Chapter IX: Part 9

He pauses; his voice failing him. The expression of his face as he hangs upon her reply is terrible to behold. It might be compared to that worn by a convicted murderer when the return of the jury to give their verdict is announced. And this is the man who, at a comparatively early age, has looked upon many a harrowing scene of human suffering unmoved, who has thoroughly steeled himself against all the tenderer feelings of nature, ever presenting a cold philosophical front to the fortunes, good or ill, of himself or of his neighbours. Who would know him standing there, ghastly white, the whole of his being shaken to the very core? Yet but a few days have wrought this change.

She makes no answer at first, for she is silently weeping. Then with an effort she looks at him, and her face wears an expression of unutterable sadness.

"Hush! You don't know what you are saying. You must never talk to me like this again. Try and forget that you have done so. Remember what a short time you have known me. How can you know anything of me in a fortnight?"

His answer is a harsh, jarring laugh. "Forget what I have been saying? Only a fortnight? Is everything to be subject to the unalterable rule of thumb? Only a fortnight! My love--my life; do you remember the first time we were here together? I could have told you even then, what I am telling you now. Do you remember telling me about yourself; how you were all alone in the world--you? Only say the word and your life shall be without a care--all brightness and sunshine, and such love. Listen, my own! I, too, am alone in the world. I have never found any one to love--it has all been treasured up--kept for you. Now, take it. Lilian, Lilian, it cannot be that--you--will not?"

His voice sinks to a fierce, passionate whisper, and he holds her to him as if he would never let her go. Above, in the sky, a lustrous meteor gleams--and then fades. A flight of plover, rising from the ground, circles in the gloom, with soft and ghostly whistle, and all is still, save for the beating of two hearts. Around float the fragrant breaths of the rich, balmy night.

"I can give you--no--comfort," she replies, dropping out her words as if with an effort. "Oh, why did you ever tell me this? Do you think it is nothing to me to see you made wretched for my sake? I tell you it is heart-breaking--utterly heart-breaking. Yet it cannot be. You must never, never talk to me like that again. And you have given me all the best of yourself," she exclaims, the very depth of sadness in her tone, "and I--can give you--nothing!"

"Nothing?" he echoes, mechanically, looking down into the white, sad face, out of which every trace of its usual calm serenity has disappeared, leaving a weary, hopeless expression that is infinitely touching. "Ah, I can see that your life has not been without its sore troubles. It is not for me to pry into them."

"I can give you this amount of comfort, if it be any comfort," she says, throwing back her head with a quick movement and fixing her eyes on his. "I look back upon the hours which I have spent in your society as an unmixed pleasure, and I look forward to many more, selfish as I am in doing so. I formed my opinion of you the very first few moments we were together--and our first meeting was a queer one, was it not?" with a sad little smile at the recollection. "That opinion is unchanged, except, perhaps, for the better. I cannot bring myself to forego your society, though it is only fair to warn you that I can give you no hope; and you must never ask me to. Are the conditions too hard?"

"No, they are not."

Her words had a soothing effect upon her listener, and he began to see a gleam of light. He was not indifferent to her as it was, and, given the opportunity, he would make himself absolutely indispensable. Moreover, it was just possible that he had been premature in his declaration. Yes, more time and opportunity; that was what he wanted--and he would succeed. Determination, which had never yet failed him, should effect that--determination, combined with patience. He would not even ask her her reasons for refusing him now. No; he would trust her absolutely and wholly, and take not only her but her cares, whatever they might be. And at the prospect of a contest, a strife with circumstances, though the odds were dead against him, his spirits revived.

"Promise me one thing," he said. "You will not avoid me in any way?"

She hesitated.

"No, not in any way," she repeated at last.

"And all shall be as it has been?"

"Yes." Then after a pause: "We must really go in."

He released her, and they moved away, but her steps were unsteady. The strain had told upon her, and she felt weak and faint. Quickly he passed his arm round her. "No, not that," she said, gently, but firmly. "I will take your arm, if I may." And in silence they retraced the bush path and entered the little gate, then through the orange garden over the runnel of water where they had stood that night when accidentally watched by Ethel. A light was burning in the room as they entered, and in an arm-chair eat Mrs Brathwaite, fast asleep, her lord having retired half an hour ago.

"Why, Lilian!" she exclaimed, starting up. "You have been out a long time! I hope you haven't caught cold, child!"

"Oh, no; it's such a warm night. We have been astronomising," replied she, with an attempt at a laugh which fell mournfully flat; but the old lady was too sleepy to detect its hollowness.

"Well, better get to bed. I suppose you'll do the same, Arthur, now you haven't got any one to sit up and smoke all night with." For Hicks was away, as afore stated.

"No, I don't feel restful. Good-night. Would that to-morrow were here now!" he added, in a low, tender voice as he held Lilian's hand in a lingering clasp. A responsive pressure, and she was gone.

He withdrew to his quarters--to bed, but not to sleep--and hour followed hour as he lay with his gaze fixed upon the square patch of golden stars bounded by the framework of his open window. Well, the die had been thrown at last. He knew where he was now, at any rate. But it was too soon to despair, for had he not close upon two months wherein to make the most of his opportunities? Determination should win, as it always had in his case. Ah, but this was outside all previous experience. Well, they had still nearly two months together. Then he began to wonder whether he was actually undergoing this feeling, or if it were not a dream from which he would presently awaken.

