Chapter Twenty Four.

The Last.

The bullock-waggons which had attracted Frank Jamieson’s attention, when approaching the kraal, belonged to a certain Mr Abraham Shipp, who was engaged in the adventurous and not unprofitable occupation of trading with the natives in the interior of South Africa, bartering a great variety of British hard goods—principally of “Brummagem” manufacture—for elephants’ tusks, valuable skins and horns, and ostrich feathers. Mr Shipp, after many months’ sojourn amongst the up-country tribes, had come down south, and was now hastening on to Natal, where he hoped to dispose of the ivory, skins, and plumes that he had collected, to some of the British and Dutch traders, who had branch houses in the fast-rising town of D’Urban, or else make arrangements to ship them off to Cape Town in one of the small coasting vessels plying regularly (more or less!) between Port Natal and Table Bay.

But apart from his desire to “trade,” Abraham Shipp had another and more important reason for wishing to reach D’Urban as quickly as possible.

He had with him a sick companion, a young man of four—and—twenty, Oliver Maurice by name. Young Maurice was an Oxford man of good family and fortune, but having “gone the pace” whilst at college, and plunged into the dubious pleasure of what Captain Costigan was wont to call “poloit societee” with rather too much enthusiasm when reading for the bar, he had damaged his fortune and lost all taste for what is termed “life,” and so came out to South Africa to seek enjoyment amidst “fresh woods and pastures new.” Meeting with Abraham Shipp, Maurice had arranged to accompany him on his trading expedition, but whilst up country far north of the Gareep River, he had been seized with sickness, and now it was only too evident that his days were numbered. He suffered no pain, but lay all day in one of the waggons in a state of apathy. Still Mr Shipp clung to the hope that if Oliver Maurice could only be placed under a doctor’s care he might “pull round.”

Shipp, though somewhat brusque-mannered and rough-tongued, was a right good-hearted fellow, and when he heard Frank’s story he at once proposed that they should join company.

“Look you now, my lad,” cried he, slapping Frank’s shoulder with a hand half as big as a fair-sized leg of mutton, “just you give up your mad idea of tramping to Cradock, and make up your mind to come with me. Your chum can share the waggon with poor Noll Maurice; it’s plenty big enough for both, and they’ll cheer one another up; and I’ve got a spare nag—rather a rum ’un, but I can see you won’t mind that!—which you can ride. I’ll find you in meat, baccy, and grog, and rig you out in fresh togs into the bargain. We inspan at daybreak to-morrow, and I hope to be at D’Urban by Tuesday week. Come now, what d’ye say?”

We need hardly add that Frank accepted this generous offer without hesitation.

Early next morning Shipp’s waggons were got on the move, and having taken a friendly leave of Ntlororo—upon whom Frank bestowed Waishlahla’s gun and ammunition—the party left the kraal en route for Natal.

Oliver Maurice seemed very pleased to have Tom as his companion, and before they had known one another four-and-twenty hours they were on friendly terms.

Maurice evidently felt a relief in having somebody with him in whom he could confide, and he gave Tom a brief sketch of his short, but misspent life.

“If I had only been a poor man I might have done better,” said he one evening—the day before they reached D’Urban. “But it is a true saying that money unfairly come by brings—”

“Unfairly come by!” ejaculated Tom. “You surely don’t mean that you stole it?”

“Not exactly, my dear fellow,” replied the sick man, with just the ghost of a laugh. “But nevertheless, though legally mine, the best part of my fortune should by rights have gone to another man. My father had a distant relative—a queer, crochety old fellow whom he had never seen and never wished to see—and this distant relative had an only son, a lieutenant in the royal navy, who unfortunately—”

“Why!” interrupted Tom, a sudden light breaking in upon him, “you don’t mean Weston?”

“Weston was the name of my father’s relative; and his son was dismissed the service for striking his superior officer. Do you know anything about him?”

“I should think I did!” was Tom’s reply; “why, my dear chap, Weston is my father’s partner, and Frank Jamieson’s brother-in-law.” And thereupon he proceeded to give Maurice a full account of Mr Weston’s history.

“I am glad to have the opportunity of making a restitution of this property,” said Maurice when Tom finished. “Ask Shipp to give you some paper, and this very evening I’ll draw up a will in Weston’s favour, which, if I live to reach D’Urban, I will have put into regular legal jargon. I shall leave him every penny—no, I sha’n’t though,” he added with a faint smile; “I owe you something, Tom, and as I see that you feel a tender interest in Miss Gracie Weston I shall leave her a share of the property.”

Poor Maurice was as good as his word; he reached D’Urban just in time to draw up a formal will, which was duly attested by the resident magistrate, leaving his fortune to Mr Weston, with the exception of 3000 pounds, which he settled on Miss Grace Weston. Two days later he breathed his last, and after his funeral Frank Jamieson and Tom Flinders took leave of Mr Shipp and embarked on board the Mary Anne cutter, bound for Table Bay, where they landed after a rough passage of a week’s duration.

Our task is ended; but before parting we must ask our readers to accompany us once again to Ralfontein, and to imagine that ten years have elapsed since our hero and his friend escaped from the Caffres.

Quite a large village has sprung up on the plateau in rear of the old homestead; a village in which may be counted four substantial houses, “standing in their own grounds,” and one tiny wooden church.

On the fertile plains that surround the plateau hundreds of splendid cattle are grazing, whilst the meadows and inclosures nearer home are enlivened by young horses sufficient in number to furnish remounts for any light cavalry corps in the service.

The village is inhabited by the employés of “Jamieson, Flinders, and Weston,” the largest and most successful horse-breeders and farmers in the colony; and in the four substantial houses dwell the families of Messieurs Tom Flinders, Frank Jamieson, George Maurice Weston, and Richard (commonly called Dick) Jamieson; the little church is “served” by the Reverend James Jamieson.

Major and Mrs Flinders reside in the old house with Mr Weston and his wife.

And now let us lay down our pen, saying: “God save all this fayre compagnie!”

The End.