Lalanté smiled, still sadly as she gave the Kafir the length of tobacco which she had brought over for him. Even this raw savage had an affection for the absent one, who had forgiven him what time he had incurred the most severe penalties.
During the homeward ride she was still rather silent. The two small boys, Charlie and Frank, dropped behind and kept up their own chatter, but even it was rather subdued, rather laboured. The sun flamed down in all the glory of the cloudless afternoon. Two little steinbok rushed, startled, from the roadside, and scampering a couple of score yards halted to gaze at them curiously. It brought back just such another incident when he had been with her, and jumping off, had turned over one of them with a neat rifle shot. The shrill grating cackle of a troop of wild guinea-fowl rose from a clump of prickly pear down towards the river, and, shading her eyes, she could see the long lines of dust rising against the sun as the wary birds ran. Here too, he had bagged quite a goodly number while she waited for him, and under exactly the same circumstances. Every sight and sound of the sunlit veldt, recalled him with a vividness more than ordinary to-day, which is dealing in superlatives. Yet—why?
There was the spot on which they had made their last farewell on that memorable evening. Lalanté had passed over it several times since, but now, to-day, such an overpowering feeling came upon her, as nearly impelled her there and then to dismount and kiss the very dust his feet had pressed. Yet—why?
“Man—Frank,” exclaimed Charlie, as they were descending the last slope opposite the homestead. “There’s somebody with father. Wonder who it is.”
Lalanté started, and strained her eyes. The distance was over great for identification purposes, but whoever it was she was pretty sure who it wasn’t.
“Why it’s Mr Warren,” went on the first speaker. “Ja—but I’m glad. He’s no end of a jolly chap.”
Again Lalanté’s heart tightened, as she remembered a similar eulogium, more than once uttered, with regard to another. Otherwise, as to Warren she was rather glad of his presence than not. He was good company and would somehow draw her on to talk of Wyvern, whose praises he would deftly sound; moreover he never lost a chance of trying to soften her father’s resentment against the absent one. Then, too, there was his daring feat in the flooded Kunaga on that dreadful afternoon. But, for any other consideration, if he had only known it, Warren was nowhere. There was only one in the world for her; one who was totally unlike any other she had ever seen or could form any possible idea of. Ah, if it were only that one! Yet, on the whole, she was glad to see Warren. He might even have brought her some news, he who seemed in touch with everybody.
Le Sage and his guest were standing at the gate.
“Take round the horses, kiddies,” said the former, shortly, as they dismounted. “And—don’t come back here until you’re sent for. D’you hear?”
The small boys obeyed without question. There was that in their father’s tone which precluded anything of the kind.