He started up from a fitful and disturbed doze before dawn, and resolved to go for a ride. He would go down to the vij-kraal and count out Umgiswe's flock.

During the night the sky had become overcast, and now, as he rode along in the grey dawn, dark clouds were lowering to the very earth, and the mist swept in powdery flakes through the sprays of the bush. It was a thoroughly depressing morning, and the horseman's reflections were coloured thereby. And through the chill drizzle seemed to echo the far-off tones of a sweet, low voice: "I can give you no comfort. You have given me the best of yourself, and I can give you--nothing."

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We allow that to sheep from disappointed love is something of a transition. Nevertheless, the incident which occurred at the shepherd's kraal that morning must be narrated, because it is not without its bearing on the future events of our story.

"Now, Umgiswe, turn out, and let's count," said Claverton, making a slash with his whip at a couple of lean, ill-looking curs, which sneaked sniffing round his horse's heels. "Eh--what's that you've got there?" as the Kafir, having saluted him, began fumbling about with something on the kraal fence.

"Two dead sheep," answered the old fellow, producing a couple of skins, with the air of a man who has triumphantly vindicated his character against all aspersions.

Claverton examined the skins narrowly. Having satisfied himself that their sometime wearers had died of disease, and had not been slain to appease the insatiable appetites of Umgiswe and a few boon companions, he proceeded to count out the flock. The score was correct.

"All right, Umgiswe; here's some smoke for you," he said, throwing the old herd a bit of tobacco. "But I say, though--whose dogs are those?"

The Kafir glanced uneasily at the curs aforesaid.

"A man who slept here last night left them. They are sure to go after him. He has not been long gone."

"No," replied Claverton, carelessly, "he has not been long gone, or rather _they_ have not been long gone, for they are still here. Turn them out, Umgiswe." For his ear had detected the sound of several male voices in the hut as he passed its door.

"Whouw!" exclaimed the old man, turning half aside to conceal an embarrassed smile. "They are my brothers, _'Nkos_. They just came to visit me."

"Of course they are. If the half of Kafirland were to turn up here they would all be your brothers, just come to visit you. It won't do. So turn them out, you old shuffler, and let's have a look at them."

Then the intruders, to the number of three, who had been attentive listeners to the above confabulation, turned out and saluted Claverton. All three were finely-made fellows, but the elder was a man of almost herculean build. His powerful frame, which was scantily clad, was smeared from head to foot with red ochre; above his left elbow he wore an armlet of solid ivory, and from his appearance he was evidently a man of rank. In his hand he held a couple of kerries made of heavy iron-wood; one of his companions was similarly armed, while the third carried a bundle of assegais.

Claverton looked them up and down, noting every detail in their persons and weapons. "Loafers all three, and up to no good," was his mental estimation of them, "but devilish awkward customers to tackle. Never mind. Off they must go--quietly or the reverse--but go they must." Then he asked them the usual questions--where they came from, where they were going, and so on--they being ready with an answer of which he knew exactly how much to believe.

"Came only last night, did you? That is strange, because the evening before and all day yesterday there were three Kafirs here, and one of them was a tall man with an armlet on, and _they_ had a couple of yellow dogs with them. How queer that exactly the same thing, should happen two days in succession!" he said in a quiet, bantering tone. In point of fact he was drawing a bow at a venture, but could see by the shifty eyes of the man to whom he was speaking that the shaft had gone home.

This fellow grinned and shook his head with an exclamation of intense amusement.

"_Inkos_ must be _Umtagati_," [one who has dealings with magic or witchcraft] he said, "to see all that went on when he was not here."

"_Umtagati_? Well, perhaps," was the easy reply. Then, fixing his eyes on those of the tall chief, who had been regarding him with a haughty and indifferent stare, Claverton went on in the same easy tone. "What do _you_ think, Nxabahlana?" He addressed, started perceptibly. How did the white man know his name? "What do _you_ think of _Umtagati_? But listen. No one has any right loafing here without permission from the _Baas_ up yonder. So now, off you go, all three--now and at once, or you'll assuredly come to grief. And, be careful, for remember: _The black goat dies and the white goat lives_."

"Whouw!" cried all four, unable to conceal their amazement. Then, without another word, one of the fellows diving into the hut, returned with the light impedimenta belonging to the three, and with their curs at their heels, the Kafirs strode off. Just before they entered the bush the chief turned and gazed fixedly at Claverton for a minute. Then they disappeared.

"All right, my friend. I shall know you again when next we meet." Then to the old herd, who stood holding his stirrup: "Those men must not come back, Umgiswe. And I tell you what, if you go harbouring any more conspiring loafers you'll get into trouble." And he rode away.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY.

ONE GOLDEN DAY.

The clouds were parting and revealing patches of blue through their rifts as Claverton reached home, and with the returning sunshine his spirits revived. It was going to be a lovely day, and he would have Lilian all to himself for two whole hours that morning, for he was to take her over to Thirlestane, Naylor's place, and return with the rest of the party in the afternoon.

It was just breakfast-time, and Lilian entered at the same time as himself. Her face looked worn and anxious, as if not much sleep had fallen to her lot, and though he would have cut off his right hand to spare her the lightest anxiety, yet he could not feel guiltless of a sense of consolation that she should have sorrowed with him and for him. The voice of Mr Brathwaite recalled him to himself with a start.

