting his eloquence suddenly short, and, deeming discretion the better part of valour, he sneaked round the angle of the wall, muttering and growling, while the others stood looking on in dead silence.

"Don't be frightened, Lilian," said Claverton, reassuringly, noting that she was growing rather pale. "It's only a fellow been kicked out by the storekeeper, probably for making himself a nuisance. It's a thing that happens every day."

"But he looks as if he'd kill him. I never saw a man look so ferocious," she faltered.

"Oh no, he won't," answered Claverton, with a laugh. "In half an hour he'll sneak round, and ask for a drink to make it square again. That's what they do."

"Really?" she said, still with a misgiving.

"Really. There won't be a vestige of a row, so don't be in the least afraid. Look. What do you think old Sandili is saying?"

"What?"

"That he never saw a white woman who was really pretty until this moment. And faith, I agree with him."

Lilian laughed, and flushed softly; not so much at the old savage's compliment as at her lover's endorsement of it.

"Eh--what?" cried Claverton, who was listening to something Sandili was saying. "Fancy spoiling that pretty speech. The old brute?"

"What does he say?"

"He says that _you_ haven't given him anything, and must give him sixpence. I told him you would do nothing of the sort."

"But I will. I should like to, just for the fun of the thing," she laughed. "Only, tell him he mustn't drink it; he must buy tobacco or something else with it. He looks awfully tipsy already."

This Claverton duly translated, and the old savage nodded assent--of course as a mere matter of form--and Lilian gave him the sixpence with her own hand. Then he looked up at Marshall and made the same request; but that worthy, who had been watching the proceedings with disapproval, growled out, with something very like an oath, that "the old blackguard would get nothing out of him."