“Really now? I should never have thought you were so easily impressed.”
“I don’t know. There is a world of pathos in that composition. Those few lines contain the story of two people who might have been happy. Why weren’t they? Because it pleased a beneficent Providence—beneficent, mark you—to decree otherwise, and so Death put in his oar. Now if all hadn’t been going well with them, it isn’t likely that Providence would have been so accommodating.”
There is a brusque harshness in his tones which causes his listener to glance up at him in surprise and dismay, and she can see that his features are haggard. She is even alarmed, for she remembers hearing vaguely that her companion’s life had been a stirring and chequered one. Has she now unwittingly rasped some hidden but unforgotten chord? It must be so, and she feels sorely troubled.
They are standing on the brink of the little rock-bound pool where they lingered and talked on the night of the dance. Almost mechanically they have struck out the same path and wandered down it, but this time no deadly foe dogs their footsteps. They are alone; alone in the dim hush of the African night. Overhead the dark vault is bespangled with its myriads of golden eyes, which are reflected in the still waters of the pool, and the Southern Cross flames from a starry zone. Now and then a large insect of the locust species sends forth a weird, twanging note from far down the kloof, but no sign of life is there among the spekboem sprays, which sleep around them as still as if cut out of steel.
He picks up a pebble and jerks it into the pool. It strikes the surface with a dull splashless thud, and sinks. A night-jar darts from beneath one of the fern-fringed rocks and skims across the water, uttering a whirring note of alarm.
“Hadn’t we better be going back?” hazards Lilian, at last. Anxious to withdraw from the dangerous topic, she takes refuge in a commonplace. “It was rather late when we came out.”
Claverton is standing half turned away from her—his face working curiously as he looks down into the water. For a minute he makes no answer; then he faces round upon her, and his voice, hoarse and thick, can scarcely make its way through his labouring throat.
“Lilian, Lilian—my darling—my sweet—my own sweetest love. For God’s sake tell me what I would die at this moment to know?”
He has taken both her hands in his and is gazing hungrily down into the lovely eyes. She gives a slight start of unfeigned surprise, and he can see the sweet face pale in the starlight. Trying to speak firm she gently repeats her former question: “Hadn’t we better be going back?”