"Well, Arthur; where did you go this morning?"

"Down to Umgiswe's."

"Was his count all right?"

"Yes. Which is extraordinary, seeing that he had been entertaining visitors," and he narrated the presence there of the three strange Kafirs.

"Did you find out the big fellow's name?" asked Mr Brathwaite.

"Yes. It was Nxabahlana. Do you know him? He looked as if he held the right of succession to the paramount chieftainship of Kafirland."

"Nxabahlana? Oh, yes, I know him," replied the old man. "He's a kind of sub-chief, and a relation of Sandili's. One of the greatest blackguards that ever stepped. Good thing you turned them out; they were up to no good, that much is certain."

"A chief!" exclaimed Lilian, raising her eyes, "I _should_ like to see a real Kafir chief."

"Would you?" said Claverton. "I wish I had known that; you should have seen him. I'd have brought him here."

The others laughed, thinking he was joking, but Lilian knew that he meant it, every word.

"Ah, but," she said in a repentant tone, "you couldn't have captured him, there were three of them; at least I mean--it would not have been worth the risk."

Claverton laughed quietly.

"No such severe measures would have been necessary. If I had promised his chieftainship a glass of grog and an old hat, he would have come trundling up here with an alacrity that would surprise you."

"Really? That quite takes away from the poetry of the idea. I thought these savage chiefs were very proud."

"They are proud enough just as far as it suits them to be so--inasmuch as they affect to look upon us as dust beneath their feet; but they will condescend to accept anything we may think proper to give them, whether it be a `tickey' (threepence) or a pair of old boots. In fact Jack Kafir, of whatever degree, has the bump of acquisitiveness very highly developed, I assure you. Hullo! who's this?"

For the door opened and a Dutchman entered--the same who witnessed poor Allen's immersion at the taking out of the bees' nest. A good-humoured grin was on his stolid countenance, which looked suggestively warm, and perhaps not too clean, and his beady black eyes sparkled at the prospect of a good feed. His corduroy trousers were tucked into a pair of top boots, and a _sjambok_, or raw-hide whip, dangled from his wrist. Not until he had gone all round, extending a limp, moist paw to each, did it occur to him to remove his hat.

"_Autre pays, autre moeurs_," murmured Claverton in response to a charming little grimace of amusement which Lilian flashed at him from across the table, in reference to the new arrival.

A seat was found for the Dutchman, and a well-garnished plate, and being provided with a knife and fork he began to make voracious play with the same. Then having removed the edge of a very exuberant appetite, he raised his head from the platter and waxed talkative.

"Oom Walter is well?"

"Ja. Pretty so so."

"And Mrs Brathwaite?"

"Also."

"_Det is goed_," and then having given a like satisfactory account of his _vrouw_ and _kinders_ the Boer informed them that he was on his way to Thirlestane, with the object of purchasing some oxen from Naylor.

"Claverton's going over there this morning," said Mr Brathwaite, unthinkingly. "You can go over with him."

"So," said the Dutchman with a nod of approval. "We will ride together."

This didn't meet Claverton's wishes at all.

"I'm afraid not," he said. "Sticks is rather lame, and I shall have to send for my other horse. They'll hardly find him till the afternoon--if then. It won't be worth Botha's while to wait."

"No. I don't think it will," said good-natured Mrs Brathwaite, who had taken in the situation at a glance. Lilian, not understanding the Boer dialect, was an unconscious auditor of what was going on.

Breakfast over, the Dutchman sat for about half an hour outside, smoking his pipe and talking over the usual subjects with his host--sheep, ostriches, the state of the country, how much longer they could do without rain, and so on. Then, saddling up his small, rough-looking nag, he shook hands all round and departed, thoroughly content with himself and all the world.

"What a queer fellow!" said Lilian, gazing after the awkward, receding figure of their late guest, who, with his feet jammed to the heels in the stirrups, was shuffling leisurely along, pipe in mouth.

"Yes, isn't he?" answered Claverton. "But he's a fair specimen of the typical Boer. Washes three times a year, sleeps in his clothes, and wears his hat in the house."

"Lilian, dear; hadn't you better get ready to start?" suggested Mrs Brathwaite.

"I was just thinking the same," said Claverton; "but," he added, in a lower tone, "I couldn't find it in my conscience to hasten even such a temporary separation, and yet I was racked with apprehension lest some other wayfarer should turn up and make a third."

She gave him a bright smile as she flitted indoors; then he, having got into his riding-gear, went round to the stable and simply made Jan the Hottentot groom's life a burden to him over the caparisoning of Lilian's steed. This bit was too sharp--that too soft--those reins were too hard for the hands--and what the devil did he mean by leaving those two specks of rust on the stirrup-iron? Jan and his deputy--an impish-looking little bushman--couldn't make it out at all; Baas Clav'ton was usually so easy-going, and now here he was fidgeting worse than the "sir" in the long boots (Allen).

Then Lilian came out, looking lovely in her well-fitting blue habit. There was just a little air of timidity about her which was inexpressibly charming, as Claverton put her into the saddle. She was not a bold horsewoman, she confessed. She was ashamed to say that if anything she was just a wee bit afraid every time she mounted a horse. Nevertheless she sat beautifully, and the somewhat timid hand held the reins as gracefully if not quite as firmly as that of any hard-riding Amazon. To-day she was mounted on a handsome old bay horse of Mr Brathwaite's, who carried his head well, had a firm, easy walk, and was as safe as a church, while Claverton rode a dark chestnut just flecked with white, a fine, spirited animal which he had bought to supplement the faithful "Sticks," using the latter for the rougher kinds of work.

