Chapter Eleven.
The Race Meeting.
The race-course at Gandela lay just outside the township, and between it and the bushy ridge Ehlatini.
It was a large, circular space, surrounded by a not particularly strong bush-fence, and now on the day of the race meeting and gymkhana it presented a very lively scene indeed; for not only was practically the whole population of Gandela there gathered, but that of the surrounding district. Settlers from outlying farms, prospectors from remote camps, storekeepers and others, had all come in to see or join in the fun. And in contrast to the swarm of bronzed and belted men—coatless, and wearing for the most part the broad-brimmed American hat—a flutter of bright colour here and there of blouse and sunshade showed that the ornamental sex, as represented in fa-away Matabeleland, was quite as ambitious of being up to date as anywhere else. Taking it altogether they were having a good time of it, as was bound to be the case in a locality where man was largely in preponderance, and where, in consequence, there were not enough women to go round, as we heard Clare Vidal remark.
She herself was looking altogether winsome and delightful, as she flashed forth jest and repartee among the group surrounding her, for she was holding quite a little court. Men—among them fine gallant-looking fellows who had served with some distinction in the former war—seemed to hang upon her words, or was it her tones, her smiles?—laying up for themselves, perchance, store of future heartache. Her brother-in-law, who was one of the stewards, declared she was causing a positive obstruction. A hoot of good-humoured derision arose from the group.
“Oh, go away, Fullerton, you jolly old policeman,” cried one man.
“Send him off, Mrs Fullerton, do,” said another.
But before Lucy had time to reply, two bronzed giants had seized the offender one by each arm, and gently but firmly marched him across the course to where an impromptu bar under a canvas awning was doing a roaring trade.
“That’s better for you, old man,” said one, as three glasses were set down empty.
“And unless you give us your word not to bother Miss Vidal any more we’ll keep you here all day,” said the other.
“Oh, I’ll give you my word for anything you like,” laughed Fullerton. “We’ll have another round, and then I must get back.”
It must be conceded that the racing was poor, but then, so for the most part were the horses, thanks to the protracted drought and the necessity of their training consisting of the process of earning their keep. But the day was lovely—cloudless and golden—and the heat rose in a shimmer from the mimosa-dotted veldt and the dark, bushy slope of Ehlatini lining up to the vivid depths of heaven’s blue. A sort of impromptu grand stand had been effected by placing chairs and benches along a couple of empty waggons, and at the corner of one of these Clare sat—still holding her court—while her fervid worshippers talked up to her from the ground. The luncheon hour was over—so, too, were the races, but the afternoon would be devoted to tent-pegging and other sports.
“Hallo!” said one of the favoured group. “Blest if that isn’t Lamont over there, and—he’s got his coat on.”
“Where else should he have it, Mr Wyndham?” said the girl mischievously.
“He shouldn’t have it at all. You know, Miss Vidal, it’s an unwritten rule up here that none of us wear coats.”
“But I notice that you are all mighty particular about your collars and ties,” laughed Clare.
“’M—yes. But wearing a coat stamps you as a new-comer. Even Ancram here has fallen into our way.”
Ancram had, and moreover mightily fancied himself accordingly; and had turned on an additional swagger which he flattered himself still further marked him out as the complete pioneer. He had been introduced to Clare, but inwardly raged at the marked coldness in her demeanour towards himself. It was no imagination, he was satisfied, her frank sunniness of manner towards everybody else placed that beyond a doubt. Others had remarked on it too.
“What have you been doing to Miss Vidal, old chap?” one of his newly-found friends inquired. “She seems to have a down on you.” And Ancram had replied that he was hanged if he knew.
“Why, he’s missed all the races,” went on the first speaker, referring to Lamont. “He’s looking a bit seedy too. And—no, he hasn’t. He hasn’t got on his revolver.”
“That’s rum, for he never moves without it,” said another. “We chaff him a bit about that, Miss Vidal, but he says he prefers being on the safe side.”
“Lamont would prefer that,” said Ancram significantly.
“Haven’t you just been stopping with him?” said Clare rather sharply, turning on the speaker. “He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
“Um—ah—yes, yes. Of course,” was the somewhat confused reply.
