Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.
The Darkest Hour.
When Lilian saw Payne return to the house alone, unaccompanied by her lover, it seemed that her cup of bitterness was full to the brim.
He had taken her at her word, then, even as she had besought him to do, and had left her, wearied of her weakness and vacillation; had left her in bitter anger that she should have made a plaything of his love, taking it up and casting it from her again as the humour seized her. Yes; it must be so, she told herself; and yet, if he only knew! But he never would know. Her martyrdom was complete. Not even would she have the consolation of knowing that if they parted in sorrow, at any rate they parted in love, as was the case that former time. No; this time anger and contempt for a weak creature who did not know her own mind would soon take the place of his former love—and then? Ah, what did it matter? She had sacrificed herself, and the sacrifice was complete; what mattered a mere triviality of detail? He was gone, and she would see his face no more, and she—she had saved him and ought to be only too glad that the opportunity of doing so had been allowed her—at least, so she told herself.
So she told herself, but ah! she could not feel glad. Her plan had succeeded, as she had been hoping, yet not daring to pray, that it would; but now that it had, she discovered that side by side with her heroic resolution had lurked a subtle hope that even yet she might look upon him again. That hope was now fulfilled, and lo! all was darker than it had been hitherto—so dark that it could never be light again.
Could it not? Even then, breaking in upon the outer gloom of her terrible despair, came her lover’s last message—“A very few days will see me back here again. Everything will come right then”—bringing a gleam of hope to her crushed heart. He would come back—at any rate he would come back—and then, those confident words: “Everything will come right then.” For the first time a strong doubt came over her as to the truth of Truscott’s allegations. It might be that he was lying, according to his wont—lying in order to gain some private end, to revenge himself upon her—for she now no longer believed that he really loved her. Yet he had spoken so confidently, with such an exhaustive reliance in his facts. Still there might be some mystery about it, which her lover was able to solve. Ah! why had she not asked him when he was here just now? Why had she not begged him to clear up this horrid doubt; to tell her openly about his past life? She had been unnerved: had lost her head for the time being. Still it is probable that she would have asked him, but for the inopportune return of the Paynes. Well, it was too late now; she must wait patiently for his return, and then—if only the opportunity was allowed her—a lifetime of tenderness and devotion could hardly atone for this dreadful doubt.
“Why, Lilian,” exclaimed her hostess, affectionately, “you are looking quite your old self again. Cheer up, darling. All will come right, I’m sure of that; and so are you, I can see it in your eyes.”
And, indeed, the revulsion of hope, setting in upon that black tide of despair, had brought a glow into Lilian’s cheek and a light into her eyes such as had not been seen there for many a day. Yet it would not do to be too elated yet.
“God grant it may,” she replied, with an attempt at a smile, and there was a good deal of hugging and kissing between the two women, and a few tears; and then Lilian went down to delight Rose’s heart by telling her she would go for a walk with her, after all; that part of the afternoon’s programme having fallen through in subservience to the more important events which had supervened, to the little girl’s intense disappointment.
And the walk did her good. Everything would come right, she kept telling herself, and, as they strolled homeward when the afterglow in the west was purpling into twilight gloom and the peaks of the Winterberg range stood out—cold, distant, and steely—Lilian’s heart was full of a prayerful hope that their future might, after all, be bright and cloudless as yon clear sky, when doubts and torturing fears had all been swept away; and though her little companion found her somewhat grave and disinclined to talk, yet the calm, sweet light of returning peace in her eyes, which the child stole many a wondering look at, more than made up for her silence.
If the Paynes were somewhat apprehensive as to the future—or rather as to the events of the next few days—they kept it to themselves, and that evening was quite a cheerful one. Hope had taken root and thriven in Lilian’s heart, and, as she kept on repeating to herself her lover’s message, she seemed to hear the confident ring of his own words: “Everything will come right then,” and wae comforted; at least, comparatively so. But whatever happened she would ask him to tell her all his past life, and somehow she did not look forward to the revelation with dread.