"Do you know, nothing but my unblushing mendacity kept that seedy Dutchman from inflicting himself upon our ride?" remarked Claverton, when they had started; and he told her of his little subterfuge.

"Shocking! You had no right to tell such a story," she answered, with a laugh.

"Hadn't I? Which would have been best--the lie or the Dutchman? `Of the two evils,' you know, and I thought the lie the least. Perhaps you would have preferred the Dutchman?"

"No, I would not. But I think--well, I think--you did about the very best thing you could have done," she replied, breaking into a silvery laugh. "But don't take that as any encouragement to persevere in the art. It's a dangerous one, and I believe you are quite an adept in it already. In fact, I've heard you tell one or two shocking fibs myself."

"All's fair in love and war." Then noting the look which stole over her face he wished the quotation unsaid. "But I promise you I won't indulge in mendacity any more than I can help."

"You must not do it at all. Seriously, it isn't right."

"Except as a choice of evils. How would society get on without its mendacities?"

"Never mind about society," retorted Lilian, brushing aside an inconvenient argument in right womanly fashion. "And now promise you'll do what I'm going to ask you."

"Oh, cheerfully."

"I'm going to set you a penance."

"Consider it performed. But what is it?"

"Well, the next time a choice of evils is offered you, you are to choose the one which does not involve romancing."

"That must depend upon its nature."

"Oh, you promised!"

"So I did, and so did Herod, and look what came of it."

"Never mind about Herod," was the laughing reply. "I have got you at a disadvantage, and I mean to keep you at it. Look, are not those Kafirs picturesque, in their red blankets, filing through the dark green of the bush?" she broke off, pointing out half-a-dozen ochre-painted beings who were crossing the valley some distance from them. They were walking in single file, and every now and then one would half stop and throw a remark over his shoulder in a deep bass tone. Their necklaces of jackals' teeth showed white against their red bodies, which glistened in the sun, and as they marched along, head erect and with their kerries over their shoulders, they certainly did look picturesque.

"Yes, and do you notice how clear the air is? I can make out nearly every word those fellows are saying," answered Claverton.

"Can you really? What are they talking about?"

"What are they talking about? Now look at them. The noble savage on his native heath, looking too, as if it actually did belong to him, striding with free and independent bearing, proud and scornful in mien. You think they are talking of war and tribal greatness, and the extermination of the hated white man, and such-like lofty and ambitious schemes? Nothing of the sort. One fellow is narrating how he got a thorn in his right heel, and how badly his brother extracted it for him, while three of the others are all trying to say at once what a fool the brother was, and that they could have done it much better."

Lilian broke into a peal of laughter. "How absurd you are! You have quite taken the poetry out of them, and now they look like a very commonplace lot of beings. But is that really what they were saying?"

"It is, upon my word. To see a lot of Kafirs talking you would think they were letting off a stream of oratory, what with all their gesticulation and modulation of voice. In nine cases out of ten they are discussing the veriest trivialities."

"I'm not sure that I'm glad I know that. It spoils the romance of the thing. I shan't look at them with the same interest."

"You are given to idealisation, I see," he said. "It is a delightful pastime, and I must not do anything to shock it. But, look! That, at all events, is entirely free from the commonplace."

They had reached the brow of an eminence, and before them lay unfolded a panorama which brought a flush of delight to Lilian's face. Upland and valley lay sleeping in the golden sunshine, a rolling expanse of verdure, now open and grassy, now covered with thick bush, or dotted here and there with feathery mimosas. Wave upon wave of rise and swell, there seemed no end to the wide beautiful plains; and the eye wandered on, over and over it, drinking in a new delight in the far-seeing vision, then turning to refresh itself in the grand mountain chain which bounded its range in front. Stretching afar, in a hundred and fifty miles of stately crescent, rose those lofty mountains with their sunny slopes and beetling cliffs, and black forest-clad sides seen through the dim uncertainty of the summer haze; while, towering above the rest, the Great Winterberg raised his weather-beaten crest to the cloudless bine. The thatch and white walls of a farmhouse or two, visible here and there in the distance, redeemed the spectacle from the utter wildness of a newly-trodden land, but on the other hand added to the peaceful solemnity of the scene. Hard by, the air resounded with the low hum of bees busily gathering their stores from the blossoming sprays of a neighbouring clump of bush; spreuws whistled, and a dainty little sugar-bird--the humming-bird of Southern Africa--flitted across the path, his painted plumage glittering in the sun. Down in the valley two or three pairs of blue cranes roamed about picking in the grass, and every now and then their strange rasping note floated not unmelodiously through the calm.

Lilian, in her intense love of the beautiful, could not restrain a cry of delight as she gazed upon the splendid panorama before them. The exhilarating exercise and the warm balminess of the air had brought the loveliest flush into her clear olive cheeks, and as she sat there lightly reining in her horse, while the sweet eyes sparkled and dilated and a witching smile carved the usually sad mouth, her companion thought he had never seen such a picture in his life.

"A lovely background with a lovelier central figure," he murmured. "Look at it well," he added. "Take it all in thoroughly, now; it will never look the same again. Nothing ever strikes us as it does the first time."

