Renshaw Fanning's Quest: A Tale of the High Veldt - Bertram Mitford

But the process took time—time and many a bitter heartache. Saddened and disgusted, Renshaw had resolved to strike out an entirely new line. He would travel all over the world.

He sailed for England, disposed of his diamonds, realising nearly seventeen thousand pounds, and even then he probably did not make the best bargain for himself. Then in pursuance of his plan he had spent the following two years on the move. England, the Continent, India, China, Japan, the United States—all were visited, and it was amid the rolling solitude of the Far West that his heart turned to the free open veldt of his native land, and among the iron-bound mountains and brassy skies of Arizona and New Mexico he could almost fancy himself once more in search of the “Valley of the Eye.”

And in the cities and turmoil of civilisation so striking a personality as that of Renshaw Fanning was not likely to go unnoticed. For the man who owned that noble, refined face, bronzed with exposure, and when in repose never altogether free from a touch of saddened gravity—all manner of pitfalls were laid. Bright eyes beamed upon him, and soft voices cooed their softest. All in vain, however. His heart was seared. But eventually when the numbness of the shock did begin to wear away, it was homeward that the wanderer’s heart turned; and in place of the soiled and dethroned image there arose another; more pure, more fair, more wholesome; that of sweet Marian Selwood. And under this influence, the cycle of his wanderings completed, he dismounted before the garden gate at Sunningdale one evening, and entering the house as if he were returning home, found Marian alone. And then, almost at his first words, the latter had realised that it was good indeed to live, nor was it long before the secret of a lifetime’s love was wrested from her beautiful lips. So now Marian is a two months’ bride; making a final visit to her old home preparatory to settling down upon the flourishing farm which Renshaw has purchased within a dozen miles of Sunningdale.

Sometimes he talks of making another expedition to the wonderful Valley. True, the marvellous “Eye” shines there in the moonlight no more, but the place holds other stones, and as yet he has only touched the fringe of its wealth. But Marian’s mind is made up against, and her foot is down on, any such scheme. Has not the mystic jewel proved indeed a demon’s eye to all concerned. They have enough, and life is better than inordinate wealth. Is he not content with the grisly risk he has run, so narrowly escaping with his life? And Renshaw, with a laugh, is fain to answer that he is. Yet peradventure, some day, when the quiver is full—but we must not anticipate.

Not a word more has been heard of Maurice Sellon or the partner of his flight—not a word beyond the brief reassurance on the score of her bodily safety which Violet had had the grace to forward to poor old Mrs Aldridge by the last boat which left the New Zealand steamer. Not a word more is even likely to be heard of either. That “the way of the transgressors is hard” may be a good and edifying axiom for all Sunday school purposes, but it is in no wise borne out by the experiences of real life. So it is highly probable that Sellon and Violet are in some safe and withal comfortable retreat in the New World, flourishing like the green bay tree, while enjoying to the full the abundant, if treacherously gained, results of the former’s expedition in search of “The Valley of the Eye.”

The End.