Payne, however, was by no means easy in his mind about the somewhat desperate plan which his friend had unfolded to him. To honest George’s straightforward reasoning it thoroughly recommended itself. The best way to settle an affair of this kind was by a downright “rough-and-tumble,” as he put it, but then there was the law, an uncommonly ticklish customer to deal with, once it took it into its head to vindicate its outraged dignity. As regarded that, however, the business might be managed away on the quiet somewhere, at the seat of hostilities, where law was very much in abeyance just then; though at any other time, as he had told his friend, it would be impossible. But for all that, he heartily wished him safe through the business. Claverton was a splendid pistol-shot, of that he had, on more than one occasion, had ocular evidence, and if he winged his man, or even killed him, it was all in the fortune of war; for Payne had seen rough times himself at the Gold Fields and even on the Kaffrarian border, and did not hold human life as so momentous a thing as did, for instance, the clergyman of the parish wherein he at present resided. To the wife of his bosom, however, he did not impart any of these reflections; on the contrary, he made rather light of the affair.
“A row?” he said, in answer to her misgivings. “Oh, yes, there’s sure to be a row—the very devil of a row, in fact; but then Claverton’s thoroughly well able to take care of himself.”
“But they will be shooting each other,” she said, with a troubled shake of the head.
He turned quickly. “Eh? What? Not they! They’ll only get to punching each other’s heads—that’s all, take my word for it.” And honest George laughed light-heartedly at his wife’s fears, though he knew that there was ample justification for them.
The following day brought even further comfort to poor Lilian, for towards evening Sam arrived. With a start and a flush she saw the native rein up at the gate, and then she grew deathly pale. He was riding his master’s horse; she recognised the animal at a glance. Oh, what had happened? But then she noticed that Sam looked in no wise perturbed, as would have been the case were he the bearer of ill tidings. She noticed, further, that he was carefully extracting something from his pocket as he came up the garden path—something done up in paper. She flew to the door with a bright flush upon the sweet, sad face.
“Good evenin’, Missie Lilian. Master said I was give you dis,” exclaimed Sam, placing the note in her hand. It was a hastily-pencilled scrap—only a few words, but words expressing such a wealth of undying love, ever and in spite of anything which had occurred or which might occur, that she retired into the room, and, sinking into a chair, pressed the bit of crumpled paper to her lips, and her tears fell like rain upon it.
“Oh, Arthur, my own darling love! you do not think the worse of me! Ah, I can bear anything now?” she murmured.
Could she? Nevertheless, it was well that the merciful veil of distance was drawn between her eyes and the tragedy which at that very moment was being enacted on the brow of a certain cliff, that calm, fair, cloudless evening.
Meanwhile, Sam was busy putting up the horse. It had not needed the haggard features and harsh, strained tones to bring home to his quick perception the certainty that something had gone decidedly wrong with his beloved master, hence the more than ordinary display of loyalty he had exhibited when they parted; and now, with the ready tact of his race, he turned away directly he had delivered the note to Lilian, awaiting her own time to call him and question him about its writer. So, with his jacket off, and armed with a curry-comb and brush, Sam was making great play upon the matted and soiled coat of the tired horse when a sweet voice from the back-door called his name.
“Coming, Missie Lilian—coming,” cried the faithful fellow, as he flung down his stable implements and hurried across the intervening bit of garden, shuffling on his jacket as he went.
“Sam, you must be very hot and tired after your journey. Drink this, and then I want to talk to you.”
“This” being a large tumbler of cool, sparkling lemonade, which she held in her hand. Sam took it with a grateful, pleasing ejaculation of thanks. A dusky savage, born in a remote kraal beneath the towering cones of the Kwahlamba range, he appreciated her thoughtful kindness far more than many a white “Christian” would have done—the action more than the result.
“Dat good,” he said, after a long pull at the refreshing liquid, “but not so good as see Missie Lilian again.”
She smiled at the genuine though inaccurately-worded compliment, and began questioning him, a little shyly at first, but soon so fast that she found herself asking the same questions over again, and hardly giving time for answers. Sam, who, like all natives, dearly loved to hear himself talk, once on the congenial topic of his master and the war, lectured away ad libitum.