She looked half round at him. "Am I delaying you?"

"Delaying _me_? Good heavens!" is all the reply he can make just then. Often in the time to come will he remember this day, this moment. Often will he stand in imagination as he does now with one arm over the pommel of his saddle, watching the radiant face of this girl in its almost divine beauty, set in entranced contemplation of the glorious landscape all gleaming with purple and gold in the flooding sunshine. And remembering it he will feel as though he had lost Heaven. A dull, gnawing pain tugs at his heart as a forecast of the future runs darkly through him, but with a great effort he thrusts it aside; he will live in the present, and sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

"What are those, down there?" cried Lilian. "Bucks of some sort?"

"Yes. Springbok. There are a few on this side of the place."

Some two dozen of the graceful creatures were trotting leisurely along on the slope below them. They were near enough for the dark stripe upon their shining sides to be plainly discernible, as also the rings on their black curved horns, as they kept turning their heads to gaze inquiringly at their human observers.

"How pretty they are!" said Lilian. "We are seeing ever so many queer things to-day, and this beautiful country. Do you know, I am thoroughly enjoying this ride."

"Are you? I wish it might last for ever."

His face wears the same look of longing desperation which it wore in the starlight, while they stood by the pool. Quickly the gladness fades from hers as a light that has gone out. She thinks how selfish she is to throw her joyousness at him thus, while his heart is aching for love of her.

"Hush!" she says, in a low compassionate tone. "Remember our compact."

Claverton dare not trust himself to look at her. His eyes are fixed on the hazy slopes of the far-off mountains, whose green and purple sides he scarcely so much as sees. For some minutes neither speaks. Then with a quick restless sigh he throws himself into the saddle.

"You are right," he says, huskily. "It is I who am weak; weak as water. Only this once. I will not transgress again."

They resumed their way. The springboks, startled by the sudden move forward, bounded off. On the brow of the rise, several of them began leaping high into the air, with all four feet off the ground together, and their bodies in the form of a semicircle. Being in relief against the sky, the effect was not a little bizarre.

"What ridiculous creatures!" said Lilian, watching them. "I never saw such contortions."

"Yes, they are vindicating their name," said her companion, tranquilly. He had recovered his composure, and was thankful for this diversion.

Cresting the next ridge they came suddenly upon a couple of advancing horsemen, heavy-faced, lumbering-looking fellows, their complexions tanned to the colour of brickdust, and it needed but a glance at their general untidiness, and seedy get-up, to pronounce upon their nationality.

They stopped and shook hands with Claverton, doffing their greasy hats to his companion, at sight of whom even their wooden countenances showed signs of animation. A few commonplace questions and answers were exchanged, then one of the Boers, glancing at Lilian, asked with the freedom of speech customary among that delightfully primitive people: "Is that your wife?"

He answered without moving a muscle, and enlightened them. They were only ignorant brutes, he reasoned, half savages almost; yet just then, the question had come upon him with a kind of shock. He was thankful that Lilian had not understood the conversation.

"I really must learn Dutch," she said. "It isn't nearly such an inviting tongue as the full melodious flow of the Kafir language; but far more useful, I should think. Everybody seems to speak it."

"Yes, it's the regular go-between jargon here. Very few even of the frontier people speak Kafir, and not one Kafir in five hundred can talk English, hence the necessity of a go-between. Look! There's our destination."

They had reached the brow of one of those long rolling undulations which formed a leading feature in the landscape, and on the rise opposite stood a large single-storeyed house, with an iron roof and deep verandah. A block of out-buildings adjoined, and several spacious enclosures sloped down into the hollow; but save for a few tall blue gums overshadowing the house, the surroundings were destitute of trees.

"Ah, you've found your way over to us at last," said Emily Naylor, who with Laura Brathwaite had come out on the stoep to meet Lilian. "So glad to see you. Was it very hot, riding? You must be tired."

"Oh, no," answered Lilian, "the air was delightful, and the view--I never saw anything so perfect;" and she turned to look again at the wide, sweeping landscape stretching away in front.

"Yes; it's very pretty," said her hostess. "It is not so pretty here as at Seringa Vale, because we have no trees, but the look-out is much wider. But come inside and sit down, or shall we sit out here? You must be tired after your ride."

"I'm not though, really. And you must not make me out an invalid," answered Lilian, with a smile. "I'm far from that."

"Then come and see the young ostriches."

Lilian readily assented, and the whole party moved thither accordingly.

"Well, Miss Laura, you're looking all the better for your change of air; in fact, blooming," remarked Claverton, who was walking beside her. "By the way, where's the twin?"

"Ethel? Oh, she's down at the ostrich enclosure, where we are going. Mr Allen is there, too, and Will Jeffreys."

"_Alias_ Scowling Will. So he's here, is he?"

"Yes. But I can't return you the compliment you just paid me. You look as if you had been up all night for a week," answered Laura, with a spice of demure malice.

"Oh, don't make personal remarks; it's rude," murmured Claverton, languidly.

"Ha--ha," struck in Naylor. "Claverton's been getting on the spree, I expect, now that you two are not there to keep him in order. And now here we are," he went on, as they arrived at an improvised yard some twenty feet square, wherein a number of little oval-shaped woolly things were running about. "They are strong little beggars, not a seedy one among the lot."

They had not been long hatched, and as they scuttled about, stopping occasionally to peck at the chopped lucerne strewn on the ground, they were just the size and shape of the parent egg, plus legs and a neck. Naylor picked one of them up.

