Chapter Thirty Eight.

Better than Gold.

When Sirayo saw that no harm befell Hume for the act of sacrilege, he helped him bring the scattered fragments of the rock to the hidden valley, and when the mass of now shapeless ore was stored up, with its threads and veins of gold gleaming yellow, preparations were made to break it up. From the crowbar, after much labour about a roughly-made furnace, Hume made two great hammers, and for days he and Sirayo battered at the hard quartz, reducing it by slow degrees to small fragments. This work they had done on a wide flat rock, banked in so that nothing should be lost, and next, with native-made shallow dishes of baked clay, they began on the less arduous and more exciting business of washing for gold-dust. So alternately washing and crushing from week to week, they at last succeeded with their primitive methods in rescuing a vast amount of gold-dust, coarse grains, and large pellets from the mass of rich ore.

At one time they were threatened with trouble, a prying witch-doctor having braved the unknown dangers by crossing the river and surprising the little party at work. Sirayo and the old woman, setting their wits to work, managed, however, to detach Inyame, who moved over with his entire regiment, and placed himself under the chief. A fierce conflict was prevented by a meeting between Sirayo and Umkomaas, and by the time Webster was expected back a new kraal had been built about the shattered rock, and herds of cattle grazed on the rich grass.

Sirayo was now a respected chief with a royal household, the lively Noenti being the head wife.

Gradually Hume’s face regained some of its comeliness, but he seemed to live in an atmosphere of gloom, and spent much of his time alone, looking to the west for the return of his friend. The interest which had kept him up so long as there was a lump of quartz to crush had failed him. He was listless, silent and moody, so that the children shunned him, and the women turned away when he came near. They thought he was possessed; and so he was—by a melancholy of the mind and irritability of nerves, severely shaken by the hardships he had undergone. He had succeeded, so he told himself. He had alone won the Golden Rock and by indomitable energy broken it up, but this gave him no pleasure. Nay, he grew to doubt whether he had done right. What right had he to destroy that carved image, that masterpiece of ancient workers, to shed blood for its possession? So he brooded gloomily in his loneliness, and the only comfort he derived was the spectacle of growing crops on the land that was formerly shunned.

And Webster would not return. Why should he? He had, no doubt, crossed the ocean with her, and by this time they would be married, for sailors were always quick in their loves. But he would wait. And yet while these thoughts ran always in his mind he would look towards the west, growing thin, haggard and unkempt.

One day the scouts reported the arrival of a stranger, and Hume watched him come—a mounted man with a servant behind, leading a spare horse.

“This is some traveller,” said Hume—“some chance traveller who has entered the valley. I will hide till he goes.”

But it was Webster, and the little son of Umkomaas led him up to the stones, led him to where a battered figure of a man lay face downward on the ground.

“Frank!” rang out the familiar voice, “what ails you, my lad? are you asleep?”

But Hume rose and stood before his friend, thin, long-haired, gaunt, with a fierce, almost defiant, glare in his hollow eyes.

“My God, Hume! you are ill.”

Hume looked long at the big, healthy, handsome man before him, and he shuddered.

“No,” he said in a hoarse voice, “I am not ill. I’ve been waiting”—he paused and looked round—“but I did not expect you.”

Webster put his hand to his throat, for there was that in the forlorn figure before him that told its own story.

“Why did you come?”

“Frank, old friend, how can you ask me that?”

“For the gold, eh? Well, it is there, in three calabashes—the dust, the coarser, and the nuggets. You can take two: one for you, one for—for her.”

“Damn the gold!” said Webster, as the blood mounted to his face.

“And so you have come?” Hume went on.

“Yes,” said Webster hopelessly; “I have come. You don’t seem glad to see me.”

“Yes, I am glad—why shouldn’t I be?” he added with a sudden flare. “I suppose you are hungry. I think there is something in my hut. Let us see.”

“Wait a minute, Frank. I have been looking forward to this meeting so long, and now you almost repulse me. What is it? have you anything on your mind?”

“No,” said Hume, looking around.

“Is it,” said Webster sternly, “that you have grown to love your gold? If so, learn that I will have none of it.”

“You must have your share. It is yours; you cannot refuse it.”

“So it is that?” said Webster quietly. “Ah, my poor friend, I can understand how in your loneliness you must have felt yourself neglected, and that your thoughts may have dwelt for compensation on the wealth you have earned; but, man, believe me, I care not if I never see it, still less possess it.”

“Neither do I,” muttered Hume.

“Then what the devil is it?”

The two stood looking at each other, and the contrast between them was painful, and so obvious that Hume seemed to shrink within himself.

“Ah,” continued Webster, while a sudden smile broke the cloud on his face, “you think of Laura! Come, Frank, you trusted me. Can you believe that I would abuse it—more especially when you were left behind?”

“Then,” said Hume, meeting his friend’s convincing glance, “you have not asked her?”

“No, my lad,” said Webster gently; “and if I had asked her, it would have been of no use. She loves you.”

“Loves me!” cried Hume with a wild laugh—“loves me! Look at me—you can see what I am.”

“You require a wash,” said Webster gravely, “and a shave, and a new rig.”

Hume started back, as though he had been stung, with a forbidding look on his face; but presently he began to laugh. “Thank God!” muttered Webster.

“Ay, thank God!” said Hume solemnly; “if it had not been for the mercy of that laugh, Jim, I would have flown at you.”

They went down to the village, and soon after Hume reappeared properly clad and groomed. Sirayo, already growing sleek, joined them, and Klaas, who had followed his master back, sat with his eye on a comely maid.

Soon after that they left the valley with half a dozen men, and these they sent back to the valley with a goodly number of cows, and goods dear to Kaffir girls. Klaas remained to settle down in Sirayo’s kraal.

Five months later the two friends saw Miss Anstrade in London, but she was so changed from the woman who, in a short skirt and gaiters, had tramped beside them in the wilds that their hearts sank within them.

It was absurd to suppose that brilliant, magnificent woman, with those wondrous eyes and that imperious bearing, could condescend to hear them. Yet they went, and for courage they went together.

“Oh, merciful Lady!” she said, between crying and laughter, “I could not marry both of you.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Webster, stroking his fair beard and looking hard at Hume. “Perhaps I should not have spoken, but Frank would have me come.”

“It is a conspiracy,” she said, with a flash in her eyes. “You have come together out of some absurd notion of honour.”

“No,” said Frank, turning red under her glance, “we thought it was hopeless, yet we came to show that we loved you.”

“And what are you going to do now?” she said, biting her lip.

“Ah! I see someone in the street,” muttered Webster. “I will see you again;” and he darted out hurriedly.

Hume looked as though he would follow, but was arrested by a faint sound, and, turning his head, he saw that she was laughing.

“It is no crime for a brave man to love you,” he said, “and he deserves something more than laughter.”

“I am not laughing at him,” she said.

“At me, then? Am I, then, an object of ridicule?”

“You never could understand,” she said.

“No,” he said with a smile of courage; “I never did understand you, and I never shall. I love you. Must I go also?”

“My friend,” she said, with a sad smile about her lips, “I have been wanting to call on Miss Webster; do you remember Captain Pardoe? You must come with me.”

“And Jim?” he whispered.

“Jim will be our brother; he will be pleased. His friendship is better than gold.”

The End.