“Missie Lilian—master he say, I stop here till he come back. I do everyting you tell me. If you want tell master anyting, you send Sam, straight—so!” and, extending his arm, he cracked his fingers in the direction of Kafirland with an expressive gesture. “Sam he go in no time. Dat what Inkos say.”
“And, Sam—didn’t your master tell you how long he would be away?”
“No, Missie Lilian—yes, he did. He say, be away not long—come back very soon—in few days. Yes, he come back in very few days—dat what Inkos say, de last ting.”
“A very few days!” Just what he had told Mrs Payne. Things looked promising.
“Was he looking—looking well, Sam? He has to travel alone, too,” she added, half to herself.
“No, Missie Lilian, he not ride ’lone. One Dutchman going back to laager. Inkos and dat Dutchman ride together. Inkos he buy horse from dat Dutchman—big young horse—’cos Fleck go lame. Dey see Amaxosa nigger, dey shoot—shoot. Amaxosa not hurt. Inkos—Amaxosa nigga no good. Ha?”
“Why, Sam; you don’t mean they met any Kafirs?” exclaimed Lilian in alarm.
“No. Dey not see any nigga, Missie Lilian. Sam mean if dey see Amaxosa dey shoot—shoot ’em dead. Bang!”
He did not tell her of the warning as to the dangers of the road, which the two troopers had given his master the last thing before he started. It would only make her uneasy, and, besides, Sam had the most rooted faith in his chief’s invulnerability.
Then Sam, being once under weigh, launched out into much reminiscence, all tending towards one point, the glorification of his master and his master’s exploits; for which his said master would have been sorely tempted to kick him, could he have overheard; but which, to his present listener, was of all topics the most welcome.
“Hallo, Sam, you rascal! Where have you dropped from?”
“Evenin’, Baas Payne!” said Sam, jumping to his feet, for he had been squatting, tailor-fashion, while Lilian had been talking to him. “Sam, he come from Inkos. Inkos he say, Sam stay here till he come. Sam do all he told. Dat what Inkos say.”
“You’ve got fat, Sam, since we saw you last. Campaigning seems to agree with you,” said Payne.
The boy grinned, and, seeing that they had done with him, he returned to his work.
“I rather think I shall go to the front for a spell myself when Claverton comes back,” remarked Payne, as they went in.
“Oh, do you?” put in his wife, of whose presence he was unaware. “And since when have you come to that conclusion, Mr George?”
He started. “Hallo! I didn’t know you there. But, seriously, it wouldn’t do a fellow any harm. Needn’t stay away long, you know. Shoot a few niggers and come back again.”
“Yes, pa,” cried Harry, delightedly. “Do go and shoot the Kafirs, and you’ll be able to tell us such lots of stunning stories.”
“Oh, ah! Anything else in a small way, Master Harry?” said his father, ironically.
The urchin laughed.
“I want an assegai,” he replied. “A real Kafir assegai; like the one Johnny Timms has got. It’s a beauty. He throws it at the fowls in the garden.”
“And you want to do likewise, eh? Only as there are no fowls to practise at here, you’d be hurling it at old Cooke’s next door. No, sonny; little boys mustn’t play with edged tools, as the copy-books say.”
It is the third day after Claverton’s departure—a bright, beautiful morning, with the already tangible promise of great heat. Slowly Lilian strolls along the street, hardly heeding the throng of busy life on all sides; the rolling waggons, with their long, jaded spans, moving to the crack of the driver’s whip, accompanied by a shrill, harsh yell; the sun-tanned horsemen ambling about; or the three or four pedestrians, who, booted and spurred, are striding among the crowd in all the glory of their spiked helmets, where an open-air sale is taking place, flattering themselves they present an intensely martial aspect, and putting on “side” accordingly. Here and there a storekeeper stands before his shop-door exchanging gossip with the passers-by; and black fellows of every nationality, clothed in ragged trousers and greasy shirts, with, it may be, a battered hat stuck on top of their dusty wool, stand in knots chattering in their deep bass, or trundle great packages in and out of the stores. All this Lilian hardly sees as she strolls along, a world of tender thought in the sweet eyes; and the beautiful figure in the cool summer dress forms a very bright and pleasing contrast in that busy workaday throng.