"You'd never think that this little chap in less than a year's time would be able to kick a fellow into the middle of next week, would you?" he said, showing it to Lilian.

"No, indeed," replied she, stroking the little creature's glossy brown neck, and passing her fingers through the thick coating of hair-like feathers like the soft quills of the porcupine, which covered its back. "What dear little things they are. They ought always to keep small."

"Oho!" laughed Naylor. "Bad look out for those who farm them, if they did. You wouldn't get much for a plucking off this little beggar, for instance."

"Of course I didn't mean that," she explained. "I meant that it was a pity such pretty little things should grow up big, and ugly, and vicious."

"It's a good thing sometimes that they are vicious," said Naylor. "It keeps the niggers from going into the enclosures and stealing the eggs, and even plucking the birds. They are taking to that already."

"Are they not too much afraid of them?"

"Not always. Look at those two black chaps in yonder camp. They are four-year-old birds, and the nigger isn't born who'd go in and pluck them. Look, you can see them both now," added Naylor, pointing out a couple of black moving balls, many hundred yards off, in the middle of their enclosures.

"It is all very interesting," exclaimed Lilian, half to herself, gazing around. Far away on the sunlit plains a herd of cattle was lazily moving; down by the dam in the hollow, whose glassy waters shone like burnished silver in the midday heat, stood a few horses, recently turned out of the kraal, swishing the flies with their tails, or scratching each other's backs with their teeth, while in the ostrich "camps," whose long, low walls ran up the slope, the great bipeds stalked majestically about, pecking at the herbage on the ground, or, with head erect and neck distended, looked and listened suspiciously, equally ready for a feed of corn or for an intruder. All seemed to tell of peace, and sunshine, and prosperity.

"How you must enjoy your life in this beautiful country!" she went on.

Naylor was hugely gratified. Subsequently he took occasion to remark to his wife that Lilian Strange was the nicest and the most sensible girl he had ever seen. "Why doesn't Claverton cut in for her?" added the blunt, jovial fellow, in his free-and-easy way. "Then they could get hold of one of these places round here. He's a fool if he doesn't." To which his wife answered, with a provoking smile of superior knowledge, that she supposed most people knew their own business best.

Now, however, he looked pleased. "Well, yes; we've been brought up in it, you see, and shouldn't be happy in any other. But I should have thought that you, coming out from England, would have found it rather slow. Perhaps you haven't had time to, though, as yet."

"You mean that the novelty hasn't worn off yet? No more it has; but even when it did, that would make but little difference. There is a charm about this beautiful country, with its solitudes, its grand mountains, and rolling plains, and wild associations, which, so far from becoming tame, would grow upon one. And the climate, too, is perfect."

Naylor laughed diffidently. "Yes; but there's another side to that picture. How about bad seasons, and drought, and war, and locusts, and stock-lifting, and so on? It isn't all fun here on the frontier."

"Now, I won't be disenchanted," she retorted, with a bright smile. "You must not try and spoil the picture I have drawn."

"Then I won't. Hallo, Ethel! We've been looking for you," he added, turning as he, for the first time, discovered she had joined them. "Here's Miss Strange prepared to swear by the frontier--in fact, she has done so already."

"Yes?" said Ethel, coming forward to greet Lilian; and Claverton could not help contrasting the two as they stood together: the one with her soft, dark, winning beauty, the lovely eyes never losing for a moment their serene composure; the other, bright, laughing, and golden, the full red lips ever ready to curl in mischief-loving jest or mocking retort, and hair like a rippling sunbeam. Yet nine men out of ten would probably have awarded the palm to Ethel. "Yes?" she said, and, in her heart of hearts, added, "and with her own reasons." She did not feel very cordially towards Lilian just then.

"She says it's perfect, all round," went on Naylor--"a young Paradise."

"I don't know," said Ethel. "I shouldn't like to stay on the frontier all the year round. One would miss the balls and theatre in Cape Town."

"Aha!" laughed Emily, "Ethel is still intent on slaughter. She made such havoc last session; ever so many poor fellows threw themselves off the cliffs on Table Mountain on her account; how many was it, Ethel-- twenty-five?--that she had to be spirited away in the night for fear of the vengeance of their bereaved mammas."

"Call it fifty while you're about it," she answered. "How awfully hot it has become!"

This served as a pretext for a move indoors, which was made accordingly.

"So you're all determined to go back this evening," said Naylor, as they sat in the verandah after dinner.

"I think we must," answered Ethel; "aunt will think we are never coming back."

Hicks, who at the other end of the verandah was "assisting" Laura to play with the children--these having finished their morning's lessons, had invaded the party--pricked up his ears and looked rueful in advance. If they were persuaded to stay, he would have to go anyhow; but Ethel was firm, and he breathed freely again.

"But, Claverton, you and Miss Strange might stop--to-night, at any rate," persisted Naylor.

It was Ethel's turn to feel apprehensive. She had schooled herself into accepting the situation, and accepting it patiently. The strife had been a hard one, and she had suffered in it--suffered acutely, but she had conquered. Yet the struggle had not been won in a moment, and it had left its traces; but she seemed not to show them; she was a trifle graver, and more subdued in manner, that was all. A few days ago she had longed, with an intense longing, to get away--away from the sound of his voice, from the glance of his eyes; yet now that it is a question as to whether they shall return without him, her heart beats quick, and she seems to hang upon the verdict which they are all discussing so calmly.