“I’m not sure Mr Lamont isn’t right,” she went on for the benefit of the rest. “This is a country full of savages, and savages are often treacherous. Aren’t they, Mr Driffield?”
“Aren’t who, and what, Miss Vidal?” replied the Native Commissioner, who was in the act of joining the group. She repeated her remark.
“Oh yes. You’ll get Ancram to agree with you on that head,” he added significantly.
“There!” she cried triumphantly.
“I say, though, Miss Vidal,” objected another man, “you surely wouldn’t have us all roll up at a peaceable gymkhana hung round with six-shooters, like the conventional cowboy? Eh?”
“Well, where should we be if a Matabele impi were to rush in on us now?” she persisted. “Utterly at its mercy, of course. Imagine it charging out from there, for instance,” pointing towards the dark line of bush on the slope of Ehlatini.
Some of the other occupants of the ‘grand stand’ here raised quite a flutter of protest. It was too bad of Miss Vidal to indulge in such horrible imaginings, they declared. It made them quite uncomfortable. Many a true word was spoken in jest—and so forth. But the men laughed indulgently; utterly and sceptically scornful their mirth would have been but for the sex and popularity of the speaker.
Many a true word spoken in jest! Yes, indeed. Here a lively holiday scene—the clatter of the horses, laughter and jollity and flirtation—nearly a couple of hundred men, besides women and children, the former unarmed,—all save one. The wretched ryot returning at sunset to his jungle village is not more blissfully unconscious of the lurking presence of the dread man-eater, which in a moment more, will, with lightning-like pounce, sweep him out of existence, than are these, that yonder, upon the bushy slope almost overhanging their pleasure ground, a thousand armed savages are hungrily watching for the signal which shall change this sunny, light-hearted scene into a drama of carnage, and woe and horror unutterable. All—save one.
“You’ve got such a lively imagination, you ought to write a book about us, Miss Vidal,” suggested Wyndham. “You could make some funny characters out of some of us, I’ll bet.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment. Shall I begin with yourself, Mr Wyndham?”
“Oh, I say though, I don’t know about that. Here’s Driffield, he’d make a much better character than I would. Or Lamont—here, Lamont,” he called out, as the latter was passing near. “Roll up, man, and hear your luck. Miss Vidal is going to write a book and make you the principal character.”
“Really, Mr Wyndham, I wouldn’t have believed it of you,” laughed Clare. “To tell such shocking taradiddles. It’s obviously a long time since you attended Sunday school. Now, go away. I won’t talk to you any more—for—let me see, well, not for half an hour. Go away. Half an hour, mind.”
He swept off his hat with comic ruefulness. Then over his shoulder—
“I resign—vice Lamont promoted—for half an hour.”
“That means a whole hour, now,” called out Clare after him, whereat a great laugh went up from her hearers.
From all but one, that is; and to this one all this chaff and light-hearted merriment was too awful, too ghastly—he, who knew what none of these even so much as suspected.
“And the flood came and destroyed them all,” he quoted to himself. And as he contemplated all these women occupying the ‘grand stand’—cool and dainty and elegant in their light summer attire—and this beautiful girl queening it over her little court of admirers, it seemed to him that the responsibility resting upon his own shoulders was too great, too awful, too superhuman: and the thought flitted through his brain that perhaps he ought never to have assumed it. A warning to the authorities to postpone the race meeting and put the township into a state of defence—would not such have been his plain duty? But then they would only have laughed at him for a scare-monger and have done nothing. Moreover, even had he decided on such a plan, the Fates had already decided against it, for the lame horse on which he had started for Gandela had gone lamer still, with the result that he had been obliged to abandon the animal, and cover nearly half the distance on foot. He had further been forced to make a considerable détour, in order to avoid the mustering impi, portions of which he had seen, and all heading for the point arranged upon—consequently it was not until the early afternoon that he gained the township at all.
There was yet time. The prize-giving was the crucial moment, and that would not take place for at least three hours. He made a good meal at the hotel—an absolute necessity—and sent it down with a bottle of the best champagne the house had got. Even then, when he arrived on the course, he drew the remark that he was ‘looking rather seedy,’ as we have heard.
“Why, Mr Lamont, you are quiet,” said Clare brightly. “Shall I offer you the regulation penny?”