She has been to the library and changed her books, has done one or two little commissions, and now it is getting very hot, as she pauses for a moment to rest and look in at a shop-window. Three days have gone, three days out of the time she has to wait. Ah! how she longs for that time to come to an end! And the hum of traffic increases in the busy street, and from the cathedral spire the hour of ten chimes out. Suddenly the hand which has been gently twirling the sunshade on her shoulder, closes in rigid grasp round the knob; and lo! the beautiful, pensive face is white and bloodless—pale as the snowy ostrich feather adorning her hat—a peerless “prime white,” which her lover had ransacked the country to procure in order to devote it to its present purpose. For as she stands there Lilian catches that lover’s name, and, before she has overheard many words of the conversation of a knot of men chattering behind her, she feels as if she must fall to the ground.
“How do they know he’s killed?” one of them was saying, evidently in response to a preceding query. “They know it as well as they can know it short of finding the body, and the niggers don’t leave much of that—butchering brutes. But, look here. If Claverton started on the line of country Jos Sanders said he did, and didn’t turn up at the main camp yesterday by twelve o’clock at latest, he’s a dead man. The whole of those locations that side o’ the mountains have risen, and a flea couldn’t have got through without their spottin’ him.”
“He may have gone round t’other way, though.”
“Not likely. Jos said he was in a mighty cast-iron hurry, and laughed in his face when he just cautioned him to look out. There was a Dutchman with him, too.”
“In a hurry? Claverton in a hurry? That’d be a sight worth seeing,” struck in another. “Why, if all the niggers in Kafirland were on his spoor, he’d stop to fill his pipe before he’d move.”
“Ah, he’s a mighty cool hand,” rejoined the first speaker, admiringly. “We want a few more like him. You should jes’ have seen him that time when we were out under old Hughes. There was only eighteen of us all told, and the niggers were on us by hundreds. If it hadn’t been for Brathwaite’s fellers we should all have been cut up. We fought the whole afternoon; and Claverton, he seemed to care no more about the niggers than if there hadn’t been one of ’em there.”
“Yes, and the way he brought out poor Jack Armitage that time! It was a doosid plucky thing.”
“I say, what’s this about Claverton being killed?” exclaimed another voice, whose owner had evidently just joined the group. “I see the telegram says he may have been taken prisoner.”
The first speaker shook his head ominously.
“Kafirs don’t take prisoners,” he said. “If they do, so much the worse for the prisoners. No, sir. Claverton would fight like the devil, but he’d never let those brutes take him alive, you may safely bet your bottom dollar on that. Poor chap! Hot, isn’t it? Let’s go and liquor.”
They moved off, and Lilian stood there feeling as if the whole world had suddenly given way beneath her feet. Then she remembered that the newspaper office was but a few yards off. With swaying and uneven steps she made her way there. A boy was standing at the counter, rapidly folding copy after copy of the morning’s edition.
“I want a paper, please. One with the very latest telegrams.”
Lilian was surprised at her own calmness; but her ashy face and quivering lips might have told their own tale.
“Yes, mum,” said the boy, handing her one of those lying on the counter, and with it a small, printed slip. “Latest from the front—an officer killed.”
The words beat like a sledge-hammer in her brain, but she managed to stagger out of the shop. The whole street—vehicles, passengers, trees, everything—seemed to go round before her as she strained her eyes upon the printed words of that fatal slip.
An Officer Missing.
“Field-Captain Claverton, of Brathwaite’s Horse, left Breakfast Vley two days ago for the main camp, and has not since been heard of. He was accompanied by a Dutchman named Oppermann. There is every reason to fear that they have been out off and killed, as the bushy defiles through which lay their road, are swarming with rebel Gaikas.”
Later.