"I don't think we can to-day, Naylor," answered Claverton, a glance at Lilian having satisfied him that she did not favour the scheme.

"But look here," Naylor was beginning, when his wife cut him short.

"Why shouldn't we inspan and go back with them, Ned? We can leave Seringa Vale again before breakfast if you like, and there's something I want to see mother about."

"All right, we'll do that. Don't you think Seringa Vale is rather a good name for a place, Miss Strange?"

"Yes--so pretty," answered Lilian; "it's a poem in itself."

"How do you like Thirlestane?"

"I like it, too. Did you name it?"

"Yes," replied Naylor, "it's called after a small place my grandfather had in England. Its original name is a Dutch one--_Uitkyk_, a look-out; but Thirlestane's better than _Uitkyk_, isn't it?"

"Jack Armitage calls it `Oatcake' even to this day," put in Claverton.

Suddenly, a loud booming noise came from one of the enclosures. All looked in that direction. The great ostrich was plainly visible, his neck inflated to six times its size as he emitted his deep call, volleying it out in heavy booms, three at a time.

"Fancy an ostrich making such a row as that! You wouldn't have thought it possible, would you, Miss Strange?" said Gough, the tutor. He had joined the party at dinner-time, when school was over.

"I don't think I should," answered Lilian. "The first time I heard it, I was so frightened. It was at Seringa Vale. I was lying awake at night, and this great booming sounded so awful in the dead of night. I hadn't a notion what it was; the first thing I thought of was some wild beast."

"A lion, I suppose," said Naylor.

"I think the whole of the Zoological Gardens ran through my vivid imagination. How Mr Brathwaite laughed when I told him about it next morning! Yet I was terribly frightened."

"No wonder," said Claverton. "It's a precious uncanny sort of row to strike up in the middle of the night, especially when you don't know where it comes from, or what it's all about."

It was now voted time to be getting the horses in. This served as a signal for a general break-up, the masculine element of the party making towards the stable, or the enclosure, where some manoeuvring was needed, as we have seen, to obtain possession of the requisite steeds without exciting the wrath of the autocratic biped who reigned there.

Claverton having, as before, submitted Lilian's steed and its gear to a rigid examination, now whisking a speck of dust off the saddle, or letting down a link of the curb-chain and readjusting it, assisted her to mount.

"Wish that fool would go on," he muttered savagely, referring to Allen, whose ancient screw was mooning along with a kind of crop-the-grass gait. The rest of the party were on ahead. "He needn't wait for us," and flinging himself on his spirited chestnut he bade the groom let go the reins. The fine animal tossed his head and sidled and champed his bit as he felt himself free; free yet not free, for his rider was a consummate horseman and had him perfectly in hand.

Lilian laughed. "Poor fellow," she said. "Do you know, I sometimes feel so sorry for him. You all chaff him dreadfully and--Oh!"

The last exclamation is one of alarm, for at that moment a troop of ostriches--young ten-month-old birds--having deserted its herd in one of those stampedes to which these idiotic bipeds are so liable, whirls past them, with wings outstretched and snowy plumes sparkling in the sun, and Lilian's steed, which has not yet become quite accustomed to the gigantic fowls, shows signs of restiveness.

"Don't be frightened--darling. You're quite safe," says her escort, noting the scared look in her face, as the old horse tugs at his bridle and snorts and plunges a little. "He'll be perfectly quiet in half a minute."

He is so close beside her all the time, and speaks in such a reassuring tone that her alarm subsides, and the old steed drops into his normal steadiness as though half ashamed of himself.

"Are you not utterly disgusted with such a coward?" says she, with a faint apologetic laugh. "I ought to have enjoyed the affair as a good opportunity for showing off, oughtn't I?"

"One must show on before showing off. I wouldn't have you anything but timid on board a horse for the world, except for your own sake. It suits you to perfection."

He is in earnest. These oft-recurring little alarms of hers are so captivating in their pure unaffectedness, so womanly; and, withal, the sense of protection imparted to himself is delicious. And if she is at times somewhat shrinking, as at present, even that lends an additional attraction to her delicate refinement.

"Every one is not an Amazon, thank heaven," he continued, "and you will soon be as much at home on horseback as in a chair. We will have a lot of practice. Besides, you know, lately you have not been very well, and that is calculated to unnerve you. We will do our best to set you up thoroughly--while--you are here." He tried to speak firmly, but it was of no use, that tell-tale tremor shook his voice over the last four words, for they conjured up a picture of when she should be no longer "here," and he dared not think of it. At present he would thrust the thought far from him.

They had now overtaken Allen, and were obliged to shape the conversation accordingly. "Shall we canter on a little?" suggested Claverton. "The rest are a good way ahead."

Lilian acquiesced, and their steeds bounded along the grassy slopes at an easy elastic canter, but Allen's sorry screw finding a difficulty in keeping pace with the long stride of the well-bred horses, that disconsolate youth soon dropped behind.

"Here is our panorama again," said Claverton, reining in on the top of the hill, whence they had enjoyed the view that morning.

"It looks different already. This golden light sheds a rare peacefulness--an evening repose--upon it, which is perfectly enchanting. It is hard to determine, but of the two I think I preferred it this morning. There was an exhilaration in the very air that made one feel the pleasure of merely living."