He smiled queerly.
“Am I? Oh, Driffield’s making such a row one couldn’t have heard oneself speak in any case.”
“I like that,” exclaimed the implicated one. “By Jove, old chap, you do look chippy! And—you’ve got a coat on.”
“Yes. Premonitory touch of fever. No good taking risks. That you, Ancram? I say, why the dickens didn’t you send back my gee again? I’ve been wanting him more than enough, I can tell you.”
Ancram explained that he thought a day or two more or less didn’t matter, and he was awfully sorry, and so on, the while he was thinking what a beastly disagreeable chap Lamont could be if he liked, and what rotten form it was kicking up a row in public about his old bag of bones, which he probably hadn’t really been in want of at all.
“I’m tired of sitting here,” pronounced Clare. “I want to walk about a bit. Help me down, someone!”
Half a dozen hands were extended, but it was on Lamont’s that hers rested as she tripped down the cranky, wobbly steps, knocked up out of old boxes.
“You coming, Lucy? No? Too hot? Oh well.”
Lamont was obviously the favoured one to-day, decided the others, observing how decidedly, though without appearing to do so, she took possession of him; wherefore they refrained from making an escort, except Ancram, whom she promptly cold-shouldered in such wise that even he was not proof against it, and finally dropped off, wondering what on earth any girl could see in a dull disagreeable dog like Lamont, who hadn’t three words to say for himself.
“Will you do something for me if I ask you, Mr Lamont?” said Clare, as they found themselves a little apart from the rest, who were watching some high jumping.
“Certainly I will, Miss Vidal—er, that is—if I can.”
Really he was in good sooth doing his best to deserve Ancram’s verdict. That sweet bright face, looking up at him in a way that most of those present would have given something to occupy his shoes, surely deserved an answer less frigid, less halting. Clare herself felt something of this, and she replied—
“Oh, it’s nothing very great. I only want you to enter for the tent-pegging.”
He was relieved. He had contemplated the possibility of her requiring some service that would necessitate him leaving his post—hence the hesitation.
“Of course I will. But isn’t it too late to enter?”
“No. If it is they’ll have to waive the rule. I’m going to put money on you.”
“Oh, don’t do that. You’ll lose. That fellow Ancram has been riding my horse to death, the groom at Foster’s was quite surprised I should want to ride him up here now, all things considered. However, there he is. I’ll enter with pleasure, but don’t you plunge on me.”
“But I will, and you must win. Do you hear, you must win.”
“I’ll try my best, and can’t do more.”
“That’s right,” she said.
Lamont was very much of a misogynist, and was impatient of the sex and its foibles, but there was something in this girl that disarmed even him. Her very voice sounded caressing, and the quick lift of the deep blue eyes—well, it was dangerous, might soon become maddening. She had appealed to him from the very first, he admitted as much deep down in his heart of hearts, but there, and there only. Now, amid this sunny, light-hearted scene, as he looked at her he thought how, under other circumstances, he might have talked to her differently. But the horror invisibly brooding on yonder sunlit hill was still to be reckoned with, and now another anxiety was deepening within his mind. The witch-doctor had not yet arrived, and his presence was essential to the carrying out of the plot—and its frustration.
The tent-pegging, like the racing, proved, for the most part, poor; so much so indeed that it was hard to work up any great enthusiasm over it, though there was abundance of chaff. At the end, however, flagging interest revived, for now the win lay between Lamont and Orwell, the resident magistrate. Tie after tie they made, always neck and neck, and it became a question whether it would not end in a tie. There was plenty of excitement now, and shouting. Then there was dead silence as the two men awaited the word for the last time.
Lamont settled down to his saddle. He would win, he felt, to miss would be impossible. They were off. His lance was unerringly straight for the peg. But as they thundered along he looked up—only one lightning-quick glance, and then—his lance ploughed up the bare turf while that of his adversary whirled aloft, the wedge of wood impaled upon it hard and fast. And amid the roar of cheers that rent the air, Lamont recognised that that quick side-glance he had been betrayed into taking had lost him the day.
But that look—which had clouded his brain and unsteadied his wrist—not upon her for whom he was here in these modern lists was it directed, but upon a red object moving among the groups near the entrance gate of the enclosure.