“A rumour is afloat in camp that the missing officer is alive, but a prisoner; and that a missionary, supposed to be Rev. Swaysland, of Mount Ararat Station, is also in the hands of the rebels. This seems probable, as the body of the Dutchman has been found, headless and terribly mutilated, near the brow of a high krantz; but there was no sign of the others. The rumour originated with a native, who has since disappeared. He says that the missing men will be taken to Sandili.”
Hardly had Lilian left the shop when a young man, with a pen stuck behind his ear, emerged from an inner office. With three strides he gained the front door, and stood staring after her for a moment down the street. Then he turned back.
“Jones, what did that lady want?” he asked, in a tone of concern.
“S’mornin’s paper, and latest telegram,” replied the boy, laconically, and somewhat defiantly, as he went on folding his papers.
“And you gave it her?”
“Yes,” still more defiantly. “She asked for it.”
“You egregious jackass?”
“What for?” said the boy, indignantly. “If a party asks for the paper, ain’t I to sell it?” He evidently thought his superior was drunk.
“Look at that, Jones,” said the latter, tapping the telegraphic slip impressively with his pen. “What’s that about—eh?”
“I see it. It’s about an officer killed at the front. Why, that’s just the very thing the lady wanted to see,” replied the boy, brightening up.
“Yes. Quite so, you infernal young fool. She’s his sweetheart.”
“O Lord!” And the boy, dropping the paper he was folding, stood gazing at his superior the very picture of open-mouthed horror.
“Yes, it is ‘Lord,’” said the latter, with a gloomy shake of the head. “Well, the mischief’s done now, anyway;” and he retired into his den with a feeling of intense and real pity for the beautiful, sad-looking girl who had so often called at the office for telegrams from the seat of war. The boy was a new hand, and had not known who she was.
How Lilian got home was a mystery. She just remembered staggering in at the doorway, and then nothing more until she awoke to find herself upon her bed with Annie Payne bathing her forehead. No need had there been to ask what the matter was—the printed slip which she held clutched in her hand spoke for itself.
A shudder of returning consciousness, an inquiring look around, and then the dread remembrance burst upon her.
“Oh, Arthur!” she wailed forth, in a despairing, bitter moan, “you are dead, love, and I—why do I still live?” and the tears rushed forth as her frame shook beneath its weight of sobbing woe.
“Hush, dear!” whispered Annie. “It does not say that, you know; it says he is a prisoner, and he may have escaped by now, or been rescued. While there is life there is hope.”
Something in the idea seemed suddenly to strike her. Starting up, she pressed her hand against her brows.
“So there is! Hope, hope! He is not dead. We must rescue him;” and with a new-born determination, Lilian rose and walked towards the door. Her hostess stared at her with a vague misgiving. Had this shock turned her brain?
“Mr Payne,” said Lilian, quite calmly, as she entered the sitting-room, “what can we do?”
Payne, who was busy buckling on a pair of stout riding gaiters, looked up, no less astonished than his wife had been. A cartridge-belt, well stocked, lay on a chair, and just then Sam entered with a gun which he had been wiping out.
“Do? Well, I’m going to start off at once for Brathwaite’s camp and see what can be done. But cheer up, Miss Lilian. We may bring our friend out of his troubles all right enough. While there’s life there’s hope, you know.”
Just what his wife had said, and the twofold reiteration struck Lilian vaguely as a good omen.
“Mr Payne,” she said, suddenly, “I want to go with you.”
Payne stared, as well he might. “Go with me? Where? To Brathwaite’s camp?”
“No; as far as the front. After that to the chief, Sandili.”
If she had said “To his Satanic majesty,” Payne could not have been more thunderstruck. He began to think, as his wife had thought, that the shock had turned her brain.
“To the chief, Sandili!” he echoed. “Why, you would never get there; and if you did, what on earth would be the use of it?”
“I want to beg him to spare Arthur’s life. I have heard that these Kafirs respect women, even in time of war, and the chief might listen to me. I am not afraid of him. He was very friendly, and spoke quite kindly to us that day we saw him up in Kaffraria, and he will remember me. And I might succeed where nothing or nobody else would—if it is not too late,” she concluded, choking down a rising sob. She must keep firm now, and crush all mere womanly weakness, for she would need all her strength.