"I liked it best this morning, too," he answered gravely. Then all the day was before him--so many hours with _her_. Now they had come--never to return.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

HICKS WAXES INTREPID.

"Phew-w!" whistled Hicks, staring in consternation at the scene before him. Then he added in a determined voice: "But I'm going straight over that bridge or down the river, one of the two."

"Umph! More fool you," growled his companion. "I'm damned if I am."

"But look here, Thorman. If we don't get across now while we've a chance, Heaven only knows when we shall. The river's `down' as it has never been before, and all along the road we have heard nothing but how it's coming down harder. Every blessed one of the bridges will go, and we shall be stuck on this side, it may be for weeks."

Thorman made no reply, but sat on his horse scowling ferociously at the flood in front of them.

The spot was a drift on the Great Fish River crossed by an important main road which was one of the principal lines of transport up-country. Some years previously a fine bridge had been thrown across the bed of the river, which at that point was about fifty feet deep and twice the distance in width, thus rendering traffic independent of the rise or fall of the water or the state of the drift--at no time a first-rate one. But although the actual bed of the river was wide and deep, the stream itself was an insignificant trickle, dabbling along over stones, with here and there along sandy reach, after the manner of a North Country trout stream, but without its dash and sparkle. Except in rainy seasons; and then its red turbid waters, swelled by the contributions of numerous confluents and the drainings of the high watershed on either side, tore foaming between their high banks, carrying down drift-wood and trunks of trees in their swift pent-up course. But the bridge, a fine iron one, standing sixty feet from the bottom of the river to its parapet, rendered the transport-riders [carriers] absolutely independent of these floods, as has been said. Whether the stream was almost dry in its bed, or rolling down rocks and tree-stumps, mattered nothing to them now. Instead of the tedious delay of several days on the bank, and then the trouble and risk of crossing a bad, washed-out drift, their waggons rolled as gaily across the bridge as along the road, and they kept on their way as if there was no river there at all. Once or twice since the bridge had been built, the water had risen within a few feet of its roadway; but though an occasional prediction would be made that the river was capable of rising a great deal higher still, yet it had not done so. The bridge was of enormous strength, said they who were most concerned, and would stand against anything.

But now it seemed as if the predictions of disaster were going to be verified. For several days and nights it had rained incessantly; not a series of heavy deluging showers, but a steady, telling downpour. No break had occurred, not even a pause of ten minutes--rain, rain, rain, till people became as accustomed to the continuous fall upon their roofs of zinc or thatch as to the ticking of a clock--and the parched earth, now thoroughly soft and moistened, ran off the superfluous water in streams from every runnel and gully, which emptying themselves into the larger rivers, these in their turn came down in such force as to flood their banks, doing much and serious damage.

And the prospect before the two who sat there on their horses swathed from head to foot in long mackintoshes was, it must be allowed, sufficient justification for Thorman's retort. An expanse of tossing, swirling water lay in front, and in the middle of this stood the bridge, or rather all that could be seen of it, for its roadway lay at least a foot beneath the surface. The banks of the river were overflowed to some distance, and here it was comparatively smooth; but in the middle the mighty stream rushed on its way with a dulling and ever deafening roar, rolling its huge red waves; curling, hissing, splashing; now heaving up a great tree-stump which, tossing for a moment, and leaping half out like a live thing, disappeared again in the boiling depths; now floating down the carcase of an ox or half-a-dozen drowned sheep. Against the bridge lay jammed an accumulation of drift-wood and logs, which groaned and grated with half-human shriek as the fierce current hurled itself continually upon the obstructing mass, which as yet it was unable to break through.

For sky, a pall of dark rain-cloud--heavy, opaque, and without a break anywhere--resting, in a regular line, low down upon the sides of the high hills on either side of the valley. Not a breath of wind to toss about the showers--nor, indeed, could the term shower apply. A downpour--straight, penetrating, and incessant. On the opposite bank of the river many waggons lay outspanned, their number augmenting as more kept on arriving in twos and fours from up-country, and the cracking of long whips, and the peculiar "carrying" yells of their drivers, were borne through the roar of the flood in front. Though early in the afternoon it was dark and gloomy, and the great rolling river, its red, turbid, hissing surface covered with evidences of damage and destruction, the lowering sky, the oppressive and woe-begone aspect of the surroundings, made up a picture of indescribable weirdness and threatening grandeur. The elements were supreme; man was nowhere.

"Oh, hang it, Thorman," went on Hicks, impatiently. "You're not afraid of a little water? I must get home to-night, and it's now or never."

The two had left some days earlier to attend a sale a good distance from home; for Hicks, as we have said, was an energetic fellow, and always alive to the main chance. The rain had just begun at the time they started; but they hadn't bargained for this.

"Well, one damned fool makes two damned fools. Come along then," growled Thorman. It would never do for it to be said he was afraid--and by a "Britisher," too.

"That's the sort, old _Baas_. I knew you were humbugging," rejoined Hicks, heartily. He would have gone through more than the present undertaking, though that was no child's play, when he thought of the alternative--several days' weary waiting at the wretched little inn just left behind. Why, one evening of it would be too awful. But things gain or suffer by comparison, and now the comparison lay between this contingency and Seringa Vale, a cheerful room, a snug home circle, and-- Laura. So quite airily he prepared to risk his life, having persuaded his companion to follow his wise example.