Payne stared at her, speechless with astonishment and admiration. The notion of this delicate, beautiful creature calmly stating her wish to go alone into the midst of these merciless savages; to beard the Gaika chief, at bay in his stronghold, far in the gloomy recesses of the Amatola forest; reached a height of sublimity bordering closely upon the ridiculous. But she wae thoroughly in earnest—he could see that—and meant every word of it.
“Why, Lilian, it is not to be thought of,” he replied, seriously; “the thing is simply impossible to carry out, even if it were. Why, you would never reach the chief, to begin with; you would—hang it all—you would come to grief long before.”
“Nothing is impossible. Are you going to sacrifice his life because you will not use a means of saving it?” she asked.
“Now, do be reasonable,” replied Payne. “Listen. We have a better plan than that. Sam is going straight to the front; with a daub of red clay and a blanket he will pass perfectly for a Gaika. He will find out where Arthur is, and, depend upon it Sam will get him out if any one can; and you may be perfectly sure that I shall leave no stone unturned.”
“Ah, yes. He will. That is a good idea.”
“Yes,” went on Payne, who, meanwhile, was busy getting his things together. “And, another thing, Arthur understands the Kafirs thoroughly and can talk to them fluently. He isn’t the fellow to lose his head in any kind of fix, and he may manage to talk them over, or bribe them to let him go. So just keep your spirits up and don’t begin thinking the worst. Now, good-bye, we’ll do the best we can. Good-bye, Annie!” and with a grasp of the hand to Lilian, and a hurried embrace to his wife, Payne mounted his horse, which was being held for him at the gate, and rode off.
“Missie Lilian!” exclaimed Sam, “I go look for Inkos, now—straight—at once. Amaxosa not hurt him; I find him and bring him back. If Inkos alive, Sam bring him back or die by him. Dat what Sam do.”
“Wait. You are not armed. Go, quick, and buy a revolver before you start,” and with trembling hands Lilian began searching hurriedly for her purse.
“He won’t be able to get it without a permit from the magistrate,” said Annie Payne, “and if he could, it would be of no use to him. No, leave him alone for doing the best thing.”
“I not want revolva, Missie Lilian, I not want anyting. Better jes as I am. Now I go quick. I bring back Inkos, or never come back. I bring him back, or I die by him,” and, without another word, away started the faithful fellow; and so serious did he consider the position that he forgot his usual formula, “Amaxosa nigga no good.”
Throughout that afternoon whatever hopes Lilian had allowed herself to cherish sank slowly and by degrees till they had almost totally disappeared. Suspense, terrible at any time, but doubly so during forced inactivity, weighed down her soul till it seemed that it must crush her to the very dust, and she could do nothing. Payne—even Sam—had the satisfaction of joining in search of her missing lover, while she, a weak, helpless woman, could only sit at home and wait, and weep, and pray. Ah, why did she not insist upon her plan of going straight to the Gaika chief to beg for her lover’s life? What to her were the terrors of so desperate an undertaking; the gloomy forest; the loneliness; the crowd of grim barbarians, their weapons, it might be, red with recently shed blood? And she was by nature timid, as we have already seen; yet her great overwhelming love had made this frail, delicate creature brave with a fearlessness taking no account of lesser horrors, all of which were swallowed up in this one dread issue. But it was too late now. Payne had gone, and the faithful native with him; and the two women were left alone, to wait, and weep, and pray.
Then as the afternoon wore on, and the messenger whom Annie Payne had stationed at the telegraph office to hasten up to them with every detail of news that might arrive, returned with the intelligence that a great storm was gathering in Kaffraria, and the electricity had interfered with the working of the wires, Lilian could bear no more. AH the direful stories which she had heard of the cruelties practised by the savages towards their helpless prisoners crowded upon her mind. He—her heart’s love! He—a captive in their ruthless hands! And it was by her act that this had come about. Her lips had doomed him. She had sent him to his death.